Time of the Wolf

by James Wilde

  “And he said to me, ‘Harold, this is the night when you become a man. I will leave you here now and you must let me go, without tears. You must sit and tell yourself the story of the loaves and fishes, as the priest told it to you, and when you are done, you must try to find your way home. It will be hard and there are many dangers along the way.’ ‘The wolves—’ I began, but he only placed a finger on my lips to silence me. ‘If you return to our hall, what you learn about yourself on the way will change you for ever. You will become the man you need to be, you want to be, in your heart.’ He watched me for a moment, and although I wanted to cry, I held the tears inside. And then he was gone.”

  “If you return,” Redwald repeated, imagining how terrifying it must have been. “How old were you?”

  “I had entered my ninth year,” Harold replied, still lost to his memories. “And my father was right. I remember little of that night, apart from the terror and my certainty that I would die. I do not know how I found my way back to the hall in the dark—I could not have done it in the light. But the next day, when I woke, and my father greeted me as if it was any other day and the previous night had not happened, I was changed.” He flashed a curious, unreadable smile at Redwald. “But later my father told me there was but one more thing I needed to learn: the only question in life that matters.”

  “What is that?” Redwald asked, his curiosity piqued.

  “How far will you travel along the road to damnation to achieve your heart’s desire?”

  “A good question.” Redwald refilled his master’s cup.

  Reflecting, Harold sipped his mead, and then said, “Perhaps I will give you that knife one day.”

  Redwald flashed a polite smile, but he didn’t want the knife. He already had one. From outside, the throb of voices intensified. “By the sound of it, they are almost ready.”

  Harold grunted and finished his mead. “We cannot leave this moment all to Edward. Let us reward the waiting throng.”

  Sweeping on his best cloak, the red one edged with a design of looping yellow circles that made him stand out in a crowd, Harold stepped out into the crisp morning. He made his way across the palace enclosure toward the edge of Thorney Island where the gray stone tower rose up against the blue sky. Shielding his eyes against the sun, Redwald could see the stonemasons making the final preparations at the summit. Most of the timber platforms and the greased fiber ropes had been removed to give a clear view of the magnificent abbey. It must indeed match any of the great churches across Europe as Edward proclaimed, the young man thought.

  The crowd had gathered around the sunlit western wall of the abbey, the women in their white headdresses, the men garbed in their finest embroidered woolen clothes for the occasion. Gold glinted everywhere, in brooches, amulets, sword hilts, rings, and bracelets. All heads craned upward in awe.

  When they saw Harold nearing, the men, women, and children turned and cheered. Redwald’s chest swelled. He saw in the flushed faces the respect they held for Harold, yes, and the love too. To be loved by so many people must be a wonderful thing indeed, he reflected.

  The King approached unnoticed from the direction of his hall. His jeweled crown gleamed on his snowy hair, but his face was as gray as his cloak and he leaned heavily on Edith’s arm. The Queen deposited him by the west door and, beaming, hurried over to her brother. She kissed Harold on the cheek.

  “I won our wager,” she whispered, breathless with excitement. “The abbey will be stocked with three times the relics that Edward found. It is my name that springs first to the lips of the abbot.”

  “Well done, sister. And Edward?”

  “Survives.”

  Resplendent in his tunic and cap, Archbishop Ealdred caught Harold’s eye and sidled over. Redwald knew that the cleric’s journey from Eoferwic for the ceremony served another purpose: to inform his close ally of the current state of affairs in Northumbria. Redwald left the group to discuss their business and slipped inside the new abbey. He smelled the freshness of the wood and clean-cut stone, and marveled at the stained glass in the windows. His attention was drawn to the wooden box on a table in an alcove. Inside lay the shankbone of St. John the Baptist, the relic he had recovered from the village near Winchester. Hurrying over, he rested one hand upon the casket and bowed his head. His heart beat faster at the thought of what was within: a secret so profound that it seared the deepest part of him. For a moment, he stayed there with his thoughts, and then he returned to the throng, wishing he could leave that box well alone.

  A slender hand caught his arm as he pushed through the crowd and he turned to see Hild smiling coyly. She was the daughter of Blacwin, one of the King’s thegns, and as beautiful as any woman at court. Her eyes were as lush as a summer forest, her well-defined cheekbones setting off plump lips. Redwald had admired her from the moment he arrived at the Palace of Westminster, but Hild had spurned all his initial advances. Now she was more than happy to hold his hand and let him steal a kiss, and her father was happy too.

  “I saw you walking beside Harold Godwinson,” she breathed. “You have grown well into the role he has granted to you.” Glancing around, she whispered, “Let me stand with you during the ceremony. So all can see.”

  “I would be honored.”

  Her cheeks flushed with excitement. Redwald imagined the soft warmth of her thighs, but that would be a joy for another day. For now, there was serious business at hand, and it would only grow more testing in the days to come. He could not afford a distraction like Hild. “I must speak to someone first, but catch my eye when I return and I will take you to stand with Harold.”

  “And has your master any more gifts? Some amber, perhaps, or ivory?” She jangled the bracelet he had given her after Harold had advised him how to make the most of the attention Hild had been showing him.

  With a smile, Redwald tapped his nose and slipped away. He would find a different route back through the crowd to avoid seeing her, but give her a gift at sunset to mitigate her disappointment. He knew exactly how to play her.

  Returning from a merchant, who had little useful information, the young man found Asketil waiting for him. Hereward’s father looked as though he had aged ten years in the last three, but he beamed when he saw the man he had adopted as his son.

  “You have put some strong meat on you since last we met,” he laughed, gripping Redwald by the arms.

  “I work hard. It is good to see you looking well. How are things in Barholme?”

  “Quiet, which is good. But your name is spoken often in the taverns and fields. A local boy, now advising Harold Godwinson. It is a source of great joy to all who remember the young lad who fished and hunted and made mischief among them.” Redwald could hear the pride in Asketil’s voice. The young man glanced down at Beric, who stood silent and sullen beside his father. Hereward’s brother was now on the cusp of manhood, but Redwald could see that he was still broken.

  “He has still not spoken since that night,” Asketil hissed when he saw Redwald looking, “and now I fear he never will.”

  “And no news of Hereward?” the young man ventured.

  The thegn’s features darkened. “His name is never mentioned in Mercia. He must be dead.”

  Redwald wondered whether Asketil was right. If Hereward was still alive, he hoped his brother had finally found some peace.

  A cheer rippled through the crowd. The ceremony was about to begin. The young man bid good-bye to Asketil and Beric and hurried back to Harold’s side. Edith had rejoined her husband beside the abbey wall, but she looked impatient.

  “In the dusty heat of eighteen summers and the bitter wind of eighteen hard winters, we have labored here to build our monument to God’s glory. And now we are almost done,” the King began, his dry croak almost lost beneath the murmur of the crowd. “This great abbey is more than a testament to our devotion; it is a beacon to all Englishmen, reminding us that even in our darkest times God watches over us and listens to our prayers.”

  Redwa
ld felt surprised to hear the smack of his master’s cunning in the King’s words. England faces dark times. God watches over us. And Edward’s good work here is the bond that joins the two. The old monarch was establishing his great legacy, a man of God, a protector of the people. As the King’s words rustled out, the young man thought it sounded as though Edward knew his days were ending, and that what was to come would be terrible indeed. So terrible, in fact, that people would look back on his rule with fondness. Redwald glanced aside and saw that Harold’s brow was knit, his expression angry. Was Edward damning the Earl of Wessex’s rule before it had begun? Perhaps, as Harold had often suspected, the King hid his cunning behind a mask of weakness.

  When Edward had finished his speech, all heads turned up toward the tower’s summit. The master mason held the final stone aloft for all to see, and then set it in place with a flourish. A great cheer rang out. The abbey was done, now ready for the consecration that had been planned for three days after the Christmas feast.

  When the crowd began to disperse, Harold grabbed Redwald’s arm and steered him away from the flow of bodies. “I have had my fill of Edward weaving his web. King or not, he is an old man and a fool. First he leads William the Bastard on. Then he makes plain to me that it is all to keep William’s sword in its sheath and I am the one who will take the throne. Enough!” In a cold fury, Harold punched his right fist into his left palm. “The time has passed for these things. Edward must name me as his chosen heir. And he will do so, of his own volition or with the edge of my axe against his neck.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  9 November 1065

  IN THE LEE OF CAMBRAI’S FORTIFICATIONS, HEREWARD STRODE along the ranks of the apprehensive young men he now commanded. “The enemy will come at you with their shields held high, like this.” He raised his own shield in demonstration. “Each one will be pressed hard against another so there will be a wall in front of you. Do not attack a wall. It does not bleed.” He grinned, hoping some humor could raise the spirits of his ramshackle group. Wan smiles appeared on a few faces.

  “Do we run?” one youth asked, leaning on his spear.

  “No. Never turn your back upon them. The wall will open and their axes will cut the bones from your shoulders to your arse. You stand your ground with your own shields. Watch out—they will reach underneath and try to hack your knees or your ankles. Do the same back and they will think twice.”

  “Then how do we drive them back?”

  “With your strength. Force hard enough, do not yield a step, and in time their wall will break. Wait for that moment, then ram your spears into the gaps.”

  Hereward turned to look out into the thick mist shrouding the damp Flemish countryside. The post-dawn birdsong was muted, the only sound the steady drip of moisture from the branches of the black trees clustering at the foot of the slope leading down from the town’s fortifications.

  “You have nothing to fear,” he said. “Our enemies are no better men than you.”

  The young men appeared to relax a little at their leader’s words. In the awkward way they gripped their spears, Hereward could see their lack of experience. He knew many had been called from toil on the land to join Bishop Liebert’s force in his struggle with the castellans, John of Arras and Hugh of Havet, and he hoped they were up to the battle ahead. Many of the hardened swords for hire were still recovering from their battles against incursions from neighboring counts during the long, hard winter, the sodden spring, and the baking summer. He was learning to hate Flanders, with its constantly shifting allegiances and petty rivalries. It made England seem like a land of peace and calm.

  Since their parting, he had not seen Turfrida, but she had stayed in his mind when the snows fell and when the thaw came. Vadir had taunted him long and hard, calling him a lovesick girl, but Alric had welcomed the romance as a sign that Hereward was moving away from his blood-soaked past into a blessed and peaceful future. “Every step you have taken away from England has taught you to be a better man,” the monk had said in his gentle way. “My work will soon be done and I will be able to find my own peace.” To avoid seeing Turfrida’s face, Hereward had lost himself in his new work of commanding and teaching the younger men. At first it had seemed odd—he felt too raw himself to be in such a position of authority—but as the days passed, he realized how much he had learned at Vadir’s side.

  He shook off his introspection and turned to see Vadir himself watching from the top of the ramparts. A broad grin split the red-haired warrior’s face. Hereward paced up the slope to his friend. “What do you mock now, you great bear?”

  “Mock? Nothing. My heart is warmed to see how you have grown, little man. From the wild one that all feared to a commander of men, respected by the young, in such a short time.”

  Hereward waved away the other man’s taunting. “You taught me well.”

  “And you listened. Few have ever paid heed to me.” Peering past Hereward, Vadir leaned in and whispered so the younger soldiers couldn’t hear. “Now listen once more. The men I sent out before dawn have returned with news. Only one small force of around twenty men makes their way through the fog, seeking to take us by surprise and rout us. But they are battle-hardened. Leather-skinned, scarred old warriors like me.” His gaze fell to the small knot of young men below them and his expression grew grave. “Tell them to take care.”

  Hereward passed on the warning. Then, with a whistle and a flick of his fingers, he summoned the men he had chosen to fight to fall in behind him. With reluctance, they plucked up their shields and their spears and trudged down the incline into the misty woods. The fog muffled the steady tramp of feet over the leaf-mold, but he knew it would also mask the approach of their enemies. Underfoot, brown leaves crackled and the dying bracken crunched. Falling droplets pinged off helmets and shields, but the men remained silent, their wide eyes trying to pierce the folds of gray. In their faces Hereward saw the flush of childhood play and memories of hands gripping mothers’ skirts. They were only a little younger than he was, but by their age he had seen things most people would never encounter in their worst nightmares. He had robbed. He had beaten stronger men until they cried for mercy, their faces unrecognizable. He had killed, many times. He had lain with a woman. And he had seen his own mother beaten to death. He had never been a child. Hereward hoped he had trained them well.

  Under cover of the trees, he brought the men to a halt. For long moments, he cocked his head and listened, past the drips and the rustling of rabbits and mice in the undergrowth, past the ragged breathing of his frightened men. All was still.

  Satisfied, he turned to the broad-nosed farmer he had chosen to lead the attack. “If I could go with you into the battle, I would, but the bishop has ordered me to prepare the defenses along the ramparts. But you are all strong and brave. You have nothing to fear from the enemy.”

  The youth nodded, his anxious gaze darting around over Hereward’s shoulder.

  Once the small force had disappeared into the woods, Hereward waited for a while, listening and praying, and then made his way back to the fortifications. As he directed the rest of the men to collect their spears and take position along the ramparts, he found his thoughts turning back to Tidhild and his mother, the betrayals of his father and Harold Godwinson, and to Redwald. He hadn’t thought of them with such force in many months. Had Redwald taken revenge on his behalf? Had his shame been expunged? In response to the questions, he felt his devil stir deep inside him; it had been asleep for so long, he had thought it gone.

  Still there, he thought bitterly. Why has it chosen this moment to remind me of its presence?

  Unable to answer his own question, he kept himself busy for the rest of the morning. But as the daily bread was handed out to the men, a shout rang out through the mists, and then another, and another. Racing to the ramparts, he saw the remnants of his fighting force fleeing back up the slope from the trees. They were bloodied and scared. Many had lost their spears. But his anger died in his chest
when he saw how few remained. Catching hold of the nearest man, he demanded to know what had happened.

  “They came out of the mists.” The man’s eyes looked dazed and faraway, like those of someone drunk on ale. “We stood our ground, like you taught us. Behind the shield wall. Striking out low and high. We drew first blood with our spears, and more too. It was going well. Then … then.…” He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. “Those bastards found a gap in our wall. Drove a spear into Blavier’s eye. That was the start of it.”

  “The shield wall did not hold?”

  “When Blavier fell, two broke ranks and fled. One fell beneath an axe before he had taken three steps. A spear drove into the back of the other. Then fear struck us all. The wall crumbled. The enemy fell upon us like wolves.”

  Hereward turned away, unable to contain his disappointment. He saw Vadir standing on the fortifications watching the bedraggled remnants of his force scramble up the slope. Every man shook, their eyes filled with tears. Vadir exchanged a look of condolence with Hereward, wise enough to know words would not help. He led the survivors back to their camp, and left Hereward alone to deal with his emotions in his own way.

  In the distance, the jubilant cries of the castellans’ men rose up for a while, then died away, letting silence creep back to the foggy wood. Hereward watched and brooded. The gray day inched on, and when twilight fell he lit a campfire, still hoping for another attack so he could release his simmering feelings. In the growing chill of the night, the dancing flames illuminated a lone figure trudging from the direction of Cambrai.

  “If you have come to talk to me about God, you will receive a response from my fists,” Hereward said when Alric appeared on the edge of the circle of light.