Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army (31 page)

‘I know the byways of your soul as well as you know this land.’ Alric softened his voice. He could see his friend’s anger was born of despair. ‘We have grown like brothers, the two of us, over the years of battle and bloodshed and joy and feasting, have we not?’

Hereward said nothing, refusing to meet the other man’s eyes.

‘I have seen you take a spear to the arm and an axe that near cleaved your helm in two,’ the monk continued, ‘and each time you rose and fought on as if the blows were naught. But I have never seen you so wounded as when your wife was lost.’ He rested his hands on his knees, taking another deep breath. The trek from Ely had been too fast, too hard, and the constant arguing had worn him down. ‘This …’ he waved his hand wearily at the moonlit path ahead. ‘This can only be about Turfrida.’

‘And if it is, what business is it of yours, monk?’ The shadows of the branches hid the warrior’s expression.

‘Take the hand of friendship, Hereward. Do not return to the man you were, that wild beast who snarled and snapped at all who passed and thought he needed none but himself.’

‘I cannot be that man,’ the Mercian shouted, stabbing a finger at his friend. ‘Would that I could. And then I would not be here, tearing myself apart over two paths.’ He stalked to the edge of the black water and squatted down, bowing his head as if in prayer. ‘Your world is easy. Right or wrong, God or Devil. And my world used to be too. But now, whichever path I choose, the other will end in blood, and the death of good folk. There is no right or wrong. Both are right. Both are wrong. And my choice will damn me whatever.’

Alric winced at the anguish he heard in his friend’s voice. For a moment, Hereward stared along the white path of moonlight across the dark lake, and then he rose slowly and drew his shoulders back. When he turned, he was grinning, all signs of his turmoil gone.

‘We have walked a hard road, you and I,’ he murmured, ‘and I am glad you have been there at my side.’

‘The road is not done yet.’ Alric furrowed his brow at this change in conversation.

Hereward pulled bread from his leather pouch, broke it in two and handed one piece to Alric. ‘This war has given some purpose to my days,’ he began. ‘It is a just one. We fight for our fathers and our fathers’ fathers and all the things they built
with their hands. We fight for the folk suffering under William’s cruelty, and to stem those rivers of blood he has set flowing across this land. Never would I have thought men would follow me into such a battle—’

‘But they do,’ Alric interjected. ‘They would give their lives for you.’

Hereward bit into the bread and spoke: ‘We have achieved much. With the Danes at our side, with Burgh’s gold and the power of St Oswald, we now have a force that could shake the crown from the king’s head. I did not do that alone. You showed me the way.’

Alric chewed on his piece of bread, reflecting. He was reassured by Hereward’s words, but there was something in the man’s tone that troubled him.

‘I am no longer needed in Ely,’ the Mercian said, so bluntly that Alric thought he had misheard.

He gaped. ‘You are needed more than ever.’

‘Others can lead as well as me, and they will.’

The bread paused halfway to Alric’s mouth. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I have chosen Turfrida. Now all is well in Ely, I could choose no other.’ He swallowed his bread and added, ‘Only I can save her life.’

‘Where is she? How do you know what has happened to her? Tell me,’ the monk began.

Hereward shook his head. ‘That is not for you to know. All that matters is that I will be gone—’

‘For how long?’ he murmured.

‘Some time.’

The monk searched the other man’s face. Those words held too much weight. He held out an imploring arm. ‘Your army needs you, Hereward.’

‘You must return to Ely and let the English know they must choose a new leader,’ the Mercian insisted. ‘Redwald can command their respect. He is clever and good-hearted and brave.’

Alric winced inwardly at the thought. ‘Redwald … he is not you, Hereward,’ he said hesitantly, not wishing to offend. His thoughts flew back to the shocking confession he had heard, and the admission of murder, and his suspicion that more terrible things lay unspoken.

‘My brother is better than me. With him at its head, the English army cannot lose.’ Alric opened his mouth, but could not find the words. ‘Swear you will tell the others,’ Hereward pressed. ‘The army cannot be left without a leader. The final battle is near. Now we have set our trap, the Bastard will attack any day. A time of blood is coming fast, and only the strongest will survive.’

‘I will tell them what you said,’ Alric replied, relenting.
But I will offer my own counsel
, he thought. Redwald could not become leader.

Hereward nodded, seeming relieved. He gripped his friend’s arm and held it for a moment that seemed to go on for ever.

‘What is it that you are not saying?’ the monk whispered, fearing the answer.

Hereward seemed on the brink of replying and then shook his head and smiled. ‘You have been a good friend,’ he said softly. ‘Do this one last thing for me and all will be well.’

With that, Hereward turned and slipped into the shadows among the willows. Surprised by the warrior’s speed, Alric hesitated for a moment. When he tried to follow, calling out his friend’s name, he heard only the whisper of the breeze in the branches and saw only the all-consuming dark.

His mind raced with all that had been left unsaid. He turned and began to make his way back along the edge of the rustling reed-beds, only then registering the words of Hereward’s farewell:
Do this last thing for me
. He felt a growing chill. It sounded as if his friend were going off to die.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-F
OUR

BLOOD GUSHED INTO
the pail as the butcher slit the boar’s throat. Frenzied squeals rang across the yard at the back of the palace in Wincestre. Once the beast had crashed on to the mud, two lads dragged the carcass through the open doors of the barn to the carving table. Taking care not to splash any blood on her apron, a girl lifted the bucket and carried it away to make the pudding. More meat lay on the leather hides in the gloom of the barn, waiting to be butchered. Balthar could see geese with their necks broken, two cows and another boar.

‘A feast? I have heard nothing of this,’ Edwin of Mercia said, peering into the barn. ‘What do you know of it, Fox?’

Balthar smiled and folded his hands in front of him. He had heard nothing of any feast, but he was not about to reveal his ignorance. ‘The king makes his plans and announces them when he is ready.’

‘Be sure you tell us when the time is right,’ Morcar said, forcing a smile.

The three men stood in the shadows between the stores on the other side of the yard where they could not be seen. Balthar knew the Mercians hated him. He could see it in their cold eyes and sullen expressions and the way their fingers clenched on
the gold hilts of their swords whenever they stood near him. Yet these days they nodded when their paths crossed, and they asked after his wife and sons. No contemptuous words ever left their lips, no mockery, no dismissive jibes. The king’s brutality in the north had scared even them. They had come to realize he was a man capable of any extreme to achieve his desires, and the monarch’s Fox knew his mind better than any. Balthar liked that feeling of power.

‘What news have you for us, then, Fox?’ Edwin asked.

Balthar understood what the other man really wanted to know: if the king was preparing to move against the English earls. ‘The king’s eyes are elsewhere for now,’ he replied, ‘to the east where the Danes have now joined forces with the English fighters in Ely.’

Edwin and Morcar exchanged a look. ‘Never would I have thought Hereward could have raised such an army,’ Morcar whispered.

‘This Hereward is proving a great enemy,’ Balthar said. He leaned in and whispered behind his hand, ‘Why, there is even talk that he could topple the crown from the king’s head.’

Edwin raised his eyebrows. ‘Is this true?’

‘His army grows by the day,’ Balthar replied, glancing around. ‘A few more loyal men is all he needs.’

Edwin nodded thoughtfully. The Fox hid his smile. He had sown his seeds well. He knew Edwin and Morcar had their own men, but they were well hidden somewhere between Wincestre and Mercia. All it would take would be a few more shoves to drive the frightened earls out of the court and into the rebels’ arms.

‘We always liked you, Fox,’ Morcar lied. ‘When the feast is called, sit with us and let us drink mead together.’

‘An honour,’ Balthar said with a bow. He watched the two brothers stride away, heads locked in conspiratorial whispers. There was much truth in what he said, and more in their fears. Soon the king would tire of keeping these enemies close and he would have them killed or shut away from the light.

Once the two men had disappeared, he hurried into the palace and found Godrun as she carried logs to the hearth. Her face lit up when she saw him. Glancing over her shoulder, she pushed him behind one of the screens. He kissed her, savouring the curves of her body pressed against him.

‘How went it?’ she whispered hopefully.

‘Edwin and Morcar are like two hungry dogs. I throw them a few scraps and they follow me wherever I lead.’

‘You are so brave,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘You risk so much. The English will surely love you as much as I when William is gone.’

Balthar smiled and nodded. He was not sure that the crown could ever be taken from the Norman’s fingers, but for now he was enjoying his new role, and more, enjoying the attention it was gaining him from Godrun. His subterfuge seemed to excite her and she took him to her bed whenever they found a free moment. He felt like a youth again, spilling his seed time and again. And that meant fewer hours in the company of his dour wife. He told her the king made too many demands upon him. She was more than satisfied with the coin he took home, and the prestige of being married to a man of such power and influence. All in Wincestre knew of him, a great and powerful man who commanded the king’s attention and enjoyed the greatest rewards. If only they knew that he had earned the name the king had given him. He smiled to himself at how skilfully he passed on all the secrets and whispers he heard in the king’s palace, first to Godrun, who whispered them in turn to friendly Englishmen in town. And so he enjoyed the very best of two worlds and he was happy. But more, he felt he was doing good works for the first time in his life, and through it clearing a conscience that had become weighed down with guilt. Somewhere in all this intrigue he would find his path back to God.

‘We must take care,’ he whispered, kissing Godrun on the forehead. ‘The uprising still simmers in the east and the king’s patience wears thin. He is at his most dangerous when his temper frays. Anyone could feel the weight of his ire.’

‘But it is good that Ely is still free,’ she said, wide-eyed. ‘If Edwin and Morcar send their men—’

‘Hush.’ He pressed a finger against her lips to silence her. Cocking his head, he listened. A dim commotion of shouts and horses and running feet rumbled from outside the palace. Puzzled, he snatched one last kiss, murmured a goodbye, and hurried out.

The palace enclosure throbbed with swarming bodies. The king’s guards milled around the yard, unsure how to react to the spectacle unfolding in front of them. But the gates hung open and the commanders barked orders to stand back. Through the midst of the Normans, a mob of wild huscarls strode, fierce in helms and furs and chainmail. They looked like bears hunting in the mountains, Balthar thought, their heads turning constantly as they glowered at the warriors surrounding them. A figure walked in the centre of the horde, but the Fox could not see his face behind the wall of shields and bristling spears and axes. The Norman commanders cleared the way and the huscarls swept into the palace.

Balthar thrust his way past the Normans and inside, concerned that he knew as little as the common fighting men. As the huscarls approached the door to the king’s hall, it swung open. William himself stood there, grinning. The knot of warriors parted to allow the figure at the centre to stride forward; the Fox edged along the wall to get a better look. He glimpsed a man built like an oak, with wild black hair and beard. The stranger gave a gap-toothed grin.

‘King Sweyn Estrithson of the Danes,’ William boomed, flinging his arms wide and laughing.

Balthar gaped. For months now, the Danes and the Normans had been engaged in a bloody dance throughout the east, and now William was greeting his opponent like a brother. What could this mean?

The two kings disappeared into the hall and the doors slammed shut behind them.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-F
IVE

THE NEW CASTLE
loomed over the high-town. In the merciless summer sun, the whitewashed timber of the keep shone across the great river plain from the top of the steep-sided hill. Age-old wood-framed houses and the great hall of the Mint clustered in the fortress’s shadow within the stone walls of old Lincylene. Shielding his eyes, Hereward let his gaze drift outside the walls where the jumble of newer houses tumbled down the hillside to the broad, black ribbon of the River Witham. Sails billowed and lines cracked on the ships moored along the quayside. Bare-chested men sweated in the sun as they unloaded iron from the south and lead from the west, and chests and bales of prized goods from foreign shores, perhaps amethyst pendants from the hot lands to the south, or delicate pottery from Byzantium. The din of hammers from the workshops and the shouts of merchants along the river and in the marketplace carried across the still countryside. He wrinkled his nose at the reek of the cess-pits and the bitter smoke from the furnaces, sharp even at that distance.

Hereward drew his shoulders back. What lay ahead did not daunt him. He would not enter Lincylene cowed and whimpering and beg for Turfrida’s life. A warrior, he was, and if there
was even the slightest chance that he could free his wife and escape, he would seize it. Cunning would win him that prize, not the edge of his sword, he knew that: slow and careful, like the fox at night, not savage like the wolves.