London - Edward Rutherfurd [144]
Ralph watched him. He was not afraid. The serf lunged at him furiously, but he stepped back. He let Osric clamber out and advance towards him while he gently retreated up the bank, each step taking the little fellow further away from the arms still in the boat.
How pathetic Osric looked. Ralph saw the hatred in his eyes: it radiated from his whole body, the pent-up loathing of a man who has suffered two decades of oppression. Ralph did not even blame him. He just kept his eye on the tip of the spear. Another backward pace. He was halfway up the path now, at a clear advantage. Thanks to the flickering red light rising so fiercely above the Tower, the spear gleamed, easily visible, while the serf blinked at the glare in front of him.
Osric lunged.
It was so easy. With a single, swift blow from his sword, Ralph cut off the spearhead, leaving Osric with nothing but the shaft in his hands.
“Well, little man,” he said softly, “are you going to kill me with that stick?”
Osric’s large, round face was so woebegone, his eyes so desperate and serious; an open, pathetic smudge where his nose should have been; a broken shaft where the spearhead had gone. Uselessly, yet unable to give up, he took another pace forward, jabbing at the Norman with his broken weapon.
Ralph grinned. “Do you want me to kill you, so you can escape torture?” he asked. “Would you like that?” He chuckled. He needed the serf alive, but it amused him to frighten him.
He raised his sword.
How startled Osric looked. How amazed. Was it the sword flashing before him? The prospect of death? The huge red wave of fire that had just risen behind the Tower? Who knew? Ralph started to bring his sword down.
But it was not the fire, nor the sword, but another astonishing vision that had caused Osric to gasp in amazement. It was a great, red beard and a pair of blazing eyes, a huge figure from out of the shadows that now arose, blocking out even the Tower, and, surrounded by a great halo of fire, his arms upraised like some avenging Viking god, swung the mighty double-handed battle-axe through the flame-filled sky, and smote down upon the Norman’s head, smashing the skull and cleaving even his torso in two down to the bottom of his ribcage.
Barnikel had come.
Half an hour later, they buried Ralph’s body.
It had been Osric’s idea, and it had seemed appropriate. Dragging it up the passageway wrapped in oiled cloths, they had carried the body to the secret chamber where the weapons had been stored, and placed it in there. Then, carefully, Osric had sealed up the wall again and they had left, leaving no trace, locking and refixing the grilles behind them. It pleased him to think of the Norman locked in there for eternity.
Soon afterwards, he guided the boat into the stream, towards the place where other hands would disperse the weapons.
Barnikel, meanwhile, walked back through the city. His own house at All Hallows was already in flames. He did not care. There was nothing he could do to save it. The fire had spread everywhere now, from the stalls in Candlewick Street all the way up to Cornhill. But the most significant event of that night was announced when, crossing the Walbrook, Barnikel heard the cry: “The fire’s got St Paul’s. It’s coming down.” Which caused him, at that moment to smile. For in his hand he held the talisman and chain they had ripped from Ralph’s broken body. And now he knew where to put it.
One thing about that evening remained a mystery.
Just as the Dane and Osric were taking the body away, the labourer had turned to the old man. “By the way,” he demanded, “how did you come to turn up here so conveniently?”
Barnikel smiled. “I got a message. I came as fast as I could. As I didn’t see Ralph on the way to the Tower, I came here.” He grinned. “At just the right time.”
“But who sent the message?” the little fellow persisted.
“Oh, I see. Yes, that was certainly lucky.” He nodded. “A fellow came. From Hilda.”
Which was a mystery.
1097
It was one summer evening ten years later, as Hilda sat in the