Hereward 03 - End of Days, page 9
As Acha led Rowena away, Hereward turned back to the grave-faced men gathered in the flickering torchlight. ‘Let us talk now of these dark times and the worries you have,’ he said. ‘And then I will tell you how we can kill a king.’
Before he had taken a step towards the refectory, he heard running feet at the enclosure gate and turned to see a boy waiting there. The lad looked both frightened and eager, dancing from foot to foot and kneading his hands in front of him.
‘What does he want?’ Hereward asked, suspicious. Children troubled him, weak, whining things.
‘It is Wardric,’ Alric murmured, puzzled. ‘Away with you, boy,’ he called. ‘Hereward has important business.’
‘I must speak to you.’ The lad held out one pleading hand. He seemed on the verge of tears, the Mercian thought.
‘Tell me,’ Alric said.
‘My words are for Hereward’s ears alone.’ Swallowing, Wardric glanced over his shoulder fearfully. ‘Only Hereward can save us from the devil … the devil that walks in Ely.’
The Mercian frowned. He held the monk back when Alric would have ushered the boy away. ‘Bring him to me,’ he said, curious. ‘I would hear about this devil.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE GHOST WATCHED from the shadows. As he staggered out of the tavern, Harald Redteeth looked across the deserted street and into that dead, grey face, those black, unblinking eyes. Ivar, his friend, long gone from the world, but always there, always reminding him of his vow. The Viking swayed, his breath steaming in the cold morning air. He held that gaze as long as he could. There would be no peace for either of them until Ivar was avenged and the gates of Valhalla swung open to admit him at last.
The wan sun glowed over the glistening rooftops of Grentabrige. Soon the town would be waking. Finally breaking the stare, Redteeth lurched a few paces, opened his breeches and pissed into the ruts. The stream seemed to go on for ever. A night of ale would do that to a man. Even through the drunken haze, his head still throbbed from the blow Hereward’s right-hand man had dealt him after the attack on Abbot Turold and his monks. He snorted in disgust. The English dogs had taken him as if he were a child. But he could afford to wait to sate his desire for vengeance. They had burned him and stabbed him and cut him. His face and body was a mass of blackened dead skin and pink scars. Yet still he came back. And he would do so time and again, until he got what he wanted – Hereward’s death. The English could not kill him; the alfar had told him that when he had journeyed to the shore of the great black sea.
He stumbled along the street, hot under his chain mail and his furs and his helm. Sweat trickled down his back. The bitter mushrooms he had chewed in the hour before sunrise always made him sticky. Only a few had passed his lips, not enough to take him to the black sea, and certainly not enough to keep him there. He treated the mushrooms with respect. They gave him the heart of a bull in battle, and the wisdom of the world beyond.
From the thatched rooftops, he could feel the eyes of the alfar watching him. In the wind rustling under the doors of the workshops, he could hear them calling to him: angr, angr. Trouble, trouble. A warning. He wandered down to the banks of the grey Grenta. His stomach pitched and yawed, another sign of the power of the mushrooms settling upon him. At the waterside, his thoughts flew on a raven’s wings, and once again he was standing before Ivo Taillebois and William de Warenne by the roaring fire in the castle in Lincylene. The Butcher was peering at him from under his heavy brow, slow in his thoughts but as hard as stone. The nobleman was pacing around the hearth. Only now did Redteeth realize how unsettled they both had looked, as if he was watching a storm approaching at sea. They were commanding him to travel south to Grentabrige, that very day, and waste no time. But they would not tell him what he was to do when he got there, or why he was needed.
‘You are Harald Redteeth?’
The Viking jerked from his vision. Turning from the river, he looked into the face of a knight standing at the top of the bank. He was tall, with dark features, the kind of looks that could turn a maid’s heart, the Northman decided. ‘What do you want, Norman?’ he said with a gap-toothed grin that held no humour.
‘My name is Deda. I have been ordered to meet a mad Viking.’ He looked around at the empty streets, a wry smile on his lips. ‘I see no other who fits that description.’
Redteeth looked the knight up and down. The Normans were bastards, all of them. They either swaggered like kings or slaughtered like butchers. This knight looked like one of the peacocks, he thought. They expected all to fall before them, yet most had no spine or were slippery as eels. ‘They say all Norman men use sheep like women,’ he ventured.
Deda smiled, refusing to rise to his taunting. ‘You have no place in your heart for Normans?’
‘I never met one I liked.’
‘And yet you take our coin.’
‘If we only took coin from folk we liked, our bellies and our mead-cups would always be empty.’ Redteeth climbed the bank, sizing the other man up with each step.
‘Ah, yes. Axes-for-hire know the price of everything, but the true worth of nothing at all, so they say. When everything is measured in coin, how else would it be?’ Deda’s smile remained lazy, but his dark eyes had a sharp intelligence. The Viking thought that perhaps this man was not a peacock at all. Yet nor did he look like one of the Men of Iron who seemed made for nothing but killing in the king’s name.
‘Knights with land, and great halls, and slaves, always say there is more than coin, I have found. Tell me, then. What is missing from my poor life?’
Deda held out a hand. ‘I never judge a man. That is God’s business. And we have only just met. Only a fool would speak so boldly at this time.’ As Harald prowled closer, the knight eased back his cloak and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘And I am no fool,’ he added.
‘I have fought beside your kind time and again,’ the Viking said. He cracked his knuckles as he regarded the knight. ‘I have seen into your heart, and it is a cold place. You build castles out of stone, and great churches that are chill and empty. And you kneel and you pray and you listen to the echoes come back and you shiver. You count your coin in your counting houses, and make marks upon your ledgers. You put women in their place. Not shoulder to shoulder as is their right, but lower. They should bow their heads to their husbands now, eh? ’Tis no surprise you find comfort in sheep.’
‘So, we have yet to find some common ground between us.’ The knight stood his ground as Redteeth prowled around him, eyeing him as a wolf might eye a lamb. ‘Yet we must have trust if we are to be brothers in battle.’
The Viking ground to a halt. ‘Brothers?’
‘Ivo Taillebois has told the king that of all the warriors under his command, you know the enemy leader Hereward best. You know his mind, and his heart, and from that, one would think, his plans. I have been charged to ride with you in the fens. King William is about to make his move, and we have work to prepare the way.’
Redteeth nodded to himself. He liked the sound of that. Closer to Hereward, closer to taking his head and meeting the vow he had made all those years ago over Ivar’s burned body.
‘And yet there is this matter of trust,’ the knight continued. ‘Can we ride together if the only thing that binds us is the coin the king pays you?’
Harald furrowed his brow. This did not sound like any Norman he had encountered before. He shrugged, then gave a lupine grin. ‘Beat me in battle, and I will bow my head to you, coin or not. You have my word on that.’
Deda cocked his head, amused. ‘A fight?’
Redteeth raised the axe that hung at his side on a leather thong. ‘This is Grim. It was given to me by my father, and to him by his father. When it drinks blood, it honours all who have held it before. Only through days gone by can we see the way to days yet to come. And it is this,’ he shook the axe, ‘that binds us to all the things that made us who we are. You Normans do not understand such things.’ He snorted. ‘I would not taint the blade with your blood.’ He tossed the axe aside. ‘Use your sword. I will defeat you still.’
Deda drew his weapon, turning it over in his hand as if it were the first time he had seen it. ‘A sword against an unarmed man? That would not be honourable.’ He set the sword aside, and then drew off his mail shirt, and put his helm atop it.
The Viking was puzzled. He had heard the Norman bastards speak of honour before, but he had never met one who would risk his neck for it.
Defenceless, the knight stretched, rubbed his hands together and smiled. ‘Let us fight, then. With the strength of the arms that God gave us.’
‘I will not go easy on you.’
‘I would expect no less.’
With a roar like a bear, Harald Redteeth threw himself forward. But his arms closed only on thin air. Deda was light on his feet, strong and agile, with the skill of a master swordsman. He stepped aside and jabbed his elbow into the Viking’s back as he sped by. The Northman crashed on to the mud.
Grinning, Redteeth heaved himself up. He had a fight on his hands. That was good.
Back and forth the two men fought along the muddy, leaf-clogged river bank. Harald felt his thoughts drift away on the mushrooms’ raven-wings. He saw only his enemy. His arms and legs moved as if they belonged to someone else; and they did, to Thor himself, who had given his lightning and his thunder the moment Harald had swallowed the bitter flesh. He gritted his teeth and snapped and snarled. His knuckles crashed into the other man’s face. Deda spun back to his knees, then raised one eyebrow as he wiped a trickle of blood from his nose with the back of his hand.
Harald saw no fear there. Indeed, the knight seemed to see their battle as an amusement.
For long moments they tore at each other. Now Harald could see why his opponent had removed his hauberk. His own mail shirt made him lumber like a bear. But as the knight stumbled back over a stone, he saw his opening. Racing forward, he crashed into Deda and wrapped his arms around him.
Redteeth grinned as he peered into his enemy’s face, their noses barely a finger’s width apart. He crushed tighter, squeezing the breath from the other man’s lungs. Soon ribs would shatter, and then spine. And yet Deda’s face remained calm, and an ironic smile still played on the edge of his lips. That only drove the Viking to even greater exertions.
But the knight was a head taller than him. He pressed his toes on the mud and thrust forward with all his weight. A moment later, the two men were flying down the slippery bank and into the icy Grenta. So powerful was Deda’s kick that Harald realized they had spun beyond the shallows and into the deeper water. The bitter cold shocked through the numbness of his thoughts. His arms flew from the knight. Down he went, pulled to the bottom by the weight of his mail shirt. As the water closed over his head, he thought how clever the bastard Norman had been.
Just when he felt the darkness begin to close in, hands fumbled for his chest and hauled him up. He burst into the pale light, throwing back his head as he sucked in a deep draught of air. Deda had his fingers hooked in the mail shirt. He pulled the Viking through the shallows and dragged him up into the thick brown mud along the water’s edge. Harald lay on his belly for a moment, catching his breath. When he rolled over, he looked at the other man through narrow eyes. The dripping Norman still sported a wry smile.
‘I saved your life,’ Deda said. ‘I would think that would be worth something. Coin or not.’
‘Aye,’ Redteeth grunted. ‘It has some worth.’ Water sluiced out of the back of his hauberk as he pulled himself to his feet.
The knight offered his hand. ‘They said you were a wild beast. I think there is more to you than that. And we shall find out the truth of the matter on the road.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE LONE CANDLE flame guttered in the dark belly of the church. Shadows danced across the drawn face of the man kneeling in prayer before the altar. In the vast gulf of night, that single point of light was his sole worldly comfort. As cold sweat trickled down his back, Alric’s supplication echoed more loudly. He squeezed his hands together until they ached. God would watch over him. God would keep him safe.
How long had he been alone in that deserted church? Two hours? Three? His knees ached and the cold of the stone reached deep into his bones. But he could not leave. Death was coming for him.
When the flame flickered upright once more, the monk felt his gaze drawn towards it. For a long moment, the candlelight held him fast. Then, with the prayer dying in his mouth, he moistened his dry lips and listened.
Only silence filled that empty space.
Barely a moment later, he sensed someone behind him. Crying out in shock, he threw himself aside. A glinting blade flashed through the space where his neck had been.
Alric sprawled across the cold flagstones, straining to see through the gloom. A shadow loomed over him, a cloaked and hooded man wielding a short-bladed knife. ‘The king’s man,’ the monk hissed. The candlelight lit a long face with deep-set eyes, one he did not recognize. Not an Ely man, but one of the thousands of human flotsam who had drifted into the Camp of Refuge to seek shelter under Hereward’s banner. A nobody, a nothing, the perfect disguise.
‘The monk who knew how to uncover me,’ the attacker spat. ‘In the tavern, in every workshop, that was all I heard. No more.’ Alric’s heels and elbows skidded on the smooth stone as he tried to push himself away. Hereward’s lie had had the desired effect, drawing the Norman bastards’ rat out of its hole, though little comfort it was to him at that moment.
The knife swept up; the hooded man lunged.
With a flick of his foot, Alric kicked the candle as he rolled aside. The church was plunged into an all-consuming darkness. Scrambling away on his hands and knees, the monk heard the attacker’s curse echo along the nave. A moment later he sensed frantic movement as the hooded man lashed out wildly with his blade. Time and again the monk felt the knife whistle by. Terror gripped him. Now he had seen the face of the king’s spy he would not be allowed to escape with his life.
As he scrabbled through the dark, he heard a door crash open. A light flared, then another, torches dancing along the nave, the slap of running feet. His heart leapt.
Shadows flickered across the walls as Hereward and his men surged around the church. The hooded man raced to escape the trap he now realized had been set for him, but there was no way out. The plan had been too well made.
Alric pushed his way up the wall and drew in a deep breath. He was shaking. Yet he felt a surge of elation that he still lived. For a moment, he had doubted that he would ever see the day again.
The English warriors surrounded the attacker. Ranging back and forth, the trapped man brandished his knife at anyone who took a step towards him. Alric weighed the hardness he had seen in the spy’s face. Here was a man who was not afraid to die. He would not give up his secrets, the monk was sure, and he would try to take some English blood before he was brought down.
Alric’s attention flitted towards Hereward. The Mercian’s face was unreadable as he strode across the nave. Eyes fixed upon the prisoner, he pushed his way through the ranks of warriors. At the front, he took Madulf’s spear and without breaking a step drove the weapon through the hooded man.
The monk flinched. Cold, brutal and effective. Here was the leader the English needed in these dark times, a man who could match the king blow for blow. And yet he could not celebrate, for he knew the price his friend would pay.
As the Norman spy twitched on the end of the weapon, his blood pooling around him, Hereward pushed past his men and strode up to Alric with the nonchalance of a sailor who had just speared a codfish.
‘You risked your life for the people here. They will never forget that,’ he said, resting one hand on the monk’s shoulder.
‘I did only what had to be done.’
Hereward allowed himself a brief smile which said more than words, and returned to his warriors.
‘Where there is one, there could be many,’ Kraki said, eyeing the wounded man. ‘William the Bastard will not rest. He will send more of these rats, until he succeeds in stirring the folk to rise up against us.’
Hereward nodded. ‘That he will.’
‘Are we then doomed to see more innocents slaughtered?’ Sighard asked. ‘To keep fighting this same battle over again until we are worn down?’
The Mercian stepped over his fallen enemy and glanced down at him. ‘He has some life in him yet.’ He looked around the gathered warriors who were hanging on his words. ‘Take a wooden stake and drive it up through his arse and out of his neck. Then set him by the gates for all to see.’
‘Alive?’ Sighard said, uneasy.
‘He will live for a day, perhaps two.’ Hereward’s voice was devoid of emotion. He watched the spy’s eyes widen in horror at the ordeal to come. ‘His screams will do our work for us. All Ely will know what happens to any who dare attack us here, in our home. And they will warn any new arrival, and any Norman snake who slithers up will think twice before it acts.’
The hooded man held out an arm and began to plead for mercy. Turning on his heel as if he had not heard, Hereward walked towards the door. ‘Our backs are safe,’ he called. ‘Now let us turn our spears towards the bastard king.’
Alric watched his friend depart, and then he bowed his head and whispered a prayer.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ACROSS THE MARSHY floodplain of the Ouse, a finger of solid land was growing. Around it, men toiled with shovels and hammers. They shattered flint and dragged sacks of sand. Others cut alder branches and carried armfuls of reeds as they extended the raised bank across the wet land. The rhythmic crack of hard labour rang out in the quiet of the autumn morn.
‘See, was I not right?’ mad Hengist hissed. ‘The Normans are building a causeway.’ He danced in a circle, no longer troubled by his injured ankle.
‘You did well. We have no better scout.’ Hereward lay on his stomach on the high ground and eased aside the brown bracken so he had a clear view of the work.
