‘Wait.’ A young, thin-faced man with straggly blond hair and unsettlingly pale eyes lurched to his feet. The men about him cursed him, insisting he hold his tongue. A woman, the man’s wife, Aldous guessed, begged him to stay strong.
Aldous held up his hand to stay the burning. He looked the man in the face with as respectful a stare as he could muster. ‘You know something of this Hereward?’
The man nodded.
‘Then speak, and know that you do an honourable thing in trying to save your village.’
‘We have all heard talk of him, in the market and the inn. He has returned to defend us in our time of need.’
The commander snorted. ‘He will be the death of you all. What do you know of him?’
‘That he is more than man. That he is filled with the spirit of a bear, which he killed with his bare hands in the north, or so the stories say.’
‘He is a man, be sure of that, and a weak one too.’
‘You say. But that is not what the English hear. Already the stories are reaching out beyond the fens, and a steady stream of men and women draws towards this place.’
‘To join the rebellion?’
‘Some. Others to seek protection from the grip of your king.’ Burning insolence flared in the man’s eyes.
Aldous struck him across the face with the back of his hand, splitting his lip and raising blood. ‘He is your king,’ he hissed. ‘Show respect or you will lose your head, here, in front of your woman, and your neighbours.’
The man flashed an affectionate look towards his tearful wife.
‘One more thing I would know,’ the commander continued. ‘Where does this Hereward make camp?’
With one voice, the village men roared their opposition, shouting threats of violence to their young neighbour.
‘For your village,’ Aldous whispered. ‘For your women and children.’
Looking down, the man swallowed. In a quiet voice almost drowned out by the clamour, he described the location of the outlaw’s camp.
Once he was done, Aldous allowed himself a triumphant grin. He would begin making his plans immediately to attack the rebel. This Hereward would not know he was doomed until it was too late. Striding back to his men, he nodded curtly. ‘Burn it down. Then kill the men.’
CHAPTER FIFTY — ONE
‘Keep your eyes ahead,’ Hereward whispered.
Alric barely heard the warrior above the music of the fens. Wind whistled through the high branches of the willows. Dry wood cracked under the monk’s shoes. Leaves rustled. Rooks cawed. Since they had left Burgh Abbey, Alric had concentrated on the burning in his thighs as they waded through black mud, skirted silent lakes shimmering with a brassy glow as morning broke, stumbled along flinty causeways and splashed across white-foamed rushing streams. He felt tired and hungry and he feared what was happening to his friend. All the good work of years appeared to be draining away by the moment.
‘What is there to see apart from water and wood?’ he grumbled.
The warrior slowed his step so that he dropped back alongside his travelling companion. ‘We have been followed ever since we left the abbey,’ he muttered, his gaze fixed on the way ahead.
‘How do you know? I have seen nothing. And heard nothing above this din.’
‘He is skilful and cunning. In the dark, he shrouded himself in black cloak and cowl. Since sunrise, he has put just enough distance between us to prevent us from hearing his footsteps, but not enough to lose sight of us.’
‘A Norman scout?’ Alric’s chest tightened.
‘Mayhap,’ the warrior growled, ‘which is why I drew him on. Knights could have been hiding at Burgh Abbey, and if the alarm had been raised there we would have had little chance of escape. But here
… this is my land.’
Before the monk could ask another question, Hereward melted away. Alric felt the warrior by his side one moment, but when he glanced across he saw only swaying branches and heard only the ghost of footsteps disappearing across the muddy ground. He tried to steady himself, but they had spent most of the journey talking about Norman tactics, the swift strikes from their cavalry, their use of bowmen to bring death from a distance, but most of all their cruelty, which he had witnessed at first hand in the head of Hereward’s brother hoisted above the hall gateway. Of all potential enemies, the Normans were the worst with their coldness and efficiency.
His heart hammering, he continued to struggle through the undergrowth, unsure what the warrior wanted him to do. Suddenly Hereward’s battle cry shattered the peace of the woodland. Rooks took flight as one with a thunder of black wings from the treetops, their raucous cries alerting everyone within miles.
Turning on his heel, Alric weaved back through the swaying willow branches which obscured his view. He was afraid of what he would find: his friend dead in a bog, a horde of wellarmed Normans closing in from all sides? The final sweep of branches fell aside and he stumbled across Hereward wrestling on the sodden ground with the black-cloaked stalker. Clearly no stranger to battle, the other man fought as furiously as Hereward. Alric was shocked to see that his friend had already been disarmed, his sword lying half buried in a bank of rustcoloured fern. Yet Hereward refused to allow his opponent a moment to catch his breath, raining down punches and butts with his head.
‘Wait,’ the other man croaked. ‘Hereward… wait.’
At the sound of his name, the warrior came to a halt. One fist raised, he tore the cowl away with his other hand. Alric saw curly brown hair and full lips that made the features seem oddly innocent, like a child’s. The warrior’s bafflement gave way to a broad grin.
‘Redwald?’ For a moment, he stared at the battered figure, and then jumped to his feet. Hauling the other man into his arms, he hugged tightly, slapping his brother on the back. ‘Redwald! I thought you dead!’
‘And I you.’
Hereward held the cloaked man at arm’s length to study him. Alric watched a shadow cross his friend’s face. Redwald looked gaunt and pale, his gaze skittering like that of a whipped dog. Forcing a grin, the warrior said, ‘You look well. How did you find me?’
‘I took revenge for you, Hereward,’ the other man said with an almost childlike desperation to please. ‘Harold Godwinson died with prayers for forgiveness upon his lips… prayers in your name.’
The warrior nodded. ‘Then Tidhild can rest easily. Her death has been avenged.’ He shrugged, throwing a puzzled glance at Alric. ‘For so long, seeing Harold Godwinson suffer for his crimes was all that filled my heart and mind. Yet now I feel grief for Tidhild’s passing, but no joy at Harold’s death. Other matters loom larger.’
The monk smiled. ‘As we march along life’s road, we see the trees and hills we pass in a different light. What was is not always what is.’
Hereward sighed, waving an arm towards his friend. ‘This is Alric, a monk, who sees it as his life’s work to save my soul. We must pity him for that thankless task. But beware, Redwald, he talks. And talks. And ties your wits in knots. When you want to feast, or drink, or lie with a woman, he talks. What was is not always what is.’
‘It is good to have friends,’ Redwald said with a hint of regret. ‘Since the Normans invaded, I have spent all my days running and hiding. They are a fierce enemy, Hereward. They never slow, they never stop. Once William arrived in London, he collected the names of all who were close to King Harold and resolved that he would not rest until each one was accounted for.’
‘And thereby tried to cut out the heart of any future resistance.’
‘Many ended their days with their heads upon poles outside the palace or tied to a stake at low tide on the river, where the waters slowly washed away their screams.’
‘But you were always a cunning one, Redwald. You survived.’