Hereward by James Wilde Page B

a prophecy, of what I was never sure. But from that night on, I was told, all the ravens would gather there, filling the dead branches, like black leaves.’ He watched the bird disappear, and then bowed his head in thought as he trudged on.
    As the sun slid down towards the western hills, the sky ignited in pink and gold. The mournful honking of geese echoed across the plain and wintering swans rose in one white cloud, the beating of their wings like thunder. The snow seethed with sinuous shadows. Though the ground was frozen hard, treacherous pools lurked among the long yellow grass rising out of the white covering, their glassy surfaces ready to shatter at the first footfall, pulling the unwary traveller beneath the ice. Hereward appeared to have an almost mystical sense of their location, and picked a path through the increasingly dangerous terrain with ease.
    ‘I am a son of the fens,’ he explained. ‘To foreign eyes my home appears green and pleasant, but it conceals hidden bogs and water courses that can steal a life in the blink of an eye. As children we are taught to respect the land, and watch and listen for the secret signs. Those who learn the lessons live. Those who do not are lost to the black waters.’
    Soon the monk could smell woodsmoke on the wind, and behind it the fruity stink of human waste. Eoferwic lowered at the confluence of the two grey rivers, a dark smudge under the winter sky. Beyond the defensive ditches, Alric could see the line of the tall palisade that had been stained by so much blood during the waves of attacks that had made the city such a dangerous place over the years.
    ‘Surely your pursuers will find you here? If they have tracked you across England, what safety is there anywhere?’ Unable to feel his feet, the monk stumbled on to the rutted track leading to the gate.
    Hereward’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword. ‘I carry my safety with me.’
    ‘And how long do you think you can keep killing before death catches up with you?’
    ‘I have learned my lessons well, monk. Life is hard. No one can be trusted, not even those joined to you by blood. The only truth in life is the edge of my blade. It cuts through all lies.’
    ‘This winter chill has reached into your heart.’
    ‘You are too soft, monk. You find comfort in your prayers, but traps lurk all around, and they will kill you eventually.’ He clapped a friendly hand on Alric’s shoulder. ‘If you learn one thing from our time together, it should be that. I would not see you throw your life away.’
    The two men stepped cautiously on to the wooden bridge leading across the defences. Wide enough for one cart, the timber gleamed with ice. The first ditch was empty. The second was filled with frozen stagnant water, smelling of rotting vegetation. Helmets gleamed in the dying sunlight along the fence, and Alric could feel hard eyes scrutinizing him.
    ‘Speak your God-words at the gate,’ Hereward whispered. ‘They will more easily admit us.’
    ‘Why should I when you are to abandon me the moment we step within?’
    ‘Then stay out here for the night.’
    Complaining under his breath, Alric strode forward to speak to the men at the gate. Cold and keen to close the barrier for the night so they could return to their fires, they nodded distractedly at his lies. The monk was to meet the archbishop at the church, and he had hired the warrior to protect him on the journey through the lawless countryside. With a grunt and the wave of a spear-point, Alric and Hereward were admitted.
    Eoferwic still echoed with the sounds of the day’s business. The thatched, timber-framed wattle-and-daub houses were set gable end to the rutted street, each one upon a regular, narrow, tightly packed plot. Through the open doors, Alric saw the floors were bare earth, scattered with discarded rubbish that had been trodden in by the inhabitants. At the backs of the rows were yards where stinking cesspits and piles of rotting rubbish stood