Time of the Wolf (25 page)

“Then we shall hide.”

Hereward saw no safe refuge in the wood. Nor would the churchmen slow, filled as they were with holy fire. He had seen time and again the torments and tortures they inflicted on those they believed to be in opposition to God's will. As he splashed through the cool water, his thoughts turned to making a stand with sword in hand, sacrificing himself, if necessary, to allow Turfrida to flee.

Before he could draw his blade, he noticed her cocking her head as if she were listening to some voice in her ear. “Follow me,” she gasped.

“What is this? Witchery?”

She ignored him, weaving away from the stream through a sea of bracken, her eyes fixed ahead as if she were following some unseen figure leading the way. They slid down a steep incline to where a section of land had slipped in the heavy rains. Among the tangle of exposed roots, she crawled on her belly, working her way into a dark space behind. Hereward followed, afraid there might be no room for his broader shoulders; but within a moment they were pressed tightly together in a dank hole. Turfrida was shaking beside him, as aware of her fate if they were caught as he was. He held her tight for comfort.

The sound of feet skidding down the incline echoed through the earth. Through the narrow tunnel, Hereward watched the men jabbing their spears into the undergrowth as they searched. The priest had the cold face of a warrior, he thought, a hard man accustomed to inflicting pain, a seasoned campaigner who would go to any lengths to achieve his aims.

He had no idea how long the grim-faced churchmen prowled around the woods, but when they finally disappeared from view down the slope, Turfrida began to relax in his arms. Her deep, juddering breath echoed in the small space.

“Your blasphemy will cost you your life,” he said with no little tenderness.

“I am what I am,” she replied. “I can be no other.”

Once silence descended on the wood, they wriggled out and made their way back up the slope. Hereward saw in Turfrida's dirt-streaked face that she was still afraid. “By his looks, the priest is one who goes by the name of Emeric, a Norman,” she said, biting her lip. “He was directed by the Pope himself to travel the land hunting witches, and it is said he loves his work as much as he loves God. He uses a hot rod to burn the flesh or weighs women down with rocks and throws them into deep water.” She began to shake again.

“Let us see his God-given courage when he faces my sword.”

“You cannot protect me if accusations are made. No one can. The Church is more powerful than even you.” She forced a smile, but it looked uncharacteristically sad.

“I cannot stand by—”

“A good warrior knows the time to fight and the time to wait, so you once told me.” She took his hand and added, “I am moved by your concern for me, but know that I have faced these trials all my life and I have survived. As the castellan's daughter, I am offered some protection, and I have many friends who will guide this priest in another direction. For now, though, I will stay with my mother's sister until he moves on to torment some other poor woman.”

Frustration welled in Hereward's chest. “How long will that be?”

“Fear not. We will be together again.”

He searched her face. “Is this one of your auguries? Is it written?”

She smiled. “In my heart.”

When they parted company in the shadow of the palisade, he realized how much Turfrida had settled into his thoughts. He found it a strange feeling, at once unsettling and promising, the peace of which he had always dreamed. For once, he looked to the future with hope.

But as he moved into the oddly quiet streets, he felt a shadow descend on him. He saw unease in the faces of everyone he passed, and eyes darting in suspicion and mistrust. When he reached the pond beside the tavern, he understood the source of their fear. From a distance, it appeared that a bundle of linen was floating in the dirty water. It was an elderly woman, dead, the back of her dress torn open to reveal numerous pricks from a blade. Emeric the Priest had already been here.

Hereward struggled to comprehend the feelings rising through him. In all his life he had never tasted fear. But at that moment he felt afraid, for Turfrida, and dwarfed by a threat that could not be cut down by even the sharpest blade.

CHAPTER THIRTY

3 October 1065

I
T SEEMED AS THOUGH ALL
N
ORTHUMBRIA WAS BURNING
, perhaps all England. Church bells tolled the alarm as a wall of fire roared out across the wealthy merchants' homes and the southern palisade of Eoferwic. Yet in the choking pall of black smoke, warriors waved bloodstained axes and swords in the air and people danced and cheered with voices made hoarse by passion. Bands of men moved through the streets, flushing out their hiding prey. Whenever fugitives broke cover, they would be hacked down, their heads lopped off and hauled up on poles as a warning to others.

Acha cowered beside the line of burning houses, her pale face seared by the heat. Ashes flaked across her raven hair and streaked her coarse slave's dress. Her eyes darted around in fear that she would be caught by the blood-crazed rebels. Most of the day she had spent running and hiding, afraid for her life, listening to the screams of the dying as the circle of iron drew tighter around her. Even the slaughter of her own people in the thickly forested hills of Gwynedd had not been so terrifying.

Through the thunder of the fire and the crash of falling timbers, she heard men chanting, “Hereward! Hereward!” Over the seasons since he had disappeared, the bear-killer had become a symbol of resistance to the people opposed to Tostig's rule. Why, she was not quite sure, but she had heard the Mercian's name whispered with awe in the marketplace.
Oh, what a tempest you have unleashed, Hereward,
she thought bitterly. It will blow us all away. She had needed a protector and he had failed her, and now he would see her dead.

A hand grasped her wrist and she screamed in shock. It was Kraki, dried blood caked across his beard from a new wound on the bridge of his nose. “Our time here is done,” the huscarl growled, glancing around.

“We cannot escape—” she began breathlessly.

“There is a way. Come. I will look after you.”

Keeping his head down, the Viking led Acha along a puddled path beside a workshop, the route as clear as day in the golden glow from the fire. At the far end, they emerged on to a street among the burning houses. Acha could barely stand from the heat scorching her throat. She felt sure then that she would never see her homeland again.

A cry rang out through the din of the burning. Whirling, she saw the one-eyed, one-handed rabble-rouser, Wulfhere, leading a band of rebels through the smoke. A triumphant grin split his face as he pointed at the two fugitives.

“Run like the deer, slave girl. Run faster than you ever have in your life,” Kraki shouted.

She followed the huscarl toward the inferno consuming Tostig's hall as the hungry roar of their pursuers echoed at their backs. Yet she slowed to a halt when she realized that his intended path lay between the hall and a burning barn. A sheet of flame and swirling amber sparks blocked the way.

“No,” she cried. “We will die.”

“Die by fire or die by axe,” he snarled. “Trust me.” The Viking tore off his cloak and threw it over her head. As she protested, he grabbed her and hauled her along. The roaring of the fire drowned out her panicked squeals, and then, even through the thick wool, Acha felt the heat envelop her. For a moment, she was convinced she had died and gone to hell, and then Kraki's thunderous battle cry echoed around her as the air grew cooler.

When the cloak was torn away, she saw they stood on the ramparts on the southern edge of the town with the conflagration behind them. Hacking out coughs, Kraki rested for a moment with his hands on his knees. Sparks flickered in his beard, and his face was black.

“Thank you,” Acha said, overwhelmed with gratitude. “You risked your life for me. I … I would not have thought it.”

“You're a sullen cow with a savage tongue, but you deserve better than that,” he muttered.

They stumbled through the ditches and across the plain in the October chill, heading for the high ground where they knew the remnants of those loyal to Tostig waited. Not far beyond the ramparts, two bodies hung on poles, the flesh green and bird-torn. Acha recognized Amund and Ravenswart, two of the huscarls, who had been butchered on the first day of the insurrection when the Northumbrian thegns had attacked with two hundred men. The earl had been overconfident, she realized, believing he could contain the long-simmering uprising with even more brutality and desperate pleas to his brother for support. Within hours, the treasury had been sacked, the armory looted, and Tostig and his forces driven beyond the walls. A fool, she thought, like all English men, seduced by their own bragging.

They fell silent as they trudged across the grasslands, their lungs protesting from the smoke they had inhaled. Briefly, they halted before a vast field of armored corpses reeking of decay. A sad red banner fluttered on a pole. Though the blood had long since soaked into the black soil, Acha knew the slaughter of so many of Tostig's men would linger in the earl's mind for as long as he lived. Never had he suffered such a defeat.

Her legs were shaking with exhaustion when they reached the high ground and heard the snort of horses and the low murmur of strained voices. She felt shocked to see barely fifty men gathered on the edge of the wood, their heads low in dismay. With his wife Judith beside him, Tostig looked toward the fires of Eoferwic painting the night sky a dull red in the distance. His face was drained of blood, and he looked at that moment many years older than the last time she had seen him, Acha thought.

“Did you know they have declared me outlaw? That they have sent for Morcar of Mercia to rule here in my stead?” the earl said to Kraki, his voice drenched in bitterness. “For all I did to bring law and prosperity to Northumbria, the ungrateful bastards have brought me down to nothing.”

“While there is life in your breast, the end is untold,” the huscarl muttered.

“True. Though Eoferwic is lost, this is a time for plotting. There are other roads ahead.”

“You will meet your brother?” Kraki enquired. “If Harold Godwinson still backs your claim—”

Tostig shook his head forcefully. “My brother has betrayed me. He sees his own power under threat if this uprising spreads south, and so he has thrown me to the wolves. He supports Morcar as earl. Morcar, the Mercian bastard, as bad as his brother Edwin, our bitterest rivals. And so the poor souls who cleave to me are put to the sword and wild lawlessness spreads across the land.” He glanced at Judith and said, “I wish I had listened to you, wife. I thought the blood I had shared with my brother meant something, but Harold thinks only of himself.”

“You will still meet him, though?” she asked. Acha thought her mistress's face looked unbearably sad.

“I will speak to him, and the King, though I fear I know the outcome already.”

“What, then?” Judith enquired, her voice tremulous.

“We will flee to Flanders and entrust ourselves to
your
blood. Count Baldwin will welcome us, I am sure, and then we shall see what price shall be paid for this shame.” His voice grew as hard as iron.

“I heard the rebels chanting the name of that Mercian, Hereward,” Kraki muttered. “I thought him dead. Has he played some part in this uprising?”

“Hereward left England behind for Flanders long ago,” Judith replied.

Acha saw Tostig snap round to his wife, as surprised by this information as everyone else there. Anger burned in his eyes at his wife's secrecy, but gradually he softened, and then shook his head. “No matter. Hereward was as much a victim of my brother's plotting as everyone here. I hold no grudge against him.”

Judith reached out and took her husband's hand, though both kept their eyes on the distant flames. After a moment, the earl said, “Kraki, you have been a loyal servant, but I now free you from your oath to me, and from your contract.”

The huscarl bowed his head and thanked him. Acha felt surprised by Tostig's reward to his most faithful follower in this darkest hour. Perhaps there was some honor in the earl's heart after all. As the Viking wandered away toward the other men in the trees, she hurried after him. “Wait,” she called, and when he half turned she added, “I would come with you. If you will have me.”

Kraki laughed. “How sly you are. You see an opportunity where many see only defeat.”

Acha felt her ears burn, though she set her jaw defiantly, expecting a refusal.

“Very well, then,” the huscarl said finally. “I could do with some comfort on the road ahead. You will get your protection. But if you believe you can bewitch me into returning you to Gwynedd, think again. I travel south where there will be work aplenty for my axe, I wager.”

Relieved, Acha skipped beside her new companion. But as they walked into the woods, a movement caught her eye. In the trees stood a dark figure, close enough to have overheard every word Tostig had uttered. When the shape moved, she realized it was Harald Redteeth, the wild Viking who had left such a trail of blood in his wake when he had joined the earl's huscarls all those seasons ago. With a shudder, she realized she was happy to leave that red-bearded madman far behind her.

When she glanced back a moment later, Redteeth was gone. And in the distance, the flames of Eoferwic burned higher.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

T
WO MEN HUNCHED IN SILENCE OVER BLACK AND WHITE
counters on a tabula board which had been carved around the edge with scenes of warriors at arms. Only the spit and crackle of the logs in the hearth broke the silence. Harold Godwinson studied the arrangement of the ivory counters, one finger resting on his chin. But Redwald watched the older man's face as he scrutinized all that the earl did. The young man had learned that his master approached everything in life with the same degree of preparation and strategy as he did battle. Nothing was left to chance.