Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army (15 page)

Barely had he taken five steps when he glimpsed more rapid movement, this time between two of the older dwellings. A
man running, light-footed so no sound carried. The Mercian’s fingers slipped unconsciously to the hilt of his sword.

He prowled down the track, trying to discern the look-outs at the palisade. The moonlight illuminated an empty platform where the man should have been. His skin tingled. He slipped out of the silvery light into the shadow of a building and cocked his head to listen for even the slightest sound, urgent voices, the clink of iron. The Camp of Refuge bubbled like a cauldron of stew. Tempers grew hot among the mass of bodies. And across Ely resentment simmered too. All this he knew from Alric, who kept both ears open as he immersed himself in his daily business.

As he weighed whether he should call Kraki to raise some men, movement erupted all around. Figures flitted everywhere he looked. He counted ten … fifteen … more. Querying whispers broke the stillness as they called to each other. Footsteps now, rattling out from the sun-baked tracks; they were taking less care as they drew closer to the time when they would act. A torch crackled into life near the palisade, and another only three houses away. This was more than simple argument.

Hereward decided to call for Kraki. But as he took a step back up the slope, a hard rod slammed across his shoulders, and another an instant later across the back of his knees. He crashed down on to the dusty track.

‘Here,’ a harsh, low voice called. ‘We have him.’

The warrior rolled on to his back. Two men loomed over him with spears ready to thrust into his chest. No Normans these, as he had feared, but good Ely men. Running footsteps drew nearer, voices picking up the call.

We have him
. The words seared through his mind, telling him all that he needed to know. He lashed his right foot into the knee of one of his attackers. The man howled in pain, stumbling into his companion. Both fell off balance. As they struggled to bring their weapons down, Hereward rolled to one side. The tip of a spear crunched into the dirt where he had been lying.

Jumping up, he seized the spear from his attacker and whipped
the shaft into the faces of both men. He heard the crack of noses breaking. The blow was hard enough to stun. He darted away between the homes and did not look back. Weaving among the wooden dwellings, he picked an erratic route to the edge of the settlement and crouched down in the shadow against a wattle wall to gather his thoughts.

When he peered around the corner of the house, he discerned torches dancing among the homes. An uprising, could it be? Not even if all the folk of Ely took up arms could they defeat the army he had amassed. What, then? After a moment’s reflection, the truth settled on him like ice on a winter pond. These men were moving as if time was of the essence. They had no need to defeat an entire army if they could simply cut off its head.

He felt a knife turn in his gut as he understood how this thing could play out. No time remained to alert Kraki or any of the other leaders of the rebel army, or to strike back at the men now searching the byways of Ely for him. No time at all. And he could not risk a single cry of alarm. He had to remain silent. Along the narrow, shadowed tracks among the houses he raced, keeping low as he swept past rubbish heaps and wells. When the sound of searching men drew near, he would halt, crouching low in the dark when his every instinct told him to run to his destination as fast as his legs would carry him. Torches flared at the end of paths as he pressed himself back against warm wattle walls.

Over the thatched roofs he hurled a large stone. As footsteps ran towards where the stone had fallen, Hereward darted across the main track, near as bright as day in the moonlight. Once he had crossed into the other jumble of houses, he found the familiar paths and careered with a prayer in his heart, and only one thought in his mind.

As he reached his own home, his fears were confirmed. The door hung open, the amber light from the hearth playing out across the track. Cries echoed from within. Three men lurched out into the night, dragging Turfrida among them. She was struggling like a wildcat, spitting and cursing in her Flemish
tongue. One of the men stepped back and jabbed the tip of his spear between Turfrida’s shoulder blades. ‘Where is he?’ he growled.

Hereward drew Brainbiter from its sheath. He recognized the man with the spear: Saba the leatherworker. Turfrida yanked her head around and spat in her captor’s face.

The Mercian grinned, despite the fear as cold as a stone in his chest. Though his wife had been raised as the daughter of a castellan, she had a warrior’s heart and a tongue as sharp as any flint-eyed fieldworker. Before Saba could punish her, Hereward stepped out from the shadows where he could be seen.

‘Leave her,’ he snarled.

The three men froze. Their faces drained of blood. Eyes flickered towards his blade and then his unwavering stare. Saba was the first to react, calling, ‘Put down your sword and step forward or we will kill her.’ He raised the tip of his spear to Turfrida’s neck.

‘Harm her and you will be in hell afore she cries out.’

‘No, they want only you, my husband,’ she cried. ‘Flee now.’

His eyes fastened upon Turfrida’s, and he saw the pleading there. He knew she spoke the truth. With a curse, he sheathed his blade and dashed away.

Blood thundered through his head. As the night swallowed him, Hereward muttered a vow. If Turfrida’s life were stolen, every man who had risen up would be engulfed in a wave of blood the likes of which had never been known.

C
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ONLY A FEW
red embers glowed in the hearth. Stifling darkness closed in around Alric as he lay on his side by the wall. He could barely see his captor squatting by the fire, but he could hear the rasp of his breath. The sweltering heat choked him and his wrists were chafed raw from his bonds, but he forced himself to keep a clear head.

‘There is still time to turn back from this course,’ he croaked, his throat so dry he could barely swallow. ‘Save your soul.’ The man did not answer, did not even acknowledge Alric was there. Perhaps in that brute’s eyes the monk was already dead.

Alric laid his cheek against the hard earth and murmured a prayer that, when the time came, he would face his death as a warrior, with a song in his heart and the light of heaven in his head. Though he had fought through many sadnesses, he could say that he had lived a good life. He grimaced in the dark. For the first time, he was hoping that the Mercian would unleash his devil when those cowardly foes came for him. If only they knew what terror they truly faced.

He heard his captor stand up. Here it was, the moment of his final judgement. The man hawked up phlegm and spat it
into the hearth. A sizzle. The clink of the spear-tip against the stones surrounding the ashes and the embers. A deep breath, loud in the stillness.
Calming himself
, Alric thought,
so he will thrust the shaft down straight and true
. Alric felt the bonds at his wrists cut; a small mercy, perhaps. As the last of the embers began to fade, a deep and abiding darkness descended. The monk screwed up his eyes and began to utter a prayer in as loud a voice as he could manage.

The crash at the door jolted him out of his reverie. A howl like that of a wolf was met by a bear-like roar. The monk strained his head up. He squinted into the gloom, but all he could discern was grey shapes tearing at each other like wild beasts in the midnight dark of the forest. The brawling bodies thundered against the wattle walls. The very rafters shook. A rain of dust and droppings fell on Alric’s face and he coughed and spluttered. Yells and curses rang out. One of the fighters sprawled across the floor, his breath rushing from his lungs. He clambered to his feet as some object – the spear? – clattered against the wall. Alric could not make any sense of the fight, who was winning or losing.

Another battle-roar. The singing of iron drawn from a scabbard. A trail of glittering sparks. Alric blinked away the after-glow.

A flurry of sudden movement sped across his line of vision, punctuated by a sharp cry.

‘Stuck you, you bastard.’ That was the gruff voice of his captor, he was sure. Was the other man dead?

Then, just as fast, the silhouette of the wounded grey figure lunged. An agonized cry tore from the throat of the man who had been on the brink of murdering the monk. Alric heard the tap of the man’s heels as he staggered back. Viscous liquid spattered across the floor.
Blood
. The other figure did not relent. The slaughterhouse sound of a blade furiously plunging into meat over and over again filled the hut. Gore splashed all around as the dying man’s cries grew strangled and then ebbed away.

Relief flooded Alric. Surely only one man could have slaughtered so brutally. ‘Hereward,’ he called.

The figure fell to its knees beside him. A face pushed close enough so the thin light could illuminate the contours. Pale features loomed up, the eyes still pools of shadow.

‘Redwald?’ he gasped.

‘I am dying,’ his saviour croaked, and toppled forward. The monk grabbed him. The tunic was wet, the sticky blood flowing too fast over Alric’s fingers. Redwald quivered from the pain of his wound. ‘I am growing cold,’ he said, clutching at his side.

The monk dragged him out into the moonlight and tore his tunic open. Though he was not a leech, Alric thought the ragged gash in the warrior’s side looked mortal. Redwald glanced down at his injury and shuddered. It was as bad as he had feared. While Alric tried to stem the flow of blood, Redwald closed his eyes. When he looked up once more, he seemed to have reached some decision.

‘You must hear my confession. Will you do so?’ he whispered, his voice trembling with dread.

Alric nodded.

‘Then hear now, how I murdered my own father and mother, killed my own wife, and slew my brother Hereward’s love.’

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A DARK STREAM
of blood flowed down the silvery moonlit track. Hereward wiped his stained blade on the tunic of the fallen man, then dragged the body into the rubbish-stinking narrow space between two buildings. The rats would soon be feeding. With the dark bulk of the minister church at his back, he crept to the Speaking Mound where the fires were set alight in midwinter and where the girls danced on the first day of spring. Lying on his belly, he looked out over Ely. All was quiet. For the men hunting him, stealth was the preferred strategy, it seemed, and his too. Better that than raise the alarm and risk the deaths of innocent people. At least these cowards would not harm Turfrida while she might be of use in breaking his spirit. If they only knew they had forfeited their lives the moment they had threatened her. He squinted until he could glimpse the outline of Alwyne’s grain barn where he had seen his wife taken. Soon now, he silently vowed.

He looked back at the church tower and imagined Kraki, Guthrinc and Hengist drunk in the refectory. For a moment he hesitated, wavering, and then he darted across the track into the shadows. Weaving through the rows of houses, he caught sight
of a heavy-set man hunched over his spear. Hereward crouched behind a pile of firewood and waited. When his prey neared, the Mercian flicked a stone along the ground. At the rattling sound, the man halted, turning slowly as he surveyed the quiet homes.

Hereward eased out of his hiding place. In one fluid movement, he drew his blade and swept it in a horizontal arc. The head spun to the track and bounced a little way down the slope, coming to rest against the door of a weaver’s workshop. The body crumpled, the hands still grasping the spear. Sheathing his blade, Hereward dragged the remains out of sight. In an instant, he had moved on, leaving only a splatter of blood to mark his passing.

The next man died with Brainbiter thrust up under his ribs, one hand clamped on his mouth to stifle his gurgles.

Hereward crouched by a reeking rubbish heap, listening for the sound of footfalls. When men searched in twos or threes, he lay still, watching them from under hooded brows until they had gone. But the stragglers, the lone searchers, they were easy targets. One by one, he whittled his foes down.

Once he had reduced the numbers a little, he circled the settlement until he could see the grain barn, the wooden roof dappled with lichen. It would be near empty after the long weeks of want. He imagined the cowards huddled inside – ten? twenty of them? – their spears jabbing towards his wife, and he shook with rage. How easy it would be to lead Kraki and a few others down there and put all the traitors to the axe. But a direct assault would likely result in his Turfrida’s death. He could take no risks.

As he weighed what few options he had, he spied a boy of barely ten summers. The lad was peering all around and calling out in a faint, reedy voice. When the boy neared, Hereward realized it was his own name that sang out into the hot night. He peered into the surrounding shadows in case it was a trap, and then stepped out into the moonlight. The boy recoiled, his hand flying to his mouth. Spattered with blood, Hereward
knew he must look a fearsome sight. He crouched down to the boy’s level and put on a warm smile. ‘I am here.’

The boy swallowed noisily, then stuttered, ‘You must come to Alwyne’s barn now or your wife will die.’ He dashed away the moment he had uttered his final word.

Hereward grimaced. Cowards indeed to send a frightened child to deliver such a message. But then the weight of this terrible dilemma crushed down upon his shoulders and his hands slumped to his side. Stay and fight and see his wife die? Give himself up and doom all those who had joined him in the rebellion? His head gave him one answer, his heart a stronger one. Either choice would damn him.

‘Let me aid you.’

The woman’s voice floated out from the shadows. He turned to see Acha waiting there, her raven-black hair gleaming in the moonlight.

‘You have come to gloat at my misfortune?’ he hissed. ‘This is not the time.’