by James Wilde
Hereward could see her words had moved many in the crowd. They nodded, sympathetic to the woman’s plight, and they looked from her to Saba as if he were an unruly child who needed chastisement. The Mercian felt pity too, for Arild had done no wrong. She should not suffer for her husband’s crimes. He raised his eyes to the clear blue sky. This notion was not new. He had turned it over in the hours after he had kissed Turfrida in the safety of their home, and made his way down to the shore for the long vigil to watch for any Norman response to the fire-boats.
‘I hear your plea, Arild,’ he said, looking back to the woman, ‘and I know your sorrow.’ He could feel his turbulent feelings tugging at him and he pushed them down farther.
Blinking away her tears, Saba’s wife managed a weak smile. She hugged her boys close.
‘You speak true, your husband is a fool,’ Hereward continued, his voice lowering, becoming more intimate as he spoke to Arild alone. ‘He let his fears guide him. He had no faith in the rightness of this fight, and he wanted only to keep you – and all here – safe.’
The woman nodded and looked to her husband. The Mercian had no doubt that the man was contrite, now he had been defeated. He turned his gaze back to the gathering. ‘Aye, a fool. And yet he risked the life of every man, woman and child here. If we had not brought him low, this morning Ely would be overrun with Normans and the streets would be rivers of blood. Your blood.’ Hereward drew his sword and pointed it at the man kneeling in front of him. ‘This man … Saba … is as much an enemy as the Normans. Would we let one of those bastards roam freely within the ramparts, never knowing when they might turn against us, a snake in our midst?’
From the corner of his eye, he saw Arild’s face fall. Her lips began to mouth, ‘No.’
‘Saba made his choice,’ Hereward continued, his rising voice demanding the attention of the crowd so they would not look at the woman. ‘He stood with our foes, not with his friends. He is no more a man of Ely. He has no home. And he can no longer be allowed to stay here.’
‘Outlaw, then,’ someone called.
Hereward shook his head. ‘He is our enemy in this war, by his own choosing, and he must be dealt with like any enemy. His life must be the only price that can be paid for this crime.’ His voice rose to a shout. ‘Death, I say.’ He raised Brainbiter high, the blade burning in the sunlight.
Arild screamed in anguish and threw herself towards Hereward, the look of devastation upon her face cutting him to the quick. When he did not flinch, she clutched her sons to her and pressed them against her breast so they would not see. Saba looked up, squinting into the sun. His face was contorted more by disbelief than fear.
‘Do you think me a weak enemy?’ Hereward said, peering down at his prisoner. And then he felt all his emotions rush up and he struggled to keep his face calm. His conflicting thoughts had almost torn him apart. He could not ignore the pain and disappointment he would cause Alric and Turfrida, but that was the burden he would have to bear, however heavily it weighed upon his soul. ‘Do you think you can come for me with spears, and come for my wife, and threaten all that we have built here? And that I would smile and send you away as if it were a game?’ He looked into the crowd so that they knew he spoke to them as much as to Saba. ‘I am not weak. I will meet threat with threat, and if you try to take my life, or the lives of anyone here, I will take your life.’
He felt his heart fall. The war against the Normans would only get harder. If he were merciful now, then when the harvest failed, or the sickness came, or the bodies piled up at the ramparts, another Saba would arise and that time more men would follow him. Fear was his greatest weapon, and with it he would ensure no more enemies stood at his back threatening all that he hoped to achieve. And if he were despised by all within Ely, that was a price he would gladly bear. Freedom from William’s yoke for all these men and women, for all England, was a prize worth any sacrifice, any heart-pain. He was worthless. His purpose was all.
Arild’s screams tore out. She lashed her hair like a mad-woman and tried to throw herself towards him again. But Kraki stepped forward and grabbed her wrists to restrain her. He held her fast though she squirmed and wrenched and tried to claw like a wildcat. Yet he was not without tenderness as he leaned in and whispered words of comfort in her ear.
Hereward slowly moved his gaze across the folk of Ely. Now he saw that fear amid the beads of sweat, in staring eyes and fixed mouths and furrowed brows. No one could look away from him. They all doubted he would do what he said. They thought of the hundred court, and accusations of murder, and justice, but here in Ely, cut off from the world by water and wood, he would make his own laws. It was the only way victory could be assured.
He saw Abbot Thurstan, his face darkening. He saw Guthrinc, his narrowing eyes revealing a flicker of doubt that this course was the correct one. And he saw Alric, and the monk’s devastated stare, and he could not bear to linger upon that sight. He turned to his left and gave a sharp nod.
From the edge of the crowd, Hengist stepped forward, his face like stone. He carried an axe, and beside him walked two men – new arrivals both, keen to be accepted – who could find the stomach for what was to come. They each hooked a hand under Saba’s armpit, and though he raged and spat and sobbed, they dragged him with ease to the Speaking Mound on the green where all could see. Arild’s wails spiralled high, and then her voice cracked and she swooned in Kraki’s grasp. God had administered his mercy.
The Mercian turned to the quaking band of prisoners who had followed Saba. They looked as if all blood had drained from them. ‘By rights, you all should die this day for the part you played,’ he said loudly above Saba’s keening cries. ‘But if you swear an oath to follow me under the sight of God, and that never again will you stand with the enemy, then you will be spared.’
The man gabbled their oaths, fighting to be heard above each other.
Hereward nodded. ‘So be it.’ He knew something had changed this day, and that this war – and his life – would never be the same again, though he was not sure what it was. He nodded again, and Hengist raised the glinting axe high over his head. ‘Let this bring an end to it,’ he announced. ‘From this day, we are as one, for ever more. Let the Normans fear us now, for we are hungry battle-wolves and we will not rest until we have claimed victory.’ His voice rang out across Ely, then, as the words died away, a terrible silence hung in the air. All faces turned to Hengist, and Saba.
The axe came down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
21 November 1069
THE WORLD WAS burning. A pall of smoke hung over the Northumbrian countryside, obscuring even the sun, if day it still was. As Balthar turned slowly, all he could see was the black cloud stretching from horizon to horizon and walls of flame beneath it. Hell, he thought. Every village, barn, hall and hut they had passed, aflame. All the grain stored for the coming winter turned to ashes. Every cow, sheep, pig and hen slaughtered, their carcasses tossed into the conflagration. Even the fields themselves had been salted so that they could support no life. Only a wasteland remained.
Never would he have thought he would be amid such horror, so far from the comforts of the court where he practised his wiles.
‘Do you like my works, Fox?’ King William enquired, grinning. His horse looked like a pony under his bulk. A mountain of iron, he seemed, his hauberk straining across his girth, his helm proudly marked with the dents and scratches of a hundred battles. His sword and axe hung at his side, both of them notched and stained with blood. At his back, his army brooded, row upon row of seasoned men.
‘Your wrath is mighty indeed,’ Balthar replied. He forced a smile though he was filled with a terrible dread. Never had he witnessed so much carnage, never had he expected this degree of brutality when the king had promised to put down the rebellion sweeping across England. He clenched his legs against the flanks of his horse to stop them trembling. ‘Surely no man would dare turn against you after this.’
‘Let this be a less
on to you, Fox. No one heeds a whisper.’ Red-edged flakes of charred wood settled on his shoulder and he brushed them away with the back of his hand, seemingly oblivious to the plumes of stinging smoke that swirled around him.
‘Your voice will carry to the walls of Eoferwic, my lord, and far beyond into St Cuthbert’s Land.’
The road had been hard and bloody and he was sick of it. Once out of Wincestre, they had passed through a land grown restive. The king had been right to move, Balthar knew that. But no one, not even his closest advisors, had predicted the harshness of his response. His judgement had been swift, his army plunging like a spear into the heart of his foes. He had pushed north to Axholme, where King Sweyn’s Danes had been making their plans. Once the Northmen had been driven back across the Humbre, William had left the Counts of Mortain and Eu at Lindesege to keep the ground he had won and turned his attention to the west. The king’s fire had seemed unquenchable even then. While hardened fighting men flagged from the pace, William had pushed westwards, knowing he had only a short time to quell the spreading uprisings. The Welsh princes and Edric the Wild were no match for him. With barely a pause for breath, he had turned back to the east. In Snotingeham, they had received a message that the Danes planned to retake Eoferwic. The king had no choice but to head to the cold north. Fierce Danish warriors had driven them back from the Aire Gap, and for the first time he had doubted the king’s ability to crush all who stood against him. But that night he had seen the determination burning in William’s face, and the next morning the army had skirted the river’s edge until they found a place where they could chance a crossing. Fifty men had been lost in the surging, freezing waters, but that seemed only to drive the king to greater resolve. And as he rode on towards Eoferwic, the slaughter had begun.
Balthar turned his attention back to the dismal cluster of houses and barns ahead. The land here was flat and poor. Starvation would always be looking over the shoulder of the poor souls who tried to eke out a living in this hard place. Leaving their horses, the Norman warriors strode into the village, burning brands held aloft. Balthar’s chest tightened as he watched them torch the thatched roofs. This sight repeated, every hour, every day, like a nightmare from which he could never escape. How many times had he witnessed it since they had ridden north from Wincestre? The first time he had vomited down the flanks of his steed. How the king had laughed. Now he knew exactly what to expect. If only he could tear his eyes away – but the king would curse his weakness, deeming it a sign of infidelity. And now, after all he had seen, he could not afford to fall from the king’s favour.
And so he watched.
In the cold wind, the flames roared. As the local men scrambled out of their meagre homes, armed only with cudgels or stones, the warriors hacked them down, in front of their wives, in front of their children. The women screamed and cried and raked jagged, dirty fingernails. Leather gauntlets cracked into their faces, breaking noses, splitting lips. If they tried to rise from the ground, the warriors struck them again, and again, until they lay prostrate in the growing pools of blood spilling from their menfolk.
Even victory would not be enough for the king, Balthar could see that now. He had decreed that no males would be allowed to survive. From the Humbre to the Tees, the land would be laid waste. No more proud Northumbria. All food would be destroyed, so if any fled the coming judgement they would starve in the bitter winter: a slow death, the Fox knew, worse than any bloody ending on the tip of a spear. What manner of man could inflict such horrors?
And yet William smote the north with no anger, no glee, no contempt. He did it as if he were killing rats in a barn.
Roofs collapsed inward with a gush of golden sparks. A whirlwind of fire swept through the barn. So loud was the squealing of the pigs, it drowned out the roar of the conflagration and the howling of the grieving women, until one voice by one, by one, it died away. Then only sobbing drifted out into the day-turned-night.
Balthar screwed up his eyes, trying to force his thoughts back to that last night in Wincestre. When William had told him of the plans to ride north, he had raced back to Godrun. His wife, his sons, they barely entered his mind. Only Godrun, so beautiful, little more than a child. And he had begged her to lie with him, though she still smelled of the sweat and seed of the Normans who had commanded her body. He recalled the softness of her skin, not leathered and lined like that of his wife, and he remembered her eyes showing him a time long gone. A pact had been sealed that night. He would save her, and together they would find what had been lost in his own life. Godrun was all that mattered to him. If he could endure these days of horror, he could return to her and all would be well; he had to keep reminding himself that.
But then he opened his eyes and saw only butchery.
‘I could never allow the Danes to build a new kingdom in the north, a place where that bastard Edgar the Aetheling could plot against me,’ the king said, letting his gaze wander over the burning village. ‘The north has always been a thorn in the side of the kings of this land, but never again will these unruly folk dare threaten me. No, this will be a land of ghosts.’ He swept one arm out across his men. ‘Ivo the Butcher whines like a child about a few mud-spattered wild men of the woods, but here is the true Devil’s Army.’ He threw his head back and roared with laughter.
Mad, Balthar thought, hoping his accusation did not show on his face. And drunk on blood. And he was not the only one to think such treasonous thoughts. When he glanced back, he saw eyes darting and shadows crossing the faces of some of the king’s closest knights. But they would not speak out. No one would.
Through the mantle of smoke, a boy wandered out from the blazing village. He looked no more than five years old, his blond hair a tousled mass. He was bawling, his arms outstretched towards the king and the waiting army.
‘Have mercy,’ Balthar pleaded, his hand flying to his mouth when he realized the involuntary plea had crept out.
The king eyed him coldly. ‘I said all males would die. He is a male, is he not?’
Balthar swallowed, no words coming. He felt sickened by his own cowardice. William nodded as if the Fox had agreed with him. With his knees, he urged his horse forward until he was beside the child. The boy reached up his arms, howling. Drawing his sword, the king raised it above his head.
‘I spoke in error, Fox. I should have asked whether you like your works, for this …’ He held out his left arm and looked from burning horizon to burning horizon, ‘… all this came at your urging.’
‘I did not mean—’
‘You should watch your tongue, Fox. Your words have more power than even you realize.’
Balthar bowed his head, his guts in turmoil. How could he have foreseen the repercussions of what he had said? His thoughts had been only for love, and Godrun, and the chance she presented for him to build a new life. He raised his eyes to see William grinning at him as if the king could read his thoughts.
The sword swept down.
‘Now,’ William the Bastard bellowed, turning back to his waiting army, ‘let us ride for Eoferwic. The blood that has been spilled these days will be as nothing to what lies ahead.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE CRY ECHOED through the stark ash trees. Alric jerked upright on the back of his dun pony. His thoughts had been drifting to take his mind off the bitter cold and he had dreamed of his hearth-fire at the monastery in Jarrow. His breath clouded in the sharp morning air as he looked around for Sighard who had been scouting ahead. His hands were red raw from the cold, and he could barely feel his fingers.
‘Where are you?’ he called, his frozen lips struggling to form the words. The only sound was the wind moaning through the high branches.
The snows had come early to the fens that year. Barely, it seemed, had the meagre harvest been stored in the barns and an ox been slaughtered by the Northmen among the Ely folk to mark the Blod-Monath, when fat white flakes swept in to coat the trees and grasses of the isle and lie in drifts among the re
ed-beds. Yet even in the harshest weather they had to venture along the secret trade routes through the dangerous countryside to bring back food, or salt or flax or antler.
The monk turned to Madulf who leaned over the neck of his steed. His face was contorted with concern for his brother and Alric could see it was all the man could do to restrain himself from riding hard to investigate the cry. Beyond him, Redwald was stooped upon his horse’s back, as pale as death, his face still drawn from the pain he had suffered recovering from his wound. His hand gripped the hilt of the sword he had stolen from a dead Norman on one of the English raids.
The three men slid off their mounts and crunched into the calf-deep snow. Keeping low, they crept between the trees until they glimpsed Sighard standing by the side of a frozen lake that glittered with hoar-frost. He was alone. He threw his hood back, his wind-chapped face pink, and he waved. ‘Here,’ he called. ‘Come see.’
Madulf stomped past Alric, glowering. ‘You gave me a fright,’ he barked. ‘Have you no thought for anyone but yourself?’
Sighard beckoned furiously.
‘He has likely found a bush in the shape of a pig, or a lame bird,’ Madulf muttered, setting off in a run.
Alric followed, Redwald limping behind, to the edge of the frozen pool where the yellow reeds swayed in the bitter wind. Beyond the cover of the trees, the world was leached of colour, like old bones. Sighard squatted on the rock-hard mud bank to examine a dark shape in the mere in front of him. Alric ground to a halt, his breath catching in his throat.