Time of the Wolf (35 page)

And so he had waited, and waited, and had grown close to his father-in-law, Wulfric Rabe, and he and Vadir and Alric had wanted for nothing. His time with Turfrida had been enjoyable, and his campaigns had brought them wealth. They had not yet been blessed with a child, but it would come. Alric had seemed happier still, and had spent his days working at the church and teaching the children. Hereward felt pleased that the monk had found his peace.

But still England would not leave his thoughts, hovering like a black cloud on the horizon on a summer's day.

“What is on your mind?” Vadir asked as he eyed his friend askance. “You have that look on your face. The one that makes my heart sink.”

“I was thinking of my brothers, young Beric and Redwald.” He paused, his throat tightening. “And my father. I wonder how they fare, now William has been crowned king. I wonder if they still live.”

The red-headed man made a non-committal noise deep in his throat, but Hereward could tell his friend did not like the course the conversation was taking.

“I was thinking, perhaps, of a journey to Mercia, to see my old home. It would be good to drink mead with Redwald again.”

“A journey home means no pay,” Vadir grumbled. “And with a monarch as bloody as William the Bastard upon the throne, I would expect England to be much changed.”

Hereward studied Wacheren. It looked like an upturned bowl floating on the gray waters, steep, tree-covered slopes rising from the boulder-strewn shores to the village on the summit. “If only the islanders defend their home without help from warriors, we should be done before there's sweat on our backs,” he mused. Vadir dismissed the thought with one raised eyebrow.

Three of the warships broke away to patrol the channels among the islands. No sly attack would come from silent ships disgorging fighters at their backs. The other vessels sailed around Wacheren, each dropping anchor at a different point.

As the Mercians' ship neared the shore, the sun dipped behind the island and the chill of the shadow fell across the oarsmen. The black water lapped against a small stony beach where a cracked, gray-wood jetty on rope-lashed pillars protruded out into the sea. The two English warriors searched the dense bank of trees rising up to the skyline. All was still.

When the anchor splashed into the shallows and the creaking boat strained to a juddering halt on the greased rope, the dripping oars were raised from the water and drawn into the vessel. Hereward held up one hand. Helmets gleaming on bowed heads, the men sat in silence, unmoving. The two Mercians turned their heads and listened.

“No birdsong,” Vadir hissed. “Our enemies wait under leaf-cover.”

Twirling his hand, Hereward thrust it in the direction of a path disappearing into the shadows among the trees. “Take the sleep of the sword to all who stand in our way,” he yelled, leaping over the side into the shallows. The cold water splashed onto his mail, but beneath his helmet his head burned. Drawing Brainbiter, he shouted, “For Mercia! For Robert!” With an answering roar, the warriors grabbed their shields from the side and their axes and spears from under their seats and jumped into the water behind him.

But as they splashed toward the small rocky beach, the air filled with whistling. Arrows whizzed from the trees. A shaft flashed a hand's width from Hereward's head. Throwing up his shield, he ordered his men to do the same, but his voice was nearly drowned by cries behind him. Turning, he saw arrows ram into eyes, into chests, into necks. Many shafts lashed harmlessly into the black water, where blood now pooled. Vadir's prophecy had been correct. Thrashing, the wounded men slumped beneath the surface until the nearest warriors dragged the still-living toward the shore.

Another flight of arrows sped through the air. This time they thudded into raised shields. The men clustered into a knot, heads now protected by a roof of wood. “Stay together,” Hereward shouted as his force stumbled out of the sea and rattled up the stones to the treeline.

“When this business is done, I will find three of the best Frankish whores in all Saint-Omer and you will not see me for an entire week,” Vadir growled.

“Only three? You are getting old.”

Under the cool green canopy, the men broke formation. The path was only wide enough to travel single file. It had been cut into steps and edged with wood to keep it in use when the rains came. The two Mercians bounded up the track, their men close behind. Among the trees, ferns and rocks, they glimpsed shadowy figures scrambling up the steep slope toward the village. Arrows flashed past the trunks intermittently, but the warriors kept their shields high and their bodies low.

“Cowards' weapon. I told you,” Hereward hissed, darting from cover to cover.

“You cannot deny that the bow does its work well, though,” Vadir puffed. Wrenching an arrow from his splintered shield, he tossed the shaft away.

Glancing through the swaying blades of emerald grass up the hillside, the younger warrior came to a sudden halt. For an instant, he had a view through the trees to one solitary sun-drenched clearing amid the dark. A figure had stood there briefly, almost as if it had wanted to be seen. Something about that fleeting outline tugged at the depths of his memory. Unease rippled through him.

“What is wrong?” Vadir was watching him suspiciously.

“Nothing. Keep your wits on staying alive, not on me.”

The path turned sharply, following the contours of the hill. A tangle of exposed roots and dense vegetation blocked any other easy access to the summit. Ahead, Hereward noticed yellowing turf and branches spread across the beaten mud. When Vadir moved to cross, the younger Mercian blocked him with an outstretched arm. Crawling on his knees, he stabbed his sword on the dead vegetation and some fell away into a gulf beneath.

Peering into the hole, Hereward reported, “Sharpened wood … spears rammed in the bottom.”

“A Viking trick,” the big man replied with a curse. “If more of these bear-traps lie around, let us hope the other commanders are as sharp-eyed and sharp-witted as you.”

As the warriors edged round the pit, arrows tore into two more men who had failed to keep their shields up. Both soldiers plummeted into the hole, the sticky impact followed by their dying moans.

When the force neared the top of the winding path, Hereward raised his hand once more to slow his men. From around the island echoed the sounds of battle, punctuated by the agonized cries of the dying.

“Let us hope that is the enemy howling their way down to hell,” Vadir said, unconvinced.

Hereward looked out across the flat, broad summit of the hill. Past the fields, a system of ditches and low ramparts protected the cluster of timber-framed houses with the stone church at the center. No smoke drifted from any of the houses. Nothing moved. The only sound he could hear was a dog's barks floating across the grassland.

“The islanders are gone,” he hissed to his waiting warriors. “The only men you will encounter here are our enemies. Cut them down without a second thought.”

When the order had been translated, the Flemish warriors beat their shields with their weapons. A moment later they burst from the trees, helmets aglow in the sunlight. Their battle cry resounded across the summit of the hill. Arrows whistled around their ears, but the men moved too fast to be easy targets. From the trees, two clutches of enemy warriors erupted, the variety of shield designs marking them as spears for hire. A third group emerged from the village on to the ramparts, and a moment later a fourth appeared. Within moments the other bands of Flemish warriors began to straggle on to the summit.

Iron clashed upon iron amid a tempestuous din of throat-rending screams and frenzied shouts. Gritting his teeth, Hereward led the way into the melee. Roaring men thundered toward him, their eyes glazed by battle passion. An axe strike glanced off his helmet, a spear skimmed his chain coif. In the crush of battling bodies, he washed back and forth as if he were being tossed by a churning ocean. Snarling faces filled his vision. The choking stink of sweat, blood, piss, and shit burned his nose.

Then, through the swirl of bodies, Hereward glimpsed a familiar hawk-like face. Piercing eyes fixed upon him with a burning intensity as if he were the only important one on the field of battle. Memories skittered through his head between thrusts and parries. And then the name sprang to his lips: Hoibrict, the grandson of Count Manasses whom he had shamed on the tournament field in Bruges so long ago.

The swamp of mud and blood sucked at his leather shoes. Round and round he spun, with barely a moment to think, but the sight of the Flemish noble nagged at the back of his head. He glimpsed Vadir, roaring with laughter and drunk on battle, burying his axe in a collarbone.

Again Hoibrict fell into view. His eyes burned with hatred as they locked on to Hereward's gaze. The Fleming yelled some threat or other, the words lost to the din of battle. As the nobleman disappeared in the swell once more, a warning jangled through Hereward's head. Something here was not right.

He searched the sea of helmets as he fought until he found Hoibrict, and this time the Fleming was cutting a path through friend and foe alike. Toward Vadir.

A cruel revenge, Hereward thought, and what he expected of a weak man like Hoibrict. “Vadir,” he barked. “Your back!” But the din of battle drowned his voice. He set out to close the gap, cutting his way through the mass.

The hawk-faced man loomed closer to his prey.

Hereward bellowed again, and this time Vadir heard. As he spun round he swung his axe to deflect Hoibrict's thrust with ease. Faced by the towering warrior, the nobleman recoiled in shock. For a moment, the Fleming hovered, unsure. His eyes flickered between Vadir and his approaching rival.

“Seek your revenge face to face like a man,” Hereward yelled.

Hoibrict turned and ran. A moment later another man joined him, the two of them bounding like rabbits toward the village.

“That bastard.” Hereward glanced around at the dying battle. “Something stinks here even worse than you.”

“Then let us ask what it is … with the help of your sword and my axe.” Vadir laughed loudly, whisking his weapon in the direction of the fleeing men.

Leaving the clash behind, Hereward and Vadir raced across the ramparts. As they skidded down the final slope to the edge of the houses, the two warriors could hear running feet ahead.

“The coward tries to hide.” The big man stooped to peer between the buildings. “You take that side, and I'll go this way. Between us, we'll surprise him.”

Hereward nodded, pressing one finger to his lips. He kept low as he edged past a barn and a plot where herbs grew. He felt a simmering anger at Hoibrict's cowardice. The Fleming betrayed his knightly status and shamed his own bloodline. Better to die under a hundred axes than to flee honest combat. On the other side of the village, the dog began barking again. The nobleman had revealed his position and it would cost him dearly, Hereward thought with contempt. He sprinted silently past one house and to the lee of the next one, keeping one eye open for the man who had accompanied Hoibrict.

When he passed the third house, a shout rang out, and another—Vadir, he was sure. The clang of iron upon iron resounded across the rooftops.

Hereward ran. His friend must not have all the fun.

Following the hound's barking, he charged onto a green next to the church. Hoibrict waited there with the second man, who had drawn an arrow from a pouch on his back. This time the Flemish nobleman was grinning as he unsheathed his sword. A poor trap, Hereward thought, already searching for cover from the arrows. It was then that he saw Vadir. Beyond the church, on the edge of the village, his friend lay on the turf, blood seeping from gaping wounds on his arms and neck. Hereward felt his thoughts burn slow as he struggled to comprehend the scene and the identity of the man standing over his fallen friend.

Harald Redteeth.

As the Viking raised his axe over his head for the killing blow, he began to sing an upbeat song. He paused when his weapon reached its highest point and grinned at Hereward. The Mercian could almost read his enemy's thoughts.
I have traveled across land and sea with only the heat of my yearning to drive my legs on. I have hunted through wild woods and empty grassland, past rushing rivers and in the reeking depths of towns to find your trail. And now that I have found you I will take my revenge
—
by stealing the life of your friend as you took the lives of my men. By driving guilt into your heart as you brought shame to mine.

Guilt, Hereward thought, because he had let down Vadir: he couldn't reach his friend in time to prevent the fall of the axe.

If only he had realized the lengths Harald Redteeth would go to achieve his vengeance. If only he had watched the path behind him instead of the road ahead. If only he had killed his enemy outright when he had the chance.

Hereward refused to submit to this destiny. He hurled himself at the archer with a roar. The man loosed his arrow, but his arm trembled in shock at the ferocity of the attack and the shaft sped by. Hereward drove his sword through the archer's gut so hard, the tip ripped out of his back. Snatching up the bow and arrow, the English warrior cast one lowering glare at the advancing Hoibrict. Whatever the Flemish man saw in that look, his features drained of blood and he turned and ran.

Harald Redteeth grasped the badly wounded Vadir's hair and yanked it up, exposing the man's neck. Holding his axe high, the Viking cast one final taunting look toward his hated rival.

Hold steady,
Hereward thought, trying to calm the blood rushing through his head.
Be strong.
He notched an arrow, took aim and fired. Harald Redteeth stared back at his enemy, unruffled.

The shaft sped past its target by a hand's width.

Cursing, Hereward flashed back to the wasted moment on the snowy field outside Saint-Omer when Vadir urged him to learn to use the bow.