blazing. ‘Watch what you say.’
‘Would your wife have held her tongue if you were lost?’ she said, undeterred. ‘I have heard tales of Turfrida. A woman with a fighting heart as great as any man’s. She aided the sick, and gave food to the hungry. And she never turned away from anyone in need. Do I speak true?’
‘You do,’ he replied in a low voice.
‘All the wives here have heard those tales, and they have taken strength from her. The memory of her gives us courage in these dark days.’ Kraki approached her again, but she threw him off. ‘Do not forget the women, for they are fearsome when roused,’ she said with passion.
‘I will do what I can,’ Hereward replied after a moment. ‘We will talk. After I have met with my war-band.’ He put iron in his voice so she knew he would brook no further dissent. Acha, Kraki’s woman, stood nearby, her skin as pale as snow and her black hair gleaming in the torchlight. Her brow was furrowed as she sized up Rowena. Hereward called to her. ‘Take her,’ he commanded. ‘Keep her well. Hear her tales. I will come when I am done here.’
As Acha led Rowena away, Hereward turned back to the grave-faced men gathered in the flickering torchlight. ‘Let us talk now of these dark times and the worries you have,’ he said. ‘And then I will tell you how we can kill a king.’
Before he had taken a step towards the refectory, he heard running feet at the enclosure gate and turned to see a boy waiting there. The lad looked both frightened and eager, dancing from foot to foot and kneading his hands in front of him.
‘What does he want?’ Hereward asked, suspicious. Children troubled him, weak, whining things.
‘It is Wardric,’ Alric murmured, puzzled. ‘Away with you, boy,’ he called. ‘Hereward has important business.’
‘I must speak to you.’ The lad held out one pleading hand. He seemed on the verge of tears, the Mercian thought.
‘Tell me,’ Alric said.
‘My words are for Hereward’s ears alone.’ Swallowing,Wardric glanced over his shoulder fearfully. ‘Only Hereward can save us from the devil … the devil that walks in Ely.’
The Mercian frowned. He held the monk back when Alric would have ushered the boy away. ‘Bring him to me,’ he said, curious. ‘I would hear about this devil.’
C HAPTER T WELVE
THE GHOST WATCHED from the shadows. As he staggered out of the tavern, Harald Redteeth looked across the deserted street and into that dead, grey face, those black, unblinking eyes. Ivar, his friend, long gone from the world, but always there, always reminding him of his vow. The Viking swayed, his breath steaming in the cold morning air. He held that gaze as long as he could. There would be no peace for either of them until Ivar was avenged and the gates of Valhalla swung open to admit him at last.
The wan sun glowed over the glistening rooftops of Grentabrige. Soon the town would be waking. Finally breaking the stare, Redteeth lurched a few paces, opened his breeches and pissed into the ruts. The stream seemed to go on for ever. A night of ale would do that to a man. Even through the drunken haze, his head still throbbed from the blow Hereward’s right-hand man had dealt him after the attack on Abbot Turold and his monks. He snorted in disgust. The English dogs had taken him as if he were a child. But he could afford to wait to sate his desire for vengeance. They had burned him and stabbed him and cut him. His face and body was a mass of blackened dead skin and pink scars. Yet still he cameback. And he would do so time and again, until he got what he wanted – Hereward’s death. The English could not kill him; the alfar had told him that when he had journeyed to the shore of the great black sea.
He stumbled along the street, hot under his chain mail and his furs and his helm. Sweat trickled down his back. The bitter mushrooms he had chewed in the hour before sunrise always made him sticky. Only a few had passed his lips, not
‘Would your wife have held her tongue if you were lost?’ she said, undeterred. ‘I have heard tales of Turfrida. A woman with a fighting heart as great as any man’s. She aided the sick, and gave food to the hungry. And she never turned away from anyone in need. Do I speak true?’
‘You do,’ he replied in a low voice.
‘All the wives here have heard those tales, and they have taken strength from her. The memory of her gives us courage in these dark days.’ Kraki approached her again, but she threw him off. ‘Do not forget the women, for they are fearsome when roused,’ she said with passion.
‘I will do what I can,’ Hereward replied after a moment. ‘We will talk. After I have met with my war-band.’ He put iron in his voice so she knew he would brook no further dissent. Acha, Kraki’s woman, stood nearby, her skin as pale as snow and her black hair gleaming in the torchlight. Her brow was furrowed as she sized up Rowena. Hereward called to her. ‘Take her,’ he commanded. ‘Keep her well. Hear her tales. I will come when I am done here.’
As Acha led Rowena away, Hereward turned back to the grave-faced men gathered in the flickering torchlight. ‘Let us talk now of these dark times and the worries you have,’ he said. ‘And then I will tell you how we can kill a king.’
Before he had taken a step towards the refectory, he heard running feet at the enclosure gate and turned to see a boy waiting there. The lad looked both frightened and eager, dancing from foot to foot and kneading his hands in front of him.
‘What does he want?’ Hereward asked, suspicious. Children troubled him, weak, whining things.
‘It is Wardric,’ Alric murmured, puzzled. ‘Away with you, boy,’ he called. ‘Hereward has important business.’
‘I must speak to you.’ The lad held out one pleading hand. He seemed on the verge of tears, the Mercian thought.
‘Tell me,’ Alric said.
‘My words are for Hereward’s ears alone.’ Swallowing,Wardric glanced over his shoulder fearfully. ‘Only Hereward can save us from the devil … the devil that walks in Ely.’
The Mercian frowned. He held the monk back when Alric would have ushered the boy away. ‘Bring him to me,’ he said, curious. ‘I would hear about this devil.’
C HAPTER T WELVE
THE GHOST WATCHED from the shadows. As he staggered out of the tavern, Harald Redteeth looked across the deserted street and into that dead, grey face, those black, unblinking eyes. Ivar, his friend, long gone from the world, but always there, always reminding him of his vow. The Viking swayed, his breath steaming in the cold morning air. He held that gaze as long as he could. There would be no peace for either of them until Ivar was avenged and the gates of Valhalla swung open to admit him at last.
The wan sun glowed over the glistening rooftops of Grentabrige. Soon the town would be waking. Finally breaking the stare, Redteeth lurched a few paces, opened his breeches and pissed into the ruts. The stream seemed to go on for ever. A night of ale would do that to a man. Even through the drunken haze, his head still throbbed from the blow Hereward’s right-hand man had dealt him after the attack on Abbot Turold and his monks. He snorted in disgust. The English dogs had taken him as if he were a child. But he could afford to wait to sate his desire for vengeance. They had burned him and stabbed him and cut him. His face and body was a mass of blackened dead skin and pink scars. Yet still he cameback. And he would do so time and again, until he got what he wanted – Hereward’s death. The English could not kill him; the alfar had told him that when he had journeyed to the shore of the great black sea.
He stumbled along the street, hot under his chain mail and his furs and his helm. Sweat trickled down his back. The bitter mushrooms he had chewed in the hour before sunrise always made him sticky. Only a few had passed his lips, not
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