by James Wilde
Still bleary-eyed, Hereward shook his head to dispel the last of his dream and clawed his way out of his bed. Pushing past the watchman who had woken him, he strode down the leaf-strewn track towards the gates. All around him, warriors raced to fetch their spears and shields from beneath their beds. He saw their brows lined with apprehension, the hollow look in their eyes. Doomsday was coming, or so they thought.
But not this day. He had heard the Normans singing as they marched into battle and it was a sound like iron upon stone. These voices chimed like solstice bells. Hauling himself up the ladder to the walkway, he leaned on the palisade and stared into the drifting white clouds. Beside him, the guards peered over the rims of their shields, ready for a flight of arrows to whip out of the mist.
Closer the singing came, and as it neared he realized the words were not English, or Norman, but the old Roman tongue. Shapes materialized in the white haze. The guards’ knuckles whitened on their spears. And then the mist unfolded, like a cloth of linen being drawn back, and a column of men walked out into the dawn light.
Monks, Hereward thought, puzzled, singing to the glory of God. As they emerged fully into the light, he saw that four churchmen carried a frame made from ash branches lashed together. On it rested a familiar chest, the relic box containing the arm of St Oswald. When he recognized Aethelwold striding among the clerics, hands pressed together in prayer, he realized these were the monks of Burgh Abbey.
The guards on either side of him gaped at the spectacle. Then one of them pointed to a figure walking apart from the other clerics. It was Alric, grinning as if he had played the greatest trick of all. Hereward flung himself down the ladder and ran out through the gates.
Alric beamed, throwing his arms wide, and they embraced for a long moment. ‘I thought you dead,’ Hereward said, adding with a feigned scowl, ‘or worse: that you had abandoned us.’
‘There was a time when I too thought myself dead,’ the monk replied. ‘But not high seas nor Danish spears nor fire could keep me down.’
‘Heaven was not ready for your complaining, more like.’
Alric stepped back and swept an arm towards the relic box. ‘And see, I have brought you a prize. God smiles upon the English once more.’
‘That is good,’ Hereward said. Still he felt afraid to hope that they were climbing out of the pit of misfortune that had claimed them. ‘Now if only you had brought me an army too.’
Alric nodded, his face darkening. ‘We must speak. On our long trek from the coast, we passed many Norman scouts and fresh camps. I think the Butcher is moving his army into place ready to attack Ely.’
‘He has been preparing for this battle since you left,’ the Mercian replied. ‘He takes his time. It seems he wants to leave nothing to chance. I would stake good coin that he is afraid any failure will bring the king’s wrath upon his head.’
‘The delay may be his undoing,’ Alric said hopefully. He watched the singing monks trail through the gates. ‘It may give you space to build your army.’
Hereward grimaced. New men were arriving at Ely by the day, but still not enough to swell the numbers to a level sufficient to defeat the size of army that the Butcher was massing. ‘As the days pass, I worry that more English are beginning to accept the Norman rule,’ he said. ‘They hunger for peace after so many years of war and suffering. One day we may be seen as the enemy loose in this land.’
‘Then we must make plans to turn this war around,’ the monk said.
Hereward frowned. ‘You seem changed. What happened out there across the whale road?’
‘I will tell you all. But only when my belly is full,’ Alric laughed, clapping an arm around his friend’s shoulders. His humour faded and he narrowed his eyes, looking around to be sure he would not be overheard. ‘I did not choose to leave,’ he whispered. When he saw his friend’s surprise, he added, ‘Aye, I thought you would not know the truth. How could you? My skull was all but dashed in and the Danes were paid good coin to spirit me away. Paid,’ he continued, looking round once more, ‘by someone here in Ely.’
Hereward grinned. ‘Trouble yourself about this no longer. We have already driven out the king’s eyes and ears and now they flee for their life from the hard judgement of the English.’
Alric sighed with relief. ‘I feared that all your throats would have been slit in the night. But you are in good spirits. Tell me … Turfrida?’ he ventured with a note of hesitancy.
Before the Mercian could reply, a guard hailed him from the gate, where stood one of the scouts who had been out in the wetlands searching for Edoma, his face flushed from his haste. ‘Your eel stew will have to wait, Alric,’ Hereward muttered, already turning in response.
‘You found her?’ he asked as he strode up to the two men.
The scout shook his head. ‘Not her. Another. Four Norman knights hunt a girl by Lugh’s Bog, too many for me to help her on my own.’ He hesitated, his brow knitting. ‘She looked like Dunnere’s daughter.’
Hereward stiffened. ‘Fetch Redwald, Guthrinc and Hengist,’ he commanded, ‘with spears and shields in hand.’
As the scout raced off, Alric held out his hands in disbelief. ‘Dunnere’s daughter? It cannot be. No word for more than a year and she turns up now?’ Blood drained from his face. ‘Unless she is a ghost … and this is yet another portent of the End-Times.’
The Mercian gave nothing away, but if it was Dunnere’s daughter, there was hope. As the other warriors raced down the track with the scout, he dashed from the gate. Alric followed. They hurried down the slope, plunging into the sea of white mist. Their rasping breath grew muffled, the world around them deadened.
Hereward led his men across the causeway and then turned north. The secret paths appeared out of the reeds and willows and he chose the fastest route, no matter how dangerous. Four knights would show little mercy to any woman travelling on her own, let alone one as comely as Dunnere’s daughter.
‘Why such haste for this woman?’ Redwald hissed as they ran.
‘Because she could save all our lives,’ Hereward replied.
When they reached the edge of Lugh’s Bog, they slowed, straining their ears to hear any sound. Few ventured here. The marsh reeked of rot and occasionally foul-smelling bubbles burst as if something moved just beneath the surface. Thick walls of tangled willow, sedge and reed clustered hard on every side.
Hereward raised his arm to bring the others to a halt. Dim voices rumbled through the mist, call and response tinged with the excitement of boys at play. He swept his arm left and right. Hengist crept one way, Guthrinc and Redwald the other. Drawing his sword, he prowled forward with Alric at his heel. Drifting white clouds folded around them.
Laughter echoed. Another cry. The Mercian grimaced as he cocked his head, trying to discern the direction of those smothered sounds.
Crashing erupted in the willows just ahead. Looking over his shoulder and laughing, a Norman knight burst out of the mist. Hereward leapt back in surprise, betrayed by the distorted echoes. Just as shocked, the knight cried out as he turned his head. A querying call in his own tongue answered from further along the edge. Realizing they had been discovered, Hereward roared like a bear and swung his blade. The knight tried to duck, but he was wrong-footed in the marshy ground. He half-stumbled and the sword sliced into the side of his neck. Clutching at the spurting wound, he fell, but his screams tore through the haze. They died in his throat as Hereward hacked down, near-severing the head. He loped on before the man’s gurgles had faded away.
Footsteps raced all around, whether friend or foe Hereward did not know. Distorted cracks and rustles faded in and out. Another gurgling cry reached his ears, choked short: a Norman he was sure. A few moments later he pushed past a curtain of willow branches to find Guthrinc with one foot on a fallen warrior’s chest, trying to wrench his spear from the body.
Hereward prowled on, searching through the mist. From the depths of a reed-bed, a knight leapt with a cry. His blade swung down. The Mercia
n threw himself to one side and the sword narrowly whipped past him. His battle-honed arm moved faster than his thoughts and he thrust Brainbiter into his foe’s chest before the Norman could recover. The knight tumbled backwards into the bog, trailing a crimson arc. In a flurry of sticky bubbles, he slipped below the surface and was gone.
One left, he thought with grim satisfaction. But the Normans were a distraction. The girl was the only thing that mattered. He ignored his concerns that there had been no sight nor sound of her and pushed on through the trees. The mist unfolded to reveal Alric, beckoning. He loped after the monk to a clearing where Hengist was sitting on the final body, wiping clean the tip of his spear in the sedge. The Mercian whistled and Redwald and Guthrinc appeared soundlessly. ‘Find Dunnere’s daughter, if she is still here,’ Hereward ordered.
They searched along the edge of the marsh, calling in clear English voices. After a while, the mist began to clear and shafts of warm autumn sun punched through the branches. As they followed the trail of crushed reeds and broken branches made by the Norman knights, Hereward heard a woman’s hesitant voice hail from the western end of the bog.
On the edge of the reeking mire, he found her crawling out from a hiding place among the tangled trunks and thick sedge. Her dress was filthy with the mud of the road, her fair hair lank and greasy and tied back with a piece of torn cloth. She looked up at him with a face like thunder, and he thought how changed she was in appearance; her eyes seemed older than her years by far. Her time in Wincestre had taken a toll. Behind him, the other men ground to a halt, marvelling at the woman who had disappeared from Ely in such mysterious circumstances.
‘Godrun. You are well?’ he said, ignoring her black expression. He made to embrace her, but she took a step back.
‘Well?’ she repeated, her eyes cold. ‘Yes, I am well. Those four dogs did not harm me, if that is what you mean.’
Hereward nodded, relieved. How long he had waited and hoped for this moment. Unable to contain himself, he asked, ‘Tell me your news.’
‘I have done my work well,’ Godrun began in a flat voice. She snagged her fingers through her hair, pulling out a dry leaf. ‘No one could have done it better.’
‘I had no doubts. That is why I chose you to go to Wincestre. All men are children, and fools too. They will let women lead them by the nose, as their mothers did when they were young.’
‘What did you see in me, Hereward? Why did you choose me?’ she demanded, her eyes blazing.
‘Tell me,’ he repeated. He pushed aside his guilt. The task he had set her was always going to be hard, he had known that from the moment he asked. But too much had been at stake and he knew that she, if any, could get him the result he needed.
She choked off her reply and glared for a moment. When she spoke her voice was strained. ‘The earls Edwin and Morcar have left Wincestre. They ride back to Mercia to meet with their armies. They will oppose the king.’
‘And they will join our fight?’ he pressed, almost grabbing her shoulders.
‘They are ripe for the plucking,’ she replied flatly.
‘How long has this plan been birthing?’ Redwald asked incredulously.
‘I told you, brother, I sow my seeds and wait to see what sprouts,’ Hereward replied without turning round. He held Godrun’s eyes, seeing the hurt in them.
‘I hate you,’ she spat, finally losing her control. Tears of anger flecked her eyes and her cheeks burned. ‘The things you made me do—’ The words died in her throat and she looked away, her hand flying to her mouth.
‘We are all in your debt,’ he began gently.
She held up a hand to silence him. ‘Do not give me easy words of comfort,’ she said with contempt. ‘I am broken now. I cannot go back to my father and the life I once had. I have no good summers ahead of me.’ She swallowed, choking back tears. ‘I would end my days if I could.’
Nothing he could say would ease her pain, he knew that. Her scars ran too deep. ‘Then I will speak plainly,’ he said, holding out one hand. ‘This war demands terrible things of all of us. We look into the dark and see no light. We look into our hearts and do not recognize the things we find there. It makes us hard. But we carry this burden so others do not have to. Your father. Your brothers. All in Ely.’ He paused, watching her eyes brim. He remembered all the women he had seen suffer, and wished he could have spared her this. But he could not. ‘Your sacrifice may well have saved them all.’
With gleaming eyes, she held his gaze for a long moment. Though he knew she understood his meaning, he could see she had not forgiven him. He felt stung by that look. But that was his burden. When she walked off ahead, he turned to Alric and whispered, ‘Go with her. Offer her what comfort you can. But ask her not what she endured in Wincestre.’
Once the monk and Godrun had disappeared among the willows, Hereward turned to his warriors. ‘Godrun has bought us hope,’ he said, his voice hardening with defiance, ‘and perhaps more than that … an army that can cut right through the bastard Normans. Our days to come are in our hands once more.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
ANGRY VOICES JOLTED the still of the greenwood. Black wings thundered up from the dense canopy as roosting crows shrieked their warnings at the two arguing men. In slanting shafts of late-afternoon sunlight, a throng of warriors watched their leaders confront each other. These were huscarls, mail-clad and fierce, and seasoned spearmen who had fought the brutal campaigns in the north. On their arms, gouged and splintered shields told the story of bloody battles won and lost. Behind them, their snorting horses rested after the long ride from the plain to the west of Wincestre.
Hengist crawled on his belly along the broad branch to get a better view. He flexed his legs to ease the aches from his own hard ride from the north-east, here to the edge of the fenlands. His throat was dry and his sweat had soaked through his tunic, but not for a moment could he have slowed his pace. Resting on the creaking branch, he looked down on the earls Edwin and Morcar, once rulers of great power, now mere men. How that loss must sting them, he thought. They paced around each other like bad-tempered dogs, snapping. Their drawn faces spoke of worry and doubt.
Hengist nodded as he scrutinized the two earls. Godrun had said they were ripe to become allies of the Devil’s Army and he could see that was true. They had a hunted, friendless look about them. Yet he could not forget Hereward’s warning. They were hard men, these Mercians, and quick to use their swords at the slightest suspicion. Approach them with care, his leader had cautioned. As the discordant voices reached his ears, he knew this was not the time. Once they had calmed, he would step out, arms outstretched to show he carried no weapons. And then he would deliver Hereward’s message. He looked across their force waiting among the trees and saw the forest of spears. He grinned. With these men swelling their army, the Norman bastards would truly have a fight on their hands.
He took a deep breath, still feeling the strain of the last two days. He had begun to fear he would never find this wandering army in the wild countryside, even with the information Godrun had given him. But he was here now, and he would not let his battle-brothers down. No one would call him mad again.
‘Our best hope lies in the fens,’ he heard Morcar insist. ‘Only among the bogs and waters and trees will we be able to hide from the king’s wrath.’
Edwin waved a dismissive hand towards his brother. In that one gesture, Hengist saw where the power lay between them. ‘You are a fool if you think William the Bastard will ever let us alone,’ Edwin said. ‘He will not rest until all those who might stand against him have been crushed. He knows how to keep the peace in an unruly land and he knows how to keep the crown. With this.’ He hammered one leather-gauntleted fist into his palm.
‘What say you then? Run, like dogs?’
‘And keep our heads upon our shoulders. We have gold enough to live like kings.’
Morcar ran one hand through his thinning hair, his face creasing with the strain. ‘And go where? We have few fri
ends across the whale road.’
Edwin softened his voice to try to win over his brother. ‘We have friends in the north. Malcolm, King of the Scots.’
The smaller man turned away with a furious shake of his head. ‘And travel across a land now under the grip of the Normans? The risk is too great.’ From his hiding place, Hengist saw him snatch a suspicious look at the waiting men before he leaned in to whisper to his brother. Trust was thin on the ground even there, and rightly so. If William the Bastard suspected Edwin and Morcar could become a threat, he would have ensured at least some of their men were in his pay.
Edwin seemed to ignore his brother’s words. He grimaced and fluttered his hand again. Walking back towards the warriors, he said, ‘Enough. I have the gold and I will ride north. Join me or take your men and follow your own path. And on your own head be it.’
Hengist saw Morcar’s cheeks flush. The man who had once ruled Northumbria had lost face in front of his fighting men and he was not taking it well. ‘Go, then,’ he snarled. ‘This parting of the ways has been a long time coming. You will regret your choice, brother.’ He raised his arm and flicked it towards the east. As he turned towards his horse, near-half of the army found their own mounts. Within moments, Morcar’s horde was riding away without a backward glance.
Hengist looked from one war-band to the other with dismay. Hereward had not prepared him for this possibility. He could not carry his master’s message to both camps; which one should he choose?
Afraid that success was slipping through his fingers, he scrambled backwards along the branch. Swinging himself down, he dropped on to the forest floor like a cat. The rumble of hoofbeats filled the air and the ground shook as Edwin’s men departed. Hengist raced along the hidden track to the south, regretting how far away he had tethered his horse.
By the time he reached the beast, his mind was made up. He climbed on to his ride’s bare back and urged his mount towards the north. Morcar might lose himself in the wilderness, but at least the former earl would remain close to home. If there were a chance to bring Edwin and his army to Ely, it had to be seized now.