by James Wilde
Balthar caught sight of Ivo the Butcher glowering at him and he shuddered.
‘How do you counsel, my lord?’ William de Warenne asked.
The king shook his head slowly, his face hardening. ‘I would counsel more wit and less whining,’ he snapped. ‘Look to the Fox here. Learn from his cunning. If this Hereward uses trees and water as his weapons, would you stand on the ramparts shaking your sword at the tides, or the wind? His home is an island. Turn his castle into a prison. Creep through shadows, watch and whisper, and only when the time is right, strike. Find the cracks in his defences and prise them apart.’ He tapped his index finger on his temple, then jabbed it at the visiting Normans, demanding thought. With barely concealed contempt, he glared at the two men. ‘What do you say, Fox?’ he asked.
‘Wise words, as always, my lord.’
‘The Fox has spoken,’ the monarch growled. ‘Now leave my sight and do not return until you have words I wish to hear.’ The Butcher nodded his head while the nobleman bowed and scraped. ‘It seems there will be no peace here until a tide of blood has washed the land clean,’ the king added. Before Balthar could consider what he meant, William tossed aside his cup and stalked from the hall.
As the two guests sloped away, Balthar slipped out of the small western door. He felt that odd mix of fear and pride that he always suffered once he had left the volatile monarch’s company. Leaning on the stone wall, he took a deep breath to steady himself.
‘The king smiles upon you.’
Balthar whirled to see Godrun standing near the door, pitcher in hand. He drew himself up so she would not notice his weaknesses and replied, ‘He finds wisdom in the guidance I offer him.’
The woman drew nearer, her eyes wide. ‘How fine that must be to be so favoured.’ She bit her lip. ‘He scares me.’
‘His bark is loud, but I have never seen him raise a hand to a woman.’
‘All these Normans scare me,’ she said, wrapping her arms around the pitcher. ‘They treat their own women with high regard and kindness, but they look upon English womenfolk as if we are … we are nothing more than vessels for their desires.’
Balthar felt his heart go out to the quiet girl, but there was nothing he could say for he had seen the evidence of her accusation with his own eyes.
‘Have they harmed you?’ he asked gently.
She shook her head, raising her chin with defiance. ‘I have resisted,’ she said. Yet when he saw the tears fleck her eyes, he knew, as she knew, that it would only be a matter of time before she would be forced to succumb to the demands of the Norman men, if not those of the king himself.
‘They bow their heads before the altar and pray to God more than any Englishman, and yet they allow the Devil to take them too often,’ he murmured. ‘There are ways to deal with them. A sweet smile followed by a swift retreat works better than a sharp tongue.’
‘I fear I am not strong enough, nor clever enough.’ She bowed her head. He noticed her hand trembling and understood how hard she fought to keep a brave face in that den of wolves.
Balthar hesitated and then placed a finger under the girl’s chin to raise her head so he could look into her blue eyes. She made him think of the days of his youth, and yearn for them. Memories of simpler times and vitality and passionate feelings flooded his mind. ‘I will be your protector,’ he said, his voice strong. He felt warmed by the relief he saw lighting her face.
But her features darkened just as quickly and she began, ‘Your wife—’
‘My wife cares only that she has gold brooches and fine food to make her fat. Her tongue is sharper than any Norman sword, but I am still the master of her.’ He studied her smooth skin and her shining hair, as bright as the gold that adorned the king’s hall, and he saw the vitality that sparkled in her eyes. How different it was from his wife’s face, who now reminded him only of winter on the Wessex plains.
He withdrew his fingers, realizing he had begun to caress her. His breath catching, he turned away and raised his head, aloof once more, but he could still feel her eyes upon him.
‘Think of this palace as the woods in winter. Wolves wait everywhere,’ he began. ‘But with a guide who knows the lie of the land, a safe path can be found through it. Stay close to me and you will survive.’
In the depths of the building, William loudly demanded more wine. There was a clatter. Something had been overturned. The visit of his two guests had disturbed him more than he had shown. Balthar immediately began to wonder how he could turn this to his advantage. Godrun hurried back to the door to answer the monarch’s call. She paused at the threshold, her smile tentative yet hopeful. He felt excited by the possibilities it held, but it was not the time to examine them. In the hall, the king raged, all semblance of calm now gone. Balthar could not help but think that for all the terrible events they had endured in recent times, the worst still lay ahead.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE WHITE DRAGON banner of the English rebels fluttered against a cerulean sky. As one, the long column of warriors raised their faces to the sun cresting the distant streak of woodland in the east. Their full-throated voices rang out in song of battles won and hearths awaiting. Above the windswept marshes, oystercatchers swooped, their cries joining the jubilant chorus.
Redwald looked along the narrow flint causeway towards the island rising from the wetlands ahead. The marshes reeked of rot and the gnats already danced in clouds, but he cared little. Life was good. Two summers gone he would never have believed he would taste such sweet hope again. His thoughts flew back to his flight from London after the invasion. The Normans had hunted him like a dog across the fields for his close ties to the old king. He spat. Harold had failed them all. How strong he had seemed as he waited for King Edward to die so he could seize the throne, with all his talk of power and what strong men would do to gain the prize their hearts desired. How easily Redwald had been seduced by those words. He felt a pang of self-loathing for his own weakness. He had tethered his days-to-come to Harold in the belief that he would be well rewarded and it had almost cost him his life.
‘You saved Hereward, I hear tell.’
Redwald looked back and saw it was the monk. Alric showed a pleasant face, but Redwald could still see the suspicion in his eyes. It had been there from the moment they first met, he did not know why. ‘Any man here would have done the same.’
‘True.’
‘Have you ever saved his life? I hear tell he spent all his days saving yours.’
‘My work is saving souls and leading them to God.’
‘How hard it must be, then, to find yourself grubbing around in the bloody business of mere men.’ Redwald caught himself. He smiled, showing his teeth. ‘Forgive me, my words are too sharp. My legs ache and my belly rumbles and it has turned me sour as vinegar.’
The monk peered past him towards the Isle of Ely where the minster tower on the top of the mound rose proud against the sky. ‘Hereward speaks warmly of you, and I trust his judgement in most things.’
Redwald heard the lack of commitment in the monk’s words, but he kept his smile fixed and said nothing.
‘You owe his kin much, I am told,’ Alric continued.
‘His father, Asketil, took me in when I was lost and alone after my mother and father had died.’
‘How did they die?’
‘That is a tale of woe for another day.’ Redwald bowed his head. ‘Asketil’s act of kindness saved me, and from that day Hereward became my brother. I would give up my own life for him, as any brother would.’
‘That is the right thing to say. Asketil is a hard man?’
‘Like a church floor.’ Redwald smiled tightly. ‘He is quick to anger, and his hands become fists faster than most, but he always treated me with fairness.’
The monk nodded as if this simple comment spoke volumes. ‘And yet now he sides with the new king. What would make him abandon his own blood for our enemy?’
Redwald shrugged. ‘I do not claim to know Asketil’s m
ind.’ He swatted away a fly, eyeing the other man askance. ‘Hereward looks on you warmly, Alric, and if for that reason alone, I hope we can be friends.’
‘If God is willing. Hereward is a fearsome leader. His anger is great, his vengeance greater. Any man would tremble who faced him. And yet locked inside is a good man.’ The monk searched for words, his gaze growing faraway. ‘A man who trusts, perhaps, too much when he has decided someone is a friend. It would sound mad that such a fierce man would need to be shielded, were it not true.’
‘Then give thanks that he has such as us to watch over him.’ He looked away into the hazy distance. ‘I have not been a good man, Alric. I have turned my face away from God.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I sought power, though it cost others hard. I lied, and I stole. I have killed in anger. But the Lord punished me for my crimes and I saw in my darkest days how much I had failed everyone. I would make amends now. I would be a better man. Hereward says he has learned much from your guidance. Will you aid me too?’
The monk’s eyes narrowed as he peered deep into the other man’s face. ‘If a man is honest in his desire to come to God, then I would do all I could to help him.’
‘Then I need hear no more.’
Redwald looked towards Ely again, his heart leaping at the end of the long journey. Now he could see the smoke rising from the hearths and hear the cries of the gulls scavenging on the midden heaps. The sky had grown a misty yellow in the early morning light and the settlement appeared to be wreathed in a heavenly glow. The palisade stood firm around the jumble of dwellings clustered tight against the minster and its enclosure.
‘We have found a good home, have we not?’ This time it was Hengist who had spoken. He walked a pace behind the monk. Sweat had streaked the ash on his face and turned his straggly blond hair into rat’s tails. Redwald always felt unsettled by the warrior’s pale, staring eyes. He thought he saw a hint of madness there.
‘Aye, it is good.’
‘More than that,’ Hengist chirruped. ‘It is a testament to Hereward’s cleverness.’ He swept an arm across the desolate marsh with its scattered islands rising out of the bogs and water. ‘See? Here is a fortress unto itself. Even if the bastard king’s men could fight their way through the forest that shields the fens, they would never be able to march upon Ely. They could try a boat at high water, if they want to risk drowning in the strong currents.’ He grinned. ‘Or they could walk across the causeway where we could pick them off one by one by one.’ He clapped his hands and did a little dance.
‘A safe haven,’ Redwald replied with a nod. That warmed him. He had not felt safe his entire life, but here, perhaps, he might finally find peace. He let his eyes drift over the isle, caught between sky and water. Ely stood to the east overlooking the lethal bog of Grunty Fen which almost split the land into two smaller islands. Could he ever consider it home after the grandeur he had known at King Harold’s court?
‘Even if the bastard Normans make it to the isle, we are not done for,’ Hengist continued, talking to himself now. ‘Should an enemy survive the causeway, they would still have to skirt the bog by Haedanham and cross the waters at Wiceford before they could even draw near to Ely.’ He smiled. ‘Let the Normans build their castles. Here God has provided his own.’ After a moment’s reflection, Hengist pulled a bone whistle out of his breeches and began to play. Redwald drifted with the tune. Hengist was a rough man, yes, and as mad as a March hare, but the music he played was sweet.
Once they had left the grey flint of the causeway for the isle’s sward, the warriors cheered and shook their spears in the air. The air smelled fresher, scented with the hint of woodsmoke and the stews bubbling in the pots on the home-fires. The weariness fled from their legs as they made their way along the mud-baked tracks, their progress only slowed by the biers carrying the dead at the rear of the column.
Guthrinc cracked his knuckles as he strode beside Redwald, looking the smaller man up and down. ‘It is true, then. Only the good die.’
‘A tough piece of mutton like you will be around long after I am gone,’ Redwald replied, raising one eyebrow.
‘Aye, to mop up the tears of joy of your woman, and give her some glee for once in her poor life.’
‘Leave him, Guthrinc,’ Hereward called back from the front of the column, grinning. ‘He would make a prettier head than yours atop a pike.’
‘Your face would affright even the ravens,’ Kraki the Viking growled, the merest hint of humour flickering in his dark eyes.
Guthrinc threw his head back and laughed, clapping Redwald across the shoulders so hard he almost pitched across the track. ‘I will let you buy me ale in the tavern later, apple-cheeks,’ he roared, striding off to the front of the column. ‘Would you not rather be back with your wife, Hereward?’ he called, adding without waiting for a reply, ‘We would rather be back with your wife.’ The men laughed and Hereward too.
The gates in the palisade ground open as the warriors neared and more cheering rolled down the green slope from the settlement. Hengist ran a hand through his greasy hair and gaped at the large crowd they could see milling around within the enclosure. ‘Is every man and woman in the fens come to see us home?’
‘More new faces to join our army,’ Redwald exclaimed. ‘Word spreads of Hereward’s bravery. Soon we will have everyone from Northumbria to Wessex here.’ He could scarcely believe how many people he could see gathered beyond the gates. What had started as a trickle of new recruits had become a deluge pouring in from all parts of the land. Every time he thought it had reached its limit, yet more would arrive.
Kraki frowned, wrinkling the jagged scar that ran from above his left eye, across his nose on to his right cheek. ‘More strong right arms are good, but still there are far from enough to challenge the king. And soon the Bastard will come for us.’ Hereward flashed a black look at the Viking. Kraki shrugged, refusing to be silenced. ‘And how will we feed them all, eh? Answer me that. We can scarce feed the men we have now.’
Hereward glanced back once more, his face grim, and this time the Viking nodded and fell silent. ‘Every man’s belly will soon be full, you have my word,’ the Mercian announced. ‘We will feast like kings to celebrate the bloody nose we have given to the Normans.’
Redwald could see Kraki was troubled. ‘Is this wise?’ the younger man whispered. ‘I have heard Hereward worry about this with the monks at the church long into the night. He said it would not be Norman iron that defeated us, but starvation and sickness and the betrayal of our own—’
‘Quiet,’ Kraki snapped. His eyes flashed a warning. ‘You heard our leader. This is not the time to talk of such matters.’
Redwald nodded. ‘But this will not go away if we close our eyes,’ he murmured.
The column of warriors passed through the gates into the throng. The cheering enveloped them, the tumult doubling once word of the great victory rushed through the crowd. At the forge on the main street, Eni the smith downed his hammer and stumbled out into the sun. Penda the carpenter laid his chisel on the newly cut piece of oak and joined him. The rattle of the looms stilled. All the workshops emptied, and the rows of timber halls too, as people streamed past the barns and the stinking livestock pens to the gates.
Redwald saw many unfamiliar faces among those who were clustering around Hereward, reaching out to touch his arm with tentative fingers. Redwald thought his brother looked troubled by the reception. His smiles were forced, his eyes darting.
Amid the crowd, women searched for the men they had feared would never return. Their eyes brightened when they saw the longed-for face, and they snatched a kiss before hauling their husbands back to their homes, and beds. Kraki’s woman Acha shoved her way through the throng, her expression sullen beneath her raven-black hair. She raised her chin as she moved through the sea of warriors, ignoring the lascivious glances of the many in Ely who desired her. Kraki’s lips parted in a broken-toothed grin when he saw her, and she put on a pleased smile in response, though Redwald saw
it fade when the Viking pawed her into an embrace. Instead, she glanced back through the crowd, searching, until her gaze fell on Hereward. Her attention lingered there for a long moment.
As Redwald mulled over what he had seen, Hereward hailed him. ‘We must meet later to speak of our plans,’ the leader said, hauling the younger man to one side. ‘The Normans will not hide away with their tails between their legs for long. They will return with more men—’
‘Hereward,’ Redwald interrupted, laughing. ‘Enjoy this great day. We should do naught but raise our mead-cups until our heads spin. Plans are for another time.’
The other man contrived a smile, but Redwald knew him well enough to see the worry in his eyes. ‘You carry the weight of all the English on your shoulders, brother,’ he continued in a gentle voice. ‘Do not let it break you. One day to seek out a few comforts will give you the strength to go on until the seasons turn. And not just you, but all these men. A good leader knows when to rest as well as run.’
Hereward nodded, his smile becoming more honest. ‘Wise words. I expect no less from you, brother. You were always the one with the sharper wits, and I take great comfort that you are here to advise me now.’
‘And I always will be.’ Redwald gripped the other man’s arm and nodded. ‘Now …?’
‘Now I must seek out Godfrid’s father and mother,’ Hereward replied, his features darkening as he glanced towards the crowd. His gaze fell upon a grey-haired man and a smaller woman with heavy hips. Their shoulders were hunched as if they already understood the truth. ‘They should know their son was a hero, who gave his life for the English in this hard battle we fight. It may give them some small comfort in their grief.’
‘Let Guthrinc tell them. He knows them.’
Hereward shook his head. ‘It must come from my lips.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘Remember when we were boys, Redwald? Nothing to do but fish and play with wooden swords,’ he said with a note of loss. ‘What became of those days?’ He reflected for a moment, then pushed his way into the milling crowd.
