by James Wilde
Hereward felt humbled by what he heard in that sound. He glanced down at a blond-haired boy looking up at him. The lad seemed a little frightened by this figure that had so troubled the adults. For a moment, he saw himself at the king’s court so long ago, and then, in the rush of emotion that came with recognition, he broke into a reassuring grin. Bending down, he grasped the boy and swung him up on to his shoulders. ‘You shall be king for the day,’ he called, and those around laughed as he had hoped. ‘What shall be your first decree?’
The boy hesitated, unnerved. As the crowd shouted encouragement, he was caught up in the spirit, and threw his arms in the air, calling, ‘Bread!’ The throng cheered and clapped.
Hereward laughed, tickling the boy beneath his armpits so that he squirmed. ‘Bread it shall be,’ he cried. ‘And more besides.’
He sensed Alric eyeing him uneasily. In that wordless glance he saw a caution that he should not promise what he could not deliver. But as he set off through the Camp of Refuge with the boy still on high, he said quietly to the monk, ‘I have not been a good leader. I thought my work was to defeat the Normans by using all my skills as a leader of battle-wolves. And yet I missed the battle beneath my nose. We must win here, in the Camp of Refuge, if we are ever to win the greater fight.’
‘Then what should we do?’
Hereward pushed his way through the bodies up the slope to the edge of the camp and then he turned and surveyed the island. ‘We need men and women who will fight for food as we fight our foes. And leaders who will send them into battle well armed and with good plans. Look. Ely is rich in beasts of the chase. The soil is good. There are plants in the woods and on the edges of the marshes, and fish, and soon there will be berries and nuts. And with gold we will buy more food from the merchants in the towns. They would rather sell to us than to those Norman bastards.’
‘Gold?’ Alric enquired.
Hereward nodded, smiling. Already a plan was forming, if he had the time and the wit to make it real. ‘Once again you have taught me a lesson, monk. Should I ever forget your true worth, may God strike me dead, for you have made me man not devil. No mouth will go unfed while I am here in Ely, I vow this now. I am not William the Bastard, I am Hereward, I am English, and I will never betray the folk I have called beneath my banner.’
The boy cheered. Hereward put him down and kicked him up the arse to send him on his way. As the lad scurried off, he grunted, ‘I hate children.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GOBBETS OF FAT sizzled and spat in the roaring flames. The sweating slave turned the spit and the sticky scent of the roast ox swirled up with the grey woodsmoke. Around the bonfire, the women lifted the hems of their finest dresses and whirled to the harpist’s tune with faces bright from the heat. Now the scop had finished spinning his tales, the drunken men bellowed a bawdy song to accompany the wild dance. They clapped and stamped their feet to the beat. All life in Ely had gathered on the green for the feast – old friends and neighbours and new arrivals, warriors and monks and ceorls.
Beyond the circle of light cast by the fire, Hereward clutched his mead-cup and watched the festivities. Alric stood beside him, as sober as always. ‘You are thinking of Vadir,’ the monk said as he eyed the other man’s reflective expression.
‘He liked a good feast, and enough ale to drown himself.’ Hereward recalled scrabbling out his friend’s grave in the hard Flemish soil.
The monk raised his head to look up to the sprinkle of stars across the clear night sky. A bat flitted overhead. ‘Do you yearn for the days when every woe could be made well by cutting off its head? Now you battle with enemies who are like the mist. Not enough food to fill the bellies of these folk who rely on you so. Men at your shoulder each with a smile on his face and a sword behind his back. Fear of the king, fear of the End-Times, fear that everything familiar is gone, never to return. Fear everywhere, eating its way into hearts like a sickness so that soon Englishmen will tremble too much to lift a spear. Why, beside that William the Bastard is a half-lame deer.’
Hereward laughed. ‘Ah, monk, where would I be without you to show me the dark in the brightest day?’
Alric smiled to himself. ‘I would not want you to become soft.’
Lost in his thoughts, the warrior wiped mead from his chin with the back of his hand. He still did not know why he had chosen this bloody path when it would have been easier to cross the whale road and earn good coin with his strong sword-arm. His demons were eased, though, he knew that much.
‘Good news from your journey to the south?’
‘A hunter bides his time.’
‘No, then.’
Hereward shrugged. ‘I have more than one dog running.’
‘You keep your secrets close.’ Alric searched his friend’s face for clues. ‘To protect us, I would wager.’
‘There is nothing to be gained from staring into the dark.’
The monk nodded towards the festivities. ‘These folk eat heartily and drink until their legs fail, but not because they are at peace. They would savour the last drops of life because all here know this may be their last feast.’ He paused, looking down at his feet. ‘At least tell me: how bad is it? You owe me that.’
Hereward tightened his jaw, but he could not deny his friend. ‘We are few. The king’s men are many,’ he began, choosing words that would not dwell on hopelessness. ‘William the Bastard has had his hands full since he stole the crown. New laws, new castles, taxes to collect, Norman knights to reward, and not a few restive English folk. But as more and more of our own bow their heads to him, his time is freed. Soon his cold gaze will turn towards the east. And William the Bastard is not a man to do things by halves. When he comes for Ely, the slaughter of the English army at Senlac Ridge will seem as nothing.’
‘Are we not growing stronger by the day?’ Alric replied, holding out his hands.
‘Not fast enough. We need more men, and seasoned fighters at that. We need weapons that can match the Norman sword and crossbow. We need food for that army, and gold, for where there is gold there is power.’ He let his gaze linger across the heads of the feasting Ely folk. ‘And we need for the English to believe we can win.’
‘Your fame is spreading far and wide.’
‘Not fast enough.’ Hereward swilled down the last of his mead and grinned. ‘No one said this fight would be easy. There are paths through the wilderness if only we can find them.’
‘If anyone can find them, it is the man who slays bears and tears the throat out of wolves with his own teeth,’ Alric baited. He beckoned to Acha who was circling the feast with a pitcher of mead. ‘Drink more and ease your troubles,’ he added.
Hereward looked away into the gloom as Acha sauntered over. He could feel her gaze heavy on him. ‘Let me fill your cup,’ she purred. ‘You were missed these last few days.’ She poured the mead, leaning in closer than she needed.
Before Hereward could respond, she let out a cry of shock. The golden mead splashed on to the mud. Kraki had grabbed her arm and was dragging her away. ‘Watch this one,’ the Viking slurred drunkenly. ‘She has a sting like a wasp.’ Acha glowered as she stumbled back towards the fire.
‘If he treats that one like a mare to be broken, he will get kicked where it hurts,’ Alric said uneasily. Hereward observed Acha’s murderous glare and began to worry that a kick would be the least of the dangers lying ahead.
They strolled around the perimeter of the feast. Hereward watched the men slicing hot slabs of beef and wolfing down the meat before they had trudged out of the ashes. ‘They eat as though there will be no tomorrow,’ he muttered darkly.
‘The hunger will pass, God willing,’ Alric exclaimed, grabbing his friend’s elbow. ‘Come, let me show you the fruits of your promise.’ He pulled the Mercian through the crowd until he found the red-headed youth and his darker brother, and the girl who had accompanied them to Ely, sprawling on the slope of the Speaking Mound. ‘Meet your new Masters of the Larder,’ he announced. ‘Sigha
rd, Madulf and Edoma.’
Sighard jumped to his feet, wiping his greasy hands on his tunic. ‘Alric said it was your idea.’
‘What idea?’
The red-headed lad plucked up a sack and held it open for Hereward to see. ‘Burdock and rape, from the forest,’ he gushed.
Hereward turned up his nose. ‘That won’t fill many bellies.’
Standing, Edoma pushed back her blonde hair and said shyly, ‘We bring back only handfuls so the monks can tell us if they are of use. But we know where they grow now.’
‘Not just these plants,’ Sighard said with an enthusiastic sweep of his arm. ‘We have travelled far and wide around Ely. We know where the boar roam, and the deer. Good land where we can plant barley and wheat …’
‘If we can buy seed,’ Madulf added sullenly. The brown-haired brother remained seated.
‘… and in the Camp of Refuge, the women are building willow baskets to catch eels,’ Sighard continued.
Alric pointed towards the church tower on top of the hill. ‘At the minster, we have a barn which we are starting to fill with the food our new Masters of the Larder have found. These three have uncovered skills they did not know they had.’
‘Then you deserve the thanks of all here,’ Hereward said. He knew the monk was being kind; few others in Ely had the desire to spend their free hours foraging. ‘This work is as vital as any we do.’
‘I would be fighting,’ Madulf growled, drawing himself up. ‘That is why we came to Ely.’
‘Be careful what you wish for,’ Hereward said sternly. ‘But if that is what you want, you will get your chance.’ He noticed Edoma was looking past him, distracted. When he followed her gaze, he saw Redwald leaning against the wall of a house, studying the bonfire.
‘I think I will see if your brother knows how to dance,’ she mused. As she walked away, the two brothers watched her go, scowling. They flashed each other a look and then both hurried after their friend.
‘Edoma has won two hearts, it seems,’ Alric observed. The youths positioned themselves either side of the girl as she chatted with Redwald.
Hereward grinned. ‘They are too young for her. She has a taste for tougher meat. But they will learn.’
For a moment, Alric watched the small group, lost to his thoughts. Then he murmured, ‘You trust Redwald?’
The Mercian glanced at the monk, taken aback. ‘There is no man I trust more.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Though if you held a spear to my neck, I would say you could match him,’ he added grudgingly. ‘Why do you ask?’
Alric shrugged. ‘I have not shared the years, like you and he. I know only what I see, and I do not see enough to make a fair judgement. He smiles easily, and he has the face of a boy.’ He paused, choosing his words. ‘But what hides in his skull I am not sure.’
‘You have spent too many days in my company. You start to see enemies everywhere.’
With a sound like a flock of gulls, a crowd of children ran up and circled Alric, tugging at his tunic. ‘Your friends have come calling,’ Hereward noted. ‘I would have thought they’d had a bellyful of you during those dull lessons you preach at the minster.’
‘Never,’ the children cried.
Laughing, Alric allowed himself to be led away. With a warm smile, Hereward watched the monk go and then turned and walked up the slope towards the church tower silhouetted against the starry sky. He paused at the minster enclosure, listening to the owls hoot and enjoying the night-breeze on his face. Each moment of peace now felt more precious to him than all the gold in the church. Pushing open the creaking gate, he followed the snaking path through the beds of herbs towards the cluster of wood and wattle buildings, the stores, the eating house, the school, the monks’ halls. At the church door, he prowled inside, his leather soles whispering on the stone flags. Fat candles flickered around the altar and shadows danced across the walls. He breathed in chill air scented with tallow-smoke and sweet incense. From one of the annexes, he could hear monks chanting in the Roman tongue, the music of their voices echoing up to the rafters.
He found Abbot Thurstan kneeling in prayer beside a shrine. Offerings had been laid before it – bread, a bunch of summer savoury, a cup of mead, a piece of embroidered linen – the silent cries of people filled with worry for the days to come. As Hereward neared, the abbot jerked his head up as if he feared an attack. When he saw it was the Mercian, he nodded and clambered to his feet. He was a tall man, silver-haired and thin as a needle, with gentle ways and an air of quiet reflection that won him many friends. He had more learning than any other man in the fens, Hereward had heard.
‘Do you pray for me, Father?’ Hereward asked with a wry smile.
Thurstan raised one eyebrow. ‘Some would say you need all the aid you can find.’
‘There is truth in that.’
The abbot saw his visitor scrutinizing the shrine and said, ‘Make an offering. St Etheldreda may look kindly upon a kindred spirit.’
Hereward frowned. ‘How so?’
‘Etheldreda refused to submit to an unjust king. Egfrith was his name. Though she wished to become a nun, she had been promised to him by his neighbour, her father, King Anna of East Anglia, on the understanding that she remained a maid.’
The Mercian smiled grimly. ‘The understanding lasted … a day?’
‘Egfrith was filled with lust and had no intention of keeping the pact. Etheldreda fled back to Ely where she built this church. She set free all the bondsmen on her land and lived the rest of her days close to God. After she died, those who prayed to her received her aid from heaven, so we are told. And when her body was moved to a greater tomb after many summers, it was as if she had died only that day, though she had lain in wet earth.’
‘Then I will make an offering and say a prayer, Father. We are beset by enemies on all sides, and here at home too. If heavenly aid comes my way, I will not turn up my nose.’
Thurstan laughed, but only for a moment. Taking a spill, he began to light the candles along the wall near the shrine. ‘We pray for you every day, Hereward,’ he said. His face glowed as a flame licked up.
‘Your monks still have no ill-feeling towards my men? William the Bastard will punish them like no other for their aid.’
‘Only if you fall. No, we made our choice. The king would have come for us sooner or later. A Norman abbot would be here, one with a cold eye and an iron grip. As long as your spears keep the Normans at bay, we can still live as we always did, and we give thanks for that.’
Hereward raised his head to look up into the gloom enveloping the rafters. ‘We need more gold, Father.’
‘You cannot eat it.’
‘We can buy food from the markets to the south. And weapons. And pay spears-for-hire.’
Thurstan shook his head. ‘I cannot let you take the church’s treasures, Hereward.’ He lit the last candle and blew out the spill.
‘And I would not ask you for them. You have been good to us and I would not risk our friendship. But I have some thoughts and seek your guidance—’
Before Hereward could press the abbot further, a fearful cry rang out somewhere beyond the church. Another voice picked it up, and then another until a tumult echoed all around.
‘We are under attack,’ the warrior snarled, unsheathing Brainbiter. He dashed towards the entrance, the abbot close behind.
When he tore open the door and bounded out into the night, he first thought the feast-fire had been stoked too high. Sparks sailed overhead and clouds of smoke wafted across the minster grounds. Then through the fug he glimpsed an amber glow near by. White-faced monks raced around the enclosure, fearful that the fire would spread. Hereward grabbed the nearest one by the shoulders and bellowed, ‘Fetch water from the well. Line up your men.’
As he darted towards the burning building, he saw it was already too late. The thatched roof had collapsed inwards, the timber frame nothing but a blackened skeleton swathed in shimmering orange. He threw a hand across his face to shield him from th
e heat, his suspicions swiftly rising.
Breathless, Alric stumbled up, his jaw dropping when he realized what building was alight. ‘The food store,’ he gasped. ‘Our meagre supplies …’
Hereward could hear frantic cries rising up the slope from the feast. Once folk realized their supplies had been further depleted, they would be consumed with despair. And those black thoughts would spread like the plague in that crowded place. It could be the undoing of them.
‘We are accursed,’ the monk gasped.
‘No curse this. No act of God,’ the Mercian growled. ‘There were lit candles in the store?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then men set this fire.’
The monk gaped, turning slowly to look over the thatched roofs of the settlement. ‘Who would do such a thing?’ He paused, his thoughts racing. ‘We have enemies, here, in Ely?’
‘Would the hungry men and women of Ely set our store alight? No, this is an attack.’ Hereward gritted his teeth. Already he could see the final outcome if this threat were allowed to run its course. ‘Our army will not be defeated by cowards who stab us in the back while we look to the greater enemy,’ he said in a stony voice. ‘At first light we will begin anew, and all within this place will learn that we will suffer no more hands raised against us.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE GUARD’S BLACK eyes glinted in the candlelight. Beside the heavy oak door to King William’s hall, he stood like a rod of iron. His face was as cold and hard as his long mail shirt and his helm and his double-edged sword. He was dressed for war, as was every Norman that strode through Wincestre these days. As usual, Balthar the Fox watched from the shadows. What mysteries transpired behind that long-closed door? he wondered. He felt uneasy that there might be a gap in his knowledge. News was his gold, sifted and piled high to achieve the wise counsel that had bought him such a comfortable life.
