Time of the Wolf (42 page)

“It is good to have friends,” Redwald said with a hint of regret. “Since the Normans invaded, I have spent all my days running and hiding. They are a fierce enemy, Hereward. They never slow, they never stop. Once William arrived in London, he collected the names of all who were close to King Harold and resolved that he would not rest until each one was accounted for.”

“And thereby tried to cut out the heart of any future resistance.”

“Many ended their days with their heads upon poles outside the palace or tied to a stake at low tide on the river, where the waters slowly washed away their screams.”

“But you were always a cunning one, Redwald. You survived.”

The cloaked man nodded with little enthusiasm. “This spring, at my lowest ebb, I threw myself upon the mercy of your uncle at Burgh Abbey. He owed it to your father to take me in and give me a new life as a monk, and a new name. So when the Normans came, as they regularly did to see the abbot, they never gave me a passing glance.” He paused. “Your kin have always shown me kindness, Hereward. Taking me in when I had nothing, not once now, but twice—”

“Enough,” the warrior interrupted. He rested a comforting hand on Redwald's shoulder. “Though we share no blood, we
are
kin. We offer each other a hand in hard times. And you have proved your loyalty time and again, not least in your devotion to avenging Tidhild and the crime against me.”

Redwald smiled and nodded. “And I would join you now. So we can fight shoulder to shoulder, as we did in the days of our youth.”

“Would you not be safer in hiding at the abbey?” Alric asked.

“Is anywhere safe in these times? The monks all mutter of the End of Days. They speak of the sickness sweeping through villages and towns in the west. Of starvation brought on by William the Bastard, who steals the food and razes the fields of those who fail to bow to him.” Redwald wrung his hands as long-buried worries rushed to the surface. “And then the stories reached us of a new rebel, who killed bears with his bare hands and had brought all of Flanders to its knees. And they said his name was Hereward, and I would not believe.…” He bowed his head, his voice growing quiet. “But last night I saw.”

“Why did you not speak out at the abbey?” the monk pressed.

Redwald shook his head. “I thought you would not have me,” he whispered.

Hereward laughed in disbelief. “Have you lost your wits?”

Trying to lighten the atmosphere, Redwald clapped his hands together and forced a broad grin. “Yet here I am. I will join you. I will be a loyal servant, and I ask only for your protection.”

“Servant?” The warrior shook his head in mock bafflement. “We are equals, brother.”

“As I followed you, plucking up courage to speak, I have been thinking.…” Redwald's tongue moistened his dry lips. “If any man could stand against William, it would be you, Hereward. But the Normans are great in power and they have their hands round England's neck. If we could get Earl Edwin on our side … perhaps his brother Earl Morcar too … we men of Mercia could start a grand rebellion that would shake the invaders to the core. Even the throne could be within our reach.”

Alric saw a puzzling fire flicker in the man's eyes. Hereward, though, appeared overjoyed that his adopted brother had walked back into his life. “That is the spirit I remember.” The warrior shook a fist. “See, monk? You feared we would be a poor force against the Norman might, but with men like this by our side we can achieve anything.”

“We have time to plot and plan and build our strength. The Normans will not be able to find us in the fens,” Redwald said. “Yes, brother, we can achieve anything.”

Alric watched the two men set off through the willows, arms round each other's shoulders as they exchanged raucous stories of the time they had been apart. Yet when Hereward roared with laughter at some joke or other, the monk glimpsed something that puzzled him: Redwald glanced sideways at the warrior, and in that unguarded moment his features showed no brotherly love. Alric thought he saw something sourer there, resentment, perhaps, or contempt, but the look flashed so quickly that he could not be sure. He followed at a distance, deep in thought, but his suspicions would not subside.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

T
HE SUNRISE SET FIRE TO THE FENLAND WATERS
. M
IST HUNG
over the marshes and drifted among the stark black trees as the Norman knights mounted their steeds in the quiet enclosure. Aldous Wyvill felt pride as he studied the gleaming helmets his men had spent all night polishing ready for the coming battle. In their hauberks and with their axes sharpened on the whetstone, they would descend upon the ragtag band of rebels like a storm of iron. The English would not know what had hit them before their heads were separated from their shoulders.

The horses snorted and stamped their hooves as if they too were anticipating the inevitable rout, the commander thought. He inhaled a deep draught of the chill, damp air, his nose wrinkling at the stink of rotting leaves and marsh gas. He yearned for the green pastures of his homeland, but there was no virtue in sentimentality. It was a weakness.

“Ride out,” he barked, “and let our swords drink deeply before this day is done.”

The newly constructed gates rattled open and the column of knights moved out into the wild, fog-shrouded fens. Yet they had barely traveled beyond the edge of the village when the sound of many hoofbeats echoed from farther along the muddy track. Aldous brought his men to a halt and ordered them to draw their weapons. Who could be approaching at that hour?

When the riders galloped out of the mist, the commander's tension eased at the sight of familiar armor and a familiar face. Here were the reinforcements he had requested from London when he had learned of the rebellion. Some were knights, many were clearly mercenaries. But at their core, Aldous recognized a man with a long rodent's face and small eyes that appeared set in a permanent scowl. He wore only the finest clothes, a warm woolen tunic dyed purple and embroidered with yellow diamonds, and a furred cap that made him appear feminine among the scarred faces and harsh armor. He was Frederic of Warenne, who had been given land in the vicinity in return for funding a ship for the invasion. Aldous knew that this wealthy man had married well, taking the sister of William of Warenne, who had the ear of King William.

Holding his chin at a haughty angle, Frederic urged his horse out from the protection of his guards and approached Aldous. “I was troubled by your message,” he said in a reedy voice. “I would not have my lands put at risk by rebellious English.”

“My words were sent too early.” The commander removed his helmet as an act of respect, though he felt little regard for the man. “This rebellion barely merits the name and will be crushed before the day is out.”

As a contemptuous laugh tinkled out, Frederic raised a hand to summon someone from the column of reinforcements. “You speak too soon once again, Aldous Wyvill. The leader of the rebels is known as Hereward, yes?”

“He is.”

“Then you presume too much. My brother William was a guest at this man's wedding in Flanders, and he returned with tales of the warrior's exploits. When Hereward arrived in exile from England, he was raw and wild, but during his stay in Flanders he learned to hone his natural talents for slaughter. He carved a bloody swath across battlefield after battlefield and earned the praise of none other than Count Baldwin, who took the warrior into his employ. The most fearsome man in all of Flanders, the count said. Hereward is far more dangerous than you could ever imagine.”

“He is just a man.” Aldous restrained an urge to wipe the sneering smile off the aristocrat's face.

A jangle of mail echoed from the reinforcements as a rider dismounted and walked toward them. He was a Viking, his beard and hair dyed the color of blood, the skulls of birds and rodents rattling against his rusted mail where they had been tied by strips of leather.

“This man has more experience than you or I. His axe has already tasted the blood of this Hereward.” Frederic waved his hand flamboyantly toward Harald Redteeth. “He was employed in the army, maintaining order across the South, when news of your rebellion spread throughout the ranks. His knowledge will prove invaluable.” Frederic smiled. “As will his passion to see your enemy dead.”

Aldous felt unsettled by the Viking's eyes. The pupils were so dilated that the irises had all but disappeared.

“Hereward has killed me once,” Harald intoned, his black, unblinking stare fixed on the Norman commander. “And I have killed him once. We are equal. Now I would see whose fire burns the brightest.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

T
HE CAMP WAS ABUZZ WITH VOICES
. M
EN AND WOMEN
milled around the fires among the clustering trees. Old friends and neighbors greeted each other with cheery hails. Strangers clasped hands, finding common cause, but struggled to make sense of accents from the north and south and west. Hereward counted more than twenty heads as he strode through the throng with Alric at his side. The paltry collection of spears and shields were a poor match for the Normans' might, but he anticipated some strong fighters among the new arrivals.

“Word spreads fast,” the monk remarked.

“To hear tell, the suffering inflicted by the Normans reaches across every part of England. Anger is everywhere.”

“But they are drawn here by your name. It seems that your exploits in Eoferwic have caught alight.” Alric restrained a grin. “The English needed a hero, and there you were.”

“I am no hero,” Hereward snapped, rising to the bait. The words died in his throat as he saw two familiar faces across the camp. Unsure of his feelings, he left the monk and pushed through the crowd. Kraki and Acha sat on a log beside the campfire, eating some of the fowl that Guthrinc had roasted. The Viking had earned a new scar over his left eye since the last time Hereward had seen him, and a few more strands of silver gleamed in his hair and beard. His creaking leather and stained mail were splattered with the mud of the road.

Acha's eyes met Hereward's before her companion looked up from his meal, and the warrior was struck afresh by her fierce beauty. Though she wore a worn woolen dress, her raven hair gleamed. She flashed the warrior a smile that appeared to hold a hint of contrition.

When he saw Hereward, Kraki wiped the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand and tossed his bone into the fire. Rising to his feet, he held the warrior with an unwavering gaze. “You and I, we had our troubles. But your courage and fighting skills were never in doubt. Let us put the past behind us and start afresh, for together we can spill enough Norman blood to turn this wet land red.”

Hereward searched the Viking's face. They would never like each other, but Kraki had proved himself loyal when he had taken Tostig's oath. The warrior accepted the man with a firm nod. “Your axe will be put to good use soon enough.” He turned to single out Alric. “The monk will tell you our plans.”

With a grunt, Kraki pushed his way through the crowd. The moment he was out of sight, Acha jumped to her feet. “There is little I can say about Eoferwic,” she began. “I was weak.”

“It is behind us now. You have not returned to the Cymri?”

Her eyes flashed. “He would not let me,” she snapped, nodding in the direction of the Viking.

“You are with Kraki now?”

Acha looked down, trying to hide the shame she felt. “He was—”

“You do not have to answer,” Hereward interrupted, his tone gentle. “I know your mind, remember.”

Hope flared in the woman's eyes. She stepped forward, almost pressing her hands against his chest. “I would rather be with you.”

“I have a wife now.”

“Then take another.” Acha looked round. “Where is she?”

“Where she is safe.”

“You would never have to keep me safe. I would stand at your shoulder at all times.” Her dark eyes widened as she looked up at him. “We know each other's hearts. We are the same inside. You told me that. You know it.”

Hereward hesitated, knowing that what she said was true. Before he could respond, a cry echoed across the camp. Bodies fell aside as someone pushed their way through the crowd. Redwald burst from the gathering, flushed and breathless. Rushing up to the campfire, he grabbed Hereward's arm and gasped, “The Normans are coming!”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

G
OLDEN EYES SHONE LIKE TORCHES THROUGH THE GRAY MIST
drifting among the skeletal trees. Beneath the wind hissing across the silver water, Harald Redteeth could hear the whispers of the
alfar
as they watched the world of men. They were warning of the raven-harvests to come. A crow cautioned him as it swooped across the still landscape. When he peered into the mirror-surfaces of the lakes, he saw the yawning skulls of the dead looking back at him from the other world. Oblivious, the Normans rode on, along the edge of the stinking marshland where stagnant pools reflected the lowering sky. But Harald listened, and he heeded.

Scouts galloped back from one of the islands rising out of a sea of reeds in a brown bog, their tunics smeared with mud where they had crawled on their bellies. Aldous Wyvill listened to their insistent reports and nodded. The rebels milled about, not yet realizing their end was upon them, Harald overheard, and Hereward was there, with the monk. The Viking's fingers folded around the haft of his notched axe. What would it take to send the English warrior to the Gray Lands? In Flanders, Redteeth had been convinced he had struck a killing blow, but still the life-bane had survived. Now his quest had become more than a matter of vengeance. The
alfar
had told him that there had to be a balance in life and only one of them could continue on the road in the days to come. Hereward or Harald. Harald or Hereward.