‘I was thinking of my brothers, young Beric, and Redwald.’ He paused, his throat tightening. ‘And my father. I wonder how they fare, now William has been crowned king. I wonder if they still live.’
The red-headed man made a non-committal noise deep in his throat, but Hereward could tell his friend did not like the course the conversation was taking.
‘I was thinking, perhaps, of a journey to Mercia, to see my old home. It would be good to drink mead with Redwald again.’
‘A journey home means no pay,’ Vadir grumbled. ‘And with a monarch as bloody as William the Bastard upon the throne, I would expect England to be much changed.’
Hereward studied Wacheren. It looked like an upturned bowl floating on the grey waters, steep, tree-covered slopes rising from the boulder-strewn shores to the village on the summit. ‘If only the islanders defend their home without help from warriors we should be done before there’s sweat on our backs,’ he mused. Vadir dismissed the thought with one raised eyebrow.
Three of the warships broke away to patrol the channels among the islands. No sly attack would come from silent ships disgorging fighters at their backs. The other vessels sailed around Wacheren, each dropping anchor at a different point.
As the Mercians’ ship neared the shore, the sun dipped behind the island and the chill of the shadow fell across the oarsmen. The black water lapped against a small stony beach where a cracked, grey-wood jetty on rope-lashed pillars protruded out into the sea. The two English warriors searched the dense bank of trees rising up to the skyline. All was still.
When the anchor splashed into the shallows and the creaking boat strained to a juddering halt on the greased rope, the dripping oars were raised from the water and drawn into the vessel. Hereward held up one hand. Helmets gleaming on bowed heads, the men sat in silence, unmoving. The two Mercians turned their heads and listened.
‘No birdsong,’ Vadir hissed. ‘Our enemies wait under leaf-cover.’
Twirling his hand, Hereward thrust it in the direction of a path disappearing into the shadows among the trees. ‘Take the sleep of the sword to all who stand in our way,’ he yelled, leaping over the side into the shallows. The cold water splashed on to his mail, but beneath his helmet his head burned. Drawing Brainbiter, he shouted, ‘For Mercia! For Robert!’ With an answering roar, the warriors grabbed their shields from the side and their axes and spears from under their seats and leapt into the water behind him.
But as they splashed towards the small rocky beach, the air filled with whistling. Arrows whizzed from the trees. A shaft flashed a hand’s width from Hereward’s head. Throwing up his shield, he ordered his men to do the same, but his voice was nearly drowned by cries behind him. Turning, he saw arrows ram into eyes, into chests, into necks. Many shafts lashed harmlessly into the black water, where blood now pooled. Vadir’s prophecy had been correct. Thrashing, the wounded men slumped beneath the surface until the nearest warriors dragged the still living towards the shore.
Another flight of arrows sped through the air. This time they thudded into raised shields. The men clustered into a knot, heads now protected by a roof of wood. ‘Stay together,’ Hereward shouted as his force stumbled out of the sea and rattled up the stones to the treeline.
‘When this business is done, I will find three of the best Frankish whores in all Saint-Omer and you will not see me for an entire week,’ Vadir growled.
‘Only three? You are getting old.’
Under the cool green canopy, the men broke formation. The path was only wide enough to travel single file. It had been cut into steps and edged with wood to keep it in use when the rains came. The two Mercians bounded up the track, their men close behind. Among the trees, ferns and rocks, they glimpsed shadowy figures scrambling up the steep slope towards the village. Arrows flashed past the trunks intermittently, but the warriors kept their shields high and their bodies low.
‘Cowards’ weapon. I told you,’ Hereward hissed, darting from cover to cover.
‘You cannot deny that the bow does its work well, though,’ Vadir puffed. Wrenching an arrow from his splintered shield, he tossed the shaft away.
Glancing through the swaying blades of emerald grass up the hillside, the younger warrior came to a sudden halt. For an instant, he had a view through the trees to one solitary sun-drenched clearing amid the dark. A figure had stood there briefly, almost as if it had wanted to be seen. Something about that fleeting outline tugged at the depths of his memory. Unease rippled through him.
‘What is wrong?’ Vadir was watching him suspiciously.
‘Nothing. Keep your wits on staying alive, not on me.’
The path turned sharply, following the contours of the hill. A tangle of exposed roots and dense vegetation blocked any other easy access to the summit. Ahead, Hereward noticed yellowing turf and branches spread across the beaten mud. When Vadir moved to cross, the younger Mercian blocked him with an outstretched arm. Crawling on his knees, he stabbed his sword on the dead vegetation and some fell away into a gulf beneath.
Peering into the hole, Hereward reported, ‘Sharpened wood… spears rammed in the bottom.’
‘A Viking trick,’ the big man replied with a curse. ‘If more of these bear-traps lie around, let us hope the other commanders are as sharp-eyed and sharp-witted as you.’
As the warriors edged round the pit, arrows tore into two more men who failed to keep their shields up. Both soldiers plummeted into the hole, the sticky impact followed by their dying moans.
When the force neared the top of the winding path, Hereward raised his hand once more to slow his men. From around the island echoed the sounds of battle, punctuated by the agonized cries of the dying.
‘Let us hope that is the enemy howling their way down to hell,’ Vadir said, unconvinced.
Hereward looked out across the flat, broad summit of the hill. Past the fields, a system of ditches and low ramparts protected the cluster of timber-framed houses with the stone church at the centre. No smoke drifted from any of the houses. Nothing moved. The only sound he could hear was a dog’s barks floating across the grassland.
‘The islanders are gone,’ he hissed to his waiting warriors. ‘The only men you will encounter here are our enemies. Cut them down without a second thought.’
When the order had been translated, the Flemish warriors beat their shields with their weapons. A moment later they burst from the trees, helmets aglow in the sunlight. Their battle cry resounded across the summit of the hill. Arrows whistled around their ears, but the men moved too fast to be easy targets. From the trees, two clutches of enemy warriors erupted, the variety of shield designs marking them as spears for hire. A third group emerged from the village on to the ramparts, and a moment later a fourth appeared. Within moments the other bands of Flemish warriors began to straggle on to the summit.
Iron clashed upon iron amid a tempestuous din of throat-rending screams and frenzied shouts. Gritting his teeth, Hereward led the way into the melee. Roaring men thundered towards him, their eyes glazed by battle passion. An axe strike glanced off his helmet, a spear skimmed his chain coif. In the crush of battling bodies, he washed back and forth as if he were being tossed by a churning ocean. Snarling faces filled his vision. The choking stink of sweat, blood, piss and shit burned his nose.
Then, through the swirl of bodies, Hereward glimpsed a familiar hawk-like face. Piercing eyes fixed upon him with a burning intensity as if he were the only important one on the field of battle. Memories skittered through his head between thrusts and parries. And then the name sprang to his lips: Hoibrict, the grandson of Count Manasses whom he had shamed on the tournament field in Bruges so long ago.
The swamp of mud and blood sucked at his leather shoes. Round and round he spun, with barely a moment to think, but the sight of the Flemish noble nagged at the back of his head. He glimpsed Vadir, roaring with laughter and drunk on battle, burying his axe in a collarbone.
Again Hoibrict fell into view. His eyes burned with hatred as they locked on to Hereward’s gaze. The Fleming yelled some threat or other, the words lost to the din of battle. As the nobleman disappeared in the swell once more, a warning jangled through Hereward’s head. Something here was not right.
He searched the sea of helmets as he fought until he found Hoibrict, and this time the Fleming was cutting a path through friend and foe alike. Towards Vadir.
A cruel revenge, Hereward thought, and what he expected of a weak man like Hoibrict. ‘Vadir,’ he barked. ‘Your back!’ But the din of battle drowned his voice. He set out to close the gap, cutting his way through the mass.
