Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army

by James Wilde

  The body of a man lay in the shallows, the bottom half frozen fast in the water. His beard and hair were frosted, his head flung back and his rigid arms reaching out across the ice as if he had been bathing in the sun when his soul fled. His skin had already blackened and the birds had taken his eyes. Yet the wolves had not consumed his flesh so he could not have been long dead, Alric surmised. There was a black gash across his neck – from the hack of a sword-blade by the looks of it – and more black stains on his tunic from stab wounds.

  ‘It is Eni,’ Redwald murmured. The four men stared at the ravaged face of the scout whom they had all last seen swearing a drunken mead-oath in the tavern three days gone. He was to roam the hidden trade path, watching for the king’s spies. None of the Bastard’s men would bring him low, he had vowed. As silent as a shadow, he would flit along the old tracks, and he would return with any news of the invaders’ movements so other paths could be taken.

  Alric looked deep into those hollow eye sockets.

  As one, the four men spun round, searching among the black boles of the ash trees for any sign of movement. The wind howled across the ice and lashed the trees. An iron-clad army could march beneath that roar and they would never hear it.

  ‘Fool. Why did you draw us out into the open?’ Madulf snapped at his brother. ‘You are doing the king’s work for him.’

  ‘You growl like a hungry dog, always,’ Sighard laughed, striding back through the reeds into the cover of the trees. ‘Do you think the king’s men will sit here, in this weather, waiting in case we ever took this way to the market? Why, we might not have come here till spring.’

  The monk grew taut, eyeing the grinning young man. Sighard seemed uncommonly cheery for one who had discovered a comrade slaughtered and half-frozen in a lake. ‘How many scouts have we now lost since the leaves fell?’ he muttered.

  ‘Five,’ Redwald replied, pushing his way through the reeds.

  ‘And the king’s ships have been blessed with great luck in blocking our supplies, though our boats come in at different times and along different courses.’

  Redwald glanced back. ‘What say you?’

  ‘When Hereward took Saba’s head, he made every good man and woman in Ely afraid of him. No weavers or smiths or millers will raise spears against his rule from now on,’ the monk began, suspicion hardening in his chest even as he spoke.

  ‘But the king could still have eyes and ears in Ely, even one man whispering our plans into Norman ears, is that it?’

  At a fleeting, unguarded look from the other man, Alric regretted giving voice to his doubts. He flinched as blood-soaked visions jerked into his mind. Redwald’s mother, her throat slit. His father, drowned in a pool. Hereward’s first love, Tidhild, and Redwald’s own wife, heavy with child, both stabbed to death. He screwed up his eyes to force the pictures away, and when he opened them, Redwald was smiling as if he could read those thoughts. The monk shuddered. Never would he have guessed what devil lay behind that innocent face. He lowered his head, pretending to watch his step on the frozen ground, but he scrutinized the other man from under his brow.

  Neither of them had mentioned that grim confession when Redwald had thought he was dying. Yet Alric had found cold eyes upon him time and again, and he knew that Hereward’s brother rued his decision to give voice to his darkest secrets. The monk clenched his fist. If only his compact with God allowed him to reveal the bloody contents of that confession. But no, he would have to carry its burden upon his own soul. At least Redwald had sobbed with remorse as he spoke of his crimes, and in those cries Alric had heard an honest desire to expunge the stains from his soul. That allowed him to sleep at night. Every man carried some blackness within, and all deserved a chance to wipe it away and start anew. Perhaps Redwald’s rapid healing from his spear-wound was a sign that God had accepted his confession.

  In the trees, their horses steamed and stamped their hooves. Sighard and Madulf were still bickering. ‘It would do no harm to choose another road to complete our journey,’ Redwald murmured. ‘Take no chances and trust no one is the best way to keep breathing.’

  Alric clambered on to his pony and dug in his heels to urge it to follow the other horses off the track into the trees. The empty baskets strapped across its back, waiting to be filled with provisions, rattled and strained at their leather straps.

  ‘There is another track not far away,’ Redwald called back. ‘Few know of it. The going will be hard, but it will serve us well.’

  Alric watched the rise and fall of the other man’s shoulders as he rode. Even if he could break the sacred trust of the confession, how could he ever tell Hereward that the man he called brother had killed his woman. The warrior would be shattered to learn that terrible truth, for he held Redwald in the highest esteem.

  The new track was barely wide enough for a horse. It snaked through the woods, seemingly leading nowhere. In the snow, Alric would never have recognized it was there, but Redwald, with his keen eye and his youthful memories of this place, found it in a moment.

  ‘Hot mead in the tavern when we reach Grentabrige,’ Sighard announced brightly as they trotted along. ‘I would drive this winter ache from my bones.’

  ‘No time for your drunkenness,’ Madulf grumbled. ‘We have work to do. And that town will be swarming with the king’s men now he has built his castle. One wrong word and you will be kicking your last on a gibbet.’

  Ahead, Redwald bowed his head, and Alric had the strangest feeling he was smiling to himself. ‘And which of you will be hurrying home to whisper honeyed words to the fair Edoma?’ he asked in his melodic voice, without looking back. ‘Both of you, perhaps?’

  The two brothers fell silent. The monk realized Redwald was teasing them. Alric had himself caught sight of Sighard and Madulf playing the harp and singing to the pretty woman who had accompanied them when they had arrived at Ely’s gates, but he had paid it little heed. Redwald missed nothing, though. He was like a hawk.

  The wind cut right through them as they followed their circuitous route through the wild landscape. Red, raw fingers clutched woollen cloaks around them. Their steaming breath mingled with that of their mounts in the frozen air. The rolling rhythm of the horses dulled their thoughts as the cold seemed to fill them up from within. Snow-blanketed woods merged into the colourless sky, and in that half-aching, half-dreaming state, Alric fancied they truly were living in the End-Times, as the wise women prophesied.

  Out of the banks of folding white, the ramparts and palisade of Grentabrige coalesced, and rising above it the tall tower of the new castle perched atop a hill. When he saw that sight, Alric somehow felt colder still. From the ice-locked banks of the River Granta that flowed through the town, geese took wing, their honking carrying far over the chill world as they soared above the rooftops. The four travellers pulled their hoods low over their eyes and kept their heads down and their shoulders hunched, better to resemble the English who had been broken on the Norman mill. They were not alone. Despite the harsh weather, thin trails of men and women, on foot, or horse, or cart, were making their way through the snows on the river floodplain towards the gates.

  He closed his eyes and prayed that they would all escape with their lives.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE GRIM GUARDS upon the wall looked down on the desperate souls passing through the gates of Grentabrige. Alric, Redwald, Sighard and Madulf turned their faces away as they merged into the throng. Once inside, their nostrils wrinkled at the reek of woodsmoke, excrement and wet straw. Though his skin pricked with apprehension, Alric looked around the rutted street and marvelled. Not since Eoferwic had he seen a town so large and lively. Folk milled along the rows of workshops. Merchants clogged the way with their snorting oxen and fat pigs as they herded them towards the market. The monk’s ears ached from the thunder of hammers and looms, and the conversations delivered at a bellow to be heard above the din.

  Redwald slowed his horse so that he trotted alongside Alric’s pony. His wo
rds emerged from the shadows of his hood. ‘What is this?’ he hissed. ‘Is there now a new garrison here in Grentabrige?’

  Alric saw immediately what he meant. Wrapped in thick, black cloaks against the cold, Norman soldiers seemed to be gathered everywhere in twos or threes. They murmured to each other in their guttural tongue, ignoring the stream of shivering English who passed by them as if they were no more than rats scurrying from the mill.

  ‘We must take care,’ Redwald whispered. ‘One wrong word could easily reach their ears.’

  Alric cast a surreptitious glance back at Sighard. The young man was laughing loudly at his brother’s complaining. Neither seemed to have noticed the quiet sentinels along the street.

  ‘Fools,’ Redwald muttered. ‘They will be the death of us. We should not have brought them.’

  ‘Two of us would not have been able to carry all the provisions we need,’ Alric replied. ‘And they have proved themselves to be more than able in keeping the barns and our bellies full.’

  ‘Still,’ Redwald murmured, showing no sign that he was speaking, ‘I would have left them back in Ely.’

  The market was noisy and congested. The snow had turned to stinking brown slush underfoot. Alric thought his toes would never be warm again. Once they had broken the ice on the water troughs, they tied up their horses. Before they divided to purchase their wares, Redwald cautioned the two brothers to act as if a Norman stood at their shoulders at all times. Whether they heeded this warning, Alric could not be sure.

  ‘My brother will be keen to know what we have seen here,’ Redwald whispered as he helped Alric carry the baskets into the crowd.

  ‘Will this change his plans?’

  Redwald shrugged. ‘These days he keeps his thoughts to himself. I know him better than all, and even I cannot tell what passes through his head.’

  ‘He has been much changed since the summer,’ Alric agreed.

  ‘For the worse. He should heed his friends. Throw off his burdens and share his woes. Only his woman—’ He caught himself. ‘Only Turfrida knows his heart, and what wisdom can she give on war? In this time of growing threat, he should have his wisest friends around him. He needs to hear strong voices.’

  ‘Will he make his move when the thaw comes?’

  ‘How can he?’ Redwald said with a note of bitterness. ‘Our numbers have swollen, but not yet enough to mount a real challenge.’

  A thin-faced man with a fledged sparrowhawk upon his gauntlet called to them, ‘Only twenty-four pennies. And a small price to pay for this winged wonder. No prey can escape his sight.’ He turned up his nose when Alric waved him away.

  Redwald grunted. He seemed barely able to contain his grievance. ‘This path of his will be the end of us if we do not take care. He waits, and he waits,’ he said under his breath. ‘Only by joining with the uprising in the north can we truly be sure that we will have a force to be feared.’

  The monk shrugged. ‘The news from the north is not good. And if the king is attacking there as they claim, how long before his wrath turns east?’

  ‘My advice would be to strike now, strike quickly,’ Redwald whispered. ‘While William’s back is turned.’ He fell silent for a moment, then added in a voice so quiet Alric could barely hear it, ‘Make him fight two armies on two fronts. Tear his own army apart and wear down his men, as King Harold’s army was worn down by his battle in the north when the Bastard sailed to our shores.’ He pretended to adjust his grip on the basket as two Normans strode by. Once they had gone, he continued, ‘My brother should be made to listen to his friends, for his own good, and ours.’

  ‘I will speak with him when we return,’ the monk whispered in reply.

  Once they had bought the salt and flax they needed, they heaved the baskets back towards the horses. As they were strapping the laden panniers across the back of Alric’s beast, angry yells rang out from the other side of the market. Alric and Redwald kept their heads down until they heard a voice that was unmistakably Madulf’s shouting, ‘Leave him be.’

  Redwald cursed under his breath. He dropped his head and walked without any show of urgency towards the source of the disturbance. Alric followed in his wake. A silent crowd had gathered in a wide circle on the far side of the bustling market. Redwald and Alric pushed their way through the wall of bodies to the front. In the centre of the circle stood Sighard, his arms gripped by two Norman soldiers. The young man kept calm. He knew that to resist would only result in drawn swords, or worse. Madulf’s face was flushed with anger, but he too kept his hands by his sides. His eyes darted towards Redwald and Alric and then quickly moved away.

  A man prowled in front of Sighard, a priest by the look of his pillicia, Alric noted. The long woollen tunic was brown, free of any adornment, but the material was thick and likely fur-lined to keep out the cold. The monk studied the churchman’s dark eyes and cold face, the long black moustache, and the black hair that had been shaved at the back of the skull in the Norman military style. These priests of William’s were hard to tell apart from his warriors – and just as cruel and brutal, he had heard tell. Where was the love of God in men like that?

  ‘What means the woman to you?’ the cleric asked in heavily accented English.

  ‘I do not know her,’ Sighard replied. He pushed his chin up in defiance, then saw the priest’s icy stare and let it drop again.

  ‘She is a witch. And now she is free to weave her spells and curse her neighbours, because of you.’ The priest thrust his face close to Sighard’s, so that their noses were almost touching.

  ‘I saw only a man threatening a woman,’ Sighard replied, his voice steady. ‘How could I know she was a witch?’

  ‘The Devil’s own always lie. You aided her escape, did you not?’

  Alric held his breath. If the priest gave the order for the soldiers to take Sighard away, it would be the end of him. He would be forced to hold an iron rod that had been heated in the fires until it glowed red, or he would be weighed down with rocks and thrown into the freezing waters of the river. In his agony, he would confess to anything, and then his life would be forfeit.

  ‘He cannot help himself when he sees a woman in need. He is like a lovesick fool,’ Madulf interrupted, his voice wavering.

  The churchman looked back at Madulf, and once he had decided the other brother was no threat, he returned his attention to Sighard. ‘I do not believe that you can be trusted. You must take the witch’s place, until I can be sure—’

  ‘Wait.’ Alric stepped forward. ‘I am a man of God, like you, a monk, from the monastery in Jarrow in the north. My name is Alric.’

  ‘You are far from your home,’ the priest said, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  ‘As are you.’ The monk swallowed to steady his nerve. The crowd blurred into the background around him as he focused on the words he would have to spin to save all their lives. He ignored the searching gaze of the Norman soldiers and enquired, ‘What is your name?’

  The priest hesitated, puzzled by this interruption. ‘I am called Emeric. I have been directed by the Pope himself to hunt witches. My travels have taken me across Europe. And I have done God’s work everywhere I went. The Devil has fewer servants now.’

  Alric forced a smile which he hoped was charming. ‘And now you are in England.’

  ‘You have many witches here,’ Emeric snapped. ‘Away from London, they lurk in every town and village. Brother, your English Church has failed in its duty, but now I am here to do your work for you.’

  ‘And we are grateful for all the aid you give,’ Alric said with a slight bow. ‘But this man is not another burden for you.’

  The priest looked to Sighard and then back to the monk, frowning. ‘You stand by him?’

  ‘He is a fool where women are concerned, as his brother says. But more than that, he is my servant this day.’ The monk pressed his hands together as if in prayer. ‘As you say, I am far from home and this land is strange to me. I travel to Yernemuth where I must seek passag
e to Flanders and without this man to guide me I will never find my way. In this hard winter, that could cost my life. I beg a kindness, brother. Let me take my guide, and you have my word that I will chastise him for what he has done.’

  Emeric studied Alric’s face. The monk wanted to squirm. He felt the priest was weighing his every word and once he had been found wanting the soldiers would drag him away too. After a moment, the Norman churchman replied, ‘Yernemuth, you say? Once these snows clear, I would travel north myself. I hear these wild fenlands are filled with witches.’

  Alric only smiled. Despite the cold, he could feel the sweat trickling down his back.

  Emeric turned to Sighard and barked, ‘Go to your master. But if we meet again, know you will be forced to confess before the eyes of God.’

  Sighard wrenched his arms free from the soldiers, and all but ran past Alric and into the crowd. Madulf followed him. Redwald was nowhere to be seen. Alric gave a pleasant smile and a nod, and turned away before Emeric could question him further. But he could feel the priest’s lowering gaze upon his back as he pushed into the crowd, and he knew that he had had a lucky escape.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  SPLASHES OF BLOOD scarred the virgin snow. Almost black in that white world, more gore puddled around the body of the mercenary. A gleaming helm protruded from a drift, a broken spear beside it. The wind howled through the stark branches of the wood as a shadow swept across the fallen warrior, and came back.

  ‘The Devil will take your soul,’ the voice screeched. ‘I am a man of God.’

  Hereward threw his head back and laughed. He was wrapped in furs greased with lamb fat to keep out the bitter cold, but his blond hair lashed in the gale. All around, his men bellowed their humour, their ash-streaked faces grinning death’s-heads. Hengist did a little dance.

  The upended churchman swung back again, his face crimson with embarrassed fury, his grey-streaked hair sweeping the snow with each pass. He was suspended from the branch of an oak by a rope strapped around his ankles, his hands tied behind his back. Whenever his swinging began to slow, Hengist darted in to give him a shove.