Time of the Wolf (4 page)

“Because I am better than you,” Alric gasped. “And because I rise to the purpose God gave me.”

Hereward reached out a hand to be helped to his feet, but the monk only looked at it before pulling himself back up the side of the hollow. “I am not your keeper,” he said.

Using his sword to help him, Hereward levered himself up the slope. Blood flowed from numerous tears in his flesh, but none of them appeared so serious that he would not be able to survive until they reached shelter. Deep in troubled thought, Alric waited for him beyond the edge of the hollow.

“Do not think that because you saved my life I am now in debt to you,” Hereward said.

“No, you would sacrifice me in a moment if it served your purpose. I am not blind.” Alric glanced at the red splatters trailing in the other man's wake. “You are providing a clear path for any other wolves out there. We should move quickly now.”

They continued their journey in silence, Alric searching for landmarks, Hereward using his sword to support him. The blizzard whipped up until they could barely see more than three feet in front of them. The warrior felt it grow colder still, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before the warm-sleep took them.

“Have I put my trust in a fool only to pay for it with my life?” he said.

“Your life is mine now to do with as I please,” Alric snapped. He came to a sudden halt, peering through the lashing branches. “There—is that a house?”

As Hereward followed the monk's pointing finger, more howling rose up at their backs. Shoving Alric forward, Hereward limped behind him as fast as he could manage. He had not fled the dogs of the King's court and fought his way across half England to die in the snow as food for wolves. The two men clambered over rocks and fallen trees, mounds of snow drifting on them from the branches they disturbed. The crashing of the wolves in the undergrowth drew steadily nearer.

Just when Hereward was convinced Alric had been mistaken, a low wattle-and-daub-walled house with a thatched roof loomed out of the night, so ramshackle that it appeared on the point of collapse. Set as it was deep in the surrounding trees and rocky outcrops, it almost appeared a natural part of the forest.

The monk pounded frantically on the wooden door until he heard a voice on the other side. “Go away.”

“Please,” he begged. “The wolves are coming.”

After a moment, the door swung open a few inches and Alric and Hereward barged into the smoky interior. Hereward slammed the door with his shoulder and dropped the latch. Resting his forehead against the rough timber, he felt the last of his strength draining away.

“Go now! I will have no churchman in my house!” From the gloom of the single room, a woman lashed out at Alric with a broom made from hazel switches. Her cheeks were hollow and her hair hung lank and gray, but she struck with such a fierce strength that the monk fell to the mud floor.

Hereward lurched forward and stopped the next swing of the broom with one hand. “Hold.”

Eyes blazing, the woman looked the blood-smeared warrior up and down.

“We will pay you well for shelter,” he said, jangling the pouch. “Till sunrise, and then we will be away.”

“Not him.” She pointed a quavering finger at Alric. “His kind have tormented us for generation upon generation. First they come with smiles, then they come with scowls, finally they come with sticks and spears.”

“If he troubles you, I will clout him myself.” Hereward rested against the door for support. He regretted becoming involved in this business. It was a distraction, and now here he was, weakened and wounded, with miles still to go to Eoferwic. He knew he would never reach the town on his own.

“Who are you, coming here like a butcher?” the woman said.

“My name is Hereward, and I thank you for your help. The monk goes by the name Alric. Let us sleep on your floor till dawn and we will be gone.”

“How do I know you won't kill me and steal all I own?”

Hereward looked round at the almost bare room, at the bed of straw next to the fire, and the few meager cooking pots. Bunches of dried herbs were stacked along one wall. He smelled the sweet aroma of lavender and sorrel. His gaze shifted to dangling skulls large and small—badger, rabbit, mouse, sheep—suspended on fiber strips.

“Because you are a witch and you will curse us!” Alric shouted, scrambling to his feet.

“Yes!” The woman pointed her bony finger at him again; he backed away a step.

Sighing, Hereward grabbed Alric and manhandled him against the grubby wall. “We are seeking shelter for the night,” he hissed. “Do not ruin it with your stupid ways. Or would you rather I killed her and be done with it?”

Alric looked from Hereward to the woman, his brow furrowing with concern. “Very well,” he whispered.

From his pouch, Hereward plucked a silver penny which he tossed to the woman. “Payment for one night. Fair?”

The woman took it eagerly and nodded. “There is bread,” she said. “And water. I have herbs which will help your wounds heal.” She indicated a corner of the room away from the hearth. “Make your bed there, but know I sleep with one eye open.”

The two men gathered some filthy straw from a pile and scattered it against the wall. The bitter cold still reached through the hard-packed floor and the thin wattle wall, but the fire offered some comfort, and at least they were out of the biting wind. After Hereward had rinsed his wounds with water, the woman ground up some herbs in a crucible and mixed them with a handful of pig fat for him to apply to the gashes. It stung at first, but soon all his injuries felt pleasingly numb.

During the application of the balm, Alric sat in a daze, hands hugged around his knees. Once the woman had lain down and was snoring loudly, he asked, “Where do we go from here?”

“I know where
I
go,” Hereward replied. “To Eoferwic.”

“I could return to the monastery and seek sanctuary, but.…” The monk's words tailed off.

“You will have to confess your sins.”

Alric glared at the warrior until he saw that Hereward was not making a point, and then his shoulders sagged. “I cannot go back. I cannot stay here. Harald Redteeth will not cease in his endeavors until he finds me.”

Clutching his bloodstained knife tightly against him, Hereward laid down his head. Exhaustion filled him, and it would be several days' hard journeying through the snow to Eoferwic. “Sleep,” he said. “We are safe for now. And the world will not seem so bad at first light.”

The raven flew back to earth, and Harald Redteeth returned with it.

For a few moments, he gathered his thoughts, still immersed in the sensation of flying. When the memories of his walk along the shores of that great black sea had receded, he marched toward the makeshift camp, and bellowed “Ho! To me now!”

Crawling out of their shelters into the gently drifting snow, his bleary-eyed men gathered around him.

“Break up the camp. We set off in pursuit of the stranger,” Redteeth growled.

Clapping his arms around himself for warmth, Ivar replied, “It is not first light for many hours.”

“Our plans have changed.” Pulling down his breeches, he urinated into a vessel from one of the burning houses. “Drink,” he said. “Let the juices of the toadstool fill you with the passion of our ancestors.”

He passed the vessel of steaming urine to Ivar, and then to the other men. The power of the toadstools lived on within it, but his journey had removed the poison that could trap them on the shores of the great black sea.

“Hear your ancestors call to you,” he said. “Feel the pull of the tides and the rising fire in your belly. Now is the time we track the stranger. Now is the time to strike.”

CHAPTER FIVE

T
HE HOODED MAN RODE INTO THE TEETH OF THE BLIZZARD
, his face numb from the cold. His gray woolen cloak lay beneath a thick covering of snowflakes, as did his horse's brown mane and the packhorse behind him, laden with one of the secrets of God. He felt unable even to turn his head to search for the two armed guards who had accompanied him on the long journey from the small village near Winchester.

The white curtain of snow obscured London's filthy streets, but occasionally he glimpsed torches away in the dark. Deaf from the howling gale, he didn't hear the guard yelling at him until the man rode alongside, slapped a hand on his shoulder, and pointed ahead. The high timber palisade surrounding the King's palace loomed out of the storm. A cloaked and hooded sentry stood on a platform above the great gates, holding a lantern aloft to see who was approaching.

“It is I, Redwald,” the young man called through numb lips, “on the Queen's business.”

The gates opened in jerks, as the sentry and another man wrenched them back against the drifting snow.

“Hell's teeth, she had better reward you well for being out in this weather,” the sentry called as Redwald rode by.

In the enclosure, the wind dropped a little, but the bitter cold still ate into Redwald's bones. At least he had done good work, and he
would
be rewarded—if not now, later. Barely suppressing a grin, he threw back his hood to reveal a face that still had many childlike qualities. The curly brown hair, the apple cheeks and full pink lips, suggested an innocence which he used to his advantage around the court. He had seen at first hand what a hard place it was, filled with strong, cunning men all seeking their own advantage in a constant shadow game. But he would not be broken by it. He would survive.

Clambering down from his horse, the young man stamped the snow from his leather shoes and clapped his hands together and blew on them. The guards had already slipped away in search of fire and mead. Their footprints joined the tramped paths leading to the doors of the newly built timber-framed houses jumbled tightly together across the enclosure, every thatch and wooden roof creaking under a thick white blanket. The Palace of Westminster, King Edward's new home and the culmination of years of devout dreams, sprawled across most of Thorney Island on the banks of the Thames to the west of the City of London. The earls and the King's thegns complained about the bitter wind blowing off the river in winter, but Redwald had heard that Edward had been directed to build there by God.

And looking at the vast silhouette looming up beyond the palace buildings, the young man could almost believe it. The stories burned in his head: that a fisherman had had a vision of St. Peter at the site, that the aging King had heard angels and had set about the building of a monument to God with an energy that dwarfed that of much younger men. Redwald recalled the gossip that the monarch had never lain between the thighs of his wife and that the new abbey was all the old man cared about in life. Studying the outline, he thought he understood the King's mind. Every day, Redwald had watched the best stonemasons in all Europe raise up the grandest church in the world to replace the one used by the Benedictine monks, and Edward had been there, overseeing the construction arch by arch, column by column. Following the lines, even in the dark he could see that it was almost complete; only the roof and part of the tower remained unfinished.

The hairs on Redwald's neck tingled erect; it was more than a sacrament: it was a sign of power, earthly power, for if you could build such a thing you could do anything.

“Do you have it?” The excited woman's voice cut through the howl of the wind.

Redwald turned to see the Queen stumbling eagerly through the snow, a thick woolen cloak of madder-red protecting her from the elements. Though Edith had passed her thirtieth year, the young man still saw the beauty of her youth that had enticed many a male. Some would say the King, almost twice her age, was a lucky man, he thought. But he would not wish it for himself: though she stood behind the throne, she might as well have been seated upon it. He recalled hearing the lash of her tongue as she chastised her attendants, and sometimes, in her quieter moments, he remembered seeing the cold determination in her face. But then Edith was a Godwin, of Wessex, and many believed that that family
was
England, in essence.

“I do,” Redwald replied with a quick smile, eager for praise, “but it did not come easily.”

“Quickly, then. Bring it into the warm.” The Queen turned on her heel and marched back toward the King's hall.

Calling for one of the boys to take the mounts to stable, Redwald fumbled with frozen fingers to remove the small oaken chest from the back of the weary packhorse. He half expected it to glow, or to feel warm to the touch, but the iron hinges were unbearably cold. Holding the box tight to his chest, he navigated the slippery paths to the hall.

He eased through the doorway and sighed in gratitude as warmth washed over him. Flames blazed high in the great circular hearth in the center of the lofty room. Two slaves continually fed the fire with logs to keep the winter at bay. The orange glow washed over the tapestries hanging on the walls, the Opus Anglicanum unmatched anywhere in Europe, but the illumination did not reach the shadows that clung to the broad rafters. After the hardship of his journey, Redwald relaxed at the sight of the works of art on display: the breathtaking fresco painted on the eastern wall depicting the Stations of the Cross, the casket carved from whalebone, the gold plates studded with jewels and intricately engraved, the ivory cross filled with carved angels. Surely, as the King's guests said when they saw them, there was no place grander than England in all the world.