by James Wilde
Half distracted by the stilt-man, Hereward felt the first stirrings of an idea, as yet unrealized. Before he could examine it further, a snowy-haired man burst from the long grass on the bank and stabbed a spear toward the two wanderers.
“What do you want?” the man barked. He wore a coat of rabbit pelts smeared with lamb-fat to keep the elements at bay.
“Holbert?” Hereward could see the man was scared.
“Who are you?” The man leaned forward, squinting. The warrior grasped what a sight he and Alric looked, filthy with dried black mud from feet to neck and more of it splattered across their faces. Stepping closer but not lowering his spear, the white-haired man peered for a moment and then ventured, “Hereward Asketilson?”
The warrior nodded, remembering the time he had stolen a line of fish that Holbert had spent two days smoking. He felt a pang of guilt.
“Are you here to steal from me again? Because I have little and I will fight till I die to keep it.” Sensing danger, the stilt-man strode toward them, glowering.
“I am not the man who tormented you, Holbert.”
“You tormented everyone, you and your wild friends,” the elderly man grumbled, the feelings still raw after so many years. “We heard you were outlaw.”
“We heard you were dead.” The ruddy-faced man leaned forward on his stilts; but just at the point when he seemed on the brink of falling, he dropped like a cat to his feet.
“Then I am a ghost.” Hereward smiled.
“And what a time you picked to haunt your home grounds.” Holbert lowered his spear. “There are worse things abroad in the fens these days. There must be, if I look on a bastard like Hereward Asketilson with something like fondness.” He shrugged and turned to the stilt-man. “Sawin, get some ale. Let us welcome home this son of the fens with a moment of joy before he realizes what hell he has returned to.”
Sawin pushed through the waist-high, yellowing grass and skidded down the bank. Holbert, Hereward, and Alric followed. Hidden among the undergrowth beside the willows and above the spring flood-line was a small shack with wattle walls and a roof of branches covered with turf. Scattered along the water’s edge lay the detritus of Holbert’s business. Wooden tubs of reeking fat. Hides drying over willow frames. Creamy curls of wood shavings. Mallets, bow-saws, adzes, wedges, planes, and awls. Hereward remembered lying in the long grass, watching Holbert’s meticulous labor as he built the shell-like boats that the fenlanders used to traverse the watercourses, shaping the willow frames, stretching the hides and waterproofing them with the fat, cutting the short-handled paddles.
Cup in hand, Holbert looked Alric up and down as if he had only just noticed him. “Who are you? Monk? Your kind are as bad as the bastard Normans.”
Alric recoiled. “My kind?”
“The clergy. They were the ones pushing for William the Bastard to be made king.” The white-haired man threw back his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “They watch us. They pass on what they see to our new masters.” He spat. “And they get their rewards. They’re living fat while we pay our taxes. But you’ll see. William will bring his own kind in sooner or later. And when there’s Norman bishops giving out the orders, then there won’t be so much chest-puffing and strutting.”
Hereward sat on the bank and warmed himself against a smoldering fire made from the off-cut timber. “And the Normans, here?”
Holbert shook his head, frowning. “The bastards won’t be happy until there’s nothing of England left. They don’t care for us, for our families or our wives or our children. They raise our taxes, and put us to work building their castles and garrisons. Speak out, you’ll find your house burned. Two speak out, the village gets burned. Look at one of their knights the wrong way, you’ll be hanging from a tree the next morning with the rooks feasting on your eyes. William the Bastard won’t be happy till he’s crushed the life from us. Till we’re nothing but cattle in the field, keeping the Norman bellies full.” He looked into his empty cup, his mood dismal. “You should have stayed away. There’s nothing for you here.”
Hereward set his jaw. “Fight back.”
“Me? On my own? Or me and him?” Holbert nodded toward Sawin, laughing without humor.
“We are English. We fought against the Vikings in our fathers’ fathers’ fathers’ time. We fought against each other until we were all raw head and bloody bones, God knows. And now we lie down and do nothing?”
“You haven’t seen what it’s like,” Holbert muttered. He didn’t meet Hereward’s eyes and shuffled away in search of more ale. The warrior thought how broken-backed the boatwright looked. Was all England like this?
“There is no place anywhere like the fens,” Hereward pressed, waving his cup at Sawin. “It is a fortress, protected on all sides, and riddled with traps and dangers that the Normans would never be able to navigate. Why, a few good men here could start a rebellion that would bring all William’s plans crashing to the ground.”
“There have been rebellions aplenty,” the ruddy-faced man murmured, “and they all ended the same way.” He saw the look in Hereward’s face and snapped, “Do not call us cowards! You have been away from the worst of it. If you had been here, you would be like the rest of us.”
His nose turning pink from the ale, Holbert returned with another full cup. “Entire villages are starving because the Normans have taken the food for their own garrisons. The sickness has returned, some say. People are dying in their own blood, puke, and shit all over England. These are the End-Times, just like all the prophecies said, and there’s not a thing you can do about it.”
Anger flashed across Hereward’s face, but he controlled himself. “I am not here to wage war with the Normans. I am outlaw. You, Holbert, all the men and women here, none of you wanted any part of me. England wanted no part of me. I was driven away from my home, and saw my woman murdered by others who sought to use me for their own ends.”
“Then why have you come back?”
“To see my father one final time, and find some peace between us for what has gone before. To talk to my young brother Beric and make amends for the blight I must have placed upon his life. And to speak to Redwald, if I can, about a matter that may interest him.”
Hereward could feel Alric’s sympathetic gaze upon him, but it was Holbert who caught his attention. The elderly man blanched almost as white as his beard.
“What troubles you?” Hereward asked, his eyes narrowing.
“It is not for me to say. You will find out soon enough.” The boatwright glanced toward the western sky. “It gets dark early this time of year. If you leave now, you should be home by dusk.” He caught himself. “But your father is not at his hall.”
Hereward flinched. “The Normans have taken it?”
Nodding, Holbert flashed a glance at Sawin that the warrior couldn’t read. “He is staying in the house that used to belong to Berwyn the leatherworker. Before Berwyn saw fit to anger the bastards.”
Hereward could see that a dark mood had fallen on the two men, but neither would discuss what haunted them. He finished his ale and thanked Holbert for his hospitality before making his way back to the old straight track.
“Why did you not tell me you wanted to visit your kin?” Alric asked.
“I should tell you everything?”
Alric looked hurt. “If I am to help you—”
“Some things are beyond help.”
For a moment the monk hesitated, and then he said, “I find myself afraid, and I do not know why. But the look on Holbert’s face—”
“It is too late to go back.” Hereward ended the conversation and closed his own mind to conjecture. Instead, he fixed his attention on the gray light moving toward the horizon and set off along the track.
He felt his mood darken with the fading of the day. No comfort came to him from the old trees that had been friends in his youth, places for hiding or trysting. No old memories stirred him. Barholme was silent. A chill wind blew across the scattered
farms, some unidentifiable sour odor caught up in it. Suddenly he realized he was not yet ready to face his father. Troubled thoughts had been stirred up in him, and he would wait until they stilled. He needed to find the right words and not be driven by rage or loathing or grief.
“I would see my father’s hall first,” he said.
Alric looked pleased that the uneasy silence had been broken. “This is your home?” he said, looking round.
“Asketil Tokesune is a wealthy man. He holds land in many places, freely with sake and soke, but Barholme was always close to his heart.”
“And you have fond memories of it?”
“I have … memories.”
Hereward strode on, determined to avoid more questions. He followed the track through the leafless trees until he saw his father’s hall loom up in the half-light. It was an old, timber-framed building, the thatch wearing thin in many places. From within echoed the raucous sound of drunken singing.
Hereward stiffened. Alric caught his friend’s sword-arm and whispered, “You have learned some wisdom in your years on the road. Do not throw it away now that you are back on your own soil.”
Hereward nodded. “The wisdom is all yours.” The loud voices told him there were many Normans inside the hall, too many to confront. Still, the building called to him. He thought of his mother lying on the boards, her glassy eyes devoid of the warmth he had known. Her ghost still walked here, the ghost of the woman she had been. His chest tightened as the visions rose up.
Each step along the track to the arched gateway in the enclosure brought another memory of her, teaching him the harp with giggles and teasing, singing, smiling, calling to him to come home. Come home, Hereward. Come home.
And then he looked up the tall elm poles that formed the arch and his heart stopped.
Alric must have noticed that his friend had grown rigid, for he hissed, “What is wrong?” Standing beside the warrior, the monk followed his line of vision to the top of the arch, squinting in the growing dusk, not believing what he was seeing. And then all he could say was “Oh.”
Hanging on the arch was a head, turning green, eyes gone, mouth sagging. The decay had not been merciful, for Hereward recognized it in an instant. His young brother, Beric.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
BLOOD FLOODED HEREWARD’S HEAD. IN THE THRUM OF ARTERIAL flow, he heard his young brother’s dying screams and the laughter of the Normans hacking through muscle and gristle. Rage, burning hot. And then whispers, the seductive voice of his devil, throwing off the shackles that had been forged so carefully over three years, and rising up in him, filling him, destroying him.
Someone tried to grab him, urging him to restrain himself, to grieve but not to hate, but the words came to him as if through deep water. The warrior threw the arms off him and rounded on the one trying to restrain him. It was the monk. Whatever Alric saw in his friend’s face, he recoiled in horror.
“There must be blood for this,” Hereward hissed. Flames closed in around his vision.
“If you give in to your urges, you will lose everything you have gained,” the monk pleaded.
“It is too late for that. Too late for everything.”
“Please, I will pray for you.…” Alric clutched at his companion’s tunic.
“I do not need your prayers,” Hereward snapped. “Only revenge. He … he was barely a man.” Caught by a rush of grief, he glanced back at the rotting head above the archway. The stink of decomposition drifted down to him.
“Then at least do not confront the Normans now. You will be killed.” The monk let go of the tunic and stepped back, clutching his hands together in desperation.
Hereward’s head swam. His devil urged him to enter the hall and slaughter all he found there, telling him that then, and only then, would the pain be eased; only then would he find peace. The monk sensed his inner battle and grabbed him once again. As if dashing in a skull with a rock, Hereward threw his friend to the floor. Unsheathing his sword, he almost drove it into Alric’s chest there and then to end the sanctimonious pleadings.
Alric threw his arms wide. “Kill me, then. If it will end your rage and save your soul, I give you my life.”
Blood closed over Hereward’s vision and he thrust down with the blade. The monk cried out. His vision clearing, Hereward glared down at a torn robe and a bloody shoulder. Some hidden part of him had twisted the sword at the last moment, but he had been poised to kill the man who had tried to save him.
Sickened, the warrior sheathed his sword and lurched away through the growing gloom. The blood still pounded in his ears, filled with screams and whispers. Stark trees lashed in a howling wind that had blown up from nowhere, and in that gale he thought he could hear the voices too—or was it just the alfar stalking him, ready to steal his life and his soul? The moon was out, and the stars, glittering like ice.
Down winding tracks he ran into the haunted night, and gradually his rage seeped away and his blood subsided and the devil returned to its cave. When his thoughts calmed, he recognized the small, timber-roofed house that had belonged to Berwyn the leatherworker looming out of the dark. Now, though, it was the home of his father.
Standing on the threshold, Hereward felt unsure if he could enter. His stomach had knotted, and though he told himself it was his mounting grief at Beric’s death, he knew he was simply afraid. How had he come to this? So many hearts had been stilled by his sword, and he was frightened of an old man. His father could do him no harm. And he had traveled so many miles across the whale road, just to be here. Why could he not bring himself to go inside?
Cursing his weakness, he called, “Asketil Tokesune.” When there was no reply, he repeated, louder this time, “Asketil Tokesune. It is your son. Hereward.”
A low growl emanated from the quiet interior; it could almost have been that of a beast.
Hereward entered the dark, chill house. Only a few dying embers remained in the hearth. The floor was beaten mud covered with dry rushes, not the fine timber boards of a thegn’s hall, and in the gloom he could see little sign of comfort, no tapestries, no ivory or gold, no cauldron of ale. A gray figure hovered in the shadows near the far wall. When it stepped forward, Hereward felt shocked by how greatly his father had aged. Asketil’s face was the color of ashes, hollow-cheeked and sagging around the eyes so that the shape of the skull could be identified. The thegn’s silvery hair was thinning on top and hung lank around his shoulders. But the warrior felt most struck by his father’s loss of potency. The man of iron who had ranged through the days of Hereward’s youth with fists like hammers and a heart like an anvil had been replaced by a bent-backed, hollow-chested wisp of straw.
Visions flashed through Hereward’s head. Broken bones and bloody noses. Split lips and black eyes. A night of terror buried beneath the boards of the hall while the rats scurried all around. Cruel words delivered from a cold face, accusations of weakness and failure. And then the memories he wanted to keep locked away for ever, surfacing in a rush that took his breath away: those fists raining down on his mother, even while she pleaded and cried until her lips were so pulped that she could not form words, and the sounds like the cracking of dry summer wood, and the wet, sticky splatterings on the boards, and the low moans slowly fading away until there was only silence.
For a moment, Hereward reeled as if he had been struck again. And when the visions finally cleared, his father still stood there with eyes like coals.
“I should have known that in this lowest tide of my life, the harbinger of all that has gone wrong would sail back in.” Asketil spat each stony word.
Hereward fought to restrain himself. He had played this meeting over in his head many times, promising himself he would not give in to rage or accusations. All he wanted was the final spade of earth upon a grave.
“Beric,” Hereward croaked. “The Normans killed him.”
“You killed him.”
Though he recognized the absurdity of the statement, Hereward still felt the blo
w to his heart.
Asketil continued: “When you took the life of your woman—”
“I did not kill her,” Hereward interjected. “I do not know whose hand held the blade, but Tidhild died at the order of Harold Godwinson.”
“When you took the life of your woman,” Asketil continued as if he had not heard his son’s denial, “and fled like a coward rather than accept judgment of your bloody actions, Beric’s heart was broken. His wits fled. In that boy’s eyes, you were hero, not outlaw.”
Because he saw me as his savior from your hand, Hereward thought.
“He never spoke again after the day you abandoned him. One week ago, something stirred within him, some madness, and he ran to my hall and taunted the knights and threw stones. And they meted out their punishment in the harsh manner that is the Norman way.” The older man flashed a sneering look at Hereward as he went to the hearth. “You failed the boy as you have failed all of us.”
For a moment, Hereward let the words hang in the air. “I have come here—”
“… to beg my forgiveness?” Asketil’s humorless laughter rolled out. “You will never get that.”
“To give you the opportunity to ask for forgiveness.” Hereward’s voice hardened. “So that you can atone for your crimes, and all the matters that lie between us can be laid to rest.”
Asketil whirled. “My crimes?” he snapped. “All the misery that has been inflicted on this house has come from your actions. The shame you have heaped upon me over the years … your crimes as a child … the robbing and the beatings of good neighbors … the mockery you brought to me at court with your misbehavior. And then”—he smacked his lips with distaste—“you took an innocent life in drunkenness or rage, and you forced me to plead with Harold Godwinson, a Wessex man, to intercede with the King on my behalf so our kin would not suffer the greatest shame of all. If your crime had been debated by the Witan, all of England would have learned of my humiliation.”
