by Jayden Woods
“Chopping wood.” The answer came to Hereward swiftly. He 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 would have no chance at all. He had no idea how he was supposed to be chopping these logs, and Lord Richard might realize that quickly. What other option did he have?
Hereward’s hands tightened on the axe. He lifted it slightly.
A scream pierced the air behind him. His heart felt like it would burst in his chest. He nearly flung the axe in a panic. But he twisted to see that the scream had come from one of the sword-fighters. The older soldier crouched on the ground, cradling his arm while blood poured from his wrist. His arm ended there, in a fountain of blood, for his hand lay uselessly on the ground like a lump of meat.
The younger boy took off his helm. His face was set in an expression of fierce determination; no remorse lingered there at all.
“OSBERN!” roared Lord Richard, and Hereward realized that the boy must be Richard’s son. Richard FitzScrob came off the post on which he’d been leaning and began limping out to the scandalous scene. “What have you done to Bernard?”
Osbern crossed his arms in front of his chest, even while continuing to clutch his bloody sword. “It seemed the only way to defeat him.”
Richard yelled something in Norman. Then the two proceeded to argue in their native tongue.
Now that Hereward realized the disturbance had nothing to do with him, his courage returned. The Normans were distracted now. This was the perfect chance to act.
Without further ado, he leapt over the pile of the logs and began scrambling up the mound.
Doing this was more difficult than he first anticipated. The hill inclined sharply. Under his clawing fingers, the shale scraped his palms. Belatedly he noticed a staircase nearby, but he felt too proud to use it. He slipped and slid as he hastened upwards, all while continuing to grip the axe.
He heard anxious murmurs from the Saxons behind him. A few Normans were yelling, but Hereward hoped that their cries had more to do with the man who had lost his hand sparring than the mysterious Saxon climbing the motte.
At long last, he reached the top and grabbed a post on the large frame of the keep. The complexity of the eight-sided structure intimidated him. If the frame had been complete, he most certainly would not have been able to topple it by chopping one buttress alone. But fortunately, the keep was not yet finished. He located the weakest buttress under the section with the most weight. A lot of ropes also provided support, and those would be easily severed. When he found the perfect spot, he hurried closer and readied his axe.
He recoiled the weapon, then swung with all of his might.
The blade’s first bite of wood had minimal effect, spitting a few splinters and creating only a small dent. But Hereward kept swinging, and each time, the post weakened. The entire log began to bend and crack. Above it, connected parts of the keep’s frame leaned and creaked with strain.
People started to notice.
Hereward kept swinging regardless, pausing only to look down and find Dudda and Osric on the ground below. He motioned towards an unfinished section of the wall and they moved towards it, understanding.
On the next swing, the entire frame bent over. It would fall soon. Hereward heard a shout most certainly directed at him, but he didn’t stop chopping. He must finish this, or it would all be for naught.
Pain shot up his leg and he realized he’d been struck by a rock. He thanked God it had not been an arrow and kept swinging. He glimpsed a Norman with a sword climbing the mound towards him. Hereward put all of his might into another blow.
The beam was cracking. The entire frame would topple with just a little more help. He needed to sever some of the ropes. Hereward had to move around the structure, risking getting pinned under his own destruction, but he put faith in his own agility. He sliced the strained ropes and moved out of the way.
At last, the wooden frame of the keep toppled. Beams cracked and fell rolling down the motte. One log struck the Norman who had been climbing and pinned him into the shale.
Hereward lifted his axe high, for everyone was watching him now, and roared with all of his breath. “Fuck the Normans, and fuck this castle! This isn’t their land!”
He saw the eyes of the Anglo-Saxons staring up at him. He wondered if some of them would take heart and encoura
gement from his display of rebellion. Even now, he saw mostly fear and despair in their gazes. Only a few faces showed the sparks of anger and hatred that he had hoped to ignite, and he worried they weren’t strong enough to result in action.
Then he saw an arrow speeding towards him. He dropped his axe and took off running.
The piercing shriek of Osric’s whistle was a welcome sound to Hereward’s ears. The remainder of his gang would respond to that sound and arrive with the horses. He flailed as he rolled down the mound, finding this a faster method than attempting to keep his footing. He flung earth from his hands and feet as he righted himself and kept running. He glimpsed Osric and Dudda waiting for him in the unfinished section of the wall he had indicated. The Normans focused so much on Hereward they forgot about his companions, which might have given him comfort if not for the fact he had several bows trained on him as a result. He heard another arrow whistle past his ear. Then he barely managed to dodge the swing of someone’s sword.
The Anglo-Saxons slaves may not have cheered Hereward on, but they shared the same enemy. When the Normans came after Hereward, a few of the slaves moved to stop them. The slaves dared not initiate combat, but at least they blocked the Normans’ progress while giving Hereward a clear path to escape.
By the time he approached the half-built wall, Osric waited for him on top while Dudda stayed below to help him up. Hereward stepped onto Dudda’s ready hands and sprang upward. Osric gripped his arms and helped him the rest of the way up.
From the top of the wall he could see the horses galloping out of the trees, and he could taste victory like sweet mead on his lips. He had done it. He had shown the Normans that even one of their precious castles could not withstand the vigor of a young man born of the Fenlands. The frame of the Normans’ keep had toppled and they didn’t even know what to do about it. For the most part, they still floundered in a state of panic and disbelief.
Meanwhile, Hereward’s companions had arrived with the horses. Hereward’s triumph faltered under a wave of fear as he realized how far he would have to jump to cross the ditch. The landing would hurt even if he made it across, and if he didn’t … he looked down into the deep pit beneath the wall and gulped.
For the spry Osric, the jump posed no problem. He leapt across and rolled as his slender legs struck the grass. Soon enough, he had found his horse and climbed up its saddle.
Hereward wanted to do the same thing, but first he had to help Dudda. He turned back and reached down to grip the boy’s pudgy hands. He groaned as the weight of his companion strained his arms.
“A little help, Dudda!” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Damn you’re heavy!”
An arrow seemed to sprout suddenly from Dudda’s leg. Then Dudda screamed, and his entire body went limp. All of his bulk sank into Hereward’s grip, and Hereward realized that if he let the fat oaf slip down any further, Hereward would never be able to lift him back up.
He gritted his teeth so hard he wondered if his jaws would crack. He squeezed the wall between his legs until he felt the stones grinding against the bones of his knee. Then he pulled with all of his might.
Dudda’s desperation must have given him a surge of strength as well, for with another kick of his good leg, he propelled himself enough to grip the wall and start pulling. Hereward wasted no time yanking Dudda’s girth until his body rolled onto the top. Then he realized that Dudda stood almost no chance of jumping.
Hereward ducked as another arrow sped past his hair. Dudda groaned with agony.
“Dudda, you have to get up and jump,” growled Hereward. Hardening himself to his friend’s cries, he wrenched the large boy to his feet. “We’ll do it together, and I’ll try to help you.” He met Dudda’s eyes, which glazed over with pain. Hereward searched them desperately for a sign of understanding. “Ready, Dudda? On the count of three. One, two, three!”
Hereward crouched briefly, coiling the muscles of his legs like springs before launching himself over the ditch. He gripped Dudda with one hand as he flew and dragged the boy’s girth into the air behind him. A squeal of agony ripped from Dudda’s throat as his own wounded leg pushed him forward. Together they soared over the darkness of the pit, and for a moment, it looked ready to swallow them. Hereward feared that even if his own feet touched the other side of the ditch, Dudda’s would not. He used all of his strength to throw Dudda a little further forward. Doing so sacrificed his own momentum.
His chest slammed against the side of the ditch as Dudda landed with a scream in the safety of the grass.
The impact shoved Hereward’s breath from his body. He began slipping downwards, his head spinning. Only when he nearly reached the bottom did he come to his senses enough to dig his fingers into the rocky earth. His entire body ached from the impact, but he forced himself upward, and at long last came scrambling out of the ditch.
He gasped for breath as he collapsed next to Dudda. “Osric, HELP!” Osric rode closer and helped lift Dudda onto a horse. Dudda couldn’t straddle it; the pain of the jump had rendered him unconscious. Meanwhile, the arrow protruded from the back of his leg and penetrated all the way through the front of his shin. All they could do was throw him over the saddle on his stomach, then slap his horse’s haunches.
By then another Norman had climbed the wall after them. A few stones from Hereward’s companions knocked him backwards. Hereward mounted his own horse and lashed it with all of his might.
Hereward and his friends rode towards freedom. But the constant sound of Dudda’s moaning soured all feelings of triumph.
*
“God, can he not keep quiet for just a few fucking hours?”
Hereward and his eight followers sat in the dark, too frightened to light a fire even as black night crept through the treetops. They had ridden from the castle like madmen and not stopped until one of the horses went lame and Dudda awoke and started screaming again. He hadn’t stopped since.
Before the sun fell, Hereward tried to take a good look at Dudda’s injury, but he didn’t know what to make of it. The leg bled profusely, and Dudda’s movements had ripped the surrounding flesh wide open. The arrow must have pierced a nerve based on the extent of Dudda’s agony, and he now seemed unable to move his leg at all, as if long sequence of muscles had been damaged.
Hereward had eventually decided to pull the arrow out, for the wound gaped so large it would bleed a lot anyway. He asked Osric to find cow dung and bring it back to them, for he’d heard this had healing powers. Then they wrapped the wound tight and gave Dudda ale to drink. Despite all of this, Dudda never stopped moaning and his injury never stopped bleeding.
Hereward wandered as far from Dudda’s groans as his conscience allowed, then leaned against a tree and looked up at the moon. He upended a pouch of ale over his mouth only to receive a few meager drops. He threw it aside with a growl.
Osric slipped quietly up beside him. “Maybe we should leave him here, then come back.”
Hereward was glad that someone had voiced the idea before he did. “Maybe. Might be better for him anyway, to just stay here and rest. We could drop him off at a church.”
A dark silence stretched between them.
“Do you feel good about what happened today?” asked Osric.
“Yes, of course.” Hereward thought he spoke the truth. So why did he not sound convincing? “We taught those bastards a lesson.”
Osric nodded, desperate to believe him.
After that they tried to sleep, though this was next to impossible due to Dudda’s constant groaning. And in the darkness of the woods, most of the boys feared evil spirits or wicked elves. In the morning, Hereward announced his decision to the others. Dudda did not understand his fate until he noticed that a few of the boys were carrying him towards a church. He started squirming.
“Hereward?” he moaned. “HEREWARD! What’s going on?”
Hereward reluctantly leaned over to face him. “Dudda, we’re going to leave you with some monks. Hopefully they’ll tend to yo
ur wounds. I’ll come back for you soon, I promise.”
“No, Hereward, please!”
Dudda reached out to grasp Hereward’s hand. Hereward gave the chubby fingers a firm squeeze.
“Dudda, you’ll be fine. If anyone realizes who you are, they’ll be cowering in fear of you. They’ll do whatever you tell them to. You’ll see.”
“No. No! If they recognize me, they’ll murder me! All of them! Not just the Normans, but the Saxons, too! Thanks to us, they’ll probably be punished. They’ll probably be forced to work harder and faster to make up for what we destroyed. Don’t leave me here, I beg you. Don’t leave me here!”
Hereward yanked his hand from Dudda’s. He suddenly felt nauseous. “He’s feverish. He must have caught an evil spirit overnight. Get him to the monks, quickly!”
So they left Dudda at a church with the lame horse, without explanation, and hastened back to Lincolnshire as if the hounds of hell chased after them.
Hereward convinced himself he had done the right thing. Everyone else would see that, eventually.
**
7
Last Tales of Mercia 7:
GODRIC THE THEGN
(back to Table of Contents)
*
SHROPSHIRE
1054 A.D.
Godric had heard many descriptions of the first Norman castle in Shropshire, but today he observed it in person for the first time. He did not feel especially impressed. Sections of a stone curtain wall rose and fell inconsistently between gaps filled by palisades. Godric surmised that the Normans had run out of stone not far into the project, or something to that effect. Perhaps they’d used all available rocks on the gatehouse, which looked formidable enough. It was the first structure on the castle to be made entirely of stone and mortar. But it would serve little purpose if the walls remained unfinished and the lord had no safe home to sleep in. Altogether the construction of the castle appeared irregular and sloppy, which no doubt resulted from the reluctance of the laborers. Godric wondered why more of the Normans didn’t do the work themselves, if they were such experts.
