Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army (44 page)

‘You have felt the edge of her tongue,’ the Mercian said with a laugh.

‘Who here has not?’ He eyed his friend as he finished the sweet boar-meat and licked the grease from his fingers. ‘God’s road can be hard at times, but you walk it better than any man I know.’

‘Do not try to make me a saint. No one will fight over my bones when I am gone.’ He looked around at the revels and nodded with satisfaction. ‘After the hardships we have endured, these folk deserve one night of joy.’

‘And you think they are prepared for what lies ahead now that the iron circle closes upon Ely?’

Alric felt pleased when he saw the fire in the other man’s eyes. ‘Let the Bastard come. He thinks we are trapped here, on Ely. He thinks we quake and quail at the thought of the great king striding to our door with his mighty army. Instead, we lure him in as the hunter lures the rabbit. Why sweat and moan as we march to Wincestre when we can bring the king here to die in this land that is our fortress?’

The monk searched his friend’s gaze for some sign that might assuage his fears. So much had been stolen from Hereward – wife, mother, friend, yes, and father and brother too. How easy it would be for him to give in to that devil who promised succour with blood and fire. But what if victory could only come if that devil were freed? What then? He choked down his worries and put on a grin. ‘Then let us eat well and drink mead until we fall over,’ he said, sweeping one arm out towards the feast. ‘For the war will begin soon.’

‘Aye,’ Hereward agreed. ‘And it will be a war that will shake the very halls of heaven.’

Alric watched his friend walk towards the drunken cheers of Guthrinc and Kraki. His worries refused to die. Into the roaring flames of the feast-fire he peered, as if answers might lie within,
but there were none. And then he looked to the red, gold and white sparks that swirled up into the night. They were carried far out over the quiet wetlands, accompanied by the sound of song and laughter. Somewhere near by, an owl shrieked and took wing. A cold breeze had picked up and, in its stirring, the willows out in the darkness seemed to whisper,
Beware … Beware
.

Beware
.

H
ISTORICAL
N
OTE

As I embarked on this second volume detailing Hereward’s resistance to the Norman invaders, I again spent many days travelling across the fenlands of eastern England. It’s a part of the country that can, at times, seem bleak and windswept. But on other occasions, particularly when the sun’s out and the sky is blue, it’s pleasingly unspoilt and relaxing. History lies all around, and that’s the true attraction for anyone who loves the past. Prehistoric tracks and medieval cathedrals, Roman defences and Elizabethan carriage routes.

But the research I had to complete was, for me, of a completely different stripe: historical geography. Or geographical history. The Fen country has changed phenomenally in the thousand years since Hereward walked there. At the time of the Norman Conquest, this was a land that altered by the day, by the hour. Water flooded across it, at times turning lakes and meres into what was almost an inland sea with ferocious currents, the settlements rising up on small islands. In other sections, treacherous bogs were all but impassable beyond the narrow flint causeways that crisscrossed the area. Bounded to the west by a dense, near-impenetrable forest and to the east by the sea, the Fen country was almost a natural fortress.

Land reclamation, drainage, the changing environment and modern agricultural techniques have created a gentler, pastoral world far removed from Hereward’s wild land. I spent long days looking at ancient land records and old maps, and talking to academics to try to comprehend the true nature of the Fens at that time. By the end I had realized it was impossible to understand that bloody rebellion without truly understanding the Fens.

One other thing: eagle-eyed readers may notice a change in the style of place-naming from the first book in this sequence. I’ve now decided to use the eleventh-century names of towns and rivers wherever possible, and I apologize for the inconsistency. In my defence, I can only say that it
felt
right. I’m not a huge fan of long lists of character and place names at the beginning of a book so you are left to your own devices, but I feel most readers can easily decipher the modern spelling of, say, Snotingeham or Wincestre. The only one worth noting here, I think, is the Wellstream, which Hereward and his men travelled along to reach Burgh. Before the reclamation of the fens, it was a three-mile-wide channel surrounded by quicksand, that drained the River Nene.

A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Laura Hall at Lincoln Visitor Information Centre; the staff of Ely Museum; the staff at Ely Cathedral and Peterborough Cathedral.

About the Author

James Wilde
is a man of Mercia. Raised surrounded by books, he went on to study economic history at university before travelling the world in search of adventure. Unable to forget a childhood encounter – in the pages of a comic – with the great English warrior Hereward, Wilde returned to the haunted fenlands of Eastern England, Hereward’s ancestral home, where he became convinced that this near-forgotten hero should be the subject of his first novel.
Hereward
was a bestseller. Wilde indulges his love of history and the high life in the home his family have owned for several generations in the heart of a Mercian forest.

Also by James Wilde

HEREWARD

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First published in Great Britain
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Copyright © James Wilde 2012

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