Time of the Wolf

by James Wilde

  “My skills are already honed.”

  “And that is where you show your inexperience. If you want to keep your head fixed on your shoulders, you can never stop learning. Someone, somewhere, will always find a new way to kill you, and you must be ready and at your best.” The big man led Hereward to the field outside the ramparts where a bad-tempered soldier waited, his hood pulled up against the bitter wind. He held a bow and a pouch filled with newly fletched arrows.

  “What is this?” Hereward asked, suspicious.

  “It is called a bow, little man,” Vadir replied with sardonic humor. “Your education truly is limited.”

  “What need do I have for that?” Hereward recalled using the bow for hunting when he roamed the Mercian countryside, and had even seen a few men use arrows in battle.

  “Across Flanders, Normandy … everywhere on this side of the whale road, men are skilled in archery to kill other men.”

  Hereward snorted. “When you kill, you need to see a man’s eyes, feel his blood pumping over you. A sword, an axe, a spear … these are the honorable ways to slay. That …” he pointed at the bow …“is for cowards who would hide behind a tree, fire an arrow into a man’s back, and then run away before they are seen.”

  Vadir roared with laughter. “Will you protest as much when you are lying on the ground looking like a spiny-backed igil, or will you fight fire with fire? Learn. You may need this skill one day.”

  Irritated, Hereward took the bow from the soldier and listened to the instructions on where to place the arrow and how to draw the greased hemp string. He sniffed with contempt, set the arrow in place and flexed the bow. When he released the string, the arrow flipped straight up into the air.

  Resting his hands on his knees, Vadir laughed until he wept. Hereward snatched up the shaft and tried again. The string slipped out of the notch and the arrow flopped impotently to the snow.

  “Not as easy as it looks, is it?” the big man chuckled, wiping his eyes.

  Determined to excel, Hereward persisted. When his fingers were numb and he was chilled to the bone, he could finally send the arrow across the field, but with little accuracy. “Enough,” he snapped. “You waste my time. I will never have a need for this weapon.” He thrust the bow into the hands of the soldier and marched back into Saint-Omer, with Vadir’s mockery ringing in his ears.

  Few would risk travel when the coldest weather bit, but men trailed into town every few days and made their way to Tostig’s hall with snippets of news from England. Rumors swirled like the last season’s leaves caught in the wind. King Edward was ailing; his days were numbered; he had fallen into a fever-sleep, never waking, but ranting and raving about angels and devils hovering over his bed. William the Bastard had sent men to hide in London and report back to him on the plans of Harold Godwinson. Those who failed to provide useful information were put to the sword. And in his Normandy redoubt, the duke drew up plans for war. Gold was donated to the Church by the sackful, and William played the part of a devout man to gain the Pope’s support for invasion, so Hereward heard in the tavern.

  Tostig emerged from his gloom on the eighth day after the Christmas feast, proclaiming to all that the coming year would be better than any in living memory. A messenger from Count Baldwin had told him that his ships would be ready when the worst of the cold weather passed, so Alric heard from a slave in the house.

  On Twelfth Night, when the festivities were long concluded and Hereward drifted in drunken sleep, Turfrida called his name. Lurching to the door, he found her with a tear-streaked face peering from the depths of her hood. She pushed her way inside and threw her arms around him beside the red embers in the hearth.

  “What is amiss?” he asked. “Your father—”

  “My father is well and wrapped in ale-sleep.” With a shudder, she threw off her hood. “I dreamed of ravens, a cloud of them blackening the sky.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked, trying to throw off his stupor.

  Turfrida took his hand. “You must not sail with Tostig. You must stay here with me.”

  “How can I? I have taken his pay.”

  “We must marry. My father will be happy that his new son is a military man of great reputation and he will want you to stay here to defend Saint-Omer.”

  Hereward gaped. “Marry?”

  “If you sail with Tostig, you will never return. This is a truth that has already been written.”

  “But if I am needed—”

  “You are needed here more, by me. And you will be needed by many others in times to come. A great destiny is being written for you, Hereward, but it will all turn to ashes if you do not heed me this night.”

  Struggling to understand, Hereward prowled his house for the rest of the night, torn between Turfrida’s warning and the fear that he would bring shame upon himself if he walked away from the call of battle.

  The time of peace had passed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  5 January 1066

  SHADOWS FLICKERED AT THE EDGE OF THE ROOM. IN THEM, Death waited. The King lay on his bed, clinging to the last of his life. His skin was the color of ashes, his face little more than a skull draped in parchment. His breath rasped out slowly and then stopped for what seemed like an age until the two watching men felt convinced that it was the monarch’s last. Time and again. Beside the hearth, Redwald struggled to warm himself against the roaring fire. His bones felt as cold as the thick, gray ice that lined the banks of the Thames. A log cracked and spat and the young man jumped, then felt foolish. He realized he was holding his own breath tight in his chest.

  Harold Godwinson ranged around the bed, casting hate-filled glares at the dying man. Sweat stained the armpits of his brown tunic and left a black streak down his back. The gold rings at his wrist jangled with every grim step. In the firelight, the earl’s shadow appeared to move of its own accord. Every time it loomed over the bedridden form, Redwald winced and stared at his master’s flexing fingers and the pale curve of Edward’s throat.

  Had they been in that sour-ale-reeking room since the autumn leaves had fallen? Since the summer fields of golden barley, or the spring flowers? Time had no meaning here, Redwald thought. His head spun with echoing moans and cries and shouts and threats, and a mounting desolation. He had stood by and watched, and done nothing, when perhaps he could have ended the King’s suffering with a word of guidance, or warning. But the torrent of abuse had crept up on him. At first, only sly urging had echoed around the room, then insistent demands, then menaces. By the time Harold had hurled himself on to the bed to shake the supine form, Redwald had realized it was too late. Trapped in his complicity, his silent observation had been an encouragement to his master. He might as well have joined in the persecution. He felt only numb.

  How had he sunk to such depths? Redwald recalled the Christmas feast and Harold pressing the King to name him as heir to the throne. Edward had smiled politely and whispered “In good time.” The next day had seen the rehearsal for the consecration of the abbey, the chanting of the monks ringing off the stone walls and the sweet smell of the smoldering spices filling the air. From the back of the nave, Redwald had watched Harold berate the monarch under the arch of the great west door. In the candlelight, the earl’s face had appeared like a snarling beast, his teeth bared, his hands shaking with passion. And, trembling from the cold, the weakening monarch had nodded thoughtfully, and smiled, and then shuffled away to join his wife for the Mass.

  That was the moment Harold had decided to leave any vestige of morality behind, Redwald now realized. He remembered the earl’s face framed in the candlelight, and how he had puzzled over the fixed stare and strange calm that had come over his master. Harold had made his peace with what he needed to do. Redwald remembered hurrying to the casket that contained the relic of John the Baptist and pressing his forehead against the cold wood. What lay within was not comforting. It taunted him with visions of mortality and sacrifice.

  How far will you travel along the
road to damnation to achieve your heart’s desire? Harold had said. How far? To the end, if the prize is great enough.

  Edith appeared at the door, kneading her hands together in worry. “What news …?”

  The earl silenced her with a cold stare. “Leave. You should not see this.”

  “The bishops would pray at the bedside,” Edith whispered.

  “No. Are you a fool?” Redwald thought his master was about to strike his sister. “Tell them the King has woken and insists that no one trouble him.”

  When Redwald saw the ivory cross clutched in the Queen’s slender fingers, he almost laughed. What prayers had passed her lips, he wondered? How could she ever make her peace with this, watching the man she had wed destroyed by degrees by her own brother, urging it on, in fact, with the aid she had given by keeping the earls and the thegns, the servants and the healer away. It was the Queen who had lied to the court that her husband was sick with the fever, and who had reported back to the concerned men of the Witan that Edward had slipped into the unwaking sleep.

  “The healer has prepared another salve of the healing herb,” she ventured.

  “Leave it outside the door.”

  “The healer wishes—”

  “Leave!”

  Bowing her head, Edith scurried out, the hem of her sapphire dress sweeping across the worn boards. The emotion drained from Harold’s features. He turned to watch the juddering rise and fall of the King’s chest for a moment.

  “This man … this weak old man,” the earl said bitterly. “What drives him to deny me such a simple thing? One word. That is all it would have taken to prevent so much suffering. One word and he could have been left alone to slide easily into the arms of God. His days are numbered. You can almost see the life slipping from his weary limbs, yet still he resists. Why?”

  The room reeked of impending death, a bitter odor that Redwald had come to know well. He tried to answer his master, but his mouth was dry.

  Harold leaned over the bed. “Name me heir,” he roared at the King, grabbing Edward’s shoulders and shaking the old man so that he flopped like a child’s woolen doll.

  Stepping forward, Redwald put on a grin and a honeyed voice. “Hold fast, my master,” he urged, “or what remains of his wits will fall out of his ears.”

  The words died in his throat when the monarch’s eyes snapped open. Redwald leapt back, afraid of the accusation he might see in the milky orbs.

  Calming, Harold let the old man fall back on to the bed. “Now,” the Earl of Wessex said, “make your peace with God and leave everything right here. Name me as your heir.”

  Harold snapped round at a disturbance outside the door. Fast feet echoed on timber, accompanied by muffled voices. Edith burst in with Stigand, Archbishop of Canterbury, striding at her heels. He flashed a warning glance at the earl before pausing at the foot of the deathbed to study the King. His gaze wavered over the bruises and the cuts, but he said nothing. The cleric was a dour man, as old as Edward, but filled with a vitality that belied his years. Redwald didn’t like him. Stigand had a sharp tongue and a sour manner and was cruel to those he felt were unimportant to him. Yet he tolerated Harold, recognizing the power the earl would one day wield. Over his long life, five popes had excommunicated him for holding two sees at once, Winchester and Canterbury. But he had clung on, amassing both power and wealth until he was now perhaps the richest cleric in England. And it showed in his fine garments, Redwald thought: a brown linen robe, delicately embroidered with yellow crosses underneath a sumptuous black woolen cloak edged with fur, and held at the neck by a golden clasp.

  “The archbishop insisted he pray over the King,” Edith stuttered.

  “You have no right to keep me from Edward’s side.” Stigand leveled his cold gaze at Harold. “He needs my ministrations.”

  “Pray for him, then,” Harold snapped. He dismissed Edith with a brusque wave of his hand. The Queen shuffled away, casting worried backward glances.

  Pressing his palms together, the archbishop knelt at the end of the bed and began to intone in Latin. The earl paced around in mounting frustration. The rolling rhythm of Stigand’s voice washed over Redwald, but the young man didn’t feel the knot in his stomach ease as it would have done in church. He feared he was beyond God’s help now.

  The archbishop finished his prayers and stood. He eyed Harold for a moment and then said, “I understand your heavy heart. If Edward does not name you as heir, it leaves many questions still to be asked, and a degree of uncertainty over your worthiness.”

  The earl ground his teeth, then forced a smile. “If Edward had been well, we both know I would have been his only choice. William the Bastard would destroy everything we have built here. The King understood that.”

  Stigand nodded.

  “There would be no place for true Englishmen like you or me,” Harold continued, warming to his theme as he searched the archbishop’s unwavering gaze. “And Edward’s ties to Normandy were not as strong in private as he liked to make us think. Though he sent me to the duke to discuss these matters of succession, it was simply a ploy to keep William sweet.”

  Stigand nodded again. Redwald knew this was a lie, but neither man appeared ready to recognize it.

  “When I sit upon the throne, I will need a good adviser with your long experience. Indeed, I would say I could not rule well without it.”

  Stigand smiled, and suddenly Redwald understood the reason for the archbishop’s abrupt intrusion. Here was a man as skilled in the games of kings as Harold.

  A low moan shattered the two men’s silent communication, and they turned to survey the dying monarch. Edward’s lips worked soundlessly, his eyelids flickering.

  “He tries to speak,” Redwald called, one hand clasped to his head, the other pointing.

  “About time,” the earl grunted, and pressed his ear close to the dying man’s mouth. Stigand hurried to the other side of the bed and leaned in too.

  When the King’s lids fluttered open, his eyes rolled, pausing now and then to focus on the shadows in the corners as if he saw things standing there.

  “He is dreaming,” Redwald hissed. “He does not know we are here.”

  “I know.” The King spat the two words like an epithet. “Listen, then,” he croaked. “Listen closely, Harold Godwinson, for this is the moment you have worked so hard to reach, and sold your soul to gain.”

  Harold smiled.

  Edward’s whispery voice barely reached beyond the end of the bed. Eager to have an end to the long period of suffering, Redwald strained to hear what was being said, but he knew it would be beyond his station to draw closer.

  “No!” Stigand’s hoarse exclamation sounded like a pebble dropped on wood. Redwald saw that all the blood had drained from the archbishop’s face. His features had grown taut, his wide-eyed gaze fastened upon each movement of the King’s mouth. Harold’s triumphant grin was slowly fading.

  The cleric jumped to his feet, staggering back, one hand to his mouth. “A prophecy,” he gasped. “The dead have spoken to him.” Spinning on his heel, he almost ran from the bedside. Harold rose too, running one trembling hand through his hair.

  “What did the King say?” Redwald uttered, not wanting to hear the answer.

  “Lies.” Harold stood for a moment, lost to his thoughts. Then he replied in a distracted voice: “He said he was visited by two monks he knew from his youth. And they told him that all those who held the highest offices in his kingdom were not what they seem. They were servants of the Devil. And within the year they will be washed away in a tide of blood, and England will be delivered into the hands of the enemy. By fire. And sword. And the havoc of war.”

  Redwald felt gripped by terror. The dead had spoken through Edward. God had cursed them all for their sins.

  In a rage, Harold flung himself on to the bed, striking and shaking the King. Redwald could only watch, though he thought the monarch would be torn apart. In his heart, he knew he should stop the assault. But as God
was his witness, he wanted an end to it, as if only death could expunge the terrible prophecy.

  And so he watched as Harold’s rage burned as fierce as the fire in the hearth. Tears glinting in his eyes, his master pressed a hand against the King’s mouth and nose and held tight. And after long moments Edward lay still, and would never move again.

  Calming himself, Harold wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand. He looked deep into the King’s dead eyes, but what passed through his head Redwald would never know. Turning to the young man, the earl glowered beneath heavy brows. “Nothing of this must ever pass your lips.”

  “I am your trusted servant. It will never be spoken of.”

  Harold accepted the vow with a curt nod, and his mood lightened. With a smile, he said, “Now hurry from this place and spread the word that with his dying breath Edward named me as his chosen successor. I will speak to Edith and she will support us in this account, as will Stigand, so the Witan can be convened. Then find a scribe who can record an account of this ending that meets our needs. Let us be jubilant, and proud, for a new day dawns, and a new age for England. Make haste. I would be crowned king before tomorrow is done.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  6 January 1066

  THE GOLD CROWN GLEAMED IN THE FLICKERING CANDLELIGHT. Though shadows danced across the stone walls of Westminster Abbey, the emeralds and rubies incorporated from the circlet of the great King Alfred shone with an inner fire. An apprehensive hush fell across the shivering men and women pressed into the dark confines for the second time that day. Misty trails of breath drifted in the icy air. His forehead shimmering with holy oil, Harold Godwinson relaxed in the coronation chair and allowed himself a slight smile of satisfaction. Edward lay interred in the cold ground beneath the abbey’s flagstones, and, though the funeral feast still cooled on the table in the king’s hall, the Earl of Wessex already had everything he ever wanted. Nestling the jeweled scepter in the crook of his right arm, he grasped the blackwood rod in his left hand, stared at the gold cross on the high altar, and waited.