by James Wilde
His seed spilled across her belly too quickly, and with that release, he felt as if every dread, every doubt, every piece of guilt, every harrowing experience rushed out of him as one. Tears rolled down his cheeks and then he began to cry, huge sobs that racked his entire body. Even his shame at such a display could not contain them.
Godrun wrapped her arms around him, shocked by the outpouring. Yet she said nothing and seemed not to judge him, and for that he felt thankful. When he had recovered, he bowed his head and murmured his apologies. He did not want her to see him that way, and he tried to make light talk, demanding to know the latest palace gossip. But she would have none of it.
‘Tell me,’ she insisted, fixing a stern eye upon him. ‘If we are to be close, we must have no secrets between us. You have helped me too much since I came here, and now I would aid you, if I can.’
‘There is nothing you can do,’ he sighed, but she pressed and after a few moments he was telling her the grim tale of what he had seen in the north and of the king’s cruelty and the misery the monarch had left in his wake. The grimmest facts he chose to omit, out of kindness. Nor could he bring himself to tell her of his own role in guiding the king’s hand to such atrocities. Afterwards, he sagged against her, saying, ‘Once I believed I knew everything, and now I see I know nothing. I feel lost, Godrun, and alone.’
‘You are not alone. I am here.’ She stroked his head and whispered, ‘You are a powerful man. The king listens to all that you say.’
‘And laughs at me.’
‘No. He raised you on high because he needs you. You are his way to understand the English, and to bring them to him, in obedience. You cannot be lost, for you still are that same man who guides the hand of a king.’
Balthar felt his stomach churn at those words. ‘I … I do not think I want that work any more.’
‘Then what path do you think God would want you to tread?’ Her lips brushed his ear and he shivered with delight.
‘The path of righteousness. I believed we would see peace and wealth under William’s rule. All the suffering of the invasion could be forgotten, if only we accepted the Normans. Now …’ He creased his brow, the thoughts forming even as he spoke. ‘Now I wonder if I was mistaken.’
‘In my home, I heard many say the same,’ she said, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘William is cruel. William steals and slays and the misery will not end until the English are all driven into the mud. I know nothing of these things.’ She shrugged, then turned to him and smiled. ‘But you are a wise man. If you believe the king is a threat to us all, then surely he must be.’
Balthar jerked at her words. From her lips, in so bald a manner, they sounded shocking. Yet was this not the only honest conclusion of the doubts that had afflicted him? He rubbed his brow in confusion. It felt as if his old life had been washed away in a flood in recent times, that world of slow advance to power, and dull family life, of numb hearts and grey thoughts. The king had raised him up, and he had committed himself to William and all that he offered. But there, beside Godrun, it felt of little import any more. He shook his head, smiling. ‘These doubts seem new to me, but I wonder if they first rose unbidden when I laid eyes upon you.’
‘Me?’ she said with a shy smile.
‘You reminded me of who I once was, and of a world I had forgotten, or tried to forget.’
‘You are a good man,’ she murmured, kissing his cheek, ‘and I know that whatever path you choose will be for the good of us all.’
In her eyes he saw such adoration that all his fears melted away. He wanted only to please her, and if it bought him peace, all the better. ‘Good, yes, I will do good.’ His mind was racing. ‘The suffering William has brought to the English is a crime that must be fought,’ he blurted. Only when the words had left his lips did he realize he had no idea what he could do about such a thing. Nor did he want to lose his head with a futile gesture.
Godrun frowned.
‘What is it?’ he asked gently.
‘You say the king has not crushed all those who stand against him?’
‘In the east a few remain, but they are no threat.’
‘Perhaps you could aid them?’
He laughed. ‘What could I do? Carry a spear and a shield while the Norman army bears down upon me? There would be no more kisses after that.’
‘But you see and hear everything here in the palace. You know the king’s mind,’ she said, growing excited. She held out her arms. ‘Why, could you not guide his ship on to the rocks? Or find some way to send aid to those poor souls in the east? No one is cleverer than the Fox,’ she added, eyeing him from beneath heavy lids.
He felt a stirring in his groin at that seductive look. ‘You have bewitched me, Godrun, with your youth and your joy and your innocence. I am yours for ever more,’ he said with a laugh. ‘You are right. I am the Fox, and more cunning than the king realizes. I will show you what power I command.’
This seemed to excite her, which drove him to even greater passion. She pulled him back on to the bed, nipping at his ear with her teeth. ‘And I will show you much love in turn,’ she breathed, ‘more, perhaps, than you have ever had in your life.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
29 May 1070
SHARDS OF MOONLIGHT glittered off the rippling black waters. An oar sliced through the silvery illumination, and then another, as the fleet of large, flat-bottomed boats headed westwards along the Wellstream, the miles-wide channel that carved its way across the northern fenlands. Warriors squatted on the timber seats, their helms and mail shirts gleaming under the eye of the full moon. No one spoke. Across the wild fens, the wind had dropped and the warm night was still.
Hereward stood in the prow of the lead boat, one foot braced against the rim. Fire burned in his breast. After all the worry and the wait, the battle against the Normans had begun. When this night was done, the king could no longer pretend his crown was secure. The Mercian glanced back across the trail of vessels. Near eighty warriors followed his lead, English, Danes and axes-for-hire, lured by his promise of riches beyond measure. Now we honour the fallen, he thought. Now we take back what is ours.
Redwald loomed at his shoulder. ‘Outwell is behind us,’ he murmured, knowing that any voice would travel far in that quiet land.
‘Soon, now,’ Hereward whispered in reply. ‘Soon.’
The Mercian grinned to himself. During the long, cold winter, he had allowed his fears to devour him, he knew that now. His army breaking apart by the day, good men hacked down by the Normans as they scouted the snowbound wetlands. It had seemed that all their hopes were turning to dust. The arrival of the Danes had changed all that. He had gambled everything on Sweyn Estrithson allying his army with the English rebels and now they would all reap the rewards. His thoughts flew back six weeks to that mild spring day when the Northmen had tramped through Ely’s gates. The cheers of the English must have been heard all the way to Wincestre. All there knew that now they had a force to be reckoned with, and the days of struggle and thin hope had passed. The Danes had brought with them carts laden with meat and grain that had been given to them by grateful folk on their journey from the coast, and good venison and boar that had been hunted on the way. There was to be no want in Ely on their arrival, Hereward had insisted on that. And though these fierce men had strange customs and sullen ways, the English had welcomed them into their hearts, as was the English way.
King Sweyn had stayed with the remainder of his army, clustered with his commanders in his blood-red tent as they planned the coming battle against the Bastard. Hereward felt a cold satisfaction that vengeance was coming fast. There could be no turning back from this day.
He glanced across the heads of his men. Their faces were crusted grey with ashes, each one a promise of the grave for any Norman who stood in their way. Some looked determined, others keen. No fear. That was good. Guthrinc winked at him. He winked back.
Redwald squatted by his feet, watching the moonlit trees ahead. ‘It
is sad Alric cannot share in our great victory this night.’
‘He is not a fighting man.’
‘No, better he stays behind and ministers to the women and children. He is not one of us.’ He paused for reflection, adding, ‘A good man, but not one of us.’
A hunting owl screeched as it swept across the Wellstream. When the haunting cry died away, Hereward felt a tremor in the boat as it approached the point where two other streams flooded into the channel. Still swollen by the spring rains, the waters churned violently. But his men knew the moods of the Wellstream. They were ready for this.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and mimicked the screech of the owl. The call leapt from boat to boat. Hereward rested his hand on Redwald’s shoulder and the younger man looked up at him with untroubled eyes and a trusting smile. For one moment, Hereward felt a pang of regret for the few good times during his childhood, and then the boat slammed into the swirling current. He dropped to his haunches, gripping the edge.
At the agreed warning, the warriors heaved on the oars. The boat rolled as if it had crashed over rocks hidden just beneath the surface. Hereward braced himself. One side flipped up at an acute angle, then smashed back down. The other side rolled up just as steeply. ‘Hold steady,’ he urged through gritted teeth. He could hear his men cursing as they fought with the oars. The timber frame groaned, flexing against the current. Aft it was wrenched to one side and the boat went into a spin. Oars stabbed the water. Hectic splashing drowned out the sound of laboured breathing. The warriors thrust the boat into the spin, and the vessel whirled one rotation. Then the oarsmen rowed in unison. The boat seemed to heave, and judder, and then, as if breaking free from invisible hands, it shot forward along the channel.
Hereward released the breath he was holding. The violent spring currents had torn boats apart in times past, however well-made they had been. His relief ebbed when he heard a cry and a splash. Turning, he saw that a Dane had been thrown over the side of the next boat in its convulsions. His fingertips clutched at the edge of the vessel as the claws of the currents tore at him. The desperate faces of his brothers glowed white in the moonlight. They lunged to grab his wrist, but the boat shook so violently they could barely keep their own feet.
And then he was gone, his mail shirt and heavy furs dragging him down beneath the black waters. The other men cried out his name and jabbed the oars beneath the surface in the hope that he would grab hold. But he would have been swept away by the current, Hereward knew. If his body were ever found, it would not be until the summer and then far from this place. The waters of the fens were cruel. The Wellstream claimed three bodies a year, folk said, and many left offerings of bread and spears once the snows had melted, to placate that hungry river.
Even though he had never learned the Dane’s name, he bowed his head in memory of the lost man. It would not be an omen.
The rest of the fleet made it through the turbulence without further loss of life. Silence fell upon the warriors once more. They bowed their heads with grim determination as they rowed harder up-river. The Wellstream drove like a spear into the heart of their enemy. Never would they have been able to approach so quickly and unseen by the Norman patrols if they had been forced to follow the old tracks. As the reed-beds thinned, the desolation of the fens gave way to thick woods and steeper banks. The horizon, always so far away in Ely, seemed to close in around them. Hereward sensed his men grow tense as they neared their destination.
When they rounded a bend in the river, the Mercian himself stiffened. On higher ground, a church tower was silhouetted against the starry sky. The thatched roofs of houses tumbled down the slope from the enclosure surrounding the minster.
‘Burgh,’ Hereward murmured to himself. His thoughts flew back to the last time he had visited the abbey, when his uncle, the abbot Brand, knighted him under duress. Brand was now dead, and a new abbot guided the monks, no doubt just as much in thrall to Norman power.
With hand signals and hushed tones, the orders were given. The oarsmen guided the boats to the river’s edge and moored them with stakes driven into the mud. Once they had disembarked on to the muddy path – the place where local fishermen would drop their willow baskets to catch eels – Hereward raised his blade towards the sweep of glittering stars. His men grabbed their spears and axes from the bottom of the boats, and their shields from where they had been hanging along the sides. All faces turned towards him as the warriors gathered four abreast on the Wellstream’s edge.
‘Some say these are the End-Times,’ Hereward began, his voice low but his words carrying powerfully across the rapt men, ‘and that the king is the Devil who has brought us to these dark days. The north is a wasteland. On the wind, we hear the cries of the sick and the starving. The blood of an unjust war against the innocent has turned the rivers red. Aye, Death is abroad upon his white horse.’
He lowered his sword and swept it towards Burgh. ‘This night we show William the Bastard whose days are truly ending … his own. Follow me now, wolf-brothers, and let our weapons drink deep of the mead of battle. Glory waits for us, and gold. And on the morrow, a new dawn breaks.’
He saw eyes burning with fire and lupine grins, and spears thrust towards the heavens in a silent cheer. As he turned towards Burgh, his blood pounding in his chest, he felt struck by a revelation that warmed him. The affairs of men turned in a gyre, like the falcon that flew from his wrist when he was a boy. Once he had been little more than a ravening wolf, driven by rage and hungry for blood, shunned by all civilized folk. Now he was a leader of men who had been taught the value of friendship and honour and justice. Once, not too many weeks gone, his army had stared disaster in the face, and now they had victory within their grasp. He thought of his father, and the miseries of his childhood, and how he had once believed that had charted the course of his life. But no path was set. God or fortune or will could lead any man out of the dark.
Hereward grinned to himself. All would now be made right with the world. He whirled towards the church tower, glowing silver in the moonlight. ‘We are the English,’ he cried, knowing there was no longer any need for secrecy, ‘and the day of reckoning is here.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE ROAR OF the attacking English rang through the still night. Hereward thought how it must have chilled the very souls of any Normans who heard it, a dread that would be doubled the moment they looked down on the skull-faced horde thundering towards the palisade.
‘Redwald, Guthrinc,’ he called as they scrambled up the ramparts. ‘On my order, let fly your battle-serpents.’
The two warriors plucked arrows from the leather pouches on their backs as they ran. Hereward knew he had chosen them well for no man there was better with the hunting bow. When they were in range, they dropped to one knee and nocked the shafts to their lines. The night, too, had been well chosen. He waited until he saw the heads of two Norman guards appear above the stockade, caught in moonlight so bright it might as well have been day.
‘Now,’ he snapped.
The arrows whipped out. The guards, focusing their attention on the melee against the fence, never saw them coming. One plunged into a helm’s eye-hole and the man screamed, pitching backwards from the fence as he clutched impotently at the wavering shaft. The other arrow found a Norman throat. Hereward heard the choking gurgle for only a moment before that man too fell.
Cries of alarm rang out from the other side of the palisade. The sound of running feet echoed from the hall where the English scouts had told Hereward the small Norman force slept. The Mercian grinned. All was unfolding as planned. Ivo Taillebois, William de Warenne and the bulk of their men were far away to the south. He laughed as he thought of the hated enemy waiting in the woods all night for a raid that would never happen. His men had sown the whispers of that attack for days in the surrounding villages, knowing it would reach the ears of Norman spies.
More guards appeared on the fence. They had clearly seen their fallen brothers for they kept their h
eads low.
‘To the Bolhythe Gate,’ Hereward yelled. His warriors surged along the eastern wall towards the southern entrance to Burgh. Beyond the gate, the street led straight as an arrow to the abbey.
From the southern ramparts, Hereward looked out over a moonlit wasteland of tree stumps, vast swathes of land blackened by burning, heaps of waste where shrieking flocks of birds would feed each day, and large stagnant pools. Deep ruts had been carved into the road leading to Burgh by the merchants’ carts. He turned to face the gate, as high as three men and no doubt barred by a heavy oak beam on the other side.
‘Break it down,’ he commanded.
Four Danes heaved up the trimmed and bark-stripped trunk of an oak that had been left outside the fence by the wood-cutters at the end of the day’s labour. As they charged towards the gate, the rest of the army thundered alongside them, throwing the weight of their bodies against the barrier. The wave broke with a crash. The gate groaned and splintered, but held. With a roar, the Danes pulled their ram back for another strike.
Hereward whipped his arm to the right and left to direct Guthrinc and Redwald to positions on either side of the throng. They knelt once more, nocking arrows to creaking bowstrings, and aimed at the top of the stockade. When a guard raced along the walkway, Redwald let fly. The shaft clanged on the Norman’s helm and ricocheted away. Cursing in his guttural tongue, the man dropped down low. The two English archers fired again and again whenever any Norman dared raise his head. Hereward nodded his approval. The English within Burgh would be roused and the gates shattered before the enemy could hurl rocks or fire down upon his men.
The tree-trunk rammed against the gate time and again. The barrier bowed. Shards of wood flew out. From the high walkway the guards’ yells grew more urgent as they realized their defences were about to fail.