Hereward 03 - End of Days by James Wilde Page A

finger’s width from his flesh. But soon every way was blocked. Grins leapt to the faces of the Normans as they forced him back into a corner against the stone walls. He looked across the growing numbers of gleaming helms and felt bitter that Turfrida would remain unavenged.
    From the edge of the market, Redwald was watching like a hawk. No jubilation, no triumph, no anger marked his face. It was blank, as if his soul had fled his body and only the clay remained. But then his eyes flickered, and he nodded, recognizing the threat was contained, and he turned and pushed his way into the crowd.
    Hereward looked back to his enemies. ‘You cannot take me to your masters to be humbled. I will die here,’ he said, his voice so low it was almost lost beneath the creak of leather and the clink of swords on shield rims. ‘But I will not die alone. Who goes first?’
    His words hung in the air. He gritted his teeth as he waited for the wave of iron to break.
    Beyond the market, a scream shattered the stillness. The Norman soldiers jolted. A second cry rang out, and then another. Within moments, alarmed yells were leaping from throat to throat across what seemed to be all Lincylene. Above the rooftops, a thick cloud of smoke billowed and a roaring like a great wind echoed. A flare of orange and gold burst into view. A cart filled with hay for the castle’s horses streamed flames as it careered across the ruts down the steep street.
    Folk threw themselves out of its path. Plunging into the market, the blazing cart upended. Flames leapt to the dirty straw scattered where the cattle and horses had been kept, and then to trestles, and bolts of silk, and furs.
    Hereward watched the conflagration, his eyes aglow.
    Choking smoke swirled across the market. He could hear the cries of alarm as the folk ran to fetch water to stop the blaze spreading to the half-timbered, thatched houses. Against the danger of the tinder-dry dwellings turning Lincylene into a bonfire, he was no threat at all.
    While the Normans’ backs were turned, he darted round the edge of the force and tried to lose himself in the bank of smoke. Fate had given him only a sliver of hope. Soon his enemies’ attention would return to him, he knew, and every bastard in the place would be hunting him down.
    He pressed the wool of his cloak against his mouth and nose. The flames glowed through the wall of grey and sparks drifted through the air. The sound of running feet echoed all around. Men with eyes filled with terror lurched past, hauling buckets. He slipped away, following the slope towards the gate to the low-town.
    As he neared freedom, a hand grabbed his arm. He whirled, his sword flashing up. A hooded man held him tight. Just before he struck, he peered into the depths of the cowl and saw in the light of the flickering flames a familiar face.
    It was Alric.

C HAPTER T EN
    THE TWO MEN raced down the steep slope through the low-town. Outside their homes and workshops, folk lined the street to look up at the pall of smoke hanging over the market. Already Hereward could hear the Norman commanders barking orders as they turned their attention back to the fugitive.
    ‘I told you to leave me well alone,’ he gasped as he ran.
    ‘Is that the thanks I get for saving your miserable life?’ Alric pulled his cowl low to hide his face.
    The blast of a horn reverberated from the high-town, followed in quick succession by two more. Ivo the Butcher and William de Warenne would send every fighting man in Lincylene on his trail if they thought there was a chance of cutting down their most hated enemy.
    Slowing his step, he fumbled for Alric’s arm to hold him back. Haste would only make them easier targets. Yet they had little time before the gates to the town were sealed and they were trapped like rats.
    ‘Why did you come?’ Hereward whispered through gritted teeth. ‘Now you have put your own life at risk.’
    ‘I gave you my word that I would leave you to follow yourown