by James Wilde
His mail clanking, Kraki ran back toward the milling huscarls. He barked orders at his men to save cattle and corn while Ravenswart attempted to bring the conflagration under control, and then directed twenty of the troops to surround the burning area so their prey could not escape when Hereward flushed him out.
His throat stinging, Hereward plunged into the smoke. The sound of the fire and his footsteps became muffled. When he broke through to the other side, he saw that the jumble of workshops, stores, and houses was devoid of life. Hammers, augers, axes, spades, and rakes lay where their owners had discarded them when the alarm had been raised. A fallen butter churn spilled its sticky contents onto the dirt. The roar of the fire was louder here, and he could see the flames leaping up above the thatched roofs.
Eyes stinging, Hereward watched the dark entrances to the shacks. He had learned that the “rabble-rouser” was Wulfhere, the one-eyed, one-handed man he had seen on his arrival in Eoferwic, a woodworker who had grown more outspoken about Tostig’s rule since the summer had waned. Now the man was openly calling for the earl’s overthrow. Peering toward the blaze, Hereward saw that this time the troublemakers had targeted the home of one of the earl’s wealthy merchant supporters. The fire had been lit with care, taking into account the direction of the wind, so it would not spread into the heart of Eoferwic.
The snow was falling faster now. Hereward found his vision reduced to the width of the icy road. Choking and coughing, he searched hut after hut, moving steadily closer to the burning house. When the rafters collapsed, a loud crash echoed over the roofs and golden sparks swirled up to greet the white flakes. The warrior could hear the shouts of Kraki’s men circling the burning street. If Wulfhere was still within the smoke-filled area, there would be nowhere for him to run.
Sensing movement on the edge of his vision, he darted into a weaver’s shop where a blackened cauldron bubbled over hot embers, ready to make the colors fast. The air was heavy with the sweet fragrance of woad leaves, dried weld and madder roots. Wool and flax were piled in one corner, and a warp-weighted loom leaned against the wall, a sheet of linen half-complete where it had been abandoned by the weaver. Turning slowly, Hereward looked around the gloomy, cluttered workshop.
Rapid movement distracted him. Through the open door, he saw a stream of brown rats flood away from the fire, ringed tails lashing the air. The moment the Mercian turned, a crash sounded behind him. He was thrust roughly to one side as someone barged by. Stumbling to his knee, he glimpsed a dark figure scrambling through the door into the smoke.
Hereward threw himself in pursuit. Leather shoes clattered on the hard ground ahead. He glimpsed the figure in front and to the left, gone in an instant. Then to the right. The man was weaving across the road, trying to lose his pursuer or searching for a bolt-hole hidden by the smoke. His breath clouding, Hereward leaped log piles and heaps of rotting food, ducking down narrow walkways between houses. The ragged breathing of his prey drifted back to him.
When he burst onto a street filled with squealing pigs, a crescent of fire confronted him. The heat from the blazing ruins of the merchant’s hall seared his skin. But he saw that the conflagration had not been contained as Kraki had promised. Somehow the flames had jumped across a narrow way, and now two other houses burned close to a densely packed area of huts and workshops. On the other side of the hall, the blaze was also starting to spread.
Hereward cursed under his breath. That part of Eoferwic would soon be consumed. If he was caught there when the fire-rush began, he would be cooked as black as Thangbrand’s face and then the huscarls would laugh that the gods had punished him in kind. Yet the dancing flames held him fast, the flickering colors, the heat, the swirling sparks, and he realized that he felt no fear, only a dull thrill deep in his belly. He watched the straw of a roof glow red, and the timbers blacken and snap and crackle as if they were shouting in exultation. His head spun at the power he witnessed, one that made more sense to him than anything he had experienced in his short life.
Burn away, he thought. Let it all burn away.
He forced himself to break the spell. There was still time to carry out Kraki’s order; Wulfhere had to be lurking in one of the buildings nearby. Hereward considered letting the rabble-rouser burn for his crimes—the one-eyed man’s life would be forfeit anyway once he was dragged before Tostig. On the other hand, returning with such a prize could buy the earl’s gratitude and make his own life easier.
The fire growled louder and bared its claws, stretching out on either side of him. Beyond the red-and-gold crescent, Hereward could hear the shouts of Kraki’s men as they searched the deserted houses for their quarry. He would not let the huscarls snatch the trophy from his grasp.
With the heat burning his back, Hereward threw himself into the nearest house, then the next, and the one after. He felt a different atmosphere in the fourth, and smelled a hint of bitter fear-sweat in the air. Drawing his iron blade from its leather scabbard, he padded toward a wicker screen near the back of the gloomy space. As he neared, a figure burst out, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to reach the doorway. Hereward brought the hilt of his sword up in a flash, cracking the fugitive in the face. The man flipped back onto the hard mud floor, dazed. One eye, one hand. It was Wulfhere.
“There will be even less of you when Tostig has had his way,” Hereward muttered, looming over the prostrate form.
“Leave him be.”
The warrior whirled at the frightened voice from behind the screen. A second figure edged out. It was Alric, his pale face streaked with soot. “If you wish to take this man, you must kill me first.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HEREWARD STARED AT THE MONK’S ASHEN FACE. “HAVE YOUR wits deserted you?” He jabbed the tip of his sword toward his former companion’s heaving chest. “I saved your life. And now you put it at risk again? Is this a game to you?”
Swallowing, Alric interposed himself between the warrior and the sprawling rabble-rouser. “I know you do the earl’s work. You must let this man go.”
Beyond the wattle walls, the guttural calls of the huscarls rang out, drawing closer. Hereward cuffed the monk around the head. “Your brains have fallen out of your ears,” he said. “If Tostig’s men find you here, with him, you will face the same fate, man of God or not.”
Thrusting the monk aside, he stooped to grasp Wulfhere. Alric barged his way between them again. “If you wish to take this man, you must kill me first,” he repeated. The young cleric held his chin up in defiance, but his eyes were filled with tears of fear. He blinked them away.
Hereward felt the familiar rage rising notch by notch. “You know I will not flinch from taking any life,” he said in a voice almost lost beneath the snarl of the conflagration.
“I know.”
The warrior dug the tip of Brainbiter into the monk’s black habit. The cleric squirmed under the pressure, making the sword waver. “You think me a good man. You are a fool,” Hereward said. “I am the wild animal I was branded from my earliest days. I care for nothing but myself.”
“You do not know yourself.” Alric jerked his head away as if he expected a blow. Shouts echoed outside. Kraki’s men were searching the nearby houses. “If you were the beast you say, you would have killed me already.”
Wulfhere tried to scramble to his feet. Hereward kicked the one-eyed man in the face, dazing him once more. “You stake your life on that belief?” he snapped. “Truly, you are a fool.”
“Kill me, then,” Alric shouted with a passion that surprised Hereward. “God knows, I deserve it. But I will not allow you to take this man.” The monk held his arms wide and pressed his chest against the point of the sword.
More shouts, not far beyond the door.
Hereward felt unsettled. He could not find it in himself to drive the sword into the young monk’s heart. With a flash of fury that he couldn’t explain, he punched Alric in the face.
“Do not hurt him,” Wulfhere spat from between split lips. “He is
a good man.”
Out in the street, Kraki called to the huscarls to hurry.
Hereward yanked Alric back to his feet. “This is not some sign that your stupid idea is right.” He shook the monk roughly. “I do not want to hear you whining about me being a good man, do you hear?”
Alric nodded, wiping the blood and snot from his top lip with the back of his hand.
A shadow crossed the doorway, and Hereward spun, cursing. He had wavered too long. They had been discovered. Yet no one entered, and even as the warrior’s brow knitted in sudden suspicion, what sounded like the rustling of autumn leaves raced over their heads. Crackling and spitting, the flames surged through the thatch and smoke swept into the hut.
“The house is afire,” Wulfhere cried, and began to scramble for the door. Hereward grabbed him by the back of his tunic and dragged him toward the screen.
“You will see us burned alive?” the one-eyed man whimpered.
Alric was watching his former companion. “Trust him,” he said. “He knows death so well, he can barter with his old friend.”
At the rear of the hut, Hereward aimed a kick at the wall. The daub had dried hard against the wattle beneath, but as the warrior repeated the action, cracks appeared and large chunks fell away. When the hole was big enough, he propelled the monk through the gap, and then jabbed the one-eyed man with his sword to follow.
The three men stumbled out into thick smoke and air so hot that it seared their throats. Hereward’s mind raced with questions, but he urged the others past the stinking refuse tip by the well and into the back of a woodworker’s shop. “One wrong move and I will change my mind,” he growled. “Lead the way to your hiding place. If we are caught by the huscarls, we will all enjoy the sleep of the sword.”
Wulfhere and Alric followed a mazy route along trails that were barely wide enough for a dog. The crackling of the fire faded away, and the deserted streets gave way to ones buzzing with crowds of anxious people looking toward the black cloud and wondering if all of Eoferwic was to be consumed. The three men slipped into the throng, keeping their heads down.
By the time they reached a house not far from the great stone church, the snow was falling in fat, heavy flakes, drawing a blanket of white across the thatched roofs and dirty streets. The throb of daily life became muffled. Glancing back, Hereward could see no orange glow and thickening smoke to suggest that the blaze was spreading. For a moment he stood by the door, watching the low black cloud, and then he stooped to enter the warm, smoky interior.
A tearful woman was hugging Wulfhere; his wife, the warrior guessed. Two young girls clung to his legs, and a small dog ran in circles around the family, yapping. A silver-haired man squatted in one corner, eyeing the warrior with suspicion. Hereward suspected that it was his house and he had risked all to offer a haven to Wulfhere and his family.
Alric was warming his hands over the hearth, beaming with relief. “I knew you would listen to your heart,” he said.
“What did I tell you?” Hereward strode forward so purposefully that the monk cowered. The Mercian felt angry with himself for allowing the one-eyed man to go free, and still didn’t understand why he had done it. “Keep your whining to yourself or I will cut out your tongue.”
Alric squatted beside the fire. “Why did you save us?”
Hereward grunted. “My brain must be as addled as yours.” He glanced back at the door and added, “Your refuge could not have caught alight so quickly. It was too far from the seat of the fire.”
“What are you saying?”
“Someone knew we were there and tried to burn us.”
“Would Tostig’s men truly attempt cold murder?” Alric stared into the glowing embers. “Yes, they would. For the earl is an evil man.”
Hereward snorted. “You speak with an ale-tongue. He is a Godwin. His kinsmen have stridden across England like giants since my father’s father’s time. His brother Harold is the King’s most favored adviser.”
“And you are blinded by gold rings.”
The warrior’s hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword. “Watch yourself, monk.”
Alric took a deep breath and stood to look his former companion in the eye. “During your time in Eoferwic, you have been cosseted in the earl’s hall, drinking his mead, eating his food, warming yourself by his hearth. I have watched from afar, my friend. You have been well cared for. But I have been sleeping on a cold floor provided by the archbishop and I do not feel so sanguine.”
Wulfhere’s wife, a hard-faced woman with broken veins on her cheeks, interrupted them. With a grateful smile, she offered Hereward a cup of ale and some bread. He accepted the gift with a curt nod.
When she left them, Alric glanced toward the one-eyed man. “He is not what you think. Not what the earl says he is.”
The warrior swigged back his ale in a single gulp. “So he burns no houses and does not incite the people to rebel.”
“Ask yourself why he does those things,” the monk pleaded. “He is a woodworker, with mouths to feed.”
Hereward watched Wulfhere playing with his children, the rebel’s hard face softened by a fond smile.
“These last days, I have roamed across Eoferwic, looking for the reason God sent me here. You are one of those reasons, I know that now”—he ignored Hereward’s snort as the warrior tore off a knob of bread and stuffed it into his mouth—“and the other reason soon became as clear as the sun off the snow. Everywhere I turned, I saw misery, hunger, despair. The people are suffering. They are angry, and no one listens to them.”
“Not your God?” Hereward said with his mouth full. “Not the archbishop? Is he not tending to his flock?”
Abashed, Alric peered into the fire. “Ealdred is close to the earl; to all the Godwins.”
“Ha,” Hereward mocked.
“Tostig’s unfair tax is crushing the spirit of the people of Northumbria. Since he became earl, he has increased the burden of the geld. His collectors are cruel and unjust. And any who voice opposition are crushed in the most brutal way. Homes are burned. Farms despoiled. There is talk of murder … murder! Of Englishmen, by the earl who governs them.”
The warrior shrugged. “Is this a revelation to you, monk, that men who hold power over others abuse their position? Whatever Tostig does here, it is with the consent of the King. It could not be otherwise.” Returning to the door, he peered out to see if they had been followed. The snow was lying heavily on the street. “Northumbria has always been a lawless place. It is the Viking blood, the Danish hearts. They make their own rules, and they are filled with rage when others try to tell them what to do. It takes a hard man to govern people like that.”
Alric beckoned Hereward back to the fire. “What is happening in Eoferwic is beyond hard governance. It is unfair. There is true suffering. The people will only take this for so long before they rise up. For now, the thegns are loyal, but that can change if men like Wulfhere continue to give voice to the pain.”
The warrior studied the young monk. “What compels you? From the moment I found you, like a frightened rabbit, you have been a riddle. I have spent time with many churchmen, but none like you.”
Alric would not meet the other man’s eye. “I seek to make amends …” he caught himself. “I seek to live my life in a godly manner. Shepherding the weak, the hungry, the lost.…”
“I save your life and you immediately throw yourself into more danger. I should have left you to your fate.”
The monk jumped to his feet, his eyes blazing. “But you did save me. And now you have saved me twice. You reveal your true nature by your actions: a nature, perhaps, that you are not even aware of yourself. It seems to me that you fight yourself as much as everything that passes within a hair of your sword; and in that, you and I are not so different.”
“You are a fool. I am not. And I have wasted enough time here.” Hereward turned to the woman and thanked her for her hospitality, and then to Wulfhere. “Take care. The next time you stand alone.” He
strode to the door, but Alric jumped in front of him. “Monk, you try my patience. I will not sully this good wife’s floor with your blood, but I will bash the wits out of your head.”
“Join us in our battle.”
“You are mad.” The warrior shook his head in disbelief. “How many times must I tell you? I care only for myself.”
“And what of Gedley? Would I be here now if you were driven by purely selfish motives?”
“I need the earl’s aid to achieve my revenge,” Hereward said through gritted teeth. “And he provides shelter from my enemies. It would be foolish to stand against him. What gain is there for me in that?”
“Men achieve more together than they do alone.” Alric stuck his chin out.
“One man means survival. Two or more means the opportunity for betrayal.”
The monk softened his tone, holding his arms wide. “Two men mean the opportunity for friendship and support and hope. Two men are the start of an army—”
His anger rising, Hereward shoved the cleric aside and stepped out into the stinging snow before he lost his fragile control. He felt as if the world were shifting under his feet. Before he met the monk, his life had been fraught but simple, his choices clear. Association with the churchman had brought only doubt and confusion. Looking over the thatched roofs of Eoferwic, under the pall of gray smoke from the fires, he saw that the dull red glow on the town’s southern edge had died down. He hoped his actions that day would not cost him dear.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PRESSING HIS CHEEK AGAINST THE ICY STONE WALL IN THE shadows, Alric spied into the golden glow of the candlelit nave. The sweet scent of incense hung in the air around the copper censer. Two figures walked toward the main altar, heads bowed in reverence. A third waited near the font. Their whispers rustled around the vast, echoing interior, larger than any church the young monk had ever visited. Thirty altars, he had been told when he accepted the Province’s hospitality, though he had not seen even a third of them. Everywhere he looked, chapels had been appended, seemingly in haphazard fashion. The place had grown out of all recognition in the four hundred years since King Edwin had ordered the small wooden church that had stood on the site to be rebuilt in stone. Shadows everywhere. Hiding places aplenty. He had hoped to find a sanctuary here, but the oppressive atmosphere that hung over all Eoferwic reached even into this sanctified interior.
