Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army (16 page)

‘You wrong me,’ she snapped. ‘This is not how I would win you.’ Her eyes flashed as they had that first time he had met her in Earl Tostig’s hall in Eoferwic. ‘As I went to look for Kraki, I saw your wife dragged into that barn. I heard what those men said. They will not rest until you are dead and the king has this place in his grip.’

He peered into her face, and for once saw none of her manipulation. ‘Very well. I will take your offer of aid, but know there will be danger.’

‘You know I am not some scared girl.’

He nodded: as if he could ever see her that way. ‘We must not wait—’ His words died in his throat as the sound of shuffling footsteps approached. He pressed a finger to his lips and pulled Acha back into the shadows. A moment later, Alric emerged with his arm supporting a wounded man who could barely walk. The monk’s face was drawn, haunted even, and battered and bloodied too, but the other man was as white as snow, a stark contrast to the dark stain soaking through his ragged tunic.
Shock flooded Hereward when he realized it was Redwald. He ran out and his brother all but fell into his arms.

‘He saved my life,’ Alric gasped.

Hereward lowered Redwald to the ground and pulled aside the torn tunic. ‘He has lost much blood,’ he murmured as he pressed the skin around the spear-gash, ‘but the wound is not deep. Get him to the leech to staunch the flow and he will yet live.’

Alric gulped with relief. ‘Praise God,’ he muttered. Hereward heard a curious tone in his friend’s voice, one that sounded as though he wasn’t praising God at all, but he pushed it aside. Redwald’s eyelids fluttered and he managed a faint smile. ‘I have been blessed,’ he croaked.

As Hereward rose, Alric grabbed his arm and said, ‘There is more at stake here. I overheard my captors planning to alert the king’s men … with beacons … fire-boats. While your eyes are turned to the battle here, the Normans will attack. We will be routed.’

Hereward cursed. This plan had been well made and he was now caught betwixt hammer and anvil. Sickened, he looked with desperation towards the barn, torn by his agonizing dilemma.

‘Go,’ Acha whispered. ‘I will do all I can to keep your wife safe until you can act.’

‘Nothing can be done.’

Her breath bloomed against his ear. ‘You do not know the smallest part of what I can do. Trust me.’

Once he had reluctantly nodded, Hereward watched Acha hurry towards the barn and then turned back to the monk. ‘Take Redwald to the tavern first. Someone else will carry him to the leech. You must find Guthrinc, or Kraki, or Hengist and send them to me at the wharf. We must stop those fire-boats sailing. But tell them to keep as quiet as mice.’

Redwald groaned as Alric hauled him to his feet. ‘Nothing will stop me,’ Alric vowed, adding with a sympathetic tone, ‘God will watch over Turfrida, my friend. Trust in Him.’

Hereward shook his sword. ‘I trust in this. By the end of this night, it will have drunk deep. Let that be my oath.’ And then he was running down the slope towards the gate.

As he neared, a man burst from hiding, hesitant behind his shield. His spear wavered. Hereward barely saw him through the haze of his rage. The attacker was slow and clumsy and he prodded with his spear as if he were herding pigs. The Mercian hacked through the haft. As the weapon splintered apart, he hurled himself against the shield. His foe stumbled on to his back with a gasp, and Hereward drove the sword into his chest.

Wrenching open the gate, he ran down the winding path to the waterside. In the bright moonlight, the wetlands were aglow. Pools of silver lay among the silhouetted trees. He peered out across the mere and discerned two of the small, circular boats. Their occupants were hunched over, pushing through the water with their long staffs. Each vessel appeared to be towing a second, empty boat. His heart sank. Already adrift and too far out for him to reach. At least they had not yet lit the beacons.

As he ranged along the shore looking for another boat, he saw that the vessels that had been moored there had all been scuttled. Their enemies had taken no chances.

A voice hailed from the direction of the town. Guthrinc and Hengist were lurching drunkenly down the track. Hengist grasped his spear, though he was in no fit state to use it, but when Hereward saw that Guthrinc carried his bow, he raced up and snatched it off him.

‘Steady,’ the towering man cautioned.

‘You could not hit a barn if you were a spear’s-length from it. Now still your tongue.’ Plucking an arrow from Guthrinc’s leather quiver, Hereward flexed the bow. He gritted his teeth. Long hours had he spent practising in front of targets since his failure to master the weapon in Flanders had cost his friend Vadir his life. No one else would suffer for his failings. He drew the bowstring taut and let fly the shaft. It whisked harmlessly between the two boats and splashed in the water.

‘Hrrrm,’ Guthrinc grunted, critically. ‘You would do better aiming at your barn.’

Hereward ignored him, notching another arrow. He steadied himself, putting his rage to one side as best he could.

A golden flame flickered to life in one of the boats, and then in the other. The men were leaning back towards the tow-boats, to set their contents alight, the Mercian guessed. He drew the bowstring, fixing his eye upon the glow. The shaft whistled across the mere. A cry rang out and the left-hand light fell as the man pitched forward, wounded or dead. With a roar, the tow-boat erupted in flames. Hereward shouted a curse. He guessed the falling man had upended a bowl of oil that had been intended to be used for the beacon. The flames swirled up high.

‘Ah,’ Guthrinc said, fingering his chin and nodding, ‘you made the light brighter to draw the enemy to it. That was your plan all along, yes?’

Hereward cursed once more.

With fleet fingers, he notched another shaft and let it fly. This time the second man pitched over the side of the boat, taking the light with him. Hereward grunted, handing the bow back to his companion. He watched as the first boat was consumed by the fire. The blackening wood and hide disappeared with a sizzle beneath the dark surface.

‘Let us hope we caught them in time,’ Hengist muttered, already sobering, ‘or else we will be overrun by Normans while our backs are turned.’

Hereward was already starting back up the path. He beckoned furiously for the other two men to follow him, calling, ‘This is only the start of it. Now we have a true fight on our hands.’

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-T
WO

THE DARK BULK
of the barn loomed up against the starry sky. Hereward crouched in the shadows with a good view of the door. He prayed that Acha’s silver tongue had kept his wife alive. Guthrinc leaned over his shoulder, his breath reeking of ale. ‘I can see them now,’ he murmured, ‘slumped inside, stewing in their own fear-sweat. They must have planned to capture you quickly and with ease, and never thought more than a few steps beyond that.’

‘And they would have. Fate smiled on me.’

‘Warriors make their own luck.’ Guthrinc settled back. ‘Now what do we do? This is a fine game of merels where no one can make a move without losing.’

‘They must pray that the Normans will come and save their cowardly necks,’ Hengist spat. ‘They will sit it out for as long as they can.’

Hereward turned to Hengist and whispered, ‘Find Kraki. Set look-outs along the shore to watch for any sign of the Normans approaching by boat, and at the causeway. Wake the rest of the men, and arm them, but do it quietly and make them wait within their homes for the order. Do nothing that might frighten our enemies more.’ He cocked one ear, half-expecting to hear the
steady clank of Norman swords upon shields approaching out of the dark. ‘Time is short. Make haste.’

Without a word, Hengist scrambled back along the side of the house and disappeared into the night.

‘An army, hiding by their hearths,’ Guthrinc said sardonically. ‘These battle-plans of yours never fail to surprise. No wonder the Normans are always wrong-footed.’

‘By the end of this night, you will wish you were hiding by your hearth, you mead-addled ox.’ Hereward stared at the barn, feeling nagging doubt. For all he knew, there might be more English waiting to rise up. Had he allowed himself to be fooled by the cheers, whereas in truth he and his army were not wanted there? Perhaps
they
were the enemy and the Normans seen as the saviours of a suffering people.

‘And there is more mead still to drink while we waste time here,’ Guthrinc said. ‘So enlighten me. What course will you take?’

Hereward stood. ‘I will walk in.’

The other man raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah. Your wife has taught you some of her witch-ways. Iron cannot touch you. Swords and axes break, spears fall apart.’

‘They want me. There is no gain to them in harming Turfrida. They will set her free.’

Guthrinc’s voice grew more serious. ‘And you will deny the English a leader, and thereby let the king win?’

‘Not if you plough your furrow without falling over those big feet.’

Guthrinc narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you planning?’

Once he had listened to the scheme, Guthrinc pursed his lips in doubt, then shrugged. ‘It is your neck. Do not expect me to wait around to bury you.’ He strode off among the houses. When Hereward heard him making his way back, he steeled himself and darted to the barn. He listened to the low drone of voices coming through the timber, and then wrenched the door open.

Spears bristled. Harsh voices called out his name, some in
shock, and some, he was pleased to hear, in fear. A church candle was set on the ground. Shadows danced across the walls so that at first he thought an army waited there. But as he scanned the scowling faces, he saw that it was only about twenty men, still too many for him to defeat alone, but perhaps not so many that his plan would fail. At the back, he glimpsed Turfrida. Hereward felt his rage flicker to life once more when he saw Saba gripping her arm.

‘Take your hand off her,’ he snarled.

Saba snatched his fingers away as if he had been burned, but another man’s spear leapt to Turfrida’s neck. Beside her, the Mercian discerned Acha, her pale face floating in the gloom like that of a ghost. She had given herself up to this wolves’ lair as she had promised. He looked at her with new eyes, and she nodded in turn.

‘Kill him,’ Saba growled.

Hereward drew his blade. Hunched over their spears, the men circled him, looking for a way through his defences.

‘Throw down your sword or your woman dies,’ Saba snapped. ‘You are no fool. Do not defy us.’

‘My love, why did you come here?’ Turfrida called. Her eyes glistened in the candlelight.

‘No man of honour would see a woman die in his place.’ He let his gaze drift across the gathered men, accusing each in turn with his cold stare. When his eyes fell upon Turfrida, he smiled, softening. ‘I could never turn my back upon you, whatever the cost.’

‘But you would put the lives of all in Ely at risk by taking this foolhardy stand against our king?’ Saba said, jabbing a finger at the warrior. ‘
My
wife’s life. My children’s lives. We starve here. We fall ill from the sickness. We suffer each day. And when the Normans come, and you are put to the sword, all of us will pay with our lives.’ Saba’s voice cracked with emotion.

Hereward tried to stay calm. ‘All I asked of you … of all here … is courage. If we show our defiance with one face … if we speak with one voice … there is not an army in all the world
that could defeat us. Your neighbours have heard my call. The boys you played with as a child, now men. The women who share their bread with your kin. And by your actions this night, you have placed a Norman sword at the throat of each and every one of them.’

The words must have stung Saba hard, for he shook his fist and roared, ‘There has been only suffering since you arrived. Our food is taken to feed your men. There is no peace in our home, and the air stinks of shit all day and all night.’

‘And where is Dunnere’s daughter?’ another man called. An angry murmur ran through the band.

Hereward flinched.

‘Aye,’ Saba snapped. ‘Where is she? We searched high and low for that girl. No one hereabouts saw her leave. I’ll tell you where she is. One of your men had his way with her, then killed her and dumped her poor body in the deepest bog. Everyone in Ely knows it’s true.’

‘None of my men would do such a thing,’ Hereward said. He hoped his voice stayed steady.

‘Dunnere’s been a broken man ever since,’ Saba continued. ‘Yet another misery you have heaped upon us.’ He turned to his men and urged, ‘Kill him, for Dunnere and his daughter.’

As the spears stabbed towards him, Hereward yelled Guthrinc’s name.

What sounded like the bellow of a wild beast resounded. As the rebels whirled, Guthrinc crashed into the barn, waving a burning brand in one hand and an axe in the other. Before any man could react, he thrust the torch into the chest of the nearest rebel. The tunic caught alight in an instant and flames surged up the torso. As his screams ripped through the barn, the dying man crashed against another rebel, and then another, setting both on fire. Within moments, the barn was filled with confusion, yells and howls as Saba’s men scattered in terror. Guthrinc carved through it, wielding the axe and the brand in equal measure. Hereward joined him, hacking into the chaos with his sword.

At the destruction of his plans, Saba had become enraged. Hereward saw his brief advantage begin to slip away. ‘Kill the woman,’ the leatherworker yelled, spittle spraying from his mouth in anger. The leader of those cowards knew his only hope was to lure his hated enemy into risking his neck to try to save his wife. And Hereward knew he had no choice but to do so.

Saba’s man whirled his spear towards Turfrida’s neck. Desperation gripped Hereward. His own life meant nothing now. As he prepared to throw himself forward, Acha lunged from the gloom. In her hand, a knife glinted in the candlelight. The spearman fell in a gush of crimson, and Hereward ran to his wife’s side. For one moment, his eyes locked upon Acha’s unreadable stare. He prayed there would be time for thanks later.