Last Tales of Mercia 6: Hereward the Outlaw Read online

would have no chance at all. He had no idea how he was supposed to be chopping these logs, and Lord Richard might realize that quickly. What other option did he have?

  Hereward’s hands tightened on the axe. He lifted it slightly.

  A scream pierced the air behind him. His heart felt like it would burst in his chest. He nearly flung the axe in a panic. But he twisted to see that the scream had come from one of the sword-fighters. The older soldier crouched on the ground, cradling his arm while blood poured from his wrist. His arm ended there, in a fountain of blood, for his hand lay uselessly on the ground like a lump of meat.

  The younger boy took off his helm. His face was set in an expression of fierce determination; no remorse lingered there at all.

  “OSBERN!” roared Lord Richard, and Hereward realized that the boy must be Richard’s son. Richard FitzScrob came off the post on which he’d been leaning and began limping out to the scandalous scene. “What have you done to Bernard?”

  Osbern crossed his arms in front of his chest, even while continuing to clutch his bloody sword. “It seemed the only way to defeat him.”

  Richard yelled something in Norman. Then the two proceeded to argue in their native tongue.

  Now that Hereward realized the disturbance had nothing to do with him, his courage returned. The Normans were distracted now. This was the perfect chance to act.

  Without further ado, he leapt over the pile of the logs and began scrambling up the mound.

  Doing this was more difficult than he first anticipated. The hill inclined sharply. Under his clawing fingers, the shale scraped his palms. Belatedly he noticed a staircase nearby, but he felt too proud to use it. He slipped and slid as he hastened upwards, all while continuing to grip the axe.

  He heard anxious murmurs from the Saxons behind him. A few Normans were yelling, but Hereward hoped that their cries had more to do with the man who had lost his hand sparring than the mysterious Saxon climbing the motte.

  At long last, he reached the top and grabbed a post on the large frame of the keep. The complexity of the eight-sided structure intimidated him. If the frame had been complete, he most certainly would not have been able to topple it by chopping one buttress alone. But fortunately, the keep was not yet finished. He located the weakest buttress under the section with the most weight. A lot of ropes also provided support, and those would be easily severed. When he found the perfect spot, he hurried closer and readied his axe.

  He recoiled the weapon, then swung with all of his might.

  The blade’s first bite of wood had minimal effect, spitting a few splinters and creating only a small dent. But Hereward kept swinging, and each time, the post weakened. The entire log began to bend and crack. Above it, connected parts of the keep’s frame leaned and creaked with strain.

  People started to notice.

  Hereward kept swinging regardless, pausing only to look down and find Dudda and Osric on the ground below. He motioned towards an unfinished section of the wall and they moved towards it, understanding.

  On the next swing, the entire frame bent over. It would fall soon. Hereward heard a shout most certainly directed at him, but he didn’t stop chopping. He must finish this, or it would all be for naught.

  Pain shot up his leg and he realized he’d been struck by a rock. He thanked God it had not been an arrow and kept swinging. He glimpsed a Norman with a sword climbing the mound towards him. Hereward put all of his might into another blow.

  The beam was cracking. The entire frame would topple with just a little more help. He needed to sever some of the ropes. Hereward had to move around the structure, risking getting pinned under his own destruction, but he put faith in his own agility. He sliced the strained ropes and moved out of the way.

  At last, the wooden frame of the keep toppled. Beams cracked and fell rolling down the motte. One log struck the Norman who had been climbing and pinned him into the shale.

  Hereward lifted his axe high, for everyone was watching him now, and roared with all of his breath. “Fuck the Normans, and fuck this castle! This isn’t their land!”

  He saw the eyes of the Anglo-Saxons staring up at him. He wondered if some of them would take heart and encouragement from his display of rebellion. Even now, he saw mostly fear and despair in their gazes. Only a few faces showed the sparks of anger and hatred that he had hoped to ignite, and he worried they weren’t strong enough to result in action.

  Then he saw an arrow speeding towards him. He dropped his axe and took off running.

  The piercing shriek of Osric’s whistle was a welcome sound to Hereward’s ears. The remainder of his gang would respond to that sound and arrive with the horses. He flailed as he rolled down the mound, finding this a faster method than attempting to keep his footing. He flung earth from his hands and feet as he righted himself and kept running. He glimpsed Osric and Dudda waiting for him in the unfinished section of the wall he had indicated. The Normans focused so much on Hereward they forgot about his companions, which might have given him comfort if not for the fact he had several bows trained on him as a result. He heard another arrow whistle past his ear. Then he barely managed to dodge the swing of someone’s sword.

  The Anglo-Saxons slaves may not have cheered Hereward on, but they shared the same enemy. When the Normans came after Hereward, a few of the slaves moved to stop them. The slaves dared not initiate combat, but at least they blocked the Normans’ progress while giving Hereward a clear path to escape.

  By the time he approached the half-built wall, Osric waited for him on top while Dudda stayed below to help him up. Hereward stepped onto Dudda’s ready hands and sprang upward. Osric gripped his arms and helped him the rest of the way up.

  From the top of the wall he could see the horses galloping out of the trees, and he could taste victory like sweet mead on his lips. He had done it. He had shown the Normans that even one of their precious castles could not withstand the vigor of a young man born of the Fenlands. The frame of the Normans’ keep had toppled and they didn’t even know what to do about it. For the most part, they still floundered in a state of panic and disbelief.

  Meanwhile, Hereward’s companions had arrived with the horses. Hereward’s triumph faltered under a wave of fear as he realized how far he would have to jump to cross the ditch. The landing would hurt even if he made it across, and if he didn’t … he looked down into the deep pit beneath the wall and gulped.

  For the spry Osric, the jump posed no problem. He leapt across and rolled as his slender legs struck the grass. Soon enough, he had found his horse and climbed up its saddle.

  Hereward wanted to do the same thing, but first he had to help Dudda. He turned back and reached down to grip the boy’s pudgy hands. He groaned as the weight of his companion strained his arms.

  “A little help, Dudda!” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Damn you’re heavy!”

  An arrow seemed to sprout suddenly from Dudda’s leg. Then Dudda screamed, and his entire body went limp. All of his bulk sank into Hereward’s grip, and Hereward realized that if he let the fat oaf slip down any further, Hereward would never be able to lift him back up.

  He gritted his teeth so hard he wondered if his jaws would crack. He squeezed the wall between his legs until he felt the stones grinding against the bones of his knee. Then he pulled with all of his might.

  Dudda’s desperation must have given him a surge of strength as well, for with another kick of his good leg, he propelled himself enough to grip the wall and start pulling. Hereward wasted no time yanking Dudda’s girth until his body rolled onto the top. Then he realized that Dudda stood almost no chance of jumping.

  Hereward ducked as another arrow sped past his hair. Dudda groaned with agony.

  “Dudda, you have to get up and jump,” growled Hereward. Hardening himself to his friend’s cries, he wrenched the large boy to his feet. “We’ll do it together, and I’ll try to help you.” He met Dudda’s eyes, which glazed over with pain. Hereward searched them desperately for a sign
of understanding. “Ready, Dudda? On the count of three. One, two, three!”

  Hereward crouched briefly, coiling the muscles of his legs like springs before launching himself over the ditch. He gripped Dudda with one hand as he flew and dragged the boy’s girth into the air behind him. A squeal of agony ripped from Dudda’s throat as his own wounded leg pushed him forward. Together they soared over the darkness of the pit, and for a moment, it looked ready to swallow them. Hereward feared that even if his own feet touched the other side of the ditch, Dudda’s would not. He used all of his strength to throw Dudda a little further forward. Doing so sacrificed his own momentum.

  His chest slammed against the side of the ditch as Dudda landed with a scream in the safety of the grass.

  The impact shoved Hereward’s breath from his body. He began slipping downwards, his head spinning. Only when he nearly reached the bottom did he come to his senses enough to dig his fingers into the rocky earth. His entire body ached from the impact, but he forced himself upward, and at long last came scrambling out of the ditch.

  He gasped for breath as he collapsed next to Dudda. “Osric, HELP!” Osric rode closer and helped lift Dudda onto a horse. Dudda couldn’t straddle it; the pain of the jump had rendered him unconscious. Meanwhile, the arrow protruded from the back of his leg and penetrated all the way through the front of his shin. All they could do was throw him over the saddle on his stomach, then slap his horse’s haunches.

  By then another Norman had climbed the wall after them. A few stones from Hereward’s companions knocked him backwards. Hereward mounted his own horse and lashed it with all of his might.

  Hereward and his friends rode towards freedom. But the constant sound of Dudda’s moaning soured all feelings of triumph.