Hereward (8 page)

After so long in the wilderness, Alric was happy to see the men and women bustling along the street, and the children running at play. The chatter and the shouts sounded like music to his ears. He breathed deeply of the comforting woodsmoke and wished he could live in a city all his days, where life was easier and learning and discourse thrived. Emerging from his reverie, he realized the warrior was striding off along the street.

‘Wait,’ he called, hurrying alongside. ‘Where do you go?’

Hereward stopped and turned, his pale eyes catching the fiery gleam of the setting sun. ‘Our time together is done. I saved your life, but I do not own it.’

‘I paid you back in kind. Your journey here would have been harder without me.’

‘I give thanks for the aid you gave me, but now I travel alone.’ Pausing, he looked to the crimson horizon. ‘In my dreams, I see the path ahead littered with corpses. I must cross rivers of blood beneath a sky lit by fire. No peace for me, churchman, and peace is all your kind speak of. Our ways lead in different directions. I go to the setting sun, where the dead wait. You face the dawn. Understand?’

‘No man should walk through life alone.’

Hereward leaned in, his stare unwavering. ‘Are you listening? Death waits for any who walk by my side. I did not save your life only to see it wasted on some godly whim. I can only offer you hell. Go now, or I will take my sword to you.’ He held the monk’s gaze for a moment longer and then turned and marched away without a backward glance.

Alric took a deep breath to steady himself. God had offered this warrior to him. Saving Hereward was the reason why he had been placed upon this earth, he had decided, and he could not allow himself to be deterred so easily. Yet he knew he would not sway the warrior with words alone. He watched him walk away into the twilight and then he followed, keeping close to the houses where the men gossiped away from the worst of the wind and he would not easily be seen. Hereward strode on, pausing every now and then to exchange a few words with passers-by, perhaps asking for directions.

A small crowd of men and women had gathered outside a metalworker’s hut where the drifting acrid smoke caught the back of the throat. Perched on a pile of logs, a man with only one eye and one hand complained in a loud voice and shook his good right fist in the air. Caught up in the speaker’s passion, the attentive audience shouted words of encouragement. Distracted, Alric heard only snippets, enough to know that the group was unhappy about someone or something. He was watching Hereward, who had stepped aside to avoid five wild-bearded Viking warriors brandishing spears who stormed into the crowd, barking demands that the listeners go home. Clearly afraid, the men and women scattered. By the time the last one had gone, the one-eyed man was nowhere to be seen, and the gruff warriors were roaming among the huts, searching for him. The leader of the group paused to study Alric. A jagged scar ran from above his left eye across his nose to his right cheek. His stare was cold and unwavering, the look of a man who saw enemies everywhere.

The night was coming in hard. Only a sliver of red and gold lay in the western sky. Alric shivered in his woollen habit as the temperature plunged. All around him men began to vacate their workshops, abandoning their hammers or their looms to make their way back to their hearths for the evening meal of bread, bean stew and ale. The monk slipped through the steady stream of weary workers until he saw Hereward turn left into a street echoing with the calling of swine, where the smell of rotten apples hung thick in the icy air.

Near the pen where the fat black and pink pigs were kept, four youths taunted a smaller lad. Tears streaked the boy’s pale cheeks and he lumbered around with a limp, trying to avoid their swipes. Hereward paused to watch. Alric waited too, studying the warrior, wondering what thoughts were passing through his head. The four bigger boys grew rougher, finally knocking the weaker one to the frozen mud. Hereward flinched.

The monk smiled, a tingle of expectation running down his spine. This was it, he thought, the moment when the warrior revealed his true nature, that deeply buried goodness that Alric had sensed during their long journey. His soul.

As the four bullies launched sharp kicks at the whimpering lad, Hereward roughly pulled them back, flinging one of them so hard that he fell on to his behind. The monk broke into a grin.

He lies to himself about who he is
, he thought with a nod.
My task, then, is to bring him to awareness of the good inside him
.

Hereward hooked his large left hand into the smallest boy’s tunic and yanked him upright. Silently, he cuffed the lad across the ear, whispered a few words to him and threw the now sobbing child back to the ground. While Alric tried to make sense of what he had seen, Hereward disappeared into the growing gloom and the monk had to hurry to catch up.

The street was deserted and icy stars were glittering in the black sky when he saw the warrior reach an enclosure. Hereward paused at the gate, surveying the dark bulk looming ahead of him, and then strode towards the golden glow falling through the open door on to the snowy ground.

Alric’s breath caught in his throat. The thatched hall was the largest building in all of Eoferwic, dwarfing five nearby houses. There was no doubt in his mind. It had to be the hall of Tostig, the earl of all Northumbria. What connection could Hereward have with one of the highest in the land?

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

THE SUN WAS setting over London in a crimson blaze. A knife of shadow slashed through the heart of the white-blanketed Palace of Westminster from the stark silhouette of the new abbey’s unfinished tower. Torches sizzled in the crisp air as the Master of the Flame brought light to the enclosure and in the king’s hall slaves stoked the fire for the night to come.

Redwald crept through the gloom against the church’s western wall. With his hood pulled up to mask his identity, the young man eased past the shaky wooden ladders soaring up to the timber platforms on their vast pillars of elm. All around, the clatter of the stonecutters’ hammers rang out, the masons labouring in the dying light under the direct instructions of the king, who could not bear to see his great work lying unfinished for a day longer than necessary. Redwald could smell the earthy tang of the stone dust and the woodsmoke from the fires the workmen used to keep warm.

Low voices echoed from the abbey’s shadowy interior. He edged to the arch where the west door would eventually be fixed and peered inside. Ruddy light falling through the window-holes tinged the drifting snow on the floor, and he could see the moon and first stars through the open roof. Two silhouettes stood in quiet conversation in the centre of the nave. When they walked a few paces towards where the altar would be located, Redwald saw that one was the king. The young man had never seen the monarch looking so frail; his skin was almost the colour of the slush at his feet, his head bowed, his limbs thin. Sweeping his right arm towards the sky, Edward was saying in a faint voice, ‘All things are in truth two things. This church, this great stone building, is a testament of our devotion to God. But it is also a man.’

Puzzled silence hung in the air for a moment. The second figure shifted uncomfortably. It was the man Redwald had come to spy upon, Edwin of Mercia, brimming with vitality next to his fragile companion. The earl’s red woollen cloak shone in stark contrast to the king’s bloodless appearance.

‘Unformed rocks are hewn from the earth, rough and purposeless,’ Edward croaked. ‘And then the stones are shaped by the weight of wisdom and the quiet reflection of others, and they take form, and rise up, and gather meaning, and purpose, and become something filled with God’s will. Become a testament to God and his plan.’

‘You say … every church … is a man.’ Redwald heard Edwin struggling to mask his baffled contempt.

‘And every man is a church.’ The king nodded, smiling. The earl continued to shuffle, looking around the soaring walls.

Redwald started at the sound of running feet at his back. A young messenger barged past him to whisper to the king, who gave a curt nod, bid farewell to the Mercian earl and followed the messenger out of the church. Pressing back into the deep shadows so he would not be seen, Redwald watched the monarch pass by and thought he saw a faint smile play on Edward’s face. He struggled to understand. The king had a young, attractive wife, and wealth and power, but his servants said he had become obsessed with prophecies and omens, and was building this monument as if it was in some way protection against what he feared was to come. Perhaps it was just vanity, Redwald thought, for the monarch knew his name would last as long as the great stone church stood, and that would be until Judgement Day.

Rough hands grabbed his cloak, tearing him from his reflection. Before he could cry out, his unseen assailant bundled him along the cold wall and hurled him through the doorway into the church. Sprawling in the snow, he looked up into the horselike face of Morcar, the Earl of Mercia’s brother. ‘It is Harold’s pup.’

Edwin drew his sword and planted the tip firmly on Redwald’s chest. ‘I know you. The brother of the murderer.’ Redwald’s cheeks flushed.

‘He was eavesdropping.’ Morcar’s lips pulled back from his teeth like a cornered animal’s. ‘No doubt to report back to his master.’ He spat a hand’s width from the young man’s face.

‘You are a Mercian. You march under the banner of blue and gold.’ Edwin pressed the tip of the sword deeper into Redwald’s flesh. The point burned, but the young man forced himself not to cry out. ‘How can you be in the employ of that Wessex bastard?’

‘You know the Godwins would have crushed Mercia if they could,’ Morcar continued. ‘They plotted against our kin, and worked to see our own father killed. His final days were a struggle to survive. But Harold Godwinson will not win.’ He snarled the final words.

Edwin grinned, but coldly. ‘What does Harold fear? That I gain favour with the king? That I will finally prevent his own ascent to power?’

‘He does not fear you,’ Redwald retorted, red-faced with anger. ‘You are too young and untested to be Earl of Mercia. And you would not be there now if not for the death of your father.’

Fury flared in Edwin’s features at the insolence. He whipped up his blade to slash it across the young man’s face.

‘Hold.’ The voice echoed across the cold, empty nave. Redwald recognized the confident humour lacing the word. Harold Godwinson strode in, his cloak thrown back so all could see his hand upon the golden hilt of his sword. ‘Has my lad slipped under your sword, Edwin?’ the Earl of Wessex continued. ‘He is a clumsy oaf at the best of times, but that is a mistake that could have cost him an eye.’

Edwin hesitated for a moment, and then sheathed his sword, stepping back. ‘You play a dangerous game.’

‘And the king wastes his final days building monuments to God, when he should be protecting this realm … and ensuring the throne is passed to an Englishman,’ Harold snapped.

‘To you?’ Edwin turned away to hide his sneer.

‘Or you.’ The Earl of Wessex stuck out his hand to help Redwald to his feet. ‘In Normandy, William the Bastard has already laid claim to our throne, and he plots, and he waits. And King Harald in Norway thinks he should have it too. So why do we two fight when we know our true enemies?’

‘Why?’ Edwin’s eyes blazed. ‘You know why.’ He shoved Morcar towards the door and the two Mercians walked out into the dark.

‘I am sorry,’ Redwald said. ‘I was a clumsy fool. I put you at risk.’

‘You are a bright lad, with great days ahead of you, but you still have much to learn. Heed me and you will gain all that you dream of.’ But the young man could see that the earl was distracted, and after a moment he realized that Harold was listening to approaching hoofbeats on the frozen mud of the road beyond the enclosure. Beckoning Redwald to walk with him, Harold strode out of the church. The bonfires cast an orange glow up the stone walls of the church, but the masons had packed up their tools and gone for the night.

‘It is within your power to make amends for the stain placed on your kin by Hereward’s actions,’ the earl continued. ‘You can set poor Asketil’s heart at rest. He deserves more than the blow his wayward son has dealt him.’

‘I want to serve England in any way I can.’ Afraid of the answer he might receive, the young man nevertheless summoned up his courage. ‘Does this mean you will take me into your employ?’

‘You have proved yourself.’

Redwald’s heart leapt. Harold Godwinson’s patronage was all that he had dreamed of since Asketil had first introduced him to the earl. He felt he almost had his hands round the rope that would drag him out of the slough of his early days, and he would not let go whatever happened.

‘You have worked hard to gain my trust,’ the earl continued. ‘I like that. I remember when I was your age, and the dreams I had then. I learned from my father that life is a struggle, but the prize is always worth it.’

In the gloom, Redwald noticed Harold’s huscarls waiting around the enclosure, battle-hardened Wessex men who carried their spears as if they were a part of them; clearly, the earl would not have risked confronting Edwin and Morcar in such an isolated place without his own protection assured.

‘There is much I can teach you, and much you can do for me.’ Harold fixed his attention on the torchlit gate where the sound of hooves had come to a halt. The sentries were calling to someone outside the palace. ‘You saw today the threat Edwin and Morcar present. Once Edward has died, they want the throne for themselves. They whisper and plot. Power is all that concerns them, not England.’