CHAPTER FIFTY — THREE
The camp was abuzz with voices. Men and women milled around the fires among the clustering trees. Old friends and neighbours greeted each other with cheery hails. Strangers clasped hands, finding common cause, but struggled to make sense of accents from the north and south and west. Hereward counted more than twenty heads as he strode through the throng with Alric at his side. The paltry collection of spears and shields were a poor match for the Normans’ might, but he anticipated some strong fighters among the new arrivals.
‘Word spreads fast,’ the monk remarked.
‘To hear tell, the suffering inflicted by the Normans reaches across every part of England. Anger is everywhere.’
‘But they are drawn here by your name. It seems your exploits in Eoferwic have caught alight.’ Alric restrained a grin. ‘The English needed a hero and there you were.’
‘I am no hero,’ Hereward snapped, rising to the bait. The words died in his throat as he saw two familiar faces across the camp. Unsure of his feelings, he left the monk and pushed through the crowd. Kraki and Acha sat on a log beside the campfire, eating some of the fowl that Guthrinc had roasted. The Viking had earned a new scar over his left eye since the last time Hereward had seen him, and a few more strands of silver gleamed in his hair and beard. His creaking leather and stained mail were splattered with the mud of the road.
Acha’s eyes met Hereward’s before her companion looked up from his meal, and the warrior was struck afresh by her fierce beauty. Though she wore a worn woollen dress, her raven hair gleamed. She flashed the warrior a smile that appeared to hold a hint of contrition.
When he saw Hereward, Kraki wiped the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand and tossed his bone into the fire. Rising to his feet, he held the warrior with an unwavering gaze. ‘You and I, we had our troubles. But your courage and fighting skills were never in doubt. Let us put the past behind us and start afresh, for together we can spill enough Norman blood to turn this wet land red.’
Hereward searched the Viking’s face. They would never like each other, but Kraki had proved himself loyal when he had taken Tostig’s oath. The warrior accepted the man with a firm nod. ‘Your axe will be put to good use soon enough.’ He turned to single out Alric. ‘The monk will tell you our plans.’
With a grunt, Kraki pushed his way through the crowd. The moment he was out of sight, Acha jumped to her feet. ‘There is little I can say about Eoferwic,’ she began. ‘I was weak.’
‘It is behind us now. You have not returned to the Cymri?’
Her eyes flashed. ‘He would not let me,’ she snapped, nodding in the direction of the Viking.
‘You are with Kraki now?’
Acha looked down, trying to hide the shame she felt. ‘He was-’
‘You do not have to answer,’ Hereward interrupted, his tone gentle. ‘I know your mind, remember.’
Hope flared in the woman’s eyes. She stepped forward, almost pressing her hands against his chest. ‘I would rather be with you.’
‘I have a wife now.’
‘Then take another.’ Acha looked round. ‘Where is she?’
‘Where she is safe.’
‘You would never have to keep me safe. I would stand at your shoulder at all times.’ Her dark eyes widened as she looked up at him. ‘We know each other’s hearts. We are the same inside. You told me that. You know it.’
Hereward hesitated, knowing that what she said was true. Before he could respond, a cry echoed across the camp. Bodies fell aside as someone pushed their way through the crowd. Redwald burst from the gathering, flushed and breathless. Rushing up to the campfire, he grabbed Hereward’s arm and gasped, ‘The Normans are coming!’
CHAPTER FIFTY — FOUR
Golden eyes shone like torches through the grey mist drifting among the skeletal trees. Beneath the wind hissing across the silver water, Harald Redteeth could hear the whispers of the alfar as they watched the world of men. They were warning of the raven-harvests to come. A crow cautioned him as it swooped across the still landscape. When he peered into the mirror-surfaces of the lakes, he saw the yawning skulls of the dead looking back at him from the other world. Oblivious, the Normans rode on, along the edge of the stinking marshland where stagnant pools reflected the lowering sky. But Harald listened, and he heeded.
Scouts galloped back from one of the islands rising out of a sea of reeds in a brown bog, their tunics smeared with mud where they had crawled on their bellies. Aldous Wyvill listened to their insistent reports and nodded. The rebels milled about, not yet realizing their end was upon them, Harald overheard, and Hereward was there, with the monk. The Viking’s fingers folded around the haft of his notched axe. What would it take to send the English warrior to the Grey Lands? In Flanders, Redteeth had been convinced he had struck a killing blow, but still the life-bane had survived. Now his quest had become more than a matter of vengeance. The alfar had told him there had to be a balance in life and only one of them could continue on the road in the days to come. Hereward or Harald. Harald or Hereward.
Urging his horse alongside the Norman commander, the red-bearded mercenary said, ‘Hereward is more than a man. He is ridden like a mare by some night-walker, and he has all the powers of the dark world on his side. You must take special care with him.’
Aldous eyed Harald with contempt, then glanced back to see if the superstitious comment had affected his knights. The Viking was used to the look, and cared little. Fools lay everywhere.
‘No risks will be taken,’ the commander replied, turning his attention away from Redteeth to study the approach to the island. ‘We will strike quickly and hard before the rebels have a chance to mount a defence.’ Looking across the boggy ground, he turned up his nose. ‘If we could use our cavalry, this would be over in the blink of an eye. As it is, we are still better armed.’ He smiled at the chink of the heavy mail hauberks and the swords rattling against thighs.
Harald settled back into the rhythm of his mount and continued to listen to the whispers from the trees.
On the edge of the bog, the knights dismounted and left their horses with two of the young hands who had accompanied them from the hall. A narrow, low ridge of grassland ran towards the foot of the island. The Viking scrutinized the dense bank of black trees covering most of the island and the marshland and floodlands surrounding it. The rebels had chosen their camp well, he thought. But if the English were not prepared for the attack, their new home would be the perfect trap, with little opportunity to flee across the causeway that stretched across the water on the western side.
Aldous raised one hand to draw his men in line on top of the grass ridge. Harald settled into position midway along the column. The knights kept low, moving slowly so they would not be heard. The Viking sniffed the air. Woodsmoke. Two campfires, perhaps three.
At the foot of the island, the grey mist swirled among the willows and ashes. Harald smacked his lips, tasting the blood that was to come. As the knights steadily climbed the slope, muffled voices floated back through the fog. The rebels sounded busy. Preparing to flee, Harald wondered? Finding a position to make a stand?
When the calls and chatter were clearly close at hand, Aldous raised his hand again to bring his men to a halt. Whisking his arm left and right, he ordered them to move out in a line. The scouts had told him the island summit was flat and sloped gently down to the bog on the far side. A jaunty tune meandering through his head, Harald resisted the urge to whistle as he gripped his axe. He fixed his eyes on the Norman commander. The whispers of the alfar faded away. Silence fell.
Holding his hand high, the Norman commander waited, listening to the ebb and flow of voices. All eyes were upon him. He whisked the arm down. ‘Dex aie!’ he called in his own tongue. God aid us.