Last Tales of Mercia 1040- 1058 AD (Book 2)

by Jayden Woods

  Hereward could now discern a thrown rock sinking to the bottom of the riverbed; someone had thrown it at him, thus causing the splash. Suspecting one of his comrades of foul play, Hereward turned to identify an unexpected visitor, Martin, as the culprit. The tall, lanky fellow already had another rock poised for throwing.

  Hereward stood and roared with anger. “Martin!”

  Martin “Lightfoot,” a man whose long legs were both fast and silent, must have sneaked past the wine-sick boys easily. He shouldn’t be here. Eager to atone for their negligence, a few of the fellows pounced on Martin, grabbing his fancy tunic of red linen and tugging at his dagger-laden belt.

  Martin probably could have run away from the boys if he wished. Instead he endured their rough handling, meeting Hereward’s scowl with a shameless smile. The expression came out looking like an uncomfortable distortion of his long, gangly features.

  “Go home, Martin,” snarled Hereward. “I’ve no need of my parent’s spy.”

  “And I’ve no need of a pompous bully,” said the fleet-footed gentleman. “Nonetheless, Lord Leofric wanted me to come here and give you a warning. He heard about your fight last night with poor Eadwig. Apparently, you bashed the man’s face so brutally both his eyes are swollen shut and he hasn’t climbed out of his bed this morning.”

  “It was a fair fight,” said Hereward, though he could hardly remember it. In truth, he had probably been the one at a disadvantage, for he was so besotted with drink at the time. A few of his comrades echoed their agreement.

  “In any case, if you piss on the pride of a single more Bourne-man, your father will ensure you can never do it again. For now, Lord Leofric commands that you and all of your companions go home, not to reconvene until further notice.”

  “Not to reconvene, eh?” Hereward swaggered closer, balling up one fist and considering where to place it on Martin’s body. Unfortunately, his knuckles still hurt from last night.

  “Peace, Master Hereward.” Martin maintained his smug smile. “I am only the messenger. And if you wish to give your father a message in return, I will gladly carry it for you.”

  Hereward considered this, his fingers unwinding. He glanced around at his comrades. They all looked uneasy, for a threat from Lord Leofric—normally a cool-tempered man—was no laughing matter. “In that case, tell Father we have followed his wishes. We will not cause trouble here again any time soon.”

  “If that’s true, then God bless you, my lord. However, I require convincing. I must bear the blame if my message is false. You understand.” His smile spread wider, revealing some yellowed teeth.

  Hereward sighed and searched for his belt, discarded by the river with his tunic. On it, he found an unfamiliar pouch—no doubt taken from Eadwig the night before. He weighed its contents, took a few coins for himself, then threw the rest to Martin. Martin deftly freed one of his arms to catch it, revealing he might have escaped at any moment if he chose.

  “And how will I explain your absence?” asked Martin, dropping the purse into his tunic.

  “Tell him I went hunting and I want to be alone for awhile.”

  “Very well. Happy hunting, then.” Without further ado, Martin slipped from his captors and ran off, his long legs a blur across the grass.

  Martin’s message should have left Hereward furious, but in fact he felt liberated. For a long time he had suffered his mother’s and father’s wavering disapproval and insufficient reprimands. Now that they gave him no other choice, he would show them he could break free of their yanking leash.

  Hereward looked over his gang and his heart stirred with pride. These boys would follow him anywhere and do whatever he asked of them. They were not yet housecarls in title, but someday they would be, and when that day came, Hereward would indeed surpass his father in the possession of men’s loyalty.

  “Listen up, boys!” His robust voice swept forcefully across the field. “I have an idea.”

  The boys gathered closer, hanging on to Hereward’s every word despite their throbbing heads.

  “Bourne may be tired of me, but I’m even more tired of Bourne,” he declared. “Father doesn’t understand me. The people here don’t understand us. We’re not just a group of young men looking for fun and games. We are warriors, born to lead our country to a better future. And right now, this town is blind to the bigger events happening outside our shire. Perhaps it’s time we ventured out to show them what we’re really capable of.”

  Some of the boys exchanged uncertain glances. To his surprise, Hereward felt a shred of anxiety winding through his own limbs. The idea of venturing beyond Lincolnshire—outside the protection of Hereward’s family—was new and frightening. It was also exhilarating. But he had hoped the boys’ excitement would feed his own courage.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Osric, one of Hereward’s closest companions. The pale, freckled lad chewed on a piece of grass while twirling a knife in his hands.

  “We’ve all heard about the Normans causing trouble, especially in the west, closer to Wales. I hear they are actually building castles there like they do in their country.”

  “Not the Normans!” Chubby Dudda’s voice squeaked with dismay and the awkwardness of his age, stuck somewhere between boyhood and manhood. A few other boys laughed, but the mirth was short-lived, because they all awaited Hereward’s response.

  “Why not the Normans?” roared Hereward. “They’re giving our countrymen trouble. So we’re going to give them some trouble in return. Do you remember Queen Emma’s prophecy, God rest her soul? She said that if the Normans built their castles in Engla-lond, our country’s lands would drown in blood. We can’t sit idly by and let that happen!”

  He expected cheers and whole-hearted applause. Instead, a single, soft voice rang loudly through the silence.

  “Don’t do it, brother.”

  Hereward turned with a sinking heart to his younger sibling rising from the ground. Few people would ever guess the two boys were brothers; Wilburh had thick, ashy hair, bright blue eyes, and a skinny frame. More importantly, Wilburh had a gentle temperament like their father and a respect for authority. Most people found it strange—including Hereward—that the nicer boy chose to follow Hereward’s gang. Sometimes, Hereward suffered guilt at the notion Wilburh might simply look up to his older brother, even if most people considered Hereward a bad influence.

  Hereward shook his head of such thoughts, for guilt did not become him. He could not be blamed for his brother’s choices. He could only restrict them somewhat. “You stay here, Wilburh. I didn’t want you coming, anyway.”

  Wilburh flushed red at the back-handed insult. Nonetheless he stood his ground. “Don’t you remember what happened a few years ago when some English-men quarreled with a Norman lord? King Edward wanted them punished, and when Earl Goodwin refused, he nearly started a war.”

  The dismay that spread through the group felt palpable. Hereward hadn’t thought about that, himself. Insulting the Normans was even more dangerous than he’d expected. But that also made the prospect more enticing. “So we’re to bow down to them like cowards? This is what I’m talking about, boys. We need to show them we’re not afraid!”

  “What are we going to do?” repeated Osric, sinking his dagger into the dirt.

  “I’m not sure yet,” snapped Hereward testily. Why must they always need specifics? “First we’re just going to take a look at one of their fucking castles. Then show them it’s not so easy to build on Saxon soil.”

  “Please, don’t!” The desperation in Wilburh’s voice was almost embarrassing. “Father will be furious!”

  “I said go home, Wilburh. And anyone else here who doesn’t have the balls for this mission, run home now and hide under your mother’s skirts.”

  A long silence stretched after his words. Hereward congratulated himself for wording his challenge in such a way that no one would dare refuse.

  Then, to Hereward’s shock, a few boys got up and moved towards Wilburh. They would no
t meet Hereward’s gaze. A few more bowed their heads in shame, then got up to join the first group. A few became a dozen. Hereward could not believe that so many people would abandon him now, in the face of his most ambitious excursion. Soon there were only eight left still standing with Hereward.

  “Cowards!” he hissed to the backs of the traitors.

  “No. We’re the smart ones here,” said Wilburh.

  Hereward scoffed. But he regretted that he had acted with such hostility, for the group now felt irreparably severed. He still wanted these boys to be a part of his gang when he returned. So he tried to lighten his tone when he said, “You’re all going to be so jealous when we get home with stories that will spread the ladies’ legs open.”

  Wilburh frowned back at him, unable to come up with a good retort, as he knew little of such things. Then he turned and started to walk away. Hereward’s traitors made to follow.

  “You’ll regret this!” cried Hereward. “You’ll see!”

  But soon Wilburh and his new companions walked beyond hearing range, and Hereward stood alone with his smaller, nervous crew.

  “When are we going to leave?” asked Dudda. His presence surprised Hereward, who would have expected the pudgy teenager to be among the first to flee. Perhaps Dudda feared disappointing Hereward more than facing some Normans.

  “Right away,” said Hereward.

  “On foot?” Osric sheathed his dagger and stretched his legs in preparation.

  “No. It’s a long way.” He thought about it a moment. “I know a stable nearby where we can borrow some horses. But we should wait until nightfall.”

  Dudda’s face fell. “By ‘borrow,’ you mean …?”

  Hereward grinned and smacked Dudda on the back. “It’s still called borrowing if we return them later.”

  *

  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 N
ormans 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?”