Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army (42 page)

‘We will win,’ he shouted defiantly. ‘See – our enemy has been cut back to a half of their number. Soon they will be overwhelmed.’

‘But at what cost?’ Guthrinc yelled, racing back towards the fighting. The towering English warrior thrust his spear over the top of a Norman shield and into the man’s face. Beside him, Kraki roared a battle-cry as he swung his axe down. For a moment, Hereward glanced back up the slope to where the lone figure of Alric observed the battle. Would he win this day and lose every friend he had? If that were the price he paid, so be it. He had stood alone before.

He turned again to the battle and cried, ‘Fall back.’ At his command, his men rushed back up the slope as they had been ordered before they left Ely the previous night. The Normans stared in incomprehension. Hereward grinned as the crack of bowstrings echoed across the hollow. Arrows rained down on the Normans. Over the top of the shields the shafts flew, plunging into eyes, ramming through mail into chests and arms. The cries became a chorus. He had his rats in a barrel and he
would slaughter them one by one. After a second volley had been loosed, he shouted, ‘Attack.’ His archers fell back and the spearmen rushed forward.

His archers could only be used sparingly for fear of hitting too many of Morcar’s men, but as he looked across the bottom of the hollow he saw they had done their work. The tight ranks of the enemy had been fractured. Into the gaps, the English flooded. It was the beginning of the end.

Hereward felt a rush of euphoria. He raced back to the fighting and hurled himself into the line beside Kraki. ‘Come now when I have done all the hard work,’ the Viking grumbled.

Hereward swung his axe down with such force it cleaved a helm and skull near in two. As his enemy fell away, he looked across the sea of men and locked eyes with Harald Redteeth. The red-bearded Viking was laughing like a madman as he hacked right and left with his axe. Hereward grimaced and began to carve his way through the king’s men towards the mad Northman who had killed his friend Vadir.

Barely had he advanced a foot, when his senses prickled. Through the swirl of battle, he glimpsed Ivo Taillebois waving his arm in the air and bellowing some new tactic, lost beneath the roar of battle. The hated enemy army began to fall back.

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THE AXE FELL
one more time and blood spurted up. Harald Redteeth thrust the dying man aside and drove into the midst of Morcar’s army, cutting and slashing as he went. Behind him, Ivo Taillebois waved his men on, snarling encouragement.

The Norman commander had made a brutal decision. At their backs, he had left a line of his warriors to die in battle with the men of Ely. The bulk of his force now drove towards the weary English at the centre of the hollow. The Viking glimpsed the furrowed lines of incomprehension on his allies’ faces and laughed. He could see the Butcher’s plan as clear as day and it was the only one they had left.

This battle had been good, but death had come too close. Now he understood the whispered warnings of the
alfar
. Even his battle-seasoned arm was shaking with each axe-strike. Another helm flew, taking the top of a man’s head with it. And as the body dropped, Harald had a clear view of their prey. Morcar huddled at the centre of his forces. His long, horse-like face was slick with sweat, his eyes wide and staring as he searched for death on every side.

‘Follow me,’ the Viking roared. He swung his axe with
renewed vigour. Behind him, he sensed the Butcher and his warriors falling into place. Their spear formation drove straight into the heart of the English army.

Harald glimpsed Morcar begin to look around in panic. But he was surrounded by men trying to protect him unto death and he had nowhere to turn. The Viking chopped through the last of the line and loomed over the shaking earl. Snagging one fist in the Englishman’s tunic, Harald hauled him up high. His axe blade bit into Morcar’s neck and held.

‘Stop or he dies,’ Redteeth bellowed.

The Butcher took up the cry, and so did his men until it rang out over the din of fighting. Morcar’s huscarls were the first to lower their arms. They glanced at each other with uncertain eyes. Moments later, the men of Ely slowed their attack and then paused. Harald watched heads turn towards Hereward, waiting for an order.

The Mercian needed Morcar alive or he would not have command of the earl’s force, the Viking knew. And then all this bloodshed would have been for naught.

‘Do not give them time to think,’ the Butcher growled.

Harald dragged the earl through his bewildered men. The Normans formed a knot around them, less than a tenth of the original number who had set the trap that morning. Up the slope, they surged, as fast as they could go.

‘Hereward will take his time,’ Redteeth said. ‘He has the numbers. He need do nothing rash.’

‘Time is all we need,’ the Butcher replied, looking down at the watching English. ‘Time to breathe and think. A few moments ago we had none of it.’

‘Do not harm me,’ Morcar cried. ‘I have gold. I will pay well for my freedom.’

Harald shook him as if he were a fresh-caught rabbit. ‘Hold your tongue, you filthy coward. One more word from you and I will take your head, even if it sends us all into the Hall of the Slain.’

Once they had passed over the lip of the hollow, they heard
the roar of the English echo behind them. ‘Run,’ Taillebois commanded. ‘Towards the water.’

The Viking grinned. The Norman commander was clever, he would give him that. In all that part of the dense forest, the stream would give them the fastest and most easily defended route out of danger. He wrapped one arm around the slight earl’s chest and hauled him on a weaving path among the oaks and ash trees. The Normans crashed through the ferns all around. Gnarled roots and clustered trunks slowed their progress, but the Butcher held a clear line for the stream they had passed the previous day.

Behind them, Harald could hear the English army cresting the rim of the hollow. On either side, dead branches and fallen twigs cracked repeatedly. The Mercian had sent fleet-footed scouts to keep pace with them. He nodded. As expected. That was what he would have done.

The forest floor began to slope down. The Normans stumbled over outcropping rocks and plunged through bushes, brambles and fern as they made their way towards the sound of gushing water. Within moments they came to the edge of a broad white-topped stream cascading over stones, heavy from the autumn rains. Harald shook Morcar roughly for good measure and then plunged along the muddy bank. Soon the water began to cut deep into the ground and the weary warriors splashed into the icy flow to follow its course.

Harald grunted as he heard the rasping breath of the men around him, clearly already tiring. The English were not called the wild men of the woods for naught. This world of trees and water was their home and they would not give up pursuit easily.

As they forged along the stream with all the speed they could, the banks soared up on either side until they reached high overhead, topped with a dense wall of tree and thorn. If the English wanted to attack with numbers, they could only come from behind, and then with only four abreast. In the chilly shade at the foot of the narrow gorge, the Normans breathed a little easier.

‘Keep moving,’ the Butcher ordered. ‘When the water opens out, we may be able to lose them in the wilderness. Then we will find a village, and some horses, take what we need and ride for Lincylene.’

Yet Harald watched a shadow cross the Norman commander’s face. Of all the men the king had sent to keep the peace in the east, these few were the only ones that remained. Even if they survived, William’s wrath would be great indeed.

At a whistling, Harald jerked round. A flaming arrow shot through the air. A cry rang out, but the man was dead long before he plunged into the water and extinguished the flames licking across his tunic and hair.

More pitch-soaked shafts whipped down from the top of the bank and struck home. Hampered by their mail and shields, the Norman soldiers scrambled along the rocky stream as fast as they could. But every time they paused, fiery death rained down on them.

‘They will have picked us all off long before we get out of here,’ Harald snapped.

The Butcher cursed, looking around as he fled. But Harald laughed as he splashed on. ‘Now we have a fight,’ he roared. ‘Let us see who wants to live the most.’

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THE RUDDY GLOW
of the setting sun rimmed the horizon. Across the darkening landscape, the wetlands caught fire. A chill breeze blew from the north, drawing whispers from the reed-beds and the willows.

The knot of Normans looked out over the lonely country. ‘The fens,’ Harald Redteeth muttered. ‘We should not be here.’ An uneasy silence fell as the remainder of the king’s men weighed what lay behind those words.

After a moment, Ivo Taillebois said, ‘We travel north, along the edge of these wetlands. Soon we will find the tracks that lead to Lincylene.’

The Viking grunted in contempt at the commander’s confidence. At their backs, the dark forest brooded. Ten more lives had been claimed as they made their way along the watercourse to the edge of the trees. Arrows whistling from the dense vegetation. Rocks falling from the high banks, crushing skulls and spines. One by one they were being picked off, a flock of sheep at the mercy of a pack of circling wolves.

‘We should kill the English dog. He will only slow us down,’ one of the warriors muttered, nodding at Morcar. The earl’s eyes darted in apprehension.

The Butcher considered this for a moment, then said, ‘We may still need him to bargain our way out of here.’

‘They are men who hunt us, not ghosts,’ Redteeth said, looking around the warriors. ‘Never forget they are flesh and blood.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘Here is your true enemy. Fight it.’

The Butcher glowered at this usurpation of his authority. Harald cared little. He took the coin of the Normans while it suited him. But once Hereward was dead, he would be away, with a few grudges paid in the passing. He showed his gap-toothed grin, then strode off north along the edge of a broad mere soaked in inky shadow. He eyed the thin red haze limning the horizon and wished they had more of the day. The harsh cawing of the rooks in the forest slowly died away. Only the rustling of the reeds remained. He looked up and saw that the chill wind had brought grey cloud from the north. There would be no moon to light their way, no stars. No torch could be lit for fear it would draw the English to them. He was used to the brilliance of snow-covered plains, but those bastards could see in the dark, he was sure of it.

He glanced back at the straggling line of men, shoulders hunched, eyes darting furtively. The heart had been kicked out of them, so many of their brothers had been lost that day. And now they were moving through a land that was strange and threatening to them. They needed their castles, their stone walls and ramparts. These wetlands were like a living thing, luring in the unwary and then swallowing them whole. The
alfar
were strong here, and other, darker things, he had heard. One of the English spears-for-hire said the
wuduwasa
lived in this miserable place, feeding on the bloody bones of men. If he met it, he would cut it like any other beast. But he knew the Norman warriors had heard that tale too, and it scared them. He cursed under his breath as he pushed his way through the curtain of willow branches. Were it left to him they would have found somewhere to hide out, and defended it until first light. The Butcher’s decision to move through this treacherous place by night would be the death of them.

On the horizon, the last of the light died.

As if the rising dark were a signal, a cry of alarm rang out from the rear of the pack. Harald grimaced.
And so it begins
. He barged his way through the men, only a step behind Taillebois. Three warriors twisted and turned, their spears jabbing towards the wilderness behind them.

‘You will bring the English down upon us,’ the Butcher snarled, cuffing one of them.

‘They are already here,’ the man replied in a tremulous voice. He could not tear his gaze away from the empty landscape. ‘Lambelin walked behind us not a moment ago. And now he is gone.’

The Butcher drew his sword and joined his men in searching the dark. ‘The coward. He ran away rather than fight to save his brothers.’

Redteeth squatted, studying the muddy ground. After a moment, he reached out and touched the broken vegetation. His fingers came up sticky and dark, and he held them to his nose and sniffed. ‘Blood. They took him while he walked only paces behind you.’ He looked up and saw the men shaking.

‘We heard nothing,’ one of the men stuttered.

Harald lurched up and grabbed him by the tunic, thrusting the edge of the axe against his face. ‘Keep your ears and your eyes open,’ he snarled, ‘or you will be the death of all of us.’

The Butcher thrust the tip of his sword against the Viking’s neck. ‘One more word out of you and I will take your head,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I command here, never forget.’

Redteeth grinned and nodded. This was a march to the very doors of the Hall of the Slain, it was clear now. The only question that remained was at what point he should abandon these fools to the fate that clearly awaited them. But he had to choose his time well. He and Hereward had been joined by blood and he knew the Mercian’s mind. The English warrior would hunt him down and kill him first, and let the Normans be damned.

Taillebois snatched his sword away, his anger simmering. He
whirled to the three Normans and hissed, ‘Watch your backs. Or you will be rotting in the bog with Lambelin.’

He marched back to the front of the column, urging his men to step up the pace. Their legs were shaking with exhaustion and their hauberks weighed them down, but fear gave them strength. Harald pushed only to the centre of the group. Bodies were better than shields.