by James Wilde
‘They must pray that the Normans will come and save their cowardly necks,’ Hengist spat. ‘They will sit it out for as long as they can.’
Hereward turned to Hengist and whispered, ‘Find Kraki. Set look-outs along the shore to watch for any sign of the Normans approaching by boat, and at the causeway. Wake the rest of the men, and arm them, but do it quietly and make them wait within their homes for the order. Do nothing that might frighten our enemies more.’ He cocked one ear, half-expecting to hear the steady clank of Norman swords upon shields approaching out of the dark. ‘Time is short. Make haste.’
Without a word, Hengist scrambled back along the side of the house and disappeared into the night.
‘An army, hiding by their hearths,’ Guthrinc said sardonically. ‘These battle-plans of yours never fail to surprise. No wonder the Normans are always wrong-footed.’
‘By the end of this night, you will wish you were hiding by your hearth, you mead-addled ox.’ Hereward stared at the barn, feeling nagging doubt. For all he knew, there might be more English waiting to rise up. Had he allowed himself to be fooled by the cheers, whereas in truth he and his army were not wanted there? Perhaps they were the enemy and the Normans seen as the saviours of a suffering people.
‘And there is more mead still to drink while we waste time here,’ Guthrinc said. ‘So enlighten me. What course will you take?’
Hereward stood. ‘I will walk in.’
The other man raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah. Your wife has taught you some of her witch-ways. Iron cannot touch you. Swords and axes break, spears fall apart.’
‘They want me. There is no gain to them in harming Turfrida. They will set her free.’
Guthrinc’s voice grew more serious. ‘And you will deny the English a leader, and thereby let the king win?’
‘Not if you plough your furrow without falling over those big feet.’
Guthrinc narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you planning?’
Once he had listened to the scheme, Guthrinc pursed his lips in doubt, then shrugged. ‘It is your neck. Do not expect me to wait around to bury you.’ He strode off among the houses. When Hereward heard him making his way back, he steeled himself and darted to the barn. He listened to the low drone of voices coming through the timber, and then wrenched the door open.
Spears bristled. Harsh voices called out his name, some in shock, and some, he was pleased to hear, in fear. A church candle was set on the ground. Shadows danced across the walls so that at first he thought an army waited there. But as he scanned the scowling faces, he saw that it was only about twenty men, still too many for him to defeat alone, but perhaps not so many that his plan would fail. At the back, he glimpsed Turfrida. Hereward felt his rage flicker to life once more when he saw Saba gripping her arm.
‘Take your hand off her,’ he snarled.
Saba snatched his fingers away as if he had been burned, but another man’s spear leapt to Turfrida’s neck. Beside her, the Mercian discerned Acha, her pale face floating in the gloom like that of a ghost. She had given herself up to this wolves’ lair as she had promised. He looked at her with new eyes, and she nodded in turn.
‘Kill him,’ Saba growled.
Hereward drew his blade. Hunched over their spears, the men circled him, looking for a way through his defences.
‘Throw down your sword or your woman dies,’ Saba snapped. ‘You are no fool. Do not defy us.’
‘My love, why did you come here?’ Turfrida called. Her eyes glistened in the candlelight.
‘No man of honour would see a woman die in his place.’ He let his gaze drift across the gathered men, accusing each in turn with his cold stare. When his eyes fell upon Turfrida, he smiled, softening. ‘I could never turn my back upon you, whatever the cost.’
‘But you would put the lives of all in Ely at risk by taking this foolhardy stand against our king?’ Saba said, jabbing a finger at the warrior. ‘My wife’s life. My children’s lives. We starve here. We fall ill from the sickness. We suffer each day. And when the Normans come, and you are put to the sword, all of us will pay with our lives.’ Saba’s voice cracked with emotion.
Hereward tried to stay calm. ‘All I asked of you … of all here … is courage. If we show our defiance with one face … if we speak with one voice … there is not an army in all the world that could defeat us. Your neighbours have heard my call. The boys you played with as a child, now men. The women who share their bread with your kin. And by your actions this night, you have placed a Norman sword at the throat of each and every one of them.’
The words must have stung Saba hard, for he shook his fist and roared, ‘There has been only suffering since you arrived. Our food is taken to feed your men. There is no peace in our home, and the air stinks of shit all day and all night.’
‘And where is Dunnere’s daughter?’ another man called. An angry murmur ran through the band.
Hereward flinched.
‘Aye,’ Saba snapped. ‘Where is she? We searched high and low for that girl. No one hereabouts saw her leave. I’ll tell you where she is. One of your men had his way with her, then killed her and dumped her poor body in the deepest bog. Everyone in Ely knows it’s true.’
‘None of my men would do such a thing,’ Hereward said. He hoped his voice stayed steady.
‘Dunnere’s been a broken man ever since,’ Saba continued. ‘Yet another misery you have heaped upon us.’ He turned to his men and urged, ‘Kill him, for Dunnere and his daughter.’
As the spears stabbed towards him, Hereward yelled Guthrinc’s name.
What sounded like the bellow of a wild beast resounded. As the rebels whirled, Guthrinc crashed into the barn, waving a burning brand in one hand and an axe in the other. Before any man could react, he thrust the torch into the chest of the nearest rebel. The tunic caught alight in an instant and flames surged up the torso. As his screams ripped through the barn, the dying man crashed against another rebel, and then another, setting both on fire. Within moments, the barn was filled with confusion, yells and howls as Saba’s men scattered in terror. Guthrinc carved through it, wielding the axe and the brand in equal measure. Hereward joined him, hacking into the chaos with his sword.
At the destruction of his plans, Saba had become enraged. Hereward saw his brief advantage begin to slip away. ‘Kill the woman,’ the leatherworker yelled, spittle spraying from his mouth in anger. The leader of those cowards knew his only hope was to lure his hated enemy into risking his neck to try to save his wife. And Hereward knew he had no choice but to do so.
Saba’s man whirled his spear towards Turfrida’s neck. Desperation gripped Hereward. His own life meant nothing now. As he prepared to throw himself forward, Acha lunged from the gloom. In her hand, a knife glinted in the candlelight. The spearman fell in a gush of crimson, and Hereward ran to his wife’s side. For one moment, his eyes locked upon Acha’s unreadable stare. He prayed there would be time for thanks later.
Roaring like a bull, Guthrinc tore through the rebels. Smoke swept around the barn from the twitching bodies burning on the ground. Snatching Turfrida’s wrist, Hereward yelled to her, ‘Stay near to me.’ He hacked a path to the door and as he dragged Turfrida into the shadows among the dwellings, he looked back and saw three figures pile on Guthrinc. They crushed him to the ground, raining blows upon him.
‘Save him,’ Turfrida cried, her voice breaking.
Hereward did not slow. ‘He has a thick skull, and it is me they want dead. We must get you to safety first, then we shall see how brave they are.’
From behind them came the drumming of feet: the chase was on, the prey sighted. As they broke out from the edge of Ely, Hereward looked to the Camp of Refuge. There, among the mad jumble of closely packed dwellings, he and Turfrida could lose themselves.
Sweat flew from his brow as he ran across the turf towards the new camp. Turfrida stumbled to keep up. At his back, the moon illuminated four pursuers armed with spears.
Across the open space they raced
, and into the camp. The warm breeze filled with the stink of shit and rotting rubbish. Hereward weaved among the huts. The narrow path would hinder his enemies, already hampered by their unwieldy weapons. Yet as they reached a clearing, Turfrida stumbled and fell, dragging Hereward down with her.
Snarling, Hereward rolled on to his back, only to look along the shafts of three spears. The iron tips wavered a hand’s-width from his face. A foot ground down on his right wrist, forcing him to relinquish his sword. It was kicked away into the dark.
‘You are done,’ Saba growled breathlessly, ‘and this foolish war with our new masters is over.’
‘When William the Bastard tightens his grip on this land, you will regret every word you uttered this night.’
Saba sneered and drew back his spear to strike. Hereward felt proud that Turfrida did not plead for his life or cry.
From the dark, a stone crashed against the back of Saba’s head. He cursed, his hand flying to where the missile had struck, and when he withdrew his fingers blood stained them. In a rage, he spun round to confront his attacker. Only a boy stood there, the lad Hereward had carried aloft only eight days before. ‘Bad men,’ the boy called, his voice high and indignant. ‘Leave him be.’
Saba looked as if he had been slapped. Other figures emerged from the night on all sides, gaunt-faced women and men, each one condemning him with their cold stares. The leader of the uprising turned slowly, reading the silent communication in those faces.
‘He is the enemy here,’ he insisted, pointing at Hereward.
The crowd advanced in silence. A torch flared to life, and then another, catching the begrimed, frightened faces of Saba and three other spearmen in their flickering light. Hereward looked around at the dark expressions of the men and women surrounding him, not yet understanding what he was seeing there.
‘He is the enemy,’ Saba repeated, his voice growing shrill. ‘He has taken food from the mouths of the folk of Ely—’
‘To feed us,’ someone interjected, their voice hard.
‘He will bring the wrath of the king down upon all of us, those who lived here before, and you as well,’ Saba shouted. ‘Better to throw ourselves upon William’s mercy. Save your necks. Join me.’
Sensing the mood of the crowd, the other three men lowered their spears. Hereward clambered slowly upright, holding out a hand to help Turfrida to her feet. He held her in his arms, near overcome with relief that she had survived.
‘You are fools, all of you,’ Saba raged. His spear shifted from side to side to keep the crowd at bay. Hereward watched the leatherworker’s gaze alight upon his two captives. He scowled with determination, recognizing, perhaps, one last chance to seize victory. Pushing Turfrida aside, the Mercian turned, looking for his blade, but it was lost somewhere in the dark.
Saba saw this too and grinned. He thrust his spear towards Hereward’s chest.
The tip never reached its mark. Hands grabbed the shaft to hold its progress. And then the crowd lunged forward as one, grabbing hold of Saba and dragging him down into the sea of bodies. Hereward heard the sound of punches and kicks raining down on the leader of the uprising. He cried out only once before his voice was stilled.
The other three men threw down their spears, but the men and women of the Camp of Refuge grabbed them with no less force, dragging them away among the homes. And then the folk swarmed around Hereward, demanding to know if he was well. He looked into their faces, barely comprehending what he saw there. Never had he felt such belief in his abilities before, nor such hope in the freedom he promised.
‘Here is your true army,’ Turfrida whispered in his ear, ‘and this one is not sent by the Devil.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE PITILESS SUN beat down upon the crowd gathered on the green. Like a spear, the shadow of the church tower stabbed through the heart of the solemn assembly. No one spoke. Beyond the palisade, the wetlands shimmered in a heat haze. Flies buzzed above the stagnant pools, and bees droned lazily among the beds of herbs and vegetables.
Hereward raised his head to look out across the folk of Ely. It seemed that everyone who lived there had ventured out into that fiery morning to witness the judgement upon the failed uprising. He saw the grim faces of the ones who had long called that place home, still coming to terms with the deaths of men they had known since they were children. And, too, he saw the unforgiving eyes of those who had made their way up from the Camp of Refuge. To his left, at the foot of the path to the minster, stood Thurstan and the monks. Doubt was etched into those features, he could see. When his bloody ire was directed at Normans who would plunder the Church’s gold and steal their freedoms, his brutal ways could be tolerated. But last night he had slaughtered good men who had bowed their heads before the altar every Sunday and feast day, men whom the monks knew as their own.
His heart heavy, he looked down at Saba who knelt in front of him. Blood was caked around his nose and mouth. Blue bruises dappled his cheeks and forehead. The leader of the uprising hung his head so that his lank, greasy hair fell across his face. Hereward couldn’t tell if it was to hide his shame or his fear.
‘Last night the fate of England hung by a thread,’ he began. His commanding voice carried out through the hot, still air. ‘We looked beyond the ramparts for our many enemies abroad, never thinking to look amongst our own.’ He chose his words carefully, subtly reinforcing the notion that he was one of them, not an outsider who had seized control of their birthplace. ‘These men …’ He nodded to Saba who still did not look up, and to the knot of prisoners, heads bowed in a circle of spears. ‘… These Ely men. You know them. You buy their wares, and ask after their kin, and laugh and share riddles and feasts. They are as familiar as the church tower that shows God watches over this place.’ He looked up to the heavens as if seeking divine inspiration, knowing that every word, every action, could decide the future of the rebellion there in Ely.
‘But have no doubt, these men, your neighbours, your friends, pressed the tip of a spear against all your throats last night, and held your lives in the balance,’ he continued. ‘For their own ends, they were prepared to give you up to the Maker. They cared not for your long friendships, or for your wives or your children. They cared less for the hopes in your hearts … hopes of a life free from the king’s grasping hands around your necks. Have no doubt they would have given you up to our enemies in the blink of an eye, to save their own skins.’
For the first time, Saba’s eyes darted up, the stare hate-filled. That look denied Hereward’s account, but he knew the leatherworker could say nothing without risking another beating.
Hereward let his gaze wander over the rapt faces of the throng. They were scared; they yearned for a strong leader, a protector, in these turbulent times, and they wanted to believe every word he uttered. He felt a pang of guilt for the harsh light he had cast on the events of the previous night – none of it could ever be as simple as he made out – but he needed these people as much as they needed him.
‘We cannot afford to have enemies behind us as well as at our front,’ he continued, his voice growing louder. ‘It will not be Norman swords that prove our undoing, but the blade in the back from folk we thought friends. No more can we carry on this way. Not if we wish to live, if we want to taste the sweet mead of victory against the bastard who has stolen the crown, and would steal what little we still call our own.’
No one moved. It seemed as if they were statues, oblivious to the hot sun. Hands shielded eyes, casting faces into shadow, so that he found it hard to read their expressions. No breeze stirred the branches of the ash trees and oaks around the isle. Even the birdsong was muted.
‘No more,’ he repeated, loudly. ‘Do you stand with me this day?’
At first there was only that abiding silence. Then a murmur rippled out through the crowd. It was not enough.
‘Do you stand with these men – my army – no, your army – who have vowed to give their lives to keep you safe?’ His voice grew louder s
till, heavy with passion. The murmur came back, growing to a cry of assent. ‘Do we stand as one army, warriors and folk together, ready to fight for Ely, for the English? Are we together, now and always, in this war?’
The cry became a cheer. Faces lit with passion, and hope. He steeled himself. Through the last hours of darkness long and hard had he weighed his actions, hours which seemed to stretch on into eternity. In the end, he had accepted his only possible course if victory was to be theirs.
‘From this day on, every new face that wanders up to the gates of Ely will be taken up to the church before they have uttered one word. And there they will be made to swear over the sacred shrine of St Etheldreda that they are true. She will see into their hearts and, if they lie, God will strike them blind.’ He watched shadows cross those bright faces as the fear of the Lord filled them. He pointed to the heavens. ‘God will pass judgement upon them, not men.’ He looked past the crowd to where Abbot Thurstan stood, hands pressed together as if in prayer. The cleric nodded in agreement. ‘And now we must pass judgement on those among us who risked the lives of all here by standing with the king,’ he continued, looking down at Saba. The leader of the uprising turned his face towards the ground.
Before Hereward could continue, a disturbance churned the crowd. A woman with a weathered face forced her way out of the throng, her arms around the shoulders of two boys. Their pink cheeks were streaked with tears. It was Saba’s wife, Arild, and their two sons.
‘Let him be,’ she cried, her voice carrying across Ely. ‘Have mercy. He is no more than a fool.’ She glared at her husband. ‘Fool,’ she repeated, shouting at Saba. ‘These spears keep us safe—’
‘These spears drive us towards the grave,’ he growled, not meeting her fierce gaze.
‘Be silent,’ Arild yelled, her voice breaking. She turned her attention back to Hereward and reached out with imploring hands. ‘Let him come home, I beg you. These boys need their father. I need a husband who will keep us all fed. Saba is … is a good man.’ She choked on the words, sobbing silently for a moment. When she had wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, she continued, ‘He wanted only to keep his kin safe. Now he has learned a hard lesson and he will never cause trouble here in Ely again. He will keep his head bowed, and work hard and give praise to the aid you and all your army have given us. Do not punish him.’ She choked again. ‘Do not take his hand so he cannot work, or his eyes.’