Hereward 03 - End of Days (38 page)

Deda nodded and peeled away among the huts. The Viking spat. He would have to snatch what supplies he could, but there was nothing he could do about that now. As he began to ransack the nearest house, he glanced out of the door and saw a lonely figure trudging past.

He stepped out and called a greeting. The English bastard, Redwald, looked round. His face was mottled with bruises and he had the stink of failure around him. ‘Your father is dead,’ Redteeth called. ‘Cut down like the dog he was. And now the king no longer has need of you, you will likely be next.’

If the whipped dog felt grief, he did not show it. Nor could
the Viking see any sign of shock. Redwald stared with dead eyes for a long moment, then turned and disappeared into the folds of smoke.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY
-S
EVEN

THE CHILL WIND
sighed in the high branches of the ash trees. Deda clung on to the damp trunks as he skidded over sodden leaves down the steep slope. He’d kept well away from the rutted mud road in the hope that he could slip away without being seen. The more miles he could put between himself and the king before his disappearance was noted the better.

The knight felt weary from the battle, and weary from life. He had fought alongside the king at Senlac Ridge with little enthusiasm. He had no desire for land, or gold or power; he had lost the only thing that mattered to him long ago. But now that the English had been routed, he had done his duty. His oath had been met, and he could, if he wanted, leave behind the life he knew. But what then? Earn coin as a sword-for-hire alongside Harald Redteeth, in Flanders, and further afield, perhaps Constantinople? He was weary of fighting too.

As he neared the edge of the trees, he peered out at the deserted quay, little more than a short timber pier where a few boats were moored. He sniffed the odour of rotting vegetation from the marsh that bordered the mere. His hiding place was good enough for now, and the Viking would soon be there.

Behind him, dry wood snapped. His battle-honed instinct
threw him aside just in time. The flat of a blade clattered against the side of his head, a whisper away from hacking into his skull. Dazed, he reeled back, slamming into trees as he spun down the slope.

Coming to rest on his back, he jerked up, only to look along a blade pointed towards his throat. A red-haired man loomed over him, no doubt one of the monarch’s axes-for-hire.

‘There is no honour in attacking a man while his back is turned,’ the knight said.

The mercenary shrugged. ‘My only thought is for the coin I will receive when I take your head back to the king.’

‘Surely I am not the man you want,’ Deda said with a smile. ‘I am a loyal knight.’ With his sword still in its scabbard, he could only play for time.

‘Enough talk,’ his captor spat. He braced himself to lunge. The knight began to mutter his final prayer.

The tip of an arrow burst from the mercenary’s throat. Blood splattered across Deda’s hauberk. He rolled to one side as the dead man crashed face down into the rotting leaves, the shaft protruding from the back of his neck.

Nocking another arrow, the archer slid down the slope towards him. Words of thanks died in the knight’s throat. His saviour was Rowena.

A surprised smile leapt to his lips. Pulling himself to his feet, he bowed. ‘You saved my life.’

‘No,’ she said, her voice as cold as her face. ‘I came to kill you.’ She raised the bow and loosed her shaft.

The arrow whisked past Deda’s ear and thudded into a tree trunk. If her hands had not been shaking so much, it would surely have ended his days. As she fumbled for another shaft, he saw that tears were streaming down her cheeks. He leapt forward and snatched the bow. She did not resist.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ he said in a hoarse voice.

She tried to answer him, but she could only gulp in mouthfuls of air to stifle her racking sobs. He felt surprised at the strength of his urge to hold her, but he could not. Instead, he
reached out his hands in a heartfelt plea. ‘Tell me what I have done.’

‘You are a Norman bastard,’ she sobbed, ‘and you killed my husband.’ She whipped up her hand to strike him, but it only hovered in the air for a moment and then dropped to her side. She sagged, her chin falling to her chest. ‘I despise you,’ she whispered.

Behind her words, Deda sensed a different meaning. He could not hate this lost soul for trying to take his life. He felt only pity. ‘You have ventured to the shores of hell to make sense of the miseries that have afflicted you,’ he said in a quiet voice, ‘and still you have found no answers, only more pain.’

She jerked her head up, her tear-streaked eyes blazing. ‘I am not weak,’ she spat, ‘and I will not have you think of me that way.’

‘I have never met a woman with more fire in her heart.’

She jolted at his words.

‘You will not ease your misery by killing me, or any Norman. To lose someone so close to your heart is …’ He looked up into the branches, his thoughts flying across the years. ‘Unbearable. There is no easy escape from it. Only time. Only time.’

Rowena frowned at him as if seeing something new and puzzling.

‘I saved your life at Branduna and now you have saved mine. Our account is clear.’

She bit her lip to stifle another sob, and he felt dismay at the despair he saw in her eyes. ‘I cannot live with myself,’ she croaked. He remembered the terrible things she had done at Belsar’s Hill as she sought to get close to the king, and he understood.

Once again he reached out to hold her, caught in the rush of emotion, and only stopped himself at the last. ‘We are not prisoners of days gone by,’ he murmured. ‘All that matters is days yet to come.’ He could not help but glance at the ribbon tied to his wrist and was surprised to feel the sting of his own words.

Rowena searched his face, seemingly hanging on his every word. ‘I … I do not know what to do … where to go …’ she began, blinking away her tears.

‘Go home, to your village. For a while, each day will be as hard as if you dug the fields in winter with your bare hands. But in time, peace will come.’

‘You vow that this is true?’

He nodded. ‘I have walked your road.’

She kneaded her hands, reflecting on his words. He knew he could not put right what she had given to the men at the camp, but he was sure that too would fade, if only she could look forward with hope. ‘You do not stand alone,’ he said with a deep bow. ‘I am at your service. Your champion.’

She gaped.

‘Send me to the ends of the earth to pluck a flower for you, and I will do so.’ He slid his sword from its sheath and offered the hilt to her. ‘This I vow.’

‘Stop,’ she said, taking a step back. ‘Do not treat me like a child.’

‘This I vow,’ he repeated.

She shook her head, conflicted.

‘Think on my offer,’ he said, pleased to see some of the darkness had lifted from her features. ‘I have offered my service to a friend, for now. But when I am done, I will seek you out to hear your answer.’

‘You will come back to me?’

‘God willing.’

Her brow furrowed.

He bowed one final time. ‘I must take my leave now. Fare well, Rowena.’

As he stepped over the mercenary’s body and made his way out of the trees to the quay, he could feel her eyes upon him. But when he looked back she was gone.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY
-E
IGHT

SILHOUETTED AGAINST A
sky the colour of bones, Death crested the high ridge and looked down upon them. He never stopped, never slowed, not for food nor drink nor sleep. His judgement would be passed come hell or high water. Overhead, ravens swirled, their hungry shrieks carrying deep into the wildwood that sprawled for mile upon mile ahead of the band of weary men. Deep snow billowed across the land behind them, the first of that winter. Snowflakes settled into their trail of footprints.

At the tree-line, Hereward leaned on a twisted oak and glanced back at the stark figure. His breath steamed and he could no longer feel his feet. Axe in hand, the figure plunged down the white slope as more men swarmed over the ridge.

‘Redteeth, you bastard,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. How long had that madman and his hunting band been pursuing them across the bleak fenlands now? Three days? Four? He had gone so long without sleep he could barely think straight. ‘It feels as though I have spent half my life running from you,’ he muttered.

On burning legs, he threw himself into the trees. His warriors fanned out among the oaks, kicking their way through
snarls of bramble. White flakes whirled through the branches around them. Deep in the forest, a wolf howled. From danger into danger with no respite.

Guthrinc and Hengist hefted the willow frame on which Alric lay, wrapped in a threadbare woollen blanket. His skin was almost the colour of the snow that crunched under their feet.

As he loped alongside, Hereward studied the frail figure. His friend had grown thin – he had begun to see the outline of the bones through the skin – and his hair was plastered to his head with sweat. Though Alric shivered, his cheeks and forehead burned to the touch. Herrig had said the monk was growing weaker by the day. Hereward could not find it within himself to believe that was true.

His thoughts flew back to the reeking hut where the wise woman had hunched over his friend smearing thick paste on his wound. The
alfar
had told her Alric’s spark was weak. His survival now remained in God’s hands. But for a piece of gold broken off Hereward’s ring she had given them the blanket, enough of the stinking paste to last two weeks and instructions to clean the wound every day and apply a new coating. Once they had built the frame, they took it in turns to carry him across the wetlands. Day and night, they had dripped cold spring water into his mouth, and every now and then he had woken enough to chew on a knob of bread or cheese. But he never seemed to know who they were or where he was. And all the time they struggled to stay one step ahead of the Norman hunting band. Harald Redteeth had appeared with his horde of warriors on a cold dawn as the English camped beside a lake. They had been making plans to travel to any English landowner who might contribute fighting men or coin to the cause. But since that moment they had done nothing but run and hide.

Behind him, the call and response of the hunting band rang out, stirring memories of a day long gone. Redteeth’s blood-lust had brought him and Alric together and forged the bonds of a
friendship that had never failed to surprise him. But now it felt as though the circle was closing, and they would be torn apart for ever.

He skidded down the frosted slope of a hollow. At the bottom, the snow was calf-deep. Barbs of pain from the cold lanced up his legs. As he scrambled up the other side, he plunged into the densest part of the forest. The trees here were ancient, many of them too large even for four men to encircle with their arms. Their thick branches spread out to form a canopy that even without leaves left the interior as gloomy as twilight. Faces loomed up at him from the cracked bark, the
alfar
, Turfrida would have said, trying to speak to him. Here in the Brunneswalde they had at least a thin hope of evading their pursuers.

Ahead, Kraki waved a hand to beckon him over. ‘We must rest soon or we will drop,’ he hissed. Hereward saw that the Viking all but carried Acha now. She had shown enough courage for two men, refusing to complain once about the exhaustion that engulfed her.

The Viking pointed to Sighard. Near delirious with tiredness, the young warrior followed an erratic path through the brown bracken fronds poking through the carpet of snow. ‘Our tracks will lead those bastards to us whatever we do,’ Kraki snarled.

‘Then we must lose our tracks.’ Hereward looked around for inspiration.

For the next hour they limped on, twisting and turning among the soaring oaks and ash trees and hawthorn. The wind had grown harsher. The branches groaned, the tallest trees complaining as they thrashed. Snow stung their eyes. The whistles and bird-calls of the hunting band seemed to fade.

As they struggled on into the blizzard, Hengist stopped and pointed down. Prints dappled the snow, moving in all directions. They had entered the territory of a wolf pack.

‘We have no choice,’ Hereward said. ‘Move on.’

Moments later, he heard the dim sound of a babbling stream. Leaping into the freezing water, they splashed along the centre
of the brook as it wound among the trees and bracken. In Flanders, Hereward had seen warriors lose their toes by submitting to such cold, but if they were to hide their trail they had little choice.

After a while, the trees pressed close against the water’s edge. Stooping, they struggled on along a dark tunnel under the overhanging branches. The white world fell behind them. Soon they were all but crawling along the stream. Spikes of hawthorn tore at their backs and raked their scalps. But just when the way seemed to be becoming impassable, the landscape altered. They found themselves in a crevice carved in the earth by floodwaters rushing from the confluence of several streams. On either side, flat banks stretched for a spear’s length until the walls rose up steeply. At the top, the branches and vegetation closed over their heads, plunging them into a dank cave of near-darkness.

Hereward stepped from the water and rested his back against the cold earth. With relief, the others followed, stamping their frozen feet. ‘Night will be here soon,’ the Mercian said, ‘and this is the best shelter we will find.’ He looked around and nodded. ‘There is room to light a fire. Its glow will not be seen, and the branches overhead will spread the smoke so that it will be hidden in the dark.’

Acha sank to the ground, burying her head in her arms. Crouching beside her, Kraki slipped a comforting arm round her shoulders. He looked up at Hereward and said, ‘I will search for wood.’

‘No, you must rest and care for your woman.’

As he watched over Alric, Guthrinc rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘You fought well,’ the tall man murmured. ‘Let no one tell you otherwise. The hopes of the English would have died long ago without your fire.’ He gave a reassuring grin. ‘Had I been able to see into days yet to come, I would have known you were the right man for this work years ago, when we were lads, and you came to my home and robbed me. And then you came back and robbed me again. And I hung you up in the Barholme oak all night by your feet. And the next night
you came back and robbed me again. Nothing stands in the way of your heart’s desire.’ He glanced down at the faltering rise and fall of Alric’s chest and his grin faded. ‘Remember that, should times get harder.’