James Wilde: Hereward

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.

Echoing the cry, the knights rushed up the final few steps of the slope and over the rim. Through the mist, Harald saw the English scatter like rabbits. There were fewer than he had anticipated.

Careering down the incline, the footfalls of the heavily armoured Normans sounded like thunder. A wolf in human form, Harald outpaced them all. His eyes darted this way and that, searching for Hereward. A rebel in a brown tunic bounded through the ferns to his left. Two men disappeared into the mist to his right. The ghosts of others flitted ahead.

Plunging down the slope, Harald realized the fog was growing thicker still. He saw that all but one of the knights on either side had disappeared from view as they followed the muffled yells echoing from across the island.

His breath rasping in the chill air, the Viking skidded to a halt on the edge of a bog. He had reached the far side of the small island. The knight clanked to a stop beside him, then began to range along the edge of the marsh, looking around.

His senses tingling, Harald dropped to his knees to examine the muddy ground. It had not been churned up by fleeing feet.

‘No one came this way,’ he grunted.

The Norman ignored him, prowling past hanging willows.

The red-bearded mercenary stood up and tried to pierce the dense fog. Deep in the cave of his head, the voices of his ancestors rang out in warning. ‘Wait,’ he cautioned. ‘Something is wrong here.’ The knight stopped, lifting a sweep of branches with his sword.

Silence fell across the island. No fearful shouts or cries of fleeing rebels. Harald raised his axe, turning slowly.

From somewhere nearby, a throat-tearing scream shattered the quiet. Then another. And another.

Death cries, the Viking warrior knew.

The Normans had been too confident, he saw now. He felt sure the rebels had been aware of the impending attack and prepared for it, and he was not about to risk his life finding out the truth. ‘Return to the horses,’ he called to the knight, as he began to move back up the slope. ‘We have lost the advantage here.’

He glanced back to see if the man was following and noticed large bubbles bursting on the surface of a pool in the bog. The knight turned just as a figure rose up from the depths, black slurry streaming off him. White eyes appeared in the mud-dark face, and then white teeth in a triumphant grin.

Rooted, the knight could only stare as Hereward’s blade flashed towards his neck.

The barked orders of the Norman commander echoed through the fog. Redwald grinned. Though he could not understand the words, he could hear the uncertainty in the man’s voice. Another scream tore out nearby. Hereward’s plan was working perfectly.

Leaning against the damp trunk of an ash tree, he listened to the sound of feet running in confusion. When heavy footsteps drew near, he cupped his hands to his mouth and called out as though he were lost. The Normans lumber like oxen in their armour, he thought as the leaden footsteps moved in his direction. He waited until the figures coalesced in the fog and then turned on his heel and ran down the slope.

Branches tore at his face, but his breathing remained regular. He had not felt this alive since the days with Harold Godwinson. From the thunder at his back, he estimated he had drawn seven or eight of the knights; a good number.

Leaping over a rotting log that had been dragged across the path, he flashed a quick smile at Guthrinc who waited behind a tree beside it. The large man’s face was smeared with white mud, the hair matted, charcoal ground into the skin around his eyes. He had the face of death, like many of the rebels. Redwald remembered Hereward’s words: terror strikes as sharp as any axe. He hesitated a little further on and glanced back. As the first knight slowed near the log, the burly rebel swung his axe into his chest. The chunk of iron carving bone echoed down the slope. Guthrinc wrenched out the blade and had faded into the fog before the knight had slumped to his knees in a gout of blood.

Turning, Redwald continued down the slope, just slowly enough to catch the attention of the Normans who had hesitated beside their dying fellow. He allowed himself a gleeful laugh. He felt a queasy joy at seeing such vengeance for the terror the Normans had inflicted on him during William the Bastard’s victorious battle for the English crown. The enemy had made him feel weak that day, and that was the harshest blow of all. He would rather lose a hand than feel that way again.

Further down the slope, he leapt across a spread of branches, yellowing turf and dry leaves. Once more he turned and glanced back at the wall of iron speeding towards him. The knight at the head crashed through the thin covering into the hidden pit. His bubbling scream rang out as the stakes embedded in the bottom rammed through his body. Unable to slow, a second knight tumbled in after him.

Redwald clenched his fist in triumph. He had doubted Hereward’s assertion that the numerous pits they had dug would claim lives, but the warrior had insisted he had witnessed the tactic’s lethal success on his travels on the other side of the whale road. His brother had grown during the years they had been apart, Redwald decided. Perhaps Hereward truly could lay claim to the throne.

Sprinting to the edge of the marshland, Redwald continued along the rim until he came to a green area reaching into the fog. He glanced around for the secret marker and then ran out from the treeline. The four remaining knights roared as they saw him.

Feigning panic, the rebel raced ahead. A sly smile crossed his face as he heard the pounding of the Normans’ leather shoes turn to splashing. A moment later their frantic cries sounded and Redwald came to a halt. He turned and placed his hands on his hips, relishing the sight of his enemies’ final breaths. The four knights thrashed thigh-deep in the sucking bog, the weight of their armour dragging them down. Redwald stood on the thin finger of solid ground reaching out into the marsh that only a fenlander would recognize. The more the Normans fought to get free, the more they sank. In desperation, they tossed aside their swords and axes, and hurled their helmets away. Redwald enjoyed that, for it meant he could see the terror in their eyes more clearly. Two of them struggled to remove their hauberks, but it was a futile task. Down they went, with gathering speed, the stinking black mud pulling at their stomachs, their chests, their necks. Their cries became childlike, their eyes filling with tears.