Hereward (41 page)

‘Work hard,’ he ordered in a clear voice, his English only slightly inflected with his Norman tongue, ‘and you will be allowed to return to your farms in good time. You will be given bread and ale once the job is done. Dissent, or laziness, will be dealt with harshly.’ He glanced up at the rotting head of the thegn’s son to illustrate his point. ‘Begin.’ The sword slashed down to his side.

Grudgingly, the peasants plucked up their spades and set to work digging the deep ramparts and replacing the palisade with fresh wood, taller and cut to a point at the top. Soon they would be building a castle here, but for now the hall needed to be fortified, Aldous knew. There had been little resistance in this part of the fens, but it would come.

His legs bound with linen strips in the criss-cross style that signified his high status, the knight urged his horse back under the gateway into the enclosure. He breathed deeply of the aroma of damp leaves and the woodsmoke from the morning’s hearth-fire. Though a long way from his home in Hauteville, there was some peace here now the fighting was over, he decided. But the English were an odd breed, and he wondered if he would ever understand them. Their government and their art, their trade and their financial system, were jealously eyed by all Europe, but the people themselves were an unruly, intemperate lot, given to drunkenness, fighting, coarse humour and moods that swung between raucous high spirits and maudlin introspection. They would not take orders, even if refusal brought them harm. They would do everything in their power to cause delays, distraction and minor irritations, and they seemed to find pleasure in the slightest disruption they engendered. But they would learn, in time. The Normans were the mighty ocean waves pounding any rock-like resistance into meaningless granules of sand.

‘Sire.’

Aldous glanced back to see a young knight striding from the gate.

‘Sire. You have a visitor. The old thegn, Asketil.’

With a sigh, the Norman commander looked to the gateway where a grey wisp of a man rested against a gnarled staff. Aldous removed his helmet and rubbed a hand through his close-cropped hair. His nose was long and sharp, ending at a moustache that curved down to his chin. ‘Is he begging for food again?’

‘He wishes to tell you about a coming rebellion.’

‘Oh?’ Aldous raised his eyebrows. ‘Bring him into the hall. He may find the surroundings familiar and comfortable.’

The two men laughed.

The Norman commander dismounted and marched into the warm hall. Ornately embroidered tapestries hung on the walls and gold plate and bowls glinted in the firelight. He had made no changes to the opulent surroundings since he had become the lord. Indeed, he barely recognized them. Their only value was to mark his power, he thought. With three quick strides, he bounded on to the low dais and took the old wooden chair where Asketil had once sat, and his father before him. Aldous felt only contempt for the old thegn. A weak man, pathetic in his whinings, who still came to bow and scrape before the men who killed his son. Aldous would have attacked the murderers single-handedly with his sword and died with honour in failing.

The grey-haired Englishman shuffled in and stood uneasily in the doorway, looking around his former home.

‘Draw closer, Asketil. Welcome to my home,’ the Norman commander boomed, making no attempt to hide his smirk.

‘I am here to warn you,’ the thegn began, his croaking voice almost lost in the hall’s vault, ‘of a sword raised against you.’

‘And who would dare to challenge me, old man?’

‘His name is Hereward, and he is my son.’

Aldous’s eyes narrowed. He had heard the name before. A great warrior whose fearsome exploits had gained the attention of Baldwin of Flanders.
Bear-Killer
, the mercenaries had called him when they had joined the invading Norman force, to a man fearing they would face this Hereward on the field of battle in England. Was this the same warrior? If it were, he would need to send word to the court in London. More supplies, more mercenaries. The fens would need special attention.

‘Why would you warn me about your own son?’ the Norman commander asked.

‘Because he is a black-hearted outlaw who has brought shame to his kin.’

It had been the right decision after all to keep the old thegn alive, the commander thought. With the information he supplied, they could set a fine trap to catch the English rebel before even a weapon was raised. Aldous smiled. ‘Tell me more.’

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-E
IGHT

ICY BLACK WATER swilled around Alric’s neck. Panic surged through him. He thrashed his arms to find the narrow causeway, but it was lost in the impenetrable night and the activity only dragged him down further. Kicking his leather shoes in the muddy depths, he fought to stay afloat. The swamp-water sluiced into his mouth, stinking of rotting leaves. He gulped, choked, threw his head back and cried out although he knew there was no one within miles to hear. The weight of his habit dragged him down. Alric passed from the black of the moonless night to a deeper black as the water closed over his head. Silent prayers gave way to sheer terror. Pressure filled his mouth, his nose, his lungs burned, and down he went, and down.

I am a fool
, he thought, his last thought.

And then, through the mad whirl in his head, he felt his descent arrested. Water tore at his face and hair as he was dragged rapidly up and out into the chill night. Vomiting swamp-juice, he sucked in a huge gulp of breath. The dark enveloped him. He couldn’t see what was happening, or where he was, but then he became aware of hands grabbing the shoulders of his tunic. Roughly thrown to one side, he crashed on to a hard surface. The flint shards of the causeway ground into his cheek. He lay there for a moment, recovering, and then rolled on to his back. A dark figure loomed over him.

‘You are a fool, monk.’ It was Hereward’s voice, as if he had read Alric’s mind. ‘Why would you try to make your way through the bog with no torch to light your way and no fenlander to guide you?’

‘Because you abandoned me,’ Alric spluttered, realizing how pathetic his response sounded. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes, drinking in the joy of living. He had let his desperation get the better of him, he understood that now. But when Hereward had raced off into the night after leaving his father’s house, the worst had seemed a distinct possibility. Alric had overheard the bitter conversation between the two men and now understood his friend’s inner darkness in a way he could never have grasped before. The pain was still raw. But was it a pain so acute that Hereward would take his own life?

Though he had raced in pursuit, Hereward had outpaced him, and soon he had been left alone on the old straight track. He was filthy, exhausted, and there were no friends to offer him a bed. A cold night passed in fitful sleep under a willow, waking repeatedly, afraid of wolves. By dawn, his bones ached and his stomach growled. He had retraced his steps to the boatwright, but the snowy-haired man only treated him with suspicion, and if he knew where Hereward might have gone he wasn’t saying. And so the monk had spent the day searching and calling. At some point he had wandered off the track and found himself lost in the unforgiving waterlands, surrounded by endless pools and bogs and copses and scattered islands with no landmarks or clear path to find his way back to the village. And then night had fallen, and he had started to believe that Hereward had killed himself. His despair had turned to panic and he had foolishly started to jog, then to run as fast as his weary legs could carry him. Halfway along the narrow causeway, he had wrong-footed himself and pitched into the water.

‘Here is a rule for you,’ Hereward said. Alric could see the silhouette of his friend squatting further along the causeway. ‘No man born outside the fens can find his way across these treacherous bogs and keep his life. This time God watched over you, or I did. Next time you may not be so fortunate. Do not attempt such a risky journey again. Do you understand?’

‘Oh, yes. I plan to dance across this stinking hell every night,’ the monk snapped. ‘How long have you been watching me? Could you have spared me this misery? If you tell me you could have, I will not be responsible for my actions.’

Hereward laughed softly. Alric found it a strange sound, devoid of humour. Something had changed in his friend.

‘I thought you had returned to Flanders. Or worse, lost your life,’ the monk explained.

‘There is work to do here first.’

It was an unsettling reply, mainly because Alric didn’t know to which part of his statement Hereward was responding.

The warrior hauled the sodden monk to his feet. ‘Come. There is a warm campfire waiting. Once you are dry and full, your spirits will rise.’

He led the way back along the causeway, on a winding path beside a bog, and across a second causeway to a thickly wooded island. Pushing through the dense vegetation, Alric realized they were following a path that only Hereward could see. The monk could smell smoke on the breeze, but could see no light ahead.

When he had struggled up the steep incline until the breath burned his chest, his friend suddenly disappeared from view. Baffled, Alric caught an ash branch to pull himself up and found himself standing on the lip of a broad hollow lit by a flickering campfire. The meaty aroma of cooked fowl hung in the air. White willow and ash continued across the dip, but some saplings had been newly cleared, by Hereward, Alric guessed, and the hill continued up to the tree-shrouded summit on the far side.

Skidding down the bank, Alric followed Hereward towards the campfire, only to come up sharp when he saw another man hunched on a fallen branch, gnawing on a bone. Big as an ox, with shaggy brown hair and beard, the man let his flickering gaze drift over the new arrival and then returned to his meal. ‘We feast on fowl, but now you bring me a drowned rat,’ he muttered. By his size and his wry tone, Alric was reminded of a younger Vadir.

‘Guthrinc,’ Hereward said by way of introduction. ‘This is the monk I told you about.’

‘Monk,’ Guthrinc said with a nod.

‘Who are you?’ Alric asked, his eyes flickering towards the carcass resting on a flat stone in the ashes. Hereward tore off a leg and tossed it to him.

The large man shrugged. ‘This and that.’ He eyed Alric up and down. ‘God has not looked kindly on you. What have you done to offend him?’

‘Leave him be,’ Hereward said. ‘He has had a fright in Dedman’s bog.’

Tossing his bone to one side, Guthrinc wiped his hands on his tunic and said, ‘I’ll keep watch.’ He hauled himself to his feet and disappeared into the dark towards the lip of the hollow.

Shaking from the cold and the shock of his brush with death, Alric almost leapt on to the branch next to the fire. ‘You trust him?’ he said, warming his hands.

‘We ran together when we were youths. He likes his ale and his meat and his women, but in any fight he is like a wolf at your side.’

Alric chewed on his bone for a moment, then said, ‘You plan to fight?’

‘The Normans are a blight on all England. They must be driven out, like rats from the grain store.’ The warrior’s voice hardened, his face becoming thunderous. ‘Their blood must turn the rivers red and their bodies pile up like stones on the beach as they flee to their ships.’

The monk considered the new-found vehemence in his friend’s tone, trying to make sense of this sudden rebellion. ‘And this great victory will be accomplished by two of you?’

Hereward’s eyes narrowed. ‘Three, I would hope.’

‘Three, then. But what can three men do against an army? The Normans have crushed any resistance. Destroyed whole villages.’

‘Three is only the start. As word spreads of the resistance we mount here in the fens, Englishmen will rush to take up arms alongside us.’ The warrior stared into the middle distance, imagining the picture his words conjured up. ‘They will come in their tens, their hundreds, their thousands, and we shall rise up, with one voice, one weapon, and smite our enemy. We will crush the ones who make our lives a misery, who steal our freedom, our dreams, our hope. And then, when we are one family once more, peace will reign in England and our future will be assured.’

The passion he heard in the warrior’s voice frightened Alric. Yet in the fire flickering in Hereward’s eyes, the monk saw hints of a deeper truth. Though terrifying in number and strength, the Normans were an enemy the warrior felt he could defeat, whereas a grey-haired, beaten man remained invincible. ‘Take care,’ he whispered, ‘that you do not win the battle but lose your soul in the process.’

Hereward laughed. ‘Always you worry. We have all the time we need to raise our forces and to plan. William the Bastard’s men still slumber, unaware that we are here. The battle in the fens will be over before the Normans know what hit them. And then we will take it to all England.’

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-N
INE

25 October 1067

FAT WHITE CANDLES flickered around the High Altar. Shadows swooped across the stained-glass window and the dressed stone wall above it to the vaulted roof, as deep and dark as the black robes of the abbot kneeling in prayer. Only the soft muttering of the Latin devotion disturbed the peace.