Time of the Wolf (34 page)

Dazed, Redwald came to a halt.
Run,
he told himself.
Do not look back.
But a grim fascination dragged his gaze back to the hilltop. The Normans were cheering around his fallen master. One knight stooped down with his knife and sawed at the King's corpse. Jumping to his feet, the man waved his trophy over his head and the others roared with laughter. Sickened, Redwald realized the knight had cut off Harold's cock.

Hot tears came for the failure of all his dreams. Turning, he careered down the hillside into the growing night.

CHAPTER FORTY

S
TILL AND SILENT UNDER SABLE SKIES
, L
ONDON HELD ITS
breath. Moonbeams limned the glistening roofs of the cramped houses, casting long shadows across the rutted streets. A dog barked; a cow lowed. The insistent clatter of hoofbeats broke the quiet as Redwald rode hard from the direction of the river crossing toward the Palace of Westminster. Snorts of hot breath clouded in the chill air. Digging his heels into the flanks of his foaming horse, the young man urged the last vestige of strength from its weary limbs. Sweat dripped from his brow. Hot despite the cold, he had taken no chances, swaddling himself in a stolen cloak with the hood pulled low to hide his identity.

He could almost sense the apprehension leaking from the dark houses on either side. He pictured the men sitting by the hearths, unable to sleep, the women anxiously tossing and turning in their beds. If they only knew the horror that would soon be marching toward their doors. Stifling his own desperation, he guided his mount toward the barred gates in the high enclosure fence. Above the palisade, cold lamps of faces glowed in the moonlight, each one filled with trepidation. The guards called for news of the battle. They looked pitifully hopeful when he said he had an urgent message from the King and could not be delayed.

Leaping from his horse, he glanced once over his shoulder to ensure he was not being watched, and then raced for the abbey church. A full day and more had passed since he had seen Harold butchered, the most dismal day he could recall. A dark night of running and hiding from Norman troops scouring the countryside for escaping English soldiers to slaughter gave way to a red dawn, a near-bungled attempt to steal a horse, and the long flight home. Ahead stretched gray days of worry. All his plans had turned to ashes, all the long years of scheming wasted. He had less now than when Asketil had taken him in after his parents' death. And if William the Bastard's men recognized him, his life would be lost too, his head planted on a pole beside the Thames, food for the crows.

Consumed by despair, the young man crashed through the heavy oak door into the echoing vault of the church. Candles guttered along the far wall, left by the monks for sinners desperate to pray for their souls in the long dark of the night. The dancing flames sent jewels of light shimmering across the stained-glass windows. Above the altar, the Christ glared down at the young man.

His leather shoes echoed on the stone flags. Redwald snatched one of the candles and hurried to the reliquary containing the shankbone of St. John the Baptist. He thought back to that frozen night when he had retrieved the relic for the old queen, Edith, Harold Godwinson's sister. How long ago it seemed. With that simple act, he had earned the first step of his advancement. Power had felt within his grasp.

Fighting back tears of frustration, he placed his hands upon the casket, almost afraid that it would burn him, and then flipped open the iron-banded lid. With the candle held in a trembling hand, he pushed aside the brown bone to find what he had hidden beneath.

“It
is
you.”

Redwald almost cried out in shock. Clutching a hand to his mouth, he whirled in fear of his life only to see Hild standing in the doorway. Hild, his wife of four months, already with child, whom he had kissed good-bye barely a week ago. He hadn't even remembered she was at the palace.

“Leave me,” he snapped, the thump of his heart returning to normal. “I have business.”

“Here? Do you pray for divine help?” She crossed the nave, the embroidered hem of her yellow dress swishing across the flagstones. Her hands fluttered in front of her, her voice rising. “Why have you returned alone? What of the battle? Where is the King?”

“The King is dead.” Turning his back on his wife, Redwald delved into the reliquary once more.

Only silence followed. He glanced back to see Hild's face frozen, tears springing to the corners of her eyes.

Forcing himself to soften his tone, he continued: “England is done. You would do well to flee before the Normans come. Their soldiers will not treat women kindly.” He stifled a bitter laugh at his understatement. The Normans' reputation for rape, cruelty, and brutality was unparalleled.

“You wish me to travel alone? But you are my husband … you should protect me,” his wife said, aghast.

Wearied by the exchange, Redwald shook his head and returned his attention to the casket. “Go.”

“How can your heart be so cold? Do you not love me?”

“I never loved you. You were … necessary.”

Hild gulped like a codfish.

“You look foolish like that. Leave now.” Redwald's voice hardened.

“No.” Her cheeks flushed with indignation. “You will protect me, as you promised my father. The Witan will find a new king. We will stay here, safe within the palace. And if the Norman is to be king, so be it. We will throw ourselves upon his mercy. You served one monarch, you can serve another.”

Angry, Hild grabbed her husband's arm to drag his attention from the reliquary. Redwald snapped round, eyes blazing. “There is nothing for me here. Nothing.” He felt a spiraling rage at so many wasted years. Every moment in that place only added to the miserable total. Lowering his voice, he threatened, “You will not hold me back.”

“And you will not abandon me.” Hild's eyes flashed. Redwald could see she would not be deterred. “You are a coward,” she spat. “A weak child of a man. Come with me now, or I will tell all how you fled from the battle, abandoning the defense of England.”

“Lies!”

Hild smirked. “Is it? You think yourself so clever, moving everyone like chess pieces to win your game. But in the night when you lie with me, I see the true you.” Redwald colored at her mocking laughter. His fingers fumbled in the bottom of the reliquary. Lost to the rush of things she had kept unspoken for so long, Hild thrust her face into his and hissed, “And I used you.”

Redwald stiffened. His ears burned, his hand shook. With a cruel look of triumph in her face, Hild twirled away. “Now follow me back to the house and all this will be forgotten.”

“No.” The word whispered away like candle-smoke in the vast belly of the great stone church.

Hild spun back, her small teeth clenched. “Then I will hail the King's men and make my claim.”

Redwald felt all the fury born of failure rush through him like a spring flood. His fingers folded round the knife hidden for so long under the old bone, and without a second thought for the life growing inside her he plunged it into her belly. He thought the shocked expression on her face almost amusing. Blood bubbled from her lips. A calm descended on him as the heat of his emotions ebbed away and he realized he felt nothing. Before she could call out, Redwald stabbed again.

When Hild lay dead in a growing red pool, he stepped back to steady himself against the wall. In his open palm lay the knife, a handle of whalebone carved into the shape of an angel; Hereward's old knife. Pressing the back of his left hand against his mouth, he stared into the wide, frozen eyes of his wife, but felt no grief for her or his unborn child. Instead, his thoughts flashed back to the last time he had wielded that knife. He recalled Tidhild, Hereward's love, lying on the floor of her home, the same staring eyes, the same spreading, dark pool.

Tidhild, stabbed three times by his own hand, with the knife he had stolen from his brother.

Those dead eyes staring.

Redwald sucked on his teeth. The vision had haunted him ever since, day and night, but not in a troubling way, he understood now. He had been fascinated by what it represented, the power he held over all things. And still he felt no regrets. For a long time he had worked to inveigle his way into the confidence of Harold Godwinson and thereby earn his own advancement. Small tasks here and there, difficult work, earning trust. He knew how the earl's mind worked, for they were alike in many ways. So it had not surprised him when he had overheard Harold meeting with his two accomplices to plot the murder of a man who demanded gold in exchange for keeping his lips sealed. That was simply the game men played in pursuit of power. But then Hereward had come to the house that night, threatening to tell the King of the plot he had uncovered. Harold would have been exposed. What choice did he have, Redwald thought? He had to stop Hereward speaking to anyone. His brother's rage was well known; everyone would believe the warrior had it within him to kill his own love in a drunken argument. And then Redwald could encourage Hereward to flee, and Harold would reward his loyalty and his cunning and all would proceed as planned.

With bitterness, he stared at the bloodstained knife in his hands. The weapon had drawn him back time and again to relive that night of power. And now he would be running, as he had made his brother run, an outlaw in all but name, powerless, friendless, without land, or woman, or gold. Redwald laughed hollowly at the joke God had played upon him. Balancing the knife in his palm, he closed his eyes, still feeling some of the power it held. His path had been deflected, but not blocked. He would find another way to prevail. Stooping down, he wiped the blade on Hild's dress, and then he ran from the abbey into the night and an uncertain future.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

29 August 1067

T
HE WARSHIP PLOWED THROUGH THE CHOPPY WAVES
toward the brooding island. Warriors heaved on the oars as they sang their song of blood and death to the beat of wood on water. With the sharp smell of new paint swirling in the wind from the freshly decorated shields hanging on the outside of the vessel, Vadir leaned against the bowpost. “How many men wait there, unseen, silent among the trees with their swords and axes and spears?” he said, his mood grim. “I tell you, Hereward, this expedition reeks of disaster. There will be blood on the water before we are done, and it will not all belong to our enemies.”

Shielding his eyes against the afternoon's late-summer sun, Hereward scrutinized the dappled islands dotted among the strong currents of the wide Scheldt estuary, each one black with dense tree cover. “When the count needs his taxes, he is not likely to listen to fighting men.”

Vadir snorted. “He has everything to gain here and nothing to lose. It's not his neck at stake.”

That morning, Hereward had dutifully reported his assessment of the dangers to Count Baldwin's son Robert, their new commander. But Robert was a man intent on making his name as quickly as possible. His attentions were focused upon extending his influence deep into Zeeland, a power struggle that ebbed and flowed like so many of the rivalries around Flanders. The expedition to recover unpaid taxes from the rebellious residents of the scattered islands was merely to keep his father quiet. Robert expected it to pass without incident. Gold would be heaped upon the beaches once the islanders were terrified into submission by the sight of the warrior-laden warships sweeping up the Scheldt. Any man who had held a spear in battle could see what was lacking in that dream, Hereward thought. Fear rarely made men run—initially, it made them fight harder.

“Still, the gold and mead that Robert has paid us since we joined his ranks has been most welcome,” Vadir said. “It seems our reputation is growing, and that can only be good.”

All true, Hereward thought. It seemed that wherever they went, they were now well known. Even Robert had sought them out, at Saint-Omer, when it became clear that Tostig was not coming back to Flanders. The count's son needed good commanders, if only to keep his men in line. And the warriors knew that Hereward and Vadir understood their complaints, where Robert never would.

The two men watched the other eight warships cutting through the white foam with Robert's blue banner flying from a pole on each one. The fleet drew toward Wacheren, the largest island, with the stone steeple of the church of St. Willibond just visible above the treetops. The Abbot Thiofrid, of the monastery of Echternach, had been encouraging the residents to refuse to pay their taxes. Hereward had suggested burning the monastery to the ground, but Robert had been less than keen to consider this course of action. “In my experience, men like Abbot Thiofrid are only pious when they pray,” Hereward had told Robert. “The rest of the time, they play the games of kings and counts and do a better job of it by hiding behind their God-given masks.” But Robert would not be moved.

The foreman barked the order to the starboard rowers to slow their strokes. The warship turned through the narrow gap between the sandbanks. Wacheren loomed up ahead of them.

“Your monk must count himself lucky not to be here. He seems at ease sitting at home with the women and trying to interest your wife in Bible stories,” Vadir muttered, scanning the treeline near the rock-strewn beach for any sign of resistance.

“Alric believes there is a natural goodness in all men. He is sickened by the sight of blood because it shows him, more often than not, that his view is misplaced.”

“Ha,” Vadir laughed, “you are as sour as early apples when it comes to people.”

“I know what I see with my own eyes and feel with my heart.”

During the five seasons since his marriage, Hereward had found himself at peace in Saint-Omer. More than a good wife, Turfrida had been a good companion, advising him on the best course suggested by her understanding of those mechanical arts which the Church would prefer were never practiced. When England fell to the bloody William the Bastard, Hereward had been keen to sail to offer his resistance, but both Turfrida and Vadir had counseled against it. “All the omens show that you will never return to the life we have here,” she had told him, her cheeks flushed with concern. “The bloodshed in Hastings was only the beginning. William now has to bend your unruly land to his will, and he has never shirked from a task like that. If you must return, wait until the moment is right.”