by James Wilde
‘Would you enjoy this more if we tied the rope to your neck?’ Hereward taunted.
The cleric changed his manner, pursing his lips as he put on a sorrowful expression. ‘Have pity on me. I am but a poor traveller doing God’s work in this cold land. I have not had a full belly for many a day.’
‘He is sorely lacking in bread, indeed, but he has plenty of gold to chew on,’ Guthrinc called from where he squatted next to the oak, searching through the sack the churchman had been carrying. He raised a glinting gold chalice over his head. ‘He has a goldhord here that would please a king. Plate, cups, chain and other adornments.’
‘That belongs to God,’ the cleric spat.
‘And you were keeping it safe for him,’ Hereward nodded with a wry smile. ‘This gold will buy much food for the hungry folk of Ely. As a good Christian man, your heart must be warmed to know your toils will mean none starve in this harsh winter.’
‘You think yourselves brave warriors. You are nothing more than thieves and murderers.’ Spittle flew from the churchman’s mouth.
Hereward laughed again. ‘You call me thief. While we fought, you bowed your head to William the Bastard like a whipped cur, forsaking all those who prayed in your church. But now you fear you may not be as well rewarded as you once thought.’
The cleric closed his eyes and intoned a prayer, trying to drown out the Mercian’s words.
‘Now the king sends in his own Norman churchmen to take your place, and seize the riches you have heaped up behind your altar,’ Hereward continued. ‘And so you fled. And to aid your flight you stole from God, and from the folk who paid for this gold with their hard labours. But you made the mistake of passing through the fens in your search for a place to hide. This is my land, and here not even a spear-for-hire can keep you safe.’ He nodded towards the dead Northman. ‘God set justice upon you.’
‘Blasphemy,’ the cleric yelled. ‘You would dare speak for the Lord?’
‘Why not? All churchmen seem to do so without fault.’ The warrior gave a lupine smile, then nodded to Guthrinc and said, ‘A good day’s work. Take it. We will put it to good use when we return.’
Hengist giggled, giving the churchman another shove. ‘You mean to leave me here?’ the prisoner cried, wrenching his head up to look at his captors as he swung. ‘I will freeze to death.’
‘Shout louder. Your friends the Normans are near by searching for us. They will cut you loose.’ Hereward walked around the dangling churchman.
The prisoner’s face turned the colour of the snow. He knew what the king’s men would do if they found he had been stealing the gold they considered their own. Through gritted teeth, he growled, ‘I will see you hunted down and brought to justice for this.’
‘This man of God has balls.’ Kraki traced the cleric’s path through the air with the tip of his spear.
‘You need some of those, Hengist,’ Guthrinc said, slinging the sack over his shoulder. He pointed at the prisoner. ‘Cut his off.’
The churchman cried out. The warriors jeered.
‘Do not torment him,’ Hereward said with a laugh. ‘He has already sold his soul to William the Bastard. He will pay soon enough.’
The cleric’s angry shouts rang out at their backs as they moved away through the trees towards the edge of the frozen marsh. Large flakes began to drift down, filling their footprints.
‘This gold has warmed my heart better than any home-fire,’ Guthrinc said cheerily.
‘Still, it is not enough,’ Hereward replied, searching the colourless landscape for Norman scouts. ‘If we are to build an army that will crush William’s men as they crushed King Harold’s warriors, we need the kind of gold that would fill the royal coffers.’
‘That is a lot of fleeing churchmen to rob,’ Guthrinc hummed.
‘You have a plan?’ Kraki looked like a bear in the depths of his furs and his hauberk, fire flickering in the shadows of his helm’s eyelets.
‘Gold to buy food to fill an army’s belly and to bribe folk to keep our paths hidden? Aye, plans I have. And I have listened to the words of Abbot Thurstan himself to be sure they are good. But I need an army to make them bear fruit.’
‘You need an army to gain an army,’ Guthrinc replied. ‘Now there is a riddle to tax even the sharpest mind.’
Hereward did not reply. He had wrestled with the problem since the long, hot summer months without finding the answer he needed. Yet the success of the rebellion depended on that very solution. Gold would buy them victory. Without that, they were merely fleas nipping at the hide of the dog.
Beneath chalk skies, in the face of the blizzard’s teeth, they loped along the old narrow tracks and the hidden byways. On the banks of the Old Ouse where the water flowed black and slow between the ice-choked river-edges, they crouched among the sedges and the reeds and watched a group of ten Normans on horseback trek in the direction of Earith. The king’s men kept their heads down in the cruel wind, their black cloaks pulled tightly around them.
‘Call me thick-headed, but there seems more of those bastards each day, and they wend ever closer to Ely,’ Guthrinc muttered, pressing aside the reeds to get a better look.
‘Have their numbers swollen?’ Kraki growled, casting an inquisitive glance towards Hereward as if the leader had been keeping secrets from him.
The Mercian narrowed his eyes, watching the Normans until they disappeared into the swirling snow. ‘If so, then it is done by stealth.’
‘Unless they realize we have eyes and ears among their own and are holding their tongues,’ Guthrinc said. ‘What does this mean? The king is sly, and at his most dangerous when he appears to be doing nothing.’
Eager to feel the heat of their home-fires, the English ran the final miles south across the frozen marsh to the edge of Hempsals Fen. There the flint of the narrow causeway leading home glittered like shards of ice. No crowd greeted their return as they passed through the gates of Ely. The folk all huddled around their hearths for warmth, listening to the bubbling of the tangy stews that sweetened the cold air of the settlement. But as the cheers of the returning warriors rang out across the thatched roofs, Acha emerged, swaddled in a thick cloak of grey. Her dark eyes fixed upon Hereward’s for a long moment, and they both acknowledged the strange, unfathomable bond that had arisen between them since the summer uprising. With a curt nod, Hereward moved on, knowing it was unwise to dwell too much on the meaning of those feelings. He kept his gaze on the snowy path, fighting the urge to look back to see if Kraki had observed that fleeting look.
Near the track to his dwelling, a bear waited. It was only as he neared that Hereward realized it was a man, wrapped in thick furs, his wild hair almost obscuring his ruddy, wind-chapped face. He didn’t move, and so much snow had fallen on him it looked as if he had been there for days. As he peered into the face, the Mercian was shocked to see it was Dunnere the miller. Not for long months had Hereward seen him. Since his daughter had vanished, he had kept to the confines of his dusty mill and only those who fetched the sacks from his door had seen him. Through all that time, it seemed he had not cut his hair, nor, from the smell of him, bathed. His nose had the broken veins of a man who drank too much ale and the skin under his eyes sagged down like melted wax.
‘Dunnere. It is good to see you,’ Hereward began.
‘I request a boon,’ the miller said, ignoring all pleasantries. ‘Only you and your men can help me now.’
‘Your daughter.’ The long-missing girl could be the only thing on the man’s mind.
Dunnere nodded. ‘All my days are grey.’ He choked on the words for a moment before mumbling, ‘I pray for word that she is safe. Even that she has run off with some wild lad, and is afraid to tell me she is with child. Anything.’ A juddering breath racked him. ‘Sometimes I even pray that her body will be washed up. At least then I could give her a Christian burial and put aside this endless worry that blights my life. And then I curse myself and wish I were dead for thinking such a thing.’
‘Have strength, you say? If I did not have strength I would long since have thrown myself into Dedman’s Bog.’ He bowed his head, steadying himself. ‘Some say that she could only have had her virtue taken by one of your men … and then her life. I do not believe such a thing.’
‘What would you have me do?’
‘When your scouts are out across the fens, have them ask after her. If she yet lives, someone must have seen her. Just to know that she …’ He covered his face with his hands as a silent sob ran through him.
‘I will do as you ask,’ Hereward soothed, knowing that he could do no such thing. More than anything he wanted to bring comfort to this good man, but it was beyond him. ‘Do not lose faith,’ he whispered. ‘In my heart, I am sure there is an honest answer to this mystery, and you and your daughter will be reunited.’
The miller pumped Hereward’s hand, seeming pathetically grateful for these miserable few words of comfort. ‘You are a good man,’ Dunnere said, wiping the snot from his nose with the back of his hand. ‘It warms my heart to know I do not stand alone in my suffering.’
Hereward watched him stumble away through the drifts, feeling his spirits fall lower still. A good man, he thought bitterly, and spat into the snow.
Before he could move onwards, Hengist hurried up and lurched into his path. Hereward felt troubled by the odd gleam that now seemed to have settled in the other man’s eyes. ‘Brunloc tells me ten more men left while we were gone,’ Hengist said, pulling his cloak tighter.
‘This winter is hard. We knew some would not stay the course.’
‘Aye, but this is more than we expected. And the numbers grow greater by the week. A trickle now, soon a flood if things stay as we are.’ He stamped the snow off his shoes. ‘Soon we might have no army to speak of.’
‘Most will not risk travel in this harsh weather. The true test will come in the spring. Till then we will find some way to put fire in their hearts.’ He nodded and walked on, hoping Hengist would take some encouragement from his words. But the other man had spoken the truth. They were losing warriors faster than they could bear. If the flow was not stemmed by the spring, the uprising would die, and the hopes of the English with it.
He put aside his grim mood and strode forward. As he neared his door, it flew open. Turfrida stood framed in the golden glow from the fire. He paused, feeling uneasy at the urgency of her appearance, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he saw she did not smile and her gaze was questioning. Fear filled him, fear that had haunted him every day since Turfrida’s life had been threatened during the uprising, a dread that she might be the one to pay the price for his own bloody war.
‘What is wrong?’ he whispered.
He felt relief as her face softened. She smiled, though still a little uncertainly. ‘Husband, I have news,’ she announced, holding her arms out to him. ‘I am with child.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
FROST GLITTERED IN the dead man’s eyebrows. The falling snow settled in the hollows of his eye sockets and drifted across the bodies of the five other Norman soldiers lying around the edge of the frozen marsh. Harald Redteeth knelt beside the fallen warrior, listening to the voices of the alfar in the howling wind. They called to the souls of these brave dead to join them in the world beneath the seas and the lakes and the hills. The Viking muttered a silent prayer, urging those shades on to Valhalla instead. These Normans were true warriors, even if they followed the orders of fools.
Not so long gone he had himself almost joined the ranks of the Einherjar in that vast hall of fallen warriors. But Woden had seen fit to turn him back at the very doors. And he knew why. He still had work to do, blood-work, and like his friend Ivar the Dead who breathed cold breath upon his neck day and night, he would never be allowed to rest until it was done. He stood, feeling the aches that still lingered from his now-healed wounds. Pink scars now covered more of his torso than the skin with which he was born, but each one served as a reminder of who he was.
‘Speak clearly. What happened here?’
The gruff voice of Ivo Taillebois snatched him from his reverie. He turned and crunched across the snow to the small group of men surrounding the ceorl who had witnessed the attack. He wore thick furs reeking of grease. His wide eyes had the faraway look of a man still gripped by the horror that he had seen. Flanked by three Norman warriors, Taillebois looked like a raven in his black cloak and breeches, his fist snarled in the front of the ceorl’s furs.
‘Tell me,’ he demanded again. His other gauntleted hand moved to his sword hilt.
‘He has had the wits scared out of him.’ William de Warenne leaned over the neck of his horse, shivering inside his lilac cloak.
Harald ignored them, drawn as always to the silent member of the group, the old man Asketil Tokesune, Hereward’s father. He supported himself on his long staff, his filthy cloak so ragged it surely could not keep out the winter’s blades. His skin was as pale as snow, his pebble eyes as black as the waters beneath the ice. The others treated him like a simple child, but Harald saw the truth.
The Butcher shook the ceorl so roughly his teeth rattled. As the sword half-slid from its scabbard, the man came to his senses. ‘Ghosts, they are,’ he gasped. ‘Not men.’
Taillebois hawked phlegm and spat on the snow.
‘They have the faces of death,’ the ceorl continued, ‘white skulls, fresh from the grave. They came with the snow.’ He placed his hand upon his heart. ‘I … hunted fowl. I swear before God, may He strike me dead: this land was empty until your battle-wolves came by. When the wind changed, he was there … Hereward … stepped forth from hell with his sword Brainbiter. His men, his dead men, struck with spear and axe. Your soldiers fell without even a cry. What hope did they have? Barely had a prayer escaped my lips when the dead men were gone, into the snow and away.’ He fluttered a hand towards the heavens. ‘God help me that I had seen such things.’
William pulled his cloak tighter, his teeth chattering. ‘This is not good enough,’ he said to the Norman commander. ‘We kill one of theirs, they slay five of ours. Be like a sly fox, the king said. Aye, so sly we barely move. Where are our fangs?’
‘We have our eyes and ears among them,’ Taillebois growled. ‘Soon we will hear news we can use to bring them to their knees.’
The nobleman snorted. ‘Soon?’ he sneered. ‘How soon? If Hereward’s head is not on a stick by the summer, the king will fall upon us as he has done upon the north.’
‘You already know all you need.’ Asketil’s voice was almost lost beneath the wind’s whine.
‘Save your breath, old man,’ the Butcher said, thrusting the ceorl away from him. ‘When we need to hear your words, we will—’
‘Wait,’ William interjected. ‘What say you?’
Harald watched Asketil’s face darken, the lips pulling back from his yellow, chipped teeth. Hatred lay there, of a kind he had never seen between father and son. He felt his distaste for the old man rise.
‘You do not know my son as I know him,’ Asketil replied, looking up at the Norman noble. ‘The ceorl speaks true. He is no man. He is a beast who puts on the face of a man. Show his true face and none would follow him. Find the beast inside him and he will return to the wild and leave this uprising behind.’
Taillebois gave a dismissive laugh. ‘Men like that would die before they walked away.’
‘Hereward is not a man of honour. He cares only for himself. His mother’s blood stains his hands. And, aye, he would see me dead too.’ Harald watched Asketil’s knuckles whiten as he grasped his staff tighter. ‘He has been tamed by the two who are closest to him. Your eyes and ears in his camp have already learned this. You know.’
The Butcher’s brow furrowed in thought. He pushed his way through his warriors to stand before the old man. ‘The monk?’
‘And his wife. The witch. Between them, they have shackled the devil i
nside him. But those chains are weak. Without their guiding words, he will return to the Hereward of old.’
William clapped his hands, grinning. ‘Take the monk—’
‘No,’ Asketil said, shaking his staff. ‘The woman.’
The nobleman’s grin faded.
‘She is his true weakness,’ the old man continued. ‘For all his fierceness, he is still the child running to his mother, wishing to protect her. All women are his weakness.’
‘Take his wife?’ William mused, unsure.
Asketil stamped his staff upon the hard ground. ‘Take his woman. Cut out her heart.’
The nobleman winced, reeling back on his mount.
Harald stepped forward. ‘There is no honour in making a woman suffer,’ he snapped.
Asketil turned on him, sneering. ‘You are as weak as Hereward.’
Harald smiled in reply. He saw Grim, his axe, slicing through the old man’s neck, the head falling to the snow, the blood gushing out.
‘You heard from your eyes and ears what happened when his wife was taken by Saba and those others. Hereward threw aside all reason for her.’ The old man looked from William to Taillebois. ‘There is too much at stake here for soft hearts and soft heads. If a woman’s death makes you cringe, then think of her not as wife but as witch. She can be tried and tested and found wanting under God’s eyes.’
The Butcher nodded thoughtfully. ‘A witch. Aye.’
‘Are we not men who fight and die as men?’ Harald kept his voice calm, but in his head he heard his father telling him the rules of life by the winter fire: honour, and blood, and the road to Valhalla. These Christian men would have called his own mother witch, and half the women in his village. ‘A victory like this has no value.’
As fast as a snake, Taillebois drew his sword and thrust the tip against Harald’s neck. Harald held his eyes steady, unflinching. ‘You take orders from us. You do not speak out,’ the Butcher snarled. He glanced at William. ‘It would be easier to lure the woman out of the camp than the monk. Once we have her, Hereward will do our bidding.’