Hereward 03 - End of Days, page 34
‘I see now why you wanted England.’ The Mercian grinned.
‘And now I have it, for ever more. I am king.’
‘You are not my king.’
William the Bastard eyed him for a moment, cold and calculating. Swilling more wine into both cups, he said, again with a calmness that surprised the Mercian, ‘No. I will never be your king.’ He set the pitcher down and prowled around the hall, staring into the shadows as he chose his words. ‘There was a time, not too long ago, when I was ready to offer terms for peace to you and your men. Does that surprise you?’
‘Aye, it does. I would have thought a man who could turn the north into a graveyard would never consider finding common ground.’
‘The ends matter, Mercian, always. Sometimes a fist, sometimes an open hand, whichever works best.’ He walked back to the warmth of the fire. ‘Those spineless curs you so despise told me that peace would be seen as a sign of weakness. That the English would think me wounded and rise up. What do you think?’
Hereward peered into his wine for a moment. ‘I think they were right.’
‘You would not have found common ground?’
‘Once, perhaps,’ he said, casting his thoughts back to Ely, ‘when I feared there would be no England left after our war.’
William smiled and nodded. ‘The ends, aye. Leaders always look to the ends.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘I thought my curs were right then. Now, after all I have seen, I am sure. You have found a place in the hearts of the English, Mercian. They speak of you in the west, and the south, aye, and in what is left of the north, did you know that? A king can put a sword through a heart, but he cannot prise out such a thing as that.’
Here was the meat of it, Hereward thought. He rested one foot on the hearth and waited.
‘You are more of a problem for me now than ever you were in Ely.’ The Bastard studied his face as if he were looking deep inside him. ‘If I let you live, the legend will grow, and sooner or later the English will rise up and follow your standard. If I kill you, the legend will grow faster still.’ He tapped his right hand upon his breast. ‘In the hearts of the English, where I can never reach it. I will never be accepted as king, I know that. You will tower over me in their minds, and grow, and grow. In death, you will unite them as I never could, and then a new Hereward will come along. And another. And another. Each one fired by your memory. And I will spend the rest of my days fighting the same battle, over the same patch of land. That is hell for two devils like us, is it not?’
Hereward nodded. ‘Aye, that is a problem, indeed. I cannot live, and I cannot die.’
‘Only a clever man could solve it.’ The king smiled. ‘You can live … as long as you do not live in the hearts of the English.’
‘You said you could not prise me out.’
‘I can kill you in another way. The memory of you.’ Growing animated, William paced around the circle of light emanating from the fire. ‘Would they think you hero if they knew you had taken my gold and fled? Abandoned them to my … cruelty?’ He fluttered his fingers in the air.
‘I would not do such a thing.’
‘Not even to save the lives of your men? And the lives of every man and woman in England?’ He eyed Hereward askance. His voice hardened as he continued, ‘I will not battle for England until my dying day. Nor will I give it up. I would rather see it destroyed. I would do to Wessex, and Mercia … everywhere … what I did in the north.’ He pointed a steady finger. ‘The ends, Mercian. The ends. What would you do to prevent such a thing? Or would you rather be the Hereward that was? The one who slaughtered without thought, who would burn the world down rather than admit defeat? Are you that man, Hereward of Mercia, or are you the leader of the English?’
And there it was. The king had him. He turned away, peering deep into the flames.
‘Aye,’ the king said, his voice softening. ‘No man should have to make a choice like that. But we are not any men. We are … kings.’
Hereward glanced at him, but William did not meet his eye. ‘And if I leave …’
‘You will take your men with you. I want no trace of you upon this isle. And within a day my messengers will ride out from Wincestre to every corner of this land to slay your legend. You will be as nothing. The English will spit upon your name in the streets. But your men will live. And no villages will be burned, and no men and women will be put to death, and in time the English will grow to love me. You will be forgotten. And I will live on in their hearts for all time.’
Hereward bowed his head. What choice did he have? ‘How do I know I can trust you?’
‘If a man does not have honour, he has nothing.’ The king glowered into the fire. ‘I am not a dog like Harold Godwinson, who promised me this crown, and then took it for his own. You will have my word. Safe passage out of England and into exile. And peace here.’
The logs in the fire sighed. Hereward watched the flames dance, as he had watched the inferno in the fens on the night when he thought he had won. The devil inside him whispered to him to keep fighting. But that devil was shackled now. Alric, his friend, had seen to that, and the monk more than any understood sacrifice. ‘Very well,’ he murmured. ‘For the lives of my men, and for the lives of all the English.’
For a long moment there was silence, and when he glanced up, William the Bastard’s hard face had softened. ‘You were a good leader, Hereward of Mercia,’ the king said in a quiet voice. ‘You deserved better than the dogs who ran with you.’
He ushered him to the door and called for his adviser. On the threshold, he turned to Hereward and said, ‘Take your sword, and go from here, and make your plans to leave. I will provide a ship for you in the east. Go where you will. But we will not see each other again.’ Then he walked away without a backward glance, and the doors slammed shut and Hereward was left once more in the silent hall.
Out in the night, he looked up at the full moon. He felt an odd sense of peace, the like of which he had never experienced before. The fighting was done. His story was over. And now there would be an ending.
Deep in thought, he wandered through the palace gates and on to the road that led past the tavern.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
THE FULL MOON limned the rooftops of Wincestre. The town was quiet and the air crisp as the monk prowled past dark doorways and shadowed tracks, peering into every one. He felt haunted by a gnawing feeling of dread that something terrible was about to take place.
When discordant voices echoed across the night, he jerked to a halt, listening. A door slammed and the sounds dimmed. He sighed. Only a drunk stumbling out of the tavern. He saw threats everywhere.
Past a pigsty he wandered, the air rumbling with the sound of the beast’s snores. As the stink of swill faded behind him, his nostrils wrinkled at another reek, faint but too familiar after the last nine years.
In a shaft of moonlight, a dark puddle gleamed.
His chest tightened. Fearing the worst, he followed a trail of spatters into the track beside the tavern. When he saw a figure hunched against the wattle wall halfway along the path, he almost cried out. Yet as he hurried forward with a thundering heart, he saw that it was not Hereward.
The wounded man turned and looked at him with a face as innocent as a child’s. When he smiled, Alric felt his blood run cold.
‘Monk,’ Redwald croaked, pushing himself up the wall. ‘It seems I have had a mishap.’ Alric shifted his gaze from the dark patch staining the front of the tunic to the short-bladed knife the other man gripped in his right hand. And then he looked to the far end of the track and the main road to the palace that lay beyond, and he knew all he needed to know.
‘Aid me,’ Redwald called, reaching out a bloody hand. ‘Find me some linen to stem the flow of this blood. I will yet live.’ When Alric remained rigid, he added, ‘Come – you saved my life once, in Ely.’
‘Aye, and damned myself in turn.’ His thoughts flew back to that night when Redwald had been wounded in the hut by the walls, when the local men had challenged Hereward’s rule. If only he had left Redwald there, to watch his life-blood drain out. But he could not have done so in the eyes of God. Instead he had taken him to the leech, and he had been saved, and Turfrida had died, and misery had been heaped on misery, and all of it because he had been true to God. He closed his eyes and muttered a prayer, shaking as if he were sick.
‘Monk,’ Redwald called again. ‘Aid me, I say. You are a man of God. You cannot turn away from this plea. What if I die?’ His face was blank, like a statue, his true emotions unreadable.
‘What if you live?’ Alric whispered. He knew the answer. He could feel the terrible weight of it crushing him down.
‘Then we will praise God. All life is sacred.’ He shook his bloody hand once again, beckoning for help.
Alric shuddered; he had no choice. Keeping one eye on the knife, he stepped forward. He eyed the spreading stain, and the wounded man’s pallor. He was weak from blood loss. ‘You wait here while you slowly die?’ the churchman said with an incredulous shake of his head. ‘How much do you hate him?’
‘Hate?’ Redwald replied with what seemed like honesty. ‘I do not hate him. He is my brother.’ He frowned, realizing he had perhaps given away his intentions.
With a flick of his wrist, the monk slapped the blade from the other man’s grip. It bounced along the track and slid into the moonlight at the end. The whalebone angel glowed white. The blade was black.
‘No,’ Redwald cried. Jerking his head to look at the knife, he reached out towards it in desperation.
Alric lunged. Grasping the man’s sodden tunic, he flung him on to the filthy ground and sat astride him.
‘Do not do this,’ Redwald groaned. ‘I am not the man you think.’
Hot tears burned the monk’s eyes. He clamped both hands around the other man’s neck and squeezed. He felt sickened that a part of him was pleased that he would not have to hear any more lies.
Redwald bucked and clawed at the monk’s arms and face. Alric gritted his teeth. His enemy was too weakened now to offer much resistance. He squeezed tighter still, feeling the throat close under his fingers. ‘See what you have done to us all,’ he sobbed.
Redwald flapped ineffectual hands against the monk’s shoulders. He wheezed, his bulging eyes filled with a hellish plea for mercy.
Alric’s tears streamed down his cheeks and splashed on the dying man’s face. ‘I have damned myself this night,’ he croaked. ‘But I do it willingly, for the sake of my friend.’
Sobs racked him for a moment, and he bowed his head. When he next looked up, he realized Redwald was no longer moving. Still he could not stop choking this man, as if he could squeeze him off the face of the earth and out of the memories of all who had ever encountered him.
Finally, he let go.
Alric looked deep into Redwald’s eyes. They looked the same as when he was alive. A stare filled with nothing. A life the same.
The monk clambered to his feet. His chest burned from his sobs. It seemed they would never end, he thought. He wrenched himself away from his terrible crime, but he could not resist one last backward glance. Redwald lay dead, his face still as innocent as a babe’s, apple-cheeked, full-lipped.
Broken, the churchman dragged himself out into the street. A figure was wandering down from the palace gates. Alric blinked away his tears and saw that it was Hereward.
The warrior greeted him with a grin. ‘All is well, monk,’ he called. ‘All is well.’
‘Aye,’ the cleric said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘ ’Tis.’
As he neared, the Mercian furrowed his brow. ‘Monk? Why do you cry?’
‘From joy,’ Alric replied and realized he meant it, ‘for a new day is dawning.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
THE ASH TREES moaned in the wind. Stark against the vast fenlands sky, they seemed to be calling to the woman who peered to the blue horizon. The sun felt warm upon her face. Spring had returned in force. Bluebells bloomed along the edge of the wood, and for the first time that year the birdsong had been loud enough to wake her. The winter had been raw, with skies like ashes and the snows drifting near to the top of her door. The cold had reached deep into her bones, echoing the frost she had long felt in her heart. But now the world was waking.
After a moment or two, she shrugged and turned away. On the green, where the hens scratched, the boys were fighting with swords, shouting and laughing. The king always died. Hereward always won. She fetched that morning’s bread and wrapped it in linen, and took it to blind Rimilda who could no longer cook for herself. For a while, she sat by the hearth, and smiled as she listened to tales of the old woman’s husband and his clumsy wooing. Only afterwards did she realize these stories pleased her. She nodded and wondered. Later, she poured a pail of swill into the pig’s pen, and cut wood for the fire, and took her bow and hunted for waterfowl but caught none. In the midday sun, she sat on a stool outside her door and sewed a tear in the hem of her best dress. Yet still she could not settle.
Something was coming. Rowena could feel it in her bones.
Looking up, she glimpsed a smudge in the distance on the north road. Her neck prickled. Putting her needle and her dress away, she walked out beyond the village and stood beside the road, watching.
As it neared, the smudge took on shape and became a man upon a horse. She waited.
When the rider passed the milestone, she finally accepted that she had stopped dwelling on days gone by and for the first time since Elwin died had started to think of days yet to come.
A spear’s throw away, the man brought his mount to a halt and leaned over the neck and smiled at her. ‘I would have my answer,’ Deda the knight said.
Rowena smiled back.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
7 May 1072
UNDER A SILVER sky, the crimson-sailed ship strained at its mooring on the swelling tide. Shrieking gulls wheeled across the heavens, and the salty breeze moaned over the throbbing waves. Yet the harbour at Yernemuth was unnaturally still. Sacks of salt, barrels of wine and oil, quernstones, and chests of silk and pottery littered the quayside, unguarded. Baskets of fish from that morning’s catch still waited to be delivered to the merchants. Here and there, meals of bread and cheese wrapped in linen lay half eaten. Shipwrights’ hammers had been abandoned on the ballast heaps. The world seemed to be holding its breath.
Aboard the ship, the men stood in silence, looking out across Yernemuth’s thatched roofs, remembering. They were a rag-tag band, their clothes threadbare and stained with the green and brown of life in the forest, their splintered shields faded and in need of a new lick of paint, their mail shirts rusted and blood-spattered. On their arms and faces, scars mapped lives of struggle.
Not one of them eyed the iron wall of Norman warriors lining the harbour, keeping the prying eyes of the Yernemuth folk away from what was happening at the waterside. The king’s men were dressed for war, in hauberks and helms, their long shields upon their arms, and their hands upon the hilts of their swords or the hafts of their axes. Here was William the Bastard’s final show of strength, Hereward thought as he leaned against the mast, a message with clear meaning.
‘Where is the monk?’ Kraki growled. ‘This waiting fills me with fury.’
‘Are you so keen to leave our home behind?’ Sighard said, sullen eyes lowered. ‘You may never see these forests and fields again.’
‘Wherever I lay my axe, that is my home,’ the Viking snorted. ‘You would do well to remember that, you red-headed dog, or you will be whining for the rest of your days.’ He eyed the other man askance and softened a little. ‘Be sure that wherever we wash up, there will be women with soft skin, and mead and ale and wine. And you will always have good drinking brothers to share them with. What more could you want?’
Sighard sighed, but the Viking’s words seemed to have eased his melancholy a little, Hereward noted. That was good. Hard times lay ahead, a battle of a different kind, and they would only find victory shoulder to shoulder. He felt proud of how well his men had taken the news of the king’s demands. None of them wanted to leave behind the land they knew, their friends, their kin. But they understood. Once you had taken the life of the spear, the days became ones of hard choices. They could never go back to the fields, or the hearthside, the loom or the smithy. They had given themselves up to death, to blood, to honour, and there was no place for men like that in this new England that William the Bastard was making. Turning, he shielded his eyes from the sun and looked out to sea. If they were to find a place for themselves, it would be out there, beyond the horizon.
Guthrinc loomed over him, sucking on the last shred of meat on a chicken bone. ‘Still time to change your mind,’ he said. He examined the bone, then tossed it over his shoulder into the waves.
‘I have made my choice.’
‘It is a brave man who can walk away, knowing that his name will be torn down and pissed upon.’ Guthrinc eyed him, trying to hide his concern behind a facade of disinterest. Good Guthrinc, he thought, watching out for him still, as he always had.
‘I have been called worse things than coward. If I remember, you called me worse things, back in Barholme when I robbed you.’
The big man laughed silently and clapped a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. But then he tapped his nose and pointed towards Kraki standing gloomily by the side, looking towards the west. Hereward nodded. It was not only England they were leaving behind.
‘Kraki,’ he called. When the Viking came over, scowling, Hereward asked, ‘I have a mind not to end our voyage in Flanders. Greater spoils lie out there for men like us. Tell me your thoughts – where should we go?’
The Viking looked taken aback that his opinion had been solicited, but then he grinned. ‘About time. I thought you had grown weak since Ely and set your sights low.’
Guthrinc feigned a weary shake of his head. ‘I smell misery.’
