Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome (12 page)

‘England is not what it was, not now the Norman bastard wears the crown. We seek a new home, and peace. Gold. Glory.’

‘Gold and glory,’ Salih repeated. ‘And where will you find these riches?’

‘In Constantinople.’

‘Ah. The city of gold.’ Salih nodded. ‘It is also known as the city of shadows. Like all things, it has two faces. The one it shows to the world, and the one it keeps to itself. And there you will …?’ He raised his hands in a questioning manner.

‘Join the Varangian Guard.’

‘The emperor’s feared war-band.’

‘You know of them?’ Hereward asked.

Salih nodded.

‘Strong arms and sharp blades, that is what we have to offer. And that, so we are told, is what they need. Good fighting men can always earn coin.’

‘You are wise, but you would do well to take care. Constantinople is not England. There are worse weapons than axe and spear, and a shield may not be able to protect you from them.’

Hereward’s eyes narrowed. ‘What say you?’

Salih shrugged. ‘No matter. You speak truly. The emperor needs warriors and he will pay well to get them. War is coming to Constantinople, as it comes to all places in these times. But you are no stranger to killing, I can see that.’ He fluttered a hand in the air as if dismissing his words, and continued, ‘But now we have found common ground among us, and we are all friends here. Come – it is time to fill your belly. The feast in honour of your men is about to begin.’ He rose, gesturing towards the wall of cloth and the tent entrance beyond. ‘You will find the Imazighen are warm hosts. We will not soon forget this great thing you have done in bringing al-Kahina back to us.’

Salih pulled aside the curtain to let the guest out. Meghigda remained sitting on her cushion. Hereward could feel her eyes upon him as he stepped out of the private quarter. She remained a mystery to him.

Outside the night had grown as cool as late autumn in the fens. Constellations glittered in the sable sky and the full moon had turned the desert landscape into a sweep of silver and shadow. Through the trees, a great fire blazed. The succulent aromas of the roasting lamb were even stronger now and his stomach growled in response. Voices rose up in jubilation, cheers and laughter. And music too. Someone was plucking out a tune on a stringed instrument, the notes swirling fast. Others pounded upon drums. He puzzled over the curious noises of unfamiliar instruments, one that sounded like the lowing of cattle, and another that groaned, deep and resonant, like a whale heaving itself out of deep water. Though he and his men were a world away from all they knew, and the wind was filled with the reek of strange spices, and though his throat was as dry as the desert sand, he felt comforted. This could have been the feast at Ely, on the day when they thought victory over King William was assured.

Hereward felt a shadow fall over him. That day had proved that they must always be on their guard. Even when all seemed well, their enemies never rested. Plans were laid away in the dark and doom could strike in an instant.

THE NIGHT WAS
filled with music and laughter. Soon the feast would begin. But Hereward could not settle. Restless, he prowled around the camp, watching the featureless landscape in case more sea wolves had picked up their trail. As he completed yet another circuit, he heard a woman’s voice in the trees. Though she spoke in the lilting Imazighen tongue, he thought it might be the queen.

He found Meghigda sitting in the middle of a circle of young girls. Their faces were rapt as they hung on her every word. He furrowed his brow. Here was a side of the Imazighen leader that he had not seen before. There was a softness in her face as she looked with fondness around the group, and she was quick to laugh. The girls would laugh too, at ease in the presence of this woman who could kill a man in an instant and was prepared to lead an army to war.

Once the circle had broken up and the girls had drifted away to the feast, Hereward caught the queen’s eye. ‘What did you tell them?’ he asked.

‘That they should laugh and play and love every moment.’ She narrowed her eyes as if she expected this warrior to mock her.

But Hereward understood. Like him, she had had her childhood stolen from her and that only made her value it more.

‘And that they have as much fire in their breast as any man,’ she added. ‘No Imazighen woman will ever walk with her head bowed while I lead.’

‘You are a good teacher.’

Nodding, she lowered her eyes. ‘These girls are strong and clever and spirited. I would have them grow up into a world where blood is never spilled. I would have them be happy.’

Hereward thought of his own son, so far away across the whale road. He wished he had had the strength to be a good father for the lad. But he was afraid he would turn out no better than old Asketil, his own father. The boy deserved better. ‘These are the burdens of a leader,’ he replied.

‘You understand. That is good.’ She seemed relieved, he thought. Looking up to the stars, she continued in a reflective voice, ‘I know there can never be any peace for me. My life will be one of fighting, always. And then death will come and I will be snatched away before my work is complete.’

‘You do not know this.’

‘I do. I have seen it,’ she said, fixing an eye on him. ‘And I am not afraid. As long as I have changed the course of one life, my own life will be complete. Change one heart, and they can go on to change another, and another, and another, and all the days to come. That is good work. Small things, English. Victory does not always come in winning the war.’

Before he could answer, a cry rang out, then another, and a shout in the Imazighen tongue. On the edge of the trees, Hereward and Meghigda found Salih ibn Ziyad huddled with the guards. He turned at their approach. ‘Strangers are coming.’

Hereward peered out into the stark waste. In the distance, he could just make out a trail of shadows moving across the silvery landscape.

As they neared, he felt his heart leap. Afraid to believe the evidence of his eyes, he raced out across the sand. But it was true. Against all the odds, the missing spear-brothers had made their way through the wilderness to find him. Guthrinc led the way, with Kraki a step behind. Some of the men staggered on shaking legs, but Hereward thought they looked in better health than they had any right to.

Guthrinc laughed and flung his great arms around his friend.

‘Is this a miracle?’ Hereward demanded.

‘I could say the same,’ the tall man replied, ‘for you did not have Herrig the Rat to save your neck.’

The scout was the best the Mercian had ever known. A disturbed leaf, a hint of a footprint in wet grass, no sign had ever escaped his eyes when he had scouted for the rebels in England. He could live for weeks at a time upon the berries and roots of the forest. ‘Even here, in the desert?’

‘Aye. God or the Devil has touched him, that I know.’

Herrig bounded up. He was more beast than man, lithe and lean and fierce, hair lank and greasy, tunic stained with mud and mould. His front teeth had been knocked out by the hilt of a sword, so that when he grinned he seemed to have fangs at the sides of his mouth. And on a thong round his neck rattled the finger bones of the Normans he had slain, too many to count.

‘Sand and stone, or water and tree, it is all the same if you have eyes to see,’ he snickered.

‘He found us rats to eat and led us to water,’ Guthrinc said. ‘And somehow he found your trail. Without Herrig, we would have been dead in no time.’

Relief flooded Hereward. But as he looked along the line of weary men, his heart fell. They were fewer than he had hoped. ‘How many?’ he whispered.

Guthrinc lowered his eyes. ‘Three, dead in the sea. Higbald, Cerdic and Waegmund. Good men.’

The Mercian nodded. ‘Good men.’ He remembered them all, the jokes they had shared, the battles they had fought, the lives they had lived, and he mourned them. ‘Eight gone since we left England. Too many.’ Each life lost was his burden.

As they walked across the sand towards the trees, the dark mood ebbed and Hereward felt the joy of their reunion rush back in. Salih ibn Ziyad welcomed the new arrivals like long-lost brothers and ushered them towards the feast. With whoops and cries, the exhausted warriors raced to their brothers, drawing on the last of their reserves.

Hereward watched them go, relieved that he had not been responsible for even more deaths. But as he stepped towards the fire, he sensed someone approaching under the swaying palms. A low voice hissed his name.

Sighard waited in the shadows, glancing around.

‘You are not at the feast?’ the Mercian asked.

‘Trust comes hard to me these days,’ the young warrior whispered, ‘and that grates on all who travel with me, I know that. But sometimes I am right.’

Hereward stepped closer so they could not be overheard. ‘What have you found?’

‘When we parted, I saw a guard carrying a water-skin out into the desert. This seemed strange to me. I followed him.’ He paused, one hand falling to the hilt of the axe hanging at his hip. ‘You must come with me. There are lies here that may mean all our lives are in danger.’

BEYOND THE CIRCLE
of palms, the wild dogs fought over bones. Their snapping and snarling echoed across the lonely desert. The night was bright and the wind was chill as Hereward and Sighard crept to the tree-line. The Mercian glanced back. The feast was in full flow. The women lashed their hair as they danced around the fire to the swirl of the wild music. Men tore at chunks of meat, the grease dripping from their chins, and swilled back bowls of the thick, spicy stew. Though there was no beer or wine to dull the wits and fire the heart, Hereward saw his men grinning with relief after the hardships they had endured.

‘We will not be seen,’ Sighard hissed.

The two men crept out of the trees. ‘You are sure this is the way?’ the Mercian asked. ‘We cannot risk getting lost in the desert at night.’

The younger warrior pointed to a low, rocky ridge silhouetted against the starry sky. ‘Just beyond there,’ he whispered.

As they set off across the rough ground, the music faded away, and the voices and the laughter. The drumming became a distant heartbeat. They kept low until they reached the ridge, knowing that they could easily be seen in the bright of the moon on that flat landscape. Scrambling up the rocks, they lay on their bellies and looked out into the desert.

‘I see nothing,’ Hereward said, his brow knitting.

‘No. They are cunning, these sand people.’ Pointing to a narrow track winding round the ridge, Sighard traced the almost invisible path it cut across the landscape. It came to a halt at a low mound. Hereward squinted. Though it blended into the grey background, now the other man had indicated it, he could see it was man-made.

‘Come,’ Sighard whispered. He crawled over the top of the ridge and slithered down the other side. Scanning once again for guards, the Mercian followed. The ridge hid all signs of the fire, the trees and the Imazighen camp. Hereward felt pleased, for that meant it hid them too. He loped across the open space with Sighard at his side, heading for a dark square on the side of the mound, a layer of branches and palm fronds.

‘It is a frame of wood and leaves on which they have laid sand and rock to hide it,’ the young warrior said as they came to a halt.

Hereward knelt and reached out to pull aside the square of fronds.

Sighard grabbed his wrist. ‘Take care,’ he whispered.

Drawing his sword, the Mercian let his hand hover over the fronds for a moment and then he snatched them aside. Beyond the roughly made door lay darkness.

A voice boomed out, babbling in an unfamiliar tongue.

Exchanging a look with Sighard, Hereward tightened his grip on Brainbiter. Though the words made no sense to him, the Mercian decided the voice had a swaggering tone. Arrogant. Unafraid, certainly.

‘Do not waste your breath,’ he called back into the dark. ‘Your speech has all the meaning of a yapping dog.’

For a moment there was silence. Whoever hid in that shelter was evaluating this strange tongue. Then the voice boomed back, still brash, but this time in accented English. ‘Come. I see you there against a starry sky. Do not cower outside my home like a frightened girl. Enter. Bring all the torments your feeble mind can muster. You are no more to me than a horsefly.’

Stepping into that dark space seemed foolhardy. Hereward snorted. ‘Who are you?’

‘Who are
you
?’

‘Hereward of the English.’

This time the pause was longer. ‘English? Here?’ For the first time the Mercian heard a note of uncertainty. ‘And you stand with the Imazighen?’

‘I am my own man.’

‘If that is true, come closer, where I can see you.’

‘And have my throat slit in the dark?’ Hereward grinned without humour.

‘I can no more slit a throat than scratch my nose. My wrists are bound. Come.’

For a moment, the Mercian weighed his response. Then, holding his blade before him, he eased through the hole and dropped into a chill, dry chamber dug out of the desert floor. Sighard fell beside him. Once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he saw the dark outline of a man lying on the ground, his back resting against the far wall. While Sighard stayed by the door to keep watch, Hereward stepped to one side so that the shaft of moonlight fell upon the captive.

At first, the Mercian saw only the grin. Here was a man who looked around his prison and saw only a king’s hall, he thought. Although his hands were bound behind his back, the captive was lounging, seemingly at ease, his feet crossed and his head to one side as he surveyed his guest. His black hair curled down to his shoulders. A beard, once well clipped, now starting to straggle, framed a square jaw. His eyes were dark, but where the moonlight glinted in them Hereward saw a sardonic look. His shoulders were broad, his arm muscles hard. A fighting man, by the look of it. But no scars marred his skin. He could well have been one of the earls who fawned around the king in Wincestre. His tunic, once no doubt fine, was now stained with the dirt and sweat of his imprisonment. When Hereward glimpsed the border design of black squares, he was reminded of the clothes worn by the body staked out in the desert. On a finger of his right hand glittered an ornate gold signet ring with a ruby inlay. Hereward saw a fortune there, but the Imazighen had not seen fit to rob their prisoner.