Last Tales of Mercia 6: Hereward the Outlaw

by Jayden Woods

  *

  The journey across three shires to a Norman castle proved more difficult than Hereward first expected, full of toll payments, rude guards, and suspicious travelers. Hereward became unusually wary of getting into trouble, because people did not recognize his name this far from home. His father would not be around to persuade the shire reeve that Hereward did not actually disturb the king’s peace. And Hereward did not have a very deep pocket with which to pay fines.

  But he did not lose heart, and he prided himself in his ability to adapt to the situation. He also became quite grateful that his entire gang had not come along, after all, for that would have been far too many mouths to feed and beds to find. On the second night of their journey, they had nearly run out of money, so Hereward gambled on a few fist fights, winning every one and filling his purse once more. Osric achieved the same success with knife-throwing. The next morning, an angry wife came yelling after them, but otherwise Hereward and his boys moved on with little harm done.

  At long last, Hereward reached the town of Shrewsbury. He continued to hear rumors of a Norman castle being built further southwest. Several hours later, he found himself standing in front of the muddy monstrosity.

  Hereward left his horses and companions in the woods nearby, save for Osric and Dudda, who crept closer with him to get a good look. The two lads provided a balanced support of Hereward; Osric’s thin, limber frame served well in a scuffle or tight place, just as Dudda’s roundness and big bones could provide sturdy support. Dudda also had a sharper mind than one would first suspect, and he helped tame Hereward’s ambitions by remaining practical.

  “This will be tricky,” said Hereward.

  They all stared up at the gatehouse and the grounds around the spiked walls. A deep ditch surrounded the perimeter of the castle, so deep that an average man might not be able to climb out without help. The deep counterscarp bank led even higher up to the castle walls, most of which were wooden palisades. But in some sections, walls of stone stood partially erect.

  They dared move a little closer in order to see through the gate. The grounds of the castle continued to slant upwards towards a large mound of earth sticking high over the huts and cabins. On top of it, a complex wooden framework reached towards the sky. Hereward had never seen anything like it. The large tower looked like it would eventually be about three stories high and nearly fifty feet wide. Eight buttresses wrapped round the structure, forming an octagon.

  “It’s like its own little burg,” said Dudda with dismay.

  “Except that eventually, it will all be stone.” Hereward pointed to a slave going through the gatehouse with a cart of rocks. Ashy stones and white mortar already comprised the gatehouse itself, which towered high over the walls and made a formidable defense. “The Anglo-Saxons are building their own prison.”

  “Well it’s not stone yet,” sneered Osric. “I see wooden buildings inside. So let’s burn them down.”

  The idea tempted Hereward. But he feared such an action might be too drastic and would lead to severe punishment. How could he say so without sounding like a coward? “We don’t want any Saxons to get hurt.”

  Osric shrugged. “We could warn them beforehand. Even get them to help us.”

  “Don’t burn anything,” insisted Dudda. Hereward silently thanked himself for bringing along the voice of reason. “I think what will hurt the Normans most is losing that framework on the mound. I think it’s called a keep, and if I’m right, it will eventually be the core of the castle, where the lords sleep.”

  “In that case,” said Hereward, “I have an idea.” He gestured back to the woods with excitement. “Let’s return to the others.”

  The rest of the gang did not get as excited about the plan as Hereward, but they complied easily enough, perhaps because they were all eager to finish the task and return home.

  In preparation, Hereward reluctantly exchanged his tunic for that of his scraggliest follower, then splashed some extra mud on his tattered outfit. Dubba and Osric also tried their best to look poor, ragged, and desperate. Hereward appointed a few other boys to stay with the horses. The remaining companions would stay as close to the castle gate as possible without looking suspicious. They would watch and listen for signs of trouble, especially the shrill whistle Osric could make by sticking both his fingers in his mouth.

  “Very well then,” said Hereward. “Let’s go.”

  The thrill he felt as he walked towards the gate of the castle was unlike any he had ever experienced. Fist-fights and hunting could hardly compare. Today he would strike the Normans right where it hurt most and, in doing so, forge a name for himself that his father would have to take seriously.

  But he could let none of his excitement show right now. He dragged his feet, hung his head, and avoided the gazes of the guards who watched him approach. They ignored him in turn, just as he had hoped. They did not notice the curiosity on his face as he crossed the bridge leading to the gatehouse. The bridge sprouted from the ditch on a thick column supporting its middle. A series of heavy ropes also attached the bridge to the gatehouse. He suspected the bridge had some method of twisting sideways and preventing entry in the event of a battle.

  Only when he was nearly through the gate did an arm reach out to stop him. Hereward silently blamed Osric and Dudda for drawing the unwanted attention; their fear caused them to lag behind.

  The Norman guard said something Hereward did not understand. The foreign accent distorted English words beyond comprehension. Hereward resisted the urge to scowl at the foreigner in disgust, responding instead to his tone.

  “Sorry we’re late,” said Hereward. “We had some problems at the farm, and—”

  “Just get to work,” snarled the Norman, more clearly this time. As Hereward expected, the scoundrel didn’t want to acknowledge a slave any longer than necessary, much less talk to him. So Hereward bowed his head, thereby hiding the hatred that flared in his eyes, and walked inside.

  It was so very easy.

  As he proceeded across the muddy bailey, the large, haphazard structure of walls, huts, and frames seemed to close around him like a fist. He smelled the filth of humans and animals, especially horses, which the Normans rode across the grounds while surveying the laborers. The guards didn’t even bother to clean up after the horses or dogs that dropped shit around the workers. From the chopped wood, stretched leather, mixed mortar, and dirty rocks, everything around him seemed to be made of brown filth.

  The misery of the work site seeped into his bones like a cold wind. The weight of the task given to these unwilling Saxons shoved down their shoulders and strained their bent backs. Even though the Saxons toiled slowly, their long-term exhaustion pervaded Hereward’s senses like a contagious disease.

  He jolted as a Norman walked by carrying a basket with a strange little creature inside. It was fat and furry with beady eyes and long, floppy ears.

  “What’s that?” he cried aloud, unable to help himself.

  “A rabbit. For my wife’s new warren.” The Norman gave him an uncertain look. This one had longer hair and a piercing stare. He didn’t seem so afraid of looking a slave in the eyes, and for a moment, Hereward’s stomach churned with fear. “Are you new here?”

  “S-somewhat.”

  “Somewhat? Well, I am Sir Ralph. Welcome to Lord Richard’s castle.”

  Hereward nodded awkwardly, surprised by such civility.

  Ralph held up the basket. He stuck his finger through the reeds and stroked the rabbit’s fur. The creature trembled with terror, but Ralph only grinned. “You’ll be glad we brought rabbits to Engla-lond. They make a good meal. They also fuck a lot and make even more rabbits.”

  Hereward nearly forgot himself and matched the Norman’s smile. He liked Ralph. But not enough to forget his purpose.

  Ralph must have sensed Hereward’s guardedness, for his frown returned. “What are you three supposed to be doing?”

  “Chopping wood.” The answer came to Hereward swiftly. H
e wanted any job that might put his hands on an axe.

  “Chopping wood, eh? Most of that is done in the forest, before it’s even brought here.”

  “Well, I was told there was some wood to chop at the castle.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I ... I ...” Hereward’s hand crept involuntarily towards the dirk on his belt. “I don’t remember his name.”

  Ralph’s frown deepened, but he seemed eager to move on and cease chattering. “Go see Lord Richard FitzScrob. He’s overseeing the construction of the keep.” Ralph pointed and waited until the boys moved their feet in that direction.

  As Hereward approached the looming mound of dirt and shale, he cursed under his breath. The man-made hill stank, as if the earth had vomited its unwanted garbage and deposited it here. The wooden frame of the keep on top might have looked elegant in contrast if Hereward did not know it would be used as a weapon against Anglo-Saxons.

  On the other side of the bailey, two Normans began sword-fighting. The sight took Hereward aback until he realized they only fought for sport. They wore helms and chainmail as preparation. This didn’t seem like the time or place for that, but they didn’t seem to care. On further study, Hereward suspected that one of the swordsmen was actually very young, barely a teenager, but his thick-boned frame made up for his youth. He moved awkwardly, perhaps still adjusting to his growing limbs, and he favored one foot which turned slightly inward. But he swung and chopped with his sword like a Viking berserker, and Hereward could not help but admire his vigor.

  The sound of clanging swords now rang harshly through the castle grounds and grated on Hereward’s nerves. He felt naked without his own sword or axe at hand. When the time came to escape, he would have to do it quickly or there would be hell to pay. Even the young sword-fighter with a bad leg might get the best of him.

  Finally, Hereward spotted a large, broad-shouldered man with a long, jutting chin and two crooked feet standing near a stack of logs as Ralph had described. The must be Richard FitzScrob. The lord leaned against a post as he watched his slaves work on the frame of the keep, his wide forehead gleaming with sweat though he lifted not a finger. His tunic flapped in the breeze against his misshapen legs.

  Hereward spat into the dirt and mumbled to his companions. “Fucking Normans. I don’t want to talk to their lord.”

  “Then what are we going to do?” Dudda looked around in terror, his eyes lingering on the sword-fighting duo. The poor fellow looked ready to piss himself.

  “We’re going to chop some logs anyway. Follow my lead, boys. This will be easy.”

  He tried with all his might to believe his own lie as he crossed the remaining distance to the slaves at the logs. He took a deep breath and convinced himself that he did this every day. He was just a poor local slave, coming to do work at the castle. No one had any reason to be suspicious of him. Just going to work ...

  He ignored Lord Richard, walked right up to the slave chopping wood, and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hello. I can take over for a little while if you want to rest.”

  The Saxon gladly allowed this, releasing the shaft of the axe from his blistered palms into Hereward’s hands. With a sigh of relief, the slave hobbled away.

  A wave of satisfaction rushed through Hereward, though he tried to restrain it. The ease of sneaking in here and putting his hands on an axe proved just how submissive his fellow Anglo-Saxons had become. These Normans expected obedience and humility. Hereward would show them that not all Anglo-Saxons had forgotten their pride.

  Fear prickled up his skin as he sensed Lord Richard watching him. He hesitated. Perhaps he should wait to act until Lord Richard was distracted. But if he waited too long, he might be discovered. Then he