Time of the Wolf

by James Wilde

  “I do not trust those Mercians,” Harold whispered. “They are always plotting in dark corners, and I fear they know more than they let on. Watch them for me.”

  Pleased to be given responsibility so soon, Redwald agreed.

  When they returned to the hall, the younger man voiced the question that had been on his mind for some time. “Is there any news of Hereward?”

  Harold shook his head sadly. “I know he is your brother in all but name, but you must put him out of your head. He is both traitor and murderer. He will never be allowed to return to London. With the blood of innocents on his hands, it is only a matter of time before his punishment catches up with him.”

  Redwald nodded, but he couldn’t put the blood out of his mind, and the woman’s body lying within it, her eyes wide and accusing. The picture haunted him, in his sleep, in the quiet moments when he was going about his chores. “I would not see harm come to him.”

  Harold turned his piercing gaze on the lad for a long moment and then nodded. “Understood. You have grown up alongside him, friends beneath the same roof. Your loyalty is impressive. Now, go. Try to give some comfort to Asketil. His life has been made miserable over the years by his son’s violent and wayward behavior, but since Hereward brought slaughter to the Palace of Westminster it is as though the thegn is drowning in deep water.”

  Redwald said good-bye and hurried out into the night, his mood sobering as he neared his house. Inside, his vision adjusted slowly to the near-dark. Only a few embers glowed in the hearth. On a stool, Asketil stared into the remnants of the fire with heavy-lidded eyes, a cup of ale held loosely in his right hand. Redwald thought how old the thegn looked in the half-light, as if many years had eaten away at his skin and grayed his hair in the short time since Hereward had fled.

  “You’re back,” Asketil slurred, his gaze wavering toward the young man.

  “Yes. It was a long journey from Winchester in the snow.”

  Asketil beckoned Redwald to draw nearer, leaning forward to scrutinize the young man’s face with his bleary eyes. “I wish you had been my son,” he said finally. “You were always a good boy, even in those days after they brought you to me when your mother and father died.”

  “Do not think badly of Hereward.”

  “Do not think badly? He murdered a gentle woman who held only love in her heart for him. He has destroyed this family with the shame he has heaped upon us. Look what he has done to me.” The thegn slurped the last of his ale, then threw the cup into the corner of the room. Redwald was surprised to see Hereward’s younger brother Beric slumped in the shadows there, his arms wrapped around his knees. The boy stared at the boards as if no one else was present. He had not spoken since he had learned of the murder and the accusations against his brother. Redwald recalled the girls in the kitchen whispering to him, “Beric is broken.”

  Broken. A terrible legacy had indeed been left by the blood spilled that night.

  “Since we took you in, you have always been loyal to Hereward,” Asketil continued. “And that does you credit.”

  “He was … he is … my friend.”

  “He is, and always has been, unworthy of your friendship. Since his mother died when he was young, Hereward could never be tamed. In Mercia, his name is despised for the crimes he committed as boy and man. Robbery. Drunkenness. Violence against any who crossed his path. Willful destruction of the property of his neighbors. I did all I could to teach him how to be a man, and I failed.”

  “Do not blame yourself … Father.” Redwald felt unworthy to use that word, even though he had lived in Asketil’s home since he was a boy.

  His eyes glistening, Asketil looked away. “My business with the King is done, for now; I go home as soon as the snows melt. You must stay here and work for Harold Godwinson, if he will have you. He is a great man. He … he should be king one day, and you will be well cared for, as you deserve.” He choked on his words for a moment. “It was Harold who asked the King to declare Hereward exile so we would not be forced to go before the Witan and make the case for all to hear and debate across the land.”

  “And … and what of Hereward?” Redwald whispered.

  Asketil glared into the embers. “He will be made to pay for his crime, and soon. He has betrayed me … you and Beric … his mother’s name … and the King too. Only blood will set that right. And when he is finally gone, I will not mourn him.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  BLACK GLASSY EYES GLISTENED IN THE GLOOM. SILENT AND watchful, the ravens brooded in the branches of the lightning-blasted oak, the darkly gleaming canopy of their wings mirroring the churning clouds above. Hereward felt unable to look at those solemn sentinels. Their gaze spoke to him of terrors long gone and worse yet to come. And as a deep-rooted dread chilled his bones to the core, he turned and ran along the track toward his father’s hall. He was a man and yet he was also a boy, and there, waiting outside the door, was his mother. Shadows spun by the gathering storm fell across her face, but her golden hair shone beneath her white headdress. Behind her, just inside the hall, a figure loomed, silhouetted against the ruddy glow from the hearth. Hereward’s heart began to pound.

  What have you done? What have you done? The words swirled around him, the ravens cawing their accusations.

  His hands felt wet, but he dared not look down at them. “Do not worry,” he whispered, “Redwald will avenge us.”

  The Mercian’s eyes snapped open. Fingers of early morning light reached under the door. He lay on the thinly spread straw, his bones aching from the cold radiating through the beaten-mud floor. By the glowing embers in the hearth, the old woman snored under her filthy woolen blanket, but Alric was gone, probably to empty his bladder, the warrior guessed.

  Redwald will avenge us, he thought, as the last of the troubling dream drifted away.

  Rising, he stretched. Though his wounds still ached, the witch’s balm had stripped the edge off the pain, and his limbs felt stronger after the night’s sound sleep. Would he be well enough to reach Eoferwic? The woods were rife with wolves, and outlaws stalked the old straight tracks, if they were even passable after the heavy snows. He fought back his doubts, knowing that the King’s life, and his own, depended on his flight reaching its end.

  Thoughts of the court reminded him of Tidhild, dead at his feet, her black eyes looking up at him, and in a surge of grief and guilt he swept out into the cold morning. The glare of the sun off the dense white snow blinded him. When his vision began to clear, a shape among the trees a stone’s throw from the house coalesced into the form of the young monk. Yet the man was naked, Hereward saw with shock, with a noose round his neck, a gag across his mouth, and his hands tied behind his back. Precariously, Alric was balanced on the tips of his toes on a wobbling chopping block. His eyes were wide with fear. Another rope ran from the block across the frozen ground and into the trees.

  Redteeth, Hereward thought. A trap to lure him out into the open. He silently cursed himself: Brainbiter still lay on the straw where he had been sleeping. And then he cursed the monk for failing to keep his wits about him. “Kill him! I care not!” he shouted.

  With a snap, the rope across the snow was yanked taut and the block flew out from beneath Alric’s feet. He kicked and flailed as his full weight dragged the noose tight round his neck.

  Defiance forgotten, Hereward raced from the house and flung his arms round the monk’s waist, raising him up so the noose loosened. Supporting him with one arm, he tore the rope from Alric’s neck, and together they collapsed into a drift. Hereward yanked away the monk’s gag and bonds. “You are a fool,” he snapped.

  “They took me unawares—” Alric’s words died as the shadows fell across them.

  Standing up, Hereward looked into the wind-lashed face of Harald Redteeth, the Viking’s pupils so dilated that his eyes appeared all black. Wrapped in furs over their mail, bristling with axes and spears, the band of six warriors clustered around their leader.

  “Stranger,” Redteeth said
with a whimsical wave of his hand, “you have caused me no little trouble.”

  “I have given you a taste of hell. There is more to come.”

  Redteeth laughed without humor. “Your time is over.” He held Hereward’s gaze for a long moment, sifting what he saw there, and then he nodded to his men.

  While two Vikings grabbed an arm each and dragged Hereward back to the house, a third tossed Alric his clothes and bundled the monk along behind. The rest of the mercenaries drove the old woman outside at spearpoint. Her shrieked protests and curses rang out until Redteeth snatched a spear from the nearest warrior and drove the blade through her stomach. Alric cried out in horror. It was clear to Hereward that the young monk blamed himself for this death, as he did for all the ones in Gedley.

  “Kill us and be done with it,” he said, in a voice cracking with passion.

  Redteeth turned on him. “Your time will come, monk. I wish to savor your demise before we cut off your head and take it back to the man you have wronged.” To Hereward, he continued: “I would know your secrets, stranger. You are clearly a warrior of no little skill, yet you put your own life at risk for those you do not know. What gain is there for you in interfering in my business?”

  Held tight between the two mercenaries, Hereward showed a cold face. “Lean closer. I will whisper it to you.”

  Seeing the contempt in those eyes, Redteeth nodded to Ivar. Without warning, the second in command crashed a giant fist into Hereward’s face, splitting his lip. Once the ringing in his head had cleared, the Mercian tasted iron on his tongue, and spat a mouthful of blood into the embers.

  “Let us begin with questions you can answer easily. What is your name?” Redteeth asked.

  Hereward did not respond, and Redteeth nodded to Ivar once more. The second punch sent a jolt of pain through Hereward’s head and neck.

  “What is your name?” Redteeth repeated calmly.

  Hereward said nothing. Savage blows rained down on him, but he took it as he had taken every beating in his life, and there had been many. His left eye swelled shut, his lips turned to pulp, blood streamed from his nose, and his left ear throbbed so much that he could hear nothing on that side. Redteeth asked again.

  “Why do you not tell him your name?” Alric cried incredulously. “You told it to me in an instant. It is not a secret! You are only buying yourself more pain!”

  “My name …” Hereward mumbled through his torn lips. “My name … is mine. It is what I have.”

  Redteeth nodded to Ivar once more.

  “His name is Hereward!” Alric shouted. “There! You do not need to hurt him more!”

  “Hereward,” Redteeth repeated. “That means nothing to me. Now … where are you from?”

  Unable to watch the punishment inflicted upon his companion, the young monk turned his head away, but he flinched with the sound of every blow.

  After a while, Hereward floated free of the shackles of the world. The voices around him receded and he was in the fens, a boy, catching fish on a sun-drenched afternoon. He was stealing a gold cup from the abbot’s room to sell to buy mead with his friends. He was looking down on the torn body of Tidhild, her hand so pale against the blood.

  Icy water crashed against his face, shocking him alert.

  “Look at him,” Alric said. “He is not human to suffer in silence so.”

  “We have only just begun,” Redteeth replied. The Viking paced the house, flashing glances into the corners as if things waited there that no one else could see.

  When two of the men had stoked the hot embers in the hearth, Ivar placed a pair of iron tongs, a poker, and his long knife in the flames. While they absorbed the heat, Redteeth addressed Alric, who was slumped in one corner, his head in his hands. “Christian man. You have converted many of my people to the Creed. They no longer talk of Odin hanging on Yggdrasil, but of Jesus on the Cross. You build churches in the old stone circles and in the sacred groves, and by the wells and the springs. That is how you lure them. I have heard your kind say that your God is better than mine. Is that so?”

  Alric nodded.

  “Your ways are better?”

  “Yes.”

  Redteeth nodded slowly. “So a Christian man should not break a vow sworn in his God’s name?”

  Alric bowed his head.

  “Will your God forgive such a transgression? Will he wash away the stain of blood caused by such a crime? So many innocent deaths?” Redteeth stepped forward and kicked the monk hard in the stomach. “If you had not run like a coward, I would not have had to slaughter the people who sheltered you. Think on this in your final moments.”

  “Leave him,” Hereward croaked.

  “You would prefer your own pain to his?” Redteeth said. “Why, you must be a Christian too.” The warriors all laughed loudly.

  At the Viking commander’s order, Ivar removed the poker from the fire and held it close to Hereward’s ribs. The Mercian gritted his teeth as his flesh bloomed under the searing heat. When Redteeth leaned in to whisper, Hereward could smell his enemy’s meaty breath and the vinegar reek of his sweat. “Why would you dare to risk offending me? What lies in your head?”

  Hereward looked Redteeth in the eye and grinned. “You will never know.”

  Responding to a nod from his leader, Ivar pressed the hot poker to Hereward’s side. Pain lanced through him, and the stink of his own sizzling flesh rose up to his nose. His roar tore his throat, but it was the sound of triumph, not defeat.

  “Look at his eyes!” Alric shouted. “You waste your time! I tell you, he is not a man—he is the Devil!”

  “He is a man,” Redteeth replied with a shrug. “And we will find his humanity, given time. Perhaps when we cut his skin from him, as he did to my own man Askold.” He pointed to the blade in the embers.

  Wrapping his woolen cloak around his fingers, Ivar plucked the glowing knife from the fire, its heat so intense that the mercenary flinched even through the covering.

  “Begin with his right arm,” the Viking commander ordered. “Start with the skin. Then remove the flesh and muscle down to the bone.” He added to Hereward, “We will carve you like the wild boar at our Yule feast.”

  As the Northmen jeered and laughed, Hereward hid his thoughts behind a blank expression. He had noticed that Ivar had leaned in close when he brandished the poker, closer than he would ever have risked if the Mercian’s arms had not been pinned. As the second in command approached with the red-tipped knife, Hereward waited for the opening to materialize and then lunged forward. Clamping his teeth on Ivar’s cheek, the English warrior bit down to the bone and ripped away the chunk of flesh with a twist of his head.

  Howling, Ivar lurched back, dropping the knife onto the old woman’s bed. Amid the crackle of straw, gray smoke curled up. When the Mercian felt his two captors loosen their grip in the confusion, he wrenched his arms free, jabbing his right elbow into one throat and driving his forehead into the face of the second man.

  He felt the thing inside him rise up, the other Hereward, born of rage and bloodlust, unconstrained by human values, and he welcomed it. The pain of his wounds vanished. As strength flooded into his weary limbs, he reacted with a speed that made the mercenaries seem lead-footed in comparison. Snatching up the poker, he lashed it across Redteeth’s face. From the corner of his eye, he saw the monk wriggle out from among their captors and wrench open the door. Good, Hereward thought. He planted one leather sole in the Viking commander’s gut and propelled him out into the snowy morning.

  The mercenary band began to gather their wits, too late. As flames licked up from the hearthside bed, Hereward snatched up his sword, hacking one man in the face, then whirling to lop off the right hand of another. With a flick of his shoe, he kicked the burning straw across the room to the other straw at the back. The fire rushed up the timber frame to the thatched roof.

  As a sheet of flame spread over their heads, panic erupted in the dense smoke. Hereward darted outside before the Vikings could react. Gr
abbing Redteeth’s axe from where the mercenary sprawled in a daze, he slammed the door and embedded the weapon in the splintering jamb to seal it shut. The roaring of the fire drowned out the terrified shouts from within, which turned to screams as the burning roof began to fall in.

  Through the throbbing of the blood in his head, Hereward heard Alric cry out in warning. The Viking commander was struggling to his feet. Whirling, Hereward kicked Redteeth in the face with such brutal force that the mercenary pitched backward, unconscious. His fury spent, Hereward’s euphoria faded. The world suddenly looked too brittle, cold, and bright. Lurching from the pain seeping back into his battered body, he attempted to lift Redteeth. “Help me,” he croaked.

  “You are badly injured,” Alric said as he shouldered the Viking’s bulk. “You will not reach Eoferwic alone.”

  “I have survived worse.”

  “Sooner or later, your luck will run out.”

  The screams of the trapped warriors died amid the roar of the fire as the walls caught light and the flames soared up high into the sky. Hereward thought of Gedley and felt proud.

  When Redteeth came round, confusion flickered across his face, then uneasy awareness, then simmering rage. Hereward watched the play of emotions with cold satisfaction. The noose was tight round the Viking’s neck and his hands were bound as he wavered precariously on the chopping block. Alric turned away as the mercenary fought to keep his balance, no doubt remembering his own ordeal.

  “This is not an ending,” Redteeth growled.

  “It is the end of your story,” Hereward replied. “Except for the part where the ravens feast on your remains.”

  “You should have left well alone,” Alric added.

  “Good Christian man,” Redteeth spat.

  The monk was a strange man, Hereward thought, but he might have his uses. Turning his back on the glowering Viking, he said, “You are a free man now. What will you do? Return to your monastery?”