Hereward 03 - End of Days (25 page)

Further across the ward, in the deep shadow by the castle, a squat man waited, a Northman, by the look of him, in furs and mail shirt. As she neared, she noticed the dyed red beard and the small skulls hanging from thongs at his chest, and she
recognized Harald Redteeth, who had offered his axe in service to Tostig Godwinson in Eoferwic. He was a loathsome man, unpredictable and brutal, and mad some said. She looked to Deda, but he walked on seemingly unperturbed that this man, at least, had seen them.

Her chest tightened as they neared the castle gate. She waited while Deda slid the bar, her toes clenching on the dewy grass. He eased the gate open a crack.

Before they had taken one step, a voice boomed out. ‘Deda.’

Her heart fell. She watched the knight’s features tighten and for one moment he closed his eyes in despair before he turned to look back across the ward. The king stood beside his tent, looking down at them. He was a dog that slept with one eye open, she thought, stirring at the first whisper that something was amiss.

‘Bring me her heart,’ William called in a sardonic tone. Acha felt that the monarch knew what his knight had been planning.

‘My lord,’ Deda replied with a curt bow. He wrenched the gate open and ushered her through.

As they walked the winding track to the palisade, Acha sensed the weight that had descended on the knight. His shoulders were hunched and his gaze was fixed ahead. She knew he would not be able to continue with his deception. She was to die after all. Somehow the knowledge of her fate stung harder this second time. She blinked away hot tears.

‘Do not punish yourself,’ she said. ‘You did what you could.’

Her words did not seem to comfort him. He remained silent to the camp gates and beyond. As they trudged down the track towards the causeway, she thought how peaceful the world looked. Perhaps it was better to lose her life than see the End of Days ushered in.

A foot crunched on the packed mud behind them. Acha reeled back as Deda pitched forward on to the track. Blood trickled from the side of his head. He did not stir.

She whirled. Harald Redteeth shook his axe in her face. She
realized he must have struck the knight with the flat of his blade.

‘Deda does not have the stomach for killing you,’ the Viking growled, his eyes pockets of shadow under his heavy brow. He gave a wolfish grin. ‘Now you will come with me.’

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MIST DRIFTED ACROSS
the water. The muffled splash of dipping oars rolled out. All was still in that hour after dawn. A shadowy shape eased from the pearly wreaths, a fishing boat, five figures hunched aboard. Then another followed, and another. Across the grey mere, the fishermen made their way towards the quay by the causeway with the night’s catch. Their thick woollen cloaks were wrapped around them, their hoods pulled low against the morning cold.

Ashore, the smoke from the morning fires was starting to rise. Voices echoed among the huts and tents of the causeway settlement as waking men hailed their neighbours. And on the hill beyond, the camp of William the Bastard brooded.

Hereward stood in the prow of the lead boat, peering out from the depths of his hood. He smiled to himself. They had their moment of surprise. Along the timber decking of the new harbour stood only a handful of guards. Most of them looked half asleep, leaning on their spears. He lowered his hand to the hilt of Brainbiter, soothed by the cool touch of the gold.

The oars slipped into the water, slow and easy. A few dead fish lay in the prow of every boat, their scent drifting on the air. Everything would seem normal. He glanced back at Kraki. The
Northman kept his head bowed. In the boat behind, the huge shape of Guthrinc loomed out of the mist, pulling on the oars with steady strokes.

Hereward grinned at the audacity of his plan. The king had commandeered all the vessels in the east to keep the English locked in Ely. Only a few had been allowed to supply fish to his camp at Belsar’s Hill. And now the English had taken those very ships in turn. The Mercian thought back to the shock on the fishermen’s faces as his men intercepted their boats. Spitting epithets and complaining about lost coin, the men of the sea had been rounded up and held at spear-point so they could not spread word.

On the quayside, none of the guards stirred. The mist was a cloak that hid the extent of his army, more than a hundred men drifting in, as silent as death. Not enough to defeat the king’s great host, but that was not his plan.

Cries and yelled orders echoed from the direction of Belsar’s Hill. The guards on the quayside jerked alert, craning their necks towards the tumult. Hereward imagined the pandemonium in the Norman camp. Bleary-eyed men torn from their morning bowls, snatching up swords and helms as their commanders strode among them, yelling. Sure enough, he heard the gates trundle open, as clear as if it were only a spear’s throw away in the stillness of the morning. The column of men would be flooding out of the camp along the road to the north where Earl Morcar waited with the rest of the English army. Morcar was sly and untrustworthy, but he hated the king more than Hereward did and he had his eyes set on a greater prize, perhaps even the crown itself. That had been enough to convince him to take the brunt of the Norman attack, if only for a short while. In the hours before dawn, his men would have slaughtered one of the king’s scouting parties, allowing one man to flee and take the word of the impending English attack back to Belsar’s Hill. And so William the Bastard and his hated rule would be caught betwixt hammer and anvil as they had once planned; and this would be an end to it.

Hereward gritted his teeth. He was ready.

The boats slid through the water to the quay. Once the harbour loomed up over him, he stepped on to the ladder and clambered up the few rungs to the top. A guard stood nearby, still peering at Belsar’s Hill. Kraki threw the rope and Hereward moored the boat to the post. One by one his men climbed up to the quayside. Not a word was uttered. They kept their heads down, their faces hidden in the shadows of their hoods. For all the attention the guards paid them, they might as well not have been there. Along the quay, three other boats swept in. Hereward pretended to busy himself with the knot on the mooring rope until all the men had climbed up on to the waterside.

His eyes locked on Kraki’s in a moment of silent communication. Pulling himself upright, he turned and drew his blade. In one fluid motion, he thrust Brainbiter through the nearest guard. Blood gushed from the man’s chest and he crumpled to the boards.

The other guards jerked round. The English fell on them like wolves, hacking them down with axes. Hereward nodded, pleased. So swift was the attack, not a sound escaped the Normans’ lips. Blood ran along the lines of the timber and dripped through the cracks into the water below.

Guthrinc stepped to the edge and cupped his hands round his mouth. His keening gull-call sang into the mist. Crouching on the quay, their eyes darting all around, the English watched as dark smudges appeared in the haze. The boats swept in.

Once his army had gathered on the waterside, Hereward threw off his hood. Every man followed his lead. He looked across the grim, committed faces and then raised his arm to beckon to his men to follow him. In silence, they surged away from the quayside.

When they emerged from the mist that clung to the mere, Hereward looked along the vast causeway with its enormous rolling ramparts of peat. Six wooden towers soared up to the pale blue sky. Ballistae and catapults sat on mounds. He
watched as the guards wrenched round to stare aghast at the English army. Their cries rose up, rippling back towards the enemy camp. He waved his hand towards the reed-beds and two men dashed off to follow the commands they had received earlier that morning.

Time was short.

Hereward whirled, thrusting his blade towards the sky. ‘We are the English,’ he yelled. ‘The Norman bastards have slaughtered our brothers and stolen our land. But we will not bow down. We will not be beaten. We have fire in our hearts, and today, by spear and axe and sword, we will bring about Judgement Day.’

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‘
STILL YOUR TONGUE
. I am trying to save your life,’ Harald Redteeth growled as he hauled Acha along the track from the camp. ‘Though why Deda thinks it is worth saving, I cannot fathom.’ He ground to a halt and frowned as he listened. Dim cries rolled up from the jumble of huts along the causeway. He peered towards where the carpet of mist rolled across the wetlands, but could see nothing amiss.

Acha tried to wrench her wrist free from his grasp, but his fingers were like iron. ‘You lie,’ she spat. ‘Deda was already leading me away.’

‘Deda was walking towards his own death.’ The Viking glared at her. ‘I know his mind well enough to know he could never have slain you. And if he had set you free, the bastard king would have taken his head. Now he has good reason. You had a friend who struck him from behind, and then you escaped together.’

The woman narrowed her eyes, still unsure. ‘Why would you risk your own neck to aid him?’

The Viking snorted. She would never understand. But he could hear the words of his father echoing across the seasons and he knew the right path to take, as he always knew. ‘Keep
up,’ he growled, dragging her on. ‘We cannot afford to be seen.’

Down the track they hurried, towards the settlement and the empty marshland beyond. More cries rang out, death-screams this time, and the clash of iron.

Cursing under his breath, Redteeth ground to a halt. Fighting. Would the English be so foolish as to risk an attack? He looked back towards the camp and heard a yell. The lookouts upon the walls had seen some threat.

‘What is wrong?’ Acha asked. She looked around with unease, no doubt worried that she would be recaptured when she was so close to escape.

Before the Viking could respond, he heard the sound of feet. Glancing back, he saw warriors streaming out of the camp towards him. With a snarl, he scooped the woman into his arms and ran among the huts. Stopping at the nearest workshop, he wrenched open the door. It was deserted. Prized woodworking tools were scattered across the ground. The owners had fled when they heard the sound of fighting, he guessed.

Nodding his approval, he thrust Acha inside. She sprawled across the straw. When she looked up, she bared her teeth and glared at him.

‘For your own good,’ he growled. ‘Do not step outside or you will be seen and taken back to the camp. Do you hear?’

After a moment, she gave a sullen nod.

‘I will fetch you when it is safe.’ He slammed the door and dragged a water trough in front of it for good measure. Battle-cries rang out all around. Norman soldiers raced along the track beside the causeway. Redteeth cursed once more at the bad timing, and ran to join the fight.

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SMOKE WHIPPED UP
in the wind. Bright blades of flame flickered among the field of trembling reeds as the blaze caught hold. Amid a swirl of sparks, two English warriors clambered out of the dry beds and darted towards the jumble of ramshackle huts lining the causeway. Jerking open the door of the nearest, one hauled out a yelling woman and a young girl. The other dashed inside. Once he had kicked the embers in the hearth across the straw beds, the two men raced on to the next hut. The crowd swelled. Terror lit faces.

‘If you want to keep your lives, leave now. Return to your villages,’ Hereward bellowed. ‘All here will burn.’

The Mercian watched the panic begin as anguished folk scrambled to save their meagre possessions. They would hate him, for now. But all their lives would be better once those flames had consumed everything the Normans had planned. For a moment, he watched the choking clouds billow up and the orange glows start to shine through the open doors. He grinned, satisfied. Fire was the greatest weapon of all. Deadlier than Brainbiter, axe or spear, more destructive than the siege machines William the Bastard had amassed to crush the
English. And with it he would cleanse this good, black earth of its foul infestation.

Above the din from the burning settlement, Hereward could hear clamour drawing near as the Norman reinforcements hurried down the track from Belsar’s Hill. They were as unprepared as he had hoped, pulling on their helms and hauberks as they came, stumbling and crashing into each other. Their commanders ran behind, yelling instructions to try to bring some order to the confusion. But the men saw they were racing towards not only an English attack but a growing inferno, and their ears were deaf to their leaders’ exhortations. Yet when the Mercian squinted through the smoke, the stream of enemy warriors seemed to be unending. They outnumbered the English ten to one.

‘We have a fight on our hands,’ Kraki yelled as he kicked a dismembered body down the ramparts.

‘We expected no less.’ Leaping to his side, Hereward raced along the causeway to where the king’s men were clambering up to defend their prize.

The Viking swung his axe with such force that the first man’s helm spun into the air, his head all but sheared from ear to ear. Hereward glanced at the Northman. No battle-lust glowed in his eyes, only grim determination. His thoughts were with Acha.

The Mercian opened up the next soldier’s throat. The Norman stumbled back into the men climbing behind him, clutching at his neck as blood gushed between his fingers. Hereward thrust down into the yawning mouth of a warrior yelling the Norman battle-cry, then rammed his foot into the chest of a third as he yanked his blade free.

At the foot of the causeway, the king’s reinforcements milled, bewildered. Behind them, the conflagration swept through the huts and workshops and across the reed-beds so that it seemed a sea of flame was about to engulf them all. Along the cause-way, shields slammed together in a wall of blues and reds and yellows, spears thrusting through the gaps at any Norman
brave enough to attempt to attack. And on either flank, the English archers thumped shafts into the surging mass of soldiers. Men fell by the dozen, plunging under the feet of their brothers and stirring greater panic.