James Wilde: Hereward

‘You are the new commander?’ Asketil asked. When Ivo gave a curt nod, the older man said, ‘Then I greet you. We have much to discuss, you and I, for it is my son who leads the rebels.’

‘Your son?’ Taillebois’s eyes narrowed.

‘He is a wicked man who cares only for himself, and has brought much pain and suffering to all who know him. This vanity of his will be the bane of the English, and he must be stopped before he leads all our people to disaster.’

‘And you offer your services to this end?’

‘The commander before you ignored my advice. But if you are wiser you will heed me, and Hereward will be crushed before you meet the fate of these men.’ Asketil waved his hand towards the rotting heads.

Harald Redteeth grinned. He saw a near endless supply of coin in this, and, at the end of the road, joyful revenge upon his enemy. The ravens would be fed, the gods and his ancestors honoured. It was a good time to be alive.

‘Very well,’ Taillebois said, looking out across the inhospitable fens. ‘This Hereward has met his match. We shall have such war as the English have never seen before.’

The sweet scent of fresh-cut wood hung over the hillside. Already the camp was taking shape. Wherever Alric looked, he saw timber frames rising among the dense ash and willow, woven wattle panels and wooden pails of daub. Each hut was half buried in the hillside, straw-packed under the boards for warmth, the roofs covered with turf; from even an arrow’s flight away the shelters couldn’t be seen.

Stamping his leather shoes for warmth, the monk rested one hand on rough bark and looked out across the wetlands, afire in the morning sun. An elusive peace settled on him for the first time in days. He found it a surprising sensation, with the weather of weapons blowing up on the horizon and the scent of blood in the wind. But he had the weight of purpose in his heart. The stain of his sin could be washed away, he felt sure. The murder of an innocent woman could be balanced by the saving of a wayward soul.

Turning, he watched Hereward, his friend, moving among the rebels, giving orders, offering guidance, wisdom even, encouraging, congratulating. A true leader. Alric nodded and smiled to himself. God’s strange plan never failed to amaze him. Yet in the warrior’s black eyes the monk saw his devil rising. The love of violence and death had been reawakened. Alric knew it numbed his friend’s pain while at the same time destroying him by degrees. Hereward had filled the space in his heart carved out by his father with the need for blood.

Some say war turns us into beasts. But men do it to themselves.

This was his life now, Alric accepted. He would not stray from the path. Hereward would never be abandoned again, and though the monk had to wrestle with the Devil himself, he would bring that soul to heaven and grant his friend the peace he deserved. He was building a monument to God, a cathedral of the heart, and he would not falter.

The monk allowed his gaze to drift across the rich stew of humanity at work on the hillside: familiar faces, new friends, men with blood under their nails and unblinking stares, men filled with life and laughter, some cold and brooding and seeing only misery ahead. Redwald whistled as he hammered pegs into a joint, flashing occasional glances at his brother, looks which Alric felt were not brotherly at all. Redwald would need watching, he thought. There was Guthrinc, uttering sardonic words that baffled all who passed, and Kraki, fierce and strong and passionate. And there was Acha bringing a cup of ale to Hereward, and turning the power of her dark eyes upon him. She smiled in the manner of a merchant haggling over a gold ring. All of them united in common cause; all of them driven by their own demons.

Dappled by the sun breaking through the branches, Hereward strode over. He eyed the monk with suspicion, as if he felt he were being judged. ‘They work well,’ he said. ‘We will have a camp here that will keep them through the hard months.’

‘Them?’

‘I return to Flanders tomorrow. Turfrida waits for me and I would bring her back to be by my side, and the two Siwards who guard her. They will make a fine addition to this rebel band.’

‘And then?’

Hereward smiled without humour. ‘You know what then.’ He looked past the monk to the sheet of shimmering water and the wooded islands rising from it, green ships asail upon a sea of glass. ‘The scouts have returned. The Norman reinforcements have arrived, and Harald Redteeth is among them. We will be ready for them. Our stock of spears and axes grows by the day. And every man and woman here will be trained in the bow, so that we can match the invaders shaft for shaft.’ A shadow crossed his face; a memory. ‘And then we will sweep out of the marshes, and strike like serpents, gone before our enemies even know we are there. We will scourge them with fire. We will take heads as prizes, and hearts and fingers, and over time they will know the dread that comes with the night, and they will know they can never escape its cold grasp. There will be terror, and I will be the king of it.’

Alric saw his friend’s eyes take on a strange cast, and heard his voice become like stone. The monk felt a wave of pity, and fear too, but he would not show it in his face. ‘God watches over you, my friend.’ And I do, too.

Under the swaying branches of the ash tree, they embraced as brothers. And then Hereward walked through the milling crowd, oblivious of the hopeful eyes laid upon him, and into the trees. Alric watched until his friend was gone. But the monk knew it would not be long until the wetlands ran red with blood again. He would return.

The Devil of the Fens.

The Ghost who comes from the Mist.

Hereward, the greatest of the English. The King of Terror.