Hereward (12 page)

Hereward cared little. He had his own plans for revenge and they consumed him. But he knew he had to bide his time until he learned whether the earl’s messenger had successfully convinced the king, or Harold Godwinson, of Edwin of Mercia’s crimes. At least there had been no sign of the enemies who had pursued him so relentlessly across moor and hill. Perhaps they had fallen to the wolves or the cold, he hoped.

Yet in the quiet moments during his hard labours alongside the slaves, he found himself watching for Acha. They had exchanged looks across the smoky hall, but her dark features always kept her feelings locked away. Three times he had tried to speak to her, but she had spurned him as if he was not there, and he had no way of knowing if this was some game she was playing or if she truly did hold him in contempt. Beside the waters of their Mercian home, his brother Redwald had once warned that some woman would be the death of him, and when he looked into Acha’s cold gaze he wondered if that might be true.

A week after the brawl with Thangbrand, a grey pall blew across the south of Eoferwic and he was at last summoned from his menial tasks to join the earl’s men. The familiar feel of his sword in his hand soothed him. As Kraki waved the huscarls out of the enclosure and over the frozen ruts into the wall of smoke rolling across the tightly packed houses, Hereward knew he should keep one eye on his companions. They loped like a pack of wolves on each side, clutching axes that could easily be turned on him in the confusion.

Wind-whipped flakes of charred wood and smouldering straw mingled with the falling snow. Out of the billowing cloud, frantic men, women and children jostled along the narrow street. The fire’s roar drowned out their frightened cries. ‘Keep your wits about you,’ Kraki called. ‘These bastards are like ghosts. You’ll have a face full of blood from a split head before you even know anyone’s there.’

Thrusting fleeing men and women aside, he strode up to Hereward, his eyes lost to the shadows beneath his helmet. ‘The rabble-rouser is in there,’ he growled, jabbing his axe towards the smoke. Through the folding grey, red and gold glowed dimly. ‘Find him before he escapes again.’

‘What about the fire?’

‘You weren’t scared of the flames when you burned Thangbrand,’ the Northman sneered, his ragged scar flexing above his beard. ‘Ravenswart is rounding up enough of these frightened mice to carry water so we can stop the fire spreading. Get in there, and don’t come back until you have that bastard.’

His mail clanking, Kraki ran back towards the milling huscarls. He barked orders at his men to save cattle and corn while Ravenswart attempted to bring the conflagration under control, and then directed twenty of the troops to surround the burning area so their prey could not escape when Hereward flushed him out.

His throat stinging, Hereward plunged into the smoke. The sound of the fire and his footsteps became muffled. When he broke through to the other side, he saw that the jumble of workshops, stores and houses was devoid of life. Hammers, augers, axes, spades and rakes lay where their owners had discarded them when the alarm had been raised. A fallen butter churn spilled its sticky contents on to the dirt. The roar of the fire was louder here, and he could see the flames leaping up above the thatched roofs.

Eyes stinging, Hereward watched the dark entrances to the shacks. He had learned that the ‘rabble-rouser’ was Wulfhere, the one-eyed, one-handed man he had seen on his arrival in Eoferwic, a woodworker who had grown more outspoken about Tostig’s rule since the summer had waned. Now the man was openly calling for the earl’s overthrow. Peering towards the blaze, Hereward saw that this time the troublemakers had targeted the home of one of the earl’s wealthy merchant supporters. The fire had been lit with care, taking into account the direction of the wind, so it would not spread into the heart of Eoferwic.

The snow was falling faster now. Hereward found his vision reduced to the width of the icy road. Choking and coughing, he searched hut after hut, moving steadily closer to the burning house. When the rafters collapsed, a loud crash echoed over the roofs and golden sparks swirled up to greet the white flakes. The warrior could hear the shouts of Kraki’s men circling the burning street. If Wulfhere was still within the smoke-filled area, there would be nowhere for him to run.

Sensing movement on the edge of his vision, he darted into a weaver’s shop where a blackened cauldron bubbled over hot embers, ready to make the colours fast. The air was heavy with the sweet fragrance of woad leaves, dried weld and madder roots. Wool and flax were piled in one corner and a warp-weighted loom leaned against the wall, a sheet of linen half complete where it had been abandoned by the weaver. Turning slowly, Hereward looked around the gloomy, cluttered workshop.

Rapid movement distracted him. Through the open door, he saw a stream of brown rats flood away from the fire, ringed tails lashing the air. The moment the Mercian turned, a crash sounded behind him. He was thrust roughly to one side as someone barged by. Stumbling to his knee, he glimpsed a dark figure scrambling through the door into the smoke.

Hereward threw himself in pursuit. Leather shoes clattered on the hard ground ahead. He glimpsed the figure in front and to the left, gone in an instant. Then to the right. The man was weaving across the road, trying to lose his pursuer or searching for a bolt-hole hidden by the smoke. His breath clouding, Hereward leapt log piles and heaps of rotting food, ducking down narrow walkways between houses. The ragged breathing of his prey drifted back to him.

When he burst on to a street filled with squealing pigs, a crescent of fire confronted him. The heat from the blazing ruins of the merchant’s hall seared his skin. But he saw the conflagration had not been contained as Kraki had promised. Somehow the flames had leapt a narrow way and now two other houses burned close to a densely packed area of huts and workshops. On the other side of the hall, the blaze was also starting to spread.

Hereward cursed under his breath. That part of Eoferwic would soon be consumed. If he was caught there when the fire-rush began, he would be cooked as black as Thangbrand’s face and then the huscarls would laugh that the gods had punished him in kind. Yet the dancing flames held him fast, the flickering colours, the heat, the swirling sparks, and he realized he felt no fear, only a dull thrill deep in his belly. He watched the straw of a roof glow red, and the timbers blacken and snap and crackle as if they were shouting in exultation. His head spun at the power he witnessed, one that made more sense to him than anything he had experienced in his short life.

Burn away
, he thought.
Let it all burn away
.

He forced himself to break the spell. There was still time to carry out Kraki’s order; Wulfhere had to be lurking in one of the buildings nearby. Hereward considered letting the rabble-rouser burn for his crimes – the one-eyed man’s life would be forfeit anyway once he was dragged before Tostig. On the other hand, returning with such a prize could buy the earl’s gratitude and make his own life easier.

The fire growled louder and bared its claws, stretching out on either side of him. Beyond the red and gold crescent Hereward could hear the shouts of Kraki’s men as they searched the deserted houses for their prey. He would not let the huscarls snatch the trophy from his grasp.

With the heat burning his back, Hereward threw himself into the nearest house, then the next, and the one after. He felt a different atmosphere in the fourth, and smelled a hint of bitter fear-sweat in the air. Drawing his iron blade from its leather scabbard, he padded towards a wicker screen near the back of the gloomy space. As he neared, a figure burst out, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to reach the doorway. Hereward brought the hilt of his sword up in a flash, cracking the fugitive in the face. The man flipped back on to the hard mud floor, dazed. One eye, one hand. It was Wulfhere.

‘There will be even less of you when Tostig has had his way,’ Hereward muttered, looming over the prostrate form.

‘Leave him be.’

The warrior whirled at the frightened voice from behind the screen. A second figure edged out. It was Alric, his pale face streaked with soot. ‘If you wish to take this man, you must kill me first.’

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

HEREWARD STARED AT the monk’s ashen face. ‘Have your wits deserted you?’ He jabbed the tip of his sword towards his former companion’s heaving chest. ‘I saved your life. And now you put it at risk again? Is this a game to you?’

Swallowing, Alric interposed himself between the warrior and the sprawling rabble-rouser. ‘I know you do the earl’s work. You must let this man go.’

Beyond the wattle walls, the guttural calls of the huscarls rang out, drawing closer. Hereward cuffed the monk around the head. ‘Your brains have fallen out of your ears,’ he said. ‘If Tostig’s men find you here, with him, you will face the same fate, man of God or not.’

Thrusting the monk aside, he stooped to grasp Wulfhere. Alric barged his way between them again. ‘If you wish to take this man, you must kill me first,’ he repeated. The young cleric held his chin up in defiance, but his eyes were filled with tears of fear. He blinked them away.

Hereward felt the familiar rage rising notch by notch. ‘You know I will not flinch from taking any life,’ he said in a voice almost lost beneath the snarl of the conflagration.

‘I know.’

The warrior dug the tip of Brainbiter into the monk’s black habit. The cleric squirmed under the pressure, making the sword waver. ‘You think me a good man. You are a fool,’ Hereward said. ‘I am the wild animal I was branded from my earliest days. I care for nothing but myself.’

‘You do not know yourself.’ Alric jerked his head away as if he expected a blow. Shouts echoed outside. Kraki’s men were searching the nearby houses. ‘If you were the beast you say, you would have killed me already.’

Wulfhere tried to scramble to his feet. Hereward kicked the one-eyed man in the face, dazing him once more. ‘You stake your life on that belief?’ he snapped. ‘Truly, you are a fool.’

‘Kill me, then,’ Alric shouted with a passion that surprised Hereward. ‘God knows, I deserve it. But I will not allow you to take this man.’ The monk held his arms wide and pressed his chest against the point of the sword.

More shouts, not far beyond the door.

Hereward felt unsettled. He could not find it in himself to drive the sword into the young monk’s heart. With a flash of fury that he couldn’t explain, he punched Alric in the face.

‘Do not hurt him,’ Wulfhere spat from between split lips. ‘He is a good man.’

Out in the street, Kraki called to the huscarls to hurry.

Hereward yanked Alric back to his feet. ‘This is not some sign that your stupid idea is right.’ He shook the monk roughly. ‘I do not want to hear you whining about me being a good man, do you hear?’

Alric nodded, wiping the blood and snot from his top lip with the back of his hand.

A shadow crossed the doorway, and Hereward spun, cursing. He had wavered too long. They had been discovered. Yet no one entered, and even as the warrior’s brow knitted in sudden suspicion, what sounded like the rustling of autumn leaves raced over their heads. Crackling and spitting, the flames surged through the thatch and smoke swept into the hut.

‘The house is afire,’ Wulfhere cried, and began to scramble for the door. Hereward grabbed him by the back of his tunic and dragged him towards the screen.

‘You will see us burned alive?’ the one-eyed man whimpered.

Alric was watching his former companion. ‘Trust him,’ he said. ‘He knows death so well he can barter with his old friend.’

At the rear of the hut, Hereward aimed a kick at the wall. The daub had dried hard against the wattle beneath, but as the warrior repeated the action cracks appeared and large chunks fell away. When the hole was big enough, he propelled the monk through the gap, and then jabbed the one-eyed man with his sword to follow.

The three men stumbled out into thick smoke and air so hot it seared their throats. Hereward’s mind raced with questions, but he urged the others past the stinking refuse tip by the well and into the back of a woodworker’s shop. ‘One wrong move and I will change my mind,’ he growled. ‘Lead the way to your hiding place. If we are caught by the huscarls, we will all enjoy the sleep of the sword.’

Wulfhere and Alric followed a mazy route along trails that were barely wide enough for a dog. The crackling of the fire faded away, and the deserted streets gave way to ones buzzing with crowds of anxious people looking towards the black cloud and wondering if all of Eoferwic was to be consumed. The three men slipped into the throng, keeping their heads down.

By the time they reached a house not far from the great stone church, the snow was falling in fat, heavy flakes, drawing a blanket of white across the thatched roofs and dirty streets. The throb of daily life became muffled. Glancing back, Hereward could see no orange glow and thickening smoke to suggest the blaze was spreading. For a moment he stood by the door, watching the low black cloud, and then he stooped to enter the warm, smoky interior.

A tearful woman was hugging Wulfhere; his wife, the warrior guessed. Two young girls clung to his legs, and a small dog ran in circles around the family, yapping. A silver-haired man squatted in one corner, eyeing the warrior with suspicion. Hereward suspected it was his house and he had risked all to offer a haven to Wulfhere and his family.