Hereward 03 - End of Days by James Wilde Page B

path, and I did,’ the monk murmured. ‘But now there is news you must hear, once we are safe.’
    ‘Safe,’ the warrior repeated with a hollow laugh. ‘Have you looked around you?’
    Turning the corner on the final stretch of the road, he saw the Hungate ahead of them. Beyond lay the Witham with its busy quay, packed with ships laden with goods and lined with the camps of sailors from all corners of the world. He hoped they could lose themselves there. But as he scanned the walls he spied at least eight Normans, all of them looking with unease towards the smoke.
    ‘We may make a fighting man of you yet,’ he continued, distracted. ‘Only a hardened warrior would have sent a burning cart into a crowded market. Watch yourself, monk, or you might wake up and find you are me.’
    With a dismissive snort, Alric looked around until his eye fell upon a dirty-faced boy jabbing a stick into a smaller lad as if he were spearing a deer. He grabbed the child by the back of his tunic and hauled him up so his toes barely scraped the mud. ‘Run to the guards,’ he urged. ‘The sheriff has sent word that they are needed in the high-town. The fire is spreading. And in the market, thieves rob merchants under cover of the smoke.’
    The boy seemed suspicious until Alric pressed a coin into his palm. He grinned, and spat, and ran to the walls. Hereward and Alric stepped back into the shadows in the rat-run between two workshops. Once the guards had pounded by on their way to the high-town, they slipped out and ran through the gate.
    ‘You are as cunning as a fox, monk,’ Hereward said.
    ‘Where you have your sword, I have only my wits,’ Alric replied. ‘I must use them as best I can.’
    The quayside smelled of freshly caught fish and strange spices. Hulls creaked as they flexed in the river currents. Ropes cracked and sails snapped. Swarthy-skinned men in flowing white robes called to each other in a strange tongue as they heaved barrels on to dry land. Wild-haired Northmen glowered at anyone who ventured near their ship. Other seamen, withsallow skin and heads bound with cloth, squatted on the quay, chewing vigorously before spitting wads of brown-green mush on to the timbers. In the summer, the sailors slept aboard their vessels, under the stars. But now the nights had grown colder they had erected brightly coloured tents along the harbour. Around campfires, they gathered, keeping warm. Some hunched over merel boards. Others drank or sang or argued, eyes glinting like the knives they kept tucked in their tunics.
    ‘We must take the road south, and quickly,’ Hereward insisted as Alric urged him among the tents. ‘I have coin. We can buy a ride on a cart, at least to the woods where we can hide.’
    The monk shook his head. ‘The Normans will have ridden us down long before we reach the trees. Hark.’
    Hereward could hear the calls of the Butcher’s men as they searched the low-town. In no time, they would be out of the Hungate. ‘Now I have damned us both,’ he spat. He looked around the tents, but could see no hiding place that would survive more than a moment’s inspection.
    ‘Show faith and God will reward you.’ Keeping his head down, Alric grabbed his friend’s arm and steered him among the camps to the very edge of the quay.
    At their backs, the sound of hooves thundered.
    ‘Your plan had better be more than Put your faith in God , monk,’ Hereward said under his breath. ‘I see angels coming to carry us away.’
    ‘There is one angel here, and one devil,’ Alric snapped, ‘and if you want to avoid the fires of hell, keep your tongue still.’
    Behind them, Hereward could hear the Normans questioning the sailors along the quay. He kept his gaze fixed on the timbers under his feet. Every instinct told him to fight, or run, but the monk kept his pace steady, unrushed, and the Mercian forced himself to do the same.
    The churchman came to a halt beside a plank leading up to a skiff. On board, a man with