Time of the Wolf

by James Wilde

  Lowering the heavy helmet onto his head, Vadir said, “There’s gold aplenty out there. And many men who want to deprive us of our fortunes.” Glancing toward Hoibrict, he added, “The monk is right … you have a habit of making enemies wherever you go. Let us hope that one of them doesn’t leap back and bite you on the arse.”

  Alric led up the warrior’s chestnut horse, a fine beast, strong and brave, and held it steady for Hereward to mount. The warrior eyed the other men riding into position. The lots had been drawn, near a hundred warriors on each side. Many of the riders wore layers of thick wool under their mail to protect against the blows from the blunted weapons or the falls from horseback that killed many at each battle-fair, but Hereward had refused that protection. It was a hot day, and he wanted nothing that would drain his fire or slow him.

  On the edge of the field, the count, a slim man with a drooping moustache, raised one hand. Silence fell across the crowd. His voice droned out in the lazy afternoon, but the words meant nothing to Hereward. When the count waved his hand and ordered the battle-fair to begin, Hoibrict turned to the English warrior and leveled his sword in an unmistakable threat.

  “For Mercia,” Hereward cried with pride. “For England.” He dug his heels in the horse’s flanks and propelled himself toward the melee.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE THUNDER OF HOOVES DROWNED THE CROWD’S CHEERS. His view restricted by his eye-holes, Hereward saw only a heaving sea of men on horseback. Helmets and mail glinted in the sun. Full-throated war cries and bellowed insults closed around him as he crashed into the midst of the fighting. Blunted swords flashed in front of his eyes. Horses smashed against him like the waves on the black rocks at the coast. Elbows and fists rammed into head, shoulders, ribs. Blades crashed against his nose and face and bruised his arms and chest beneath the mail, but he fought on. The red and yellow strips of linen tied around the combatants’ thighs to signify membership of their side disappeared in the confusion. Survival became the priority.

  Hereward lashed his sword back and forth to carve a space for himself. The blade rang off helmets and clattered against mail coifs, smashing the chain into cheeks and necks. Unseated, one rider tumbled beneath the surging bodies and pounding hooves. Hereward couldn’t tell if the man was an ally or an enemy.

  The crush rolled around the field. Some warriors broke from the tight knot to pursue each other through the wood edging the grassland, searching for a superior position. Bodies littered the torn-up turf. Many lay still, others cried for help, all twisted and broken. Horses galloped riderless. Some of these men on the ground dragged themselves toward the sides, trying to hide their shame.

  Hereward fought the urge to lose himself in the fighting. Drawing the attention of the wealthy men looking to hire swords was all that mattered, he knew. He guided his mount near to the crowds, then yelled and waved his blade to catch the eye of four other horsemen. He could feel the gaze of the onlookers turning toward him. Sitting high, he raised both arms to demonstrate his fearlessness, then leaned across his horse’s neck and dug in his spurs. The ground whirled under him in a green blur. He felt the familiar rush of blood and grinned. Now they would see who was the bravest, he thought. The four riders bore down on him, but he held his line toward the center of the rank. He watched heads begin to come up in anxious anticipation when his opponents realized his resolve was not going to weaken.

  At the last moment the four warriors scattered before him. Two horses crashed into each other, unseating their riders. When he passed the third, Hereward flicked up his sword with outstretched arm, smashing his opponent under the chin. His wits scattered, the rider flew over the rear of his horse and down.

  Hereward brought his steed round to face the last of the four horsemen, his breath rasping beneath his mail coif. Sweat stung his eyes, and when he blinked the droplets away he glimpsed a familiar helmet, with slanted eye-holes and a nose-shield tapering and hooked at the end so that the wearer resembled a bird of prey. It was Hoibrict. Hereward’s eyes fell to the yellow ribbon round his opponent’s wrist and he grinned.

  Hesitating as he brought his steed round, Hoibrict recognized Hereward in turn, the Mercian knew. The nobleman reined in his horse, weighing his course of action. The warrior imagined his opponent’s eyes narrowing, his temper rising at the recognition of a true rival. More lay at stake here than gold. He sought out Turfrida at the front of the crowd.

  He spurred his mount on. With a shout, Hoibrict raced his own steed forward. The sounds of battle drained away. Hereward lost himself in the rapid drumbeat of hooves, the wind tearing into his helmet as he hurtled toward the other rider. His grin broadened. Sod flew up all around him. The falcon helmet filled his entire vision. Gritting his teeth, he readied himself for the bone-breaking impact. Just before it came, the Fleming drove his horse to one side, swinging his sword at Hereward’s head. Hereward ducked beneath the blade, jabbing his own weapon into his rival’s side. He allowed himself a triumphant smile when Hoibrict’s pained curse rang out.

  Hereward brought his horse round and charged once more. He could see his rival begin to panic as he struggled to bring his mount under control. Balancing on his saddle, Hereward drew alongside his opponent and launched himself into the air. Both men slammed into the turf. Hereward was prepared for the impact, rolling back to his feet in an instant. Limping and dazed, Hoibrict gamely raised his sword, but he fell back step by step under the assault until he stumbled. Whisking up his blade, Hereward saw the fear in the downed noble’s eyes.

  “I am a better man than you,” the warrior whispered. “Yield.”

  The Flemish knight grunted assent. Stepping back, Hereward plucked the yellow ribbon from Hoibrict’s wrist.

  “You will pay for this shame you have heaped upon me,” the nobleman hissed.

  “You brought it upon yourself. Pride …” he smiled, remembering Alric’s words, “goes before a fall.”

  As Hereward left his rival lying in the churned mud and turf and walked toward the cheering crowd, he felt Hoibrict’s gaze heavy upon his back. He knew he had made a bitter enemy that day, but he didn’t care.

  At the side of the field, a grinning Vadir crushed the warrior in a bear-hug and boomed, “Women will be your downfall. But your performance did all that was needed. We have our winter shelter and food and pay. Bishop Liebert of Cambrai requires our services to protect the building of a new monastery.”

  Alric congratulated Hereward on his self-control. “How far you have come from cold Northumbria. Why, not a single man was flayed alive. How disappointed you must feel.”

  “There is still time, monk.”

  “You have my token.”

  Hereward turned to see Turfrida. Her dark eyes held him. He thought she looked even prettier at close hand, with clear skin and high cheekbones. She peered into the shadows of his mask’s eye-holes. Behind him, he heard Vadir and Alric shuffle away, accompanied by the big man’s rumbling chuckle. “My name is Turfrida,” she said.

  Hereward removed his helmet and held it in the crook of his arm. “I know your name.”

  Taking this as a compliment, the woman smiled her approval. “You defeated my champion.”

  “You deserved a better man to defend your favor.” He held out her yellow ribbon.

  “A pity I did not offer it to you,” she said, “or you would have won a prize beyond value.” Her eyes teased him.

  “You speak English well.”

  “My father saw me well schooled. And there are so many of your countrymen in Flanders these days, I will find good use for the tongue. Your king has always encouraged close ties with us. They say he plays a cunning game with those who seek the throne of England.”

  “He plays a dangerous game. William the Bastard will not sit quietly in Normandy while Edward’s suitors dance around him.”

  “Ah, you fear William of Normandy,” she replied with a knowing nod.

  “I fear no one. But William would have England kneeling before him for
no reason but to swell his head. Englishmen do not kneel to invaders,” he added with a note of defiance. “The throne will stay in English hands.” He flinched, seeing Harold Godwinson’s face.

  A shadow crossed Turfrida’s features. “Walk with me a while.”

  She led the way from the tournament fields back through the walls into Bruges. The timber-framed houses and wattle-and-daub huts were crammed hard on each other, the narrow tracks between them twisting and turning with little plan. Among the houses, Hereward saw more stone buildings than he had ever seen in one place in England. He remembered an abbot telling him that one day there would be stone houses everywhere, as there had been in the days before the Vikings. Men and women trailed back from the tournament, pausing to chat beside chickens scratching in the dust. The lowing of cattle and grunting of pigs echoed over the thatched and timber roofs.

  “You have many riches here,” Hereward said, eyeing a necklace of amber beads that must have been shipped from the East.

  “But it is not England,” Turfrida replied. “Knowledge of your great art has spread far and wide. The women here fight for English jewelry. Your illuminations are praised in our monasteries, your tapestries exceed those of the Normans. The laws of your land, and the way in which all men and women cleave to them, are admired everywhere. If only we had them here. Two days ago a merchant brought my father an English silver brooch so beautifully engraved it took the breath away, the manner of depiction so real, so powerful, it can have had no equal. All struggle to keep up with England, but you race ever further ahead. What heights can you reach in the years to come?”

  He listened to the woman’s breathless praise and felt a pang of regret for the fields of his youth. “I know little of art,” he replied, “except the art of battle.”

  Turfrida hesitated at his comment. “And have you heard of wars to come? There are portents—”

  “There are always portents,” he interrupted. “Ever since I left London, I have heard nothing else. From churchmen and wise women and those who still pray to the old gods. The End-Times are coming.”

  “And would all of them, all so different, say these things without good reason?”

  Hereward shrugged. “Would you know? I am told there are some who consider you a witch.”

  The woman’s cheeks flushed. “I am skilled in the mechanical arts.”

  “Magic, then?” He saw in Turfrida’s face a quick intellect and imagined that some might think that a threat; not he. She intrigued him.

  “And the study of the stars and the future they hold. All the mysteries of the world around us, the patterns of animals and the stories the trees whisper when they are alone.” Her eyes flashed. He could see she found excitement in her knowledge.

  “The Church will damn you.”

  “Let them try. I am a God-fearing woman. On some matters, even the priests are wrong,” she said defiantly. “There is no sin in learning. Though some churchmen believe there is sin in women learning.”

  Impressed by her passion, Hereward smiled to himself. Turfrida was strong, and in some ways he was reminded of Acha. But this woman was better schooled, and, he felt, more honest. “Do not fear. I have no desire to fetch the priest to you.”

  Her face darkened again. “When you fought upon the field today, I thought I saw ravens flying overhead, a cloud of them, turning the sky black.”

  He felt a chill despite the heat of the day. “More portents?”

  “I would know who you are, Englishman,” she said as if she had not heard his question. He saw her put on a bright face as she swept her hand in the direction of a hall. “Come claim your reward. We shall feast with my father at the count’s hall and I will hear the tales of your past. And let us speak only of good things.”

  But as they moved away, he saw her glance behind him, and her smile fade, as if she saw something walking there in his shadow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THE BOY LAY ON HIS BED OF RUSHES, MUMBLING INCOHERENT words in the throes of his fever. Sweat slicked his flushed face in the glow from the hearth. At the door of the hut deep in the woods, Hereward watched Turfrida bend over the lad as she eased a creamy paste between his lips. The mother and father stood to one side, their faces crumpled by worry. When the boy had taken in the mush, Turfrida bowed her head and muttered a few words in a language the warrior didn’t recognize.

  Rising, she turned to the parents and gave them an exhausted smile. “Pray over your son until dawn and, if God is willing, he will recover.”

  Hereward had looked around the ceorls’ shack and noted their meager possessions, yet still the relieved couple tried to press offerings of food upon Turfrida. She took only a fragment of bread so as not to offend them, and bid them farewell.

  “The boy will live, then?” he asked, once they were on the narrow winding path leading back through the trees.

  “I would not lie to his mother and father.”

  “Is this how you repay the Church for all the attention they give your kind—by being honest and aiding sick children?” He hid his smile. “Where is the shape-changing and the night flights and the curses?”

  “Perhaps I have secretly bewitched you.”

  “I am protected from your charms.” He feigned aloofness.

  “Ah. Your kisses were to ward me away. Now I understand.”

  “Or perhaps I bewitched you.”

  She laughed at that, but not unkindly. “Now, speak no more of witches. Words travel far. It is a mark of my trust in you that I have made plain what I do.”

  “Made plain? All I see are crushed herbs and balms. All I hear are whispered words that mean nothing to me.”

  After a moment’s thought, she said, “I was taught the secret ways by my mother, who learned from her mother before her. They were people of the woods and I am the daughter of a castellan, yet still I carry on the ways of those who have gone before me. I can do no other. We are all in thrall to our pasts.”

  “Then you do not consort with the Devil?”

  “Only one.” She laughed. “The mechanical arts are no more terrifying than the teachings you received from the monks as a child. Is finding your way by the position of the stars the work of the Devil? Is knowing which plants heal? Listening to the whispers of the trees and the animals, finding wisdom in the patterns of all we see around us?”

  “But you do not worship the Christian God?”

  Her smile tightened, but she gave no reply.

  They talked of other matters as they walked home, of his friendship with Alric, and with Vadir, and of the dangers of his mercenary work. He made light of the threats to his life, but Turfrida showed only concern; and, as she gave voice to her fears for his safety, tears sprang to her eyes. Under the shade of a twisted elm, his reassurances turned to kisses, and in the warmth of her lips all thoughts of Acha and Tidhild ebbed away. In that moment he wanted only Turfrida for the rest of his days.

  Before he could find the words to express his feelings, a scream tore through the woods. Turfrida pulled away, looking back along the path.

  “The boy took a turn for the worse?”

  “Impossible.”

  When a tumult of shouts and cries rang out, Turfrida picked up her skirts and ran back toward the hut that they had just left. Hereward caught up with her, grabbing her arm to stop her from racing into danger. He steered her off the path and into the cover of the trees, where they had a view of the clearing around the shack. The mother was on her knees, sobbing, her hands clasped together in a desperate plea. Beside her, her husband sprawled on the ground, clutching a bloody forehead. Five men surrounded them with graven faces. The one who loomed over the woman wore a priest’s white tunic. Under a thick black moustache, he snarled questions in Flemish, his eyes cold and cruel.

  “What does he ask?” Hereward whispered.

  When no reply came, he glanced at Turfrida and saw that the blood had drained from her face. “He demands to know the whereabouts of the witch.”

  Uneasine
ss filled him. Time and again, he had heard churchmen promise to “punish pitilessly the witches, the healers, the ones who deal in auguries and omens and work magics.” The words had become an oath, repeated at stone crosses throughout England. Death by burning or drowning or exile would be her fate.

  When his hand went for his sword, Turfrida grabbed his wrist. “No,” she whispered, her gaze fierce. “You cannot risk your life. I will not allow it. If you harm the priest or his men, the Church will not rest until you are hunted down and executed.”

  Hereward hesitated—for Turfrida, he would risk even the wrath of the Church—but he saw the worry in her eyes and relented.

  In the clearing, the sobbing woman tore at her hair and screamed. The priest was directing one of his men toward the house. A spear prodded the father’s chest. Hereward watched the aide venture inside and return with the sick boy in his arms. The warrior could only guess at the threat the cleric had made to the distraught mother. Turfrida’s nails dug into his wrist. Tears shone in the corners of her eyes, her own fear now forgotten.

  As he weighed his response, Turfrida jumped to her feet and called out to distract the men. The priest and his aides spun toward her. Their shock gave way to fierce expressions as the cleric stabbed a finger and snarled a command.