CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

THE SUNRISE SET FIRE TO THE FENLAND WATERS. MIST HUNG over the marshes and drifted among the stark black trees as the Norman knights mounted their steeds in the quiet enclosure. Aldous Wyvill felt pride as he studied the gleaming helmets his men had spent all night polishing ready for the coming battle. In their hauberks and with their axes sharpened on the whetstone, they would descend upon the ragtag band of rebels like a storm of iron. The English would not know what had hit them before their heads were separated from their shoulders.

The horses snorted and stamped their hooves as if they too were anticipating the inevitable rout, the commander thought. He inhaled a deep draught of the chill, damp air, his nose wrinkling at the stink of rotting leaves and marsh gas. He yearned for the green pastures of his homeland, but there was no virtue in sentimentality. It was a weakness.

“Ride out,” he barked, “and let our swords drink deeply before this day is done.”

The newly constructed gates rattled open and the column of knights moved out into the wild, fog-shrouded fens. Yet they had barely traveled beyond the edge of the village when the sound of many hoofbeats echoed from farther along the muddy track. Aldous brought his men to a halt and ordered them to draw their weapons. Who could be approaching at that hour?

When the riders galloped out of the mist, the commander’s tension eased at the sight of familiar armor and a familiar face. Here were the reinforcements he had requested from London when he had learned of the rebellion. Some were knights, many were clearly mercenaries. But at their core, Aldous recognized a man with a long rodent’s face and small eyes that appeared set in a permanent scowl. He wore only the finest clothes, a warm woolen tunic dyed purple and embroidered with yellow diamonds, and a furred cap that made him appear feminine among the scarred faces and harsh armor. He was Frederic of Warenne, who had been given land in the vicinity in return for funding a ship for the invasion. Aldous knew that this wealthy man had married well, taking the sister of William of Warenne, who had the ear of King William.

Holding his chin at a haughty angle, Frederic urged his horse out from the protection of his guards and approached Aldous. “I was troubled by your message,” he said in a reedy voice. “I would not have my lands put at risk by rebellious English.”

“My words were sent too early.” The commander removed his helmet as an act of respect, though he felt little regard for the man. “This rebellion barely merits the name and will be crushed before the day is out.”

As a contemptuous laugh tinkled out, Frederic raised a hand to summon someone from the column of reinforcements. “You speak too soon once again, Aldous Wyvill. The leader of the rebels is known as Hereward, yes?”

“He is.”

“Then you presume too much. My brother William was a guest at this man’s wedding in Flanders, and he returned with tales of the warrior’s exploits. When Hereward arrived in exile from England, he was raw and wild, but during his stay in Flanders he learned to hone his natural talents for slaughter. He carved a bloody swath across battlefield after battlefield and earned the praise of none other than Count Baldwin, who took the warrior into his employ. The most fearsome man in all of Flanders, the count said. Hereward is far more dangerous than you could ever imagine.”

“He is just a man.” Aldous restrained an urge to wipe the sneering smile off the aristocrat’s face.

A jangle of mail echoed from the reinforcements as a rider dismounted and walked toward them. He was a Viking, his beard and hair dyed the color of blood, the skulls of birds and rodents rattling against his rusted mail where they had been tied by strips of leather.

“This man has more experience than you or I. His axe has already tasted the blood of this Hereward.” Frederic waved his hand flamboyantly toward Harald Redteeth. “He was employed in the army, maintaining order across the South, when news of your rebellion spread throughout the ranks. His knowledge will prove invaluable.” Frederic smiled. “As will his passion to see your enemy dead.”

Aldous felt unsettled by the Viking’s eyes. The pupils were so dilated that the irises had all but disappeared.

“Hereward has killed me once,” Harald intoned, his black, unblinking stare fixed on the Norman commander. “And I have killed him once. We are equal. Now I would see whose fire burns the brightest.”