Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome

by James Wilde

  The central doorway loomed ahead, thick with shadow. Darting to one side of the opening, Sighard knelt and listened. Hiroc the Three-fingered ghosted to the other side. Hereward had no time for their caution.

  Gritting his teeth, he sprinted to the entrance. At the last, he dived and rolled, swinging his axe to the right. He had been right. One of his enemies waited on the inside of the doorway, his double-edged sword ready to sweep down the moment Hereward marched into the basilica. The Mercian’s blade hacked through the man’s ankle. Screaming, the Norman toppled backwards.

  Another warrior waited on the other side. Hereward’s rolling entrance had taken him by surprise. But he was a seasoned fighting man, and he had steadied himself quickly. His sword was already hacking down. Continuing his roll into a sitting position, the Mercian thrust up. With all his weight behind his weapon, the axe smashed through the man’s chin and tore his face in two. His helm flew off, rattling across the chill stone.

  The guard had not even fallen to the ground before Hereward had whirled, ready to face the other Normans sweeping across the hall. A low growl rumbled from his throat. He had the taste for blood now, and the devil in his heart. This was how it had been when he was a youth, tearing through the east recognizing no law that could bind him. This was how he had been on that first night when he had met Alric in the frozen Northumbrian forest, before the monk had helped to tame him.

  He felt no shame now. He felt nothing at all.

  Roaring, he ran at the first warrior, with scant regard for his own safety. His fearless approach seemed to stun the Norman, for he failed to raise his guard in time. Hereward hacked his axe into the man’s forearm, almost severing his hand. The sword clattered to the floor.

  The next man was upon him in an instant. This one brought his long shield up in good time, so that the Mercian’s weapon slammed into the centre of the wood. Splinters flew as he wrenched the axe back and hacked again.

  His men surged in on every side, forming a shield wall, protecting his back. As if through a fog, Hereward heard the clash of steel, the crack of breaking wood, the cries of the wounded.

  His vision closed in on the man in front of him. The Norman warrior was a skilled swordsman, the Mercian could see. His blade danced high, then low, round the edge of his shield. But he was not prepared for Hereward’s ferocity. The axe rained down, the sheer force of the blows driving the man back. When Hereward glimpsed the flicker of unease in his foe’s eyes, he knew he had him. As the warrior raised his shield in anticipation of another direct assault, the Mercian switched his attack. His axe swung around the back of the swordsman at waist height, and then he yanked it towards him. Hooked by the weapon, the Norman could do nothing as it tore through his side. Within a moment, he lay dead.

  Spinning round, Hereward threw himself at the remaining Normans, who were trapped between his whirling axe and the spears stabbing from behind the shield wall. Soon, they too fell.

  ‘How many more are there?’ Sighard gasped.

  ‘Ten. Twenty. An army.’ Kraki shrugged. ‘The worst lies ahead.’

  ‘You speak truth,’ Maximos said, wiping his sword clean on a dead man’s tunic. ‘They have chosen well where to make their stand. Above us is a rabbit’s warren. Small chambers, large chambers, a narrow path between them. Easy to defend. Easy to die.’

  ‘We cannot wait,’ Salih said, glancing towards the stairs. ‘They will harm their captives to try to draw us in too fast … make mistakes …’

  Hereward let the words ebb away. Beckoning his men to follow him, he loped through the pool of blood. Red footprints trailed him across the marble floor.

  At the foot of the stone steps, he glanced up. A shaft of sunlight streamed through a window. All was still, and he put his foot on the first step. Immediately, a dark figure stepped into the glare. Hereward ducked back, and not a moment too soon. A crossbow bolt whistled down the stairs and slammed into the wall, raising a cloud of dust.

  Maximos cursed. ‘They will pick us off one by one if we try to climb.’

  Hereward smothered his fury. He needed a clear head now. ‘When the Normans invaded England, King Harold had the high ground at Senlac Ridge,’ he snarled. ‘It did him no good. If we use our wits and our skills as warriors we will overcome.’ He glanced back up the stairs. ‘The way turns at the top. There is little space. They will not be able to send out more than a few men at a time—’

  Another cry rang out from the upper levels. This time it was a woman. The blood drained from Maximos’ face and he would have bounded up the steps had not Hereward caught his arm. ‘Save your rage. Use it wisely,’ the Mercian hissed.

  The Roman’s face simmered with angry frustration, but he caught himself.

  ‘Shield wall,’ Hereward commanded. ‘Don’t think that you are in a great hall in a strange land. We are climbing a hill in the fens to defeat our enemies. We have done it before. We can do it again.’ Even as he spoke, the Mercian knew this would be far harder. The steps allowed space for only three men abreast, and they were steep. One turned ankle would split open their defences.

  Hereward called Guthrinc and Hiroc the Three-fingered to join him in the first rank. Their spears were necessary for what he had planned. The shields locked into place across the front and above their heads.

  ‘In step,’ he bellowed, ‘and watch your feet.’

  Behind the shields, the heat swelled. Sweat dripped from their brows, stinging their eyes. Feeling for each step, they began to climb.

  A volley of crossbow bolts thundered off the wood. Silence followed for a long moment, then more bolts rattled down. Wood cracked. The Normans were sending their men in waves, giving each spent one time to reload.

  ‘Keep the fire in your hearts, brothers,’ Hereward hissed. ‘They will not have an endless supply of shafts. Soon they will have wasted them all.’

  The wall edged up the steps. When they neared the top, a command rang out in the Norman tongue. ‘Brace yourselves!’ Hereward shouted, knowing what was coming.

  Axes rained down, each clash jolting deep into English bones. The boots of their enemies slammed against the shields as the Normans tried to press the English back down the steps. The line buckled under the weight.

  ‘Now!’ Hereward shouted.

  The front shields slid apart. With a roar, Guthrinc and Hiroc stabbed their spears through the gaps. Agonized cries echoed as the tips ripped through groins and thighs. The tumbling wounded were enough to cause confusion in the Norman ranks. The English swept up the final steps like a battering ram, crushing their enemies against the wall at the top. An instant later the wounded Normans had been put out of their misery, and the survivors had retreated.

  Hereward lifted his shield. ‘Catch your breath,’ he said to his warriors as he wiped the sweat from his eyes. Edging across the space at the top of the stairs, he looked out. A passage ran along the length of the building with chambers leading off it.

  But from here the basilica looked very different. As Hereward glanced around the upper level, he could see only ruin. He looked up into clear blue sky. A large section of the roof had collapsed, the tiles lying shattered across the floor. Much of the structure seemed to have slid into the area at the rear of the building. Interior walls had crumbled, with gaping holes leading from chamber to chamber. The parts that were open to the elements baked in the heat of the midday sun.

  Whirling, he pressed his finger to his lips. He pointed at Herrig the Rat, Sighard and three others, the smallest men in his war-band, and whisked his hand, directing them across the passage into the gaping chamber on the other side. No questions were asked; they were well trained.

  As they darted across the gap, crossbow bolts whined down the passage and thudded into the far wall. When the echoes had faded, an accented voice called out, ‘Hereward.’

  The Mercian hesitated for a moment, then replied, ‘Who is there?’

  From the opposite chamber, Herrig was flashing a grin. The Rat seemed to know no fear. Hereward
jabbed a finger towards the heavens, and the other man nodded.

  ‘My name is Drogo Vavasour,’ the voice called back. ‘Have you heard of me?’

  ‘I have not.’ He watched as his five men crossed the chamber and used the shattered window sill as a ledge to lever themselves up to a point where they could reach the broken roof timbers. In the window, Sighard swayed dangerously, flailing his arms to try to regain his balance. Without looking, Herrig snaked out a hand and snarled it in the younger man’s tunic to steady him. Sighard looked queasy, but to his credit he pushed aside his fears and followed Herrig up through the gaping timbers and on to the roof.

  ‘No doubt you did not know my brother’s name, when you cut off his head and stuck it on a spike outside your father’s hall.’ The Norman voice wavered, as if the owner were fighting to control his simmering emotion.

  Hereward grimaced. Even here, a world away from his home, he could not escape his days gone by. Sometimes he thought he would be paying for his actions for the rest of his life. ‘That was war, Norman.’

  ‘That was slaughter!’ This time the voice cracked. ‘There was no honour in what you did. My brother did not die as a warrior on the battlefield. He was stuck like a pig at a feast.’

  The Mercian would never forget his fury that night. The Normans had driven his father out of his fine hall and had made it their home while they brought terror to the folk of his village. And worse. He gritted his teeth. ‘Your brother had no honour. He killed my own brother, and cut off his head, and placed it above my father’s gate, for nothing more than a word out of turn. I showed him a kindness, Norman. He deserved far worse than a head for a head.’

  The timbers creaked. A tile slid off and shattered in the forum far below.

  ‘Lies!’ Drogo roared, too inflamed to pay attention to what was happening over his head. ‘Step out where I can see your face. You have my word my men will not send their bolts into you.’

  Though Guthrinc reached out to stop him, Hereward strode into the passage. At the far end, six men trained their crossbow bolts upon his heart. In the doorways, the Mercian glimpsed other warriors. The number of Normans remaining was about the same as that of his own men, he estimated. That was good. A tall, muscular warrior studied him. Hereward guessed this was Drogo Vavasour.

  ‘Over the years I have dreamed of this moment,’ the knight said. ‘Your face is not how I imagined. I thought you a wild beast … but you are just a man.’

  ‘Aye,’ Hereward replied. ‘As are we all.’

  His grip trembling, the Norman levelled his sword. ‘I want your head. Then my brother can know peace.’

  ‘Your brother is dead and gone. As is mine.’ His anger began to simmer once more and he tried to stifle it. ‘All this, all the suffering you have inflicted on my friend, because of something that happened so long ago.’

  ‘There is no escaping judgement, you English dog. I will take your head. And your men will be put to the sword. And you will all be forgotten here, as you have been forgotten in England. And then, only then, will there be an ending.’

  While Vavasour spoke, Hereward listened for any sounds from above. ‘Then we waste our breath. Let us be done with this.’ He stepped back into the space at the top of the steps. Along the passage, he heard the knight bark orders in the guttural Norman tongue. Footsteps rang out as the warriors repositioned themselves.

  Turning, Hereward gave his command. In twos and threes, half his men dashed into the opposite chamber and crept through the broken wall into the adjoining room. Before the Normans could understand what was happening, the Mercian led the rest of his men out into the passage, crouching behind their shields. Bolts thumped into the wood. The order of the shield wall had always worked well for the English on the battlefield, but here it was little use. Only their own strength and courage would see them through this fight.

  Hereward exchanged looks with Kraki and Guthrinc. They were ready. His fingers tightened around the haft of his axe, and, with a roar, he threw himself into battle.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  A LRIC JERKED awake. The screams of the dying rang through the sweltering heat. For a moment he thought he had descended into the very depths of hell. But then his wits began their march back from the edge of that great black ocean where they had fled when Ragener had started to take his third finger. Through the haze, he could smell burned flesh and he glanced down. To stem the bleeding, the stump above his knuckle had been seared by the blade the Hawk kept in the smouldering coals in one of the other rooms. He looked away, tears stinging his eyes.

  Through the blur, his gaze fell upon Meghigda and he was surprised to see she was smiling. She tugged at his sleeve and whispered, ‘Our moment has come.’

  ‘What is this madness?’ he croaked.

  ‘Listen,’ she murmured, her eyes twinkling.

  The monk forced his way through the swathes of pain until he could focus upon the crash of iron upon wood, the battle-cries, the moans, the rattle of mail-shirts, the shrieks. A battle was raging nearby. In that very hall?

  ‘Your friends are here,’ the queen said. ‘They have come to save you.’

  Alric could scarcely believe her words. He had consigned himself to days of agony before a slow, lingering death. All hope had gone.

  Trembling, he glanced towards the door. Ragener crouched there, craning his neck to see what was happening. Too much of a coward to join the battle, the churchman thought with contempt.

  Whatever the sea wolf could see outside left him shaking with fear. When a loud crash reverberated as if something had fallen through the roof itself, he jumped to his feet and raced back across the chamber to kneel beside Alric, relief flooding his face. ‘You yet live – I did not think you would survive this time,’ he lisped. ‘Then you still have some value. Come with me. We will use your life to bargain for our own.’ He crooked the fingers of his good hand in the monk’s tunic and began to haul him upright.

  But before he could stand, Meghigda leapt. Wrapping her headcloth around his neck, she yanked it tight. Fury twisted her face, and when Alric looked into it he felt afraid. ‘I am al-Kahina,’ she snarled, ‘priestess, soothsayer, slayer of devils, and I have seen your future, sea wolf. Only death awaits you.’

  Eyes bulging, the Hawk bucked and thrashed as he tried to throw her off. But she was stronger than she looked, stronger than any of them realized. The muscles in her forearms were knotted like cords as she hauled the cloth tight and tighter still. Her lips pulled back from her teeth, and her eyes burned with a cold fire.

  Hard as the sea wolf tried to push backwards against her, she kept her grip, stepping back every time he thrust so his feet could gain no traction. Spittle flew from his mouth and his face turned red. Desperately, he clawed at the cloth, but he had only one hand and it was not enough.

  Finally, his eyelids fluttered, his hand fell away and he became as limp as the weeds in a fenland lake. Once Meghigda was satisfied there was no fight left in him, she opened her fingers and let him crash to the floor. Alric could see that his tormentor’s chest still rose and anger flared in him. He had already choked one man to death, for the sake of Hereward. He could do it again.

  ‘Leave him,’ the queen said as if she could read his mind. ‘We must help the others.’ She felt inside Ragener’s tunic until her fingers closed around his knife, still stained with Alric’s blood. Turning, she bounded to the door.

  Alric pushed himself up on shaking legs. His head spun and he felt too weak to stand. But Meghigda was filled with a righteous anger and he could not see her face danger alone. He felt a surge of admiration as he watched her. She was more fierce than many a seasoned warrior, and braver too. She had more courage than he had, he was sure. Now he could understand how men would follow her to the jaws of hell itself.

  His vision blurred. His hand and arm sang with a pain so excruciating he had never felt the like before. Staggering across the chamber, he slumped against the wall next to the queen. ‘Tell me,’ he croaked, �
�how goes it?’

  ‘The battle is hard,’ she whispered, ‘but Hereward is clever. His men come from two sides, and from the roof itself. They fight like devils.’ She leapt back as a bloody sword flew past the doorway and crashed on to the floor.

  The queen did not hesitate. As the battle raged near, she darted out into the melee.

  Lurching out into the passage after her, Alric found himself looking across a hellish scene. The fighting raged from chamber to chamber. Blood puddled on the marble and bodies and shields and fallen weapons littered the floor. Through the curtain of pain, he found it hard to get his bearings. But then he glimpsed Kraki hacking with his axe and Guthrinc running his spear through a Norman warrior and he realized that Meghigda had been right. Hope surged within him.

  Though the fighting had seemed to be evenly matched, the odds turned when al-Kahina flung herself into the fray. Crimson gushed as she rammed her knife into the neck of one Norman and then slashed it across the throat of another. Her eyes blazed and her hair flew wildly around her head as she waded into the battle without a care for her own safety.

  When yet another warrior fell under her blade, Drogo Vavasour wrenched round and saw what havoc she was wreaking. Throwing himself back, the knight swung his shield up and clattered it against the side of her head. The knife flew from her grasp. Stunned, she slammed against the wall and went down hard.

  Alric cried out; he could not help himself. But it was clear even then that the Normans had lost; Meghigda’s interference had been decisive. Furious, Drogo looked around as man after man fell.

  Hearing the monk’s cry, Maximos saw the fallen queen and raced to her aid. But the floor was so slick with blood that he slipped and careered into Hereward. The two warriors crashed to the ground.

  Vavasour seized his chance. Darting forward, he swung his sword up and cried, ‘Now, English dog, I will take that head.’