‘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.
The hawk-faced man loomed closer to his prey.
Hereward bellowed again, and this time Vadir heard. As he spun round he swung his axe to deflect Hoibrict’s thrust with ease. Faced by the towering warrior, the nobleman recoiled in shock. For a moment, the Fleming hovered, unsure. His eyes flickered between Vadir and his approaching rival.
‘Seek your revenge face to face like a man,’ Hereward yelled.
Hoibrict turned and ran. A moment later another man joined him, the two of them bounding like rabbits towards the village.
‘That bastard.’ Hereward glanced around at the dying battle. ‘Something stinks here even worse than you.’
‘Then let us ask what it is… with the help of your sword and my axe.’ Vadir laughed loudly, whisking his weapon in the direction of the fleeing men.
Leaving the clash behind, Hereward and Vadir raced across the ramparts. As they skidded down the final slope to the edge of the houses, the two warriors could hear running feet ahead.
‘The coward tries to hide.’ The big man stooped to peer between the buildings. ‘You take that side, and I’ll go this way. Between us, we’ll surprise him.’
Hereward nodded, pressing one finger to his lips. He kept low as he edged past a barn and a plot where herbs grew. He felt a simmering anger at Hoibrict’s cowardice. The Fleming betrayed his knightly status and shamed his own bloodline. Better to die under a hundred axes than to flee honest combat. On the other side of the village, the dog began barking again. The nobleman had revealed his position and it would cost him dearly, Hereward thought with contempt. He sprinted silently past one house and to the lee of the next one, keeping one eye open for the man who had accompanied Hoibrict.
When he passed the third house, a shout rang out, and another — Vadir, he was sure. The clang of iron upon iron resounded across the rooftops.
Hereward ran. His friend must not have all the fun.
Following the hound’s barking, he charged on to a green next to the church. Hoibrict waited there with the second man, who had drawn an arrow from a pouch on his back. This time the Flemish nobleman was grinning as he unsheathed his sword. A poor trap, Hereward thought, already searching for cover from the arrows. It was then that he saw Vadir. Beyond the church, on the edge of the village, his friend lay on the turf, blood seeping from gaping wounds on his arms and neck. Hereward felt his thoughts burn slow as he struggled to comprehend the scene and the identity of the man standing over his fallen friend.
Harald Redteeth.
As the Viking raised his axe over his head for the killing blow, he began to sing a jaunty song. He paused when his weapon reached its highest point and grinned at Hereward. The Mercian could almost read his enemy’s thoughts. I have travelled across land and sea with only the heat of my yearning to drive my legs on. I have hunted through wild woods and empty grassland, past rushing rivers and in the reeking depths of towns to find your trail. And now that I have found you I will take my revenge — by stealing the life of your friend as you took the lives of my men. By driving guilt into your heart as you brought shame to mine.