Time of the Wolf

by James Wilde

  Coughing and spluttering, the first man burst out into the night. Hereward swung his axe. The head spun through the air and bounced across the mud and wet leaves. Blood drenched the warrior, but he barely recognized the sensation. His thoughts had washed away on a tranquil sea, his vision narrowing to that small doorway. Things emerged, familiar shapes that could have been shadows or monsters or memories, and each time he swung his axe. The bodies piled around his feet in the growing red pool. When the commander, Aldous Wyvill, lurched out, his gaze locked on the warrior’s face for a moment and his lips curled back from his teeth in horror at what he saw before the axe fell.

  As the smoke billowed out in clouds, the warrior stepped back to give the others a chance. They lunged in one after the other, hacking with their axes or thrusting with their spears, their faces dark and emotionless. The only utterances were the prayers and screams of the Normans.

  When the landowner staggered out, Hereward recognized the expensive clothes and the soft body and dragged him to one side before he could be cut down. Frederic fell to his knees, sobbing in fear.

  Flames tore through the hall, cleansing it of its ghosts, and soon the intense heat drove the rebels to the edges of the enclosure. No other Normans emerged. When the roof fell in with a resounding crash, the fire whirled up toward the black sky in a gush of golden sparks. And the beast roared on. Hereward flashed back to the night Gedley had burned, the moment when the trajectory of his life had changed. A fleeting thought of Harald Redteeth whistled through his head, and he wondered where his hated enemy had gone. The red-bearded mercenary would never have allowed himself to die in the conflagration. But they would meet again, he knew, and then he would take his revenge for Vadir’s death.

  But this was a night for a bonfire of the Normans’ vanity. They thought they could hold England in their fist and slowly choke the life from it. Now, as they felt the first cold fingers of terror on their spines, they would have to accept that the war had not yet ended.

  Frederic of Warenne lurched to his feet, searching for a way of escape. Seeing none, he covered his mouth with his hands and began to shake. His fine clothes were smeared with ash. Hereward stood before the landowner and peered deep into his face. For a moment, the warrior thought he was looking at his father, the pull of deep tides inside him growing stronger and more violent.

  “Who are you?” Frederic croaked, his gaze fixed on the skull of ash.

  “You know.”

  Frederic began to cry.

  “Some say war turns us into beasts,” the warrior continued, refusing to lower his coruscating gaze. “But men do it to themselves. Are we all devils? Is this hell?” He shook his head, not knowing the answer, nor caring. “Know this: I see no angels anywhere, though the churchmen tell us we were all made in God’s form. Prove me wrong. Renounce your lands. Return to William of Normandy and tell him he should leave England before judgment is pronounced upon him. For these are the End-Times. The last days. His. Yours. Mine.”

  Frederic’s eyes flickered to one side, his cunning thoughts clear.

  Hereward smiled. “No, that would never happen. For men never give up power unless it is taken from their dead hands.” He beckoned to Guthrinc.

  “Aye?” the rebel answered.

  “Give the thief of land your axe.”

  Frederic’s brow knitted. When his fingers closed around the haft, he looked at the weapon as if he had never seen one before. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I am a knight now. An honorable man.” Hereward could see in Frederic’s eyes that the landowner already knew what had happened at Burgh. As the warrior had anticipated, his uncle had informed the Normans. “No murderer, despised by all who hear his name. No common outlaw. A knight. I walk shoulder to shoulder with you, and all the Norman invaders.” He nodded toward the axe. “We shall have a wager of battle.”

  Frederic’s mouth fell open. “A trial by combat?”

  “And thereby solve this dispute between us, as the law demands.”

  The landowner shook his head. “No.” He tried to hand the axe back to Guthrinc. “I … I do not recognize your knighthood. It was conferred by a spiritual lord. Not by the King.”

  “Raise the axe,” the warrior said.

  Frederic threw the weapon to the ground as if it had burned him.

  “Pick up the weapon and fight. You have no choice.”

  Dropping to his knees, Frederic clasped his hands together. “Have mercy.”

  Hereward could feel Alric’s eyes upon his back. As the warrior raised his axe over his head, the landowner’s sobs cut through the roaring of the conflagration.

  The axe drove down.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  BLADES OF ICE HUNG FROM THE BRANCHES, GLITTERING IN the early-morning sun. After the first hard frost of the winter, the wetlands shimmered white as the column of riders made their way along the frozen track from the direction of Lincolne. At the head of the band, Harald Redteeth looked up into the clear blue sky and knew that soon the snows would begin. He already wore his greased furs over his mail shirt, and his beard and hair had been freshly dyed red in anticipation of what was to come.

  Beside him, Ivo Taillebois scanned the empty landscape for signs of life. His swarthy features had the heavy bone structure of mud-grubbing stock, but beneath his low brow his eyes gleamed with animal cunning. The Viking mercenary had heard the new Norman commander’s nickname whispered throughout Lincolne, and it was rumoured that King William himself had dubbed the man the Butcher. It was a title Taillebois had earned in earnest with his axe during the fateful battle at Hastings, Redteeth knew. And William the Bastard had rewarded the adventurer from Anjou well, in land, for the ship, horses, and supplies Ivo had provided for the invasion. The Normans believed that if any man could crush the fenland uprising, it would be the Butcher. Harald remained to be convinced.

  “How will the rebels survive the winter?” Ivo said in emotionless, heavily accented English. He wore a black woolen cloak over his mail shirt, and brown leather gauntlets against the cold.

  “Hereward celebrated a great victory against your men, and for that reason alone the fenlanders will be behind the rebels, for now. They will get the food they need, make no doubt of that.”

  Taillebois grunted. “If the people are afraid, they will offer no support.”

  Galloping hoofbeats rumbled ahead. The commander brought the column of helmeted soldiers to a halt, and a moment later a black-capped scout rode hard toward them. He pulled his mount up sharply and said, “The camp you described is empty. The rebels have moved on.”

  Harald stifled a giggle at the voices in the willows that only he heard. Sweeping his hand in an arc, he said, “This is their fortress. Water their ramparts, mist their walls, and every step a stranger takes through this land is one closer to death. Wherever their new camp is, you can be sure it will be more heavily defended and more lethal to approach.”

  “You give them too much respect,” the Butcher sniffed. “We have crushed English rebels time and again, from the south to the cold north.”

  “Not rebels like these.”

  The iron serpent of soldiers crawled on. By midday they had reached Barholme, where the Viking thought he could still smell burnt wood in the air. The frost had melted under the warm sun, but the wind stayed cold. Nothing remained of the old thegn’s hall but a charred circle on the brown earth and heaps of wet ashes around black bones of wood. In other circumstances, that would have been enough to hold the attention of the new arrivals, but all eyes were caught by a row of poles torn from the enclosure fence, fourteen in all. On each one hung a rotting head, the eyes long gone, the jaws gaping in a silent, never-ending scream. Hereward had taken his revenge on the men who had slain his brother, the Viking thought, and in the process had left a stark message for anyone who ventured to this place.

  Taillebois remained silent, seemingly unmoved, as he stared into each face in turn.

  A gray-haired man lurched from the sur
rounding willows, leaning on a tall staff. Redteeth recognized the old thegn, Asketil, who had spent so long inveigling himself into the favor of Aldous Wyvill, much good did it do him. The Viking didn’t like the man. How could he betray his own kin? But he put on a broad smile and hailed the thegn.

  “You are the new commander?” Asketil asked. When Ivo gave a curt nod, the older man said, “Then I greet you. We have much to discuss, you and I, for it is my son who leads the rebels.”

  “Your son?” Taillebois’s eyes narrowed.

  “He is a wicked man who cares only for himself, and has brought much pain and suffering to all who know him. This vanity of his will be the bane of the English, and he must be stopped before he leads all our people to disaster.”

  “And you offer your services to this end?”

  “The commander before you ignored my advice. But if you are wiser you will heed me, and Hereward will be crushed before you meet the fate of these men.” Asketil waved his hand toward the rotting heads.

  Harald Redteeth grinned. He saw a near endless supply of coin in this, and, at the end of the road, joyful revenge upon his enemy. The ravens would be fed, the gods and his ancestors honored. It was a good time to be alive.

  “Very well,” Taillebois said, looking out across the inhospitable fens. “This Hereward has met his match. We shall have such war as the English have never seen before.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  THE SWEET SCENT OF FRESH-CUT WOOD HUNG OVER THE HILLSIDE. Already the camp was taking shape. Wherever Alric looked, he saw timber frames rising among the dense ash and willow, woven wattle panels and wooden pails of daub. Each hut was half buried in the hillside, straw-packed under the boards for warmth, the roofs covered with turf; from even an arrow’s flight away, the shelters couldn’t be seen.

  Stamping his leather shoes for warmth, the monk rested one hand on rough bark and looked out across the wetlands, afire in the morning sun. An elusive peace settled on him for the first time in days. He found it a surprising sensation, with the weather of weapons blowing up on the horizon and the scent of blood in the wind. But he had the weight of purpose in his heart. The stain of his sin could be washed away, he felt sure. The murder of an innocent woman could be balanced by the saving of a wayward soul.

  Turning, he watched Hereward, his friend, moving among the rebels, giving orders, offering guidance, wisdom even, encouraging, congratulating. A true leader. Alric nodded and smiled to himself. God’s strange plan never failed to amaze him. Yet in the warrior’s black eyes the monk saw his devil rising. The love of violence and death had been reawakened. Alric knew it numbed his friend’s pain while at the same time destroying him by degrees. Hereward had filled the space in his heart carved out by his father with the need for blood.

  Some say war turns us into beasts. But men do it to themselves.

  This was his life now, Alric accepted. He would not stray from the path. Hereward would never be abandoned again and if the monk had to wrestle with the Devil himself, he would bring that soul to heaven and grant his friend the peace he deserved. He was building a monument to God, a cathedral of the heart, and he would not falter.

  The monk allowed his gaze to drift across the rich stew of humanity at work on the hillside: familiar faces, new friends, men with blood under their nails and unblinking stares, men filled with life and laughter, some cold and brooding and seeing only misery ahead. Redwald whistled as he hammered pegs into a joint, flashing occasional glances at his brother, looks which Alric felt were not brotherly at all. Redwald would need watching, he thought. There was Guthrinc, uttering sardonic words that baffled all who passed, and Kraki, fierce and strong and passionate. And there was Acha, bringing a cup of ale to Hereward and turning the power of her dark eyes upon him. She smiled in the manner of a merchant haggling over a gold ring. All of them united in common cause; all of them driven by their own demons.

  Dappled by the sun breaking through the branches, Hereward strode over. He eyed the monk with suspicion as if he felt he were being judged. “They work well,” he said. “We will have a camp here that will keep them through the hard months.”

  “Them?”

  “I return to Flanders tomorrow. Turfrida waits for me, and I would bring her back to be by my side, and the two Siwards who guard her. They will make a fine addition to this rebel band.”

  “And then?”

  Hereward smiled without humor. “You know what then.” He looked past the monk to the sheet of shimmering water and the wooded islands rising from it, green ships asail upon a sea of glass. “The scouts have returned. The Norman reinforcements have arrived, and Harald Redteeth is among them. We will be ready for them. Our stock of spears and axes grows by the day. And every man and woman here will be trained in the bow, so that we can match the invaders shaft for shaft.” A shadow crossed his face; a memory. “And then we will sweep out of the marshes, and strike like serpents, gone before our enemies even know we are there. We will scourge them with fire. We will take heads as prizes, and hearts and fingers, and over time they will know the dread that comes with the night, and they will know they can never escape its cold grasp. There will be terror, and I will be the king of it.”

  Alric saw his friend’s eyes take on a strange cast, and heard his voice become like stone. The monk felt a wave of pity, and fear too, but he would not show it in his face. “God watches over you, my friend.” And I do, too.

  Under the swaying branches of the ash tree, they embraced as brothers. And then Hereward walked through the milling crowd, oblivious of the hopeful eyes laid upon him, and into the trees. Alric watched until his friend was gone. But the monk knew it would not be long until the wetlands ran red with blood again. He would return.

  The Devil of the Fens.

  The Ghost who comes from the Mist.

  Hereward, the greatest of the English. The King of Terror.

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  HISTORY IS LIKE AN OLD MOVIE WITH A DEGRADED PRINT. Scratches and crackling incomprehensible dialogue mar even the latest scenes, and the further back you go, frames are burned out and sometimes whole reels are missing. Characters walk on and disappear a moment later, their story untold. Narrative jumps challenge even the most careful viewer, and meaning is lost or warped in the whir of seemingly unrelated scenes.

  Frustrating as this is for the historian, it provides an exciting opportunity for the novelist. The author can polish up what remains and fill in the gaps where something is missing, draw connections, perhaps, or search for that elusive meaning.

  Decades of remarkable academic research have filled in a great deal of our understanding of the eleventh century, but much of that era is still ambiguous or intangible. Heated debate rolls on about the politics and the motivations of the central figures, hardly surprising when the sources are so few and the propaganda so great. One thing we do know is that the men and women of those days were the same as us. The same drives, the same hungers, loves, flaws, ambitions, and failings. We don’t need narrative sources to understand that. We know that men who seek power sometimes do terrible things. We know that there are few heroes, few villains, but lots of people trying to get by as they become swept up in events beyond their control.

  Our protagonist in this novel, Hereward, is an intriguing prospect. Few today know of him, although his exploits have attained a mythic power that make him one of the three great heroes of Britain, alongside King Arthur and Robin Hood. He shares many qualities of those other two legends, but Hereward is rooted in a harder reality. The archetypal warrior’s story is told in De Gestis Herewardi Saxonis and touched on in various monastic chronicles, and we are aware, in general terms, of the part he played in the English resistance to William the Conqueror. But even then the “truth”—whatever that might be—is hidden by what appears to be fabulous invention as the writers of the time attempted to cast a mythic sheen on Hereward. How much can be trusted? Certainly, the account in De Gestis is based in part upon an older version, and has bee
n extracted from only a few surviving leaves, all of them mildewed and torn, so a great deal is missing. Timelines are confused, narratives conflicting. Yet it appears that Hereward’s story was part of a popular tradition and that he was regarded, even within years of his death, as a legendary hero.

  The missing reels of the film of Hereward’s life are many. Historians have attempted to build a family background for the warrior from fragmentary evidence. Many accounts have veered toward the romantic and were common currency until recent times. But a detailed investigation by Peter Rex in his book Hereward: The Last Englishman demands a reassessment of much that was accepted about the warrior’s life, and it is this more convincing work that I have decided to use as the basis for “my” Hereward. I am also particularly indebted to Elizabeth Van Houts, whose essay “Hereward and Flanders” in Anglo-Saxon England 28 (1999) provided the historical background for some of my account of the hero’s time in exile.

  Two other notes: the dates used at the beginnings of several chapters correspond to our modern calendar, for the sake of clarity. And while Hereward calls himself a Mercian, at the time of this story the old Kingdom of Mercia had become a part of England during the political unification of the country in the previous century. Hereward’s claim is purely a matter of cultural identity, based on the area where his father had his major landholding (even though he spent much of his childhood in the Fens). There was still a great deal of rivalry among residents of the old kingdoms, in the manner of the longstanding enmity between people of Lancashire and Yorkshire today.

  In the end, Hereward remains only a ghost-image on the screen of history. His life story is fragmented and distorted. But the essence remains: a bloody warrior who used terror as a weapon; a flawed man, but a hero, perhaps, as great as any we have known.