Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army

by James Wilde

  A single torch burned beside the door of the keep. A sea of darkness washed up against the small island of light. On previous evenings, he had watched two bored men guarding the gate. With the walls of the high-town so secure, no more were needed, and they had seemed to pay little attention to the world around them. Even so, he knew he would only have a little time before the remaining guard began to search for his missing companion.

  Keeping low, he loped around the edge of the bailey. The night was warm, still scented with the meaty aromas of that night’s meal. The row of six stores loomed up out of the dark, and he found the one he had seen the witchfinder enter the previous day. For a moment, he listened at the door. No sound came from within. Easing the door open a crack, he slipped inside.

  A fat candle guttered by a flight of earthen steps leading down into the pitch black of the undercroft. His throat constricted. It was too quiet. Apprehension shifted to fear for his wife’s safety and he quickly turned it to cold anger. All the Normans would pay for the torment they had inflicted on his wife – the witch-finder, Ivo Taillebois, William de Warenne, yes, and the king himself. Blood would follow blood. He steadied himself, then picked up the candle and edged down to the lower level. At the foot of the steps, his nostrils wrinkled. He could smell loam, but behind it other scents lurked: charred wood, sweat, iron.

  Shadows swooped away from the candle flame. Letting his eyes adjust to the gloom, Hereward looked around the undercroft. At another time it would have stored supplies for the castle. The floor was packed earth. Halfway along lay a circle of grey ashes and charred wood, and within it thin rods of iron. He wrenched his head away quickly, sickened by the visions that burned through his mind. Tilting the candle, he made out a bundle of rags heaped in one corner. In another stood a pitcher and a cup, some strips of hide, a pail, a broken spear, an adze, a whetstone.

  His attention flickered back to the rags.

  The thunder of blood in his head drowned out the sound of his running feet. He dropped to his knees beside the unmoving form. For a moment, he was gripped by the sight of brown hair, now matted with grease and sweat and blood. His thoughts rebelled, refusing to make sense of what he was seeing. A part of him wanted to call his wife’s name, but the word choked in his throat. Then, with trembling hands, he turned Turfrida over on to her back. Her belly swelled beneath her filthy, torn dress. Her too-pale face was smeared with dirt. As his gaze drifted down, he saw her bare arms were a patchwork of wounds and burns. How she must have suffered. He fought back a wave of devastation.

  But then her eyes flickered in the candlelight and he stifled the urge to cry out with relief. He snatched up her cold hand and stroked the back of it with his filthy thumb. She frowned as she looked into his face, not sure what she was seeing, or not believing. Her thin smile seemed to take a tremendous effort, for it faded quickly, and when she spoke her voice was barely more than a husk. ‘You should not have come.’

  ‘And leave you here, the thing that is most valuable in my life?’ he whispered.

  ‘It is a trap.’

  ‘I know.’ He shook his head, trying to dispel visions of the witchfinder with his glowing rods and his blades and his mallets, and of Turfrida screaming and pleading for mercy. He felt hollowed out by what he knew had transpired. ‘They will pay,’ he croaked. ‘Pay with their lives.’

  Turfrida raised a trembling hand to silence him. ‘No … be still. You must hear me. They took me to lure you here. A choice, that is what they offer … My life for the end of your war. You must stand up and vow in the marketplace here in Lincylene that you believe William is king, that you were wrong to raise your spear against him, and that all English should lay down their weapons and bow their heads to him.’

  ‘And then they will take my life,’ he said with a grim smile.

  ‘You cannot do this. Your fight is just, and my life is nothing next to that.’

  ‘You think I would condemn you to death?’ he whispered.

  ‘I do not think you would condemn the English to misery and blood under that Bastard’s cruel rule. This is a choice no man should ever have to make.’ She tried to grip his hand, but she was too weak. ‘You must forget me, Hereward. Fight on. The English need you.’

  He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. ‘I do not play by the king’s rules. I make my own. One guard waits at the gate, and he will be dead before he can speak. Then I will carry you from here, and we will be away from Lincylene long before William’s dogs can hunt for us.’

  She smiled again. ‘My love,’ she whispered.

  ‘I will return in moments.’ He squeezed her hand and turned, darting back across the undercroft to the steps. Relief filled him. Bounding up the stair, he slipped out of the door into the night.

  A figure waited, swathed in the dark. Hereward froze, wondering if he could kill the stranger before a warning was called. ‘Stand your ground,’ a familiar voice growled. The shape stepped forward, and the Mercian saw it was his father.

  Hereward gaped. Why would Asketil be there, in a Norman stronghold, so far from his home in Barholme? ‘You are a prisoner too,’ the warrior whispered. As his thoughts raced, he realized his father did not look as aged and feeble as the last time they had met. He seemed taller, his shoulders pushed back, as Hereward remembered him from his youth. A fire burned in the old man’s eyes.

  ‘I knew it was you I saw skulking with the filthy ceorls earlier this day,’ Asketil snarled. ‘Though I searched the bailey, I had no doubt you would soon appear. You could not ignore the lure of your whore.’

  Hereward winced. ‘Come, let me take you from here—’

  Asketil shook his fist at his son. ‘I will not rest until I see you cut down, like the wild dog you are.’

  ‘But … we are blood,’ Hereward replied, incredulous.

  ‘And you have dishonoured that blood. I am loyal to my king.’ He turned and yelled into the dark bailey, ‘He is here. Hereward is here.’

  Stunned by his father’s betrayal, Hereward was rooted. In an instant, the waiting guards encircled him. Spears flashed up to his chest on every side.

  Asketil turned his back on his son. ‘I have brought honour back to my kin,’ he sighed. With disbelief, Hereward watched his father walk away towards the keep. The old man’s words floated back: ‘You have always had no worth, but now you have failed the poor souls who put their trust in you. Your doomed fight is over. Your army will be broken. And then you will be put to death, so all the English know that you are as nothing.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  3 September 1070

  THE RAVEN BANNER of the Danish king fluttered in the sea breeze. Beneath it, wind boomed in the striped sail of the Long Serpent as the royal flagship prepared to leave England behind. Sweyn Estrithson looked up from the prow and saw the weather was good. On their sea-chests his men sat, wrapped in furs against the chill of the long crossing as they gripped the oars. With a nod, the king signalled all was well.

  Alric shielded his eyes against the dazzling sun and watched the langskip pull away. It was the first, but it would not be the last. With mounting anxiety, he looked across the rest of the vast fleet. The decks bustled with activity. Along the water’s edge, by the salt marsh, warriors pulled down tents and kicked out the embers of the night’s fires. Others hauled chests and sacks into the surf to stow on their vessels. The scout had been right. The Danes were going home.

  ‘This cannot be,’ Aethelwold proclaimed, throwing his arms into the air. ‘They take the saint’s bone and our church’s treasures.’ Alric lunged to restrain the distressed prior, but the churchman threw himself down the slope towards the stony beach. The monks of Burgh surged after him.

  ‘Did we expect any less when we allowed them to load the gold on their ships?’ Redwald muttered as he strode up, Kraki and ten other warriors massed behind him.

  ‘You think we stood a chance to stop them?’ the Viking snapped.

  Alric grimaced. He had sensed the tension between the tw
o men from the moment he had returned to Ely with Hereward’s message. Kraki clearly did not believe Redwald was up to the task of leading the army and had made that point vociferously. Only Redwald’s refusal to accept the command prevented a confrontation. The younger man was no fool. He preferred to whisper in a small voice and let others reap the consequences of his actions. Yet since that day the English had been leaderless and Alric had found all sides looking to him to keep the peace.

  ‘We lose our leader, we lose our army and now we have lost our gold and God’s power,’ Madulf bemoaned with a shake of his head. ‘We have nothing to protect us from the king’s wrath.’

  ‘We have what we always had,’ Kraki growled, shaking his axe.

  ‘If only Hereward were here. He would know what to do.’ Dismayed, Sighard leaned upon his spear.

  ‘But he is not. We must make our own way until he returns.’ Alric watched the Burgh monks rushing through the remnants of the camp, trying to find someone who would listen to their pleas. ‘Let us see if there is aught we can do.’

  He strode down the slope and crunched across the pebbles, hoping he appeared more confident than he felt. When he approached a red-headed Dane folding a sapphire-coloured tent, the warrior thrust him aside with such force he fell upon his arse, flushing as the man laughed. Undeterred, however, Alric moved on until he caught sight of Nasi. The commander of the Danes at Ely was ordering two men to drag a stuffed sack towards the ships.

  Alric hailed him with a wave. Nasi shook his head wearily, but turned to face the monk. ‘Save your breath,’ he sighed. ‘We return home.’

  ‘With all the gold and the arm of St Oswald? Where is the honour in that?’

  Nasi’s eyes darted furtively and then he beckoned the monk to one side where they would not be overheard. ‘Our king has given his order. It is not for us to question it,’ he whispered. He glanced around, adding, ‘William the Bastard has paid him off. All the gold and silver we have taken is ours to keep, and more with it, some say. And the bone of Oswald too.’

  Alric frowned. The king was clever. A little gold was a small price to pay to kick the legs out from under the rebellion. ‘You leave us with nothing.’

  The Dane held out his hands and gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Another day will dawn and another feast will come.’

  For you perhaps, the monk thought bitterly. ‘We have set our trap to lure the king’s army in and now we have no one left to fight them. We will be slaughtered.’

  Nasi could not reply.

  Alric looked towards the fleet and gaped as the monks of Burgh splashed through the surf towards the nearest vessels. Nasi followed his gaze and grinned slyly. ‘Better they sail with us than fight for their treasures here on the beach. They think the king will hear their pleas once he is drunk on mead in his own hall.’ He shrugged. ‘The faith of a churchman, a wonder to behold.’

  When the Dane returned to his work, Alric bowed his head and made his way back up the beach. The journey had been futile, but he had expected no other. For Hereward’s sake, he had at least tried. As he strode through the long grass on the dunes, he heard the English warriors bickering away in the trees. Tempers frayed on all sides. How long could they hold the army together without Hereward to lead them?

  Through the low-hanging branches he pushed, towards the sound of the arguing voices. Barely had he taken four steps into the shadows under the canopy, when he sensed movement behind him. Thinking Nasi had come after him, he half-turned. A bolt of pain seared through his head and he felt himself falling.

  Darkness came.

  How long passed, he did not know. Once again, he felt sure he was back in the monastery in Jarrow, his place of safety, being scolded by Brother Oswyn for being a poor scholar. As he came round, he felt the world moving beneath him. Rough wood prickled his cheek. His head throbbed as if he had spent all night drinking mead. Hands folded into his tunic and pulled him into a sitting position. When his vision cleared, he found himself looking into the face of Nasi. Salty wind stung his face and a booming filled the air. He knew then where he was.

  ‘You chose to join me on the wave-skimmer after all, monk,’ the Dane said with a grin.

  With mounting horror, Alric looked round. No land could he see, no safe home, only the heaving blue waves and an uncertain future.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  THE SKY BLACKENED in the north. Bolts of lightning danced along the horizon. As the wind tore across the water, the swell began to heave. Alric looked to the growing storm, fear and nausea battling inside him. Upright in the prow, Nasi barked orders to his men, keeping one eye on the vast array of ships dipping and cresting on the waves. The Danes were seasoned sailors and treated the whale road with respect. Yet they gazed with unease towards the tempest as they hunched over their oars. That troubled him even more. Aft, the steersman wrestled with the steering oar against the turbulent waves. The weather-vane tipped with the iron heads of ravens spun wildly.

  ‘God will watch over us,’ Aethelwold murmured, more to ease his own terror than to comfort Alric.

  ‘I have endured one shipwreck. I should not wish to face another, even with the Lord at my shoulder,’ Alric muttered. Memories of black water closing over his head flooded his mind and a shudder ran through him.

  The prior dropped to his knees and mouthed a prayer in front of the relic chest. The four other monks on the vessel clustered around him as the deck rolled under their feet. As they picked up the prayer, Alric looked around and saw a curious thing. The Danes near by eyed the box with the same uneasy stare they kept for the storm. At first, he could not understand why that would be so. When he saw one of the warriors cross himself and raise his eyes to the heavens, he had it. Men who braved the sea were more superstitious than those who lived out their days on dry land. These hardened fighting men feared they would be punished for stealing the relic from the churchmen who guarded it.

  Lightning briefly turned the world white. Then thunder cracked overhead and the day became as night.

  Alric crouched down beside the praying monks, finding some shelter from the blasting wind below the rims of the shields on the rack running around the boat. Screwing up his eyes, he wished he were back in Ely, anywhere but where he was.

  Adding to his misery, his head still throbbed from the blow that had struck him. The attack as yet made little sense, though he had turned it over in his mind a hundred times. A hooded man had paid good coin for a Dane to take his dazed form aboard a ship, so Nasi had told him. Only one answer seemed possible: that he had played too large a part in the leadership of the army since Hereward’s departure, and the Normans had sent their eyes and ears in the camp to get rid of him. He felt proud at that; and scared too.

  Another flash and thunder-crack, then within moments rain as hard as stones lashed on a buffeting gale. Alric buried his head on the sodden deck. Under his trembling hands, he felt the ship rise high as if it had been plucked up by God. When it crashed down, the monks cried out as one, all of them rolling along the planks. Alric clamped his eyes shut tight. This was how it had started last time. A vision of towering cliffs of black water flashed across his mind, and then he felt once again his lungs filling, his vision darkening, and his panic as Death clutched for him. He feared drowning more than any other death. Along the Northumbrian coast he had seen men pulled from the sea, bodies black and bloated, eyes eaten by the fish.

  Seawater sluiced across his face. Choking, he jerked his head up and saw a growing pool in the bottom of the vessel. Cold terror flooded through him. The tar-covered moss and animal hair that jammed the grooves between the planks was failing in the rough waves.

  ‘Here. Make yourself useful,’ Nasi bellowed. He tossed a wooden hand bailer. Alric snatched it up and threw himself into the pool, scooping the brine over the side. When he glanced up, he saw Nasi still standing upright next to the dragon-headed prow, his hair plastered to his head. His face remained as calm as if they sailed across the mere at Ely. Alric felt comforted by that
sight. The pounding of his heart eased a little and he even found it in him to peer over the side. At times the waves seemed higher than the mast. The rest of the ships were lost in the deep gloom of the storm, if they had not already been dragged down to the bottom.

  But then the strakes flexed, groaning against the rivets like a wounded bear, and dread gripped him once more. A wave as high as a church tower plucked the vessel up and flung it down into a trough. Alric cried out, afraid the ship would shatter into pieces. How could this be happening to him again? Was this how God punished him for his sins?

  The wave-skimmer whirled, rose up, crashed down again. Alric spun through the pool of water, jerking up and gasping for air. He could see only iron waves and iron sky. And somewhere the prior was screaming, ‘God save all our souls!’

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  DARK WATER ENGULFED Hereward. From the depths, he struck out, upwards towards a halo of thin, grey light hovering overhead. He blinked once, twice, and as his vision cleared a cold face fell into view. The face of Death, it seemed, and it was. Harald Redteeth peered down at him, his pupils as wide and black as that deep ocean from which the Mercian had just escaped.

  ‘Alive. Good,’ the Viking muttered, his breath reeking of meat. He drew back, settling on his haunches.

  The Mercian’s left eye was caked with blood, his face mottled with bruises from the beating he had taken when the guards fell upon him. His wrists and ankles had been bound together with hempen rope. He shook his head to clear the haze and looked around. He was in an undercroft, but not the same one where Turfrida was being held. The dank air smelled of loam. At the far end, near the earthen steps leading up to the door of the store, a candle flickered, but he could not tell if it was night or day outside. A heavy beat echoed high overhead, rain drumming on the roof boards. The hot period had broken.