Hereward (43 page)

‘What is there to see apart from water and wood?’ he grumbled.

The warrior slowed his step so that he dropped back alongside his travelling companion. ‘We have been followed ever since we left the abbey,’ he muttered, his gaze fixed on the way ahead.

‘How do you know? I have seen nothing. And heard nothing above this din.’

‘He is skilful and cunning. In the dark, he shrouded himself in black cloak and cowl. Since sunrise, he has put just enough distance between us to prevent us from hearing his footsteps, but not enough to lose sight of us.’

‘A Norman scout?’ Alric’s chest tightened.

‘Mayhap,’ the warrior growled, ‘which is why I drew him on. Knights could have been hiding at Burgh Abbey, and if the alarm had been raised there we would have had little chance of escape. But here … this is my land.’

Before the monk could ask another question, Hereward melted away. Alric felt the warrior by his side one moment, but when he glanced across he saw only swaying branches and heard only the ghost of footsteps disappearing across the muddy ground. He tried to steady himself, but they had spent most of the journey talking about Norman tactics, the swift strikes from their cavalry, their use of bowmen to bring death from a distance, but most of all their cruelty, which he had witnessed at first hand in the head of Hereward’s brother hoisted above the hall gateway. Of all potential enemies, the Normans were the worst with their coldness and efficiency.

His heart hammering, he continued to struggle through the undergrowth, unsure what the warrior wanted him to do. Suddenly Hereward’s battle cry shattered the peace of the woodland. Rooks took flight as one with a thunder of black wings from the treetops, their raucous cries alerting everyone within miles.

Turning on his heel, Alric weaved back through the swaying willow branches which obscured his view. He was afraid of what he would find: his friend dead in a bog, a horde of wellarmed Normans closing in from all sides? The final sweep of branches fell aside and he stumbled across Hereward wrestling on the sodden ground with the black-cloaked stalker. Clearly no stranger to battle, the other man fought as furiously as Hereward. Alric was shocked to see that his friend had already been disarmed, his sword lying half buried in a bank of rustcoloured fern. Yet Hereward refused to allow his opponent a moment to catch his breath, raining down punches and butts with his head.

‘Wait,’ the other man croaked. ‘Hereward … wait.’

At the sound of his name, the warrior came to a halt. One fist raised, he tore the cowl away with his other hand. Alric saw curly brown hair and full lips that made the features seem oddly innocent, like a child’s. The warrior’s bafflement gave way to a broad grin.

‘Redwald?’ For a moment, he stared at the battered figure, and then jumped to his feet. Hauling the other man into his arms, he hugged tightly, slapping his brother on the back. ‘Redwald! I thought you dead!’

‘And I you.’

Hereward held the cloaked man at arm’s length to study him. Alric watched a shadow cross his friend’s face. Redwald looked gaunt and pale, his gaze skittering like that of a whipped dog. Forcing a grin, the warrior said, ‘You look well. How did you find me?’

‘I took revenge for you, Hereward,’ the other man said with an almost childlike desperation to please. ‘Harold Godwinson died with prayers for forgiveness upon his lips … prayers in your name.’

The warrior nodded. ‘Then Tidhild can rest easily. Her death has been avenged.’ He shrugged, throwing a puzzled glance at Alric. ‘For so long, seeing Harold Godwinson suffer for his crimes was all that filled my heart and mind. Yet now I feel grief for Tidhild’s passing, but no joy at Harold’s death. Other matters loom larger.’

The monk smiled. ‘As we march along life’s road, we see the trees and hills we pass in a different light. What was is not always what is.’

Hereward sighed, waving an arm towards his friend. ‘This is Alric, a monk, who sees it as his life’s work to save my soul. We must pity him for that thankless task. But beware, Redwald, he talks. And talks. And ties your wits in knots. When you want to feast, or drink, or lie with a woman, he talks.
What was is not always what is
.’

‘It is good to have friends,’ Redwald said with a hint of regret. ‘Since the Normans invaded, I have spent all my days running and hiding. They are a fierce enemy, Hereward. They never slow, they never stop. Once William arrived in London, he collected the names of all who were close to King Harold and resolved that he would not rest until each one was accounted for.’

‘And thereby tried to cut out the heart of any future resistance.’

‘Many ended their days with their heads upon poles outside the palace or tied to a stake at low tide on the river, where the waters slowly washed away their screams.’

‘But you were always a cunning one, Redwald. You survived.’

The cloaked man nodded with little enthusiasm. ‘This spring, at my lowest ebb, I threw myself upon the mercy of your uncle at Burgh Abbey. He owed it to your father to take me in, and give me a new life as a monk, and a new name. So when the Normans came, as they regularly did to see the abbot, they never gave me a passing glance.’ He paused. ‘Your kin have always shown me kindness, Hereward. Taking me in when I had nothing, not once now, but twice—’

‘Enough,’ the warrior interrupted. He rested a comforting hand on Redwald’s shoulder. ‘Though we share no blood, we
are
kin. We offer each other a hand in hard times. And you have proved your loyalty time and again, not least in your devotion to avenging Tidhild and the crime against me.’

Redwald smiled and nodded. ‘And I would join you now. So we can fight shoulder to shoulder, as we did in the days of our youth.’

‘Would you not be safer in hiding at the abbey?’ Alric asked.

‘Is anywhere safe in these times? The monks all mutter of the End of Days. They speak of the sickness sweeping through villages and towns in the west. Of starvation brought on by William the Bastard, who steals the food and razes the fields of those who fail to bow to him.’ Redwald wrung his hands as long-buried worries rushed to the surface. ‘And then the stories reached us of a new rebel, who killed bears with his bare hands and had brought all of Flanders to its knees. And they said his name was Hereward, and I would not believe …’ He bowed his head, his voice growing quiet. ‘But last night I saw.’

‘Why did you not speak out at the abbey?’ the monk pressed.

Redwald shook his head. ‘I thought you would not have me,’ he whispered.

Hereward laughed in disbelief. ‘Have you lost your wits?’

Trying to lighten the atmosphere, Redwald clapped his hands together and forced a broad grin. ‘Yet here I am. I will join you. I will be a loyal servant, and I ask only for your protection.’

‘Servant?’ The warrior shook his head in mock bafflement. ‘We are equals, brother.’

‘As I followed you, plucking up courage to speak, I have been thinking …’ Redwald’s tongue moistened his dry lips. ‘If any man could stand against William, it would be you, Hereward. But the Normans are great in power and they have their hands round England’s neck. If we could get Earl Edwin on our side … perhaps his brother Earl Morcar too … We men of Mercia could start a grand rebellion that would shake the invaders to the core. Even the throne could be within our reach.’

Alric saw a puzzling fire flicker in the man’s eyes. Hereward, though, appeared overjoyed that his adopted brother had walked back into his life. ‘That is the spirit I remember.’ The warrior shook a fist. ‘See, monk? You feared we would be a poor force against the Norman might, but with men like this by our side we can achieve anything.’

‘We have time to plot and plan and build our strength. The Normans will not be able to find us in the fens,’ Redwald said. ‘Yes, brother, we can achieve anything.’

Alric watched the two men set off through the willows, arms round each other’s shoulders as they exchanged raucous stories of the time they were apart. Yet when Hereward roared with laughter at some joke or other, the monk glimpsed something that puzzled him. Redwald glanced sideways at the warrior, and in that unguarded moment his features showed no brotherly love. Alric thought he saw something sourer there, resentment, perhaps, or contempt, but the look flashed so quickly he could not be sure. He followed at a distance, deep in thought, but his suspicions would not subside.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY
-T
WO

THE SUNRISE SET fire to the fenland waters. Mist hung over the marshes and drifted among the stark black trees as the Norman knights mounted their steeds in the quiet enclosure. Aldous Wyvill felt pride as he studied the gleaming helmets his men had spent all night polishing ready for the coming battle. In their hauberks and with their axes sharpened on the whetstone, they would descend upon the rag-tag band of rebels like a storm of iron. The English would not know what hit them before their heads were separated from their shoulders.

The horses snorted and stamped their hooves as if they too were anticipating the inevitable rout, the commander thought. He inhaled a deep draught of the chill, damp air, his nose wrinkling at the stink of rotting leaves and marsh gas. He yearned for the green pastures of his homeland, but there was no virtue in sentimentality. It was a weakness.

‘Ride out,’ he barked, ‘and let our swords drink deeply before this day is done.’

The newly constructed gates rattled open and the column of knights moved out into the wild, fog-shrouded fens. Yet they had barely travelled beyond the edge of the village when the sound of many hoofbeats echoed further along the muddy track. Aldous brought his men to a halt and ordered them to draw their weapons. Who could be approaching at that hour?

When the riders galloped out of the mist, the commander’s tension eased at the sight of familiar armour and a familiar face. Here were the reinforcements he had requested from London when he had learned of the rebellion. Some were knights, many were clearly mercenaries. But at their core, Aldous recognized a man with a long rodent’s face and small eyes that appeared set in a permanent scowl. He wore only the finest clothes, a warm woollen tunic dyed purple and embroidered with yellow diamonds, and a furred cap that made him appear feminine among the scarred faces and harsh armour. He was Frederic of Warenne, who had been given land in the vicinity in return for funding a ship for the invasion. Aldous knew this wealthy man had married well, taking the sister of William of Warenne, who had the ear of King William.

Holding his chin at a haughty angle, Frederic urged his horse out from the protection of his guards and approached Aldous. ‘I was troubled by your message,’ he said in a reedy voice. ‘I would not have my lands put at risk by rebellious English.’

‘My words were sent too early.’ The commander removed his helmet as an act of respect, though he felt little regard for the man. ‘This rebellion barely merits the name and will be crushed before the day is out.’

As a contemptuous laugh tinkled out, Frederic raised a hand to summon someone from the column of reinforcements. ‘You speak too soon once again, Aldous Wyvill. The leader of the rebels is known as Hereward, yes?’

‘He is.’

‘Then you presume too much. My brother William was a guest at this man’s wedding in Flanders, and he returned with tales of the warrior’s exploits. When Hereward arrived in exile from England he was raw and wild, but during his stay in Flanders he learned to hone his natural talents for slaughter. He carved a bloody swath across battlefield after battlefield and earned the praise of none other than Count Baldwin, who took the warrior into his employ. The most fearsome man in all of Flanders, the count said. Hereward is far more dangerous than you could ever imagine.’

‘He is just a man.’ Aldous restrained an urge to wipe the sneering smile off the aristocrat’s face.

A jangle of mail echoed from the reinforcements as a rider dismounted and walked towards them. He was a Viking, his beard and hair dyed the colour of blood, the skulls of birds and rodents rattling against his rusted mail where they had been tied by strips of leather.

‘This man has more experience than you or I. His axe has already tasted the blood of this Hereward.’ Frederic waved his hand flamboyantly towards Harald Redteeth. ‘He was employed in the army maintaining order across the south when news of your rebellion spread throughout the ranks. His knowledge will prove invaluable.’ Frederic smiled. ‘As will his passion to see your enemy dead.’

Aldous felt unsettled by the Viking’s eyes. The pupils were so dilated the irises had all but disappeared.

‘Hereward has killed me once,’ Harald intoned, his black, unblinking stare fixed on the Norman commander. ‘And I have killed him once. We are equal. Now I would see whose fire burns the brightest.’

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY
-T
HREE

THE CAMP WAS abuzz with voices. Men and women milled around the fires among the clustering trees. Old friends and neighbours greeted each other with cheery hails. Strangers clasped hands, finding common cause, but struggled to make sense of accents from the north and south and west. Hereward counted more than twenty heads as he strode through the throng with Alric at his side. The paltry collection of spears and shields were a poor match for the Normans’ might, but he anticipated some strong fighters among the new arrivals.