Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army

by James Wilde

  He bowed his head to enter the smoky atmosphere. Straw crackled under his shoes as he strode in. A table ran the length of the hall, chunks of bread and empty stew-bowls scattered among pools of ale. Five men sat on benches at the far end, waiting for him. Hereward glimpsed Kraki first, little more than wild hair and beard and scars in the half-light. He glowered, but then the Viking always glowered, and Hereward could not tell if he simmered with jealousy over his woman’s changeable affections or if he simply brooded.

  Guthrinc, now, there was a man who laughed enough for two. He laughed when he was spearing Normans and when he was gnawing a goose leg, and probably when he was tupping women too, for all Hereward knew. He was taunting Kraki, seemingly caring little that he was poking a bear with a stick. But then he towered over the squat Viking as he towered over all men. Redwald was smiling at Guthrinc’s jokes. He flashed a shy look when he saw Hereward approach. Hengist sipped his mead, his pale eyes darting around. Sour, he seemed, Hereward thought, still consumed by the murders of his folk. That, or mad, as the other warriors said. The wounds on his knuckles from the beatings he had dealt still looked raw.

  The abbot sat at the end of the table. Hereward had seen some dour monks in his time, but Thurstan seemed at ease with the other men’s horseplay. A faint smile ghosted his lips. He would give wise counsel.

  ‘You are late,’ Kraki grunted. ‘Your wife offers you too much comfort.’

  ‘There speaks a man who is not getting enough,’ Guthrinc said, making his right forearm erect. Kraki raised his chin imperiously, refusing to be baited.

  ‘With a woman like Acha, it’s a wonder he ever leaves his home,’ Hengist muttered.

  Hereward sat on the bench, resting his arms on the table. ‘Where is Alric?’ he enquired.

  ‘Perhaps he plays with the children,’ Redwald replied with a grin. ‘He is more at home with the young ones than with these grave matters.’

  Hereward’s brow furrowed. ‘It is not like the monk to miss our battle-meet.’

  ‘If he comes, he comes.’ Redwald shrugged. ‘You have enough wise heads here already. And Guthrinc.’

  The big man feigned disdain.

  ‘I would value Alric’s skill with children during these talks,’ Hereward said wryly. Once the abbot had finished laughing, the Mercian turned to Hengist, his features darkening. ‘What of Jurmin? Has he had dealings with the Normans?’

  ‘He keeps his lips sealed,’ the rat-faced man replied.

  ‘Because he knows nothing?’ Guthrinc enquired. ‘Or because he knows too much?’

  ‘Folk dare not speak, even if they are true. They are afraid of saying the wrong thing.’ Hengist poured himself more mead, swilling the amber liquid around the wooden cup as he peered into its depths. ‘They are afraid of the Normans, they are afraid of us.’

  ‘How many enemies do we have within Ely?’ Hereward asked.

  Hengist shrugged. ‘One. Ten. An army. There is no way to tell. Strangers turn up at the gates every day. They could all stand with the Normans, for all I know. Do we send them away when they offer their right arms to our cause?’

  ‘We need them,’ Guthrinc said. ‘Only by swelling our numbers will we drive the enemy back.’

  ‘But if we are allowing our foes to creep in through the gate,’ Redwald began, ‘we are—’

  Kraki leaned forward, slamming his mead-cup on the table. ‘We should be plotting against the Normans.’

  ‘My friend has a harsh voice, but he speaks true,’ Guthrinc added. ‘The more we turn our eyes inward, the more we leave those devils to build their plans in the shadows. Give them time to plot and scheme and we risk our own doom.’

  ‘We should harry them,’ Kraki boomed. ‘Cut them down, man by man, rout and chase and tear them to pieces, so they get no time to think.’

  ‘More men will come soon,’ Guthrinc continued, nodding. ‘And more after that. You know the king will not turn away. Better to strike now, while their numbers are few.’

  Hereward looked around the sombre faces. ‘How?’ he asked. ‘When our own men starve and they are so weak they can barely walk from one end of Ely to the other. We need more food.’ He looked to the abbot, but Thurstan simply held out his hands in bafflement.

  Redwald rose from the bench and stretched his legs as he strode to the edge of the shadows that lay beyond the firelight. ‘It is true that we must keep our eyes on our foes. But what good will it be if we then get a spear in our backs? We have enemies all around, and the ones within Ely are nearer and as such more dangerous.’

  Hereward squinted to try to read his brother’s expression. ‘Then you say we continue down this path of crushing the folk of Ely to see who squeals like a pig? They have offered us shelter. They showed faith in our words. To act so harshly only turns them against us.’

  ‘We must be cruel to be kind in days yet to come,’ Redwald implored. ‘If we are soft now, they will suffer more in times ahead.’

  Kraki grunted. Guthrinc nodded thoughtfully. Hengist gulped more mead.

  ‘Alric thinks we harm only ourselves by being so hard on these folk. He tells me we should step back from treating our friends like enemies—’

  ‘And see more stores burned down? The monk is not here to put his shoulder behind his words.’ Redwald paused, realizing he might have overstepped a mark by interrupting Hereward, and when he began again it was with a pleasant smile, his arms outstretched in a genial manner. ‘Alric is a man of God, not a man of war. In times of peace, he will keep us all on the path to heaven. But these days we need men who have struck with iron and tasted blood on the wind. Their word counts for more. Do you not agree, Father?’

  After a moment’s thought, the abbot nodded. ‘I know little of battle and the plots and plans required to win them. But I do know that the Normans must never be allowed to reach Ely, for the price will be terrible indeed. That should be our sole guide when discussing our actions: how do we break the king’s ring of iron?’

  ‘Abbot Thurstan speaks wise words, as we all knew he would,’ Redwald said. ‘Crush the troublemakers here in Ely and our eyes can once again be turned beyond our ramparts. Crush them in a way that puts the fear of God in all here and keeps their heads down while we do our work. We can beg for their forgiveness when the war is won.’

  Guthrinc eyed Redwald askance. ‘You learned much at the right hand of Harold Godwinson.’

  ‘He was a great man,’ Redwald agreed.

  ‘He was a hard man.’ Guthrinc stroked his chin, giving nothing away of his innermost thoughts.

  Hereward simmered as he listened to the counsel. Alric had been right. The days when he could solve all his problems with Brainbiter now seemed simpler times. ‘How have we been brought down to this? What songs the scops will sing of us in days to come: how the great heroes of England brought naught but fear to their own.’

  The men around the table fell silent, watching him from under their brows.

  After a moment, Hereward clenched his fist. ‘Then we have no choice. We must be divided, though it weakens us. From tomorrow morn, half our army will harry the Normans out in the fens. The rest will crush our enemies here in Ely.’ Doubt lit the faces of the others round the table. No one there believed they had the resources or the strength to win on two fronts, he knew. ‘This is not the path I would have chosen for us, but it is the one we face. Stand or fall, the coming days will decide our fate.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE EMBERS IN the hearth glimmered away in the dark. Alric wrenched his bruised head up from the packed-earth floor. Silent shapes were hunched around the fire. The four men squatted, gripping their spears to balance themselves. The monk strained at the bonds fastening his hands behind his back, but the rope had been tied too tightly. His wrists burned and his muscles ached, but that pain was nothing compared with the agony of dread in his heart.

  The waiting had been unbearable. Every time the door had opened, he had seen the shadows lengthening, knowing that when the light fina
lly faded, Hereward’s life would go with it, and the hopes of all the folk in Ely. Time and again, he had pleaded with these traitors to turn away from their path of betrayal. The Norman word could not be trusted, he pressed, whether they had promised riches or survival once the king’s forces overran the settlement. They only laughed at him. When he protested further, they cuffed him with the shafts of their spears or kicked him in the ribs until fire flared through him. Whispered prayers had only brought blows to the face that left blood caking his nose and his lips split. And when he had tried to reason with them, urging them to recall what terrors the king had already unleashed upon England, he felt the sharpness of the spear-tips.

  They would not be deterred, he could see that now. He wanted to believe they were weak, or consumed by greed, but as he watched the cast of their drawn features when they prowled around the hearth, he realized they were only scared.

  Saba opened the door a crack. Alric peered out and saw moon-shadows thrown across the grey path leading to the hut. It was bright out, not a good night for murder. Saba appeared to be considering this, for he looked up at the moon and stars and then bowed his head in a long moment of reflection. When he turned back to the others, he nodded. ‘We can wait no longer.’

  The men grunted, keen to get this business done.

  ‘When we have struck, send the fire-boats out to warn the king’s men. They wait for our beacon.’

  ‘You will be punished, in this world and the next,’ the monk called out.

  Saba cast a murderous glare as if seeing him for the first time. Alric stiffened, though a part of him knew there could be no other outcome but death once they had allowed him to see their faces. ‘You will be found out,’ he said, maintaining a brave front.

  ‘The folk will thank us in the end. Hereward only drags out our misery. We starve, slowly. And when the king’s men come, do you think there will be a man, woman or child still standing in Ely when we have turned our faces away from them? Better to bow our heads now and plead for mercy. Then at least there is some hope.’

  The monk sensed that Saba was still trying to justify his actions to himself. ‘You must have faith,’ he pressed. ‘I know all of you. You are good men. You care for kin and aid friends and strangers alike. You work hard. But the stain of this blood will never be washed away—’

  ‘This world has been turned on its head,’ Saba snapped, cutting in, clearly stung by Alric’s words. He shook his spear at the monk. ‘Right or wrong, who can tell which is which? None of us know our places any more. You, monk, you live your days in a land of milk and honey. The rest of us must fight to live. Do not judge me.’ He pointed his spear at one of the other men, a new arrival in Ely. He was squat with broad shoulders and a wind-chapped face like a seaman’s. His speech had the thick tone of Northumbria. ‘If he cries out, kill him now and be quick about it. But he will want to hold on to life like any man so he will be silent. But leave a good time before you end his days so his screams do not draw men out from their hearthsides. Once Hereward is dead, burn this hut with his body in it and none will be the wiser.’

  The Northumbrian man nodded, squatting back by the fire.

  ‘Three of you,’ Alric said with contempt, trying another approach. ‘Would you give up your lives so easily? I have seen Hereward kill more than that number without taking a breath.’

  Saba eyed him for a moment, and seemed about to speak. But then he kicked out and Alric’s wits spun away. When he came round the other three plotters were gone. His remaining captor was sharpening the edge of his knife with a stone, each slow, steady stroke reverberating through the hut.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE FULL MOON glowed high over Ely. The wetlands gleamed silver, but in the town bands of deep shadow carved through the tracks among the houses. As Hereward stepped out of the refectory, he looked up to watch the bats flit by. No breeze stirred the ash trees and the oaks on the slopes of the isle. In their crowded homes, folk sweated under the stifling heat still blanketing the fens. Even the oppressive summer temperatures seemed to be working against him.

  ‘There is no path worth the walking that is an easy one.’ At the comforting words he turned and glimpsed Thurstan, hands clasped in front of him in the shadows at the corner of the refectory. The abbot gave a reassuring smile. ‘If any man could win this fight, it is you, Hereward.’ The cleric was a man of few words and when he did choose to speak each one carried weight. The Mercian felt touched by the support, but before he could respond, Thurstan had slipped away into the dark towards the comfort of his own hearth.

  Redwald burst out of the refectory, his cheeks flushed. ‘To the tavern?’ he enquired, rubbing his hands together. ‘Let us drink as brothers and make a mead-oath to put iron in our hearts for the coming battle.’

  ‘I would find Alric. It is unlike him to miss our gathering.’

  Redwald snorted. ‘His mind has wandered from our struggle. He cares more for the poor and hungry here in Ely these days. Leave him to his ministering.’

  ‘I would speak with him about these things we have discussed this evening.’

  ‘You do not need his counsel,’ the other man said cheerily. ‘Can he see things more clearly than me?’

  Hereward’s attention was caught by a fleeting movement down the slope near the palisade. He narrowed his eyes, searching the pooling shadows. His vision had been honed by dark fenland nights as a youth, creeping through the reed-beds to steal the fish from lines or fowl from snares. ‘Still, it is not like him to be missing,’ he murmured, distracted.

  ‘My tongue moves too fast, as always. I see you are worried about him,’ Redwald said. ‘I will find him and bring him to you.’

  Hereward continued to scour the dark. He knew the rhythms of Ely. At this time, most would be by their hearths, with their kin. The evening meal would have been consumed, such as it was, the bowls stacked by the door, and man, woman and child would be readying themselves for sleep in preparation for another hard day tomorrow. Any folk still out would not raise their pace above an amble as they moved to the homes of friends or the tavern. The hairs on his neck prickled. ‘Take care,’ he said to his brother, ‘and if you see aught that is strange, find me.’

  Redwald shook his head, laughing quietly at his brother’s unease, and set off towards the monk’s tiny hut. Hereward continued to watch the quiet settlement. Men guarded the new food store at the minster and the look-outs by the causeway would have long since raised the alarm if the king’s men were attacking. With a shrug, he walked out of the minster gate on to the main track leading down to the gates.

  Barely had he taken five steps when he glimpsed more rapid movement, this time between two of the older dwellings. A man running, light-footed so no sound carried. The Mercian’s fingers slipped unconsciously to the hilt of his sword.

  He prowled down the track, trying to discern the look-outs at the palisade. The moonlight illuminated an empty platform where the man should have been. His skin tingled. He slipped out of the silvery light into the shadow of a building and cocked his head to listen for even the slightest sound, urgent voices, the clink of iron. The Camp of Refuge bubbled like a cauldron of stew. Tempers grew hot among the mass of bodies. And across Ely resentment simmered too. All this he knew from Alric, who kept both ears open as he immersed himself in his daily business.

  As he weighed whether he should call Kraki to raise some men, movement erupted all around. Figures flitted everywhere he looked. He counted ten … fifteen … more. Querying whispers broke the stillness as they called to each other. Footsteps now, rattling out from the sun-baked tracks; they were taking less care as they drew closer to the time when they would act. A torch crackled into life near the palisade, and another only three houses away. This was more than simple argument.

  Hereward decided to call for Kraki. But as he took a step back up the slope, a hard rod slammed across his shoulders, and another an instant later across the back of his knees. He crashed down on to the dusty track.
/>   ‘Here,’ a harsh, low voice called. ‘We have him.’

  The warrior rolled on to his back. Two men loomed over him with spears ready to thrust into his chest. No Normans these, as he had feared, but good Ely men. Running footsteps drew nearer, voices picking up the call.

  We have him. The words seared through his mind, telling him all that he needed to know. He lashed his right foot into the knee of one of his attackers. The man howled in pain, stumbling into his companion. Both fell off balance. As they struggled to bring their weapons down, Hereward rolled to one side. The tip of a spear crunched into the dirt where he had been lying.

  Jumping up, he seized the spear from his attacker and whipped the shaft into the faces of both men. He heard the crack of noses breaking. The blow was hard enough to stun. He darted away between the homes and did not look back. Weaving among the wooden dwellings, he picked an erratic route to the edge of the settlement and crouched down in the shadow against a wattle wall to gather his thoughts.

  When he peered around the corner of the house, he discerned torches dancing among the homes. An uprising, could it be? Not even if all the folk of Ely took up arms could they defeat the army he had amassed. What, then? After a moment’s reflection, the truth settled on him like ice on a winter pond. These men were moving as if time was of the essence. They had no need to defeat an entire army if they could simply cut off its head.