by James Wilde
The man moved on.
The night was coming in hard. Only a sliver of red and gold lay in the western sky. Alric shivered in his woolen habit as the temperature plunged. All around him, men began to vacate their workshops, abandoning their hammers or their looms to make their way back to their hearths for the evening meal of bread, bean stew, and ale. The monk slipped through the steady stream of weary workers until he saw Hereward turn left into a street echoing with the calling of swine, where the smell of rotten apples hung thick in the icy air.
Near the pen where the fat black and pink pigs were kept, four youths taunted a smaller lad. Tears streaked the boy’s pale cheeks and he lumbered around with a limp, trying to avoid their swipes. Hereward paused to watch. Alric waited too, studying the warrior, wondering what thoughts were passing through his head. The four bigger boys grew rougher, finally knocking the weaker one to the frozen mud. Hereward flinched.
The monk smiled, a tingle of expectation running down his spine. This was it, he thought, the moment when the warrior revealed his true nature, that deeply buried goodness that Alric had sensed during their long journey. His soul.
As the four bullies launched sharp kicks at the whimpering lad, Hereward roughly pulled them back, flinging one of them so hard that he fell onto his behind. The monk broke into a grin.
He lies to himself about who he is, he thought with a nod. My task, then, is to bring him to awareness of the good inside him.
Hereward hooked his large left hand into the smallest boy’s tunic and yanked him upright. Silently, he cuffed the lad across the ear, whispered a few words to him, and threw the now-sobbing child back to the ground. While Alric tried to make sense of what he had seen, Hereward disappeared into the growing gloom, and the monk had to hurry to catch up.
The street was deserted and icy stars were glittering in the black sky when he saw the warrior reach an enclosure. Hereward paused at the gate, surveying the dark bulk looming ahead of him, and then strode toward the golden glow falling through the open door on to the snowy ground.
Alric’s breath caught in his throat. The thatched hall was the largest building in all of Eoferwic, dwarfing five nearby houses. There was no doubt in his mind. It had to be the hall of Tostig, the earl of all Northumbria. What connection could Hereward have with one of the highest in the land?
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE SUN WAS SETTING OVER LONDON IN A CRIMSON BLAZE. A knife of shadow slashed through the heart of the white-blanketed Palace of Westminster from the stark silhouette of the new abbey’s unfinished tower. Torches sizzled in the crisp air as the Master of the Flame brought light to the enclosure and, in the King’s hall, slaves stoked the fire for the night to come.
Redwald crept through the gloom against the church’s western wall. With his hood pulled up to mask his identity, the young man eased past the shaky wooden ladders soaring up to the timber platforms on their vast pillars of elm. All around, the clatter of the stonecutters’ hammers rang out, the masons laboring in the dying light under the direct instructions of the King, who could not bear to see his great work lying unfinished for a day longer than necessary. Redwald could smell the earthy tang of the stone dust and the woodsmoke from the fires the workmen used to keep warm.
Low voices echoed from the abbey’s shadowy interior. He edged to the arch where the west door would eventually be fixed, and peered inside. Ruddy light falling through the window holes tinged the drifting snow on the floor, and he could see the moon and first stars through the open roof. Two silhouettes stood in quiet conversation in the center of the nave. When they walked a few paces toward where the altar would be located, Redwald saw that one was the King. The young man had never seen the monarch looking so frail; his skin was almost the color of the slush at his feet, his head bowed, his limbs thin. Sweeping his right arm toward the sky, Edward was saying, in a faint voice, “All things are in truth two things. This church, this great stone building, is a testament of our devotion to God. But it is also a man.”
Puzzled silence hung in the air for a moment. The second figure shifted uncomfortably. It was the man Redwald had come to spy upon, Edwin of Mercia, brimming with vitality next to his fragile companion. The earl’s red woolen cloak shone in stark contrast to the King’s bloodless appearance.
“Unformed rocks are hewn from the earth, rough and purposeless,” Edward croaked. “And then the stones are shaped by the weight of wisdom and the quiet reflection of others, and they take form, and rise up, and gather meaning, and purpose, and become something filled with God’s will. Become a testament to God and his plan.”
“You say … every church … is a man.” Redwald heard Edwin struggling to mask his baffled contempt.
“And every man is a church.” The King nodded, smiling. The earl continued to shuffle, looking around the soaring walls.
Redwald started at the sound of running feet at his back. A young messenger barged past him to whisper to the King, who gave a curt nod, bid farewell to the Mercian earl, and followed the messenger out of the church. Pressing back into the deep shadows so he would not be seen, Redwald watched the monarch pass by and thought he saw a faint smile play on Edward’s face. He struggled to understand. The King had a young, attractive wife, and wealth and power, but his servants said he had become obsessed with prophecies and omens and was building this monument as if it was in some way protection against what he feared was to come. Perhaps it was just vanity, Redwald thought, for the monarch knew his name would last as long as the great stone church stood, and that would be until Judgment Day.
Rough hands grabbed his cloak, tearing him from his reflections. Before he could cry out, his unseen assailant bundled him along the cold wall and hurled him through the doorway into the church. Sprawling in the snow, he looked up into the horselike face of Morcar, the Earl of Mercia’s brother. “It is Harold’s pup.”
Edwin drew his sword and planted the tip firmly on Redwald’s chest. “I know you. The brother of the murderer.” Redwald’s cheeks flushed.
“He was eavesdropping.” Morcar’s lips pulled back from his teeth like a cornered animal’s. “No doubt to report back to his master.” He spat a hand’s width from the young man’s face.
“You are a Mercian. You march under the banner of blue and gold.” Edwin pressed the tip of the sword deeper into Redwald’s flesh. The point burned, but the young man forced himself not to cry out. “How can you be in the employ of that Wessex bastard?”
“You know the Godwins would have crushed Mercia if they could,” Morcar said. “They plotted against our kin, and worked to see our own father killed. His final days were a struggle to survive. But Harold Godwinson will not win.” He snarled the final words.
Edwin grinned, but coldly. “What does Harold fear? That I gain favor with the King? That I will finally prevent his own ascent to power?”
“He does not fear you,” Redwald retorted, red-faced with anger. “You are too young and untested to be Earl of Mercia. And you would not be there now if not for the death of your father.”
Fury flared in Edwin’s features at the insolence. He whipped up his blade to slash it across the young man’s face.
“Hold.” The voice echoed across the cold, empty nave. Redwald recognized the confident humor lacing the word. Harold Godwinson strode in, his cloak thrown back so all could see his hand upon the golden hilt of his sword. “Has my lad slipped under your sword, Edwin?” the Earl of Wessex continued. “He is a clumsy oaf at the best of times, but that is a mistake that could have cost him an eye.”
Edwin hesitated for a moment and then sheathed his sword, stepping back. “You play a dangerous game.”
“And the King wastes his final days building monuments to God, when he should be protecting this realm … and ensuring that the throne is passed to an Englishman,” Harold snapped.
“To you?” Edwin turned away to hide his sneer.
“Or you.” The Earl of Wessex stuck out his hand to help Redwald to his feet. “In Norman
dy, William the Bastard has already laid claim to our throne, and he plots and waits. And King Harald in Norway thinks he should have it too. So why do we two fight when we know our true enemies?”
“Why?” Edwin’s eyes blazed. “You know why.” He shoved Morcar toward the door, and the two Mercians walked out into the dark.
“I am sorry,” Redwald said. “I was a clumsy fool. I put you at risk.”
“You are a bright lad, with great days ahead of you, but you still have much to learn. Heed me and you will gain all that you dream of.” But the young man could see that the earl was distracted, and after a moment he realized that Harold was listening to approaching hoofbeats on the frozen mud of the road beyond the enclosure. Beckoning Redwald to walk with him, Harold strode out of the church. The bonfires cast an orange glow up the stone walls of the church, but the masons had packed up their tools and gone for the night.
“It is within your power to make amends for the stain placed on your kin by Hereward’s actions,” the earl continued. “You can set poor Asketil’s heart at rest. He deserves more than the blow his wayward son has dealt him.”
“I want to serve England in any way I can.” Afraid of the answer he might receive, the young man nevertheless summoned up his courage. “Does this mean you will take me into your employ?”
“You have proved yourself.”
Redwald’s heart leapt. Harold Godwinson’s patronage was all that he had dreamed of since Asketil had first introduced him to the earl. He felt he almost had his hands round the rope that would drag him out of the slough of his early days, and he would not let go, whatever happened.
“You have worked hard to gain my trust,” the earl continued. “I like that. I remember when I was your age, and the dreams I had then. I learned from my father that life is a struggle, but the prize is always worth it.”
In the gloom, Redwald noticed Harold’s huscarls waiting around the enclosure, battle-hardened Wessex men who carried their spears as if they were a part of them; clearly, the earl would not have risked confronting Edwin and Morcar in such an isolated place without his own protection assured.
“There is much I can teach you, and much you can do for me.” Harold fixed his attention on the torchlit gate where the sound of hooves had come to a halt. The sentries were calling to someone outside the palace. “You saw just now the threat that Edwin and Morcar present. Once Edward has died, they want the throne for themselves. They whisper and plot. Power is all that concerns them, not England.”
“I will keep watch upon them, as you asked. And whatever I hear, I will bring straight to your hall.”
“Good. I fear the worst. If the prophecies and omens that fill Edward’s head are true, we all face dark times ahead.” Holding up his hand, Harold brought Redwald to a halt. The gate hung open, and five men in charcoal woolen cloaks were leading their horses into the enclosure. In the flickering light of the sentries’ torches, Redwald saw sallow, foreign features and darting, suspicious glances. But all the men walked with confidence, he noted, as if they felt that they stood on their own territory.
“Normans.” Harold’s face darkened. Steadily, his huscarls gathered at his back. “They covet everything we have. Our land, our wealth, our laws, our art. We live and breathe fire here. We drink and feast and fight and sing. But the Normans are like cold stone. Taxes and ledgers and vast, grim churches: that is the Norman.”
One of the men, the leader of the group, Redwald guessed, held Harold’s gaze for a long moment before following a sentry toward the King’s hall.
“What do they want here?” he asked.
“Sometimes I think Edward is losing his wits. At other times I think he is more cunning than a fox,” the Earl of Wessex mused. “Would he truly dare offer England’s throne to his mother’s people?”
Redwald watched the black-cloaked men disappear into the warm glow of Edward’s hall. Everything was changing, as the prophecies foretold. What did the future hold?
CHAPTER NINE
HEREWARD WARMED HIS HANDS AGAINST THE FIRE ROARING in the hearth of the vast hall. Relieved to be out of the harsh Northumbrian night, he watched the flames making the gold plate shine like beacons in the half-light. Jewels of red, blue, and green sparkled in the sumptuous tapestries covering the walls. Looking around, he saw that the hall was the finest he had seen; the earl was clearly enjoying the riches to be had in the north. Newly built in the latest two-floored style, the timber of the frame still smelled fresh. The sunken floor comprised boards suspended over a straw-stuffed vault to keep the building warm in the winter months. Two feasting tables and benches ran the length of the hall, and at the far end, on a raised platform, was the earl’s seat, carved with dragons on the arm rests. When he listened, the warrior heard the cracked, dark wood of the throne speak to him of the old days, when men were great heroes filled with fire and vengeance, not weak, sickly things who used shadow-words to achieve their aims.
Yet for all the comfort, his thoughts swept out across the frozen floodplain into the suffocating dark. He saw burnished helmets, and eyes glowing with fire, spearpoints stabbing toward the stars with each relentless step, and he knew there would be no peace for him in this life. Soon his enemies would be at the gates of Eoferwic and he would be forced to take a stand. But here it would be on his terms, perhaps even with good men at his back. He felt relieved that there would be no more running, and that he could finally be true to himself. Survival was nothing without truth.
The messenger darted in from the cold, his ruddy cheeks and curly hair making him appear boyish. Hereward was reminded of Redwald and felt a pang of regret that he might never see his brother again. “Fear not,” the messenger gasped. “No enemies will reach you this night. Earl Tostig will join you shortly, but he has ordered men to watch the gates and to refuse entry to any strangers approaching during the hours of darkness.”
When the young man had departed, the warrior basked in the warmth slowly returning to his frozen fingers and toes. He could smell the resin of the wood becoming sweeter as it sizzled in the flames, but then his nostrils flared as another scent reached him on the draught: spices brought in from the great hot lands beyond the sea and mixed in a paste made from tallow and herbs, which the women used to make themselves more appealing.
“Why do you hide?” he called. “Am I so fearsome?”
A shape separated from the deep shadows at the rear of the hall. With hair as black as raven-wing and creamy skin, the woman was clearly not a Dane—nor English, Hereward would wager, though he could not place her homeland. She was, perhaps, a year or two younger than he, wearing a plain forest-green dress held by an oval brooch.
“You are not fearsome.” Holding her chin up brazenly, she strode to the hearth and flung a handful of dried leaves into the flames. A sweet scent filled the air. The earl was welcoming him, as he had hoped.
“You have never met any man like me,” he said in a wry voice. He watched her dress fold around the body beneath and realized how long ago he had last been with a woman.
Perhaps glimpsing his lingering stare, she paused, teasing with her lips but eyeing him from a position of strength. “I see fresh scars, like those on the arms of any of the huscarls. I hear boasting, like the easy, empty words that echo from the mouths of boys who dream of being heroes but know in their hearts that they will never achieve that height. I see …” she made a noise in the back of her throat, “nothing I have not seen before.”
“And yet you waste your breath talking to me.”
“When I hear of a new arrival who has braved the lawless lands beyond the fence, on foot, in the middle of winter, I would see for myself if this is a fool, or one of the signs.”
“Signs?” Hereward circled the hearth, watching the woman through the smoke. He saw a flicker of apprehension cross her face.
“Of the End-Times.”
The warrior shook his head.
“At the minster,” she continued, “I heard talk that Archbishop Ealdred has sen
t word out for all men to watch for signs that this is the End of Days. And across Eoferwic everyone whispers of some wise woman’s dream that Doomsday draws near.” The slave searched Hereward’s face for anything that he might be hiding.
He laughed. “These are winter stories, to frighten in the long nights. Every age believes it has been chosen to be the last. And if these are the End-Times, then so be it. There is little of value in this world.”
Puzzled, the black-haired woman remained silent for a moment. “You are not afraid?” But at that moment the hall echoed with the approaching clatter of metal and tramp of leather on wood, and the slave retreated into the shadows. From the gloom at the far end of the hall emerged Earl Tostig Godwinson and his wife Judith, accompanied by five of his huscarls in hauberks and furs. Eyes gleaming beneath their helmets, the bodyguards were tall and lean, fierce of expression and heavily scarred. They were wild-bearded Vikings in the main and carried their axes as if Hereward was to be cornered and killed. The Mercian recognized the jagged facial scar and implacable stare of the one at the head of the band. He had led the dispersal of the crowd gathered outside the metalworker’s hut earlier that evening.
