Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome

by James Wilde

  Wulfrun set his jaw. He knew Hereward too well. ‘More Norman lies.’

  With a sly smile, Ricbert threw his arms wide. ‘Perhaps he flew away ’pon the wings of an angel. In the inns, they call him Bear-killer … Giant-killer … wielder of a magic sword which can cleave whole mountains in two, so the scout tells me.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘I would pay good coin for a sword like that.’ His smile faded when he saw Wulfrun’s cold face. ‘A ship set sail from Yernemuth with the last of the English rebels upon it, and, so it seems, Hereward among their number. It is said they come here, to Constantinople, to seek their fortune.’

  Wulfrun felt a heat deep in his bones. He had thought himself stone, but it seemed there was a part of the old Wulfrun that still lived on, even under the colours of the Varangian Guard. ‘Then let him come,’ he said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. ‘If he dare walk through this city, his days will soon be ended. My axe will see to that.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE WARRIORS WATCHED the ship drift towards them across the green swell. With faces like winter, they took in the billowing amber sail and the cracking lines, the freshly painted shields lining the side and the tiller swinging at the mercy of the currents. For this was a ship of ghosts, they could see that now. The vessel looked as if those who sailed it had only just set its course, but no man walked upon that deck. And all that rolled out was the groaning of the hull as it flexed against the waves, a sound that seemed to come from beyond the grave.

  ‘Pull alongside,’ Hereward commanded. In the sultry heat, he was stripped to the waist. The tattooed blue-black circles and spirals of the fighting man flexed across his tanned arms. Placing one foot upon the side of his own ship, Hereward studied the deserted vessel. Though he could sense his men urging him to leave well alone, instincts honed on the field of battle demanded that he know more.

  Overhead, the sail swelled as his men took to the oars. Their vessel was a warship, just large enough to accommodate the thirty men upon its benches. But some would say they were ghosts too, dead men all, stripped of their lives, their home, their loved ones, their hope. Outlaws, exiles, condemned to wander the earth for ever.

  ‘This is bad business,’ the Viking growled under his breath. Kraki was his name. Wild of hair and beard, his face was cleaved by a jagged scar. He scowled, trying to hide his unease. On land, he was a seasoned warrior, a former leader of Earl Tostig’s deadly huscarls, and axe-for-hire, trailing death behind him as he trekked from his cold northern home. But here on the whale road he seemed as superstitious as any drunken ceorl in the dark midwinter. Ghosts and portents and curses. He needed dry land under his feet to find himself again, Hereward knew. But he was not alone there.

  Only one of those aboard was not a member of the war-band. Red Erik was long seasoned by the salt winds and, unlike the others, capable of navigating to distant shores. In the five days they had been upon the waves, the warriors had started to learn to be seamen under his command. Until the exile, many of them had never left the well-trodden paths of their villages in the fenlands of eastern England. Then they had been forced to venture into open water with waves as high as towering cliffs. But England was gone for good, of that there could be no doubt. The comfort of the winter hearth, the care of kin, the joyful feasting after the harvest, all gone, never to be seen again. King William had seen to that.

  Hereward gritted his teeth. These good warriors had fought the Bastard long and hard after he had stolen the English crown that day at Senlac Ridge. And for a brief time, it had seemed the hated Norman invaders might be driven back into the sea. But betrayal came lightly to some, and while they had been looking out over the walls of their fortress at Ely they had not been paying heed to their backs, and the blades of their own.

  He swallowed his bitterness. On the Isle of Eels, their forces had been strong. They had weapons aplenty and the walls stood firm. The secret paths through the treacherous bogs and dense woods and flooding watercourses were unknown to the enemy. Once they had destroyed King William’s camp at Belsar’s Hill, it had seemed the invaders were on the brink of collapse. But the monks of Ely, who had offered sanctuary to the rebel band, began to fear for their gold and power. And so they showed the Bastard the secret ways and led his army to the gates. In the face of such vast numbers of Normans and mercenaries, it was then only a matter of time until the hopes of the English crumbled.

  In the end, his leadership had amounted to naught. He winced. To save England from the brutal retribution of the king, to save his birthland of Mercia, to save all the desperate men and women who had rallied to his standard, he had been forced to take the Bastard’s deal: leave the shores of his home for ever, and do so in secrecy so that the people for whom he had fought so hard would think he had abandoned them. What choice did he have? If he had stayed the king would have killed and maimed and starved the English until he had wiped out all trace of them. He had accepted that final twist of the knife; it was the only honourable course. And his most loyal warriors had followed him even then. He owed them everything. Now their fate lay on his shoulders alone. He could not, would not, fail them again. But there was hope. Though England was forbidden to him, he had heard there was a need for fighting men in the east. Perhaps there they could find a new home.

  The ghost ship drifted closer still until his men could throw their hooks into the wood and drag it alongside. Before Hereward could peer into the vessel, cries rang out all around. Men crossed themselves or clutched the lead hammers that hung round their necks.

  Leaning over the side, the Mercian saw what had dismayed them. Blood sluiced along the deck from prow to stern, a lake of it, gleaming darkly in the midday sun.

  ‘Still wet,’ Kraki mumbled, moistening his lips. Thirty pairs of eyes flickered towards the horizon, searching for whatever had brought about this curse.

  ‘You have waded through a sea of Norman guts on the battlefield,’ Hereward called to his crew. He pushed scorn into his voice, trying to cut through their superstition. ‘Are you afrit of a little blood?’

  Kraki heaved himself off his bench and leaned in. ‘Now it is not ghosts that trouble me.’

  Hereward stared into the distance. They had sailed without incident past Normandy and Brittany, Guyenne and Navarre. But then they had put in to the rocky shore of Leon and Castile to replenish their food and water and there the fearful fishermen had issued their warning. A vast fleet of sea wolves was laying waste to the coastline, searching for one of their number who had robbed them of some great prize.

  A cry rang out from the prow.

  Hereward whirled. A figure was standing on the side of the ship, arms outstretched, ready to throw himself into the waves. The Mercian glimpsed the red hair, the pale skin, and realized it was Sighard, the youngest of the war-band. Men scrambled over the benches. They knew as well as Hereward that a black despair had eaten its way into the lad’s heart since his brother had been slain by the Normans.

  For an instant, Sighard teetered on the brink. But just as he lifted one foot to take a last step on to the green fields of the whale road, a huge figure rose up and strapped his mighty arms around the lad’s chest. Guthrinc was an English oak who towered over every man there, with a heart just as big. He wrenched back, and the two men sprawled across the deck.

  Hereward thrust his way through the circle of warriors that had gathered around them. Guthrinc kept his arms wrapped around the lad, just in case.

  ‘Let me die. I am no use to anyone,’ Sighard mumbled, one arm thrown across his freckled face.

  ‘You are a brother to us all,’ the Mercian said, crouching down. ‘You have proved yourself in battle a hundred times. There is not a man here who would not give up his life for you. Do you hear?’

  ‘Let me die,’ Sighard repeated.

  As Hereward stood up, Alric caught his arm. The monk’s brown hair was lank from salt spray, his sodden tunic clinging to his slim frame. They had been friends for long years now, and knew each other better th
an any men there. Alric pulled the Mercian to one side and whispered, ‘You cannot leave Sighard to his own devices. I have seen this affliction before. There will be smiles, and kind words, but the blackness will gnaw away at him, and sooner or later he will take his own life. He needs hope.’

  ‘Every man here does.’ Hereward felt the weight of his burden. All of his spear-brothers had lost so much during the long war against the Normans. Exile had left them with nothing, and they looked to him, as their leader, to give them that hope once more. ‘All will be well when we reach Constantinople.’

  The monk nodded. ‘Aye. Gold and glory. That promise keeps them going. Without that—’

  ‘They will get their gold and glory. I will see to that,’ Hereward said curtly.

  As he pushed his way through the warriors towards Kraki, the Mercian knew that nothing less would do. He had to deliver them to Constantinople. Only then would they be able to put the past behind them. Only then could their lives begin anew.

  Though the Viking hid his own loss better than most, the Mercian knew it still consumed him. Kraki was a fighting man. He lived for battle. But then he lost his heart to a woman, and when he was forced to send her away to save her life the agony had cut deeper than any blade. Hereward weighed his choice, and realized it was the right one.

  ‘I need your aid,’ he said.

  ‘You always need my aid.’

  ‘Sighard must have a wise head to guide him. I cannot find one, so I have chosen you.’

  Kraki snorted. ‘Am I to wipe the snot from the noses of babes?’

  ‘He mourns his brother still. More … that loss is turning his heart black.’

  Kraki looked away, understanding.

  ‘He is a good man, you know that. And he has always given all for his brothers. But now he needs us,’ Hereward continued. ‘Watch over him. He is wounded, and this battlefield is no less dangerous than any other.’

  After a moment’s thought, the Viking grunted his assent. Though he scowled at the prospect, he seemed to be pleased to be given the task, the Mercian thought.

  On the horizon, lightning flickered. A low boom rumbled across the waves, and the wind picked up. As Hereward looked towards the approaching storm, he glimpsed tiny dots of colour in the distance. Sails.

  Kraki had seen them too. ‘Sea wolves?’

  ‘We should not tarry here,’ Hereward replied. ‘Push us free of this ship of ghosts, and let us be away before we join them.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE SPITTING FIRE-POT trailed showers of sparks with each wild swing on its creaking chain. Shadows flickered across the rain-lashed faces of the men hunched over the oars. Like statues, they seemed, as they looked out across the heaving waves to the black horizon. The light of the pot’s flames carved deep furrows into their drawn features. All eyes watched the distant ship. The roiling clouds had near turned day to night and they would have missed it if not for the blaze of lightning sheeting across the horizon.

  ‘What do you say?’ Kraki bellowed.

  ‘A fisherman. Or a merchant. Lost in the storm.’ Hereward shielded his eyes against the elements and waited for the vessel to reappear on the roll of grey swell. He could sense all his men waiting for his judgement. He braced himself against the bucking deck, holding still with a warrior’s strength and grace. The rain pasted his long fair hair to his head and stung his eyes, but still he watched.

  The ship came and went, came and went. Scarlet sails billowed, but whoever manned that vessel was lost to the gloom.

  Kraki heaved himself to his feet. Dragging his axe from under his bench, he used its weight to balance himself. ‘Or a sea wolf, blown off course?’ he growled. The howling wind almost snatched the words from his lips.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Hereward looked across the bowed heads of his men and saw many quaking with the terror of the waves. Who could blame them? The sea was a monster that could not be tamed, only respected. Few of these men were sailors, and they had learned their new skills the hard way, with stomachs filled with sea water.

  A figure clawed its way across the benches. As it neared the fire-pot, Hereward saw it was Alric. The flames lit the terror that contorted his face.

  ‘We must put to shore,’ he yelled above the gale. ‘This storm will send us to the bottom.’

  The monk’s fear seemed to ease Kraki’s own worries. The Viking raised one eyebrow and said, ‘Are you not praying to your God? Surely at your plea his great hands will scoop us up and carry us all to calm waters.’

  Alric glared. ‘He tests me, I know. I have been all but drowned every time I have dared to cross the whale road. Enough, I say!’

  ‘We should have been warned of this before we agreed to sail with you,’ Kraki said. He jabbed a finger into the monk’s chest so that the younger man almost tumbled backwards. The men around laughed, the humour easing their concern.

  ‘These waters are known for their terrible storms, so we have been told,’ Hereward said, ‘and putting in to shore is a good plan. But first we have another worry.’

  Kraki’s eyes flicked out across the waves once more. The red-sailed ship was nearer still. In that gale, there was now no question it had set a course for them. ‘Fight, or run like dogs?’ he asked. Both options had their risks.

  ‘How do you fight at sea?’ Alric asked.

  ‘The same as on land,’ Kraki replied. ‘For your life.’

  Hereward’s hand fell to the golden hilt of his sword, Brainbiter. He sensed his friends’ fear. If fight they must, they would have to rely on their instincts and God’s judgement.

  ‘No doubt now,’ Kraki said, peering into the storm. ‘Those curs are bearing down on us.’

  Hereward nodded. ‘Ready yourselves,’ he bellowed, his voice cutting through the gale. Heads ducked down to search for spears and axes secreted beneath benches. He gave an approving nod. Though his men were afraid, they showed none of it. They all knew death had many guises. It came as a winter storm. The thunderclap of a full-throated roar. The lightning strike of a keen axe blade in a churning field of mud and blood. Or a soft autumn wind when the leaves are turning gold and the fruits are heavy, or a whisper in the still of midnight. If they wanted to see their days continue, they had to be always vigilant, always ready.

  As he clambered over the benches towards the prow, he felt the first flames of anger flicker to life. He was already sick of running.

  ‘We will draw them on,’ he shouted. ‘If they decide a chase in these waters is a trouble too far, so be it. But if they come on, let them think us weak. They will let their guards down. And by the time they find the truth, it will be too late.’

  More lightning flickered along the horizon. The pitching waves glimmered as a rumble of thunder rolled out. For one moment the world became black and white, and then the blood-red sails carved above the roll of dark water. Hereward felt the blood in his head begin to match the pounding of the elements. The part of him he loathed, the part of him that brought him bloody and brutal victory in battle, began its insidious whispering. So much had been torn from his grip, but now, by God, he would deny any man who would try to take all that he had left: the lives of his men, and the future they sought together.

  ‘Keep your heads down,’ he roared. ‘Act as if you are bedraggled merchants lost at sea, little fish to be gutted and eaten.’

  His crew obeyed in an instant. At the prow, Mad Hengist danced, his lank blond hair whipping in the gale. His feet whisked across the bucking, slick boards as if he were in an earl’s hall. Since the Normans had slaughtered his kin his wits came and went, but he seemed to see things hidden to other men. He turned his rodent features towards Hereward, his eyes glittering. ‘I smell gold,’ he cackled, glancing ahead.

  ‘And blood?’ Hereward asked. ‘Do you smell that on the wind this day, Hengist? Victory for the last of the English?’

  The smaller man gave a wolfish grin.

  Hereward nodded, grinning in return. ‘Victory for the last of the Eng
lish!’ he called to his crew. ‘Hengist has listened to the wind!’ He watched the light begin to burn in the eyes of his men. They were wet and cold and their stomachs growled for the next meal. The terror of the sea tugged always at the back of their thoughts. But they trusted Hengist, for he spoke with God and gods. And if they were to go to the bottom this day, it would be with a fire in their hearts.

  The storm loomed at their backs with towering cliffs of black thunderheads. Yet it did not advance. Perhaps God had smiled on them, Hereward thought. He watched Alric kneeling on the deck as salt water washed around his legs, hands clasped, eyes clamped shut, face contorted in desperate prayer.

  The Mercian beckoned to Guthrinc at his place in the centre of the front bench. His old friend levered his huge frame up and cracked his knuckles.

  ‘Put those hawk’s eyes of yours to good use,’ Hereward said.

  Guthrinc wiped the spray from his face and peered towards the approaching vessel. ‘I see shields along the side. I see the glint of axes, and helms, and bodies hunched over oars, speeding the ship towards us.’

  Death, then. Death like a winter storm.

  ‘Has the king recanted and sent his dogs to drive us to the deep?’ the tall man added.

  ‘The king is a butcher and a bastard, but he has honour. He said we could leave with our lives, and he would not go back on his word.’

  ‘Sea wolves, then.’

  Hereward nodded. ‘They think us merchants, our ship laden with goods for the hot lands to the south.’

  Balancing on the balls of his feet, he peered across the water as he made his way aft. The red sail glowed in the half-light. It had seen better days, he could now tell. The bottom edge was ragged, and it had been patched here and there. The paint on the shields was old and worn, the wood showing through. On one, a skull stared out with hollow eyes. Now the vessel was close enough for him not to need Guthrinc’s sharp gaze to discern the outline of the dark figures crowded on deck. They heaved on the oars, adding to the force of the wind. Their ship sped towards their prey like an arrow.