spears-for-hire.’
Thurstan shook his head. ‘I cannot let you take the church’s treasures, Hereward.’ He lit the last candle and blew out the spill.
‘And I would not ask you for them. You have been good to us and I would not risk our friendship. But I have some thoughts and seek your guidance—’
Before Hereward could press the abbot further, a fearful cry rang out somewhere beyond the church. Another voice picked it up, and then another until a tumult echoed all around.
‘We are under attack,’ the warrior snarled, unsheathing Brainbiter. He dashed towards the entrance, the abbot close behind.
When he tore open the door and bounded out into the night, he first thought the feast-fire had been stoked too high. Sparks sailed overhead and clouds of smoke wafted across the minster grounds. Then through the fug he glimpsed an amber glow near by. White-faced monks raced around the enclosure, fearful that the fire would spread. Hereward grabbed the nearest one by the shoulders and bellowed, ‘Fetch water from the well. Line up your men.’
As he darted towards the burning building, he saw it was already too late. The thatched roof had collapsed inwards, the timber frame nothing but a blackened skeleton swathed in shimmering orange. He threw a hand across his face to shield him from the heat, his suspicions swiftly rising.
Breathless, Alric stumbled up, his jaw dropping when he realized what building was alight. ‘The food store,’ he gasped. ‘Our meagre supplies …’
Hereward could hear frantic cries rising up the slope from the feast. Once folk realized their supplies had been further depleted, they would be consumed with despair. And those black thoughts would spread like the plague in that crowded place. It could be the undoing of them.
‘We are accursed,’ the monk gasped.
‘No curse this. No act of God,’ the Mercian growled. ‘There were lit candles in the store?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then men set this fire.’
The monk gaped, turning slowly to look over the thatched roofs of the settlement. ‘Who would do such a thing?’ He paused, his thoughts racing. ‘We have enemies, here, in Ely?’
‘Would the hungry men and women of Ely set our store alight? No, this is an attack.’ Hereward gritted his teeth. Already he could see the final outcome if this threat were allowed to run its course. ‘Our army will not be defeated by cowards who stabus in the back while we look to the greater enemy,’ he said in a stony voice. ‘At first light we will begin anew, and all within this place will learn that we will suffer no more hands raised against us.’
C HAPTER F OURTEEN
THE GUARD’S BLACK eyes glinted in the candlelight. Beside the heavy oak door to King William’s hall, he stood like a rod of iron. His face was as cold and hard as his long mail shirt and his helm and his double-edged sword. He was dressed for war, as was every Norman that strode through Wincestre these days. As usual, Balthar the Fox watched from the shadows. What mysteries transpired behind that long-closed door? he wondered. He felt uneasy that there might be a gap in his knowledge. News was his gold, sifted and piled high to achieve the wise counsel that had bought him such a comfortable life.
As he agonized over what he was missing, the door trundled open and the guard stepped aside. Aged men trailed out, their faces ashen. The wavering light carved lines of tension into their features. Each one was a cleric of high regard, Balthar noted, puzzled. There was Ealdred of Eoferwic, with the nose of a falcon and a gaze like winter, and Wulfstan of Worcester, rotund, flushed and sweating. Heads bowed, Bishop William of London, Bishop Giso of Wells, and Abbot Baldwin of St Edmunds Bury followed, their whispers strained. Each one had committed himself to the cause of the new king, almost before the crown had settled upon his head. The future courseof England was as much decided by these men as it was by William the
Thurstan shook his head. ‘I cannot let you take the church’s treasures, Hereward.’ He lit the last candle and blew out the spill.
‘And I would not ask you for them. You have been good to us and I would not risk our friendship. But I have some thoughts and seek your guidance—’
Before Hereward could press the abbot further, a fearful cry rang out somewhere beyond the church. Another voice picked it up, and then another until a tumult echoed all around.
‘We are under attack,’ the warrior snarled, unsheathing Brainbiter. He dashed towards the entrance, the abbot close behind.
When he tore open the door and bounded out into the night, he first thought the feast-fire had been stoked too high. Sparks sailed overhead and clouds of smoke wafted across the minster grounds. Then through the fug he glimpsed an amber glow near by. White-faced monks raced around the enclosure, fearful that the fire would spread. Hereward grabbed the nearest one by the shoulders and bellowed, ‘Fetch water from the well. Line up your men.’
As he darted towards the burning building, he saw it was already too late. The thatched roof had collapsed inwards, the timber frame nothing but a blackened skeleton swathed in shimmering orange. He threw a hand across his face to shield him from the heat, his suspicions swiftly rising.
Breathless, Alric stumbled up, his jaw dropping when he realized what building was alight. ‘The food store,’ he gasped. ‘Our meagre supplies …’
Hereward could hear frantic cries rising up the slope from the feast. Once folk realized their supplies had been further depleted, they would be consumed with despair. And those black thoughts would spread like the plague in that crowded place. It could be the undoing of them.
‘We are accursed,’ the monk gasped.
‘No curse this. No act of God,’ the Mercian growled. ‘There were lit candles in the store?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then men set this fire.’
The monk gaped, turning slowly to look over the thatched roofs of the settlement. ‘Who would do such a thing?’ He paused, his thoughts racing. ‘We have enemies, here, in Ely?’
‘Would the hungry men and women of Ely set our store alight? No, this is an attack.’ Hereward gritted his teeth. Already he could see the final outcome if this threat were allowed to run its course. ‘Our army will not be defeated by cowards who stabus in the back while we look to the greater enemy,’ he said in a stony voice. ‘At first light we will begin anew, and all within this place will learn that we will suffer no more hands raised against us.’
C HAPTER F OURTEEN
THE GUARD’S BLACK eyes glinted in the candlelight. Beside the heavy oak door to King William’s hall, he stood like a rod of iron. His face was as cold and hard as his long mail shirt and his helm and his double-edged sword. He was dressed for war, as was every Norman that strode through Wincestre these days. As usual, Balthar the Fox watched from the shadows. What mysteries transpired behind that long-closed door? he wondered. He felt uneasy that there might be a gap in his knowledge. News was his gold, sifted and piled high to achieve the wise counsel that had bought him such a comfortable life.
As he agonized over what he was missing, the door trundled open and the guard stepped aside. Aged men trailed out, their faces ashen. The wavering light carved lines of tension into their features. Each one was a cleric of high regard, Balthar noted, puzzled. There was Ealdred of Eoferwic, with the nose of a falcon and a gaze like winter, and Wulfstan of Worcester, rotund, flushed and sweating. Heads bowed, Bishop William of London, Bishop Giso of Wells, and Abbot Baldwin of St Edmunds Bury followed, their whispers strained. Each one had committed himself to the cause of the new king, almost before the crown had settled upon his head. The future courseof England was as much decided by these men as it was by William the
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