Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army (17 page)

Roaring like a bull, Guthrinc tore through the rebels. Smoke swept around the barn from the twitching bodies burning on the ground. Snatching Turfrida’s wrist, Hereward yelled to her, ‘Stay near to me.’ He hacked a path to the door and as he dragged Turfrida into the shadows among the dwellings, he looked back and saw three figures pile on Guthrinc. They crushed him to the ground, raining blows upon him.

‘Save him,’ Turfrida cried, her voice breaking.

Hereward did not slow. ‘He has a thick skull, and it is me they want dead. We must get you to safety first, then we shall see how brave they are.’

From behind them came the drumming of feet: the chase was on, the prey sighted. As they broke out from the edge of Ely, Hereward looked to the Camp of Refuge. There, among the mad jumble of closely packed dwellings, he and Turfrida could lose themselves.

Sweat flew from his brow as he ran across the turf towards the new camp. Turfrida stumbled to keep up. At his back, the moon illuminated four pursuers armed with spears.

Across the open space they raced, and into the camp. The warm breeze filled with the stink of shit and rotting rubbish.
Hereward weaved among the huts. The narrow path would hinder his enemies, already hampered by their unwieldy weapons. Yet as they reached a clearing, Turfrida stumbled and fell, dragging Hereward down with her.

Snarling, Hereward rolled on to his back, only to look along the shafts of three spears. The iron tips wavered a hand’s-width from his face. A foot ground down on his right wrist, forcing him to relinquish his sword. It was kicked away into the dark.

‘You are done,’ Saba growled breathlessly, ‘and this foolish war with our new masters is over.’

‘When William the Bastard tightens his grip on this land, you will regret every word you uttered this night.’

Saba sneered and drew back his spear to strike. Hereward felt proud that Turfrida did not plead for his life or cry.

From the dark, a stone crashed against the back of Saba’s head. He cursed, his hand flying to where the missile had struck, and when he withdrew his fingers blood stained them. In a rage, he spun round to confront his attacker. Only a boy stood there, the lad Hereward had carried aloft only eight days before. ‘Bad men,’ the boy called, his voice high and indignant. ‘Leave him be.’

Saba looked as if he had been slapped. Other figures emerged from the night on all sides, gaunt-faced women and men, each one condemning him with their cold stares. The leader of the uprising turned slowly, reading the silent communication in those faces.

‘He is the enemy here,’ he insisted, pointing at Hereward.

The crowd advanced in silence. A torch flared to life, and then another, catching the begrimed, frightened faces of Saba and three other spearmen in their flickering light. Hereward looked around at the dark expressions of the men and women surrounding him, not yet understanding what he was seeing there.

‘He is the enemy,’ Saba repeated, his voice growing shrill. ‘He has taken food from the mouths of the folk of Ely—’

‘To feed us,’ someone interjected, their voice hard.

‘He will bring the wrath of the king down upon all of us, those who lived here before, and you as well,’ Saba shouted. ‘Better to throw ourselves upon William’s mercy. Save your necks. Join me.’

Sensing the mood of the crowd, the other three men lowered their spears. Hereward clambered slowly upright, holding out a hand to help Turfrida to her feet. He held her in his arms, near overcome with relief that she had survived.

‘You are fools, all of you,’ Saba raged. His spear shifted from side to side to keep the crowd at bay. Hereward watched the leatherworker’s gaze alight upon his two captives. He scowled with determination, recognizing, perhaps, one last chance to seize victory. Pushing Turfrida aside, the Mercian turned, looking for his blade, but it was lost somewhere in the dark.

Saba saw this too and grinned. He thrust his spear towards Hereward’s chest.

The tip never reached its mark. Hands grabbed the shaft to hold its progress. And then the crowd lunged forward as one, grabbing hold of Saba and dragging him down into the sea of bodies. Hereward heard the sound of punches and kicks raining down on the leader of the uprising. He cried out only once before his voice was stilled.

The other three men threw down their spears, but the men and women of the Camp of Refuge grabbed them with no less force, dragging them away among the homes. And then the folk swarmed around Hereward, demanding to know if he was well. He looked into their faces, barely comprehending what he saw there. Never had he felt such belief in his abilities before, nor such hope in the freedom he promised.

‘Here is your true army,’ Turfrida whispered in his ear, ‘and this one is not sent by the Devil.’

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-T
HREE

THE PITILESS SUN
beat down upon the crowd gathered on the green. Like a spear, the shadow of the church tower stabbed through the heart of the solemn assembly. No one spoke. Beyond the palisade, the wetlands shimmered in a heat haze. Flies buzzed above the stagnant pools, and bees droned lazily among the beds of herbs and vegetables.

Hereward raised his head to look out across the folk of Ely. It seemed that everyone who lived there had ventured out into that fiery morning to witness the judgement upon the failed uprising. He saw the grim faces of the ones who had long called that place home, still coming to terms with the deaths of men they had known since they were children. And, too, he saw the unforgiving eyes of those who had made their way up from the Camp of Refuge. To his left, at the foot of the path to the minster, stood Thurstan and the monks. Doubt was etched into those features, he could see. When his bloody ire was directed at Normans who would plunder the Church’s gold and steal their freedoms, his brutal ways could be tolerated. But last night he had slaughtered good men who had bowed their heads before the altar every Sunday and feast day, men whom the monks knew as their own.

His heart heavy, he looked down at Saba who knelt in front of him. Blood was caked around his nose and mouth. Blue bruises dappled his cheeks and forehead. The leader of the uprising hung his head so that his lank, greasy hair fell across his face. Hereward couldn’t tell if it was to hide his shame or his fear.

‘Last night the fate of England hung by a thread,’ he began. His commanding voice carried out through the hot, still air. ‘We looked beyond the ramparts for our many enemies abroad, never thinking to look amongst our own.’ He chose his words carefully, subtly reinforcing the notion that he was one of them, not an outsider who had seized control of their birthplace. ‘These men …’ He nodded to Saba who still did not look up, and to the knot of prisoners, heads bowed in a circle of spears. ‘… These Ely men. You know them. You buy their wares, and ask after their kin, and laugh and share riddles and feasts. They are as familiar as the church tower that shows God watches over this place.’ He looked up to the heavens as if seeking divine inspiration, knowing that every word, every action, could decide the future of the rebellion there in Ely.

‘But have no doubt, these men, your neighbours, your friends, pressed the tip of a spear against all your throats last night, and held your lives in the balance,’ he continued. ‘For their own ends, they were prepared to give you up to the Maker. They cared not for your long friendships, or for your wives or your children. They cared less for the hopes in your hearts … hopes of a life free from the king’s grasping hands around your necks. Have no doubt they would have given you up to our enemies in the blink of an eye, to save their own skins.’

For the first time, Saba’s eyes darted up, the stare hate-filled. That look denied Hereward’s account, but he knew the leatherworker could say nothing without risking another beating.

Hereward let his gaze wander over the rapt faces of the throng. They were scared; they yearned for a strong leader, a protector, in these turbulent times, and they wanted to believe every word he uttered. He felt a pang of guilt for the harsh light he had cast on the events of the previous night – none of it could
ever be as simple as he made out – but he needed these people as much as they needed him.

‘We cannot afford to have enemies behind us as well as at our front,’ he continued, his voice growing louder. ‘It will not be Norman swords that prove our undoing, but the blade in the back from folk we thought friends. No more can we carry on this way. Not if we wish to live, if we want to taste the sweet mead of victory against the bastard who has stolen the crown, and would steal what little we still call our own.’

No one moved. It seemed as if they were statues, oblivious to the hot sun. Hands shielded eyes, casting faces into shadow, so that he found it hard to read their expressions. No breeze stirred the branches of the ash trees and oaks around the isle. Even the birdsong was muted.

‘No more,’ he repeated, loudly. ‘Do you stand with me this day?’

At first there was only that abiding silence. Then a murmur rippled out through the crowd. It was not enough.

‘Do you stand with these men – my army – no,
your
army – who have vowed to give their lives to keep you safe?’ His voice grew louder still, heavy with passion. The murmur came back, growing to a cry of assent. ‘Do we stand as one army, warriors and folk together, ready to fight for Ely, for the English? Are we together, now and always, in this war?’

The cry became a cheer. Faces lit with passion, and hope. He steeled himself. Through the last hours of darkness long and hard had he weighed his actions, hours which seemed to stretch on into eternity. In the end, he had accepted his only possible course if victory was to be theirs.

‘From this day on, every new face that wanders up to the gates of Ely will be taken up to the church before they have uttered one word. And there they will be made to swear over the sacred shrine of St Etheldreda that they are true. She will see into their hearts and, if they lie, God will strike them blind.’ He watched shadows cross those bright faces as the fear of the Lord filled them. He pointed to the heavens. ‘God will pass
judgement upon them, not men.’ He looked past the crowd to where Abbot Thurstan stood, hands pressed together as if in prayer. The cleric nodded in agreement. ‘And now we must pass judgement on those among us who risked the lives of all here by standing with the king,’ he continued, looking down at Saba. The leader of the uprising turned his face towards the ground.

Before Hereward could continue, a disturbance churned the crowd. A woman with a weathered face forced her way out of the throng, her arms around the shoulders of two boys. Their pink cheeks were streaked with tears. It was Saba’s wife, Arild, and their two sons.

‘Let him be,’ she cried, her voice carrying across Ely. ‘Have mercy. He is no more than a fool.’ She glared at her husband. ‘Fool,’ she repeated, shouting at Saba. ‘These spears keep us safe—’

‘These spears drive us towards the grave,’ he growled, not meeting her fierce gaze.

‘Be silent,’ Arild yelled, her voice breaking. She turned her attention back to Hereward and reached out with imploring hands. ‘Let him come home, I beg you. These boys need their father. I need a husband who will keep us all fed. Saba is … is a good man.’ She choked on the words, sobbing silently for a moment. When she had wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, she continued, ‘He wanted only to keep his kin safe. Now he has learned a hard lesson and he will never cause trouble here in Ely again. He will keep his head bowed, and work hard and give praise to the aid you and all your army have given us. Do not punish him.’ She choked again. ‘Do not take his hand so he cannot work, or his eyes.’

Hereward could see her words had moved many in the crowd. They nodded, sympathetic to the woman’s plight, and they looked from her to Saba as if he were an unruly child who needed chastisement. The Mercian felt pity too, for Arild had done no wrong. She should not suffer for her husband’s crimes. He raised his eyes to the clear blue sky. This notion was not
new. He had turned it over in the hours after he had kissed Turfrida in the safety of their home, and made his way down to the shore for the long vigil to watch for any Norman response to the fire-boats.

‘I hear your plea, Arild,’ he said, looking back to the woman, ‘and I know your sorrow.’ He could feel his turbulent feelings tugging at him and he pushed them down farther.

Blinking away her tears, Saba’s wife managed a weak smile. She hugged her boys close.

‘You speak true, your husband is a fool,’ Hereward continued, his voice lowering, becoming more intimate as he spoke to Arild alone. ‘He let his fears guide him. He had no faith in the rightness of this fight, and he wanted only to keep you – and all here – safe.’

The woman nodded and looked to her husband. The Mercian had no doubt that the man was contrite, now he had been defeated. He turned his gaze back to the gathering. ‘Aye, a fool. And yet he risked the life of every man, woman and child here. If we had not brought him low, this morning Ely would be overrun with Normans and the streets would be rivers of blood. Your blood.’ Hereward drew his sword and pointed it at the man kneeling in front of him. ‘This man … Saba … is as much an enemy as the Normans. Would we let one of those bastards roam freely within the ramparts, never knowing when they might turn against us, a snake in our midst?’

From the corner of his eye, he saw Arild’s face fall. Her lips began to mouth, ‘No.’

‘Saba made his choice,’ Hereward continued, his rising voice demanding the attention of the crowd so they would not look at the woman. ‘He stood with our foes, not with his friends. He is no more a man of Ely. He has no home. And he can no longer be allowed to stay here.’

‘Outlaw, then,’ someone called.

Hereward shook his head. ‘He is our enemy in this war, by his own choosing, and he must be dealt with like any enemy. His life must be the only price that can be paid for this crime.’
His voice rose to a shout. ‘Death, I say.’ He raised Brainbiter high, the blade burning in the sunlight.