Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army (7 page)

‘More than that,’ Hengist chirruped. ‘It is a testament to Hereward’s cleverness.’ He swept an arm across the desolate marsh with its scattered islands rising out of the bogs and water. ‘See? Here is a fortress unto itself. Even if the bastard king’s men could fight their way through the forest that shields the fens, they would never be able to march upon Ely. They could try a boat at high water, if they want to risk drowning in the strong currents.’ He grinned. ‘Or they could walk across the causeway where we could pick them off one by one by one.’ He clapped his hands and did a little dance.

‘A safe haven,’ Redwald replied with a nod. That warmed him. He had not felt safe his entire life, but here, perhaps, he might finally find peace. He let his eyes drift over the isle, caught between sky and water. Ely stood to the east overlooking the lethal bog of Grunty Fen which almost split the land into two smaller islands. Could he ever consider it home after the grandeur he had known at King Harold’s court?

‘Even if the bastard Normans make it to the isle, we are not done for,’ Hengist continued, talking to himself now. ‘Should an enemy survive the causeway, they would still have to skirt the bog by Haedanham and cross the waters at Wiceford before they could even draw near to Ely.’ He smiled. ‘Let the Normans build their castles. Here God has provided his own.’ After a moment’s reflection, Hengist pulled a bone whistle out of his breeches and began to play. Redwald drifted with the tune. Hengist was a rough man, yes, and as mad as a March hare, but the music he played was sweet.

Once they had left the grey flint of the causeway for the isle’s sward, the warriors cheered and shook their spears in the air. The air smelled fresher, scented with the hint of woodsmoke and the stews bubbling in the pots on the home-fires. The weariness fled from their legs as they made their way along the mud-baked tracks, their progress only slowed by the biers carrying the dead at the rear of the column.

Guthrinc cracked his knuckles as he strode beside Redwald,
looking the smaller man up and down. ‘It is true, then. Only the good die.’

‘A tough piece of mutton like you will be around long after I am gone,’ Redwald replied, raising one eyebrow.

‘Aye, to mop up the tears of joy of your woman, and give her some glee for once in her poor life.’

‘Leave him, Guthrinc,’ Hereward called back from the front of the column, grinning. ‘He would make a prettier head than yours atop a pike.’

‘Your face would affright even the ravens,’ Kraki the Viking growled, the merest hint of humour flickering in his dark eyes.

Guthrinc threw his head back and laughed, clapping Redwald across the shoulders so hard he almost pitched across the track. ‘I will let you buy me ale in the tavern later, apple-cheeks,’ he roared, striding off to the front of the column. ‘Would you not rather be back with your wife, Hereward?’ he called, adding without waiting for a reply, ‘
We
would rather be back with your wife.’ The men laughed and Hereward too.

The gates in the palisade ground open as the warriors neared and more cheering rolled down the green slope from the settlement. Hengist ran a hand through his greasy hair and gaped at the large crowd they could see milling around within the enclosure. ‘Is every man and woman in the fens come to see us home?’

‘More new faces to join our army,’ Redwald exclaimed. ‘Word spreads of Hereward’s bravery. Soon we will have everyone from Northumbria to Wessex here.’ He could scarcely believe how many people he could see gathered beyond the gates. What had started as a trickle of new recruits had become a deluge pouring in from all parts of the land. Every time he thought it had reached its limit, yet more would arrive.

Kraki frowned, wrinkling the jagged scar that ran from above his left eye, across his nose on to his right cheek. ‘More strong right arms are good, but still there are far from enough to challenge the king. And soon the Bastard will come for us.’ Hereward flashed a black look at the Viking. Kraki shrugged,
refusing to be silenced. ‘And how will we feed them all, eh? Answer me that. We can scarce feed the men we have now.’

Hereward glanced back once more, his face grim, and this time the Viking nodded and fell silent. ‘Every man’s belly will soon be full, you have my word,’ the Mercian announced. ‘We will feast like kings to celebrate the bloody nose we have given to the Normans.’

Redwald could see Kraki was troubled. ‘Is this wise?’ the younger man whispered. ‘I have heard Hereward worry about this with the monks at the church long into the night. He said it would not be Norman iron that defeated us, but starvation and sickness and the betrayal of our own—’

‘Quiet,’ Kraki snapped. His eyes flashed a warning. ‘You heard our leader. This is not the time to talk of such matters.’

Redwald nodded. ‘But this will not go away if we close our eyes,’ he murmured.

The column of warriors passed through the gates into the throng. The cheering enveloped them, the tumult doubling once word of the great victory rushed through the crowd. At the forge on the main street, Eni the smith downed his hammer and stumbled out into the sun. Penda the carpenter laid his chisel on the newly cut piece of oak and joined him. The rattle of the looms stilled. All the workshops emptied, and the rows of timber halls too, as people streamed past the barns and the stinking livestock pens to the gates.

Redwald saw many unfamiliar faces among those who were clustering around Hereward, reaching out to touch his arm with tentative fingers. Redwald thought his brother looked troubled by the reception. His smiles were forced, his eyes darting.

Amid the crowd, women searched for the men they had feared would never return. Their eyes brightened when they saw the longed-for face, and they snatched a kiss before hauling their husbands back to their homes, and beds. Kraki’s woman Acha shoved her way through the throng, her expression sullen beneath her raven-black hair. She raised her chin as she moved through the sea of warriors, ignoring the lascivious glances
of the many in Ely who desired her. Kraki’s lips parted in a broken-toothed grin when he saw her, and she put on a pleased smile in response, though Redwald saw it fade when the Viking pawed her into an embrace. Instead, she glanced back through the crowd, searching, until her gaze fell on Hereward. Her attention lingered there for a long moment.

As Redwald mulled over what he had seen, Hereward hailed him. ‘We must meet later to speak of our plans,’ the leader said, hauling the younger man to one side. ‘The Normans will not hide away with their tails between their legs for long. They will return with more men—’

‘Hereward,’ Redwald interrupted, laughing. ‘Enjoy this great day. We should do naught but raise our mead-cups until our heads spin. Plans are for another time.’

The other man contrived a smile, but Redwald knew him well enough to see the worry in his eyes. ‘You carry the weight of all the English on your shoulders, brother,’ he continued in a gentle voice. ‘Do not let it break you. One day to seek out a few comforts will give you the strength to go on until the seasons turn. And not just you, but all these men. A good leader knows when to rest as well as run.’

Hereward nodded, his smile becoming more honest. ‘Wise words. I expect no less from you, brother. You were always the one with the sharper wits, and I take great comfort that you are here to advise me now.’

‘And I always will be.’ Redwald gripped the other man’s arm and nodded. ‘Now …?’

‘Now I must seek out Godfrid’s father and mother,’ Hereward replied, his features darkening as he glanced towards the crowd. His gaze fell upon a grey-haired man and a smaller woman with heavy hips. Their shoulders were hunched as if they already understood the truth. ‘They should know their son was a hero, who gave his life for the English in this hard battle we fight. It may give them some small comfort in their grief.’

‘Let Guthrinc tell them. He knows them.’

Hereward shook his head. ‘It must come from my lips.’
He drew in a deep breath. ‘Remember when we were boys, Redwald? Nothing to do but fish and play with wooden swords,’ he said with a note of loss. ‘What became of those days?’ He reflected for a moment, then pushed his way into the milling crowd.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

A STORM-CLOUD OF
black wings whisked across the clear blue sky. Hereward jerked his head up, but the birds were already lost in the glare of the sun. Rooks, he guessed, roosting in the dense ash-wood to the south. Strangely chilled despite the summer heat, he glanced back across the bustle of Ely for human comfort. So many people now congregated there, he felt sure the settlement could sprawl to the size of Eoferwic within weeks.

Near the Speaking Mound, boys lumbered with arms filled with cordwood for the fire where they would roast the meat, but not this night. He had already decided the feast would be delayed. New plans and another long road lay ahead of him before he could rest.

He turned back to the track between the houses. The herbs growing along the timber walls in the sun scented the air: coriander and dill, thyme and summer savoury. As he approached the modest dwelling at the end of the path, he felt the weight upon his shoulders ease. It still smelled of new wood, the straw of the thatch golden and thick enough to keep out the spring rains. The local folk had insisted they should build a hall grand enough to suit the most powerful thegn, but he had
refused. Until the war was over, comforts were a distraction.

As he neared, the door creaked open and Turfrida emerged from the smoky interior. Like a cat, she was, in both grace and features. Her wide, slanting eyes sparkled with wit and her smile was as knowing as ever. Many men found her cleverness and confidence intimidating. But he had been lured by it from the moment he first glimpsed her at the battle-fair in Bruges five summers gone. She had readied herself for his return. Her dress was of finest linen, dyed amber like the setting sun, hemmed with black and fastened with a silver brooch. With her hot tongs, she had curled the tips of her brown hair, and it folded out from under her white head-dress.

As she made to speak, Hereward embraced her. She smelled sweet from the mysterious unguents she massaged into her skin every night. The kiss lingered, but once it was done she took his hand and led him into the dark home. On the low wooden bed, she snatched off her head-dress, unfastened her brooch and pulled her dress away.

‘These days apart have been too long,’ he murmured, stripping off his filthy breeches.

‘Throw off your burden and let me ease your worries,’ she whispered, laughing.

His worries sloughed off him, and for the time of their love-making he thought of nothing but Turfrida. They lay together as their breathing subsided. The room was hot and sweat slicked their bodies.

‘Did the stars and moon tell you I would return?’ he breathed in her ear. ‘Or the rabbits or the igles or the bats?’

She pinched him, feigning a scowl. ‘You laugh at my ways, as you always have. One day I may put a curse on you.’

‘The dangers of sharing life with a witch.’ He pretended to sigh wearily.

She rolled on top of him, nipping with her teeth. ‘Some men would be proud to lie with a woman skilled in the mechanical arts.’

After a moment, he spun her over and pinned her down by
her wrists, both of them laughing together. ‘I am proud,’ he said, ‘as you well know. And prouder still that you came back with me to this God-forsaken place and a life of blood and sacrifice.’

Her smile seemed to grow sad. ‘I knew what the gods intended for you long before our handfasting. I chose to stand with you then, and I will never wish anything else.’ She hesitated, adding, ‘Whatever may come to pass.’

‘You do not miss Flanders?’

‘I miss my father. But you care for me now. And though the king has done his best to break this land in two, this place is close to my heart. And I have been welcomed by all.’

‘Even the monks,’ he teased.

‘They turn their eyes away when I pass by and pretend I am nothing but mist. But they have not called the witch-hunters to burn my flesh with hot rods, and they have not tossed me into the waters, with rocks tied to my arms and legs to drag me down, and for that I must give my thanks.’

‘These are English monks. They know their friends and say their prayers to fit.’ He threw his arms behind his head and stared up into the smoky gloom of the roof. ‘Our English churchmen are afraid of the Norman priests as much as the folk fear the warriors. The king brings his own abbots in, and takes the gold and the food. Our monks know the ways they have held close in their prayers are under threat.’

‘And they must work harder to preach their Christian ways,’ she said, resting on one elbow. ‘There are more heathens now than there were before the Normans set foot upon your land. In fear of death and harsh rule, many turn to the old ways. They will pray to any god, if it will help them live on. Many fear it is—’

‘—the End-Times,’ Hereward completed. ‘I hear that everywhere I go. Sickness and starvation and war and death. I see only a man who can be brought down to his knees and better days ahead.’

She nodded, saying nothing.

Hereward furrowed his brow. ‘What do you know? You have seen more visions?’

‘I see … much. I hear whispers, in the wind, in the streams.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I feel a shadow in my heart,’ she began hesitantly. ‘Last night I dreamed of an old woman sitting alone upon a pile of bones and her head shook with her sobs. She was dressed all in black and at first I thought she was a crow, or a raven. Beside her, there was a churn, but it stood empty. And then a great fire swept across the land, and the woman turned to smoke and drifted away.’ Her face darkened and she looked towards the hearth, though it was filled only with grey ashes. ‘And you were there, husband. You came with the fire, and you laughed as it burned all before you.’

Hereward eased off the bed and stretched, feeling the aches in his muscles from the long hike. The blue-black tattoos on his arms flexed under the gold rings. He padded across the reeds on the compacted earthen floor and poured a wooden cup of ale, sipping it as he reflected on what she had said. ‘What does it mean?’ he asked, feeling his wife’s eyes upon him.