Time of the Wolf (40 page)

The gray-haired Englishman shuffled in and stood uneasily in the doorway, looking around his former home.

“Draw closer, Asketil. Welcome to my home,” the Norman commander boomed, making no attempt to hide his smirk.

“I am here to warn you,” the thegn began, his croaking voice almost lost in the hall's vault, “of a sword raised against you.”

“And who would dare to challenge me, old man?”

“His name is Hereward, and he is my son.”

Aldous's eyes narrowed. He had heard the name before. A great warrior whose fearsome exploits had gained the attention of Baldwin of Flanders.
Bear-Killer,
the mercenaries had called him when they had joined the invading Norman force, to a man fearing that they would face this Hereward on the field of battle in England. Was this the same warrior? If it were, he would need to send word to the court in London. More supplies, more mercenaries. The fens would need special attention.

“Why would you warn me about your own son?” the Norman commander asked.

“Because he is a black-hearted outlaw who has brought shame to his kin.”

It had been the right decision after all to keep the old thegn alive, the commander thought. With the information he supplied, they could set a fine trap to catch the English rebel before even a weapon was raised. Aldous smiled. “Tell me more.”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

I
CY BLACK WATER SWILLED AROUND
A
LRIC
'
S NECK
. P
ANIC
surged through him. He thrashed his arms to find the narrow causeway, but it was lost in the impenetrable night and his activity only dragged him down further. Kicking his leather shoes in the muddy depths, he fought to stay afloat. The swamp water sluiced into his mouth, stinking of rotting leaves. He gulped, choked, threw his head back, and cried out, although he knew there was no one within miles to hear. The weight of his habit dragged him down. Alric passed from the black of the moonless night to a deeper black as the water closed over his head. Silent prayers gave way to sheer terror. Pressure filled his mouth, his nose, his lungs burned, and down he went, and down.

I am a fool,
he thought, his last thought.

And then, through the mad whirl in his head, he felt his descent arrested. Water tore at his face and hair as he was dragged rapidly up and out into the chill night. Vomiting swamp juice, he sucked in a huge gulp of breath. The dark enveloped him. He couldn't see what was happening, or where he was, but then he became aware of hands grabbing the shoulders of his tunic. Roughly thrown to one side, he crashed on to a hard surface. The flint shards of the causeway ground into his cheek. He lay there for a moment, recovering, and then rolled onto his back. A dark figure loomed over him.

“You are a fool, monk.” It was Hereward's voice, as if he had read Alric's mind. “Why would you try to make your way through the bog with no torch to light your way and no fenlander to guide you?”

“Because you abandoned me,” Alric spluttered, realizing how pathetic his response sounded. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes, drinking in the joy of living. He had let his desperation get the better of him, he understood that now. But when Hereward had raced off into the night after leaving his father's house, the worst had seemed a distinct possibility. Alric had overheard the bitter conversation between the two men and now understood his friend's inner darkness in a way he could never have grasped before. The pain was still raw. But was it a pain so acute that Hereward would take his own life?

Though Alric had raced in pursuit, Hereward had outpaced him, and soon he had been left alone on the old straight track. He was filthy and exhausted, and there were no friends to offer him a bed. A cold night passed in fitful sleep under a willow, waking repeatedly, afraid of wolves. By dawn, his bones ached and his stomach growled. He had retraced his steps to the boatwright, but the snowy-haired man only treated him with suspicion, and, if he knew where Hereward might have gone, he wasn't saying. And so the monk had spent the day searching and calling. At some point he had wandered off the track and found himself lost in the unforgiving waterlands, surrounded by endless pools and bogs and copses and scattered islands with no landmarks or clear path to find his way back to the village. And then night had fallen, and he had started to believe that Hereward had killed himself. His despair had turned to panic and he had foolishly started to jog, then to run as fast as his weary legs could carry him. Halfway along the narrow causeway, he had wrong-footed himself and pitched into the water.

“Here is a rule for you,” Hereward said. Alric could see the silhouette of his friend squatting further along the causeway. “No man born outside the fens can find his way across these treacherous bogs and keep his life. This time God watched over you, or I did. Next time you may not be so fortunate. Do not attempt such a risky journey again. Do you understand?”

“Oh, yes. I plan to dance across this stinking hell every night,” the monk snapped. “How long have you been watching me? Could you have spared me this misery? If you tell me you could have, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

Hereward laughed softly. Alric found it a strange sound, devoid of humor. Something had changed in his friend.

“I thought you had returned to Flanders. Or worse, lost your life,” the monk explained.

“There is work to do here first.”

It was an unsettling reply, mainly because Alric didn't know to which part of his statement Hereward was responding.

The warrior hauled the sodden monk to his feet. “Come. There is a warm campfire waiting. Once you are dry and full, your spirits will rise.”

He led the way back along the causeway, on a winding path beside a bog, and across a second causeway to a thickly wooded island. Pushing through the dense vegetation, Alric realized they were following a path that only Hereward could see. The monk could smell smoke on the breeze, but could see no light ahead.

When he had struggled up the steep incline until the breath burned his chest, his friend suddenly disappeared from view. Baffled, Alric caught an ash branch to pull himself up and found himself standing on the lip of a broad hollow lit by a flickering campfire. The meaty aroma of cooked fowl hung in the air. White willow and ash continued across the dip, but some saplings had been newly cleared, by Hereward, Alric guessed, and the hill continued up to the tree-shrouded summit on the far side.

Skidding down the bank, Alric followed Hereward toward the campfire, only to come up sharp when he saw another man hunched on a fallen branch, gnawing on a bone. Big as an ox, with shaggy brown hair and beard, the man let his flickering gaze drift over the new arrival and then returned to his meal. “We feast on fowl, but now you bring me a drowned rat,” he muttered. By his size and his wry tone, Alric was reminded of a younger Vadir.

“Guthrinc,” Hereward said by way of introduction. “This is the monk I told you about.”

“Monk,” Guthrinc said with a nod.

“Who are you?” Alric asked, his eyes flickering toward the carcass resting on a flat stone in the ashes. Hereward tore off a leg and tossed it to him.

The large man shrugged. “This and that.” He eyed Alric up and down. “God has not looked kindly on you. What have you done to offend him?”

“Leave him be,” Hereward said. “He has had a fright in Dedman's bog.”

Tossing his bone to one side, Guthrinc wiped his hands on his tunic and said, “I'll keep watch.” He hauled himself to his feet and disappeared into the dark toward the lip of the hollow.

Shaking from the cold and the shock of his brush with death, Alric almost leaped onto the branch next to the fire. “You trust him?” he said, warming his hands.

“We ran together when we were youths. He likes his ale and his meat and his women, but in any fight he is like a wolf at your side.”

Alric chewed on his bone for a moment, then said, “You plan to fight?”

“The Normans are a blight on all England. They must be driven out, like rats from the grain store.” The warrior's voice hardened, his face becoming thunderous. “Their blood must turn the rivers red and their bodies pile up like stones on the beach as they flee to their ships.”

The monk considered the newfound vehemence in his friend's tone, trying to make sense of this sudden rebellion. “And this great victory will be accomplished by two of you?”

Hereward's eyes narrowed. “Three, I would hope.”

“Three, then. But what can three men do against an army? The Normans have crushed any resistance. Destroyed whole villages.”

“Three is only the start. As word spreads of the resistance we mount here in the fens, Englishmen will rush to take up arms alongside us.” The warrior stared into the middle distance, imagining the picture his words conjured up. “They will come in their tens, their hundreds, their thousands, and we shall rise up, with one voice, one weapon, and smite our enemy. We will crush the ones who make our lives a misery, who steal our freedom, our dreams, our hope. And then, when we are one family once more, peace will reign in England and our future will be assured.”

The passion he heard in the warrior's voice frightened Alric. Yet in the fire flickering in Hereward's eyes, the monk saw hints of a deeper truth. Though terrifying in number and strength, the Normans were an enemy the warrior felt he could defeat, whereas a gray-haired, beaten man remained invincible. “Take care,” he whispered, “that you do not win the battle but lose your soul in the process.”

Hereward laughed. “Always you worry. We have all the time we need to raise our forces and to plan. William the Bastard's men still slumber, unaware that we are here. The battle in the fens will be over before the Normans know what hit them. And then we will take it to all England.”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

25 October 1067

F
AT WHITE CANDLES FLICKERED AROUND THE
H
IGH
A
LTAR
. Shadows swooped across the stained-glass window and the dressed stone wall above it to the vaulted roof, as deep and dark as the black robes of the abbot kneeling in prayer. Only the soft muttering of the Latin devotion disturbed the peace.

Abbot Brand breathed in wisps of sweetly aromatic incense and opened his eyes. He was a gaunt man, as hard as a cold flagstone, with piercing black eyes and thin lips that appeared to be sneering at comfort. Rising to his feet, he crossed himself, and only then did he hear the soft click of a closing door and the echo of feet padding along the nave.

Alric watched the man turn, gauging the abbot's nature from the intensity of his stare and every line in his face. Suspicious at first, the man absorbed the monkish robes of the new arrival and said in an iron voice, “What is the meaning of this interruption?”

“Father, I waited until you had finished your prayers, but there is an important matter which needs your attention.”

“Who are you to make demands of me?”

“I am merely a humble servant of God,” Alric replied. “Like yourself.”

The abbot took a moment to consider if there was any insult implied in the comment. The monk continued, “My companion and I have traveled long and hard here to Burgh Abbey, and we are weary from the road. Would you deny us a brief moment?”

“It must wait until morning,” the abbot snapped. “The business of the abbey calls to me.” He moved to walk past Alric along the nave to the door, but the monk stepped into his path. Anger flashed across the abbot's face at the disrespect.

“In truth, Father, I approached you in advance of my companion to be sure the abbey was not swarming with Normans at prayer. I am only just returned from a long stay in Flanders, but I have been told that the clergy enjoy a fruitful and warm relationship with our new masters.”

Suspicion once again burned in the abbot's eyes. “And why would you, a monk, have any reason to question the King?”

“I answer only to one master, Father.”

The abbot's patience had almost worn through. As he prepared to call out, Alric said quickly, “I see you are alone here at this late hour, and this abbey remains a place of tranquility, so I would usher in my companion. He is of your blood, Father.”

Abbot Brand started. “My blood?”

“All of this business is about blood, in one way or another.” Hereward's voice floated from the deep shadows at the rear of the church. He had entered unnoticed while Alric had been speaking. At the sound of the familiar voice, the monk saw a flash of unease cross the abbot's face, perhaps even fear, but it was gone before he could be sure.

From the shadows, Hereward slowly emerged. The candlelight illuminated the blue warrior marks on his bare arms, his fair hair, his strong jaw. The flames danced in his pale eyes. Alric caught his breath. For the first time, he thought that here was a man who could defeat an entire army of invaders if he put his mind to it. When had this warrior emerged from the wild youth who had sprayed blood across frozen Northumbria? In the misery he had witnessed in Eoferwic? During the lone march through the bloody battlefields of Flanders? With Turfrida's kiss, and her love? On the day's march from the camp to Burgh, the monk had realized how truly changed his companion was. The warrior, it seemed, had developed a strategy shaped by wisdom and patience instead of the raw passions and rage that had once filled him. But, as always, Hereward kept his plans close to his heart, and Alric had been surprised when he saw the church tower rising up against the gray sky from the top of a hill. It was a grand abbey. Behind the enclosure, halls, houses and stores sprawled across an extensive estate. What, he wondered, could his friend possibly want here?

“Hereward?” the abbot began. “I thought you—”

“Dead. Outlaw. Yes, Uncle, you are not the first to tell me these things.” Hereward came to a halt in front of the older man and looked him deep in the eye. “I expect my father has had much to say about me.”