Vadir snorted. ‘He has everything to gain here and nothing to lose. It’s not his neck at stake.’
That morning Hereward had dutifully reported his assessment of the dangers to Count Baldwin’s son Robert, their new commander. But Robert was a man intent on making his name as quickly as possible. His attentions were focused upon extending his influence deep into Zeeland, a power struggle that ebbed and flowed like so many of the rivalries around Flanders. The expedition to recover unpaid taxes from the rebellious residents of the scattered islands was merely to keep his father quiet. Robert expected it to pass without incident. Gold would be heaped upon the beaches once the islanders were terrified into submission by the sight of the warrior-laden warships sweeping up the Scheldt. Any man who had held a spear in battle could see what was lacking in that dream, Hereward thought. Fear rarely made men run — initially it made them fight harder.
‘Still, the gold and mead that Robert has paid us since we joined his ranks has been most welcome,’ Vadir said. ‘It seems our reputation is growing, and that can only be good.’
All true, Hereward thought. It seemed that wherever they went they were now well known. Even Robert had sought them out, at Saint-Omer, when it became clear that Tostig was not coming back to Flanders. The count’s son needed good commanders, if only to keep his men in line. And the warriors knew Hereward and Vadir understood their complaints, where Robert never would.
The two men watched the other eight warships cutting through the white foam with Robert’s blue banner flying from a pole on each one. The fleet drew towards Wacheren, the largest island, with the stone steeple of the church of St Willibond just visible above the treetops. The Abbot Thiofrid, of the monastery of Echternach, had been encouraging the residents to refuse to pay their taxes. Hereward had suggested burning the monastery to the ground, but Robert had been less than keen to consider this course of action. ‘In my experience, men like Abbot Thiofrid are only pious when they pray,’ Hereward had told Robert. ‘The rest of the time they play the games of kings and counts and do a better job of it by hiding behind their God-given masks.’ But Robert would not be moved.
The foreman barked the order to the starboard rowers to slow their strokes. The warship turned through the narrow gap between the sandbanks. Wacheren loomed up ahead of them.
‘Your monk must count himself lucky not to be here. He seems at ease sitting at home with the women and trying to interest your wife in Bible stories,’ Vadir muttered, scanning the treeline near the rock-strewn beach for any sign of resistance.
‘Alric believes there is a natural goodness in all men. He is sickened by the sight of blood because it shows him, more often than not, that his view is misplaced.’
‘Ha,’ Vadir laughed, ‘you are as sour as early apples when it comes to people.’
‘I know what I see with my own eyes and feel with my heart.’
During the five seasons since his marriage, Hereward had found himself at peace in Saint-Omer. More than a good wife, Turfrida had been a good companion, advising him on the best course suggested by her understanding of those mechanical arts which the Church would prefer were never practised. When England fell to the bloody William the Bastard, Hereward had been keen to sail to offer his resistance, but both Turfrida and Vadir had counselled against it. ‘All the omens show you will never return to the life we have here,’ she had told him, her cheeks flushed with concern. ‘The bloodshed in Hastings was only the beginning. William now has to bend your unruly land to his will, and he has never shirked from a task like that. If you must return, wait until the moment is right.’
And so he had waited, and waited, and had grown close to his father-in-law, Wulfric Rabe, and he and Vadir and Alric had wanted for nothing. His time with Turfrida had been enjoyable, and his campaigns had brought them wealth. They had not yet been blessed with a child, but it would come. Alric had seemed happier still, and had spent his days working at the church and teaching the children. Hereward felt pleased that the monk had found his peace.
But still England would not leave his thoughts, hovering like a black cloud on the horizon on a summer’s day.
‘What is on your mind?’ Vadir asked as he eyed his friend askance. ‘You have that look on your face. The one that makes my heart sink.’
‘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.