Hereward 03 - End of Days, page 30
‘You are a Norman bastard,’ she sobbed, ‘and you killed my husband.’ She whipped up her hand to strike him, but it only hovered in the air for a moment and then dropped to her side. She sagged, her chin falling to her chest. ‘I despise you,’ she whispered.
Behind her words, Deda sensed a different meaning. He could not hate this lost soul for trying to take his life. He felt only pity. ‘You have ventured to the shores of hell to make sense of the miseries that have afflicted you,’ he said in a quiet voice, ‘and still you have found no answers, only more pain.’
She jerked her head up, her tear-streaked eyes blazing. ‘I am not weak,’ she spat, ‘and I will not have you think of me that way.’
‘I have never met a woman with more fire in her heart.’
She jolted at his words.
‘You will not ease your misery by killing me, or any Norman. To lose someone so close to your heart is …’ He looked up into the branches, his thoughts flying across the years. ‘Unbearable. There is no easy escape from it. Only time. Only time.’
Rowena frowned at him as if seeing something new and puzzling.
‘I saved your life at Branduna and now you have saved mine. Our account is clear.’
She bit her lip to stifle another sob, and he felt dismay at the despair he saw in her eyes. ‘I cannot live with myself,’ she croaked. He remembered the terrible things she had done at Belsar’s Hill as she sought to get close to the king, and he understood.
Once again he reached out to hold her, caught in the rush of emotion, and only stopped himself at the last. ‘We are not prisoners of days gone by,’ he murmured. ‘All that matters is days yet to come.’ He could not help but glance at the ribbon tied to his wrist and was surprised to feel the sting of his own words.
Rowena searched his face, seemingly hanging on his every word. ‘I … I do not know what to do … where to go …’ she began, blinking away her tears.
‘Go home, to your village. For a while, each day will be as hard as if you dug the fields in winter with your bare hands. But in time, peace will come.’
‘You vow that this is true?’
He nodded. ‘I have walked your road.’
She kneaded her hands, reflecting on his words. He knew he could not put right what she had given to the men at the camp, but he was sure that too would fade, if only she could look forward with hope. ‘You do not stand alone,’ he said with a deep bow. ‘I am at your service. Your champion.’
She gaped.
‘Send me to the ends of the earth to pluck a flower for you, and I will do so.’ He slid his sword from its sheath and offered the hilt to her. ‘This I vow.’
‘Stop,’ she said, taking a step back. ‘Do not treat me like a child.’
‘This I vow,’ he repeated.
She shook her head, conflicted.
‘Think on my offer,’ he said, pleased to see some of the darkness had lifted from her features. ‘I have offered my service to a friend, for now. But when I am done, I will seek you out to hear your answer.’
‘You will come back to me?’
‘God willing.’
Her brow furrowed.
He bowed one final time. ‘I must take my leave now. Fare well, Rowena.’
As he stepped over the mercenary’s body and made his way out of the trees to the quay, he could feel her eyes upon him. But when he looked back she was gone.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
SILHOUETTED AGAINST A sky the colour of bones, Death crested the high ridge and looked down upon them. He never stopped, never slowed, not for food nor drink nor sleep. His judgement would be passed come hell or high water. Overhead, ravens swirled, their hungry shrieks carrying deep into the wildwood that sprawled for mile upon mile ahead of the band of weary men. Deep snow billowed across the land behind them, the first of that winter. Snowflakes settled into their trail of footprints.
At the tree-line, Hereward leaned on a twisted oak and glanced back at the stark figure. His breath steamed and he could no longer feel his feet. Axe in hand, the figure plunged down the white slope as more men swarmed over the ridge.
‘Redteeth, you bastard,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. How long had that madman and his hunting band been pursuing them across the bleak fenlands now? Three days? Four? He had gone so long without sleep he could barely think straight. ‘It feels as though I have spent half my life running from you,’ he muttered.
On burning legs, he threw himself into the trees. His warriors fanned out among the oaks, kicking their way through snarls of bramble. White flakes whirled through the branches around them. Deep in the forest, a wolf howled. From danger into danger with no respite.
Guthrinc and Hengist hefted the willow frame on which Alric lay, wrapped in a threadbare woollen blanket. His skin was almost the colour of the snow that crunched under their feet.
As he loped alongside, Hereward studied the frail figure. His friend had grown thin – he had begun to see the outline of the bones through the skin – and his hair was plastered to his head with sweat. Though Alric shivered, his cheeks and forehead burned to the touch. Herrig had said the monk was growing weaker by the day. Hereward could not find it within himself to believe that was true.
His thoughts flew back to the reeking hut where the wise woman had hunched over his friend smearing thick paste on his wound. The alfar had told her Alric’s spark was weak. His survival now remained in God’s hands. But for a piece of gold broken off Hereward’s ring she had given them the blanket, enough of the stinking paste to last two weeks and instructions to clean the wound every day and apply a new coating. Once they had built the frame, they took it in turns to carry him across the wetlands. Day and night, they had dripped cold spring water into his mouth, and every now and then he had woken enough to chew on a knob of bread or cheese. But he never seemed to know who they were or where he was. And all the time they struggled to stay one step ahead of the Norman hunting band. Harald Redteeth had appeared with his horde of warriors on a cold dawn as the English camped beside a lake. They had been making plans to travel to any English landowner who might contribute fighting men or coin to the cause. But since that moment they had done nothing but run and hide.
Behind him, the call and response of the hunting band rang out, stirring memories of a day long gone. Redteeth’s blood-lust had brought him and Alric together and forged the bonds of a friendship that had never failed to surprise him. But now it felt as though the circle was closing, and they would be torn apart for ever.
He skidded down the frosted slope of a hollow. At the bottom, the snow was calf-deep. Barbs of pain from the cold lanced up his legs. As he scrambled up the other side, he plunged into the densest part of the forest. The trees here were ancient, many of them too large even for four men to encircle with their arms. Their thick branches spread out to form a canopy that even without leaves left the interior as gloomy as twilight. Faces loomed up at him from the cracked bark, the alfar, Turfrida would have said, trying to speak to him. Here in the Brunneswalde they had at least a thin hope of evading their pursuers.
Ahead, Kraki waved a hand to beckon him over. ‘We must rest soon or we will drop,’ he hissed. Hereward saw that the Viking all but carried Acha now. She had shown enough courage for two men, refusing to complain once about the exhaustion that engulfed her.
The Viking pointed to Sighard. Near delirious with tiredness, the young warrior followed an erratic path through the brown bracken fronds poking through the carpet of snow. ‘Our tracks will lead those bastards to us whatever we do,’ Kraki snarled.
‘Then we must lose our tracks.’ Hereward looked around for inspiration.
For the next hour they limped on, twisting and turning among the soaring oaks and ash trees and hawthorn. The wind had grown harsher. The branches groaned, the tallest trees complaining as they thrashed. Snow stung their eyes. The whistles and bird-calls of the hunting band seemed to fade.
As they struggled on into the blizzard, Hengist stopped and pointed down. Prints dappled the snow, moving in all directions. They had entered the territory of a wolf pack.
‘We have no choice,’ Hereward said. ‘Move on.’
Moments later, he heard the dim sound of a babbling stream. Leaping into the freezing water, they splashed along the centre of the brook as it wound among the trees and bracken. In Flanders, Hereward had seen warriors lose their toes by submitting to such cold, but if they were to hide their trail they had little choice.
After a while, the trees pressed close against the water’s edge. Stooping, they struggled on along a dark tunnel under the overhanging branches. The white world fell behind them. Soon they were all but crawling along the stream. Spikes of hawthorn tore at their backs and raked their scalps. But just when the way seemed to be becoming impassable, the landscape altered. They found themselves in a crevice carved in the earth by floodwaters rushing from the confluence of several streams. On either side, flat banks stretched for a spear’s length until the walls rose up steeply. At the top, the branches and vegetation closed over their heads, plunging them into a dank cave of near-darkness.
Hereward stepped from the water and rested his back against the cold earth. With relief, the others followed, stamping their frozen feet. ‘Night will be here soon,’ the Mercian said, ‘and this is the best shelter we will find.’ He looked around and nodded. ‘There is room to light a fire. Its glow will not be seen, and the branches overhead will spread the smoke so that it will be hidden in the dark.’
Acha sank to the ground, burying her head in her arms. Crouching beside her, Kraki slipped a comforting arm round her shoulders. He looked up at Hereward and said, ‘I will search for wood.’
‘No, you must rest and care for your woman.’
As he watched over Alric, Guthrinc rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘You fought well,’ the tall man murmured. ‘Let no one tell you otherwise. The hopes of the English would have died long ago without your fire.’ He gave a reassuring grin. ‘Had I been able to see into days yet to come, I would have known you were the right man for this work years ago, when we were lads, and you came to my home and robbed me. And then you came back and robbed me again. And I hung you up in the Barholme oak all night by your feet. And the next night you came back and robbed me again. Nothing stands in the way of your heart’s desire.’ He glanced down at the faltering rise and fall of Alric’s chest and his grin faded. ‘Remember that, should times get harder.’
After they had caught their breath, Hereward sent three men out to find kindling, and soon they were all warming their hands around a small fire. While Guthrinc and another man, Ithamar, ventured out with their bows to hunt what game they could find, they took it in turn to keep watch at either end of the cut. Alric lay on his willow bed, unmoving, and the others not on watch huddled in their cloaks near the fire, fitfully dozing. Hereward surveyed them from under heavy lids, worrying what would become of them all. Soon sleep claimed him.
For the first time in days, he saw his father’s face, and for the first time ever, it seemed, he thought of Asketil without seeing his mother’s body lying before him, her life-blood draining between the boards. Drifting, he wondered if there had ever been a time when he had considered his father with fondness. If there had, he could not recall it. And yet now he felt no threat when he remembered the old man. Nor did he feel that unpleasant churning deep in the pit of his belly where his devil lived. Perhaps it was an omen, he thought, but of what he was not sure.
The scream jerked him from his trance. His men jumped to their feet as one, clutching for their spears and shields. The firelight threw wild shadows up the walls of earth. Acha pressed her hands against her ears as that terrible cry continued without a break, rising and falling, then rising to even greater heights. No one spoke. As Hereward looked around the hunted features he knew everyone there was thinking the same: what agony could draw such a sound out of a man?
Guthrinc had returned. A half-plucked bird hung by its neck from his left hand. But of Ithamar there was no sign. The Mercian’s heart fell.
Stalking out of the cut, he cocked his head. The screaming was not close, but it carried well across the still, night-cloaked forest.
Sighard eased beside him. The snow was still falling, coating his hair and lashes in a white dusting. ‘That is Ithamar,’ he whispered, his words heavy with dread.
Hereward nodded. ‘Harald Redteeth is taunting me.’ When he saw the other man furrow his brow, he added, ‘The Viking bastard is paying me back for something I did to one of his men nine winters gone.’
‘What did you do that could have caused such suffering?’ Sighard asked.
Hereward peered out past the ghostly oaks into the deep dark. In his mind’s eye, he saw a blade, and a stream of blood, and he remembered the man he used to be before Alric had saved him from his devil. In a voice that seemed to carry no emotion, he replied, ‘I skinned his man alive.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
BRANCHES TORE AT Kraki’s scarred face. His chest burned and his legs felt like lead as he lurched through knee-deep snow. Behind him, his pursuers howled with delight, sensing their prey was about to fall. Ten of them, there were, shaking their axes and swords in anticipation of slaughter.
Skidding down a steep bank, he almost stumbled over a hidden bramble snarled around his ankle. The baying at his back grew louder. He wrenched himself free and clawed his way up the other side of the hollow. As he crested the ridge, he almost stumbled into Guthrinc and Hengist, who were crouching there listening to the wild sounds of the hunt.
‘Run,’ Kraki bellowed without slowing his step.
He heard the two warriors dash away in opposite directions. Glancing back, he saw that each of his brothers was now chased by four men. But Hengist was wiry and he leapt around the trees like a deer while his pursuers stumbled over hidden hollows. And Guthrinc for all his size was as strong as an ox. The deep snow was as nothing to him.
Grunting with relief, Kraki staggered on through the oaks. He hated fleeing like some frightened rabbit. Would that he could take a stand and test the blade of his axe upon the two bastards still on his tail. But they were silent now, loping like wolves as they ran him to ground. They wanted to trap him, come at him from different sides so he did not have a chance to defend himself.
His breath smoked as he searched the wood ahead. Against the gentle folds of white he glimpsed a thick band of black hawthorn and struggled towards it. Their war-band was scattered across the forest now, torn apart by Redteeth’s men. He mouthed a silent prayer to Woden that they all yet lived.
A narrow path weaved through the wall of hawthorn, banks of lethal barbs rising up on either side. Kraki plunged into its midst, pushing his right shoulder forward so he could edge along the track at speed without harm. Even so, he felt the thorns rip through the flesh of his forearm as he brushed past. A trail of blood spattered on the hard-packed snow beneath his feet.
Following the trail of many footprints, he burst from the hawthorn into a bowl-shaped depression. The wall of black thorn continued all around the rim. He was trapped. Sliding into the hollow, he bounded to the other side to make his stand. His feet flew out from under him and he crashed face down in a drift. As he pushed his head up, his beard frosted with flakes, he heard his pursuers yelp and curse as they edged through the hawthorn. He rolled on to his back and fumbled for his axe.
The first man stepped out on to the edge of the hollow. He had eyes like a winter sky framed in the eyelets of his helm. He grinned as he pointed his sword towards the fallen Viking. Behind him, a moan rustled out. For a moment, the warrior paid no attention to the sound, and then, as he realized his companion had not followed him out, he began to turn.
With a hiss like a spitting wildcat, a figure flew from the track through the hawthorn. Cloak flapping behind, it crashed on to the Norman’s back, pitching him down into the hollow. He had not even a moment to cry out before his face slammed into the snow. A short-bladed knife rose and fell, rose and fell. Blood gouted. The stabbing only stopped when the body ceased all movement.
Levering himself up on his elbows, Kraki grinned. ‘A well-made plan is a joy to behold.’
Acha looked up with fierce, dark eyes. A line of blood spattered across her pale skin from eye to jaw. The Viking thought that at that moment he would be happy to give his heart to her for ever. ‘Two down,’ she said. ‘The rest …?’
He cocked his head and listened. From across the forest, a peal of cries rolled out from different locations, Norman or English, he could not yet be sure. ‘Help me up,’ he growled. ‘They had the numbers, now let us see if we had the wits.’
CHAPTER SIXTY
THE BLOODY HAND stained a crimson circle in the snow. On top of a bank it lay, as if beckoning to the five men who stared at it. After the hunt and the screams, the sounds of men had once again faded from the wildwood. Only the desolate call of the icy wind in the trees, and the creak of branches and the whispers of the stirring holly, remained.
‘The wuduwasa,’ one of the Normans said, crossing himself. He could not tear his eyes from the gory remnant. The two warriors who flanked him looked around with unease, pulling their cloaks tight to them. The snow had started to drift down once more.
‘What is the wuduwasa?’ Deda asked. He crouched so that the hand fell into his line of sight.
‘A story as old as time that the English tell themselves around the hearths in midwinter. The wild man of the woods,’ Harald Redteeth muttered. The breeze rattled the bird-skulls hanging on the thongs on his hauberk.
‘ ’Tis true,’ the first Norman muttered. ‘In the tavern in Lincylene, a woodworker told how the wuduwasa chased him through the woods. It tore his friend limb from limb and gnawed on his bones.’
