Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army (20 page)

A man prowled in front of Sighard, a priest by the look of his
pillicia
, Alric noted. The long woollen tunic was brown, free of any adornment, but the material was thick and likely fur-lined to keep out the cold. The monk studied the churchman’s dark eyes and cold face, the long black moustache, and the black hair that had been shaved at the back of the skull in the Norman military style. These priests of William’s were hard to tell apart from his warriors – and just as cruel and brutal, he had heard tell. Where was the love of God in men like that?

‘What means the woman to you?’ the cleric asked in heavily accented English.

‘I do not know her,’ Sighard replied. He pushed his chin up in defiance, then saw the priest’s icy stare and let it drop again.

‘She is a witch. And now she is free to weave her spells and curse her neighbours, because of you.’ The priest thrust his face close to Sighard’s, so that their noses were almost touching.

‘I saw only a man threatening a woman,’ Sighard replied, his voice steady. ‘How could I know she was a witch?’

‘The Devil’s own always lie. You aided her escape, did you not?’

Alric held his breath. If the priest gave the order for the soldiers to take Sighard away, it would be the end of him. He would be forced to hold an iron rod that had been heated in the fires until it glowed red, or he would be weighed down with rocks and thrown into the freezing waters of the river. In his agony, he would confess to anything, and then his life would be forfeit.

‘He cannot help himself when he sees a woman in need. He is like a lovesick fool,’ Madulf interrupted, his voice wavering.

The churchman looked back at Madulf, and once he had decided the other brother was no threat, he returned his attention to Sighard. ‘I do not believe that you can be trusted. You must take the witch’s place, until I can be sure—’

‘Wait.’ Alric stepped forward. ‘I am a man of God, like you, a monk, from the monastery in Jarrow in the north. My name is Alric.’

‘You are far from your home,’ the priest said, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

‘As are you.’ The monk swallowed to steady his nerve. The crowd blurred into the background around him as he focused on the words he would have to spin to save all their lives. He ignored the searching gaze of the Norman soldiers and enquired, ‘What is your name?’

The priest hesitated, puzzled by this interruption. ‘I am called Emeric. I have been directed by the Pope himself to hunt witches. My travels have taken me across Europe. And I have done God’s work everywhere I went. The Devil has fewer servants now.’

Alric forced a smile which he hoped was charming. ‘And now you are in England.’

‘You have many witches here,’ Emeric snapped. ‘Away from London, they lurk in every town and village. Brother, your English Church has failed in its duty, but now I am here to do your work for you.’

‘And we are grateful for all the aid you give,’ Alric said with a slight bow. ‘But this man is not another burden for you.’

The priest looked to Sighard and then back to the monk, frowning. ‘You stand by him?’

‘He is a fool where women are concerned, as his brother says. But more than that, he is my servant this day.’ The monk pressed his hands together as if in prayer. ‘As you say, I am far from home and this land is strange to me. I travel to Yernemuth where I must seek passage to Flanders and without this man to guide me I will never find my way. In this hard winter, that could cost my life. I beg a kindness, brother. Let me take my
guide, and you have my word that I will chastise him for what he has done.’

Emeric studied Alric’s face. The monk wanted to squirm. He felt the priest was weighing his every word and once he had been found wanting the soldiers would drag him away too. After a moment, the Norman churchman replied, ‘Yernemuth, you say? Once these snows clear, I would travel north myself. I hear these wild fenlands are filled with witches.’

Alric only smiled. Despite the cold, he could feel the sweat trickling down his back.

Emeric turned to Sighard and barked, ‘Go to your master. But if we meet again, know you will be forced to confess before the eyes of God.’

Sighard wrenched his arms free from the soldiers, and all but ran past Alric and into the crowd. Madulf followed him. Redwald was nowhere to be seen. Alric gave a pleasant smile and a nod, and turned away before Emeric could question him further. But he could feel the priest’s lowering gaze upon his back as he pushed into the crowd, and he knew that he had had a lucky escape.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-S
EVEN

SPLASHES OF BLOOD
scarred the virgin snow. Almost black in that white world, more gore puddled around the body of the mercenary. A gleaming helm protruded from a drift, a broken spear beside it. The wind howled through the stark branches of the wood as a shadow swept across the fallen warrior, and came back.

‘The Devil will take your soul,’ the voice screeched. ‘I am a man of God.’

Hereward threw his head back and laughed. He was wrapped in furs greased with lamb fat to keep out the bitter cold, but his blond hair lashed in the gale. All around, his men bellowed their humour, their ash-streaked faces grinning death’s-heads. Hengist did a little dance.

The upended churchman swung back again, his face crimson with embarrassed fury, his grey-streaked hair sweeping the snow with each pass. He was suspended from the branch of an oak by a rope strapped around his ankles, his hands tied behind his back. Whenever his swinging began to slow, Hengist darted in to give him a shove.

‘Would you enjoy this more if we tied the rope to your neck?’ Hereward taunted.

The cleric changed his manner, pursing his lips as he put on a sorrowful expression. ‘Have pity on me. I am but a poor traveller doing God’s work in this cold land. I have not had a full belly for many a day.’

‘He is sorely lacking in bread, indeed, but he has plenty of gold to chew on,’ Guthrinc called from where he squatted next to the oak, searching through the sack the churchman had been carrying. He raised a glinting gold chalice over his head. ‘He has a
goldhord
here that would please a king. Plate, cups, chain and other adornments.’

‘That belongs to God,’ the cleric spat.

‘And you were keeping it safe for him,’ Hereward nodded with a wry smile. ‘This gold will buy much food for the hungry folk of Ely. As a good Christian man, your heart must be warmed to know your toils will mean none starve in this harsh winter.’

‘You think yourselves brave warriors. You are nothing more than thieves and murderers.’ Spittle flew from the churchman’s mouth.

Hereward laughed again. ‘You call me thief. While we fought, you bowed your head to William the Bastard like a whipped cur, forsaking all those who prayed in your church. But now you fear you may not be as well rewarded as you once thought.’

The cleric closed his eyes and intoned a prayer, trying to drown out the Mercian’s words.

‘Now the king sends in his own Norman churchmen to take your place, and seize the riches you have heaped up behind your altar,’ Hereward continued. ‘And so you fled. And to aid your flight you stole from God, and from the folk who paid for this gold with their hard labours. But you made the mistake of passing through the fens in your search for a place to hide. This is my land, and here not even a spear-for-hire can keep you safe.’ He nodded towards the dead Northman. ‘God set justice upon you.’

‘Blasphemy,’ the cleric yelled. ‘You would dare speak for the Lord?’

‘Why not? All churchmen seem to do so without fault.’ The warrior gave a lupine smile, then nodded to Guthrinc and said, ‘A good day’s work. Take it. We will put it to good use when we return.’

Hengist giggled, giving the churchman another shove. ‘You mean to leave me here?’ the prisoner cried, wrenching his head up to look at his captors as he swung. ‘I will freeze to death.’

‘Shout louder. Your friends the Normans are near by searching for us. They will cut you loose.’ Hereward walked around the dangling churchman.

The prisoner’s face turned the colour of the snow. He knew what the king’s men would do if they found he had been stealing the gold they considered their own. Through gritted teeth, he growled, ‘I will see you hunted down and brought to justice for this.’

‘This man of God has balls.’ Kraki traced the cleric’s path through the air with the tip of his spear.

‘You need some of those, Hengist,’ Guthrinc said, slinging the sack over his shoulder. He pointed at the prisoner. ‘Cut his off.’

The churchman cried out. The warriors jeered.

‘Do not torment him,’ Hereward said with a laugh. ‘He has already sold his soul to William the Bastard. He will pay soon enough.’

The cleric’s angry shouts rang out at their backs as they moved away through the trees towards the edge of the frozen marsh. Large flakes began to drift down, filling their footprints.

‘This gold has warmed my heart better than any home-fire,’ Guthrinc said cheerily.

‘Still, it is not enough,’ Hereward replied, searching the colourless landscape for Norman scouts. ‘If we are to build an army that will crush William’s men as they crushed King Harold’s warriors, we need the kind of gold that would fill the royal coffers.’

‘That is a lot of fleeing churchmen to rob,’ Guthrinc hummed.

‘You have a plan?’ Kraki looked like a bear in the depths of
his furs and his hauberk, fire flickering in the shadows of his helm’s eyelets.

‘Gold to buy food to fill an army’s belly and to bribe folk to keep our paths hidden? Aye, plans I have. And I have listened to the words of Abbot Thurstan himself to be sure they are good. But I need an army to make them bear fruit.’

‘You need an army to gain an army,’ Guthrinc replied. ‘Now there is a riddle to tax even the sharpest mind.’

Hereward did not reply. He had wrestled with the problem since the long, hot summer months without finding the answer he needed. Yet the success of the rebellion depended on that very solution. Gold would buy them victory. Without that, they were merely fleas nipping at the hide of the dog.

Beneath chalk skies, in the face of the blizzard’s teeth, they loped along the old narrow tracks and the hidden byways. On the banks of the Old Ouse where the water flowed black and slow between the ice-choked river-edges, they crouched among the sedges and the reeds and watched a group of ten Normans on horseback trek in the direction of Earith. The king’s men kept their heads down in the cruel wind, their black cloaks pulled tightly around them.

‘Call me thick-headed, but there seems more of those bastards each day, and they wend ever closer to Ely,’ Guthrinc muttered, pressing aside the reeds to get a better look.

‘Have their numbers swollen?’ Kraki growled, casting an inquisitive glance towards Hereward as if the leader had been keeping secrets from him.

The Mercian narrowed his eyes, watching the Normans until they disappeared into the swirling snow. ‘If so, then it is done by stealth.’

‘Unless they realize we have eyes and ears among their own and are holding their tongues,’ Guthrinc said. ‘What does this mean? The king is sly, and at his most dangerous when he appears to be doing nothing.’

Eager to feel the heat of their home-fires, the English ran the final miles south across the frozen marsh to the edge of
Hempsals Fen. There the flint of the narrow causeway leading home glittered like shards of ice. No crowd greeted their return as they passed through the gates of Ely. The folk all huddled around their hearths for warmth, listening to the bubbling of the tangy stews that sweetened the cold air of the settlement. But as the cheers of the returning warriors rang out across the thatched roofs, Acha emerged, swaddled in a thick cloak of grey. Her dark eyes fixed upon Hereward’s for a long moment, and they both acknowledged the strange, unfathomable bond that had arisen between them since the summer uprising. With a curt nod, Hereward moved on, knowing it was unwise to dwell too much on the meaning of those feelings. He kept his gaze on the snowy path, fighting the urge to look back to see if Kraki had observed that fleeting look.

Near the track to his dwelling, a bear waited. It was only as he neared that Hereward realized it was a man, wrapped in thick furs, his wild hair almost obscuring his ruddy, wind-chapped face. He didn’t move, and so much snow had fallen on him it looked as if he had been there for days. As he peered into the face, the Mercian was shocked to see it was Dunnere the miller. Not for long months had Hereward seen him. Since his daughter had vanished, he had kept to the confines of his dusty mill and only those who fetched the sacks from his door had seen him. Through all that time, it seemed he had not cut his hair, nor, from the smell of him, bathed. His nose had the broken veins of a man who drank too much ale and the skin under his eyes sagged down like melted wax.

‘Dunnere. It is good to see you,’ Hereward began.

‘I request a boon,’ the miller said, ignoring all pleasantries. ‘Only you and your men can help me now.’

‘Your daughter.’ The long-missing girl could be the only thing on the man’s mind.

Dunnere nodded. ‘All my days are grey.’ He choked on the words for a moment before mumbling, ‘I pray for word that she is safe. Even that she has run off with some wild lad, and is afraid to tell me she is with child. Anything.’ A juddering
breath racked him. ‘Sometimes I even pray that her body will be washed up. At least then I could give her a Christian burial and put aside this endless worry that blights my life. And then I curse myself and wish
I
were dead for thinking such a thing.’

Hereward rested a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘You must have strength—’

‘Have strength, you say? If I did not have strength I would long since have thrown myself into Dedman’s Bog.’ He bowed his head, steadying himself. ‘Some say that she could only have had her virtue taken by one of your men … and then her life. I do not believe such a thing.’

‘What would you have me do?’

‘When your scouts are out across the fens, have them ask after her. If she yet lives, someone must have seen her. Just to know that she …’ He covered his face with his hands as a silent sob ran through him.