him, baffled. Aghast, Alric stuttered, ‘Godfrid gave up his life for us to learn what this Norman knows. And if he goes free, he will draw the enemy to us within moments.’
All around the bobbing flames were drawing closer across the sea of night. He could hear the clang of iron now, and the bark of harsh voices. The Normans’ blood was up. They were ready for a slaughter. ‘Set him free,’ Hereward ordered.
The captive glanced around, unsure what was happening. Hereward grabbed his sweat-soaked tunic and hurled him back along the track with a sharp kick up his arse for good measure. The Norman fell, flashing one murderous look back at his former captors, before he scrambled to his feet and raced away into the dark.
Alric snatched his friend’s arm. ‘An act of kindness for your enemy? This from a warrior who has hacked off hands and burned faces for a wrong word.’
‘Has it not been your mission in life to teach me to be the lamb and not the wolf? All your labours must have worked,’ Hereward said, ignoring the monk’s suspicious gaze.
The invaders beat iron swords on mail as their death-march drew nearer. Their guttural war-song rumbled across the desolate fens. Dread was only another of their weapons and they used it to good effect.
‘Run,’ Hereward exhorted before his men had time to take full measure of the threat they faced, ‘as if the Devil were atyour backs.’ Taking the lead, he pounded along the track until he saw the bent oak that marked the spot where the narrower path branched away to the left. It was more treacherous still: barely wide enough for one, it snaked through deep bogs where a wrong step would plunge a man to his death. To take that way would slow their pace, no doubt, but the Normans could come at them from only two directions.
‘I admit, more than once I have worried that madness has claimed you,’ Alric gasped between heavy breaths. ‘But this time I truly think you have lost your wits.’
‘It is my curse to listen to your wittering through day and night until I die. I know that,’ Hereward grumbled as he searched the dark ahead. ‘But I would spend a day on my knees in your church if it would buy me silence for the rest of this night.’
‘You have likely killed me anyway so you have no more need to complain. Why did I not stay in Ely?’
‘A good question,’ the Mercian said, his jaw taut.
Through the clustering willows and ash trees, he could see the wavering flames dance closer. The circle was drawing in tighter still. In his head swam the stony face of Ivo Taillebois, called by his own men the Butcher. Though he had glimpsed the Norman sheriff only a few times while spying through a wall of branches, he could never forget the creator of so much of the misery that had been inflicted on the fens. How that bastard must be laughing now. He had been ready for the English foray, that was clear. Perhaps he had even been praying for it. Losing one man would signify nothing to him if it meant he could follow the secret trail back into the well-guarded heart of the English fortress.
Ahead, torches bobbed where the track reached solid ground once more. Hereward hissed and the men came to a halt behind him.
‘We are trapped,’ Alric whispered.
‘Monk,’ Hereward cautioned, waving a finger. He nodded to a shaped stone standing upright at the edge of the track. ‘The waters are low this time of year. Beneath the surface aridge of higher ground runs south. If we are careful we should be able to walk along it and keep our heads high enough to breathe.’
‘And how will you know when you are following the line of the ridge?’ The monk’s voice wavered.
‘When I am not, I will be dead.’ Hereward heard his friend swallow and he allowed himself another grin. Silence at last. ‘You have two choices,’ he whispered. ‘Put your faith in God, or for now put your faith in me. I have not let you die yet, have I?’
Before Alric could respond, he slipped into the
All around the bobbing flames were drawing closer across the sea of night. He could hear the clang of iron now, and the bark of harsh voices. The Normans’ blood was up. They were ready for a slaughter. ‘Set him free,’ Hereward ordered.
The captive glanced around, unsure what was happening. Hereward grabbed his sweat-soaked tunic and hurled him back along the track with a sharp kick up his arse for good measure. The Norman fell, flashing one murderous look back at his former captors, before he scrambled to his feet and raced away into the dark.
Alric snatched his friend’s arm. ‘An act of kindness for your enemy? This from a warrior who has hacked off hands and burned faces for a wrong word.’
‘Has it not been your mission in life to teach me to be the lamb and not the wolf? All your labours must have worked,’ Hereward said, ignoring the monk’s suspicious gaze.
The invaders beat iron swords on mail as their death-march drew nearer. Their guttural war-song rumbled across the desolate fens. Dread was only another of their weapons and they used it to good effect.
‘Run,’ Hereward exhorted before his men had time to take full measure of the threat they faced, ‘as if the Devil were atyour backs.’ Taking the lead, he pounded along the track until he saw the bent oak that marked the spot where the narrower path branched away to the left. It was more treacherous still: barely wide enough for one, it snaked through deep bogs where a wrong step would plunge a man to his death. To take that way would slow their pace, no doubt, but the Normans could come at them from only two directions.
‘I admit, more than once I have worried that madness has claimed you,’ Alric gasped between heavy breaths. ‘But this time I truly think you have lost your wits.’
‘It is my curse to listen to your wittering through day and night until I die. I know that,’ Hereward grumbled as he searched the dark ahead. ‘But I would spend a day on my knees in your church if it would buy me silence for the rest of this night.’
‘You have likely killed me anyway so you have no more need to complain. Why did I not stay in Ely?’
‘A good question,’ the Mercian said, his jaw taut.
Through the clustering willows and ash trees, he could see the wavering flames dance closer. The circle was drawing in tighter still. In his head swam the stony face of Ivo Taillebois, called by his own men the Butcher. Though he had glimpsed the Norman sheriff only a few times while spying through a wall of branches, he could never forget the creator of so much of the misery that had been inflicted on the fens. How that bastard must be laughing now. He had been ready for the English foray, that was clear. Perhaps he had even been praying for it. Losing one man would signify nothing to him if it meant he could follow the secret trail back into the well-guarded heart of the English fortress.
Ahead, torches bobbed where the track reached solid ground once more. Hereward hissed and the men came to a halt behind him.
‘We are trapped,’ Alric whispered.
‘Monk,’ Hereward cautioned, waving a finger. He nodded to a shaped stone standing upright at the edge of the track. ‘The waters are low this time of year. Beneath the surface aridge of higher ground runs south. If we are careful we should be able to walk along it and keep our heads high enough to breathe.’
‘And how will you know when you are following the line of the ridge?’ The monk’s voice wavered.
‘When I am not, I will be dead.’ Hereward heard his friend swallow and he allowed himself another grin. Silence at last. ‘You have two choices,’ he whispered. ‘Put your faith in God, or for now put your faith in me. I have not let you die yet, have I?’
Before Alric could respond, he slipped into the
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