Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army (27 page)

‘Folk will be afraid of you after this,’ his brother said. ‘If they dare utter your name.’

‘War makes beasts of all of us.’ Already the folk of Ely feared him. Now his name would make good English folk across the fenlands tremble. Never would he have guessed this road lay ahead when he vowed to challenge William the Bastard. He yearned for Alric’s words of comfort, anything that would light his path through this dark. But then the gate cracked like a tree falling and a gale of flames swirled up. In a surge of sparks, the barrier collapsed inwards. Beyond the inferno, folk fled back up the street amid a cacophony of shrieks and yells.

Holding his shield high to protect his face from the heat, Hereward bounded over the flaming ruins of the gates. As he landed, he dropped into a crouch and drew his sword. Guards raced through the wall of smoke to defend the breach.

Hereward’s jaw tightened. In battle, the Normans had sacrificed speed for protection. Long mail shirts dragged them down. Tall shields guarded the legs and chest as one, but hindered movement. They thought their more lethal weapons gave them an advantage, and sometimes that was so. But not here. Not in this chaos of fire and smoke and the confusion of battle in narrow streets. First blood would be his.

When the first Norman burst from the grey cloud, he was ready. Before the knight could swing his blade, the Mercian hurled himself forward like a hungry wolf. Their shields clashed, throwing the guard off-balance. He flailed wildly with his sword-arm, but Hereward ducked beneath it and thrust his own blade up under his foe’s chin. His eyes shone at the gush of blood, and he felt the thirst that he thought he would never quench.

As the guard slid off his blade, Hereward whirled to meet the next attack. Ruby droplets showered from the edge of his sword. With a grunt, the second knight hacked down towards the Mercian’s shoulder. As Hereward danced back the guard
thrust his blade towards the heart. The Mercian’s shield splintered as he deflected the strike. Hereward peered over the remnants of the shield’s rim and saw the knight’s gaze flicker in pools of shadow within the eyelets of his helm – a sign that he knew his death was close. Fire and blood roared through Hereward’s head. All sounds of battle ebbed away and in that quiet, small world, he felt calm descend on him. He stepped to his right and swung Brainbiter in an arc. The Norman’s bared throat opened up.

Before his foe had fallen, Hereward crashed back into the din of battle. He turned, yelling, ‘To the abbey.’

Five English surrounded each one of the few Norman guards. In a moment, they had overwhelmed them. Guthrinc plunged his spear into a knight’s chest, lifting him high so he kicked and squealed like a skewered pig before the iron tip burst through his back. Another fell under a rain of Danish axes.

Near the palisade, fire consumed the rows of huts and halls. Men torched the thatched roofs and the dry grass that had grown up around the timber walls. The conflagration swept across Burgh, leaping from home to home. Hereward’s thoughts flew back to his bloody struggles in Eoferwic four years before the invasion when he had first realized fire was one of the greatest weapons of fear. How long ago it seemed. And fear was everywhere in Burgh that night, running as wild as the inferno. Screams filled the night. Though most of the Burgh folk fled to the far reaches of the settlement, a few brave souls drew water from the wells to try to quell the flames.

Redwald smiled grimly. ‘They should not have stood with the Normans.’

Hereward shook his head. ‘They were afraid. They did not deserve to suffer so.’

‘You had no choice. Victory here today is all that matters.’

The Mercian knew his brother was right, but still he felt cold at what he saw around him. He pushed aside his doubts and ran up the baked track towards the abbey. Once he had broken out of the choking smoke, he sucked in a soothing breath of
clean night air. The war-cries of his men sounded behind him. Beyond the minster enclosure fence, the stone tower of the church loomed. Torchlight danced in the dark grounds as the monks fled their homes.

‘Harm no churchmen or face my wrath,’ he bellowed, half-turning to the mob of battle-crazed warriors at his back.

The gate to the abbey grounds hung shut. Though a half-hearted attempt had been made to bar the way, the English warriors had smashed through within moments. As they flooded into the enclosure, Hereward ordered the Danes to search the minster buildings in case the monks had tried to hide their treasures. Their eyes gleamed with lust for gold.

Hereward thrust open the heavy door of the church and stepped into the cool, dark interior. The sweet scent of incense hung in the air. Overhead, the timber roof was turned a dull red by the raging firelight that streamed through the small arched windows. ‘Give me more light,’ he demanded. Hengist and Redwald searched along the walls until they found several fat, stubby candles. When these had been lit, the shadows swooped away.

Hereward stood in the centre of the nave and looked towards the high altar. Hanging above the entrance to the altar, a great gold crucifix gleamed in the half-light. On the head of the Christ, precious gemstones sparkled in the crown.

‘What do we take?’ Kraki growled.

‘Take it all.’

‘Everything?’ The Viking eyed his leader askance.

‘Leave nothing of value behind.’

Kraki shrugged and cracked his knuckles. ‘Hard work but good reward,’ he grunted, stalking towards the altar.

Redwald raised his head to look at the Christ. ‘You do not fear God’s judgement?’ For the first time, Hereward heard a note of uneasiness in his brother’s voice. Surely good-hearted Redwald had no fear of damnation?

He smiled. ‘I do not rob God. I save these treasures from the plundering fingers of William the Bastard.’

‘How so?’

‘He has sent one of his warrior-knights, one Turold, to be the new abbot. But it is just another way to seize the abbey’s treasures.’ Hereward sheathed his sword and stepped towards the altar. ‘Better these jewels and gold lie in our hands than the king’s.’

Redwald shook his head in bafflement. ‘How do you know this … this Turold is on his way?’

Hereward grinned. ‘I have my ways, brother. I learned long ago that battles are won not by spears alone.’

Redwald grew silent, no doubt awed by the vast wealth that would soon be on its way to Ely. Hereward clapped a reassuring arm across his brother’s back. ‘With the riches we take this night, we can buy whatever food or weapons or axes-for-hire we need. We can build a great army on the back of this. And as word spreads across the fens, and beyond, men will flock to our banner. William can no longer pretend we are flies buzzing at his table. He will have a fight on his hands. And,’ he added, with a confident nod, ‘all men will know we have God on our side, aye, even William himself.’

‘You speak in riddles, brother,’ Redwald grumbled. ‘But I bow my head to you, like all here. No army could ask for a better leader. The king will be shaking upon his throne when he hears of this night.’

The two men strode towards the altar. A rope tied to a spear had been thrown over a roofbeam and Hengist shinned up it like a squirrel. Once he was crawling along the narrow timber overhead, another warrior scrambled up to join him. Together they tugged and tore at the iron chain fastening the Great Crucifix to the beam.

‘Use your arms, not your teeth,’ Guthrinc boomed. A loud curse echoed, drowned by the laughter of the English warriors.

But the Great Crucifix could not be freed. Hereward ordered the men to take the jewelled crown and Hengist clambered down the Christ figure to remove the gold foot-rest. The candlelight shimmered off more inlaid precious stones. The other men
began to heap the spoils in the centre of the nave. Hereward counted twelve jewelled crosses next to a mound of gold plate and goblets, books with gem-encrusted covers taken from the scriptorium, and eleven gold and silver feretories which he knew the monks used to transport relics between abbeys.

One other treasure was still missing, perhaps the most valuable of all. Silently thanking Abbot Thurstan for his information, Hereward ordered Guthrinc to lead a search of the church. The men detailed to climb the tower returned with the great decorated altar frontal which the monks had tried to hide.

‘A fine haul,’ Guthrinc said with an approving nod.

‘And yet there is one thing greater,’ Hereward said, ‘though it would not buy you even a night with a Frankish whore.’ He ignored the men’s curious gazes and pointed to a small chamber on the north wall. With a suspicious grunt, Kraki strode off to investigate. When he came back, he was carrying a large oaken chest carved with images of angels.

He set it at Hereward’s feet and snorted, ‘Too light to be filled with gold.’

The Mercian stooped to flip open the heavy lid. A browning bone nestled in white linen at the bottom of the box. The warriors stared at it, brows furrowed.

Only Redwald recognized the bone for what it was. ‘A relic,’ he murmured.

‘The arm of St Oswald,’ Hereward said. ‘Here is the power of God. It heals the sick, makes the blind see and the lame walk, so they say. And it brings good fortune to the ones who protect it.’

Redwald looked to him, his eyes bright. ‘Then this was why you came to Burgh. Not only for the gold.’

‘Gold buys us time. This … this buys us victory.’

‘Alric knows?’

Hereward looked around the faces of his men and felt satisfaction at the awe he saw there. His course was right. ‘It was he who first set me on this path, when we spoke at Ely of the works of St Etheldreda,’ he replied. ‘You see how folk
tremble, afraid, when they make their vows to be true to us over her shrine.’

Kraki nodded, a sparkle in his eye. ‘Then God is now one of our Devil’s Army.’ A murmur of support rustled around the gathered English warriors, growing to a cheer.

As the clamour died away, the door crashed open. All heads turned. It was one of the Danes Hereward had set as look-out at the abbey fence, a blond-haired man with a pockmarked face.

‘The Normans are here,’ the Dane shouted. ‘They gather to the south and west of Burgh, ready to attack.’

Redwald shook his head in disbelief. ‘This cannot be. We lured the king’s army far away.’

‘How many?’ Hereward demanded, his voice cold.

‘Enough to crush us all.’

The Mercian silently cursed himself for being too confident. ‘It seems,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘that the Normans are cleverer than I thought. We have been led into a trap.’

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-E
IGHT

‘
WHAT KIND OF
man is this, who is prepared to burn the homes of his own folk?’ Ivo Taillebois asked as he looked out across the wall of flame along Burgh’s southern edge.

Harald Redteeth grunted at the Norman’s failure to see what lay beyond his nose. ‘A man prepared to win at any cost. You would do well to heed what you see here this night.’

‘Then we are much alike, this Hereward and I.’ The Butcher showed his yellowing teeth. The blood of the English rebel still stained his cloak, though it had been three days since the man had been tortured to find out the truth behind the stories he had been spreading around the fenland villages: a planned deception by the English to draw the king’s army away from Burgh. Harald wrinkled his nose. To take a knife to a man who had been whipped and beaten within an inch of his life. Where was the strength in that? They were a strange breed, these Normans. Cruel and brutal, when there was no need to be. Cold, like their churches. Sometimes he wondered if any of them had ever lain with a woman.

The wind changed direction and a thick cloud of grey smoke rolled among the oaks like an autumn fog. The fires of Burgh became an orange glow, but the roaring filled the night. Harald
looked round at the ranks of Norman warriors. Like sentinels, they stood, in their long mail shirts and helms and with their tall shields and swords, as if they were about to ride into glorious battle instead of attacking a mud-grubbing pack of English farmers. He grinned as the whispers of the
alfar
reached his ears. Yes, for all their shortcomings, the English had proved themselves more than a match for the invaders. Even his hated enemy, Hereward. He had misjudged him. When first they had met, the Mercian had seemed little more than a wild animal, without honour. There was more to him than that.

But he would still cut off his head and kick it into one of the deep bogs.

‘We have enough men here to slaughter them. Why do you wait?’ he asked.

Taillebois shrugged. ‘We take no chances. Like snakes, those English. Every time you think them beaten, they slither out and bite you again. Let them look to us, and make their plans to fight or flee. And while they talk and doubt and plot, Abbot Turold will ride with his men from the east. There will be nowhere for Hereward to run. He will be ours, at last. And then we will earn the king’s thanks. What do you think of that, Viking? More gold for you to spend on whores and feasting and drinking?’

The Butcher raised his right arm and barked an order in the Norman tongue. His men began a steady beat of sword hilt upon shield. As the thunder rolled out towards Burgh, the army moved forward through the trees. Harald sighed with relief. He was sick of all the talk and the sneaking around and the planning. At last it was the time for men.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-N
INE

TURFRIDA JERKED AWAKE
beside the dying embers in the hearth. With a gasp, she struggled to bring her thoughts back from the world of dreams. Somebody was hammering on the door. Shivering from the night’s chill, she pulled her thickest cloak around her as she struggled to her feet. Her belly felt as heavy as a sack of corn. As nausea washed through her, she pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to steady herself. Soon, now, this child would be born and then perhaps she could walk more than a spear-throw without needing to sit or piss.

When she wrenched open the door, she saw Edoma there. The girl’s eyes darted and she tugged anxiously at her cloak.