Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome

by James Wilde

  ‘If not, you will die. The black rot will eat up your arm and into your heart. You must trust me on this.’

  For a moment he hesitated, and then he gave a slow, reluctant nod. He could not think about that course. Fear of what lay ahead would consume him. When his finger had been removed, the pain had almost torn him apart. He remembered the sawing, and the blood, and his screams, and his terror that the unbearable suffering would drive him mad.

  Meghigda seemed to sense his thoughts, for he saw her face soften. ‘You have suffered,’ she murmured, ‘but you have endured.’

  ‘To face more suffering ahead?’ He caught himself, dismayed by the bitterness he heard in his own words.

  ‘We are at war, all of us. Day by day, we fight, and we fight. We see peace …’ she glanced towards Sabta, shimmering in the haze, ‘like some distant palace, but we never reach it. But what choice do we have? Lie down in the dust and die? And so we fight.’

  Alric glimpsed a hint of deep pain in her eyes, and felt a pang of guilt at his own complaints. ‘You speak true,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Death holds dominion over God’s earth. It is his way of teaching us to be humble, for the grave waits for king and slave, and judgement will come in the next world, not this one.’ He tried to show a defiant face, but the agony in his hand contorted it. ‘There is something for us amid all this suffering, if only we can find it,’ he added, almost to himself.

  On the slope, the Norman warriors folded the tent-cloth and packed away the poles with the discipline of men who fought and died together. Two figures broke away from the pack and began to climb the hill. Ragener the Hawk had a rolling gait as if his missing parts had thrown him off balance. His good eye roved around, watching for any threat, but his milky orb carried with it the look of the dead.

  Beside him, Drogo Vavasour threw back his head and laughed at some humorous word or other. His back was straight, his shoulders were square, and he strode as if he had not a care in the world.

  When the two men stood in front of them, Alric looked up. He had prepared himself for what was to come.

  ‘You still live. That is good,’ the noble said with a faint smile. ‘I feared the Hawk had been too rough with you.’

  ‘I thought the Normans were a godly folk,’ the monk said, ‘and yet you allowed a man of the church to be harmed. And for what?’

  Drogo rolled his head as if puzzling over his answer. ‘You complain about a little scratch?’

  ‘A scratch?’ Alric exclaimed.

  ‘You have your life, monk, and that is more than my brother.’ Though the commander grinned, there was thunder in his eyes. ‘I am a godly man. My prayers are offered five times a day. But the Lord has given us power over our own affairs, and to seek out justice—’

  ‘Justice! Your brother and his men slaughtered Hereward’s own brother! A boy! This circle never ends. There is hypocrisy here.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Hereward must be punished.’ He folded his hands behind his back. ‘My brother no doubt had his reasons. The boy was a thief, or he raped girls …’

  ‘Or he would not bow his head to Norman dogs.’

  Drogo held his taut smile for a long moment. Alric braced himself, expecting a blow, but none came. ‘Let us talk about heads,’ the Norman said through a clenched jaw. ‘Hereward cut off my brother’s head and set it upon a spike. That is not justice. That is not a clean and honourable death. It is the work of a wild beast. A devil. One that must be cut down for the sake of all that is good and holy. God is on my side, monk. Not yours – you stood with that devil. Do not forget that.’

  The monk hesitated. He could not deny much of what Drogo had said. ‘’Tis true. Hereward has slaughtered. He has robbed and beaten and killed for little more than a wrong word. But that man no longer exists.’

  The Norman laughed without humour. ‘You believe that?’

  ‘How long must a man keep paying for his sins?’

  ‘Is that not a question for God? Here is my answer. If a man’s sins are great enough, he pays, and he pays, and he pays, and then he dies.’

  ‘There is no escape?’

  ‘From the things you have wrought? Never. There is always a price to pay.’

  The monk felt hollowed out. He could see no end to it now, for any of them.

  The Norman turned to Meghigda and bowed. ‘Would that I did not have to turn you over to those Roman dogs. But I have reached agreement with my good friend here, and the gold heaped upon your head would dazzle any man.’

  ‘Do what you will. You must live with your choice. There is always a price to pay.’

  Drogo frowned to hear his words spoken back to him, and at the defiance he saw in the woman’s face. The Normans liked their women pliant. Alric allowed himself a smile. Clearly the nobleman was not used to one who had fire in her heart and a tongue in her head.

  But then Ragener stooped to snarl his hand in Alric’s dusty tunic, hauling him to his feet. ‘I have no qualms about seeing you suffer, monk,’ he mumbled through his ragged lips. ‘Any man who can stand by and witness the agony inflicted upon me is not worthy of my care. God watches over me now and I do his work, not you.’

  Alric was aghast that the Hawk seemed oblivious of the crimes that had led Hereward to punish him. Yet as he looked into the sea wolf’s ruined face, he felt his cheeks flush with passion. ‘So you both think you act for God? Your pride will doom you both.’

  Ragener snickered, shaking the monk back and forth. ‘He bares his fangs! See, Drogo!’ The sea wolf pushed his face forward so he was barely a finger’s width from Alric’s nose. He smelled of rotten meat and sweat. ‘Let us see how much fight there is in you when I take the next piece.’

  ‘Wait until Sabta, Hawk,’ the Norman commander said, walking away. ‘I would wash the filth of the desert off me, and have a bed to sleep in.’

  ‘Aye, then I can take my time,’ Ragener breathed. He bared his broken teeth in a monstrous grin. ‘What next for my knife? A toe? An ear? An eye? You have two. Look at this face, monk, and think upon it. Soon it will be yours.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  BLOOD DRIPPED FROM a broken nose. Eyes swelled shut. Bruises bloomed. But no complaints issued from the battered English warriors squatting on the floor of the billowing tent. Only the crack of the lines and the whistle of the wind broke the silence that lay over them.

  Hereward looked across the bowed heads and hunched shoulders. Their wrists were bound, their weapons taken. Scowling guards watched over them, spears levelled to ram through chests at the slightest provocation. The air was sharp with the reek of sweat and brine and blood. But not defeat. They all yet lived. But for how much longer? After the sea wolves had dragged them from the surf, the Mercian remembered the deafening chorus of jeers as fists and boots, the hafts of spears and the flats of blades rained down on them until their wits fled. The numbers had been too uneven to fight back.

  But they all yet lived.

  Through the open tent flaps, Hereward could see the brightness of a new day. Gulls shrieked, and waves crashed. Smoke from fresh campfires drifted by. Voices still raw with sleep chimed as the camp woke. The hour of reckoning was drawing near.

  ‘I have doomed you all.’ Sighard’s voice was barely more than a croak. His cheeks, filthy with the dust of the desert, were streaked.

  After such a long period of silent reflection, heads jerked up at the sound. Kraki hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat into the sand.

  ‘I will die first,’ Sighard insisted, his voice breaking.

  Guthrinc sniffed. ‘I have seen worse.’

  ‘Worse?’ The young warrior gaped.

  ‘Aye.’ Guthrinc shrugged. ‘What say you, Kraki?’

  The Viking nodded. ‘Worse.’ He sucked on his teeth. ‘I once drank the tavern out of mead.’

  Sighard stared, his brow creased.

  ‘No mead,’ Kraki said with a sad shake of his head.

  ‘A harsh blow. You took it like a warrior?’ Guthrinc asked.

>   The Viking nodded slowly. ‘I know not how.’

  ‘There was this time in Grentabridge,’ Guthrinc began, his voice heavy with regret. ‘My stomach growled, and the air was heavy with the most wondrous scent. Goose, I think it was. And I had no coin.’

  ‘You went hungry?’

  ‘I went hungry.’

  Maximos nodded. ‘I have only been bound in a hole in the ground for day upon day and night upon night. But still …’ He frowned, reflecting. ‘But no wine or women. So … yes … worse.’

  Sighard looked around the war-band. ‘Have you lost your wits? These sea wolves will drag us out and slaughter us one by one.’

  ‘Aye. Likely,’ Guthrinc nodded. ‘Still … I have seen worse.’

  Hereward felt proud of his men for distracting Sighard from his despair in such a way. Strength was not only shown in the thick of battle.

  Eight men appeared at the opening. The English warriors fell silent. The time had come. Like Hereward, the leader of the new arrivals had arms dappled with the tattooed circles and spirals of a warrior. His broad chest was bare, the tanned skin criss-crossed with a mass of scars. Another scar ran from the edge of his mouth to his left ear so that it seemed he had a permanent sneer. ‘Bring them,’ he barked. A Northumbrian man from the sound of it, the Mercian thought.

  The sea wolves stabbed their spears, not caring if the tips bit too deeply. Even then the English would not be cowed.

  As the captives trailed out, Hereward caught Salih’s eye. The wise man, too, had not given himself up to despair, the Mercian could see that. He observed calmly, his gaze always searching for an advantage. For the sake of his queen, he could not allow this day to end in disaster. And for the sake of Alric, Hereward knew he had to do the same.

  Salih sidled next to him. ‘We cannot fight our way out,’ he whispered. ‘We must bargain with them. Wits are needed more than axes here.’

  ‘When we meet their leader, we will see if he has ears that will listen. But that is not our only hope.’

  The Imazighen wise man eyed him askance. ‘What say you?’

  ‘Count the heads. There is one of us missing.’

  ‘What can one man do?’

  Hereward smiled.

  Through the furnace heat of the day they trailed past tents of red and gold and emerald. Banners fluttered in the light breeze, the flags of an old England slowly slipping into shade: Mercia, Northumbria, Wessex. As the sea wolves jeered and threw rocks at the prisoners, Hereward saw them in a new light. Deep in their eyes, he glimpsed glimmers of desperation. They might have been farmers or merchants, soldiers too, but now they were all exiles as he was. Their country stolen from them by William the Bastard. The old ways of doing things, the certainties, snatched away. Perhaps their land and their livelihood too. They needed a new place in the world, a new home, and here was their one chance of reaching it.

  Shaking their spears, the roaring sea wolves crowded in on every side. So deafening was the din, so furious their captors’ faces, Hereward wondered if his men were being herded like swine to the slaughter. Would their enemies merely fall upon them and tear them apart?

  Stones clattered against skulls. Blood spattered. But the English would never go meekly, Hereward knew that. Kraki rounded on one tormentor and rammed his forehead into the man’s face. Cartilage and bone shattered. The sea wolf reeled back with a bloody pulp where his nose had been, an arc of crimson droplets following him down. Grinning, the Viking reared up to the cheers of his spear-brothers, but only for a moment. The hafts of axes rained down on him. Hereward flinched as Kraki disappeared among the bodies. But when he was hauled to his feet he was still grinning, though his legs could barely support him.

  Jabbing spears herded them into a natural amphitheatre. Stumbling down over steep rocks, they came to a halt on the dusty floor of the bowl. Waves of oven heat stifled them. Walls rose up high on three sides, lower on the fourth. Over it, Hereward could see white-crested waves reaching to the blue horizon.

  The English shuffled together, scowling as they watched the sea wolves trail in and perch on the rocks, like gulls waiting for a twilight feast. Hereward showed a defiant face. His men followed his lead, even Sighard, who looked more like a boy than ever with his tear-streaked face.

  ‘A trial,’ Guthrinc mused. ‘Either that or they would have us dance for them. I am light on my feet for a big man, but I do not think they would pay good coin to watch me, never mind set us free.’

  ‘I will dance,’ Kraki growled, spitting a mouthful of blood into the sand. ‘On their heads.’

  ‘You are mad,’ Sighard gasped. ‘You speak of fighting … challenge … when we are bound and defeated. There is no hope.’

  ‘We still live,’ Hereward said, his eyes fixed ahead.

  Sighard glanced at him and fell silent.

  Murmurs rustled through the crowd. The Mercian glanced up to the opening into the amphitheatre, where bodies were parting. A knot of men pushed through. There were six of them, bare-chested, showing warrior tattoos, clutching axes, and a seventh at their centre. The leader, Hereward guessed. He steadied himself, holding his devil in check as best he could. Salih was right. Now it was time for words and hard bargains.

  The new arrivals barged through the sea wolves until they reached a spot on the low fourth wall where they could look over their captives. The six guards spread out, eyes darting all around as if they expected an attack from their own side as well as the battered men in front of them.

  But as the leader swaggered out, Hereward stiffened, and he saw his captor do the same. For a long moment, they held each other’s gaze.

  ‘Siward?’ Hereward said.

  ‘Cousin?’

  The other man flashed a broad grin. Though young, his long hair was as white as snow and all but glowing in the sun. He was tall and rangy, with the poise of a warrior. A fair swordsman, Hereward recalled from when they were boys. The last time he had seen Siward was at old King Edward’s court when he had ridden off to fight one of the monarch’s battles. With shame, Hereward remembered being so drunk at the time he could barely stand, and bloodied from a fight with one of the kitchen lads in the filthy area where they threw the scraps for the dogs. But unlike his own father, Siward had always shown him respect. There had been much laughter between them.

  Hereward could tell his cousin was pleased to see a familiar face. But after a moment the sea wolf leader became aware of his surroundings. His eyes flickered, his grin faded. One of the guards whispered something in his ear and he nodded.

  Stepping forward, Siward threw his arms wide. ‘Brothers,’ he called. The jeers and yells subsided. ‘You thought you had brought me rats who wanted to feast from our table. Yes, they would steal from us, and yes, these are the curs who took our prize, the woman worth riches beyond measure.’

  Hereward watched his cousin at work. Siward had always spun silvered words, but here he was draining the well of his skills to turn these men to his ends. The Mercian looked around at the ranks of glowering faces, then at the strained lines of his cousin’s own features, which even his forced grin could not hide.

  ‘But look, brothers,’ Siward continued. ‘Here is no rat, but Hereward, the last of the English, who fought so bravely at Ely against the Bastard’s forces.’

  ‘And he lost,’ someone bellowed. Braying laughter rang out all around.

  Hereward watched his cousin’s face grow taut, but still he smiled. ‘These are great warriors, brothers. Their axes have spilled an ocean of Norman blood. Should we not let them fight alongside us—’

  ‘We already have too many mouths to feed,’ another sea wolf shouted. Ayes rang out.

  When Siward hesitated, Hereward’s moment of hope was extinguished. Even his cousin could not save them.

  ‘But we have even greater prizes ahead of us,’ Siward said, adding steel to his voice. His men fell silent once more. ‘We are strong already, this is true, but if we were stronger still we could plunder Majorca … even Sicily. I say
we need these good English warriors alongside us.’

  For a long moment, only the wind whined among the rocks. Hereward could see no welcome among the sea wolves for their leader’s words. They wanted blood, and they would not be satisfied until they had it.

  ‘Let them prove themselves,’ one man called out.

  ‘Aye,’ another said, sneering. ‘If these warriors are so great, let their leader fight Bedhelm the Giant.’

  Laughter turned to cheers, ones that ran on and on. Hereward could see that Siward had lost control of his pack. There was no way out of this.

  ‘If he is so great, let him fight as he is,’ someone else roared. ‘With his hands tied behind his back. Surely it would not be a fair fight if Hereward the Giant-killer had his magic sword!’

  The cheers drowned out the crashing of the waves and the shrieking of the gulls.

  ‘Very well,’ Siward announced when the din had ebbed. ‘Bedhelm! Prepare yourself!’

  A towering figure loomed up from the crowd. A giant he was, Hereward could see, almost half as tall again as any warrior the Mercian had ever encountered. His chest was broad, his arms like tree-trunks, and as he stepped forward he dragged an axe that must have been made for him alone, so big was it.

  ‘I should take this challenge,’ Guthrinc sighed. ‘At least he will not think me a dwarf.’

  Hereward shook his head. ‘No, old friend. This is my burden and mine alone.’ He stepped forward before any of his men could volunteer, as he knew they would. The Mercian tested his bonds once more, but the rope was still taut and cut into his wrists.

  The giant was prowling along the ranks of his sea wolf brothers, enjoying the cheers. Hereward studied him. There were weaknesses. For all his size, he had no grace. He lumbered like a bear, and his axe, though huge enough to bring down an oak, was heavy and clumsy to wield. More thin hope, but he would take whatever he could.

  Stepping down from the rocks, Siward came over, seemingly to jeer. But at the last he leaned in and whispered, ‘My sorrow is great, cousin. I did what I could. But this rabble will not be contained, once they have the smell of blood in their noses. When we fled William’s wrath, I fought hard to seize control of this fleet. But it is a poisoned chalice.’ He looked down as a shadow crossed his face. ‘My hands are tied.’