Free Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army by James Wilde Page A

hooded eyes. Finally two men sauntered out. The beggar recognized the Mercian brothers Edwin and Morcar, heads raised as if they still held power over all they saw. Once they had passed, he forced himself up on his staff and limped after them. The two men and their shadow weaved through the crowds. The brothers dawdled in the market, examining the fine Frankish jewellery, delicate glassware from the Rhineland and gleaming Flemish swords, all fresh from the ships on the south coast. Their heads dipped close together in conversation. They deigned to speak to no other.
    As the pair sheltered from the heat of the midday sun in the shade between two workshops, the beggar stepped up. ‘Alms, sirs?’ he enquired, holding out filthy fingers. When Edwin shook his head and held up a stately hand to urge the stranger away, the beggar raised his head and whispered, ‘No words of comfort for an old friend?’
    The two men jerked, frowning. Hereward eased his hood back a little so they could see his face. ‘You will have us all killed!’ Edwin hissed, glancing around.
    ‘True. No words of denial will save you from the king’s wrath if you are found with such an enemy of the crown,’ Hereward whispered with a shrug.
    This seemed to drive Morcar to a rage. His cheeks flushed red, but he was forced to stifle his fury for fear of drawing attention. Gritting his teeth, he muttered, ‘Do not put us at risk.’
    ‘Not after you have worked so hard to worm your way into the king’s favour, or at least keep your heads upon your shoulders.’
    ‘Why are you here?’ Edwin demanded. ‘No place is more dangerous for you.’
    From the depths of his hood, the warrior searched the passing throng. The king’s men were everywhere in that town. ‘A matter of import. But you are right, this is not the place to talk. The tavern.’
    Their faces hardened, but he knew they would not risk a confrontation. Along winding tracks among the houses the brothers forged, casting furtive glances as they went. At that time of day, the alehouse was all but empty. They paid for their drinks and huddled at the back of the long, low hall amid the reek of stale beer and woodsmoke.
    Turning up his nose, Edwin nodded at Hereward’s beggar’s clothes. ‘These masks served you well when you were a youth, troubling your neighbours in Barholme. Your true face was always a sign of coming strife. As now.’
    Hereward grinned. ‘I have travelled from Ely into these dangerous waters because you are needed.’
    Edwin and Morcar exchanged a look. ‘By you?’
    The warrior leaned forward, lowering his voice until it was barely a whisper. ‘By the English. You each have many loyal men. Two armies. Bring them together with my own in the east and we will have the numbers to drive the treacherous Normans out.’
    Edwin snorted and shook his head. ‘And who would lead this army? You? A man made outlaw by his own father? A thief and murderer who cannot contain his own burning anger? You were always as much a threat to those around you as to those you faced.’
    Hereward’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am not the man I was.’
    Morcar lowered his head over his ale-cup. ‘No matter how big your army, the king can never be defeated.’
    ‘Yes, he defeated you once, in the north—’
    ‘And we were lucky to escape with our lives,’ Edwin interjected, eyes blazing.
    Hereward leaned forward, hands outstretched. ‘You thinkyou are safe here? The king keeps you close where he can watch you. He keeps you well fed and drunk on mead, but a time will come when he will take away your land, and then your heads.’
    ‘Aye, that may well be,’ Morcar said, nodding slowly. ‘And we will be ready for him to make his move—’
    ‘You will not see it coming,’ the warrior insisted. ‘I have many plans in place, most of them hidden like serpents in the grass, ready to rise up and bite when the time is right. Only one thing holds me back – too few men. And we can change that here.’
    ‘I