Time of the Wolf (18 page)

Hereward felt as though he were floating across the face of the earth, untouchable, immaculate. He watched the blood drain from the faces of the two remaining men, noted the familiar shift of expressions like moonshadows on snow: shock, disbelief, dread. The world was silent, the air swathing him with the sumptuous muffling of goose down. His grin broadened. Joy filled him. Euphoria. He floated across the timber boards and swung his axe a third time. To him, the weapon flowed like honey, but the third man moved even slower. The blade sliced through the chest and down toward the right hip, opening up his innards. And as hard as the horrified man tried to hold them in, he could not.

And then there was only the fourth.

The ruddy-faced man threw away his sword and pressed his palms together in a prayer for mercy, as if that could turn back time. But in Hereward's mind, the man was already dead.

Yet he dropped his axe, while still striding forward, and the relief in the fourth man's face was almost comical. A fist, driven hard, into bone and gristle. A resounding crack. And spatters of blood, a miserable amount.

Hereward caught his victim's tunic in one hand before the unconscious man hit the boards. Dragging him away from the spreading pool of gore and the dimly heard cries of the dying, the warrior stripped him and bound his wrists and ankles. Then he strung him up by the feet with a rope looped over a beam as he had done many a deer.

Hereward waited patiently, feeling the glow diminish and his wits return. The man came around soon enough, a reedy cry rising from his lips when he realized his predicament. The warrior pricked his knife beneath his victim's eye and whispered, “Quiet.”

The man looked into his captor's face and fell silent.

“We will talk like men,” Hereward continued, “and you will tell me all you know.”

“I cannot,” the man whimpered. “I am sworn to silence, and God will damn me to hell if I break my vow.”

“You are a godly man. I admire that.” The warrior turned his knife so it glinted in the firelight. “But we have different aims, you and I. We must see whose will is stronger.”

Hereward proceeded to cut the man's torso. The screams rang out, but he knew they would be drowned by the storm and the revelry in the earl's hall. Their back-and-forth continued for a while, but Hereward whittled down his victim's resistance by degrees. Soon they were both so sticky with blood, it was nigh-on impossible to tell them apart.

“Now.” Hereward leaned in close and whispered in the man's ear like a priest hearing his final confession. “It is hell in this world or hell in the next. You may find peace, and a quick end, by answering me.”

The man muttered something unintelligible, his eyes rolling.

“What do you know of Edwin's plot against the King?” the warrior asked one final time.

“Edwin?” Blood bubbled over the dying man's lips. “Not … not Edwin. I was sent by Harold Godwinson, who would have you dead and the memory of you defamed so that all who speak your name will curse you to hell.”

Hereward felt as if he had been speared through the stomach.

Harold Godwinson, the great protector, the brave warrior, admired by all Englishmen, who prayed that he would take the throne once Edward was gone and lead them to an age of prosperity and peace.

Leader, protector … betrayer.

Hereward's blood burned. He had been betrayed once again, first by his father, now by the man who had the ear of Edward, the man who would be king. Betrayed and despised by all the powers above him. He was alone, as he always had been, and he would no longer bow down to any man. “Then warn the Devil that I am on my way,” he growled, “for you will be in hell afore me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

F
AR FROM
E
OFERWIC
'
S STREETS
,
IN THE SOUTHWEST
,
THE NIGHT
was just as cold, and just as bloody. The torches roared in the bitter wind. Song floated out from the King's hall where the Christmas court had gathered, yet beyond the palisade the dark over Gloucester was deeper and more threatening than it ever had been in London, Redwald thought.

Pressing his hand against his mouth in horror, he watched Harold Godwinson grab the Mercian's hair from behind and yank the head back. With one fluid move, the Earl of Wessex ripped the tip of his knife across the exposed neck. Drunken laughter from the hall drowned out the victim's bubbling cry. As the terrified man's hands went to stem the flood of blood, Harold rammed the head down to the ground and held the face against the frozen earth until the snow was stained crimson and the body had stopped convulsing.

“A lesson for you. This is how you survive and grasp hold of power: by not being afraid to do the dirty tasks with your own hands,” the older man said with an unsettling calmness. In that one moment when Harold had held life in his hands, Redwald had seen his employer's face alter: the humor, the nobility, the wisdom, all of it fell away as if it were a mask. The young man felt chilled by what he saw rise up to replace it in the cold face and glittering black eyes. “Do you see?” Harold's voice cracked with anger.
“Do you see?”

Redwald nodded furiously.

“Good. Learn. Now help me.” Harold rolled the bloody body on to its back and wrapped it in its gray woolen cloak. For a moment, Redwald froze. The man's death might as well have been by his hand. At the Palace of Westminster, he had observed this Mercian, one of Edwin's men, following Harold as he rode out into London with his attendants. Redwald had feared that an attempt would be made upon his master's life and had informed the earl of his concerns. Nothing more of the matter had been mentioned on the long journey from London to the palace at Kingsholm. But earlier this night, while Edward was at prayer and the earls and thegns were in the middle of their feast, Harold had summoned Redwald out into the bitter night. Together the two of them had lured the Mercian away from the hall to this isolated place on the edge of the marsh beside the stream, and then Harold had struck.

When he saw his master glaring at him, Redwald ducked down and grabbed the corpse's shoulders. Together they carried the remains to a small copse. Harold threw the Mercian down as if he were a sack of barley.

“What … what will you say when the body is found tomorrow?” Redwald ventured. “Edwin will suspect—”

“Let Edwin suspect. He knows nothing and can make no accusations,” the earl snapped. “But look.…” He pointed to a mess of pawprints in the snow. “In this cold weather, the wolves come out of the woods in search of food. They will smell the blood, and there will be no body here tomorrow, or none that is recognizable.”

When Redwald stared at the crumpled form in the snow, he flashed back to the sight of Tidhild sprawled amid the thickening pool of her blood. She had always been kind to him. He knew she felt sorry for him for losing his father and mother so young, and she had stolen honey cakes for him when he had first arrived at the Palace of Westminster with Asketil and Hereward. So much misery, so much pain.

“That night,” Harold grunted, giving the body a kick, “the night Hereward ran, you made a good choice. You could have gone to Asketil, or Edwin, or one of the thegns. But you came to me.”

Redwald's stomach churned. He saw the dead Mercian at his feet. He saw Tidhild.

“You recognized that only I had the strength to deal with the storm of weapons blowing up around England.” A whisper of a smile graced the earl's lips. “And you knew only I could raise you up to the levels you dreamed of, out of the mud and into the world of gold.”

And even when I realized you were the true murderer of Edward Aetheling, I continued down this road,
Redwald thought.
Because, God help me, I wanted what I saw within reach.

Harold looked toward the hall, where the light from the torches around the enclosure formed a halo in the dark. “Think no more of Hereward. You are a man now, not a boy, and men make hard decisions to grasp hold of the things in life that have value. Your brother could not be allowed to pass on what the dying man had told him. It would have left England in the hands of men who care little for the way we live our lives.”

“Hereward will be killed?” Redwald felt a constriction round his throat.

“In a manner that does not draw attention to the Godwins. We must be above all suspicion. I have received word from my brother in Northumbria, and these things are in motion.” The earl studied the young man's face for any sign of weakness or betrayal. “You accept that this is the way it must be?”

Redwald drove all thoughts of his childhood from his mind, of the kindness Hereward had shown him, the friendship and support. He felt the world whirl around him, cold and dark. And then he nodded.

“Good.” Harold rubbed his hands together for warmth. “I have allowed you to see me take a life with my own hands. Few others have witnessed such a thing. We are bound by more than trust now, by something deep and unshakable. Should you betray this bond, know that I will kill you too. Your body will not be found. Your loved ones will never know your whereabouts. Do you understand?”

Once again, Redwald nodded, this time more quickly.

“I need a good man I can trust to do my bidding. My plans rush apace, and there is much business that must be conducted away from the harsh light if we are to win the prize. First, though, a blood-oath, to seal this thing.”

Leaning down, the earl dipped two fingers in the dead Mercian's blood and pointed them up to the stars and the moon. Redwald copied him, and when Harold spoke, the younger man repeated every word of the vow. “My life is no longer my own. I swear to obey the word of my master, Harold Godwinson, Earl of Wessex, even though it go against my heart and mind. Even though it cost me my life.”

Once they had done, the earl gave a pleased nod. “The throne will be mine. Stand with me, and you will have everything you dreamed of.” Turning his back on the body without a second glance, he marched up the slope toward the lights of the hall.

After a moment, Redwald followed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

C
LAMPING ONE HAND OVER
A
CHA
'
S MOUTH
, H
EREWARD DRAGGED
her into the shadows inside her small house. She struggled with her unseen assailant, but the warrior's strong arms held her tight.

“Make no sound,” he whispered. “No one must know I am here.”

Acha calmed when she realized who had hold of her. Whirling, she glared at him. “You do not lay a hand upon me unbidden. Why are you here? Where have you been this evening? Your absence was noted. Even Tostig commented upon it.”

Hereward gave a bitter laugh. “The earl noticed my absence? I am sure I am much on his mind these days.” He knelt to peer out of the door into the blizzard. The sounds of revelry drifting from Tostig's hall had subsided a little, but he saw no sign of movement in the snowbound enclosure. “This night is far from done, and by the end of it I will no longer be able to call Eoferwic home.”

“You are leaving?”

Softening when he heard the hurt note in her voice, Hereward stood to face her. “I must. And I would have you come with me.”

“I cannot … the earl.…”

“I will face down any man Tostig sends to stand in my way. I care little about the consequences of my actions. If there is killing, so be it.”

“The earl will hunt you down—”

“I am already hunted, and friendless. There is no more he can do. I had hoped I might find an ally in Tostig, but now I know he is party to the plot I have uncovered, and I have only survived until now because he cannot have me killed in a manner that will draw attention. So one of his men tries to burn me to death in the middle of a foray with his huscarls, and when that fails he sets a bear on me. An accident, and no further questions asked.”

Hereward watched the confusion in Acha's face strip away the brittle hardness that was usually etched in her features. Behind it, he saw the hidden woman he had identified on their first meeting, the one struggling to survive far from her home in a place where she was considered a worthless outsider. His heart was touched by this true Acha.

“You accuse the earl of trying to kill you? Why?” she stuttered.

“I learned this night that it is Tostig's brother, Harold Godwinson, who is plotting to seize the throne for himself once the King has died, if not before. Harold has always been an ambitious man, but until tonight I did not realize how much he valued power. He puts his own advancement, and that of his kin, ahead of all England.”

“Are you surprised that men of power seek power?”

“What makes men do the things they do? Truly? Some men seek power, yet they have never gone to the depths that Harold plumbs.” Hereward looked past her to the dull glow of the fire, still trying to assimilate the revelations of the dying man. “To order the killing of the King's heir, Edward Aetheling, the greatest obstacle in the way of his taking the throne, then to slaughter the man who committed that murder. To tear me from my own life, and the hopes I had, and make me scapegoat for his crimes, so that I am shamed and so are all my kin. To hunt me down like a beast. And …” he paused, trying to hold his incipient rage in check, “to oversee the murder of Tidhild. A good woman who only thought the best of everyone she encountered. She was discarded as if she were a deer to be skinned. Betrayed.”

His final word resonated with such bitterness, Acha was silenced for a moment. “You are sure he did all these things?” she eventually asked in a quiet voice.

“The man who told me was in no position to lie. Tostig is as tarnished as his brother. All the Godwins must be. Perhaps the foul corruption lies in the blood itself, and the entire family is born to deceive.”

“What will you do?” Acha asked. “Surely you would not seek vengeance on the Godwins themselves.”