Time of the Wolf (38 page)

“The questions you ask … there are no easy answers,” Alric began, choosing his words carefully. “I wish God had given me the skill to divine the purpose you need, but I am just a man, Hereward, with all the failings of men. I can reflect. I can offer guidance. But in the end, every man must look into his own heart to find the answers he seeks.”

“In my own heart?” the warrior murmured.

“Yes.”

Hereward's head dropped as he turned his thoughts in on himself. For a long while, he lost himself to the dark reaches inside him, and when he next looked around, the causeway was far behind. Familiar landmarks rose up on every side: the field where he had learned to hunt with his father's falcon; the copse where he had first lain with a woman, the fair Cengifu; the farm of his childhood friend Ailwin, who died when the sickness took him and his two brothers and sisters. Memories of happiness, pain, and grief locked into the dark soil, the stark trees, the shimmering pools. For a moment, he stood and drank in his past.

“Enjoy the view,” Alric sniffed, “but I am cold and wet and filthy and I would know what you plan to do with us here.”

“Once I know, I will tell you.” Hereward sifted the strange feelings rising within him.

The old straight track knifed from the ancient stone marker post to the church tower dark against the pale sky. Growing silent, the two men followed it along the side of a watercourse edged with brown reeds rustling in the breeze. The day drew on. When they passed a row of skeletal willows, cheery voices rose up from the near bank.

Alric came to a halt, gaping. A stocky, ruddy-faced man floated through the air, his head and torso just visible above the treetops. “What is this place you have brought me to?” the monk hissed.

Hereward roared with laughter at his friend's expression, bending from the waist to steady himself with his hands on his thighs. When Alric backed away, still gripped by the frightening sight, the warrior grabbed his companion and dragged him along the track past the willows. The monk stopped, marveling. The “floating” man towered above them on a pair of stilts, which he was using to move across the watercourse and the treacherous pools that lay beyond.

Enjoying the respite from his brooding, Hereward watched the stilt-man's familiar looping gait as he spun across the water with such skill that he appeared to be flying. “We are a people of the wetlands,” the warrior explained to his entranced friend. “Our entire lives are lived on and around the water, learning ways to enjoy the bounties it offers and to navigate its hidden dangers.”

“This is a wonder indeed,” Alric muttered.

“The Normans may have their fine swords and their maces and their archers, but they will struggle to thrive here. Only people who know the safe, secret routes through the fens can escape death by drowning. The water here is a living thing. It breathes and waits and hunts for prey, and claims the lives of many strangers. Land can be dry one day and a marsh or a lake the next.”

Half distracted by the stilt-man, Hereward felt the first stirrings of an idea, as yet unrealized. Before he could examine it further, a snowy-haired man burst from the long grass on the bank and stabbed a spear toward the two wanderers.

“What do you want?” the man barked. He wore a coat of rabbit pelts smeared with lamb-fat to keep the elements at bay.

“Holbert?” Hereward could see the man was scared.

“Who are you?” The man leaned forward, squinting. The warrior grasped what a sight he and Alric looked, filthy with dried black mud from feet to neck and more of it splattered across their faces. Stepping closer but not lowering his spear, the white-haired man peered for a moment and then ventured, “Hereward Asketilson?”

The warrior nodded, remembering the time he had stolen a line of fish that Holbert had spent two days smoking. He felt a pang of guilt.

“Are you here to steal from me again? Because I have little and I will fight till I die to keep it.” Sensing danger, the stilt-man strode toward them, glowering.

“I am not the man who tormented you, Holbert.”

“You tormented everyone, you and your wild friends,” the elderly man grumbled, the feelings still raw after so many years. “We heard you were outlaw.”

“We heard you were dead.” The ruddy-faced man leaned forward on his stilts; but just at the point when he seemed on the brink of falling, he dropped like a cat to his feet.

“Then I am a ghost.” Hereward smiled.

“And what a time you picked to haunt your home grounds.” Holbert lowered his spear. “There are worse things abroad in the fens these days. There must be, if I look on a bastard like Hereward Asketilson with something like fondness.” He shrugged and turned to the stilt-man. “Sawin, get some ale. Let us welcome home this son of the fens with a moment of joy before he realizes what hell he has returned to.”

Sawin pushed through the waist-high, yellowing grass and skidded down the bank. Holbert, Hereward, and Alric followed. Hidden among the undergrowth beside the willows and above the spring flood-line was a small shack with wattle walls and a roof of branches covered with turf. Scattered along the water's edge lay the detritus of Holbert's business. Wooden tubs of reeking fat. Hides drying over willow frames. Creamy curls of wood shavings. Mallets, bow-saws, adzes, wedges, planes, and awls. Hereward remembered lying in the long grass, watching Holbert's meticulous labor as he built the shell-like boats that the fenlanders used to traverse the watercourses, shaping the willow frames, stretching the hides and waterproofing them with the fat, cutting the short-handled paddles.

Cup in hand, Holbert looked Alric up and down as if he had only just noticed him. “Who are you? Monk? Your kind are as bad as the bastard Normans.”

Alric recoiled. “My kind?”

“The clergy. They were the ones pushing for William the Bastard to be made king.” The white-haired man threw back his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “They watch us. They pass on what they see to our new masters.” He spat. “And they get their rewards. They're living fat while we pay our taxes. But you'll see. William will bring his own kind in sooner or later. And when there's Norman bishops giving out the orders, then there won't be so much chest-puffing and strutting.”

Hereward sat on the bank and warmed himself against a smoldering fire made from the off-cut timber. “And the Normans, here?”

Holbert shook his head, frowning. “The bastards won't be happy until there's nothing of England left. They don't care for us, for our families or our wives or our children. They raise our taxes, and put us to work building their castles and garrisons. Speak out, you'll find your house burned. Two speak out, the village gets burned. Look at one of their knights the wrong way, you'll be hanging from a tree the next morning with the rooks feasting on your eyes. William the Bastard won't be happy till he's crushed the life from us. Till we're nothing but cattle in the field, keeping the Norman bellies full.” He looked into his empty cup, his mood dismal. “You should have stayed away. There's nothing for you here.”

Hereward set his jaw. “Fight back.”

“Me? On my own? Or me and him?” Holbert nodded toward Sawin, laughing without humor.

“We are English. We fought against the Vikings in our fathers' fathers' fathers' time. We fought against each other until we were all raw head and bloody bones, God knows. And now we lie down and do nothing?”

“You haven't seen what it's like,” Holbert muttered. He didn't meet Hereward's eyes and shuffled away in search of more ale. The warrior thought how broken-backed the boatwright looked. Was all England like this?

“There is no place anywhere like the fens,” Hereward pressed, waving his cup at Sawin. “It is a fortress, protected on all sides, and riddled with traps and dangers that the Normans would never be able to navigate. Why, a few good men here could start a rebellion that would bring all William's plans crashing to the ground.”

“There have been rebellions aplenty,” the ruddy-faced man murmured, “and they all ended the same way.” He saw the look in Hereward's face and snapped, “Do not call us cowards! You have been away from the worst of it. If you had been here, you would be like the rest of us.”

His nose turning pink from the ale, Holbert returned with another full cup. “Entire villages are starving because the Normans have taken the food for their own garrisons. The sickness has returned, some say. People are dying in their own blood, puke, and shit all over England. These are the End-Times, just like all the prophecies said, and there's not a thing you can do about it.”

Anger flashed across Hereward's face, but he controlled himself. “I am not here to wage war with the Normans. I am outlaw. You, Holbert, all the men and women here, none of you wanted any part of me. England wanted no part of me. I was driven away from my home, and saw my woman murdered by others who sought to use me for their own ends.”

“Then why have you come back?”

“To see my father one final time, and find some peace between us for what has gone before. To talk to my young brother Beric and make amends for the blight I must have placed upon his life. And to speak to Redwald, if I can, about a matter that may interest him.”

Hereward could feel Alric's sympathetic gaze upon him, but it was Holbert who caught his attention. The elderly man blanched almost as white as his beard.

“What troubles you?” Hereward asked, his eyes narrowing.

“It is not for me to say. You will find out soon enough.” The boatwright glanced toward the western sky. “It gets dark early this time of year. If you leave now, you should be home by dusk.” He caught himself. “But your father is not at his hall.”

Hereward flinched. “The Normans have taken it?”

Nodding, Holbert flashed a glance at Sawin that the warrior couldn't read. “He is staying in the house that used to belong to Berwyn the leatherworker. Before Berwyn saw fit to anger the bastards.”

Hereward could see that a dark mood had fallen on the two men, but neither would discuss what haunted them. He finished his ale and thanked Holbert for his hospitality before making his way back to the old straight track.

“Why did you not tell me you wanted to visit your kin?” Alric asked.

“I should tell you everything?”

Alric looked hurt. “If I am to help you—”

“Some things are beyond help.”

For a moment the monk hesitated, and then he said, “I find myself afraid, and I do not know why. But the look on Holbert's face—”

“It is too late to go back.” Hereward ended the conversation and closed his own mind to conjecture. Instead, he fixed his attention on the gray light moving toward the horizon and set off along the track.

He felt his mood darken with the fading of the day. No comfort came to him from the old trees that had been friends in his youth, places for hiding or trysting. No old memories stirred him. Barholme was silent. A chill wind blew across the scattered farms, some unidentifiable sour odor caught up in it. Suddenly he realized he was not yet ready to face his father. Troubled thoughts had been stirred up in him, and he would wait until they stilled. He needed to find the right words and not be driven by rage or loathing or grief.

“I would see my father's hall first,” he said.

Alric looked pleased that the uneasy silence had been broken. “This is your home?” he said, looking round.

“Asketil Tokesune is a wealthy man. He holds land in many places, freely with sake and soke, but Barholme was always close to his heart.”

“And you have fond memories of it?”

“I have … memories.”

Hereward strode on, determined to avoid more questions. He followed the track through the leafless trees until he saw his father's hall loom up in the half-light. It was an old, timber-framed building, the thatch wearing thin in many places. From within echoed the raucous sound of drunken singing.

Hereward stiffened. Alric caught his friend's sword-arm and whispered, “You have learned some wisdom in your years on the road. Do not throw it away now that you are back on your own soil.”

Hereward nodded. “The wisdom is all yours.” The loud voices told him there were many Normans inside the hall, too many to confront. Still, the building called to him. He thought of his mother lying on the boards, her glassy eyes devoid of the warmth he had known. Her ghost still walked here, the ghost of the woman she had been. His chest tightened as the visions rose up.

Each step along the track to the arched gateway in the enclosure brought another memory of her, teaching him the harp with giggles and teasing, singing, smiling, calling to him to come home.
Come home, Hereward. Come home.

And then he looked up the tall elm poles that formed the arch and his heart stopped.

Alric must have noticed that his friend had grown rigid, for he hissed, “What is wrong?” Standing beside the warrior, the monk followed his line of vision to the top of the arch, squinting in the growing dusk, not believing what he was seeing. And then all he could say was “Oh.”

Hanging on the arch was a head, turning green, eyes gone, mouth sagging. The decay had not been merciful, for Hereward recognized it in an instant. His young brother, Beric.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

B
LOOD FLOODED
H
EREWARD
'
S HEAD
. I
N THE THRUM OF ARTERIAL
flow, he heard his young brother's dying screams and the laughter of the Normans hacking through muscle and gristle. Rage, burning hot. And then whispers, the seductive voice of his devil, throwing off the shackles that had been forged so carefully over three years, and rising up in him, filling him, destroying him.

Someone tried to grab him, urging him to restrain himself, to grieve but not to hate, but the words came to him as if through deep water. The warrior threw the arms off him and rounded on the one trying to restrain him. It was the monk. Whatever Alric saw in his friend's face, he recoiled in horror.