Time of the Wolf (22 page)

At the stern, one of the seamen struggled futilely with the steering oar. A crack sounded louder than the booming of the sea, and the oaken rudder snapped. The remnants drove up into the sailor's face, pitching him back and into the towering stern-post. Another, quieter crack echoed as his back broke.

“This wave-steed is dying beneath us,” Hereward shouted. The ravens flew so close now that he could almost feel their wings on the back of his neck, yet he felt no fear. A part of him welcomed what lay ahead, although he would have preferred an honorable death, with his sword in his hand. He glanced at the monk, trying to find some final words of kindness that would ease the man's soul at the last. But Alric's face now gleamed brightly, his eyes wide with hope.

“A beacon,” he gasped. “I saw a beacon. Our prayers have been answered.” He would have pointed if he could have torn his frozen hands from the mast.

Hereward peered ahead as the ship plunged into another trough, but saw only the impenetrable dark. “It was a star,” he said. “There is only water.”

“I saw it,” Alric protested. “We are close to land. Thank the Lord.”

Hereward decided to let his companion find some comfort in his wishful thinking.

Bracing himself again, he clung on to the greasy rope as another cold wave crashed against him. The vessel moved like lead, spinning round and rolling low in the water. The warrior knew the waves had almost filled the below-deck.

It will not be long now.

The thought had barely flashed into his head when he realized he was staring into a wall of black water. The wave came down.

He was drifting. His mother was there, as beautiful as he remembered from his earliest days, her pale face unmarred by blue bruises, her lips and nose not split, not bloody. And Tidhild was there too, taking his hand and trying to whisper something to him. But the more insistent she became, the more he resisted.

“The oak is split in two,” his mother called. “But it is not the end.”

Birds were shrieking.
Ravens,
he thought, his head awhirl with the reedy cries.
The ravens have come.

Not ravens, he realized after a moment. Gulls. All around him, in his head and out, their cries rising and falling.

Cold pebbles, hard under his face.

The boom of the waves, the sucking sound of water retreating over stone.

His eyes opened to a thin silver light. Every fiber of his body burned, and his head felt as if it were filled with iron. Heaving, he wrenched himself up on his arms and retched seawater. Scarcely able to believe he was alive, he glanced around at a pebbly beach littered with the remnants of the ship. Strakes washed on the surf and a pile of rigging lay nearby. Several bodies lay face-down along the shore, suspicious gulls padding around them.

Though sodden, he did not feel cold. The sound of crackling and spitting and a heat at his back drew his gaze to a bonfire being fed by a tall, thin man with a pockmarked face. He cast a bored eye over Hereward and stooped to pick up more driftwood. Eight survivors of the wreck sprawled around the fire, which was keeping them from dying from the warm-sleep. Some were still unconscious, he could tell. Others sat staring into the flames in shock. Lurching to his feet, Hereward was relieved to see Alric on the other side of the fire. The monk was still lying face down, but twitching like a dreaming dog.

“You saved us?” Hereward asked the pockmarked man.

“He speaks no English,” one of the seamen muttered. “He is Flemish.” The sailor waved a hand in the direction of three other men wading into the surf to search for anything worth salvaging from the wreck.

Peering down the beach, the warrior could make out a broad river estuary gleaming in the early morning light. The landscape at his back was flat and scrubby, skeletal black trees bowing away from the harsh sea wind.

“It seems a long way from England.”

Alric now loomed at Hereward's shoulder, looking over the Flemish countryside. Hereward saw that his companion was shaking, more from the aftermath of their experience than from the cold.

“England waits for us. We will return one day,” the warrior muttered.

The monk slumped back on to the pebbles, squeezing the seawater from his hair. “I am starting to believe that you bear a charmed life. However often you lead me into brushes with death, you always pluck me back from the brink.”

“If memory serves me, you did a good enough job yourself of welcoming death into your life.” Standing, Hereward shielded his eyes to watch three men on horseback riding across the pebbles toward them. His hand slipped to Brainbiter, still in its scabbard despite the sea plunge.

Alric pressed his fingers against his companion's wrist. “We have been reborn into a new life. This is your opportunity to leave behind the man you were and become the man you would be.”

“We are who we are,” Hereward said, but he let his hand fall to his side nonetheless.

Reining in their horses, the three men eyed the shipwreck survivors, trying to discern who was the spokesman for the group. In an insistent, querying tone, they made their demands in the rolling Flemish tongue, which reminded Hereward of the waves breaking upon the beach. The seaman who had first spoken to Hereward translated the men's orders, in accordance with which the survivors lumbered wearily to their feet and traipsed behind the horsemen into the cold morning.

They trudged along rutted tracks, thankful to be free of the snow that gripped England. After an hour, church spires appeared on the silver-gray horizon, and soon the ramparts of the town of Guînes loomed up. They passed an abbey, the quiet broken only by the rhythmic rattle of a waterwheel, and skirted a leper-house, the morning's bread left outside the door still uncollected. Within the walls, three church towers rose above the thatched and timber roofs, but Hereward found Guînes sleepy after the bustle of Eoferwic. Dogs yapped in the street, and men emerged from their workshops to eye the cause of the disturbance, returning to their tasks a moment later with a sniff and a shrug.

Though Alric had promised a new dawn, the warrior found he could not forget England or his hatred of Harold Godwinson. Without vengeance, how could he ever free himself from his shame, his grief, and his loneliness?

The riders dismounted and led the seamen into the hall of the local ruler, where they warmed themselves by the hearth, waiting to be seen. Not long after, a snowy-haired man, bent by his years, shuffled in with his retinue. His face was hollow-cheeked and crumpled by wrinkles. With a groan, he lowered himself into a carved oaken seat on a low dais at the far end of the hall while his attendants gathered on either side. His barely audible words creaked like leather, but the seaman translated for his companions.

“He is Count Manasses, who rules this county and has rights over all shipwrecks on this coast. He would know our names and our purpose here.”

One by one the seamen stepped forward to announce their identity; but when Hereward advanced, the count leaned forward and eyed the warrior curiously. The older man noted the blue-black markings of the warrior inscribed on Hereward's arms, and the gold rings, and his stature and his sword.

“My name is Hereward Asketilson. I am exiled from my homeland, a fighter, trained in spear, sword, and axe, a huntsman, a rider. I seek to earn my way in Flanders.” His voice echoed clearly across the hall.

Manasses studied Hereward for a moment, and then spoke. “The English have been coming to Flanders since the days of his youth,” the sailor translated. “High-born men and women as well as merchants. But there is always a need for warriors with strong right arms. The counts of this country fight over any slight, real or imagined, and all dispute their territorial boundaries. You will earn your way here as a sword for hire, he says, but only if you are good enough. If you are not, you will be dead within the week.” Manasses's laugh rustled across the hall.

“There is no man in this country I fear,” Hereward replied.

The count gave a slow nod and beckoned with one finger to a figure standing at the back of his attendants. A man strode forward who appeared as big as the bear Hereward had killed in Eoferwic. The Mercian took in the wild red hair and the untamed beard that fell almost to the man's navel, both streaked with gray, and the heavily scarred arms that looked as if they had been carved from oak. A leather patch covered the giant's left eye. Despite his fearsome appearance, however, his mouth was split in a warm grin and his chest shook with silent laughter.

“Little man,” he boomed, “my name is Vadir. I am a man of Mercia and I welcome a brother from my home to these unfamiliar fields. Count Manasses would see your claim put to trial. Let us test your bravery and strength before all in this hall, and if your reputation survives there will be no shortage of gold to hire your sword.”

“You may be tall and broad, but even oaks will fall with enough cuts of the axe.” Hereward knew he was weakened by the shipwreck and the long march, but he put on a cold face and started to draw his sword.

“No weapons, little man. There is no need to spill blood here, for we are all friends. It is play, no more, for the benefit of our hosts.” The bear-like man clapped a hand on the warrior's shoulder.

“Play, you say? Though the loser will be humbled before the eyes of all here? This is serious business.”

Vadir laughed. “You are a true warrior. Come, let us see if we can complete this trial without too much harm to you.”

When the red-haired man led Hereward toward the hearth, an excited whisper rustled through the attendants, but two young men jeered and pointed, laughing together.

The warrior glanced at them, then directed a questioning look at Vadir.

“They say the English are weak,” the big man translated. “Weaker than the Vikings. Weaker than the Normans.”

Hereward simmered. “Then they have not seen a true Englishman in battle.”

“Let us teach them, as we would children.” Vadir stripped off his tunic and motioned for his opponent to do the same. Naked to the waist, his torso was a patchwork of pink scars.

“You are old,” Hereward said. “I will restrain myself.”

The other man boomed with laughter. “Ah yes, poor me. My body fails me.”

One of the attendants tossed him a length of greased rope. Vadir tied one end tightly round his right wrist and offered the other end to Hereward, who did the same. When the two warriors faced each other across the hearth, the big man waved their bond in the flames with a shake of his arm. “A simple game. Your aim is to survive until the rope burns through. Should your strength falter, you will be dragged through the embers and face a burning.”

Two attendants stoked the fire until the flames roared up higher than a man.

Hereward tested the rope. “One of us will be roasted like a hog, but it will not be me,” he said with a nod to signal he was ready.

Vadir's broad grin gleamed through the twirling gray smoke.

Both men took the strain on the rope. For a moment they sized each other up, and when the circle of attendants began to shout encouragement to their favored competitor, the contest started. Vadir yanked on the rope, almost propelling Hereward into the flames. The warrior braced himself, reassessing his opponent's strength. In a fair fight, he could see he would be no match for his fellow Mercian. He had to make it a contest more of guile and skill than of muscle.

Playing to the crowd, Vadir roared with laughter. He flexed his right arm again and drew Hereward toward the fire. Beads of sweat trickled down the warrior's brow. The jeers of the crowd rang in his buzzing ears; they sensed a quick defeat. His leather shoes slid on the boards, and his arm shook from the strain of resisting.

Vadir laughed louder, punching the air with his free hand.

Then, with one sharp yank from his opponent, Hereward's exhausted legs gave way. His face plunged toward the embers, and he flashed back to Thangbrand sizzling in the hearth in Eoferwic. God was surely punishing him for his sins. Ramming his hands against the rocks circling the fire, he stopped his momentum, but the heat seared his skin.

Vadir chuckled, allowing his younger opponent to scramble back to his feet. This time Hereward changed tactics. He leaped to his right and wrenched on the rope. Vadir stumbled toward the fire, off balance. Shock flashed across his face. Reasserting himself, he narrowed his eyes and nodded, but his grin remained.

For long moments, the two men feinted and fought, Hereward dancing with a light foot that the heavier man would never be able to match. Vadir, in turn, planted his feet firmly and strained his back and arms to haul the warrior over the embers whenever he appeared wrong-footed.

The greased rope sizzled and blackened.

Unimpressed by both combatants, the two young attendants jeered more loudly. Though he couldn't understand their words, Hereward felt stung by the obvious mockery. He saw that Vadir had the same feelings. His grin fading for the first time, the big man flicked his eyes toward the two Flemings, who laughed again at their private joke and slapped each other's back.