by James Wilde
Turfrida showed a quick smile. Though he had always been gentle with her, her husband’s temper could burn hot if his orders were ignored. ‘Where would he have me?’ she asked, softening her voice.
Edoma breathed deeply with relief. ‘There is an old wife in Somersham who will care for you until the battle is over, and help you with the birthing, if that is to happen soon. I will take you there.’
Turfrida grumbled under her breath, but she could see there would be no arguing with the determined girl. She returned to the hearth and found her leather bag. In it, she put her comb, a dress and a linen under-smock, the brooch her father had given her on her wedding day, and some of her charms and the dried herbs she used in her rituals. Though her child drained her spirits, if she could listen to the whispers and aid Hereward, she would.
At the door, Edoma made to take her arm, but Turfrida told her not to fuss. ‘I am not lame,’ she said, fixing an eye upon the girl.
Edoma nodded and smiled brightly. Oh, to be a girl again, with none of the world’s troubles, the older woman thought sardonically. For a moment, she looked back on simpler times, in Flanders, when she and Hereward had just been married. A hard road had always lain ahead of him, but never had she foreseen so much suffering and strife and worry. She prayed that soon it would be done and they could return to the life they had promised each other.
Ely slept soundly. The sweet-scented night-breeze rustled through the branches, and in the distance a fox barked. In the bright of the moon, the shadows carved deep valleys across the silvered grassland. As the two women walked down the street, Edoma pressed a finger to her lips and smiled.
The guard at the gate was nowhere to be seen. Likely emptying his bladder, Turfrida thought. Edoma eased the gate open a crack and they slipped through on to the winding track down to the jetty. Once the ramparts had fallen behind them, the girl whispered, ‘If the Normans have eyes and ears in Ely, they should not know where you are going.’
‘Hereward worries too much about me.’
‘Better that we are safe, aye? The Normans are cruel masters. They have hanged many a woman to make the folk pay for slights and sour words.’
Turfrida knew the girl was right. At the jetty, the whispering water lapped against the shore. A fisherman’s flat-bottomed fen boat bobbed at the end of a rope. ‘I will row you to where Madulf waits,’ Edoma whispered. ‘He has a horse to take you on, so you will not have to walk far.’
The older woman felt thankful for that mercy. She cupped her belly with her right hand as Edoma took her arm and helped her into the rocking boat. She struggled to find her balance with her new weight. Her body felt strange to her, and she did not like it.
Once they were settled, the younger girl paddled out across the water with steady strokes. Turfrida stared out over the peaceful mere shimmering in the moonlight. While Edoma searched the shoreline for her meeting place, her brow furrowed, Turfrida closed her eyes and put her head back. She hummed a song her mother had taught her when she was young. ‘Days long gone fill us with yearning,’ she murmured, to herself.
When she felt the boat change direction and the oar-strokes grow more insistent, she sat up and looked round. Ely was lost behind a band of lofty oaks. The waters curved around a finger of higher land into the wilder areas of reeking marsh where Hereward had warned her never to venture without a fenland guide. Edoma’s brow was furrowed. ‘Where is Madulf?’ she grumbled. ‘How does he think I will find him in the woods at night?’
‘There,’ Turfrida exclaimed, pointing at a glimmer of candlelight among the trees. The glow disappeared for a moment, then shone once more. ‘He calls to us.’
Edoma shook her head, still muttering under her breath. Keeping one eye on the intermittent light, she paddled towards the shore. When they reached the shallows, she splashed into the black water and pulled the boat into the whispering reeds. Once they were close enough to dry land, she held out a hand and helped Turfrida into the long grass.
‘Madulf will keep you safe,’ she whispered. ‘He has ordered me to return to Ely. He thinks I am a little girl who will bring the Normans to us with my chatter.’ She showed a sour face, which made her look like nothing more than that little girl. Turfrida hid her smile.
‘Thank you. Take care on the water alone. When I see Hereward, I will tell him how well you helped.’
Edoma bowed her head shyly. ‘And may God go with you,’ she murmured. She climbed into the boat, less gracefully than she might have hoped, and paddled away. Turfrida watched her go for a moment and then turned into the trees. The branches creaked in the breeze, but she could not hear her guide and the light was now hidden.
‘Madulf,’ she called in a low voice.
The candlelight glowed for a moment, luring her on. She thought of the dead-lights that sometimes glimmered in the marshes later at night, the souls of long-gone sinners, so the local women said, and she shivered. She stooped under low-hanging branches. Dry wood cracked under her feet. The light appeared again, hidden just as quickly. Twigs caught in her hair and brambles tore at her ankles. She wheezed from the exertion. Her belly felt heavier than ever.
After a few moments, the candlelight appeared from behind a broad oak. A figure stepped out, half-lost in the dark among the trees.
‘Madulf,’ she murmured. ‘If I had to walk many more steps—’
The words died in her throat. It was not Madulf. His hair was black, as was his cloak. Turfrida felt her insides turn to ice when she saw the feared face she had last glimpsed in Flanders so long ago now. ‘Emeric,’ she gasped, ‘the witch-hunter.’
‘You have heard of me. Good,’ the churchman said in heavily accented English. Two other men stepped out from behind trees, Normans by the look of their shaved heads. Emeric gesticulated and his assistants grabbed Turfrida before she could flee. She tried to cry out in the hope that Edoma would hear and raise the alarm, but a hand clamped over her mouth.
‘Now,’ Emeric said, ‘we shall see what God thinks of you, witch.’
CHAPTER FORTY
SILHOUETTES FLITTED ACROSS an orange glow as the folk of Burgh battled to contain the blaze. When the thick clouds of choking smoke shifted, the thunder of the approaching Norman army drowned out the terrified yells. The king’s men beat their shields, summoning Death to pick over the bones of the slaughtered in the coming battle. Iron sentinels, they were, grim-faced, backs like rods, disciplined and battle-honed.
They would reckon the English rabble, Hereward thought as he raced to the gate of the abbey enclosure. They would learn. His men poured from the buildings clustered around the church, arms laden with the last of the treasures. A gleaming mound of gold and silver and jewels now stood almost to the height of a man’s chest. The mercenaries and the Danes eyed it jealously.
‘We fight?’ Kraki barked, scowling as he glimpsed the advancing army.
‘We fight,’ Hereward shouted back. ‘They outnumber us, but not by enough to be sure of victory. Burn the rest of Burgh. Once they have walked through the fires of hell in their heavy chainmail and helms, they will be easy meat.’
Kraki turned and bellowed the order. A group of Danes snatched brands and ran down the slope, torching the houses they passed.
Guthrinc eyed Hereward, his face giving nothing away. ‘William the Bastard burns homes too,’ he said.
‘We will build them new ones when we have won,’ Hereward snapped, knowing in his heart that the other man was right. ‘Would you have us bare our throats when the Normans come?’
The other man shrugged. ‘I say only, take care that victory is worth the winning.’ He turned and shouted to the warriors, ‘We have the high ground. Make those bastards fight for every step they take.’
Hereward pushed back his hot anger. He had to keep a clear head – and hold his devil at bay. Turning to the heap of plunder, he ordered his most trusted men to load the riches into the sacks they had brought with them.
Barely had the words left his lips than Hengist thrust his way through th
e warriors. ‘You must come,’ he gasped, breathless from running. ‘All is not as it seems.’
The two men raced across the abbey grounds to a long, low, timber-roofed hall. Inside, a small fire crackled in the hearth and a single candle guttered. It was the infirmary, Hereward saw; dried herbs and plants had been stored on shelves alongside bowls of foul-smelling pastes. Hengist crunched across the reeds scattered on the boards to a low bed in the shadows against the far wall. On it lay a monk taller than Hereward by a good two heads, his feet hanging over the end of the bed. One arm was thrown across his face and his brown hair was greasy with fever-sweat.
‘Leofwine the Tall,’ Hengist said, leaning over the sick monk, ‘here is Hereward, war-leader of the English. ‘Speak, as you spoke to me.’
The cleric slid his arm back and squinted to see with his rheumy eyes. ‘Hereward. Yes, I know of you,’ he said in a creaking voice. ‘Your own uncle said you were a bastard who could not be tamed. Now you are grown you have found your true path in life, I hear – fighting an even bigger bastard.’
‘There are bastards aplenty in this life. At least I have always been honest,’ Hereward said wryly. ‘Speak to me, monk.’
Leofwine pushed himself up on his elbows. He shook with ague. ‘King William is sending one of his warrior-priests to be abbot of Burgh.’ He screwed up his face in a sour expression. ‘Turold is his name. He will aid Ivo Taillebois to bring order to the fens. The Butcher has already met with him.’
Hereward shrugged. ‘This is not news.’
‘Then, Man-Who-Knows-All, you have no doubt heard of his new orders,’ Leofwine sneered. ‘He comes not next week, as he once planned. He rides this even with an army of one hundred and sixty knights.’ He spat a mouthful of phlegm on to the reeds and coughed long and hard. ‘Rides hard, so I am told, from Lincylene. Earlier this night, we heard word from Stamford that he had watered his horses and taken on food for the last of the journey.’
‘Turold means to close off our road back to the east,’ Hengist insisted. ‘There can be no other reason for his speed. This is part of the Butcher’s plan to trap us here.’
Hereward nodded. This made sense. With Turold’s army, the Normans would have more than enough men to crush them.
‘He is sly, the Butcher,’ the monk continued. ‘He has learned he cannot fight you upon your own ground, and he has set more than one dog running to bring you down, I hear.’
Hereward smiled with contempt. ‘Let him try. His time runs short.’ He clapped a hand on Hengist’s shoulder. ‘Tell Guthrinc and Kraki. Draw the men back. It seems we cannot stand and fight. We must leave before Turold arrives.’
‘How?’ the other man enquired. ‘The Normans will not let us walk away without a fight.’
‘Go,’ Hereward urged, his face hardening. Hengist ran from the infirmary. The Mercian turned back to the sick monk and said, ‘If you think me such a bastard, monk, why do you warn me?’
‘No one here wants this Turold. Prior Aethelwold knows full well the Norman will heed no English voices, and will send our riches back to William.’ Leofwine lay back on his bed and closed his eyes.
‘Even a man like me would be better than that, eh?’ Hereward laughed quietly to himself. He peered down at the monk and added, ‘Is God to take you?’
‘The sickness has broken. Soon I will be well again.’
‘Then I wish you good health, Leofwine the Tall, and I bow my head to you for the aid you have given. I ask you for one further mercy. When the Normans come, they will lie about me and what I have done this night.’ Hereward glanced towards the door, listening to the sounds of battle ringing through the night. It drew closer by the moment. ‘Tell all that my army fights for the English. For you, Leofwine, and for your fellow churchmen too. We will not let the Normans steal the last of our birthright. Do not let lies turn the English against us, for whatever hard things we do, we do for the good of all.’
‘I will do as you say,’ the monk said weakly. ‘Now go. I am weary of this talk.’
Hereward raced back out into the smoky night. On the edge of Burgh, the wall of fire roared higher still. The clash of iron upon iron echoed. He peered down the slope from the abbey and saw his men hacking down any Normans that battled through the inferno. Yet the enemy’s attack was half-hearted, he could see that now. The bulk of the army held back beyond the ramparts, the Butcher sending only a few men at a time to brave the blazing gates. Enough to keep English minds occupied and to prevent any thought of escape.
‘How can we flee?’ Guthrinc shouted as he ran up with Kraki and Hengist. ‘Unless we grow wings and fly over the Normans waiting at the gate.’
‘Find the prior who fled the abbey when we attacked and bring him here,’ Hereward ordered.
He grinned at the doubt he saw in the men’s faces and waved them away. After long moments, the three men returned. Hengist herded a short, stout, bald-headed man at spear-point. Five other monks trailed behind, wringing their hands.
The prior scowled at Hereward. ‘You have burned Burgh and stolen God’s treasure and now you mean to slaughter men of God?’ he shouted above the sounds of battle and the roaring of the fire. ‘Truly you are the Devil.’
‘You are quick to take offence, monk. But there is more at stake here than your life.’ The Mercian stared at the prior with cold eyes. The churchman squirmed and averted his gaze. Hereward beckoned Guthrinc over and whispered in the big man’s ear. When he was done, he hooked a fist in the prior’s tunic and dragged him through the abbey gates and down the track towards the fire. Kraki, the monks and a crowd of warriors followed. Hereward could sense their eyes on his back and he felt pleased that none of them could predict what he planned to do.
Once he felt the intense bloom of the flames scorch his face, he hurled Aethelwold to his knees and held out one hand to Kraki. The Viking read the gesture and passed his axe to the Mercian. The monks began to sob, clasping their hands together and begging God for help. Hereward ignored their pleas. He forced the prior’s head down and raised the axe over his head.
Bodies littered the track in front of the gate, his own men and Normans together in one blood-soaked trail. He looked past them and through the swirling flames until he glimpsed the next rank of the king’s men approaching, shields held high against the heat. They slowed, then halted when they saw him.
‘You know me,’ he bellowed over the crackling of the conflagration. ‘You have your eyes and ears in Ely. You know why they call me the Devil and what I will do. Tell your master to lead his battle-wolves back into the trees or I will slaughter all the men of God in Burgh. And on his soul must it be.’
The Normans lowered their shields, unsure. Hereward shook the axe over his head. The king’s warriors hesitated for only a moment, seeing the cold conviction in their enemy’s face, and then they fled. The Mercian allowed himself a low laugh. The monks had fallen to their knees, wailing, and the trembling prior was muttering a prayer.
‘Rise, Father. You are not to die this day,’ the Mercian said. ‘In truth, you have been saved.’
Aethelwold looked up with burning eyes. He stood on shaking legs and stuttered, ‘You are mad.’
Hereward grinned. All eyes following him, he strode to the nearest corpse, one of the fallen Danes, pushing aside his unease at what he was about to do. ‘This fallen battle-wolf deserves better, but in death he will help save us, his brothers,’ he said, grasping the dead man’s hair and pulling the head back. With one clean sweep of the axe, he sliced through the neck. The monks cried out.
‘Here is the first of your men of God,’ Hereward bellowed. He whirled the head around by the hair and flung it over the wall of fire. It bounced across the ramparts where he knew the Normans would see it. ‘If they doubted me, they now know I am true to my word,’ he said to the other men, holding out his arms.
‘What use is this?’ Kraki demanded. ‘Even if they let us pass through the gates, they will still be upon our backs the moment we make for the boats. The
y will slaughter us on the banks of the river where we cannot defend ourselves.’
‘Then let them wait,’ Hereward replied. ‘And wait.’ He grabbed Aethelwold’s dalmatic tunic once more and began to drag him back up the track. ‘Come, Father, your prayers have been answered,’ he said in a sardonic tone.
When they reached the abbey grounds, he called his war-band to him, and the rest of the monks too. ‘We have bought ourselves time,’ he said, ‘and while the Normans wait for us to step out into the open, we will be on our way to Ely with our prizes.’ He saw his warriors glancing uneasily down the track to the fire and added, ‘We are not leaving the way we came. Follow me, but hold your tongues once we reach the wall.’
As the questions flew fast, he ran out of the minster again, and towards the eastern wall, dragging the prior along with him. ‘The Normans will be watching the river-gate,’ Aethelwold gasped.
‘True. Only a fool would leave that way.’
Hereward followed the wall north from the river-gate until he reached the north-eastern corner. Guthrinc waited there with a small group of Danes, his face flushed and his hands dirty. A small portion of the timber had been battered down. The Mercian nodded, pleased, and turned to the prior. ‘Leofwine the Tall has told me of your new abbot. Your days here in Burgh are soon to be grim.’
‘We have no say in the matter,’ Aethelwold snapped.
‘No, for any sour words from you would only bring the king’s wrath down upon your head. You must suffer any pain this Turold sends your way.’ He paused, grinning. ‘Unless you come with us.’
The prior eyed the Mercian askance, his eyes suspicious.
‘The Normans will think we have taken you prisoner and so you will be spared the king’s punishment,’ Hereward continued. ‘And you can spend your days in Ely, watching over the bones of your saints, until this war is won and you can return to Burgh.’
The prior’s eyes widened and for a moment he couldn’t speak. ‘It seems I have misjudged you.’
