Hereward 03 - End of Days, page 8
And then he thought of Redwald, and he knew he could never forget, never forgive.
The weight upon him began to ease as Hardred dragged the fleeces to one side. When the midday sun warmed his face, he sat up, blinking, and sucked in a breath of clean air. They were heading south-west. Lincylene had fallen from view, and the river bank was now lined with trees. Ahead was the endless sky of the flat fenlands.
Alric sat up beside him. Hereward saw he had a bemused expression.
‘Your plan worked, monk.’
‘Aye. It did,’ Alric replied in a faintly surprised tone.
‘You have your uses, then.’ Hereward gave a wry smile.
‘Keeping you among the living seems to be the main one.’
Hereward looked out to the trees. ‘One day we will drink mead together and laugh about these days. For now, I have work to do.’ He glanced back at Hardred who sat astern, one hand on the rudder. ‘Take me ashore anywhere. I will live in the woods while I make new plans.’
‘To kill your brother,’ the monk said. His face hardened.
‘My mind has not changed.’
Alric shook his head. ‘You must return with me.’
Hereward sighed. ‘We have spoken of this time and again—’
The monk grabbed his arm. ‘The king is coming.’
‘Then let him. The English have an army now. Morcar’s men make it a force to be reckoned with.’
Alric gripped tighter. ‘The king has plans, secret plans that we cannot divine. Siege machines …’
Hereward snorted. ‘In the fens? He will not get them within a day’s ride of Ely.’
‘And yet still he brings them. William the Bastard is no fool.’ The churchman leaned in, his voice heavy with passion. ‘You must come back to Ely and lead the English again.’
‘I cannot.’ Hereward dropped his gaze and stared into the grey waters.
‘They will be destroyed without you at their head.’
‘I said no,’ the Mercian replied, too sharply. He softened his voice and added, ‘I told you, monk, there are better men than I—’
‘No, there are not.’ Alric leaned forward again, holding out one hand. ‘And if a leader with such God-given prowess has turned his back upon his army, how, then, will his men feel? Lost. Alone. Broken.’
‘You go too far.’
A dragonfly skimmed across the water’s edge, glimmering in the sunlight. Astern, Hardred began to sing once more, an old song, in a tongue Hereward didn’t know, which sounded like a lament to lost love.
‘You do not want to hear these words because you do not wish to think of the plight of the ones you have left behind,’ the churchman pressed. ‘But if you would not have the doom of the English upon your soul, you cannot turn away.’
Hereward climbed to his feet and strode to the prow. He looked out across the water to the desolate lands beyond. ‘Have I not given my all for the English?’ he asked.
The words hung in the air for a moment, and then Alric replied, ‘You have.’
‘I left the English army strong and ready.’
‘You put your heart into the fight. No one could ever doubt that. But this is not about an army’s readiness, or spears and axes, or battle-plans and supplies. It is about you, Hereward. Though you cannot believe it, you are worth more than a hundred men. A thousand. However many answer the call at Ely, there will not be enough if you are not there to lead them.’ He paused. ‘Your warriors tear themselves apart. They no longer trust each other, or trust the path they are walking. And good men and women have been murdered …’
‘By whom?’
Alric shrugged. ‘But it has stirred the flames of the Ely folk. Soon they will rise up and drive the English army out.’
The Mercian frowned. ‘Murders,’ he muttered to himself.
‘A clear head coupled with a strong heart, that is the only thing that will save the day. A leader who can soothe these passions.’ Alric forced a smile. ‘You. Only you.’
Hereward bowed his head. He felt as if he were drowning in the cold waters around him. ‘Turfrida must be avenged. That is all that matters now.’
‘And so she will—’
‘Three times now she has come to me in my dreams,’ the Mercian interjected, staring into the river but seeing only his wife’s face. ‘She cannot rest, and neither can I, until Redwald has paid for his crime.’ He sensed Alric rise and stand behind him. He did not look round.
‘I feel your burden.’ The churchman’s voice was low and filled with feeling. ‘But this desire for vengeance will only draw up the devil that lives inside you. And it will destroy you. I would not see you come to harm, Hereward.’
‘When we stood at the gates of Ely that dawn, you said you would not stand in my way.’
‘Aye. Out of friendship, and pity for the pain that ate away at you. I was wrong. And I cannot remain silent any more.’
When the monk rested a comforting hand on his shoulder, the warrior threw it off. He whirled, feeling the anger rise inside him, the anger that would in turn summon the devil that Alric knew only too well. ‘Leave me be,’ he snarled. ‘This is my duty. You will not stand in my way.’
‘I will.’
Hereward felt the blood thunder in his head, and his hand fell involuntarily to the hilt of his sword. ‘Do not push me.’
The monk bared his chest. ‘Kill me, then. I would rather die than see you walk the road to hell, if there was aught I could do to prevent it.’
The Mercian took a step back, staggered by the vehemence he saw in the other man’s face. He felt his anger begin to subside.
But Alric did not back down. ‘Would you have the deaths of the English upon your soul? Your friends? I know you have searched for peace in your life, but peace does not come through vengeance.’
Hereward turned away, frustrated.
‘Return to Ely,’ the cleric said, softening, ‘and lead the English into this final battle.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE BLOATED BODY floated face down in the grey waves. Brown hair drifted like seaweed and the tunic billowed as the swell tugged the corpse through the lonely expanse of water. The two men watched the ghastly remains bob past the prow of their small boat. Neither of them spoke. Overhead, the shrieking gulls soared, waiting to plunder the tasty morsel.
‘A fisherman, claimed by the sea,’ Alric said finally.
From the blackened hands, Hereward could see the body had spent a while in those tidal waters to the north-east of Ely. Taking an oar, he stood up. The craft wobbled and the monk gripped the side in fear. Leaning out, the warrior prodded the carcass. The head swayed from side to side, barely attached to the torso.
‘An axe strike, or a sword,’ he muttered, frowning.
‘The tides have brought this poor soul out from the land where he fell,’ the monk affirmed.
Hereward was not so sure. He lowered himself down, leaning on the oar, deep in thought.
Since they had left Hardred and his skiff, their circuitous journey had taken longer than they had anticipated. They had thought it better to cross the dangerous fenland currents than take the old straight tracks to the west where the king’s men had no doubt set their traps. The Mercian began to worry they had made the wrong decision.
As the body drifted away, they rowed towards the south-west. After a while, the sun slipped down the sky to a point where its rays blazed off the waters and it seemed they were wafting through a world of silver. In the glare, Hereward smelled a hint of tar on the breeze. Moments later, a grey shape began to appear out of the haze. As it took on form and weight, he saw that it was a ship, one large enough to cross the whale road, its crimson sail flapping above a deck filled with men.
‘Here?’ Alric said, puzzled. ‘A wave-skimmer that size is far off course.’
As Hereward studied the vessel, more shapes emerged from the glare on every side. A multitude. Small fishing craft, merchants’ boats and ocean-going ships. The monk gaped.
‘Keep your wits and put that tongue of yours to good use,’ Hereward commanded. He spun round and snatched up the mooring rope. Looping it around his right arm several times, he slipped over the edge of the boat into the cold water.
As he floated unseen in the shadow with only his face above the surface, Alric appeared above him. ‘What …?’ he stuttered.
‘Wits, monk. And tongue,’ Hereward hissed.
Understanding lit the other man’s features, and with haste he took his seat and began to row with lazy strokes. After a few moments, the warrior heard a voice hail them. He pulled himself as close to the side of the boat as he could and tried not to splash as he trod water. The sound of oars dipping into the waves drew nearer. One of the smaller vessels, he decided. That was good. Less chance that he would be seen.
‘What is your business, monk?’ a voice barked.
‘What is your business?’ Alric replied in a haughty tone.
‘The king’s business. Turn back now. None may approach Ely, by order of King William.’
‘You are fishermen,’ the cleric said with a laugh.
‘Aye, were. Till we found a good catch of coin.’ Laughter rippled around the other boat. Hereward guessed there were four or five men aboard.
‘The king has bought the services of every boat in the east,’ another voice said. ‘Let the fish swim free. Silver in the hand is better than any basket of eels.’
Hereward felt his mood darken. Ivo the Butcher had raised a sea blockade of Ely before, but it had been a half-hearted venture. William the Bastard would not be so lax. If the crown had control of the waters, then the noose had started to choke the life from Ely.
‘Are you not afraid of God’s will?’ Alric was asking the fishermen.
After a moment’s hesitation, one asked, ‘What do you say?’
‘In the church at Ely lies the arm of St Oswald. God’s power has been visited upon that relic. Have you not heard?’
‘Aye,’ the other man replied with a note of unease. ‘I have heard of this thing.’
‘I travel now to see this holy sight, for I hear tales of great wonders in Ely. It is said that God stands with the English.’
Hereward raised one ear better to hear the response. For a long moment only the creaking of the oars upon the side rolled out. He imagined the fishermen blanching and bowing their heads as they thought about opposing God’s will. The monk was clever indeed.
‘Aye, we are frit of God,’ one of the men muttered, ‘in the next world. But we fear the king in this one. All know of the doom he has visited upon the north.’
‘He has already taken the heads of many who have not done his bidding,’ the second man said in a low voice, as if he feared the monarch himself would overhear. ‘And he has commanded us to do the same to all who disobey his order.’
‘Turn back,’ the first man said. ‘Even a monk will not be spared.’
‘Very well,’ Alric replied, ‘but know that you will be judged for these actions.’ He began to row the boat round, but slowly enough for Hereward to keep himself hidden.
Once they were out of sight, the monk hauled on the mooring rope and helped his friend back into the vessel. The Mercian huddled in the prow, drying off in the afternoon sun. ‘What now?’ Alric asked. ‘We would risk our necks in these currents under cover of the night.’
‘The Bastard would be ready for us, even in the dark. Enough ships will be sailing these waters now. Not an eel could swim through.’ Squinting, Hereward glanced back at the vessels disappearing into the glare. ‘My brother will have told the Normans about all our secret paths through the wetlands.’
‘Aye, and where we forage for food, and which merchants have helped us.’
Hereward clenched one fist. ‘Any English blood that has been spilled because of his weakness must be paid for in full.’
‘But our army is trapped within the camp, and we are shut out here.’ The monk let his head sag.
‘No, there is another path, one kept secret lest the English ever have to flee Ely to escape the king’s wrath. It is wild in parts, through the most treacherous bogs where one wrong step means death. When the tides come in, the waters sweep across it and a man can be washed away and drowned. No one would walk it of free will. But we have no choice.’ He picked up his oar and gave his friend a lupine grin. ‘Where there is life there is hope, monk. You taught me that.’
They sailed back to the north and the west, dragging the boat up into the mud of the first dry land they found. Through thick sedge, dense walls of willow snarled by bramble, and sucking bogs that appeared deceptively solid, they struggled on. Begging for scraps of food on the way, the two men forged west through the chill night until they were too tired to walk any further. Then they huddled in their cloaks in the roots of a giant oak and tried to sleep until first light.
Bands of Norman soldiers roamed with increasing regularity the closer they got to Ely. The two companions would hide among the fern, or in the branches of ash trees, then run, and then hide again. When they found the secret path, they had to wait in the fading light for the tide to go out. The way was as wild and dangerous as Hereward remembered and the night was heavy upon them by the time they reached the isle of eels, hungry and exhausted. But Hereward felt his worries ebb when he saw the church tower silhouetted against the starry sky.
As the gates trundled open, they stared into a row of warriors bristling with spears. Warnings were barked. But then torches flared, and the dark swept away. Hereward saw a corresponding light spring to life in the faces of the night watch. Disbelief turned to amazement and then jubilation. Full-throated cheers rose up. Shields and weapons were thrown aside, and the men ran forward to surround the two travellers, clapping shoulders and babbling questions.
‘You doubted me?’ Alric said, with a wry smile. ‘Here is all the proof you need.’
Hereward looked around in stunned silence, humbled by the greeting. As the circle of men herded him inside the gates, he heard the cry ‘Hereward is here!’ leap from mouth to mouth, rising up into the dark of Ely’s streets.
‘Where have you been these past days?’ someone yelled as the gates rumbled shut behind him.
‘Tweaking the king’s nose,’ he called back. Laughter rose up.
‘And is it true the Bastard has come to the east?’ At this, the voices quietened and an uneasy silence hung in the air.
‘Aye,’ Hereward said, looking around at the worried faces. ‘Now we have him where we want him.’
The silence broke as another cheer rang out.
On the street to the minster, Kraki waited, his heavy gaze weighing, judging. ‘You came back, then,’ the Northman growled.
‘Aye. I would not leave you to face the Bastard alone.’
Kraki grunted. He looked over the crowd and bellowed, ‘Would you wake the dead with this noise? Back to your homes, all of you. Hereward scouted and now he is home. That is no reason for a feast. Back to your hearths, and leave us to make our plans.’
The crowd broke up. But Hereward heard the jubilation continue as he strode up the hill, and it was not until he reached the minster enclosure that silence finally fell. Thurstan waited in a knot of monks, alongside Guthrinc, Hengist and a few more of his most trusted men, eyes still heavy with sleep. Guthrinc lumbered forward and wrapped his enormous arms round Hereward, almost crushing the breath from him.
‘We thought you dead,’ the big man said with a grin.
‘Many have wished that. Now put me down before you end my days yourself.’
Guthrinc laughed as he released his arms.
‘We have news to tell and plans to make,’ Hereward called to his men. ‘Let us—’
‘It is true, then. You are here.’
Hereward turned at the woman’s voice. He half expected to see Turfrida there, waiting to greet him with a kiss as she always had when he returned from fighting.
‘Her name is Rowena,’ Alric whispered. ‘’Twas her village where the Normans took all the menfolk.’ In the torchlight, the woman’s dark eyes were bright with hope and her cheeks were flushed.
‘I have come to Ely to plead for your help,’ she said, the words loud and clear.
‘And I will hear you, after I have—’
‘No, you will hear me now.’ Her voice cracked with desperation. Seeing she did not mean to give offence, Hereward held up a hand to stop Kraki guiding her away. ‘Aid me,’ she continued, defiant. ‘Help me find my husband, and all the other men the Normans took from their beds.’
‘I will aid you,’ the Mercian replied. ‘But we have a crown to claim, and that must come first.’
‘Not for me, or any of the goodwives in my village.’ As he turned to leave, she continued, ‘I call on you in the name of your wife Turfrida.’
He glanced back, his eyes blazing. ‘Watch what you say.’
‘Would your wife have held her tongue if you were lost?’ she said, undeterred. ‘I have heard tales of Turfrida. A woman with a fighting heart as great as any man’s. She aided the sick, and gave food to the hungry. And she never turned away from anyone in need. Do I speak true?’
‘You do,’ he replied in a low voice.
‘All the wives here have heard those tales, and they have taken strength from her. The memory of her gives us courage in these dark days.’ Kraki approached her again, but she threw him off. ‘Do not forget the women, for they are fearsome when roused,’ she said with passion.
‘I will do what I can,’ Hereward replied after a moment. ‘We will talk. After I have met with my war-band.’ He put iron in his voice so she knew he would brook no further dissent. Acha, Kraki’s woman, stood nearby, her skin as pale as snow and her black hair gleaming in the torchlight. Her brow was furrowed as she sized up Rowena. Hereward called to her. ‘Take her,’ he commanded. ‘Keep her well. Hear her tales. I will come when I am done here.’
