Time of the Wolf (9 page)

“You are not fearsome.” Holding her chin up brazenly, she strode to the hearth and flung a handful of dried leaves into the flames. A sweet scent filled the air. The earl was welcoming him, as he had hoped.

“You have never met any man like me,” he said in a wry voice. He watched her dress fold around the body beneath and realized how long ago he had last been with a woman.

Perhaps glimpsing his lingering stare, she paused, teasing with her lips but eyeing him from a position of strength. “I see fresh scars, like those on the arms of any of the huscarls. I hear boasting, like the easy, empty words that echo from the mouths of boys who dream of being heroes but know in their hearts that they will never achieve that height. I see …” she made a noise in the back of her throat, “nothing I have not seen before.”

“And yet you waste your breath talking to me.”

“When I hear of a new arrival who has braved the lawless lands beyond the fence, on foot, in the middle of winter, I would see for myself if this is a fool, or one of the signs.”

“Signs?” Hereward circled the hearth, watching the woman through the smoke. He saw a flicker of apprehension cross her face.

“Of the End-Times.”

The warrior shook his head.

“At the minster,” she continued, “I heard talk that Archbishop Ealdred has sent word out for all men to watch for signs that this is the End of Days. And across Eoferwic everyone whispers of some wise woman's dream that Doomsday draws near.” The slave searched Hereward's face for anything that he might be hiding.

He laughed. “These are winter stories, to frighten in the long nights. Every age believes it has been chosen to be the last. And if these
are
the End-Times, then so be it. There is little of value in this world.”

Puzzled, the black-haired woman remained silent for a moment. “You are not afraid?” But at that moment the hall echoed with the approaching clatter of metal and tramp of leather on wood, and the slave retreated into the shadows. From the gloom at the far end of the hall emerged Earl Tostig Godwinson and his wife Judith, accompanied by five of his huscarls in hauberks and furs. Eyes gleaming beneath their helmets, the bodyguards were tall and lean, fierce of expression and heavily scarred. They were wild-bearded Vikings in the main and carried their axes as if Hereward was to be cornered and killed. The Mercian recognized the jagged facial scar and implacable stare of the one at the head of the band. He had led the dispersal of the crowd gathered outside the metalworker's hut earlier that evening.

But Tostig held his arms wide and boomed a greeting. Dressed in a ruddy-dyed linen tunic under a thick woolen cloak, the earl stood a hand shorter than Hereward, his brown hair curling into ringlets and still sprinkled with the snow that must have started falling outside. He moved with a wolfish lope, his body strong and battle-hardened. But Hereward knew that the man's face hid secrets easily and that it was difficult to know what he truly thought. In contrast, Judith's face was open and smiling. A heavy-featured but not unattractive woman, she had gained some weight around her middle but hid it beneath a beautiful linen dress dyed the color of the sun. Tostig had married well, Hereward thought. As the daughter of Baldwin, Count of Flanders, the Bruges-born woman had powerful connections. Judith smiled at the new arrival. She had been kind to him the few times they had met at court, when every other noble had treated him with suspicion, contempt, or fear.

“I thought my servant was mistaken,” the earl said, warming his hands in front of the fire. “Hereward of Mercia, here, so far from his home?”

“You have not been to court in recent times?” Hereward asked.

Tostig grunted. “Between repelling the raids from the north and trying to instill order among the unruly herd here in Northumbria, all my attention has been needed in Eoferwic. Let me tell you, my young friend, every night I dream of my old home in the south. This is the most lawless place on earth, and even the so-called civilized men are quick to rise up in violent protest if they feel they are not getting their due.” With a weary shake of his head, he drew up a stool beside Hereward. “But I expected no more from a people fired by the blood of Viking pirates,” he added with a note of bitterness.

Hereward saw the toll the heavy burden of office was taking upon the earl. His shoulders were hunched, his brow continually knitted. There were many in London who said that Tostig was not up to the task of bringing order to Northumbria. He had lived all his life in the shadow of his brother Harold Godwinson, a strong and clever man who had earned his power at court. But when Earl Siward had died, Harold had fought hard to have Tostig sent north, to ensure that the Godwins controlled most of England. Only Hereward's own home, Mercia, remained free of their influence, and there the newly appointed earl, Edwin, was inexperienced and no threat.
Or perhaps no obvious threat,
he thought.

“What news do you have from the south?” the earl inquired, shaking off his mood.

“Edward's court is a mess of plotting and deceit.”

Tostig laughed. “That is news?”

Judith joined them, resting one hand on her husband's shoulder. “You are troubled,” she said, her brow furrowing in concern. “What has driven you here to the cold north?”

“My enemies have pursued me from London, determined to take my life.”

“You always were skilled at finding adversaries,” Judith said with a sad smile.

“I am cursed with a difficult nature.” Hereward returned the smile, remembering how she had once slipped him a honey cake when he had been left supperless in the cold outside the King's hall after a fight.

“Pursued you?” The earl tossed a log onto the fire. Golden sparks soared up in the fragrant smoke. “Why would they risk their lives in the middle of winter?”

“They are afraid that I learned dark secrets.”

“Did you?”

His face impassive, the warrior said nothing.

Judith laughed. “He has learned to play the game of kings and earls.”

“The King is ailing. His time on this earth may well be short— and, as he has no issue, the question of who wears the crown will, as you well know, be a matter of earnest debate.” Hereward dangled his bait lightly. “I would think the Godwins would wish to have their say.”

Tostig's eyes glittered. After a moment's reflection, he turned to Judith and said quietly, “Leave us to discuss this matter.” Once she had departed with the huscarls, the earl demanded, “What do you know?”

Hereward paused, searching for the correct words to describe the event of the previous year that had changed the course of his life and possibly heralded his own death. In his mind's eye, he saw himself stumbling drunkenly through the palace enclosure toward his home and his bed. He smelled the smoke of the hearths and the stone dust from the masons' work on the King's great folly, his new abbey. He heard the owls hooting in the trees on the far side of the wide gray river and the singing reverberating from the royal hall. He could still taste the sweet mead on his tongue and feel the night breeze caressing his skin as if every aspect of that night had been locked into his head for all time. When he heard the echoing cry, he raced to investigate. Where the vast stone blocks and timbers for the abbey's construction were piled high, he glimpsed fierce movement on the edge of a circle of flickering torchlight. Two men, hooded and swathed in dark woolen cloaks, were plunging spears into a third man sprawled on the hard-packed earth. A pool of glistening blood was growing around him.

When Hereward yelled an alarm, the two murderers darted into the night. The warrior knelt beside the victim, but could see instantly that there was no saving him. The man's face was unfamiliar; his beard and lank hair were turning white, his cheeks were hollow, and his eyes were sunk deep in their sockets as if he had not eaten for many days.

“Do not leave me!” the man gasped, grabbing ahold of Hereward's wrist with a desperate strength.

“I am here. Tell me who did this to you. I will see that you are avenged.”

“I do not know their names.” He dragged the warrior in closer. “Six summers gone, I killed Edward Aetheling, the son of old King Edmund Ironside. Poisoned him. In Oxford.”

Hereward felt his drunkenness vanish in an instant. He had still been under the tutelage of the monks at Burgh Abbey when he had heard of the death of the man who had been chosen to succeed England's childless monarch. Edward Aetheling, the son of the present king's half-brother, had been in his forty-first year when he was brought back from exile in Hungary with the sole intent of being groomed to inherit the throne. No culprit had ever been found.

“I wanted more gold,” the man croaked. Tears leaked from his eyes. “To buy my silence. And they told me they would pay me here tonight.…”

Hereward's mind raced. “
Who
told you?” But the victim would never answer anyone again, silenced before he could implicate others in his terrible crime.

Querying calls rang across the palace grounds, answering the warrior's earlier cry of alarm. After a moment's hesitation, Hereward realized he could not risk being found with the victim. Someone would suspect that he had learned too much.

Back at the house he shared with Asketil, Beric, and Redwald, he found his adopted brother snoring in his sleep and woke him roughly to recount what he had witnessed. Perched on the edge of his bed, Redwald had sat with his head in his hands, more aware than Hereward of how grave was the situation. After a moment's hesitation, he said, “I overheard Earl Edwin instructing two men in the shadows of the abbey earlier today. I did not recognize them, and they stopped talking when I neared and glared at me until I departed.”

“Edwin? His kin have always rivaled the Godwins in their lust for power. But could the Earl of Mercia really seek the throne for himself? He has no claim. The Pope would not sanction it. William the Bastard … Harold Godwinson himself … surely they would all resist?”

“It is a grand prize,” Redwald said. “Worth a grand risk.”

His head still spinning, Hereward said, “If there is a plot here, the King's own life could be at risk. Poison, the man said. We must raise the alarm.…”

“Wait.” Redwald jumped from the bed and grasped his friend's shoulders. “Did anyone witness you hear that last confession?”

“No.…”

“Are you certain? The two murderers could have watched from afar, and if they thought you privy to such a terrible secret, your own life could be at risk.”

“Nevertheless, the King must be informed.”

“Of course. Let me think.” Redwald paced around the hearth, scrubbing his fingers through his brown hair. “I have it. No one will suspect
me.
I will go to raise the alarm. You go to Aedilred's house. He is with his kin in Wessex. Edwin's men will not think to look for you there.”

Grinning, the warrior clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. “This is like those summer days in the fens, saving each other from trouble.”

Redwald grinned in return. “Drink some ale to steady yourself, brother. I will be back soon. But not too much—you are a foul drunk.”

He had drunk too much, and the rest of the night had spun away into confusion. But he recalled with clarity the moment when his life fell into the dark. He remembered the blood, gleaming in the firelight, the hot-iron smell of it. He remembered Tidhild's eyes staring up at him, through him, into that everlasting night-world. His love's eyes. And he remembered fleeing, shortly before his own father had asked the King to declare him outlaw.

Now, shaking his head to dispel the memory, he eyed Tostig through the curtain of gray smoke and the whirl of scarlet sparks. “The court has the appearance of a still summer pool,” he said. “But sharp-toothed predators swim beneath the surface. I now know for certain that the King's chosen heir was murdered, and I fear that Edward's own life is at risk from plotters.”

Shock flared in the earl's face, then disbelief, as the warrior had expected. Calmly, he explained what he had seen and heard that night, and expressed his growing concern that Edwin of Mercia, his own earl, was preparing to move for the throne once Edward had died. But he did not tell Tostig of Redwald's mission or what had happened after Redwald had left, only that he had left London that night. And he hid the fact that he himself was outlaw, mistrusted by the King and despised by his own father for fear that it would damage his case.

Tostig listened with rapt attention, growing more troubled with each word. “And these enemies who pursue you. They are the plotters?”

“Or in their employ. I need to be silenced. They know I cannot stay quiet on these matters. To ensure that I should not be believed, they have tried to implicate me in the shame of that night's murder.”
Murders,
he thought. “But they know they must have me killed, quietly, before the truth comes out.”

“It would have been easier for you to flee abroad.” The earl rose and strode around the hearth in thought. “I must send word to London. While the snows are heavy, by ship is our best course. But it must be secret. Too forward and Edwin will be alerted—plotters have eyes and ears everywhere, and we do not know whom we can trust. And if we speak too loudly too soon, Edwin may be forced to move quickly, before we are ready. Our actions may even bring about the King's murder.”

“I agree. Caution is the only way. If word can be gotten to the King himself, he can prepare his defenses and strike back while Edwin is unguarded.”

“Very well, Asketilson. I will send a man on one of the trading vessels. With luck, we may hear back before Christmas.”

Hereward felt relief that his burden had finally been shared; but, studying Tostig through the smoke, he wondered if he had made the right decision. In the fog of shifting alliances that swirled around the court during these wintry days surely near the end of Edward's reign, no man could have a clear view of the path ahead. But his options were few. To run forever, like a frightened hare; or to escape, recover, prepare, and return to claim the vengeance that set his heart beating like the drums on the galleys.