Hereward 03 - End of Days (36 page)

‘I will do so,’ the cleric gasped.

Hereward felt relief ease his simmering anger. If the lives of the good folk could be saved, his defeat would not taste so bitter.

‘Your second gift: you will tell me the secret way out of the minster.’

Thurstan flinched with surprise.

‘You think me a fool, Father?’ the Mercian said with a tight smile. ‘You have been coming and going from Ely as you please … meeting William the Bastard to make your foul deal … and you have not once passed by the guards at the gate. I have
spoken to them. No, you have a passage out of here and I would know it.’ He sensed the surprise and hope of his men as they looked round at him, but he did not take his gaze from the abbot’s darting eyes.

The abbot swallowed, nodded. ‘Very well. I will lead you to it.’

Hereward lowered his blade. Thurstan sucked in a juddering gasp of air and stepped forward on shaking legs. Blood-roses now bloomed on his tunic. The Mercian swept his blade towards the door and the abbot staggered ahead. Hereward glanced at the trembling monks. ‘Where is Alric?’ The churchmen gaped or shook their heads. Hereward cursed under his breath. ‘Find him,’ he commanded Guthrinc. ‘He was meant to be here, keeping an eye on Thurstan.’

Guthrinc nodded and hurried off.

‘Stay where you are,’ Kraki growled at the terrified monks, shaking his axe, ‘or we will cut off your bollocks and feed them to you.’

Hereward herded Thurstan out of the door into the chill day. The abbot choked on the thick smoke, pressing one hand to his mouth. With shocked eyes, he stared at the burning stores around the minster enclosure and then at the conflagration beyond the gate. Hereward could see that the flames were already lower and he could hear the angry voices of the Normans rising up the hill. Thinking their prey trapped, the king’s men were taking their time.

He jabbed the abbot in the back with his sword to urge him on. The cleric hurried across the enclosure to the bakehouse, which was set against the minster wall, and the Mercian allowed himself a moment of pleasure at how things were turning out. His plan had been long in the making, and though many had known a part of it no one had the whole. He knew he could not risk word reaching the monks, and the betrayal that would clearly have ensued.

Thurstan eased open the door to the bakehouse and picked up the candle flickering just inside. Swirls of white flour
covered the boards, ghostly footprints tracking here and there. The smell of fresh bread hung in the air, and the ovens were still warm from that morning’s baking. The abbot hurried across the bakehouse. The dancing light of his candle lit an old door pressed against the wall by a pile of flour-sacks.

Hereward snapped a finger towards the heap. Two warriors heaved the sacks to one side and pulled the door from the wall. A blast of cold air rushed in. Hereward leaned against the edge of the hole and kicked at the timber of the enclosure wall beyond. A section fell away with ease. He peered down the slope, dark under the lowering storm clouds. A track had been worn in the grass leading past the huts to the palisade.

‘Your monks have been busy,’ he said, turning back to the abbot.

‘There is a tunnel under the Ely wall,’ Thurstan said, his voice cold. ‘You will find it at the end of the track, covered with timber.’

Hereward lifted his blade to the churchman’s chin. ‘You have earned your mercy, Father. Now keep your tongue still until we are gone and then do as you have been commanded. If not, I will return when you least expect it and take your head.’

The abbot’s face was like stone.

The Mercian turned to Kraki. ‘Send the men through now, and be fast about it. Once they are beyond the wall, they are on their own. They must lose themselves in the fens. They are good men. They know how to hide from the king’s eyes.’ Yet even as the words left his mouth he knew many would not escape, for the king’s war-bands would be roaming the wetlands searching for any stragglers. At least he had given them a chance.

Kraki nodded, and the Mercian followed him out into the minster enclosure. He watched as the gathered warriors streamed into the bakehouse. At the gate, the fire was lower still. It would not be long before the Normans surged in.

As the Viking waved a furious hand to speed up the tramping men, Hereward turned and saw Guthrinc hurrying up with
a lad beside him. When the Mercian noticed the worried look on the tall man’s face, his heart began to hammer and he knew what was to come.

‘Tell him what you told me,’ Guthrinc murmured.

‘I have a message,’ the boy began in a faltering voice as he struggled to recall what he had been told. ‘You must follow me and you must come alone if you would see your friend alive.’ The lad swallowed and added, ‘He … he … the quiet man told me to say, “I have destroyed everything you have ever loved. You know I will not turn away from blood.” He said you should come now …’ His voice trailed away as he waited for his answer.

Hereward looked deep into the frightened boy’s face, but his thoughts were racing back to Lincylene when he had tried to lure Redwald to his death. His brother was taunting him with the same game, and the same intended outcome.

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HEREWARD PEERED INTO
the depths of the silent hall. The orange light from the fire crackling at his back glowed only an arm’s length across the threshold. Beyond, shadows swam. He sniffed, smelling the iron reek of blood. This was where the butcher prepared meat for the monks’ table. He took one step inside and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Shapes emerged from the dark: trestles where the carcasses would be heaped, barrels filled with salt, pails to catch the draining blood for the pudding. Redwald could be hiding anywhere.

‘I have come, as you asked,’ he called. ‘Now set the monk free.’

As his words died away, only silence followed.

Steeling himself, he gripped his sword. His instincts urged caution, but there was no time. The fires across the enclosure gate would be dying down soon and then the Normans would flood in. A part of him regretted sending Guthrinc on ahead with the others. Two of them could have caused enough of a distraction to flush his brother out into the open.

He strained to hear any rustle of linen, a faint exhalation, the scrape of a weapon being readied. When he took one more step, he felt something sticky underfoot. Eyes darting around,
he crouched and dipped two fingers to the wet floor. He touched them to his tongue. Fresh blood. His heart began to pound. Inside his head, his devil whispered what terrible thing could have happened here. Snarling, he pushed the thought aside.

‘Brother, come out,’ he called once more. ‘Speak, and I will lay down my blade.’

When no reply came, he strode deep into the hall. Puddles of blood sucked at the soles of his shoes. As his eyes adjusted further to the shadows, he glimpsed a shape on the floor at the far end. His breath caught in his throat. It was a body, he was sure, covered by a cloak.

Choking back a curse, Hereward lunged, and with his free hand he yanked the cloak back. A pale form lay beneath. Relief flooded him. It was too small to be a man. Dropping to his knees, he scraped his fingers across the body of a young pig, its throat cut.

With a roar of frustration, Hereward leapt to his feet and kicked over the trestles. The crash of falling wood shattered the silence. His brother was not there.

As he stormed out of the hall, he tried to calm himself. Redwald knew him too well. This trick had wasted time, and in doing so it had made him angry. And that was when he threw caution to the wind, and made mistakes, and lost what little control he had, all to his brother’s advantage.

Glancing at the blaze beyond the gates, he thought he could now see the glint of helms above the flames. He sucked in a deep breath of smoky air as he struggled to steady himself. He could not afford the indulgence of rage. This time it was not only his life at stake.

The church door hung open. It had been closed before, he was sure.

Desperate now, he raced across the enclosure and slipped into the nave. Candles still shone along the walls, but some had been extinguished to create pools of shadow. That told him all he needed to know.

Fat candles glowed beside the altar. In their dancing light, he could just make out a figure, bound by the look of it. He was sure it was Alric. His devil urged him to race the length of the church to free his friend, but he fought against it. That was what Redwald wanted: remember the dead pig, the blood, and run without thinking.

Crouching against the wall, he looked around the heaps of reliquaries and chests and trestles until his gaze fell upon Etheldreda’s shrine. Darkness shrouded it. Was that where his brother hid? Time was short. If he was to save them both, he had to gamble.

Standing tall, he strode towards the altar, making it easy for his brother to creep up and attack him from behind. Halfway along the nave, he glimpsed a shadow moving beside the shrine and whirled. A crossbow bolt whisked past his face and cracked against the stone wall. One more step, one unguarded moment, and it would have thumped into his head.

Bellowing his fury, he hurled himself towards the shrine. Redwald cried out in shock. There was no time to reload the crossbow, Hereward knew. His brother would have to fight like a warrior, and he had never been any good at that.

Redwald raced out of the shadows and towards the door, throwing trestles and chests behind him to try to slow Hereward’s pursuit. The Mercian bounded over them. Now unshackled, his rage throbbed in his head. He was stronger than his brother, faster, he would not be denied his vengeance. Hurtling across the flagstones, he leapt between the other man and the door. Redwald weaved away, his eyes now wide with fear.

‘You wanted me. Here I am,’ Hereward yelled. ‘Face me, you coward.’

Backed against the wall near the shrine, Redwald drew his blade, weaving it from side to side. Hereward laughed. He could see in his brother’s skittering gaze that he had no hope of victory. The Mercian threw himself forward. His brother whipped up his sword at the last and the weapons clashed, but
the force of Hereward’s attack pinned Redwald against the wall. With their swords trapped between them, the warrior pressed harder until his face was barely a hand’s width from the other man’s. He peered into eyes flecked with tears of terror. Against him, he could feel Redwald shake.

‘I will take your head for what you did to Turfrida,’ he snarled.

‘You … you cannot slay your own brother,’ Redwald gasped.

Hereward felt stunned by the honest disbelief he saw in the younger man’s face. He leaned on his sword.

‘Wait,’ Redwald choked. ‘The monk … he is dying. If you waste your time with me, you will cost him his life.’

‘You lie,’ Hereward snarled. ‘What will I find there? More pig’s blood?’

‘He is dying,’ the younger man cried.

At the intensity in that voice, Hereward craned his neck round. Seizing the moment, Redwald hurled him off and scrambled towards the door. The Mercian hesitated, sword raised, torn between his lust for his brother’s blood and his fear for Alric’s safety. Cursing, he realized it was no choice at all. As he raced along the nave, he heard the door crash. He felt sick with fury that he had let his brother slip through his fingers once more. But his bitterness slipped from his mind when he saw the pool of blood surrounding the prone figure in front of the altar.

Dying?
he thought with shock as he took in the size of that crimson puddle.
He is dead
.

Despair clutched at his heart. He hacked through the ropes binding the monk and spun him on to his back. His face was pale, his chest still. A dark stain had spread across his tunic from a wound in his side. Hereward was caught between wretched grief and a searing hatred for his brother. He snarled his hands in the monk’s tunic and shook him. Blood spattered on the flagstones, but he heard the faintest exhalation too. Barely daring to believe, he pressed his ear against Alric’s lips. He felt warmth.

Snatching the monk up in his arms, he raced along the nave and out into the deserted enclosure. He imagined Redwald cowering somewhere, praying for his new allies to save him, but his brother was the least of his priorities now. The flames across the gate were nearly out and beyond he glimpsed the ranks of Normans waiting to break in.

‘Stay alive, monk,’ he muttered. ‘I will not lose you too.’

Dashing into the bakehouse, he slipped through the gap in the wall and careered down the slope. His friend’s blood soaked into his tunic. Behind him, a roar rang out into the night. The Normans had rushed into the enclosure. Soon they would be swarming out across the fenlands to capture the escaping English army. Hereward felt the darkness close around him.

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UNDER THE LOWERING
black clouds, Ely was burning. Pinpoints of fire glowed through the pall of smoke billowing over the summit of the isle of eels. All around, the wetlands were still and quiet. The only sound was rainwater dripping steadily from the stark branches of the ash trees. On the far side of Dedman’s Bog, dank and reeking of rot, Hereward craned his neck back for one final look at the place that had been his home for so long. Ely was burning, and with it the last hopes of the English were turning to ashes.

The last of his men, too, were scattered around, twenty of them, his true brothers. They crouched among the willows, pretending to catch their breaths rather than watch their dream die. Only Guthrinc and Kraki followed his gaze. Brought low by betrayal. The cruelty seemed too great after they had fought so hard and sacrificed so much.

And yet all that they had lost paled into insignificance in his thoughts compared to the form hanging limply in his arms. Alric’s breathing was shallow. The dark stain was spreading across his tunic too fast.

‘We must get the monk to a leech,’ he said, ‘or find a wise woman in the woods, with her pastes and her brews …’ His
voice trailed away when he looked into the faces of Kraki and Guthrinc. They nodded, trying to show quiet agreement, but he could see from their eyes that they thought it was hopeless. ‘I will not let him die,’ he insisted, the passion burning in his voice.