Hereward 03 - End of Days by James Wilde

cried, pointing into the smoky workshop. ‘Save her.’
    As the crowd surged into the smithy, Hereward fought his way through the flow. With the clamour at his back, he bowed his head and tried to look inconspicuous as he strode down the road towards the stone wall separating the high-town from the low-town. But the Norman guards at the gate had been alerted by the outcry and were straining to see what was happening. One caught Hereward’s eye. The soldier’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword at whatever he saw in that unguarded moment.
    Spinning aside, Hereward plunged into the bustling market. A merchant stepped in front of him, thrusting a leather bridle under his nose. Hereward shoved him aside. At the smithy, a tumult erupted as the mob flooded out, baying for his blood.
    He slipped behind a table piled high with beaver furs, and hovered next to two men haggling over the price of a pig,pretending he was part of the bidding. ‘Twenty pennies,’ the seller demanded. ‘I can take no less.’ The other man grunted and shook his head.
    From under his brows, Hereward glanced around. He could see no way out. Soldiers had joined the guards at the lower gate, and from their gesticulations he guessed they were ordering a messenger to fetch more men from the garrison. The rabble from the smithy had started to spill into the market. He could hear Redwald whipping up the crowd to search for the English rebel leader. Gold was promised, if the Mercian warrior was found and dragged to the castle to face justice. He cursed himself for getting caught like a callow youth who had just charged into his first fight.
    As he edged towards the stone wall encircling the high-town, the whirl of the market pressed in on all sides. Yelling voices, bickering and bartering. Song from the scop standing on the Speaking Stone in the centre. Lowing, fly-blown cows and a flock of noisy sheep. He stepped around two dogs snapping and snarling over a bone, his nostrils wrinkling at the competing smells of dung, hot stew, spilled beer, sweat and animal musk. Distractions assailed him as he searched for a path.
    Eager for the reward, the mob pushed further into the market, spinning folk around and peering into the depths of hoods. A churn upended. Butter spilled across the mud. Pottery crashed from a teetering table. The merchant leapt out, swinging his fists.
    Among the rabble, Hereward counted nine Norman guards drawing closer. More gleaming conical helmets were moving down the road from the castle. He stepped behind a fletcher showing off a quiver of newly made arrows, and edged back until he felt the cold stone of the wall.
    A roar of recognition cut through the market’s din. A wild-bearded, thickset Northman was pointing at him, someone he had all but knocked flat when he came rushing out of the smithy. The time of hiding had passed.
    Seeing one slim chance, Hereward drew his sword andhacked through the hemp rope tethering an ox to a post. With the point of his blade, he jabbed the beast in the haunches. The ox bellowed and kicked out, blundering across the market. Men and women scrambled out of its path. Trestles upended. Merchants threw themselves on to the mud to reclaim their precious wares.
    Taking advantage of the confusion, Hereward hurled himself through the crowd. He kicked over a trestle laden with pitchers of wine and a barrel of good ale. As hands grabbed for him, he leapt on to another table, clattering from one rickety plank to the next until he dived among the pigs. He prodded each of them with his sword. Squealing and snorting, they lumbered into the throng.
    Through the mayhem, he thought he glimpsed a path to the gate. He shouldered his way into the mass of folk, only to find two guards barring his way. Hereward flashed his blade into the throat of the first man. Blood gushed. As the guard fell, gurgling, more Normans ran towards the terrified cries ringing on every side.
    Hereward raced this way and that. Swords whisked by a