Time of the Wolf (31 page)

Barely two weeks after Harold's coronation, the joyous mood faded. A strange ship sailed up the gray Thames and moored on the frosted bank beside the palace. In shining helmets with broad nose-shields and long mail shirts, the crew looked dressed for war, but one ship was not a threat. Yet from their armor, all could see that these grim-faced men were Normans. A dark mood fell across the palace as word spread, colder even than that bitter winter.

Five men disembarked, the only ones not wearing armor, but in their black hooded cloaks and with their fierce dark eyes they appeared just as menacing. At the gates they waited, seemingly oblivious of the cold, while Harold's advisers debated the appropriate course of action. When they were admitted to the palace, the five Normans strode directly to the king's hall. Harold waited on his throne. On either side of the monarch, the ranks of earls and thegns stood like sentinels; a show of strength. Barely visible, Redwald waited in the shadows just behind the throne, studying the new arrivals.

The Norman leader was a tall, slender man with a sharp nose and a heavy brow. The translator introduced him as Odo of Bayeux, the representative of William, Duke of Normandy. Redwald had spent much of his time since the coronation diligently learning all he could about the Normans from Harold. He knew Odo was much more than that pallid description. As the half-brother of William the Bastard, the Norman was one of the duke's most senior advisers, both a cleric and a warrior, renowned for crushing all opposition to William's word. Angel and Devil.

Harold knit his brow. “I welcome you to my hall,” he said with little enthusiasm. “What is the reason for this visit?”

Echoing his master, the translator said in halting English, “I bring a message from William of Normandy. He would know why you have usurped the throne that was promised to him.”

Harold sniffed. “There was no promise, as your master knows full well. He seeks any excuse to claim what he has always wanted, a prize far greater than he deserves. I am King Edward's chosen heir and that is the end of it.”

Odo seemed unmoved by Harold's dismissal—almost, Redwald thought, as if he had expected the response and a decision had already been taken on how to proceed. The Norman nodded slowly, then spoke quietly to his translator, who said simply, “Then only one course can lie ahead: war.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

3 June 1066

“K
ISS HER
! K
ISS HER
! T
HEN TAKE HER HOME FOR A GOOD
plunging!” Vadir bellowed from the back of the hall. The assembled friends and family of Hereward and Turfrida laughed. Still drunk from the previous night's feast, the red-haired man's good eye struggled to focus. Alric dug his elbow in his companion's ribs in a futile attempt to shut him up.

Cheeks flushing, Wulfric Rabe glared at the towering bear of a man. Intoning “I give you care of my daughter,” the castellan nodded to Hereward. Cupping the back of his bride's head, the new husband pulled his wife close and kissed her firmly on the lips. The throng trilled their support for the union, and patted their chests above their hearts. When the warrior pulled back from the embrace, the monk saw Turfrida's eyes flash with affection and knew the decision had been a good one.

Taking his new bride by the hand, Hereward led her through the hall. Alric allowed himself a sly smile. He knew the fierce warrior had been like a frightened child, tossing and turning all night at the prospect of the morning's ceremony. The long negotiations with Wulfric over his daughter's future had gone smoothly, and the scribe had been summoned to draw up the contract that would stand Turfrida in good stead in the eyes of the law. The monk muttered a quiet prayer. This was God's work indeed, he thought, a soul saved. He marveled at the calm he now saw in the man he had first encountered rising from a pool of blood so few years ago. Perhaps there was hope for him too, Alric thought. The wound of his own crime still felt raw, and barely a week passed when he did not shed a tear for the life he had cruelly stolen. But the blackness that had enveloped him in those early days had lifted, a little. He could see the light.

When the men gathered around Hereward and clapped his back and whispered crude hints in his ear, the women took Turfrida to one side and danced in a circle while the harpist played a jaunty tune. Alric cast one eye toward his friend's new father, who was engaged in intense conversation with two wealthy men. Gilbert of Ghent and William of Warenne both had close ties with the Norman court, Alric knew. He had overheard that Wulfric sought to uncover what they knew of William the Bastard's plans and what it would mean for Flanders. In one corner, Judith stood alone, watching the conversation. Although she had given her blessing and smiled through the ceremony, Alric thought how sad Tostig's wife looked, almost as though she were in mourning. She feared for her husband, he guessed.

Hauled to the back of the hall where the wedding feast of goose, pork, beef, bread, cheese, and sweet cakes had been laid out on a creaking table, Hereward found a cup of ale thrust into his hand with a rousing encouragement to down it in one. When his oath had been thus sealed and the other men had fallen upon the food and drink, Alric and Vadir pulled their friend to one side.

“You do not regret staying here while our former master sails to wreak his revenge on his brother Harold?” Vadir asked, gulping back his ale. “Tostig spent long enough persuading you to go with him.”

“You too,” Hereward pointed out.

“You are such a little man. How could I leave you to drink all this ale alone?”

“I am sure he is filled with regrets,” Alric said in an acid tone. “Why, he could be grunting in the company of sweat-stained men like you instead of falling into the soft embrace of his new wife.”

“I would wager he still dreams of sticking his sword into flesh,” Vadir replied with a broad grin.

“The sooner we get a new king on the throne, the sooner I will live without the yoke of exile around my neck.” Hereward swilled down a cup of ale.

Vadir leveled a cautionary eye. “Tostig's fight is not your fight.”

When the fire had died down to glowing embers, Hereward took Turfrida's hand and together they leaped the hearth to seal their handfasting. But the cheers ebbed away as a messenger burst in, searching for Wulfric. The two men exchanged insistent whispers in one corner before the castellan hurried to speak with Gilbert and William, and then finally edged to Judith. Her features grew pale as if she knew what was to come. After Wulfric had spoken to her for a moment, she bowed her head, her eyes filling with tears, and hurried from the hall.

“Looks grim,” Vadir muttered, swaying from the ale. “That cannot be good for Tostig.”

Seeing the two Mercians eyeing him, Wulfric came over. “Tostig will not be returning,” the castellan said in his thick Flemish accent. “He sailed his fleet to the Isle of Wight, where he took on provisions, and then proceeded to raid the English coast.”

“I wager Harold Godwinson took that well,” Vadir growled.

“The new king called out all his ships and his army and drove his brother back. Tostig would not have taken such a defeat well. He has been consumed by rage for his betrayal for too long.”

“Then why does he not return to Flanders?” Hereward asked.

“He took his fleet to raid England's east coast, and there your own—the earls Edwin and Morcar—soundly thrashed him,” Wulfric replied, his tone grave. “With his tail between his legs, he has sailed to Scotland. He plans to stay with his old ally King Malcolm for the summer. But.…” He paused, lost to reflection for a moment. “My messenger tells me Tostig has sent word to Harald of Norway, requesting council.”

“What does Tostig want with that cold-hearted knife-tongue?” Vadir asked.

The castellan glanced back at the feasting wedding party to make sure he would not be overheard. “Tostig plans to persuade Harald to reassert his claim to the throne of England, and to raise a levy so the two men can invade by the end of summer.”

“He would hand the throne to that Viking pirate?” Hereward exclaimed. Alric felt troubled by the fire he saw in his friend's eyes. It burned too quickly, too brightly, still.

Vadir dropped a heavy hand on the younger warrior's shoulder. “Stay calm, little man. This is not our fight, unless someone seeks to give us gold and lots of it to get involved. It will all be over soon enough, and then we will see how things stand.”

“It may not be over as soon as you think,” Wulfric said, his voice low and grave. “I also have news from Normandy and from Rome. The Pope has assented to Duke William's invasion plans. Seven hundred warships and transports are being readied at Dives-sur-Mer, to sail before summer's end. An attack from the north and the south. King Harold's forces will be divided. It seems William the Bastard's prophecy that England will be swamped in a tide of blood will come true, one way or another.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

25 September 1066

U
NDER A MERCILESS SUN
,
A DARK CLOUD WAS CHARGING
across the verdant Northumbrian plain. Billowing gray dust swept in its wake, licking over the trees and water meadows. The baked ground throbbed with the pounding of hooves and leather soles. The still air rang with the jangle of mail shirts. In that stifling autumn heat, a storm of spears and axes was descending on a river crossing sixteen miles beyond the ravaged defenses of Eoferwic.

When barbs of brassy light glinted off the snaking River Derwent, the commanders brought the swollen English army to a rumbling halt. A lull gradually settled on the horde, broken only by snorting horses and creaking leather. No man uttered a word.

Ahead of the mounted warriors, two men rode out to get a clear view of the terrain. Harold Godwinson wore the tarnished armor that had served him well during his long, uncompromising ascent to the throne. His helmet was of the old style, with broad plates covering the ears and cheeks, and it was dented and scratched from the spear-points and axes it had deflected. His mail was brown, rust and dried blood from years of campaigns merging into one. In contrast, Redwald gleamed in the morning sun. His armor was all new, a helmet with a mail coif to cover his neck and a mail shirt he had taken receipt of only days earlier.

“Our enemies will have seen the dust-cloud and heard the hooves,” the young man said, shielding his eyes against the harsh light.

“Good,” Harold replied with a tight smile. “Let them know their death approaches and let them fear.”

Glancing back over the sea of fighting men, Redwald felt a stirring deep in his heart. Never had such a force been amassed on English soil. Harold's own huscarls were the elite core of the army, their heavy armor combat-worn, their axes nicked and stained. Alongside them stood a coterie of mercenaries, the most fearsome warriors the king's gold could buy. Flanking them rode a group of mounted javelin-throwers of a kind never before seen in England. Harold had witnessed the lethal effectiveness of such a force on his travels in Europe, the younger man knew. The javelins would rain down on their enemies as they advanced, pinning men in place to die screaming. Redwald cast his eye over the field-workers who stretched beyond the hardened soldiers, almost as far as he could see. They had been collected along with the West Mercian and East Anglian
fyrd
as the army drove north, marching almost day and night for four full days. Once the call to arms went out, each man had raced to his home to collect his spear and shield from under his bed. Many carried the bows and arrows they used for hunting, but others were armed only with stones fastened to pieces of wood. They wore no armor, these levy men. Most of them still had straw in their hair and dung on their tunics, but though their eyes were fear-filled, Redwald saw determination in their ruddy faces.

Harold stretched out a steady arm to point to the river crossing two miles away, where men swarmed like ants on both banks. “See? They are not ready for us. Too confident, like all the Northmen. The Vikings thought we would be as weak and slow as the men who faced them in the time of our fathers' fathers' fathers. They thought we would creep like whipped dogs, not strike like wolves.”

“They did not reckon with Harold Godwinson.” The King smiled.

Redwald cast his mind back to the beacon blazing in the night on the hills to the north of London. It was the last bonfire in a long line stretching from the north along the east coast. At first, the young man's heart had filled with ice, but Harold was hot with passion. He had been ready for this moment and his blood was up for battle. If he had waited for mounted messengers to deliver the news of the Northmen's attack, his war preparations would have been delayed too long. But Harold had been proved right in overriding the Witan, and his system of bonfires meant the news had arrived before the ravens had even taken wing. On the hard ride north, they had encountered white-faced messengers with stories of three hundred dragon-ships blotting out the whale road with their red and white sails. Thousands of fierce Viking warriors under the command of Harald the Ruthless. And Harold's own brother, Tostig, was among them. The Northmen had sailed up the Humber and sacked Skaresborg before tearing through the forces of Edwin of Mercia and his brother Morcar at Fulford. Eoferwic had fallen with barely a whimper. When the English army had arrived in Tatecastre after the great march, Harold had prepared for an attack. Redwald recalled his master's fire, the clarity of his planning during the long tactical discussion with the huscarls; for the first time, the strength of the Wessex man's leadership seemed to match his grand ambition, Redwald thought. But the attack never came. The Vikings were indeed over-confident. They waited to resupply, thinking they had all the time in the world.

And that morning, the storm of English spears and axes had made their lightning advance to Stamford Bridge.