Hereward 03 - End of Days, page 6
‘What drives you, then?’ the king demanded.
‘Honour, my lord. At the end of our days that is all a man has.’
William snorted, low and mocking. ‘Ah, honour. Do you think you are better than other men, Deda? Do you think you are better than me?’
‘Honour is the rule by which I live. I stand or fall by it. I do not use it to look down upon others. That would not be … honourable.’
After a moment of silence, William said, ‘I will keep my eye on you, Deda. Perhaps I will learn something. You should do the same of me.’
‘I will, my lord.’
‘Hold out your hand. I would reward you for being an honourable man.’
‘My lord?’
‘Hold out your hand.’
Deda opened his palm. The king had kept his right arm behind his back for all the time they had been talking. He whipped it out and dropped a cold fish into Deda’s open hand. It flapped around in the last of its death throes.
Laughing as he made his way back to his bench, William glanced over his shoulder to see the knight’s reaction. All around, the oarsmen laughed with him, as they always did.
Deda gripped the fish until it stilled and then he bowed. The king’s laughter drained away and a shadow crossed his face. This was not the reaction he wanted, Deda could see. William slipped back into the shadows and lowered his bulk on to his bench, but as the knight turned back to the sea he could feel eyes heavy upon his back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE SHADOW OF the raised sword stabbed into the chest of the man kneeling on the mud of the castle’s inner ward. Guards yanked his arms back as the Norman soldiers and nobles gathered round. Blinking away tears of fear, the prisoner fought to stop his mouth trembling and raised his chin in defiance.
‘Loose your tongue,’ the Butcher growled, still holding his blade high. Ivo Taillebois was the sheriff, but he still carried himself like the brute who had clawed his way out of the Normandy mud. His English was thick-tongued, his features like clay, his brow low. He knew how to kill, though, and how to run the king’s enemies like rats.
‘Norman bastard,’ the man on the ground snarled. ‘You will not make me break faith with my own.’
Redwald studied the confrontation. There was no doubt the spy would refuse to betray the rebels. Hereward had a skill for choosing the most loyal men to scout for him. But the Butcher would whittle him down. A finger or two here, a hand there, a nose, ears, eyes, then limbs. He would leave the tongue till last, so the screams would stir terror in the hearts of any English who heard them. Redwald had seen this enough times now, since he had deserted the rebels and his brother to advise the invaders here in Lincylene.
He smiled, his apple cheeks flushing. He had made the right choice. His road to power was clear once again.
‘Where is Hereward?’ Taillebois barked. ‘Our eyes and ears in your camp tell us he has not been seen for many days now.’
The spy hung his head, his dark features sullen.
‘He has fled, afraid of the king’s might.’ William de Warenne waved a dismissive hand towards the prisoner. Redwald eyed the nobleman. Like the Butcher, William was a fighting man who had earned his land in the east with the English blood he had spilled at Senlac Ridge. But he had a good length of bone, and learning, and the purple cloak tossed over one shoulder was of a finer and more expensive cloth than Taillebois’s rough, mud-spattered garment.
‘No,’ Redwald interjected, his voice gentle and unthreatening. ‘Hereward would never flee.’
William weighed the words, but he would not disagree. No one knew Hereward better than his brother, and for that Redwald was, if not trusted, at least respected. ‘Dead, then,’ the nobleman said. ‘Either way, we are close to the end of this thing.’
The spy jerked his head around and searched the crowd of Normans until his gaze fell upon Redwald. His eyes widened. Redwald couldn’t remember ever seeing the man, but clearly the prisoner knew him from the camp at Ely.
‘Help me,’ the spy called. ‘Tell them to let me live, in your brother’s name.’
William de Warenne chuckled. Behind his hand, he whispered, ‘He thinks you are some messenger. He cannot have heard that you cut off the head of your own brother’s wife to buy your way into our trust.’ Redwald ignored the undisguised contempt he heard in the other man’s voice. ‘Still,’ the nobleman continued in a thoughtful tone, ‘if you think we should spare his miserable life, speak now and it shall be done.’
William was setting a trap with words, Redwald knew. Now that he had secured his position among the Normans, he was not about to show any hint of weakness. ‘Do what you will with him,’ he replied with a shrug.
The prisoner’s face crumpled. ‘You are English,’ he cried.
The Normans only laughed.
The Butcher rested the edge of his sword above the prisoner’s ear. The spy began to whimper. When his scream rang out a moment later as Taillebois began to saw, Redwald walked away; he had no stomach for it. The sickening sounds followed him as he pushed through the crowd in the ward. After a moment, he stopped hearing them.
A firm hand gripped his arm. He turned to see Asketil, Hereward’s father, his own father if not by blood, the man who had taken him in as a boy when his birth parents had died. Redwald was surprised to see the old man looking so vital. For a long time, Asketil had seemed to be fading by the day, as grey and twisted and lifeless as the lightning-blasted oak near their home. But now he stood tall and his eyes were clear and his grip was almost too strong to break.
‘You bend the Normans to your will with ease. That is good,’ the old man said in a low voice.
‘They think themselves the masters now. They see no threat around them and so their guard is down.’
‘You have not told them all you know?’
Redwald shook his head. ‘A little here, a little there. A few grains of salt upon meat to make it taste the better.’
The old man nodded, pleased by what he was hearing. ‘Good. Too much, and they will have no need of you.’
Redwald smiled. He would never let that happen. ‘I will climb up on their shoulders and reach great heights once again. And I will raise Asketil Tokesune up with me. You will have all the gold and power you once enjoyed, Father.’
The old man grinned. His teeth were yellow and broken. But then a shadow crossed his face. ‘If only you were my true son and not Hereward.’
‘Hereward has failed you. He has failed us both. But we should give him no further thought. His days are all but done—’
‘Good,’ Asketil spat.
‘And we have our own plans to make.’ Redwald grinned. ‘Doom is coming for the English in Ely. They sip their beer and boast about how they will bring the king to his knees. And all the time William the Bastard circles closer, like the wolves in winter.’
‘How can he bring an army to Ely across the waters and the bogs?’
Redwald glanced back at the crowd, screwing up his face in disgust at their cheers. ‘Perhaps he has summoned the Devil to carry him across the fens. It matters little. The war will soon be over, the last of the English destroyed. And Ely will be a wasteland like the north, drowned in ashes, with no man standing.’ He leaned in to his father and whispered, ‘Some of the Bastard’s most trusted men arrive in Lincylene today to prepare the way for the king … and I will be there to meet them.’
Asketil frowned, not understanding.
‘The king will need a good Englishman to tell him the ways of those who raise arms against him, one who knows the secret paths. The Butcher … William de Warenne … we have no need of them if we can gain the king’s ear.’
The old man looked shocked. ‘You would dare?’
‘The prize is too great not to try.’ He nodded and began to walk away, saying, ‘If all goes as planned, we will rise up faster than we ever dared hope, and have riches and power beyond imagining. Wish me well, Father.’
He felt a lightness to his step as he hurried across the ward. In those grey days after King Harold had fallen at Senlac Ridge, he thought his hopes had been for ever dashed. But in the years since, he had learned a hard lesson. Glory came not to those who fought, but to those who waited. A skilled tongue could loosen heads better than any axe. And if he remained true to what he believed, and patient, no obstacle would be too great. In the final accounting, nothing mattered; not brothers, not lovers, no, nor fathers. He had himself, and that was all he needed, and by his own guiles he would find peace.
Among a swirl of crisp, ochre leaves, Edoma waited in the shade beside the castle gate. Her blonde hair and angelic features conjured a vision of innocence, but he knew better. She still sported a blue bruise on her left cheek from the roughness of their lovemaking three nights ago. Whatever he wanted, she gave him, without a complaint, or tears, even when that compliance drove him on to greater excesses. Perhaps he had met his match.
‘Any news?’ she asked, her eyes shining.
‘I swear your blood is higher than mine,’ he said, amused.
‘I want only good things for you. You deserve your heart’s desire.’ If they had been alone, she would have slipped her arm through his, he knew. Instead, she looked up at him with big eyes filled with promise.
He glanced around to make sure he would not be overheard, and whispered, ‘The king’s men come today.’
Edoma all but clapped her hands in glee.
‘Hush,’ he cautioned. ‘Do not bring eyes towards us. I must speak to them before Ivo or any of the others realize.’
‘Plant your seeds, yes,’ she said with a quick nod of agreement. ‘And they will grow fast. The others are too slow-witted for you, my love. Do not worry about them.’
He had tried to stay calm, but he allowed himself a quick grin. ‘Come. We must ready ourselves. Time is short.’ He took a few paces and paused, adding, ‘Perhaps we should marry. Would the king trust a married man more?’ Without glancing at Edoma for her thoughts, he strode off once more. There was much he had to consider.
Beyond the castle gates, the muddy road wound down the steep hill on which Lincylene sat. The streets throbbed with life. Amid the din of the workshops and folk shouting to be heard above hammers and looms, there was no point in speaking. He forced his way through the throng with Edoma at his heels until he reached the market. It was no less quiet there. Merchants bellowed to gain the attention of any who neared their stalls. Some turned their offer of wares to song, competing in hoarse voices with the sellers nearby. A knife for two pennies, a fox skin for eight, a fledged sparrowhawk for twenty-four. A gang of boys fought with wooden swords, crying out as they clattered knuckles.
Redwald dipped into the leather purse at his waist and pressed a coin into Edoma’s hand. ‘Buy what you will,’ he shouted. ‘A ribbon for your hair, a new comb, some silk. Come to me later, after the king’s men have passed through. And then, perhaps, you may buy silver or gold to wear on your breast.’
Edoma’s eyes gleamed. She gave a seductive smile as she folded her fingers around the coin and slipped away. Feeling his heart swell with excitement, Redwald kicked his way through a brood of chickens pecking in the dirt around a stall, and made his way to where the swine rooted in their swill. He clambered on to a low stone wall and found a spot where he could look out over all Lincylene, to the gleaming ribbon of river with the merchants’ ships moored at the quay, and across the green land beyond. His nose wrinkled at the fruity smell of dung, but it would keep him from being disturbed. He let his gaze fall upon the great south road, far below, and waited.
But not for too long. With his heart racing, he watched ten horsemen wend their way along the road and pass through the gate. When they had made their way up the hill to the market, he was there to greet them, with Frankish wine and salt pork and bread. He paid a boy to take the horses to water, while the Normans stretched their tired limbs and wiped the dirt of the road from their faces. He knew William de Warenne and Taillebois would be waiting in the castle ward, puzzled at the slow arrival of their guests for the feast that had been planned. He would deal with the repercussions of his actions later. As he moved among the black-cloaked men, constantly filling their cups from the skin he carried, he found the king’s adviser, a long-faced man called Bardolph. Redwald sowed his seeds well, and in only a little time he had left the Norman commander in no doubt that he was a much valued counsellor to the sheriff and that he held vital information about the English rebels which would be of great use to the king.
Once the men set off for the castle, Redwald all but ran into the heart of the market to tell Edoma that Bardolph had insisted … insisted … that he be taken to the monarch to tell all he knew. But though he searched among the stalls, he could not find her anywhere. Prettying herself with her new ribbon, he thought with annoyance. He asked around the merchants until he found a man who pointed him towards the smith’s workshop on the edge of the market. Edoma had sent a message that she had gone in to warm herself, for the wind had grown cold.
Unable to contain his excitement Redwald thrust his way through the market crowd. He could have found the half-timbered workshop by his nose. The acrid stink of the forge seemed to seep out of the very wood. He marvelled how the smith worked in the fug with the large door closed. Wrenching it open a little, he slipped through the gap.
Inside, the gloom was made darker still by the orange glare from the coals. He covered his mouth and nose and flapped his hand to whisk away the choking smoke. The heat in the smithy was near-unbearable and sweat prickled along his brow. Edoma was mad if she thought this was a pleasant place to warm herself. The forge hissed, but there was no thunder of hammers or sizzle of hot iron plunged into water. The smith was nowhere to be seen.
Then the smoke shifted and he glimpsed Edoma waiting on the far side of the workshop. Coughing, he stumbled towards her.
Pain flared in his head as something heavy crashed against the base of his skull. He pitched forward, seeing stars. Through the throb of his blood, he heard Edoma cry out. Her voice was muffled, as if it came from the depths of a well. Redwald clawed at the hard-packed mud floor and rolled on to his back.
Through the smoke, a figure loomed. Tears of pain blurred his eyes, but Redwald still felt his chest tighten in terror. He blinked. The glow from the forge painted his attacker’s face. Shadows pooled in the eyes and the hollows of the cheeks. The Devil had come to drag him to hell for his sins.
‘Now there will be a reckoning.’ The familiar voice was a low growl of rage.
Aye, the Devil. For here was Hereward, his brother, filled with an insatiable hunger for slaughter in revenge for the murder of his wife.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HEREWARD RAISED HIS sword. ‘Your days are done,’ he snarled, peering down the blade to where Redwald quivered. His fair hair had been dyed by berries and dirt, and the plain brown tunic of a merchant hid the tattooed spirals of the warrior that covered his arms. But now he could forget his disguise.
The forge blazed like the sun, but he did not feel the heat. The stinging smoke swirled around him, unseen. Nor could he taste the brimstone on his tongue. The only fire that mattered in that place was the one in his heart, and that had burned bitter cold for too long.
He watched Redwald choke back his fear, but the traitor’s dry mouth could not even form a plea for his miserable life. Eyes wide, his brother scrabbled away from the sword. For his revenge, Hereward could have used an axe, or a spear. But this was no faceless, meaningless battle death. It was judgement and for that it demanded ceremony and a killing tool that carried a greater import than war weapons. It demanded his wolf of wounds. He turned Brainbiter so that the sword seemed to glow in the light of the forge. The hilt was edged with gold to befit his former high standing. It had majesty, and power, and it felt so comfortable in his grip that it seemed almost a part of him. With this, he would take his brother’s life.
Redwald held out his hands. ‘The smith will come …’
‘The smith is in the tavern, spending the coin I gave him on mead and mutton.’
Hereward glanced towards Edoma who cowered at the back of the workshop. She was too scared to help. And what could she do? By the time she raised the alarm, he would have his brother’s head. His trap had been well set.
He looked down on the man he despised more than any other and the rush of emotion almost made him stagger. Choking on the smoke, Redwald seized the opportunity to scramble to his feet. His gaze darted to the door. Hereward grinned. His brother could not reach it before he was cut down. The younger man swallowed, his eyes moistening. Sweat trickled down his brow.
‘How you must have hated me.’ Hereward’s voice was almost lost beneath the crackle and hiss of the forge.
Redwald looked startled. ‘Hated you? I only ever had love for you, Hereward. No one else has shown me such kindness.’
The warrior snorted with derision, until he saw that his brother truly believed what he was saying. ‘You killed my wife … cut off her head … to buy your way into the trust of the Norman bastards.’ All he could see was the open grave beside the abbey when Turfrida’s shroud-wrapped body was lowered into it. He felt a pang of loss worse than any flesh wound.
‘She was a woman,’ his brother stuttered, uncomprehending.
‘My wife!’
Rage flared once more, and he swung his blade back. Yet even then, slaying Redwald was harder than he thought. All he could see was the boy who had sat beside him at the lake in Barholme, fishing. The lad who had hidden him in the hayrick when his father had threatened to use his fists on him again. His lifelong guide, and friend. The wound of this betrayal was almost as agonizing as his grief at Turfrida’s murder. ‘We were brothers,’ he said. His sword wavered.
‘We still are.’ Redwald drew his shoulders back and put on a sad smile. ‘I am weak, Hereward. You know that. You were always my strength. When the boys in the village beat me, you were the one who bloodied them in turn.’ He took a step forward, wringing his hands. ‘In my weakness, I chose poorly time and again. And my heart burns for what I did to Turfrida. Not a day passes when I do not pray for forgiveness. But I was afraid of the Normans and what they would do if they came to Ely.’ He blinked away tears. His voice lowered until it was almost a whisper. ‘I am not strong, Hereward. Not like you.’
