by James Wilde
“A lesson for you. This is how you survive and grasp hold of power: by not being afraid to do the dirty tasks with your own hands,” the older man said with an unsettling calmness. In that one moment when Harold had held life in his hands, Redwald had seen his employer’s face alter: the humor, the nobility, the wisdom, all of it fell away as if it were a mask. The young man felt chilled by what he saw rise up to replace it in the cold face and glittering black eyes. “Do you see?” Harold’s voice cracked with anger. “Do you see?”
Redwald nodded furiously.
“Good. Learn. Now help me.” Harold rolled the bloody body on to its back and wrapped it in its gray woolen cloak. For a moment, Redwald froze. The man’s death might as well have been by his hand. At the Palace of Westminster, he had observed this Mercian, one of Edwin’s men, following Harold as he rode out into London with his attendants. Redwald had feared that an attempt would be made upon his master’s life and had informed the earl of his concerns. Nothing more of the matter had been mentioned on the long journey from London to the palace at Kingsholm. But earlier this night, while Edward was at prayer and the earls and thegns were in the middle of their feast, Harold had summoned Redwald out into the bitter night. Together the two of them had lured the Mercian away from the hall to this isolated place on the edge of the marsh beside the stream, and then Harold had struck.
When he saw his master glaring at him, Redwald ducked down and grabbed the corpse’s shoulders. Together they carried the remains to a small copse. Harold threw the Mercian down as if he were a sack of barley.
“What … what will you say when the body is found tomorrow?” Redwald ventured. “Edwin will suspect—”
“Let Edwin suspect. He knows nothing and can make no accusations,” the earl snapped. “But look.…” He pointed to a mess of pawprints in the snow. “In this cold weather, the wolves come out of the woods in search of food. They will smell the blood, and there will be no body here tomorrow, or none that is recognizable.”
When Redwald stared at the crumpled form in the snow, he flashed back to the sight of Tidhild sprawled amid the thickening pool of her blood. She had always been kind to him. He knew she felt sorry for him for losing his father and mother so young, and she had stolen honey cakes for him when he had first arrived at the Palace of Westminster with Asketil and Hereward. So much misery, so much pain.
“That night,” Harold grunted, giving the body a kick, “the night Hereward ran, you made a good choice. You could have gone to Asketil, or Edwin, or one of the thegns. But you came to me.”
Redwald’s stomach churned. He saw the dead Mercian at his feet. He saw Tidhild.
“You recognized that only I had the strength to deal with the storm of weapons blowing up around England.” A whisper of a smile graced the earl’s lips. “And you knew only I could raise you up to the levels you dreamed of, out of the mud and into the world of gold.”
And even when I realized you were the true murderer of Edward Aetheling, I continued down this road, Redwald thought. Because, God help me, I wanted what I saw within reach.
Harold looked toward the hall, where the light from the torches around the enclosure formed a halo in the dark. “Think no more of Hereward. You are a man now, not a boy, and men make hard decisions to grasp hold of the things in life that have value. Your brother could not be allowed to pass on what the dying man had told him. It would have left England in the hands of men who care little for the way we live our lives.”
“Hereward will be killed?” Redwald felt a constriction round his throat.
“In a manner that does not draw attention to the Godwins. We must be above all suspicion. I have received word from my brother in Northumbria, and these things are in motion.” The earl studied the young man’s face for any sign of weakness or betrayal. “You accept that this is the way it must be?”
Redwald drove all thoughts of his childhood from his mind, of the kindness Hereward had shown him, the friendship and support. He felt the world whirl around him, cold and dark. And then he nodded.
“Good.” Harold rubbed his hands together for warmth. “I have allowed you to see me take a life with my own hands. Few others have witnessed such a thing. We are bound by more than trust now, by something deep and unshakable. Should you betray this bond, know that I will kill you too. Your body will not be found. Your loved ones will never know your whereabouts. Do you understand?”
Once again, Redwald nodded, this time more quickly.
“I need a good man I can trust to do my bidding. My plans rush apace, and there is much business that must be conducted away from the harsh light if we are to win the prize. First, though, a blood-oath, to seal this thing.”
Leaning down, the earl dipped two fingers in the dead Mercian’s blood and pointed them up to the stars and the moon. Redwald copied him, and when Harold spoke, the younger man repeated every word of the vow. “My life is no longer my own. I swear to obey the word of my master, Harold Godwinson, Earl of Wessex, even though it go against my heart and mind. Even though it cost me my life.”
Once they had done, the earl gave a pleased nod. “The throne will be mine. Stand with me, and you will have everything you dreamed of.” Turning his back on the body without a second glance, he marched up the slope toward the lights of the hall.
After a moment, Redwald followed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CLAMPING ONE HAND OVER ACHA’S MOUTH, HEREWARD DRAGGED her into the shadows inside her small house. She struggled with her unseen assailant, but the warrior’s strong arms held her tight.
“Make no sound,” he whispered. “No one must know I am here.”
Acha calmed when she realized who had hold of her. Whirling, she glared at him. “You do not lay a hand upon me unbidden. Why are you here? Where have you been this evening? Your absence was noted. Even Tostig commented upon it.”
Hereward gave a bitter laugh. “The earl noticed my absence? I am sure I am much on his mind these days.” He knelt to peer out of the door into the blizzard. The sounds of revelry drifting from Tostig’s hall had subsided a little, but he saw no sign of movement in the snowbound enclosure. “This night is far from done, and by the end of it I will no longer be able to call Eoferwic home.”
“You are leaving?”
Softening when he heard the hurt note in her voice, Hereward stood to face her. “I must. And I would have you come with me.”
“I cannot … the earl.…”
“I will face down any man Tostig sends to stand in my way. I care little about the consequences of my actions. If there is killing, so be it.”
“The earl will hunt you down—”
“I am already hunted, and friendless. There is no more he can do. I had hoped I might find an ally in Tostig, but now I know he is party to the plot I have uncovered, and I have only survived until now because he cannot have me killed in a manner that will draw attention. So one of his men tries to burn me to death in the middle of a foray with his huscarls, and when that fails he sets a bear on me. An accident, and no further questions asked.”
Hereward watched the confusion in Acha’s face strip away the brittle hardness that was usually etched in her features. Behind it, he saw the hidden woman he had identified on their first meeting, the one struggling to survive far from her home in a place where she was considered a worthless outsider. His heart was touched by this true Acha.
“You accuse the earl of trying to kill you? Why?” she stuttered.
“I learned this night that it is Tostig’s brother, Harold Godwinson, who is plotting to seize the throne for himself once the King has died, if not before. Harold has always been an ambitious man, but until tonight I did not realize how much he valued power. He puts his own advancement, and that of his kin, ahead of all England.”
“Are you surprised that men of power seek power?”
“What makes men do the things they do? Truly? Some men seek power, yet they have never gone to the depths that Harold plumbs.” Hereward
looked past her to the dull glow of the fire, still trying to assimilate the revelations of the dying man. “To order the killing of the King’s heir, Edward Aetheling, the greatest obstacle in the way of his taking the throne, then to slaughter the man who committed that murder. To tear me from my own life, and the hopes I had, and make me scapegoat for his crimes, so that I am shamed and so are all my kin. To hunt me down like a beast. And …” he paused, trying to hold his incipient rage in check, “to oversee the murder of Tidhild. A good woman who only thought the best of everyone she encountered. She was discarded as if she were a deer to be skinned. Betrayed.”
His final word resonated with such bitterness, Acha was silenced for a moment. “You are sure he did all these things?” she eventually asked in a quiet voice.
“The man who told me was in no position to lie. Tostig is as tarnished as his brother. All the Godwins must be. Perhaps the foul corruption lies in the blood itself, and the entire family is born to deceive.”
“What will you do?” Acha asked. “Surely you would not seek vengeance on the Godwins themselves.”
“I will no longer be run like a dog.” His voice burned with passion.
Acha gripped his arms. “You are one man. Would you kill them all? Would you ride into London and fight your way into Edward’s presence, when surely Harold will have all the King’s swords raised in his defense?”
“If not I, then who?” He found his thoughts turning to Wulfhere and the other men and women of Eoferwic, suffering under the yoke of Tostig’s taxes. The Godwins cared little for anyone but themselves, that was clear enough. The injustice of Harold’s cold-hearted drive for power struck the warrior as acutely as his seething desire for vengeance. “My plans must change,” he continued, trying to keep his voice steady. “The Godwins and their allies—even Archbishop Ealdred who is so close to them—they are all my enemies now.” He paused, his mind flashing on a vision of Tostig impaled on Brainbiter. Could he get away with such an act?
“The Godwins are the most powerful family in the land. There will be no escape for you anywhere in England,” Acha ventured.
Hereward looked at her closely, trying to read the thoughts that chased each other like shadows across her face. He laid his hand upon his heart.
“We have known each other only a short time, but I feel we are of a kind,” he said. “In here there is something that connects us. I have some business to attend to, but after I am done, before dawn, meet me at the wharf. I will protect you. And we will be together.”
“You will protect me?” she echoed, unable to meet his eyes.
“I know what you want.” He transferred his hand to her heart. “I know your secret fears and hopes, because they are my own.”
“And what is your business now?”
“I go to free the monk you told me of.”
“The murderer?”
He nodded. “He deserves better justice than he will ever find in Eoferwic.”
A cry of alarm echoed through the storm. Hereward guessed the bloody evidence of his questioning had been uncovered. “I must go before I am found here.” He stepped toward the door, then turned back. “Meet me at the wharf before dawn,” he repeated, searching her face for a response.
Another cry, caught by a second throat, and a third. Hereward knew he couldn’t afford to wait any longer. With one backward glance at Acha, he slipped out into the blizzard. Dark figures darted through the swirling snow, their calls disappearing into the howling wind. Hereward ran along the side of Acha’s house to the enclosure fence, kicked his way through the gate, and lurched across the knee-deep drifts. The flakes were falling so fast, he knew his tracks would soon be covered.
He put Acha out of his mind. Pulling his cloak around him, he forced his way through the bitter gale toward the church. Deep inside him, the drums beat out the word betrayal in a steady rhythm. His plans were shifting fast to match the new way he saw the world, a place of shadows where honor mattered little. He was beginning to think that the men who spoke of honor were the ones least likely to have it.
On the higher ground, the waves of white washed up high against the sturdy gray vessel of the church. The bell protested with faint musical notes against the wind’s turbulent battering. Beneath the tower, the low houses of the clerics stood silent, their thatch now lost beneath folds of snow.
Hereward strode to the hut where Alric had been held, but he found the small straw-covered room empty. Rats scurried away when he entered. He grew angry, and that surprised him a little. The monk meant nothing to him. But the order imposed by undeserving powers needed to be confronted, to be disrupted, and the monk, like all men, deserved a second chance. Prowling around the church enclosure, Hereward considered dragging the archbishop from his hall and prodding him with a sword until Alric’s new location was revealed. Perhaps more than prodding him.
But as the warrior made his way to Ealdred’s looming hall, he heard faint, discordant voices. Following the sound, he came to a sturdier house with a timber roof. He identified Alric’s tones, and, he thought, the archbishop’s. The two men appeared to be involved in an argument. Pressing his ear against the door, Hereward listened.
“Tell me what the Mercian knows.” It was the archbishop, his voice strained.
“If I knew anything, I would not tell you.” Alric’s voice cracked.
“What others have heard his lies?”
“I do not believe he lies. He has always spoken with an honest tongue. Which is more than I can say for other men I have encountered in Eoferwic.”
“He is a murderer … a beast.”
“He is a man. Like all men.”
Ealdred snorted. “The Mercian has shown himself to be corrupted by evil—”
“Like all men,” Alric interrupted in a loud voice, “he has good and evil within him, and like all men he can be saved and brought to God. Woe unto them that call Evil Good, and Good Evil—”
“Do not quote scripture to me! You face punishment for your own crimes against God. First the court will hear your shame, and then you will endure your trial by ordeal. Your flesh will be seared. Your nose will be filled with the stink of your own burning flesh, and your cries will rend your throat. Let us see then if you continue to protect this worthless sinner.”
“I care nothing for myself.” Alric’s voice broke with emotion. “You think to tempt me. You hint that I will face no trial, no ordeal, if I give up this man who needs me. I welcome the opportunity to proclaim my sins and beg forgiveness.”
“What vanity to think that you alone can save a soul,” the archbishop sneered. “Another sin against God.”
Hereward felt unaccountably moved by the monk’s words. He had been as unyielding as the oak for as long as he could remember, but that night seemed to be one of transformation. Anger crystallizing from his stew of confusion, he tore open the door and stepped into the warm room.
The archbishop whirled, fear rising in his taut features as it had done in the faces of the four men who had died earlier that night. Lit by the golden light of the blazing fire in the hearth, Alric closed his eyes and gave a beatific smile. He was kneeling before Ealdred, his hands and feet bound. New bruises mottled his face. Two men stood guard over him, not churchmen. Hereward guessed they had been sent by the earl to extract the answers Tostig required.
“Stay back,” the archbishop hissed, “or God will smite you down.”
“Your friend and ally, the earl, is already discovering that God’s will may not coincide with his. Now it is your time to learn this lesson.” He raised his axe.
“You dare attack a man of God? Truly, you are capable of any monstrous deed,” Ealdred gasped, backing to the far side of the house. He urged the guards forward with insistent hand movements.
With little enthusiasm, the two men grabbed the spears leaning against the mud-colored wall and edged forward. Hereward faced his opponents, his eyes glinting.
“Spare them,” Alric said.
“They can spare themse
lves by throwing down their weapons.”
“Do not listen to him. Attack. The earl will reward you,” Ealdred cried.
The monk pleaded again.
“Quiet,” Hereward shouted back at the young cleric. “Always you are like a fly buzzing in my ear.”
The guards attacked as one. The warrior spun between the spear thrusts and brought the axe down on one haft, shattering it. Continuing to spin, he swung his weapon toward the disarmed guard’s head. At the last moment, he turned the blade so the flat struck the man’s temple, knocking him cold.
“There,” Hereward snapped. “I listened. Now, be silent.”
The other guard struggled to turn his spear to the warrior’s new position. Hereward kicked the man’s legs out from under him and made to drive his axe into the man’s chest as he sprawled.
“No,” Alric insisted. “Let him live.”
Cursing loudly, Hereward wavered, and then kicked the guard in the head. “I am already regretting my decision to come here this night.” He glared at the monk, then turned to the archbishop, still cowering against the far wall. Shaking his axe toward the cleric, he said, “You play games with lives to see the advancement of the Godwins. I would be a fool to think you would ever reconsider your alliances, but know that judgment comes, sooner or later.” He grabbed the back of the monk’s habit and dragged him toward the door. Slitting Alric’s bonds, he hissed, “My patience balances on a knife-edge, monk. It would be wise for you to keep your jaws clamped firmly shut from now on.”
Alric nodded, his smile unwavering.
Briefly emboldened, Ealdred called, “Your days are numbered, Mercian. You will rue this night.”
Hereward flashed the archbishop a murderous look and then hauled the young monk out into the snow-blasted night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SICKENED, TOSTIG SURVEYED THE BLOOD SEEPING INTO THE floor of the reeking house. His gaze roamed toward the bodies discarded and dismembered as if they’d been cordwood, and then skittered away. Though he was battle-hardened, the earl had never witnessed a scene of such dispassionate slaughter. He glanced at the corpse still hanging by its feet from the beam and muttered, “What kind of man is capable of such things?”
