Time of the Wolf

by James Wilde

  “Do you think I only preach the Lord’s word?” The monk squatted next to the fire. “I have come to sit with my friend.”

  Hereward grunted. “I thought I was only a soul to be saved.”

  Alric prodded the fire, watching the sparks fly up in the smoke while he chose his words. “No man can save all the innocents that cross his path.”

  “You wanted to say ‘Only God,’ didn’t you?”

  The monk smiled sadly. “Only God, and we do not know his plan.”

  “I commanded the men who died this day. I taught them. I failed them.”

  “You did what you could. But in the end their choices are their own.”

  Hereward peered up at the stars sprinkled across the vault of the heavens. “My heart aches when I recall their faces. Yet in days past I would not have mourned them. Death is the price of battle.”

  Alric cast a sympathetic glance at his friend. “Raw feelings are the price we pay for striving to be good men.”

  “You think I have now moved to the side of the angels?” Hereward gave an empty laugh. “That I have been saved because I mourn a few poor souls?”

  “I think you struggle with the burdens of your early days. But you no longer allow them to turn you away from God.”

  “And if I was still the devil you said I was that first cold night in Northumbria, would I have saved those men from slaughter?” Hereward glared at the monk through the flames. Disturbed by whatever he saw in his friend’s face, the monk flinched.

  “I do not profess to know God’s will, but I know you. I started along this road to save myself by saving you. Now I see the peace that lies within your grasp, and that is reward enough.”

  Staring into the fire, Hereward muttered, “The ravens never leave me.”

  “You have Vadir to keep you on the straight path now. He knows of battle and blood. He knows your mind, and he is wise. He is like a father—”

  “Do not mention my father.”

  Alric recoiled at the vehemence in his friend’s voice. Hereward hoped that the monk recognized the truth: that his devil could only be chained, not killed, and that it was always straining to break free.

  The burning wood popped and crackled, shattering the uncomfortable silence, and then the tramp of leather shoes echoed over the dark fortifications.

  It was Vadir, who cast a searching glance at Hereward, but appeared satisfied by what he saw. “All of Cambrai is afire with news from Saint-Omer,” he boomed.

  “What news that excites the Flemish would be of interest to us?” Hereward said with a shrug.

  “This news will interest you more than most.” The big man squatted beside the fire, looking from one face to the other. “Tostig Godwinson now stands on Flemish soil. No longer an earl, he has fled England an outlaw, with his wife Judith and a handful of loyal men by his side. He seeks refuge at the court of Count Baldwin. There is talk that he even seeks an alliance with William the Bastard.”

  Hereward laughed without humor. “Tostig, an outlaw. We are brought to the same level.”

  Uneasy, the monk eyed his friend. “What lies on your mind?”

  The firelight glimmered in the warrior’s eyes. With a lupine grin, he replied, “Revenge.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  HOOFBEATS THUNDERED THROUGH THE MOONLESS NIGHT. In pools of dancing torchlight, the sentries opened the gates of Bruges to admit the riders. Seven there were, cloaked in black and distinguished by their close-cropped hair in the Norman style. Grim-faced, they cast only cursory glances at the deferential guards as they rode hard toward the hall occupied by two visiting Normans.

  From the shadows outside the tavern, Harald Redteeth watched the riders rein in their steeds and dismount in a flurry of cloaks. He had known they were coming. The vaettir had told him as he had wandered the shores of the vast black sea, and they whispered still that here was purpose and meaning that would ripple out into days yet to come. While servants took the horses to water, two well-attired men, heavy with gold rings, marched out to greet the new arrivals with cheery hails. The Viking knew the wealthy men were William of Warenne and his brother-in-law Frederic. William had the ear of his namesake, William the Bastard, and had arrived in Bruges to encourage wealthy Flemings to support the Norman duke’s plans to seize the throne of England. An offer of gold or ships would result in a grant or land once William took the crown, Redteeth had learned.

  He studied the black-cloaked Normans’ hard faces and warriors’ gait as they followed William and Frederic into the hall, and he felt he knew their minds. They shared blood, he and they. Normans were the spawn of the vikingr in days long gone. Did they still listen to the vaettir? Did they have fire and iron in their hearts? If only the English knew what terrors they encouraged with their kingly games.

  Once the hall’s door had closed, Harald Redteeth returned to the smoky confines of the tavern. In a corner, a group gathered around two men arguing over the black and white bone pieces on a merels board. On stools next to the hearth, four other men sat drinking ale from wooden cups, laughing as they swapped bawdy tales. The Viking didn’t understand the words, but he recognized the rhythms of the speech and the gleam in the Flemings’ eyes.

  Taking his seat in the shadows, he supped his mead and waited.

  When two further cups burned in his veins, the door swung open and three men sauntered in. Their bearing spoke of power and wealth, a swagger at the hips, superior gazes cast across the drinking men grown timid, sword hilts inlaid with gold. He identified the leader of the group from his aquiline nose and piercing eyes. A weak man, spoiled by good living, Harald noted. Yes, this was the one he awaited.

  As the men collected their ale and settled into a corner to laugh loudly, the Viking mercenary rose, stretched, and wandered over. Ivar, his second in command, watched with dead eyes from the other side of the tavern. Redteeth grinned at his old friend. “Soon, now,” he whispered to himself, to Ivar.

  The three men looked up when he arrived at their side, still grinning. They snarled at him in Flemish, no doubt warning him to leave them alone. Harald fixed an eye on the hawk-nosed leader. “You are Hoibrict, grandson of Count Manasses?” he asked.

  The knight looked startled, but quickly regained his composure. “If you value unbroken bones, leave now,” he sneered in faltering English.

  “But we have much to discuss,” the mercenary said, holding his arms wide.

  One of the men started to stand, his fingers falling to his sword hilt as he snarled some epithet. His hand a blur, Harald snatched the man’s wooden cup and drove it into his face. Teeth smashed, lips pulped. The Fleming crashed onto his back, unconscious. Before the other man could rise, the Viking whipped his axe Grim against the bare throat.

  “Now,” Harald said, still grinning, “we shall talk of matters of great import, of blood-oaths, and vengeance, and death.” He ignored the tumult rising up from the other men in the tavern and fixed his gaze on Hoibrict’s apprehensive face. “My journey to this point has been long and hard. I have followed a trail of words and memories that at times seemed to take me in circles. Until I heard of a nobleman who had been shamed in a contest by a raw English warrior. The whispers I hear …” he fluttered the fingers of his left hand against his ear …“tell me this proud Flemish man may lead me to the one who has wronged both of us. And then, perhaps, we can have a reckoning that will lighten both our hearts. The warrior’s name is Hereward.”

  He saw the light of recognition in the knight’s eyes and knew all would be well.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “CONFRONT TOSTIG AND HE WILL HAVE YOU KILLED,” ALRIC protested, throwing his arms around Hereward to hold him back.

  “Listen to the monk,” Vadir said. A wall of muscle and bone, he stepped in front of the younger man. “Normally he speaks with an ale-tongue, but this time he’s right.”

  Hereward’s anger burned. He threw Alric to one side with a ferocious sweep of his arm and drew his sword, pressing the tip against Vad
ir’s chest. “Out of my way, old man. I have waited too long for this moment.”

  With his good eye, the big Mercian peered down his nose at his younger companion and then stepped aside. Hereward pushed by him toward the hall.

  “What are you doing?” the monk shouted at Vadir. “Stop him.”

  “He is his own man. He lives or dies by his choices alone.”

  Behind them, the horses stamped the wet turf and snorted hot, clouding breath into the cold air. The bishop had offered them double their wage to stay on in Cambrai, but Hereward rebuffed all his pleas. Only one thing now mattered. The ride from the monastery had been hard and fast, with Hereward just managing to stay ahead of his two pursuing companions. Saint-Omer had been abuzz with talk of Tostig and his wife’s arrival, and it had been easy to locate the hall Count Baldwin had already presented to his English son. Partly constructed long ago from stone and now extended with a timber frame and roof to emphasize its status, the building stood in its own estate with views across the town and the green, and the gold-and-brown Flemish countryside beyond.

  Hereward seethed that Tostig should be so rewarded even in his time of failure. Bursting through the door, he found the former earl and his wife in conversation with three loyal Northumbrian followers. Recognizing Hereward, the men stepped back, hands falling to their sword hilts, but the Mercian could see they were afraid.

  When he marched across the hall, Judith gathered her dress and stepped to meet him. The warrior kept his gaze firmly on Tostig. “You would hide behind your wife now?”

  “Hereward, there is no need for threats,” Judith urged, concerned. “You risk only your own life. Things are not as they were—”

  “Who here is going to stop me gaining my revenge for the plot that took the life of my love?” His eyes glittered.

  “They are,” Tostig replied with a faint sneer. He waved a lazy hand toward the door.

  Glancing back, Hereward saw Alric and Vadir forced in at spear-point, followed by a stream of soldiers in mail and helmets. The force flowed around the edge of the hall. Men caught his arms and knocked his sword from his hand. These were not inexperienced men torn from the land to support Tostig, but well-trained, professional troops, part of Saint-Omer’s standing defense.

  “Count Baldwin has saved your neck,” Hereward said, “for now.”

  “More than that. The count has made me a trusted ally,” Tostig replied.

  A man with long black hair streaked with silver and a drooping moustache and pointed beard pushed his way past the soldiers. Hereward saw from his gold amulet and rings and his fine ochre tunic that the new arrival was a man of standing.

  “This is Wulfric Rabe, castellan of Saint-Omer,” Tostig said.

  Turfrida’s father. Hereward recalled the gentle time he had spent with Turfrida and wished it could have been longer.

  “Count Baldwin has made me the deputy commander here,” the former earl continued, “and working alongside my new friend I will ensure peace and stability in Flanders.”

  “As you did in Northumbria?”

  Judith cautioned Hereward with her eyes.

  Tostig looked as though he was about to fly into a rage. But then his shoulders sagged and exhaustion crumpled his face. “Set him free,” he muttered, waving the back of his hand toward the soldiers. “You were unfairly treated in Eoferwic, I see that now. We were both victims of my brother’s plotting.” His right fist bunched. “Though we are blood, Harold and I, we are brothers no more.”

  “He betrayed you.”

  “Harold betrays everyone sooner or later,” Tostig snapped. “He has made one of your own Earl of Northumbria. A Mercian.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Kin of his greatest, most hated rivals, but now they serve a purpose—to unite England and thereby keep William the Bastard in Normandy. And I … I am sent into exile like some murdering criminal.”

  “Like me,” Hereward said.

  “Work with me against our common enemy. I need good fighting men. I have lost my huscarls, and though I have these Flemings under my command—”

  “You cannot take them to England and risk starting a war.”

  Tostig nodded.

  Hereward spat. “And you believe I could raise my sword in your defense?”

  “Listen to my husband,” Judith said. He turned to look at her and saw deep lines etched in her face, the mark of the toll taken upon her by the flight from England. “You are more alike than you might think,” she continued. “Listen to your heart. Listen to God. Find forgiveness.”

  “We do not need to fight any longer,” Tostig said. He beckoned to a slave for a cup of mead and downed it in one go. “I was misled by my brother. And now, see, we are two Englishmen in a strange land, far from the fields we know, both exiles, both cut adrift. We can find common purpose.”

  “Listen to him,” Vadir urged. When Hereward glanced back, the elder Mercian gave a knowing wink.

  Three years earlier, Hereward knew he would have ignored all entreaties, ignored even his own safety, and carved a path to kill the man with his bare hands if necessary. Yet now he could see his one-time enemy was right. Tostig was just as much a victim of his brother’s plotting as was Hereward.

  Steadying himself, he said, “My sword, and the employ of my friends, comes at a high price.”

  “Done.” Tostig broke into a triumphant grin, as if he had already struck a blow at his brother. “Count Baldwin has not only put his forces at my disposal, but also granted me the taxes collected in Saint-Omer. I will pay you well. And with the fleet he has promised me, we shall see who eventually sits upon the throne of England.” He hurled the mead-cup across the hall in an explosion of defiance.

  Out in the thin sunshine, Hereward pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “For nigh on two years I have dreamed of closing my hands around Tostig’s throat, and in the blink of an eye he is my ally. I feel as if I am moving through yesterday’s fog.”

  “This is the business of leaders, little man,” Vadir laughed, slapping his friend on the back. “It’s all fog and smoke, as murky as hell. You cannot trust any of the bastards, but if you keep your eye on an advantage you’ll come out of it with gold at the least.”

  “All I want is Harold dead and Tidhild avenged.”

  Vadir smiled. “Do not turn your nose up at gold.”

  Hereward still felt unsure that he had done the right thing. He allowed himself to be led into the crowded streets of Saint-Omer to find a tavern. When they had eaten their fill of bread and blood pudding, and Vadir was preparing to settle in for a day’s drinking to celebrate the confirmation of their winter employment, Hereward took his leave. He felt as adrift as he had during the days of his youth when he had drunk and fought and robbed and tormented the good people around Barholme. Would killing Tostig have satisfied him? Would killing Harold?

  He found Wulfric Rabe’s house easily, a newly built timber hall with two floors set in a sprawling estate, grand enough for a military leader and the defender of the people. Turfrida stood in the doorway, smiling.

  “When did you return?” Hereward asked, shocked.

  “Three days ago. I knew I would meet you here.”

  He laughed. “I did not know I would be here until last night.” Turfrida’s eyes sparkled. “Come. Let me show you the streets of my home. Which is your home now.”

  She took his hand and led him back among the houses and workshops, amid the scent of woodsmoke and the apples stored in the barns, and she whispered the stories of her childhood that made the town and the past come alive for him.

  By the time the frosts whitened the fields and bejeweled the cobwebs hanging from the thatch, they had become closer still. On windswept hilltops, she pointed to the sky and told him the meaning in the patterns the crows made, and the secret words in their calls, and she led him to the magic pool and sacred wells where wishes would be answered. When Christmas neared, they kissed beneath the mistletoe, and were caught mid-embrace by Vadir who mocked in a good-natu
red way before punching Hereward firmly on the arm in a gesture of respect. And as the church bells pealed in joyous celebration on Christmas morn, the warrior found himself at peace.

  But there was little peace in Saint-Omer. Mercenaries flooded into the town from all over Flanders, many of them Englishmen. Hereward came to understand that Tostig was amassing his own army, paid for by Count Baldwin: to attack Harold Godwinson, perhaps, or to invade England, to take the throne for himself.

  Rarely seen, Tostig hid away in his house, plotting and brooding; but Hereward often saw Judith trudging alone through the snow or the icy rain to the church to kneel on the frozen flagstones and pray. Turfrida’s father was a serious man, too, but he laughed loud and long when drunk, and under his daughter’s subtle spell he grew to like Hereward. He put the Mercian in charge of training the Saint-Omer force, pulling him to one side one cold morning to urge him to pay particular attention to the young, inexperienced men.

  His memories of Cambrai still burning hot, Hereward trained the young recruits better than he ever had before. They learned to hate him, for he forced them to practice with their spears until long after the sun had set and a circle of torches illuminated the field. They repeated strategies and tactics until they were sick and weary, and he cursed them and berated them, and lifted them up when their spirits fell.

  One morning when the snow was thick, Vadir arrived at the door swaddled in furs and a thick woolen cloak, blowing on his hands and stamping his leather-shod feet. “Stop hiding by your hearth like a sewing woman,” he boomed, “there is work to do.”

  Baffled, Hereward wrapped himself in his own cloak and followed the elder Mercian out into the bitter morning.

  Clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder, Vadir said, “I watch you, little man, with this one good eye. And I have seen your dedication to teaching the apple-cheeked, bright-eyed, wooden-headed boys. But you must not neglect your own skills.”