Time of the Wolf (41 page)

Brand's face remained impassive. “I have prayed for you.”

“Many have died by my hand, Uncle, but not the woman I was accused of murdering. That was a lie, designed to keep small men in great power. But God has dealt out his punishment for their sins.”

Abbot Brand folded his hands behind his back. “It has been many years since you were here as a boy. Though your learning improved, we failed to tame you. I always saw that as my failing, and I told your father so.”

“Then you can make amends now.”

Alric studied the two men. He saw suspicion lying between them, a hint of unease in the abbot, but Hereward's true thoughts were unreadable.

“What would you have? Food? Clothing?” The older man paused, his eyes narrowing. “Sanctuary?”

Hereward laughed. “I need no protection. No, Uncle, I need you to make me a knight.”

Taken aback, the abbot's studied aloofness fell away.

“You seem shocked. Am I not suitable? My father is a thegn. I hold land—or did before the bastard William came. I have my sword and mail, and I am well versed in all the knightly ways. And was I not a good protector of this very church for many years?” From a leather pouch at his side, Hereward removed a smaller pouch tied at the neck. The coin in it jangled. The warrior held out the payment for Brand to take.

After a moment's hesitation, the abbot took the pouch with a sigh. “What gain is there in this for you? It will not clear the stain upon your name.”

“England needs a defender, Uncle. It needs an honorable man who will inspire hope in the hearts of our neighbors and fear in the hearts of our enemies. When I am knight, men will flock to my banner more readily. All will look to what I am now, not what I was before.” Hereward's eyes twinkled. Alric thought he saw mischief there.

“You would rebel against the Normans?” Brand said with horror.

“Why would I not? The invaders crush the life from us.”

The monk felt impressed by his friend's cunning. In the eyes of others, the title would transform the warrior from savage killer and outlaw to a man who fought for the highest principle, a warrior blessed by God.

“Consider the consequences. If you stand against the Normans, you will bring all of William's wrath down upon the fens,” the cleric pressed. “We have kept our peace here as best we could. It has not been perfect, but we have survived. William will brutally crush you and all who stand with you, and he will not care what innocents get in the way. Do you wish that fate upon your neighbors?”

“I would not wish upon my neighbors the life they now have.”

The abbot wrung his hands together, pleading. “There is only a small force here now. Just fourteen knights of high rank commanding barely five times that number.”

Hereward nodded. “And those fourteen slaughtered my brother? A good number. They will be the first.”

Brand looked sickened. “William will burn the whole fenland if he has to. He will go to any extremes if he feels his word is challenged.”

“I will do the same. We will see who has the stomach for this battle.”

Seeing that his nephew would not be deterred, the abbot relented. “Give me your sword and kneel. I cannot deny this request from my own blood, but my concerns are great.”

Hereward smiled. He knelt on the cold flags in front of his uncle and bowed his head.

“Then repeat the knight-oath.” The abbot laid the tip of the sword upon Hereward's right shoulder. “In the eyes of God, swear now to be just and honorable at all times.”

“I so swear.” Hereward's clear voice echoed along the nave.

“Swear now that you will defend the weak and uphold the virtues of compassion, loyalty, generosity, and truth.”

“I so swear.”

“Swear now, by all that you hold sacred, that you will honor and defend the Crown and Church.”

“I so swear … that I will defend the Crown, but not the invader who now wears it.”

Brand hesitated, still struggling with his reluctance, and then said, “Rise. In the eyes of God, you are now a knight.” He balanced the sword on the palms of his hands and offered it to Hereward.

Alric saw a change in his friend, as if a mask had suddenly slipped away. His eyes afire, Hereward took the sword and slipped it into its sheath. “So be it.”

The abbot frowned. “When this reaches the ears of the Normans—”

“Why would it?” Hereward interrupted, his smile sardonic. “There are only we three present.” He laughed. “I expect this to reach the ears of the Normans, Uncle. That is why I came here. I want them to dwell on the nature of the enemy they face. I want this night to ripple out across the fens, across all England, to wash up to the very feet of William the Bastard as he sits upon his stolen throne.”

Abbot Brand looked white in the pale candlelight. “What will you do?”

Without answering, Hereward showed the cleric his back and strode to the edge of the shadow at the end of the nave. As if as an afterthought, he turned back and said, “I will bring terror. I will bring blood. And England will be made free once more.”

In the instant before the dark folded around his friend, Alric glimpsed something in his friend's face that turned him cold. It was as if another peered out through the eyes of the man he knew, something inhuman that had been hiding away but was now set free. Frightened, the monk hesitated for a long moment before following his companion.

When he slipped through the door and called after his friend, a cowled figure that had been spying upon the meeting separated from the shadows and followed him.

CHAPTER FIFTY

T
HE TORCHES GUTTERED AND SPAT IN THE BREEZE.
S
MOKE
stinking of pitch swirled in the thin light breaking through the branches where a few gold and copper leaves still clung. Holding aloft the burning brands, the Norman knights waited on the edge of the green. They were dressed for war, in helmets and hauberks, double-edged swords hanging at their sides. In front of them, the village men knelt on the turf, their heads bowed. They still wore the thin tunics they had been dressed in when they rose from their beds at first light, before the Normans had hauled them from their homes. Whimpering, the women huddled against the wall of one house, casting fearful glances at their menfolk as they wrapped their arms around their sobbing children.

Aldous Wyvill felt only contempt for the cowardly English. They had brought this upon themselves. “One final time,” he said, his eyes moving over the sullen peasants. “What do you know of the outlaw Hereward?”

Only the wind answered him.

Grim-faced, the Norman commander nodded to his knights. He would brook no resistance. In response to his silent order, each knight raised a sizzling torch toward the thatch that roofed the eight dwellings ringing the green. The village men looked up, their faces drained of blood, but still they remained defiant. The commander sighed inwardly.

“Wait.” A young, thin-faced man with straggly blond hair and unsettlingly pale eyes lurched to his feet. The men about him cursed him, insisting he hold his tongue. A woman—the man's wife, Aldous guessed—begged him to stay strong.

Aldous held up his hand to stay the burning. He looked the man in the face with as respectful a stare as he could muster. “You know something of this Hereward?”

The man nodded.

“Then speak, and know that you do an honorable thing in trying to save your village.”

“We have all heard talk of him, in the market and the inn. He has returned to defend us in our time of need.”

The commander snorted. “He will be the death of you all. What do you know of him?”

“That he is more than man. That he is filled with the spirit of a bear, which he killed with his bare hands in the north, or so the stories say.”

“He is a man, be sure of that, and a weak one too.”

“You say. But that is not what the English hear. Already the stories are reaching out beyond the fens, and a steady stream of men and women draws toward this place.”

“To join the rebellion?”

“Some. Others to seek protection from the grip of your king.” Burning insolence flared in the man's eyes.

Aldous struck him across the face with the back of his hand, splitting his lip and raising blood. “He is
your
king,” he hissed. “Show respect or you will lose your head, here, in front of your woman and your neighbors.”

The man flashed an affectionate look toward his tearful wife.

“One more thing I would know,” the commander continued. “Where does this Hereward make camp?”

With one voice, the village men roared their opposition, shouting threats of violence to their young neighbor.

“For your village,” Aldous whispered. “For your women and children.”

Looking down, the man swallowed. In a quiet voice almost drowned out by the clamor, he described the location of the outlaw's camp.

Once he was done, Aldous allowed himself a triumphant grin. He would begin making his plans immediately to attack the rebel. This Hereward would not know he was doomed until it was too late. Striding back to his men, he nodded curtly. “Burn it down. Then kill the men.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

“K
EEP YOUR EYES AHEAD
,” H
EREWARD WHISPERED
.

Alric barely heard the warrior above the music of the fens. Wind whistled through the high branches of the willows. Dry wood cracked under the monk's shoes. Leaves rustled. Rooks cawed. Since they had left Burgh Abbey, Alric had concentrated on the burning in his thighs as they waded through black mud, skirted silent lakes shimmering with a brassy glow as morning broke, stumbled along flinty causeways, and splashed across white-foamed rushing streams. He felt tired and hungry and he feared what was happening to his friend. All the good work of years appeared to be draining away by the moment.

“What is there to see apart from water and wood?” he grumbled.

The warrior slowed his step so that he dropped back alongside his traveling companion. “We have been followed ever since we left the abbey,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the way ahead.

“How do you know? I have seen nothing. And heard nothing above this din.”

“He is skillful and cunning. In the dark, he shrouded himself in black cloak and cowl. Since sunrise, he has put just enough distance between us to prevent us from hearing his footsteps, but not enough to lose sight of us.”

“A Norman scout?” Alric's chest tightened.

“Mayhap,” the warrior growled, “which is why I drew him on. Knights could have been hiding at Burgh Abbey; and if the alarm had been raised there, we would have had little chance of escape. But here … this is my land.”

Before the monk could ask another question, Hereward melted away. Alric felt the warrior by his side one moment, but when he glanced across he saw only swaying branches and heard only the ghost of footsteps disappearing across the muddy ground. He tried to steady himself, but they had spent most of the journey talking about Norman tactics, the swift strikes from their cavalry, their use of bowmen to bring death from a distance, but most of all their cruelty, which he had witnessed at first hand in the head of Hereward's brother hoisted above the hall gateway. Of all potential enemies, the Normans were the worst with their coldness and efficiency.

His heart hammering, he continued to struggle through the undergrowth, unsure of what the warrior wanted him to do. Suddenly Hereward's battle cry shattered the peace of the woodland. Rooks took flight as one, with a thunder of black wings from the treetops, their raucous cries alerting everyone within miles.

Turning on his heel, Alric weaved back through the swaying willow branches that obscured his view. He was afraid of what he would find: his friend dead in a bog, a horde of well-armed Normans closing in from all sides? The final sweep of branches fell aside, and he stumbled across Hereward wrestling on the sodden ground with the black-cloaked stalker. Clearly no stranger to battle, the other man fought as furiously as Hereward. Alric was shocked to see that his friend had already been disarmed, his sword lying half-buried in a bank of rust-colored fern. Yet Hereward refused to allow his opponent a moment to catch his breath, raining down punches and butts with his head.

“Wait,” the other man croaked. “Hereward … wait.”

At the sound of his name, the warrior came to a halt. One fist raised, he tore the cowl away with his other hand. Alric saw curly brown hair and full lips that made the features seem oddly innocent, like a child's. The warrior's bafflement gave way to a broad grin.

“Redwald?” For a moment, he stared at the battered figure, and then jumped to his feet. Hauling the other man into his arms, he hugged tightly, slapping his brother on the back. “Redwald! I thought you dead!”

“And I you.”

Hereward held the cloaked man at arm's length to study him. Alric watched a shadow cross his friend's face. Redwald looked gaunt and pale, his gaze skittering like that of a whipped dog. Forcing a grin, the warrior said, “You look well. How did you find me?”

“I took revenge for you, Hereward,” the other man said with an almost childlike desperation to please. “Harold Godwinson died with prayers for forgiveness upon his lips … prayers in your name.”

The warrior nodded. “Then Tidhild can rest easily. Her death has been avenged.” He shrugged, throwing a puzzled glance at Alric. “For so long, seeing Harold Godwinson suffer for his crimes was all that filled my heart and mind. Yet now I feel grief for Tidhild's passing, but no joy at Harold's death. Other matters loom larger.”

The monk smiled. “As we march along life's road, we see the trees and hills we pass in a different light. What was, is not always what is.”

Hereward sighed, waving an arm toward his friend. “This is Alric, a monk, who sees it as his life's work to save my soul. We must pity him for that thankless task. But beware, Redwald, he talks. And talks. And ties your wits in knots. When you want to feast, or drink, or lie with a woman, he talks.
What was, is not always what is.”