by James Wilde
Once through the press he turned, his back set against the wall, to see Faramond thrust his blade through the heart of a man. Two more bodies lay on the floor, leaking gore. But the starving villagers flew at the knight like a pack of wolves, clawing at his face as they leapt on top of him. He crashed down under the ferocity of the attack and his attackers fell on him like rats.
Balthar scuttled crabwise to the doorway and lurched out into the bitter night. On the threshold, he glanced back, despite himself. Under the churning pile of bodies, Faramond’s pinned head was turned towards him. His eyes widened in silent pleading. The billhook and the knives ripped down and Balthar turned and ran. There was nothing he could do, he told himself. Sickening screams echoed out into the snow-covered hills, but the Fox refused to hear them. Only when silence fell once more did he suck in a juddering breath. Yet he could not allow himself to think of what was happening in that lonely hut at that moment.
Blinking away tears of fear, he ran to where Faramond’s horse waited, snorting in the cold. He clambered on to its back and urged it along the deep tracks in the snow. When the village had disappeared into the dark behind him, he began to shake, and then cry. The knight must have come to look for him when it was discovered he was missing, and Balthar had abandoned him to a terrible fate. As he followed the trail back towards the Norman forces, he shook his head to dispel the shock of how close he had come to death. But he doubted his guilt would ever fade. Never more could he pretend he was the man he had believed himself to be. The dawn would not come soon enough.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
3 March 1070
FLAMES FLICKERED BEYOND the night-dark trees where the four men were crawling on their bellies like snakes. There, on the edge of the wetlands, the spring breeze brought the tangy scent of the nearby ocean. Every now and then, the sound of waves crashing against the salt marsh broke through the rustle of leaves and the dim crackle of the fire.
‘Wait here,’ Hengist whispered, his eyes unnervingly wide and fixed. As he crawled off through the sprouting bracken and long grass in the direction of the bonfire, Redwald, Sighard and Madulf exchanged doubting looks.
‘Can we trust him? He is lighter in the head with each passing day,’ Madulf grumbled. ‘While enemies creep up on us, he could be away whispering to the rabbits.’
‘Leave him be,’ Sighard replied, throwing a friendly punch at his brother’s arm. ‘Watching the Normans slaughter kin could send any man away with the ravens.’
Madulf only scowled.
‘There is no better scout than Hengist,’ Redwald murmured, his attention fixed on the bonfire. He could hear shouts, and singing. If it was a camp, as the scout had claimed, it was a large one. ‘If Hereward trusts him, then so do we.’
‘Trust,’ Madulf grumbled. ‘I cannot even trust my own brother.’
‘How say you?’ Sighard replied, indignant.
‘I saw you creeping out from Edoma’s hut before dawn,’ his brother replied, sullen.
‘’Twas not me.’
‘Lies.’
‘Hush,’ Redwald insisted, irritated by their constant chatter so close to danger. ‘Edoma is a woman of honour. She would not waste her time with either of you squeaking piglets.’
Silence fell as they waited for mad Hengist to return with news that it was safe to advance. After a moment, Madulf whispered, ‘We have heard tell that Hereward believes the Normans have eyes and ears within the camp. And that you are charged with deciding who is true and who is the hidden enemy.’
‘I said, still your tongue.’
‘Is it true?’ Madulf insisted. Redwald heard a jarring note in the young man’s voice.
A cry rang out from deep in the woods ahead.
‘Hengist,’ Sighard exclaimed.
Before Redwald could urge caution, the two brothers had snatched up their spears and shields and were racing through the undergrowth. Redwald cursed under his breath. He hesitated for one moment, wondering if he should abandon them to their fate. Then he grabbed his own spear and shield and jumped to his feet. He kept low, his shield high, his weapon levelled. The sounds of revelry from the camp had been snuffed out. Only the breeze moaned through the branches. Ahead the flames licked up. He could smell woodsmoke and the rich aroma of roast boar.
Redwald searched the trees on all sides. It was as black as pitch. Ahead lay a clearing lit by some silvery light. He paused and listened. No hint of a footstep reached his ears. Once again he cursed Madulf and Sighard. Those foolish children. He would not give up his life for them or for mad Hengist. Determination filled him and he began to edge back the way he had come.
Something moved away in the gloom and he halted once more. He felt his heart beat faster. Was it one of the two brothers? Or Hengist returning? He could smell the fresh paint on his shield as he peered over the lip. His body felt as heavy as stone.
A silhouette whisked past the clearing. A branch cracked away to his right. The whispers of subtle movement rose up all around and gathered pace until a rumble of footsteps was rushing towards him. A torch flared in the dark, and another.
Redwald whirled and crashed through the bracken. Barely had he taken ten paces when a figure loomed up on the edge of his vision. A blow crashed against the side of his helm and he saw stars. A moment later he found himself lying on his back looking up through the bracken fronds. His head throbbed with the thrum of blood. A dark shape hovered over him. He felt for his spear, but it was lost in the ferns.
A torch swept near. The orange glow lit the fierce face of a Dane, his body heavy with mail and furs. He snarled something in a language Redwald did not understand as he drew back a glinting axe.
Redwald threw an arm across his face and cried out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE RAVEN BANNER fluttered in the chill morning breeze. Under the standard’s protection, the camp stretched from the edge of the dense woods across the misty salt marshes to the white-topped waves of the grey sea. Tents billowed and flapped and guy-ropes cracked. Next to every entrance, shields brightly painted in red, blue and amber rested against spears and axes. Bleary-eyed warriors squatted around the embers of the night’s fires, picking over greasy waterfowl bones and the sticky remnants of roast boar.
Hereward shielded his eyes against the glare of the rising sun and studied the army and beyond it the ships moored along the coast. So many, more than he had ever anticipated. He saw from the scars and the stumps and the missing eyes and the notched weapons that these were the fiercest warriors the far north had to offer. A den of wolves, ready to fall on any fresh meat that came their way. He inhaled a deep draught of the salty air, still sharp with the last cold of winter, and strode down the incline. As his cloak flapped behind him, he could only think that the sound reminded him of the wings of ravens waiting to pick over his bones. Kraki walked at his right shoulder, Guthrinc at his left, a fearsome sight even for these battle-hardened Danes, he hoped.
As they licked their lips and wiped their fingers on their matted furs, the warriors glanced towards him with narrowing eyes. Hereward searched among the tents until he saw Hengist, beckoning. The way had been prepared. Now they had only to hope that they were not opening the gates to hell.
Guthrinc hummed to himself as he looked around. ‘How many riches you bring to my life, Hereward,’ he murmured, his tone wry. ‘And now the chance for a spear in my back.’
Kraki glowered at any man who dared meet his eye. ‘They care as much for us as a dog cares for his fleas. We are no threat, and they know it.’ Yet Hereward saw his hand never strayed from his axe.
‘Keep your heads high,’ the Mercian whispered. ‘Remember: they sent Hengist back to tell us they would talk.’
‘Aye, but what about the other three?’ Kraki growled. ‘Their heads might be food for the ravens.’
‘Ah, such good cheer flows from your lips,’ Guthrinc said, smiling at the Danes he passed.
‘I know fighting men, unlike you, mud-crawler,’ the Viking re
plied.
Hereward heard the clank of chainmail as warrior after warrior stood up to watch him go by, but he did not look back. As they neared the centre of the camp, he saw Redwald, Madulf and Sighard, still among the living, dipping hard bread into bowls of grey slop. Redwald had a bruise on his forehead and a gash on his right cheek, but the other two looked hale and hearty. Hereward ignored them, his gaze fixed on the largest tent, which had been dyed blood-red, but Guthrinc called to them, ‘What torments you suffer. Warm food! A full belly! I am glad I risked my neck to save you.’
Hengist waited by the entrance to the red tent. ‘Here, now,’ he called to whoever waited inside, ‘Hereward of the English, ring-giver, battle-wolf, spiller of Norman blood.’
Hereward came to a halt by the glowing coals of the tent’s fire. A thin trail of smoke wafted up to the pale blue sky, fragrant with the scent of the smouldering greeting-herbs that had been tossed on to the embers. A good omen. After a moment, the flaps of the tent were thrown aside and two helmed Danes stepped out – huscarls, Hereward guessed – followed by a third man. Though he seemed around his fiftieth summer, he stood as tall and broad-shouldered as Hereward, his eyes burning with vitality. His black hair was long and wild, as was his beard. Under his thick, purple cloak, the gold rings of a king gleamed on his arms.
Hereward hid his surprise, and bowed his head in a show of deference. Here was Sweyn Estrithson himself, king of the Danes, not one of the monarch’s many sons that he had expected to meet. This opportunity was greater than he had ever dreamed; and riskier too.
The king nodded, accepting the show of respect. ‘You know me?’ he asked.
‘I know of a king who is as fierce a warrior as he is wise a ruler,’ Hereward replied. ‘And one who now has bloodied the nose of William the Bastard and may yet cut his legs from beneath him.’
‘And my huscarls have told me the tale of the Bearkiller, the bane of Normandy’s duke.’
‘Then we have ploughed the same field.’
Sweyn broke into a gap-toothed grin and swept his right arm to usher Hereward into his tent. The Mercian nodded to Kraki, Guthrinc and Hengist to wait outside. It was warm in the ruddy glow under the hemp cloth. In one corner, hot coals glowed in a copper bowl. More fragrant leaves smouldered on the embers, hiding the reek from the cess-pit beyond. Furs had been heaped in one corner as a sleeping place. The king sprawled on them and waved a hand for Hereward to sit on a plank supported by two logs. Sweyn clapped his hands and a pretty brown-haired girl slipped in – English by the looks of it, Hereward thought. She carried a pitcher, and from it she poured two wooden cups of beer. When she offered one to Hereward, she blushed, clearly knowing who he was. He smiled in return.
The king raised his cup and said in a commanding tone, ‘Wæs þu hæl.’ Hereward echoed the toast. ‘Your folk have visited this camp every day since we put to shore, monks from the abbeys and men from the fields alike,’ Sweyn continued, ‘and every day I hear pleas to drive out the conqueror and rule this land as my kin did in days gone by. They take my men into their homes and to their feasts and give them what little meat and drink they have.’
Hereward sipped his beer. ‘William’s rule has been a long, cruel winter for many. They would feel the sun on their faces.’
‘The Bastard will not let his prize slip through his fingers easily.’ The king lounged back, but Hereward could feel Sweyn scrutinizing him, weighing his worth. And he too knew the truth of his host, a man who had ordered his huscarls to slaughter a church-full of guests when he had heard one of them had ridiculed him. ‘When we took Eoferwic, we thought his days were done,’ he continued. ‘But he fought back and left your north a desert. Never have I seen such blood, rivers of it, and I have fought battles where there have been bodies as far as the eye could see. Pestilence and starvation spread among the poor souls who yet live. Some say William would rather see this a land of the dead than lose his crown.’
Hereward’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his cup tighter. ‘The End of Days,’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘No, it will not come to pass.’
The king smiled. ‘You would set your face against God’s judgement?’
‘William the Bastard is a man, and he does not speak for God. I will do all within my power to bring him to his knees.’
Sweyn nodded, seeming to like this show of defiance. ‘Your king has crushed all uprisings now, save one. The one you lead. He thinks his throne is safe, and that you are nothing more than a flea.’
‘Let him think that. More joy to see his face when he finds the only fleas in the east are ones that ride the backs of wolves.’ He drained his cup. ‘This winter has been hard, but still we stand. And with more men, we could take the fight to the Normans, and drive them out.’
The king called for more beer, and once the girl had filled his cup, he said, ‘We make common cause, then. Is that what you are here to say?’
For a moment, Hereward hesitated. He recalled Alric’s words as he left Ely to follow Hengist to the camp of the Danes: ‘Take care lest you make a deal with a devil worse than the one you know.’ Yet here was the moment where the fate of the English could turn on his words. ‘We can offer you safe haven, a home protected by the strongest defences, where William’s men can never touch you.’
Sweyn kept his gaze fixed on his guest, urging him to continue.
‘This land is filled with traps and death,’ the Mercian added. ‘We know the secret paths that will keep your battle-wolves with the living. With the English beside you, you will be able to thrust a spear deep into the heart of William’s army.’
‘Even so, your numbers are small,’ the king mused. ‘What more can you offer?’
Hereward grinned, recalling the moment long months ago that he had sown the seed of his plan, needing only men to see it bear fruit. And now here it was. ‘Riches beyond your dreams,’ he said. ‘And the power of God himself.’
The king’s eyes brightened.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
5 April 1070
PINK APPLE BLOSSOM fluttered in the orchard. The sweet fragrance drifted down to the column of weary warriors as they marched through the great gates of Wincestre. Their shields were dented, their cloaks stained with mud and blood, but they raised their heads to the chorus of cheering crowds greeting King William’s return from his victorious campaign to bring peace to the unruly north.
As he rode, Balthar searched the bright faces of the folk lining the streets to the royal palace. He had hoped he would glimpse Godrun there, so desperate was he to see her. Yet he knew she would find him changed, in many ways, and for the better, he hoped. Those gruelling experiences in Northumbria had stripped the fat from his body and carved lines into his face. More, they had worn the edges off his arrogance.
As the spring sun warmed his cheeks, he thought back to that bitter chill in the mountains when he had rejoined the army. He had feigned ignorance of Faramond’s fate, though it still haunted him in the dark of the night. But the hardships of that winter had brought more immediate concerns. William had been forced to contain a rebellion among his own men, starving and exhausted and losing brothers to the cold. And then they had fought hard for Cestre where their enemies had not been prepared for the arrival of an army in the frozen season. The folk there had been cowed in no time and William had put them to work building a new castle. The feast had been great indeed, though he barely remembered a morsel that passed his lips. The uprising had been quashed and William’s possession of the crown had been sealed. Only the trouble in the fens remained, and that was like the grumblings of old men compared with what had already been crushed. Soon that too would be ended, at the hands of the Butcher. After so much hardship, the road south had seemed long indeed. But now he was home.
As he passed through the gates into the palace enclosure, he trembled with relief. He was not alone in that. Looking around, he saw the grins on the faces of the commanders as they slapped each other’s back. For the first time in many a month he h
eard laughter.
The king leapt from his horse with surprising grace for a man so large. Balthar felt William’s eyes upon him as he dismounted in turn. The monarch must have seen the eagerness in his face for he called, ‘Run away, Fox, and not to your wife, I would wager.’ Balthar’s ears burned as the king’s laughter followed him into the still hall, but he cared little. Through echoing chambers he ran, searching every place Godrun might be about her chores. He found her in the store, filling a pitcher with wine for the returning monarch. His appearance must have shocked her, for her eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Are you well?’ she ventured at whatever she saw in his face.
Unable to contain himself any longer, he pulled her into his arms and forced his mouth upon hers. The pitcher crashed to the floor, the good wine draining into the grooves among the flagstones. Her surprise held her rigid for a moment, but then she gave in to his kisses. When she wrapped her arms around his neck, he felt stunned by his response: not lust or love, but desperation. He knew he could not afford to let her go again.
‘Come with me,’ he requested, grabbing her hand, ‘to your bed. I cannot wait another moment.’
‘The king will call for me to serve him,’ she protested.
‘The king will understand.’
‘He knows?’ She wrenched free of his grasp.
‘More than knows. He has given us his approval.’ She stared at him in disbelief. ‘I will ask him to make you mine alone, so you will no longer have to endure the vile advances of those other men.’ He smiled. ‘I told you I would protect you.’
When he had finally convinced her, he led her along a meandering route from the palace to her home so they would not be seen. Inside the hut, he pulled off her dress with feverish hands and pushed her down upon the bed. She gasped, seemingly surprised by the intensity of his desire, but she offered her thighs to him without protest. Beguiled, he was, and he would not have it any other way.
