Hereward (9 page)

‘I will keep watch upon them, as you asked. And whatever I hear I will bring straight to your hall.’

‘Good. I fear the worst. If the prophecies and omens that fill Edward’s head are true, we all face dark times ahead.’ Holding up his hand, Harold brought Redwald to a halt. The gate hung open and five men in charcoal woollen cloaks were leading their horses into the enclosure. In the flickering light of the sentries’ torches, Redwald saw sallow, foreign features and darting, suspicious glances. But all the men walked with confidence, he noted, as if they felt they stood on their own territory.

‘Normans.’ Harold’s face darkened. Steadily, his huscarls gathered at his back. ‘They covet everything we have. Our land, our wealth, our laws, our art. We live and breathe fire here. We drink and feast and fight and sing. But the Normans are like cold stone. Taxes and ledgers and vast, grim churches, that is the Norman.’

One of the men, the leader of the group, Redwald guessed, held Harold’s gaze for a long moment before following a sentry towards the king’s hall.

‘What do they want here?’ he asked.

‘Sometimes I think Edward is losing his wits. At other times I think he is more cunning than a fox,’ the Earl of Wessex mused. ‘Would he truly dare offer England’s throne to his mother’s people?’

Redwald watched the black-cloaked men disappear into the warm glow of Edward’s hall. Everything was changing, as the prophecies foretold. What did the future hold?

C
HAPTER
N
INE

HEREWARD WARMED HIS hands against the fire roaring in the hearth of the vast hall. Relieved to be out of the harsh Northumbrian night, he watched the flames making the gold plate shine like beacons in the half-light. Jewels of red, blue and green sparkled in the sumptuous tapestries covering the walls. Looking round, he saw the hall was the finest he had seen; the earl was clearly enjoying the riches to be had in the north. Newly built in the latest two-floored style, the timber of the frame still smelled fresh. The sunken floor comprised boards suspended over a straw-stuffed vault to keep the building warm in the winter months. Two feasting tables and benches ran the length of the hall, and at the far end, on a raised platform, was the earl’s seat, carved with dragons on the arm rests. When he listened, the warrior heard the cracked, dark wood of the throne speak to him of the old days, when men were great heroes filled with fire and vengeance, not weak, sickly things who used shadow-words to achieve their aims.

Yet for all the comfort, his thoughts swept out across the frozen flood-plain into the suffocating dark. He saw burnished helmets, and eyes glowing with fire, spear-points stabbing towards the stars with each relentless step, and he knew there would be no peace for him in this life. Soon his enemies would be at the gates of Eoferwic and he would be forced to take a stand. But here it would be on his terms, perhaps even with good men at his back. He felt relieved that there would be no more running, and that he could finally be true to himself. Survival was nothing without truth.

The messenger darted in from the cold, his ruddy cheeks and curly hair making him appear boyish. Hereward was reminded of Redwald and felt a pang of regret that he might never see his brother again. ‘Fear not,’ the messenger gasped. ‘No enemies will reach you this night. Earl Tostig will join you shortly, but he has ordered men to watch the gates and to refuse entry to any strangers approaching during the hours of darkness.’

When the young man had departed, the warrior basked in the warmth slowly returning to his frozen fingers and toes. He could smell the resin of the wood becoming sweeter as it sizzled in the flames, but then his nostrils flared as another scent reached him on the draught. Spices brought in from the great hot lands beyond the sea and mixed in a paste made from tallow and herbs, which the women used to make themselves more appealing.

‘Why do you hide?’ he called. ‘Am I so fearsome?’

A shape separated from the deep shadows at the rear of the hall. With hair as black as raven-wing and creamy skin, the woman was clearly not a Dane, nor English, Hereward would wager, though he could not place her homeland. She was, perhaps, a year or two younger than him, wearing a plain forest-green dress held by an oval brooch.

‘You are not fearsome.’ Holding her chin up brazenly, she strode to the hearth and flung a handful of dried leaves into the flames. A sweet scent filled the air. The earl was welcoming him, as he had hoped.

‘You have never met any man like me,’ he said in a wry voice. He watched her dress fold around the body beneath and realized how long it had been since he had been with a woman.

Perhaps glimpsing his lingering stare, she paused, teasing with her lips but eyeing him from a position of strength. ‘I see fresh scars, like those on the arms of any of the huscarls. I hear boasting, like the easy, empty words that echo from the mouths of the boys who dream of being heroes, but know in their hearts they will never achieve that height. I see …’ she made a noise in the back of her throat, ‘nothing I have not seen before.’

‘And yet you waste your breath talking to me.’

‘When I hear of a new arrival, who has braved the lawless lands beyond the fence, on foot, in the middle of winter, I would see for myself if this is a fool, or one of the signs.’

‘Signs?’ Hereward circled the hearth, watching the woman through the smoke. He saw a flicker of apprehension cross her face.

‘Of the End-Times.’

The warrior shook his head.

‘At the minster, I heard talk that Archbishop Ealdred has sent word out for all men to watch for signs that this is the End of Days. And across Eoferwic everyone whispers of some wise woman’s dream that Doomsday draws near.’ The slave searched Hereward’s face for anything that he might be hiding.

He laughed. ‘These are winter stories, to frighten in the long nights. Every age believes it has been chosen to be the last. And if these are the End-Times, then so be it. There is little of value in this world.’

Puzzled, the black-haired woman remained silent for a moment. ‘You are not afraid?’ But at that moment the hall echoed with the approaching clatter of metal and tramp of leather on wood, and the slave retreated into the shadows. From the gloom at the far end of the hall emerged Earl Tostig Godwinson and his wife Judith, accompanied by five of his huscarls in hauberks and furs. Eyes gleaming beneath their helmets, the bodyguard were tall and lean, fierce of expression and heavily scarred. They were wild-bearded Vikings in the main and carried their axes as if Hereward was to be cornered and killed. The Mercian recognized the jagged facial scar and implacable stare of the one at the head of the band. He had led the dispersal of the crowd gathered outside the metalworker’s hut earlier that evening.

But Tostig held his arms wide and boomed a greeting. Dressed in a ruddy-dyed linen tunic under a thick woollen cloak, the earl stood a hand shorter than Hereward, his brown hair curling into ringlets and still sprinkled with the snow that must have started falling outside. He moved with a wolfish lope, his body strong and battle-hardened. But Hereward knew the man’s face hid secrets easily and it was difficult to know what he truly thought. In contrast, Judith’s face was open and smiling. A heavy-featured but not unattractive woman, she had gained some weight around her middle, but hid it beneath a beautiful linen dress dyed the colour of the sun. Tostig had married well, Hereward thought. As the daughter of Baldwin, Count of Flanders, the Bruges-born woman had powerful connections. Judith smiled at the new arrival. She had always been kind to him on the few occasions they had met at court, when every other noble had treated him with suspicion, contempt or fear.

‘I thought my servant was mistaken,’ the earl said, warming his hands in front of the fire. ‘Hereward of Mercia, here, so far from his home?’

‘You have not been to court in recent times?’

Tostig grunted. ‘Between repelling the raids from the north and trying to instil order among the unruly herd here in Northumbria, all my attention has been needed in Eoferwic. Let me tell you, my young friend, every night I dream of my old home in the south. This is the most lawless place on earth, and even the so-called civilized men are quick to rise up in violent protest if they feel they are not getting their due.’ With a weary shake of his head, he drew up a stool beside Hereward. ‘But I expected no more from a people fired by the blood of Viking pirates,’ he added with a note of bitterness.

Hereward saw the toll the heavy burden of office was taking upon the earl. His shoulders were hunched, his brow continually knitted. There were many in London who said Tostig was not up to the task of bringing order to Northumbria. He had lived all his life in the shadow of his brother Harold Godwinson, a strong and clever man, who had earned his power at court. But when Earl Siward had died, Harold had fought hard to have Tostig sent north, to ensure the Godwins controlled most of England. Only Hereward’s own home, Mercia, remained free of their influence, and there the newly appointed earl, Edwin, was inexperienced and no threat.
Or perhaps no obvious threat
, he thought.

‘What news do you have from the south?’ the earl enquired, shaking off his mood.

‘Edward’s court is a mess of plotting and deceit.’

Tostig laughed. ‘That is news?’

Judith joined them, resting one hand on her husband’s shoulder. ‘You are troubled,’ she said, her brow furrowing in concern. ‘What has driven you here to the cold north?’

‘My enemies have pursued me from London, determined to take my life.’

‘You always were skilled at finding adversaries,’ Judith said with a sad smile.

‘I am cursed with a difficult nature.’ Hereward returned the smile, remembering how she had once slipped him a honey cake when he had been left supperless in the cold outside the king’s hall after a fight.

‘Pursued you?’ The earl tossed a log on to the fire. Golden sparks soared up in the fragrant smoke. ‘Why would they risk their lives in the middle of winter?’

‘They are afraid that I learned dark secrets.’

‘Did you?’

His face impassive, the warrior said nothing.

Judith laughed. ‘He has learned to play the game of kings and earls.’

‘The king is ailing. His time on this earth may well be short, and as he has no issue the question of who wears the crown will, as you well know, be a matter of earnest debate.’ Hereward dangled his bait lightly. ‘I would think the Godwins would wish to have their say.’

Tostig’s eyes glittered. After a moment’s reflection, he turned to Judith and said quietly, ‘Leave us to discuss this matter.’ Once she had departed with the huscarls, the earl demanded, ‘What do you know?’

Hereward paused, searching for the correct words to describe the event that had changed the course of his life and possibly heralded his death. In his mind’s eye, the warrior saw himself stumbling drunkenly through the palace enclosure towards his home and his bed. He smelled the smoke of the hearths and the stone dust from the masons’ work on the king’s great folly, his new abbey. He heard the owls hooting in the trees on the far side of the wide, grey river, and the singing reverberating from the royal hall. He could still taste the sweet mead on his tongue and feel the night breeze caressing his skin as if every aspect of that night had been locked into his head for all time.

When he heard the echoing cry he raced to investigate. Where the vast stone blocks and timbers for the abbey’s construction were piled high, he glimpsed fierce movement on the edge of a circle of flickering torchlight. Two men, hooded and swathed in dark woollen cloaks, were plunging spears into a third man sprawled on the hard-packed earth. A pool of glistening blood was growing around him.

When Hereward yelled an alarm, the two murderers darted into the night. The warrior knelt beside the victim, but could see instantly that there was no saving him. The man’s face was unfamiliar; his beard and lank hair were turning white, his cheeks were hollow and his eyes were sunk deep in their sockets as if he had not eaten for many days.

‘Do not leave me!’ the man gasped, grabbing hold of Hereward’s wrist with a desperate strength.

‘I am here. Tell me who did this to you. I will see that you are avenged.’

‘I do not know their names.’ He dragged the warrior in closer. ‘Six summers gone I killed Edward Aetheling, the son of old King Edmund Ironside. Poisoned him. In Oxford.’

Hereward felt his drunkenness vanish in an instant. He was still being tutored by the monks at Burgh Abbey when he had heard of the death of the man who had been chosen to succeed England’s childless monarch. Edward Aetheling, the son of the present king’s half-brother, was in his forty-first year when he was brought back from exile in Hungary with the sole intent of being groomed to inherit the throne. No culprit had ever been found.

‘I wanted more gold,’ the man croaked. Tears leaked from his eyes. ‘To buy my silence. And they told me they would pay me here tonight …’

Hereward’s mind raced. ‘Who told you?’ But the victim would never answer anyone again, silenced in a more bloody manner than he had anticipated before he could implicate others in his terrible crime.

Querying calls rang across the palace grounds, answering the warrior’s earlier cry of alarm. After a moment’s hesitation, Hereward realized he could not risk being found with the victim. Someone would suspect he had learned too much.