Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army (11 page)

‘Do you pray for me, Father?’ Hereward asked with a wry smile.

Thurstan raised one eyebrow. ‘Some would say you need all the aid you can find.’

‘There is truth in that.’

The abbot saw his visitor scrutinizing the shrine and said, ‘Make an offering. St Etheldreda may look kindly upon a kindred spirit.’

Hereward frowned. ‘How so?’

‘Etheldreda refused to submit to an unjust king. Egfrith was his name. Though she wished to become a nun, she had been promised to him by his neighbour, her father, King Anna of East Anglia, on the understanding that she remained a maid.’

The Mercian smiled grimly. ‘The understanding lasted … a day?’

‘Egfrith was filled with lust and had no intention of keeping the pact. Etheldreda fled back to Ely where she built this church. She set free all the bondsmen on her land and lived the rest of her days close to God. After she died, those who prayed to her received her aid from heaven, so we are told. And when her body was moved to a greater tomb after many summers, it was as if she had died only that day, though she had lain in wet earth.’

‘Then I will make an offering and say a prayer, Father. We are beset by enemies on all sides, and here at home too. If heavenly aid comes my way, I will not turn up my nose.’

Thurstan laughed, but only for a moment. Taking a spill, he began to light the candles along the wall near the shrine. ‘We pray for you every day, Hereward,’ he said. His face glowed as a flame licked up.

‘Your monks still have no ill-feeling towards my men? William the Bastard will punish them like no other for their aid.’

‘Only if you fall. No, we made our choice. The king would have come for us sooner or later. A Norman abbot would be here, one with a cold eye and an iron grip. As long as your spears keep the Normans at bay, we can still live as we always did, and we give thanks for that.’

Hereward raised his head to look up into the gloom enveloping the rafters. ‘We need more gold, Father.’

‘You cannot eat it.’

‘We can buy food from the markets to the south. And weapons. And pay spears-for-hire.’

Thurstan shook his head. ‘I cannot let you take the church’s treasures, Hereward.’ He lit the last candle and blew out the spill.

‘And I would not ask you for them. You have been good to us and I would not risk our friendship. But I have some thoughts and seek your guidance—’

Before Hereward could press the abbot further, a fearful cry rang out somewhere beyond the church. Another voice picked it up, and then another until a tumult echoed all around.

‘We are under attack,’ the warrior snarled, unsheathing Brainbiter. He dashed towards the entrance, the abbot close behind.

When he tore open the door and bounded out into the night, he first thought the feast-fire had been stoked too high. Sparks sailed overhead and clouds of smoke wafted across the minster grounds. Then through the fug he glimpsed an amber glow near by. White-faced monks raced around the enclosure, fearful that the fire would spread. Hereward grabbed the nearest one by the shoulders and bellowed, ‘Fetch water from the well. Line up your men.’

As he darted towards the burning building, he saw it was already too late. The thatched roof had collapsed inwards, the timber frame nothing but a blackened skeleton swathed in shimmering orange. He threw a hand across his face to shield him from the heat, his suspicions swiftly rising.

Breathless, Alric stumbled up, his jaw dropping when he realized what building was alight. ‘The food store,’ he gasped. ‘Our meagre supplies …’

Hereward could hear frantic cries rising up the slope from the feast. Once folk realized their supplies had been further depleted, they would be consumed with despair. And those black thoughts would spread like the plague in that crowded place. It could be the undoing of them.

‘We are accursed,’ the monk gasped.

‘No curse this. No act of God,’ the Mercian growled. ‘There were lit candles in the store?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then men set this fire.’

The monk gaped, turning slowly to look over the thatched roofs of the settlement. ‘Who would do such a thing?’ He paused, his thoughts racing. ‘We have enemies, here, in Ely?’

‘Would the hungry men and women of Ely set our store alight? No, this is an attack.’ Hereward gritted his teeth. Already he could see the final outcome if this threat were allowed to run its course. ‘Our army will not be defeated by cowards who stab
us in the back while we look to the greater enemy,’ he said in a stony voice. ‘At first light we will begin anew, and all within this place will learn that we will suffer no more hands raised against us.’

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

THE GUARD’S BLACK
eyes glinted in the candlelight. Beside the heavy oak door to King William’s hall, he stood like a rod of iron. His face was as cold and hard as his long mail shirt and his helm and his double-edged sword. He was dressed for war, as was every Norman that strode through Wincestre these days. As usual, Balthar the Fox watched from the shadows. What mysteries transpired behind that long-closed door? he wondered. He felt uneasy that there might be a gap in his knowledge. News was his gold, sifted and piled high to achieve the wise counsel that had bought him such a comfortable life.

As he agonized over what he was missing, the door trundled open and the guard stepped aside. Aged men trailed out, their faces ashen. The wavering light carved lines of tension into their features. Each one was a cleric of high regard, Balthar noted, puzzled. There was Ealdred of Eoferwic, with the nose of a falcon and a gaze like winter, and Wulfstan of Worcester, rotund, flushed and sweating. Heads bowed, Bishop William of London, Bishop Giso of Wells, and Abbot Baldwin of St Edmunds Bury followed, their whispers strained. Each one had committed himself to the cause of the new king, almost before the crown had settled upon his head. The future course
of England was as much decided by these men as it was by William the Bastard’s army. What could have left them looking as if they had peered into the depths of hell?

Once they had passed, he slipped through a side door into the hot night. The mallets had stilled. The fires of the masons and carpenters were nothing more than hot embers. Blissful peace lay across the palace grounds, and it would remain that way until sun-up, when the frantic work of rebuilding would begin again in force.

Squatting behind a heap of fresh stone, he watched the clerics emerge from the hall’s main door. Their voices grew louder, their tone now clearly worried, even frightened. He eased out from his hiding place, trying to hear their conversation.

‘You are more spider than fox.’

Balthar jumped as he felt a heavy hand grip his shoulder. He whirled, readying his excuses for the king’s guards. Instead, he found himself looking into the faces of Edwin and his brother Morcar. The two Mercians reeked of wine and their eyes were dull with drink.

‘Spinning your webs,’ Edwin, the taller and stronger of the two, continued. ‘Always watching and listening and waiting for a fly to fall into your lap.’ He hooked his fingers in Balthar’s tunic and drew him in.

‘I serve the king,’ Balthar replied, unafraid.

‘You serve yourself,’ Morcar snapped.

‘And you do not?’ Balthar held the horse-faced man’s eyes with defiance. ‘Some say two great earls … two once-powerful men who commanded the respect of the English … could have rallied the beaten folk of this land to throw off the yoke of the Normans.’

Edwin raised his fist. Balthar set his jaw. Blows aplenty he had taken in his life; another would matter little. And all there knew that a price would be paid for any harm to one of the king’s advisors. The Mercian’s hand wavered, then fell to his side. ‘We took a stand—’ Edwin began.

‘And ran at the first sign of trouble,’ the Fox replied,
emboldened. ‘Some say.’ He smiled, knowing it would sting harder than any fist. ‘When those who had the power to resist now drink Norman wine, in Norman halls, at the court of a Norman king, can any man blame plain folk for saying, “This is what God intended”? We follow the path of those who once led.’

Edwin thrust Balthar away, snarling, ‘And still you spin your webs, with words now. That is not the whole truth, and you know it.’

‘This matter is not settled,’ Morcar said, shaking his fist. ‘Even now, men rise up in the north. And they are not alone—’

Edwin grabbed his brother’s arm and spun him round. ‘Enough,’ he growled.

Balthar tensed. ‘You have heard news from the north?’

‘Afraid that your web fails you, spider?’ Edwin sneered.

‘I know the north rises,’ Balthar replied indignantly, but his words were drowned by mocking laughter. The two brothers clapped arms around each other and lurched back towards more wine. The Fox felt his cheeks flush. Was this mysterious news the reason for the king’s conclave with the clerics? ‘If another war is coming, so be it,’ he called after the two noblemen. ‘But still I see you sitting here drinking the king’s wine.’ The Mercians came to a halt: his words had hit home once again. But after a moment they staggered on their way without a backward glance.

They would regret treating him so, Balthar silently vowed, but already his thoughts raced towards this new mystery. With a hunger as if his belly had been empty for days, he turned and hurried towards the small house where Godrun lived. He enjoyed their talks each night at this hour more than he could express, though each one always ended dismally, with him trudging back to the cold bed he shared with his wife. But now there might be a double dish of cheer. If Godrun had been serving the king this evening, she could well have overheard the discussions.

He slipped past the guards at the palace gates – they were
used to his comings and goings and paid him no heed. In the moonless dark, he stumbled along the familiar path among the ramshackle, filth-reeking hovels. Drunken song rolled out from some of the open doors, or the mewling of babies. When he passed, he kept to the shadows. He could not afford to be seen heading for a young woman’s home, for in Wincestre tongues were like knives.

Yet as he neared he heard cries emanating from Godrun’s hut. Fear clutched him. He quickened his pace, his fingers closing on the small, bone-handled knife his father had given him when he came of age. At the door, he heard those cries more clearly. His chest tightened. With trembling fingers, he eased the door open a crack.

Godrun lay on filthy straw beside the cold hearth. She was naked. A grunting Norman noble was atop her, thrusting. The sweating man gripped her wrists to pin her down, but her pale legs were high and splayed wide. Balthar fought against himself, but his gaze was drawn inexorably to that space between her thighs where the aristocrat’s cock slid in and out. He felt equally sickened and excited, and though his stomach churned he could not look away for long moments. As he watched, he realized Godrun was not struggling; indeed, she seemed to be writhing in time with her lover. He reeled back a step as if he had been slapped. But then he looked up and saw the girl staring at him. Her eyes were wide and pleading. Balthar held her gaze for a moment, confusion swimming in his head. Then he closed the door and pressed his back against the wall, covering his face.

For the first time in many seasons, he felt adrift. No cunning fox here, he thought with bitterness. He could make no sense of anything, not least the emotions churning inside him. He recognized the Norman, one of the lesser nobles waiting for crumbs from the king’s table. Had Godrun played him for a fool, carrying on with this knight while he did what he could to keep her safe? His cheeks burned at the thought, but in sadness not anger.

Like a whipped dog, he slunk around the side of the hut and
covered his ears from the sounds of love-making. When they had subsided, a few moments of silence elapsed before the door rattled. The silhouette of the departing lover swept past along the path.

Balthar drew himself up, taking three long breaths to steady himself. Once he felt able, he crept back around the hovel and slipped inside.

Now dressed, Godrun stood by the hearth. ‘I knew you would return,’ she said, her voice flat.

Balthar tried to speak, but his throat was too dry.

With a cry, the young woman ran forward and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. He felt surprised by the rush of emotion, and the stifled sobs that followed. His hands fluttered like a bird’s wings in the air before he allowed himself to fold his arms around her. He rocked her gently, blinking away his own tears.

‘Forgive me.’ Her voice rose up, muffled.

‘Why?’ he asked.

Those wide eyes peered up at him, brimming with tears. ‘There is no escape for me from the men here.’

‘The men? Not … not that one alone?’

‘If I did not give myself, I would not be allowed to stay. I know that.’ She bit her lip. ‘You could never protect me.’

‘And … and you strove to keep this from me … to … save my feelings?’ She nodded. He closed his eyes, stung by his failings. How could he have been so blind to what was transpiring beneath his nose? In other times, he would have laughed in bitterness at the irony that the Fox had missed so much.

‘Do you forgive me?’ Her voice was barely a breath as she lowered her face again.

‘How could I not? You did what you did to survive. As do we all.’ Balthar felt pity for the girl. Yet even then he was distracted by the warm, sexual muskiness rising from her. He felt his cock stiffen within his tunic. It pressed against her belly. When she did not pull back, he felt another confusion of feelings stir within him.

‘Will you now abandon me?’ she asked.

The asking of the question summoned an answer that surprised even him. ‘I could never abandon you.’ He grabbed her hand and smothered it with kisses. He felt shocked by the rush of feelings for Godrun, though a part of him realized he had been captured by her from the first moment he had laid eyes upon her. The way she looked at him, with respect, even awe, the manner in which she had been so open to his offer of friendship, her innocence, and, yes, the allure of her face and body, all of it had snared him like a rabbit in a trap. No fox here; he was prey, and he relished that feeling as much as the name the king had given him.