CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

THE CAMP WAS ABUZZ WITH VOICES. MEN AND WOMEN milled around the fires among the clustering trees. Old friends and neighbors greeted each other with cheery hails. Strangers clasped hands, finding common cause, but struggled to make sense of accents from the north and south and west. Hereward counted more than twenty heads as he strode through the throng with Alric at his side. The paltry collection of spears and shields were a poor match for the Normans’ might, but he anticipated some strong fighters among the new arrivals.

“Word spreads fast,” the monk remarked.

“To hear tell, the suffering inflicted by the Normans reaches across every part of England. Anger is everywhere.”

“But they are drawn here by your name. It seems that your exploits in Eoferwic have caught alight.” Alric restrained a grin. “The English needed a hero, and there you were.”

“I am no hero,” Hereward snapped, rising to the bait. The words died in his throat as he saw two familiar faces across the camp. Unsure of his feelings, he left the monk and pushed through the crowd. Kraki and Acha sat on a log beside the campfire, eating some of the fowl that Guthrinc had roasted. The Viking had earned a new scar over his left eye since the last time Hereward had seen him, and a few more strands of silver gleamed in his hair and beard. His creaking leather and stained mail were splattered with the mud of the road.

Acha’s eyes met Hereward’s before her companion looked up from his meal, and the warrior was struck afresh by her fierce beauty. Though she wore a worn woolen dress, her raven hair gleamed. She flashed the warrior a smile that appeared to hold a hint of contrition.

When he saw Hereward, Kraki wiped the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand and tossed his bone into the fire. Rising to his feet, he held the warrior with an unwavering gaze. “You and I, we had our troubles. But your courage and fighting skills were never in doubt. Let us put the past behind us and start afresh, for together we can spill enough Norman blood to turn this wet land red.”

Hereward searched the Viking’s face. They would never like each other, but Kraki had proved himself loyal when he had taken Tostig’s oath. The warrior accepted the man with a firm nod. “Your axe will be put to good use soon enough.” He turned to single out Alric. “The monk will tell you our plans.”

With a grunt, Kraki pushed his way through the crowd. The moment he was out of sight, Acha jumped to her feet. “There is little I can say about Eoferwic,” she began. “I was weak.”

“It is behind us now. You have not returned to the Cymri?”

Her eyes flashed. “He would not let me,” she snapped, nodding in the direction of the Viking.

“You are with Kraki now?”

Acha looked down, trying to hide the shame she felt. “He was—”

“You do not have to answer,” Hereward interrupted, his tone gentle. “I know your mind, remember.”

Hope flared in the woman’s eyes. She stepped forward, almost pressing her hands against his chest. “I would rather be with you.”

“I have a wife now.”

“Then take another.” Acha looked round. “Where is she?”

“Where she is safe.”

“You would never have to keep me safe. I would stand at your shoulder at all times.” Her dark eyes widened as she looked up at him. “We know each other’s hearts. We are the same inside. You told me that. You know it.”

Hereward hesitated, knowing that what she said was true. Before he could respond, a cry echoed across the camp. Bodies fell aside as someone pushed their way through the crowd. Redwald burst from the gathering, flushed and breathless. Rushing up to the campfire, he grabbed Hereward’s arm and gasped, “The Normans are coming!”