Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army

by James Wilde

  ‘I saw you sneaking out of Hereward’s house at first light,’ Kraki snarled, advancing on Acha.

  ‘Your jealousy has eaten away at your wits,’ she spat. ‘His wife was ill with the child-sickness and I—’

  ‘You said you would help her so you could be close to Hereward,’ the Viking accused, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘This is not new. Since we came to Ely, you have not been able to take your eyes off him. You are a faithless whore.’ He spat. ‘You are mine, not his.’

  Acha’s dark eyes narrowed, and for a moment Alric was more afraid of her than of Kraki. ‘I belong to no one,’ she said, forming each word as if it were a pebble in her mouth.

  ‘So haughty,’ Kraki sneered. ‘You think yourself better than all here. Whatever you were among the Cymri before you were captured, here you are nothing.’

  Her lips pulled back from her teeth, and Alric feared she was about to fly at the Viking. Bristling, Kraki took a step towards her just as a blast of cold air blew from the direction of the door.

  ‘Leave her be.’

  Alric jerked round to see Hereward looming in the doorway. Guthrinc and Hengist pressed behind him, and Edoma was there too.

  Kraki roared like a wounded bear. Never would he have struck a woman, Alric was sure of that, but here was an opportunity to vent his rage. All reason lost, he hurled himself at Hereward and the two men crashed together like stags in the wood. The children wailed and pressed against the far wall. The others could only gape as fists hammered flesh with enough force to shatter wood.

  At first Hereward tried to pull away, shouting at the other man to calm down, but Kraki was lost to his rage. So furious was his attack it was all the Mercian could do to defend himself. The two warriors sprawled across the cold floor, locked in a battle that Alric feared could only end in death. With a roar, the Viking smashed his forehead into Hereward’s face. Blood spattered.

  Alric swallowed. Until then he could see that Hereward had been holding back. But now his eyes clouded and his lips pulled away from his blood-stained teeth, and the monk knew that his devil had been unleashed. The Mercian grabbed the other man’s ears and hammered his head against the floor until it seemed his skull would shatter. Kraki lashed out with jagged nails, raking them across Hereward’s face.

  Snarling and grunting like beasts, they thrashed across the boards until Kraki’s head slammed against the hearth-stones, stunning him. Hereward’s eyes were glazed. Alric could see that all the warrior wanted to do was kill this thing that had threatened his life. Snatching one of the stones that edged the fire, Hereward swung it up, ready to dash out the Viking’s brains.

  Alric cried out. He wrenched the spear from Hengist’s hand and rammed the tip against his friend’s neck. ‘Stay your hand,’ he yelled, ‘or as God is my witness I will end your days.’

  The stone wavered. After a moment Hereward blinked, his eyes beginning to clear. The rock slipped from his fingers and clattered on to the floor. With a snarl, he swatted away the spear and clambered to his feet, muttering, ‘This is madness.’

  Shaking his head, Kraki surfaced from his daze. The two men glared at each other for a moment, but the fire had gone out of the Viking too. Hereward paced away, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand.

  ‘If we do not soon turn our spears towards the enemy, we will end up killing each other,’ Alric implored, his voice trembling with the shock of what he had done.

  Hereward eyed him, then nodded. ‘You are the wisest one here,’ he sighed. ‘We have started to eat ourselves. This must end now.’ He turned to Kraki. The Viking swayed on his feet, ignoring the blood trickling down his face from a gash on his forehead. ‘You and I have never been friends,’ Hereward continued, ‘but we have shared the trust that only battle-brothers know. That bond still holds, even now.’

  Kraki grunted, watching the Mercian from under lowered brows.

  ‘Turfrida is my wife, and I need no other woman.’ Hereward looked from the Viking to Acha, and Alric thought he seemed to be speaking to both of them. ‘Even if that were not true, I would never come between a battle-brother and the woman he has chosen. Never.’

  Acha lowered her gaze, and in that unguarded look Alric felt he saw hurt, but it passed too quickly for him to be sure.

  Hereward turned to the others and said, ‘Leave us now. Kraki, Acha and I, we must talk and put this thing to rest once and for all.’

  Alric trailed out into the cold afternoon. While Edoma took the children back to their homes, he watched the hall from the church doorway, his hands growing raw in the cold. When the thin, grey light began to fade, the three figures stepped out. Kraki and Acha walked towards the track that led to the settlement, but together, the monk noted. Hereward saw him and came over.

  ‘We have reached an understanding,’ he said wearily. ‘In this, I have failed as a leader. I saw this danger approaching like sails on the horizon, but I did nothing.’

  ‘All is well now?’

  ‘As well as can be.’

  ‘She has feelings for you,’ the monk said, shuffling his feet to warm them.

  Hereward nodded, looking down. ‘But now she will keep them locked away. We all pay a price to win this war, and that is hers. It has been agreed.’ He sucked in a deep draught of the cold air. ‘You spoke true in the hall. There must be a change. We have sat around too long, gnawing at our wounds, and watching our hopes slowly fade. A few Norman deaths here and there only serves to enrage them. We must ready ourselves for war.’

  ‘How, with only the small numbers we have here? And most of them are untested.’

  Hereward looked into the growing gloom. ‘There will come a time when we have to risk all.’

  Alric’s face crumpled. ‘It will be a slaughter.’

  Before Hereward could reply, a figure ran through the gate into the minster enclosure. Alric squinted and saw it was one of the scouts. He waved an arm furiously. Hereward strode over and bowed his head to listen to the man’s anxious gabble. When he returned, the Mercian’s face had lightened.

  ‘I was afraid he had word of an attack by the king’s men,’ Alric said. ‘Can it truly be good news? After this winter, we deserve some.’

  ‘Neither good nor bad, yet,’ Hereward replied, his brow knit in thought, ‘but fate has given us a chance, and I am ready to seize it with both hands.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  SNOW ENGULFED THE hooded rider. His horse staggered into the face of the furious blizzard as the blasting wind wrenched at his cloak. Night had fallen and the trail of hoofprints filled as fast as it was made. Balthar squinted past the stinging flakes, but he could see no more than a spear’s-length ahead. The bitter cold reached deep into his bones and his belly growled with hunger. And now he felt fear grip his spine. How long before he succumbed to the warm-sleep, or his steed plunged him into a ravine? The mountains were treacherous even in clear weather and daylight. He dug his knees into the horse’s flanks, trying to turn it around. But the beast writhed and threw its head back as it started to become panicked now the drifts had reached halfway up its legs.

  Balthar looked all around. He could see no sign of William’s vast army anywhere. The last thing he remembered was his shadow, Faramond the knight, riding beside him as the snowstorm began. In the warm depths of his cloak, his eyelids had begun to droop as the bitter cold descended. When he had next looked up, he was alone. For all he knew, the army could be close enough for him to ride back in moments, but he had no sense of the direction from which he had come. He called out for help until his throat was raw, but the howling wind stole his words.

  If only he had taken more care. But exhaustion had hollowed him out and he wished only to rest. William’s campaign across Northumbria to the banks of the Tees had been relentless. They had left behind a land soaked in gore and covered with corpses where the carrion birds blocked the sun as they flocked. But still that was not enough to satiate the king’s blood-lust. Barely had the last victim fallen, than the
king had turned his entire army around and pushed south-west towards Cestre where the last and perhaps weakest of the northern uprisings still simmered. He had held out hope that Balthar could be back in Wincestre with Godrun before the buds on the trees had started to open. He choked back a sob, afraid that he might never see her beautiful face again.

  Digging his heels into the horse only drove it into a frenzy. As it fought its way through the growing drifts, its leg plunged into some hidden crevice and it slid to one side. Balthar heard the bone snap even above the gale. Convulsing, the beast went down. Thrown from its back, Balthar crashed into the deep snow, slamming against the rocks hidden beneath. He shook off his daze and scrambled to his feet only to see the poor creature lying on its side, eyes rolling wildly, breath steaming in the cold. Had he had a weapon, he would have put it out of its misery, but nothing could be done.

  He buried his face in his hands. Why was God punishing him so? He had done no wrong. Wiping the snot from his top lip, he tried to summon what resolve remained and hauled himself away through the drifts. His only hope lay in finding his way back to the king’s army, he knew that. But if he could at least reach shelter until the snowstorm passed, he might stand a better chance of finding their track over the high land. The thought sounded desperate even as it passed through his mind, but he pushed it aside. He lurched on, the wind dragging him this way and that. All feeling had gone from his hands and feet.

  Through the snow he waded, until it seemed that he had always been lost in that freezing world. He skidded down a slope, stumbled and fell, picked himself up and trudged on, bent near double into the gale. Just when he began to feel the cold was about to steal his meagre life, he glimpsed what could be the dark bulk of houses through the blizzard. His heart thumped. He pushed aside his fears that his suffering had addled his mind and staggered on. When a huddle of huts and small thatched houses appeared, he almost cried out in joy. Hill farmers, he thought, scratching a bare existence from that poor land. But it would be shelter, and warmth. He dragged up the last of his strength and threw himself forward.

  As he neared the hamlet, the wind fell away and the storm swept off into the east. The last white flakes drifted down. After the fury of the gale, the silence and stillness soothed him. Lit by a waxing moon, he crunched through the knee-deep snow to the nearest home. The houses were humble, small and low, the timber weathered. Leaning against the door, he sucked in a deep breath of the freezing air to calm himself and then knocked gently so as not to frighten whoever lived there. When no reply came, he eased open the door, half-expecting an anxious farmer armed with a cudgel.

  Inside, only a few embers glowed in the hearth, despite the bitter cold. Nothing stirred. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he peered around. An old, dented cooking pot hung over the fire. A few chipped pots and wooden bowls were scattered around, next to a rusty knife and a serving spoon. A bed of filthy straw lay against one wall. Poor by any standards.

  As Balthar hovered on the threshold, a whimper rustled out from the dark at the far end of the hut. Whoever was there was scared of this stranger creeping in in the middle of the night, he realized, and who could blame them? ‘I mean no harm,’ he called in a loud whisper. ‘I seek only shelter and warmth.’

  ‘Go away.’

  It was a woman’s voice, weak and husky. He stepped a few paces into the hut and squinted. A woman in little more than rags with a long, haggard face crouched with her arms around two boys. Scrawny, they were, barely more than skin and bone, with swollen bellies and eyes bulging in faces that were almost skulls. The mother’s skin looked ashen in the gloom. Her cheeks were hollow and her eyes settled deep into pools of shadow. But he breathed easier when he saw no sign of the pestilence on them.

  ‘Please.’ He held out both his hands. ‘Have pity.’

  The woman cowered, hugging her children closer as if he were about to attack her. ‘Are you with the king’s army?’ she whispered in a tremulous voice.

  ‘No,’ he insisted, afraid of reprisal for the atrocities the king had committed across the north. Surely all now knew William saw them as men saw vermin. ‘I am not one of the king’s men. I am but a lonely earth-walker caught up in this foul storm.’

  This seemed to please her. After a moment, she beckoned for him to enter. He closed the door and almost fell upon the hearth in his eagerness to warm himself. ‘Thank God for your kindness,’ he gushed. ‘I thought I would die.’

  ‘No man should travel over the hills at night in this weather,’ she said. ‘It is madness.’

  ‘It is.’ He bowed his head. ‘I … I was running away from the army. The things they have done …’

  ‘They have blighted this land for ever more.’

  ‘But you survive here, and that is good,’ he said, looking up and smiling. His eyes flickered towards the cook-pot. ‘Food is scarce, I know, but could you spare a crumb … anything? My belly has not been full all this day.’

  Her face darkened. ‘We have no food here,’ she snarled.

  ‘But—’

  ‘No food,’ she snapped. After a moment, she looked down. ‘We ate the dogs first, and then the horses. Now … now we hunt each day. But this winter is harsh …’ Her voice trailed away as she stared with dread into the dark.

  He nodded, understanding the horrors that must haunt them in that place. If he could not find food to assuage his hunger, he could at least rest in the warmth until daybreak. ‘Will you let me stay by the fire? I will pay you good coin.’ He pulled a silver penny from the leather pouch beneath his cloak and showed it to her. Her eyes gleamed hungrily. With that, she could buy half a sack of corn or a good few hens at the market.

  She clawed her way forwards on all fours like a dog and then rose up in front of him, snatching the penny from his fingers. ‘Stay,’ she insisted. ‘And if you have more than one penny in your bag, my neighbours might have one last crust hidden away that you could gnaw on.’

  Balthar felt his belly growl at the prospect of even a hunk of dry bread. ‘Ask them, good wife,’ he said. ‘Aid me here and I will see you all well rewarded.’

  The woman whispered in her boys’ ears, no doubt urging them to watch him so he did not steal any of their pitiful possessions, and then hurried out into the night. Relieved, Balthar knelt by the hearth and rubbed his hands above the hot coals. As life came back into his frozen fingers, he muttered a prayer of thanks. God had smiled on him. In the storm, he could have passed a few spear-throws to the left or right and not seen the hamlet at all. By now, he would have been frozen in a drift somewhere, his body undiscovered until the spring, if the wolves had not devoured it first.

  The boys crawled to the shadows at the back of the hut, too weak to stand. How terrible was their plight. He felt pity for these folk. In Wincestre, he had been sheltered from so much hardship, but now, after all the horrors he had witnessed, he would never be that same man.

  The boys forgotten, he tapped the iron cook-pot. It swung gently on its chain and a protruding bone rattled. So hungry did he feel, he wondered if there were perhaps a morsel of meat still attached that he could suck off. The silver penny would more than pay for what little he would find. He peered into the pot, but the bone had been picked clean. The juices had all been drunk and the vessel was dry. He shrugged, disappointed. A few more bones rattled around in the bottom. He dipped his hand in and felt around, pulling each one out in turn to examine it, but all were dry. Finally, his fingers closed around a curved bone and he drew it up.

  Ice-water sluiced through him as he realized what he was seeing. A skull. A human skull, so small it could nestle in the palm of his hand.

  In his shock, he flung the tiny thing across the hut and it rattled on the cold mud floor. Sickened, he scrabbled away from the hearth and clutched the back of his hand to his mouth. What vision of hell was this?

  Before he could contemplate the true horror of his discovery, he felt a blast of cold air. The door hung open. The woman was there, and not alone. Hollow-eyed, gau
nt faces loomed in the dark behind her. They seemed to hang on the threshold for a moment as if contemplating what they were about to do, and then they surged inside.

  Balthar cried out, trying to scramble to his feet, but they swarmed as swiftly as rats. Though he wrenched himself from side to side, hands gripped his arms and legs and pinned him down. ‘Please, God, have mercy,’ he shrieked.

  A man loomed over him, staring eyes gleaming with madness. His lips pulled back from his yellowing teeth in an eager grin and he feverishly ripped open Balthar’s cloak. The other men and women pressed in, and he gagged at the sour reek rolling off them. In their trembling hands he glimpsed a smith’s hammer and a chisel, a billhook. Most held knives. All his thoughts rushed away in terror at the fate awaiting him. Like a madman himself, he fought, screaming until his throat was raw, but their hunger gave them greater strength.

  A fist crunched against his face to still his struggles so they could more easily go about their business. Dazed, he muttered through split lips, ‘Let me live. Please, God, let me live.’

  The man swung his knife up.

  A crash thundered through the hut. The heads of his captors jerked round. Balthar found his eyes gripped by that suspended blade as all his other senses fell away. He thought he half-heard the roar of some wild beast, and the shrieks of frightened birds. The knife whisked away as a storm of frantic movement broke around him. He gaped, bewildered. In the thin glow from the embers, the looming shapes of his captors whirled about. Shouts and snarls echoed, then a cry of agony, cut short.

  A hand shook him roughly from his stupor. ‘Run,’ a voice commanded. He stared into a familiar face and realized it was Faramond the knight. The Norman warrior flew away, his sword hacking in an arc. Blood sprayed. Balthar clawed himself up to his feet in a panic. Amid the din, his senses spun. Putting his head down, he lashed out blindly and hurled himself between the flailing bodies.