Hereward (4 page)

Hereward ran alongside the stream towards the tree, but he already knew it was futile. He couldn’t see the house anywhere in the forest dark, and the wolves would be close, following the meaty stink of the blood that caked him.

He leapt a fallen trunk and found himself skidding down a bank into a hollow clogged with brambles and the remnants of another tree that had been struck by lightning. By the time he realized it was the worst possible position, the wolves had lined the edge of the hollow, their silhouettes stark against the snow.

‘Damn them!’ he snarled at Alric as the monk rolled down the bank into a deep drift. ‘It appears that God has granted your prayers!’

Hacking his way through the vegetation into the centre of the hollow, he began a slow turn, watching for the first attack. He suspected that at least ten beasts moved around the rim; there could be more beyond.

Alric cried out as the first wolf leapt. An instant later, all the predators surged forward. As fast as the snarling beasts, Hereward flashed his sword back and forth, chopping down two before he was engulfed in a mass of snapping jaws. He fought with fist and elbow, slashing with his sword whenever he managed to free himself enough to swing. Blood smeared his torn flesh as he reeled from the ferocity of the attack.

Three more wolves fell in quick succession, disembowelled. Before Hereward could catch his breath, another leapt for his throat. Throwing himself to one side, he felt its jaws latch on to his upper arm. He ignored the pain and lunged for the beast’s neck. Clamping his teeth on the wet fur, he tore out its throat. A gush of arterial blood soaked his face as the wolf fell away, thrashing and turning across the hollow in its death throes.

He glimpsed the terrified monk crammed into a space beneath the roots of the fallen tree, but then the remaining wolves attacked as one. He sliced through two with rapid slashes of Brainbiter, and shattered the skull of the third, but the final wolf caught him wrong-footed. The force of its attack propelled him backwards into the brambles, and as he hit the icy ground his sword flew from his hand.

The wolf fell on him in an instant. Straining, he managed to hold its snapping jaws an inch away from his throat, but he felt his strength ebbing.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Alric scrambling from his hiding place and bounding up the side of the hollow. At the top, the monk paused to look back, his expression dark, and then he hurled himself over the rim and away.

The wolf drove its jaws closer and closer to Hereward’s face. Hot breath blasted against him, gouts of saliva splashing his flesh. His arms trembled. All he could see were those cold, jewelled eyes moving nearer, until they filled his entire vision.

A sudden impact smashed the wolf’s head to one side. Hereward recoiled in shock. When he had gathered himself, he saw the beast lying on the bloodstained snow, its skull caved in. A large bloody rock lay beside it.

Alric stood nearby, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. He exchanged a glance with Hereward, but all he could manage was a nod.

‘Why?’ Hereward asked as he levered himself up, searching for his sword in the snow.

‘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 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 grey, 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 meagre 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 fibre 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 endeavours 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 towards 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 him 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.’

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

THE HOODED MAN rode into the teeth of the blizzard, his unlined face numb from the cold. His grey woollen 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 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,’ he 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 the young man 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.