Hereward (5 page)

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 ageing 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 the new abbey was all that 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 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 woollen 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 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 towards 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 centre 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.

Throwing off her cloak, the queen beckoned to Redwald and pointed to the long table where he should lay the casket. As he put the box down, a booming voice rang through the hall: ‘More old bones?’

Redwald beamed as Edith’s brother, Harold Godwinson, strode across the room; a stablehand had once suggested to him that Harold never walked slowly anywhere. Powerfully built, with a strong jaw and a handsome face, his jet-black hair gleaming in the firelight, the Earl of Wessex flipped open the lid of the box to reveal a yellowing tibia. ‘As I thought. What is it this time?’

Redwald hung on the older man’s words. Harold was everything he dreamed of being: confident, wealthy, powerful, charismatic; safe.

‘The shankbone of St John the Baptist, brought from far Byzantium by a good Christian merchant,’ the queen replied, clapping her hands together with excitement. ‘It is said it can bring a dead man back to life.’

‘And you are winning?’

‘Of course. Do I not always? My husband’s search for relics stutters and starts. When his abbey is consecrated, it will be Edith of Wessex who will fill it with the glory of God, and it will be the name of Godwin that will be on all lips.’ She flashed her brother a sly smile.

The earl laughed. ‘What do you say, Redwald? The queen is a playful sprite. She loves her mischief.’

‘As do we all,’ the young man replied. They all laughed.

Harold clapped a hand on Redwald’s shoulder. ‘And what do you say now, Edith? I told you this lad was reliable. I see great things ahead for him.’

‘He has served me well, where others failed. Perhaps you should take him into your employ.’

‘Perhaps I should.’

Redwald felt a swell of pride; to escape the miseries, the doubts, the fears and the insecurity of his life was all he wanted. In Harold’s employ, he would be privy to great things; he would be a part of something that mattered.

While Edith examined her relic with hungry fingers, the earl led Redwald away, his mood darkening with each step into the shadows that clustered at the far end of the long hall. ‘I know you can be trusted,’ he said, ‘and you have proved it to me in times past, but I have to take care. Plots and deceits whirl around the throne like the deep currents around the bridge across the Thames. I have to be sure.’

‘I understand.’

‘I know you do, which is why I have invested so much faith in you.’ The earl fixed a sharp eye on the young man. ‘The king nears the end of his days, yet he has no appointed heir. That is a dangerous concoction. If we wish all that we have achieved in England to endure, we must work to ensure the throne does not fall into the wrong hands.’

‘I only wish to serve.’

‘Very well. I will think on this matter more.’ Harold took Redwald through an annexe to the door of another room where men sat drinking from wooden cups along both sides of an oak table. Several slumped drunkenly in pools of ale. Staying out of sight by the door, the earl pointed to two men locked in quiet, intense conversation at the far end of the table. Redwald recognized the blond-haired Edwin, Earl of Mercia, as handsome and vital as Harold, but quieter, and the man’s brother Morcar, almost the opposite of his kin, hollow-cheeked and long-faced like a horse, his hair already thinning.

‘I do not trust those Mercians,’ Harold whispered. ‘They are always plotting in dark corners and I fear they know more than they let on. Watch them for me.’

Pleased to be given responsibility so soon, Redwald agreed.

When they returned to the hall, the younger man voiced the question that had been on his mind for some time. ‘Is there any news of Hereward?’

Harold shook his head sadly. ‘I know he is your brother in all but name, but you must put him out of your head. He is both traitor and murderer. He will never be allowed to return to London. With the blood of innocents on his hands, it is only a matter of time before his punishment catches up with him.’

Redwald nodded, but he couldn’t put the blood out of his mind, and the woman’s body lying within it, her eyes wide and accusing. The picture haunted him, in his sleep, in the quiet moments when he was going about his chores. ‘I would not see harm come to him.’

Harold turned his piercing gaze on the lad for a long moment and then nodded. ‘Understood. You have grown up alongside him, friends beneath the same roof. Your loyalty is impressive. Now, go. Try to give some comfort to Asketil. His life has been made miserable over the years by his son’s violent and wayward behaviour, but since Hereward brought slaughter to the Palace of Westminster it is as though the thegn is drowning in deep water.’

Redwald said goodbye and hurried out into the night, his mood sobering as he neared his house. Inside, his vision adjusted slowly to the near-dark. Only a few embers glowed in the hearth. On a stool, Asketil stared into the remnants of the fire with heavy-lidded eyes, a cup of ale held loosely in his right hand. Redwald thought how old the thegn looked in the half-light, as if many years had eaten away at his skin and greyed his hair in the short time since Hereward had fled.

‘You’re back,’ Asketil slurred, his gaze wavering towards the young man.

‘Yes. It was a long journey from Winchester in the snow.’

Asketil beckoned Redwald to draw nearer, leaning forward to scrutinize the young man’s face with his bleary eyes. ‘I wish you had been my son,’ he said finally. ‘You were always a good boy, even in those days after they brought you to me when your mother and father died.’

‘Do not think badly of Hereward.’

‘Do not think badly? He murdered a gentle woman who held only love in her heart for him. He has destroyed this family with the shame he has heaped upon us. Look what he has done to me.’ The thegn slurped the last of his ale, then threw the cup into the corner of the room. Redwald was surprised to see Hereward’s younger brother Beric slumped in the shadows there, his arms wrapped around his knees. The boy stared at the boards as if no one else was present. He had not spoken since he had learned of the murder and the accusations against his brother. Redwald recalled the girls in the kitchen whispering to him, ‘Beric is broken.’

Broken
. A terrible legacy had indeed been left by the blood spilled that night.

‘Since we took you in, you have always been loyal to Hereward,’ Asketil continued. ‘And that does you credit.’

‘He was … he
is
… my friend.’

‘He is, and always has been, unworthy of your friendship. Since his mother died when he was young, Hereward could never be tamed. In Mercia, his name is despised for the crimes he committed as boy and man. Robbery. Drunkenness. Violence against any who crossed his path. Wilful destruction of the property of his neighbours. I did all I could to teach him how to be a man, and I failed.’

‘Do not blame yourself … Father.’ Redwald felt unworthy to use that word, even though he had lived in Asketil’s home since he was a boy.

His eyes glistening, Asketil looked away. ‘My business with the king is done, for now; I go home as soon as the snows melt. You must stay here, and work for Harold Godwinson, if he will have you. He is a great man. He … he should be king one day, and you will be well cared for, as you deserve.’ He choked on his words for a moment. ‘It was Harold who asked the king to declare Hereward exile so we would not be forced to go before the Witan and make the case for all to hear and debate across the land.’

‘And … and what of Hereward?’ Redwald whispered.

Asketil glared into the embers. ‘He will be made to pay for his crime, and soon. He has betrayed me … you and Beric … his mother’s name … and the king too. Only blood will set that right. And when he is finally gone I will not mourn him.’

C
HAPTER
S
IX

BLACK GLASSY EYES glistered in the gloom. Silent and watchful, the ravens brooded in the branches of the lightning-blasted oak, the darkly gleaming canopy of their wings mirroring the churning clouds above. Hereward felt unable to look at those solemn sentinels. Their gaze spoke to him of terrors long gone and worse yet to come. And as a deep-rooted dread chilled his bones to the core, he turned and ran along the track towards his father’s hall. He was a man and yet he was also a boy, and there, waiting outside the door, was his mother. Shadows spun by the gathering storm fell across her face, but her golden hair shone beneath her white headdress. Behind her, just inside the hall, a figure loomed, silhouetted against the ruddy glow from the hearth. Hereward’s heart began to pound.

What have you done? What have you done?
The words swirled around him, the ravens cawing their accusations.

His hands felt wet, but he dared not look down at them. ‘Do not worry,’ he whispered, ‘Redwald will avenge us.’

The Mercian’s eyes snapped open. Fingers of early morning light reached under the door. He lay on the thinly spread straw, his bones aching from the cold radiating through the beaten-mud floor. By the glowing embers in the hearth, the old woman snored under her filthy woollen blanket, but Alric was gone, probably to empty his bladder, the warrior guessed.

Redwald will avenge us
, he thought, as the last of the troubling dream drifted away.

Rising, he stretched. Though his wounds still ached, the witch’s balm had stripped the edge off the pain, and his limbs felt stronger after the night’s sound sleep. Would he be well enough to reach Eoferwic? The woods were rife with wolves and outlaws stalked the old straight tracks, if they were even passable after the heavy snows. He fought back his doubts, knowing that the king’s life, and his own, depended on his flight reaching its end.

Thoughts of the court reminded him of Tidhild, dead at his feet, her black eyes looking up at him, and in a surge of grief and guilt he swept out into the cold morning. The glare of the sun off the dense white snow blinded him. When his vision began to clear, a shape among the trees a stone’s throw from the house coalesced into the form of the young monk. Yet the man was naked, Hereward saw with shock, with a noose round his neck, a gag across his mouth, and his hands tied behind his back. Precariously, Alric balanced on the tips of his toes on a wobbling chopping block. His eyes were wide with fear. Another rope ran from the block across the frozen ground and into the trees.