Time of the Wolf (14 page)

The promise hung in the icy air for a moment, then Hereward allowed himself to be led back into the filthy streets of Eoferwic. Under the pall of woodsmoke, the people were eagerly anticipating the coming feast and relief from daily toil, if only for a while. Faces were flushed and eyes gleamed. Freshly cut holly twisted around doorways, and sweating men dragged Yule logs across the frozen mud to their hearths. Under twirls of milky-berried mistletoe, men stole kisses from young women as they had done since the days of their most distant ancestors. Over the rooftops rang the squeals of the pigs and the honking of the geese facing slaughter.

“You are allowed greater freedom than many slaves,” Hereward said as Acha picked a narrow path into one of the oldest, dirtiest parts of the town.

“My reward for serving my mistress well.”

“I have watched you. You are filled with fire, and your tongue is as sharp as a knife, but you bite it whenever the earl or his wife is around.”

“We all do what we do to survive.” She skirted a spoil-heap where two hollow-stomached dogs fought over a cow bone, snapping and snarling.

“But you are not at ease with your lot.”

“You see that, do you?” Her eyes flashed.

Hereward saw more than she realized. Her flinty exterior hid a deep, unfocused yearning, much like the one he felt himself. He had never known peace, and Acha, too, was filled with unease, he was sure. The warrior knew that she thought escaping back to her homeland of mountains and forests would still the incessant drone in her head, but he guessed that the source of her troubles lay deeper than that. Perhaps it was the curse of all men and women that no one could see the road that would take them safely through the wilderness.

“Your king, Gruffydd ap Llywelyn, is raiding England once again. You know King Edward will not allow that to continue. Your people will face a bloody response.”

“Do not treat me like a girl,” she snapped. “I know many things, and more than you. I know Edward is to discuss the English response at his Christmas court at Gloucester, the court Earl Tostig cannot attend because of the troubles here in Eoferwic. But he will be asked to invade Gwynedd and Powis to drive Gruffydd ap Llywelyn back, there is no doubt of that.”

“You keep your eyes and ears open in your mistress's presence, I see,” Hereward responded. “Do you hope that your knowledge of your homeland might be of use to Earl Tostig should such an invasion arise? Perhaps that he might take you back to the Cymri? And then what? An escape? The information you have gathered on the earl would be of great value to your king.”

“Never. I am loyal to my mistress,” she replied, the lie apparent.

“You scheme and plot and twist men and women to your advantage more skillfully than anyone I know. I should watch you,” he said as they came to a halt outside a small, filthy hovel.

She gave him an enigmatic smile. “If you are aware of my games, you are protected from them.”

Ducking down, she eased through the doorway. Hereward followed and found himself in a smoky space lit by the glow from the embers in the hearth. Unfamiliar plants smoldered in the fire, filling the air with an odd scent that was at first sickly-sweet but carried bitter undertones. The skulls of birds and small woodland animals hung from the roof in strings that rattled as he pushed his way through them. He was reminded of the house where the
wicce
had given them shelter after the escape from Gedley. By the fire sat a gray-haired woman with rheumy eyes, beating out a steady rhythm with a hollow wooden pipe. Her forearms were covered with faded blue-black etchings, and her cheeks too.

“Britheva, I have brought the one I told you about,” Acha whispered, crouching next to the elderly woman.

“He is welcome.” The woman's throaty voice held an accent that Hereward didn't recognize. He squatted on her other side.

“You are a wise woman,” he said. “I thought the church had driven you out of all the towns.”

“The tide comes in, the tide goes out. The rocks remain.” Peering deep into her guest's face, Britheva held out a hand, snapping her fingers with irritation until Hereward offered his own. The woman grabbed his wrist and flipped it back and forth a few times, examining his skin. She nodded. “Feeder of Ravens.”

The warrior flinched inwardly. The familiar vision of the black birds rising up from the lightning-split oak loomed large in his mind.

“What do you see?” Acha asked in a deferential whisper.

After a moment's silence in which there was only the wind whistling in the shadowy roof space and the crackle of the fire, Britheva closed her eyes and let her head fall back. “These are the days we feared,” she croaked.

Acha bowed her head, her black hair falling across her face.

“From across the whale-road they come, on wave-steeds, bringing doom to all,” the elderly woman continued. “Amid the spear-din, the battle-sweat will stain the hillsides. A new breaker of rings will arise, but his rule will be brutal and bloody.”

“The End-Times,” Acha breathed, “as the Bible foretold.”

“Starvation. Sickness. Many will die. This land will be blighted. And all the beauty we have made here, and the joy, and the songs, the wisdom of our ancestors, all the great things we have made and the great things we have done, will be washed away as if by the spring floods.” Britheva fixed an eye on Hereward through the swirl of blue smoke. “Are you afraid, Feeder of Ravens?”

“There are prophecies and portents everywhere these days. If these dark times come, they come.”

“You are ready.” The elderly woman chuckled. “You have been forged in fire. You know death as a friend, I see that, and not only on the battlefield.”

Hereward flinched once more; the wise woman struck too close. Unbidden, his mind flashed to his mother's dead face, her glassy eyes staring into his own, her features barely recognizable. And then to Tidhild, his love, lying in the pool of still-fresh blood, her pebble-eyes staring too, accusing. He had brought death to her hearth; he alone carried the responsibility for her ending. He had always feared that he was cursed, and now it seemed that this woman recognized it too.

He started to rise, but Britheva grabbed his wrist once more and held him back with surprising strength. “Does the truth cause you pain?” she hissed. “There is a reason for all things. The pattern unfolds around us, but we see only the smallest part of it.”

“And what do you see for him?” Acha asked.

Britheva peered into Hereward's face for a long moment. “I see him surrounded by fire, a wall of flames.”

“No prophecy, that,” he replied with a shrug. “It has already happened.”

“And it will happen again, and again, and again, for fire is your destiny, and blood too. The ravens will always follow you, their friend.”

“So be it. I have accepted who I am.”

The woman sniggered. “You do not know who you are. Not yet. But you will learn. If you live.”

Hereward felt a spurt of anger at the woman's words. “You cannot see inside me,” he snapped. Britheva only smiled.

“Is he the one you saw?” Acha pressed.

“It is possible. All things are possible. The gods play their games, but sometimes men resist.”

“And then they are punished?” the younger woman went on.

“And then they are punished.”

Acha stared at Hereward and in her face he saw something surprising: a desperate hope. “Perhaps you will save us all,” she said quietly.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“E
VERYONE IS GRIPPED BY A FEVER
,” H
ERE WARD SAID IN IRRITATION
as he and Acha walked back to Earl Tostig's hall. “If doom and destruction lie ahead, why fret? It will come soon enough.”

“Do you not fear Judgment Day?”

The warrior wrapped his cloak tighter around him against the stinging flakes. “I fear nothing. My sword and my axe and my good right arm serve me well enough.”

The woman eyed him from the depths of her hood but said nothing.

Twilight was giving way to black, and the snow swept down in sharp flurries. Outside the houses and workshops, men stamped their feet and blew on their hands as they prepared to end their last working day before Christmas. Conversation rang with good cheer and the hails were loud and hopeful. Through the doorways, Hereward could see the comforting red glow of fires and smell the night's stew bubbling in pots. Beyond Eoferwic, the night was deep and dark and still. No stars shone, and there was no moon.

As the great hall loomed ahead, Acha came to a halt and stepped in front of the warrior. “You and I can find common purpose.”

“To betray Earl Tostig?”

“Though you refuse to acknowledge your destiny, it seems that great things lie ahead for you. I would join you on that journey. I am tired of this life here. I am weary of the struggle and the strife and the pawing hands of the men, and the sameness.” She leaned in closer so that it seemed she was about to kiss him. “In Cymru, I dreamed of glory and wonder, not this sour existence. I want more.”

When the wind plucked her words away, a muffled silence lay across the hall's snow-swathed enclosure for just a moment before a deep-throated growl rolled out from the dark. The hairs on the back of Hereward's neck pricked erect.

“What beast was that?” Acha whispered, afraid. She pressed closer, looking around.

Hereward peered into the night. Nothing moved. “All this talk of the End-Times has left you seeing the Devil in the shadows.” He flashed her a grin, making light of it.

Another growl rumbled out, and this time he could smell musk on the wind. Acha felt his muscles tense. “What do you see?”

Hereward's hand dropped to his sword hilt. Wolves would not have ventured so far into Eoferwic, even if they were starving, he knew. Puzzled, he sniffed the air and stilled his breathing so he could listen clearly.

A roar thundered out of the night. The ground vibrated from a heavy tread, gathering speed, and a moment later a shape as big as a cart burst into view. The unmistakable silhouette loomed against the snow.

Tostig's bear, the one shackled and penned in the corner of the enclosure. Free.

Acha shrieked. Hereward thrust the woman to one side, drawing his sword, but the beast was on him before he could pull the blade wholly from its scabbard. Another roar. His ears rang. A blast of meaty breath. A mouth torn wide, jaws strong enough to rip his head from his shoulders.

He flung himself back, too late. Talons tore through his cloak and into the flesh of his arm. The glancing sideswipe threw him from his feet in a shower of his own blood. Slamming into the frozen ground, he skidded on the thick snow. Through his daze, he heard roars echoing all around him. Cries of alarm rose up, spreading out into Eoferwic.

Hereward scrambled to his feet and went for his sword, but the scabbard was empty. Flickering torches appeared in the dark of the nearby streets, accompanied by querulous voices growing louder as they approached. Feet pounded in the snow.

When the bear's bellows receded as it moved away in search of other prey, he shook his head to try to dispel the fog. But a moment later Acha's scream of terror rang out. Without a second thought, he lurched toward the sound. A rough hand caught his arm.

“Leave her. She is only a slave. That beast is more fierce even than you.” It was Kraki, his voice a low growl of warning. The other huscarls surged from the hall.

Hereward threw the Viking off and ran.

A crash of splintering wood. Terrified shouts. He sprinted toward a semicircle of dancing torches that swept back and forth as if a tide of fire was washing against the enclosure. In their wavering light, he caught sight of Acha sprawled in the snow. The brown bear loomed over her, snarling jaws only a hand's breadth from the woman's petrified face.

Hereward hurled himself onto the bear's back, flinging his iron-muscled arms round its neck. The enraged beast thrashed from side to side in an attempt to throw off its burden, then reared up. Enveloped in its musky reek, Hereward clung on to the greasy fur, knowing that one slight slip could see him torn asunder. Shocked faces flashed by as he was hurled around, his feet flying. Each mouth formed an accusation of madness.

“He has no weapon.”

“The fool tries to kill it with his bare hands. He has lost his wits.”

And he could not deny the charge.

Half-slipping, his feet scrabbling for purchase, he glimpsed Acha stumbling away from the bear's claws. She cast one uncertain glance back at him before she plunged into the crowd. Relief sparked in him, a response that surprised him with its intensity, but he had no time to examine it. Inflamed, the beast threw itself across the rutted street like a ship caught in a storm at sea. Its flank shattered the shelter outside a metalworker's workshop, then punched through the wattle and daub of a house on the other side of the way.

Men and women in the growing crowd risked their lives for a sight of the spectacle and to marvel at this unarmed warrior who thought he could defeat a bear. In his excitement, a man stumbled too close. One swipe of a giant paw spilled his stomach into the snow. Before he had fallen, the creature's crushing jaws had splintered his skull.

By a pile of logs, the beast half-staggered and Hereward was torn free. Lurching out of a drift, he sucked in a deep breath.

“Run, you fool!” someone called.

Sensing that it had isolated its prey, the animal snapped round. The warrior took one step away, then came to a halt. How could he leave the cheering throng at the mercy of the fierce creature? An elderly man recognized the Mercian's dilemma and shrieked “Stand your ground!”

“Here!” The commanding voice crashed through the din.

Hereward glimpsed Kraki barging through the crowd just as the bear charged. Something glinted in the torchlight, turning quickly. Hereward caught the thrown axe, gripped it with both hands, and braced himself.