by James Wilde
And then our time is done, Alric thought.
As darkness fell, he crept up to the altar while the other monks ate and raised his head to the heavens. He had no choice, he knew that now. Across the royal manor, the Danes would be swilling mead and slipping into the drunkenness that seemed to claim them every night. The time was right.
Soon after the night was torn by cries of alarm. Smoke billowed through the church and the roar of the fire echoed off the stone walls. Through the haze, Alric could see the glimmer of the flames consuming the altar and soaring up the king’s luxurious tapestries towards the wooden roof.
‘Help me,’ he yelled through the billowing cloud as he heard the monks stumble down from their roost in the tower, coughing and choking. He lumbered around blindly, the relic chest clutched in his arms. His lungs were raw from the smoke and the heat and his eyes watered so much he could no longer see the way out. A burning roofbeam crashed only a spear’s-length away, and for a moment he felt sure that he had doomed himself.
But then Aethelwold and another man staggered up through the dense smog. They grabbed his arms and dragged him towards the door. Relief swept through Alric and he murmured his thanks to the Lord. Outside in the night, the monks gathered around him, throwing their arms in the air in joy. ‘We feared the holy relic lost,’ the prior said, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘Praise be to God on high for guiding your hand.’
Danes flooded out of the halls, pointing in horror at the flames licking through the church roof. Nasi strode up with a face like thunder. ‘What foul deed is this?’ he accused, looking across the monks.
‘This is God’s work,’ Alric proclaimed, sweeping one hand towards the blazing church.
‘Blasphemy,’ Aethelwold gasped.
Alric set the reliquary down and showed a face filled with wonder. ‘As I prayed at the altar, God spoke to me. His light shone forth from this box, blinding me, and His voice shook the very walls.’ The monk bowed his head and pressed his palms together in supplication. ‘Those who stole this holy relic from its home will feel the full force of His wrath, unless this matter is ended now and the arm of the saint is returned to its resting place.’
‘This is God’s word?’ the prior demanded, his eyes wide.
‘This is His true word, I so vow.’ Alric flinched as the words left his mouth. Would God strike him dead there and then?
But the moment passed. Nasi looked from Alric’s face to the reliquary and, after a moment, he took one step away. In that simple movement, the monk saw his victory.
Slowly the Danes edged backwards, casting uneasy glances towards the circle of monks. Alric turned and watched the church roof collapse with a rumbling thunder that sent a whirl of sparks soaring high into the air. As the flames licked through the crumbling place of worship, he felt sickened by his lies and his blasphemy: what a crime he had committed against God. He prayed that he would be forgiven. He let his thoughts fly across the dark ocean to England and Hereward. Once, life had been simpler, torn between the dark and the light. Now, for the first time, he truly understood his friend.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
THE WOMAN’S SCREAMS rang out into the warm Ely night. No other sounds drifted from the open doors, no drunken singing, no arguments, no whining children. The fenland community seemed to be holding its breath, waiting, praying. On the Speaking Mound, Hereward sat looking out over the dark wetlands. As much as he tried, he could not prevent those cries reminding him of his wife’s agonies in Lincylene. He wondered if he would ever forget what he had heard and seen in that place. His anger began to burn once again at the memories. Since his return that had seemed to be the only emotion he knew.
A figure strode out of the dark. Redwald nodded, smiling. That summer had browned his skin and taken some of the apple-cheeked innocence out of his features. ‘How goes it?’ he asked.
‘The child has not come yet,’ Hereward muttered.
Redwald laughed, cupping an ironic hand to his ear. ‘Ah, I thought your wife was calling her husband to his chores.’
The Mercian forced a grin, but he could not ignore his fears that Turfrida’s suffering had left her too weak to survive the childbirth.
Redwald seemed to see through his attempt, for he stressed, ‘She is strong. Stronger than you and me, I think, sometimes.’ He squatted beside his brother, adding, ‘You are not the same man who left Ely for Lincylene.’
‘I am the man I always was.’
‘You speak in riddles.’
Hereward scowled, his worries rushing out of him. ‘How could so much change in so short a time? No Danes to swell our army. No gold. No old bones. When last I was here, we seemed on the brink of bringing the king to his knees. Now …’ He shook his head in disbelief.
‘The monks say God has deserted us,’ Redwald grumbled, ‘that He is punishing us for the attack upon Burgh Abbey. He allowed the Danes to take St Oswald’s bone and He departed with it. They pray even now for His return to Ely.’
‘I have had my fill of churchmen,’ Hereward simmered. He clenched his fist until his knuckles whitened. ‘And you tell me Alric has abandoned us too.’ Without the monk to guide him, he felt adrift. In a matter of days, the world seemed to have been turned on its head. His friend had sailed away without a single word of parting to those who had sheltered him, and his most hated enemy, Harald Redteeth, had aided his own escape. Surely this could only be another sign of the End of Days.
‘You do not need Alric. You have me,’ the younger man said gently as if he could read his brother’s thoughts.
‘And for that I give thanks, always.’
Redwald bowed his head. ‘I have a confession.’
Hereward frowned. ‘Speak.’
‘From the moment we first met, you always treated me with kindness.’
‘Why would I not? Your father had been murdered by outlaws, your mother dead of the sickness …’
Redwald jerked his head away, hiding his expression.
‘What is wrong, brother?’
‘Brother! There it is. You did not have to regard me as your brother. You should have been angry when Asketil took me into his hall, and made you share all that you had.’ Hereward had never seen him so anxious.
‘I only did what all would have done for someone who had suffered so,’ the warrior replied, resting a comforting hand on the other man’s shoulder.
After a moment, Redwald reached out and unfurled his fingers to reveal a short-bladed knife with a whalebone handle carved in the shape of an angel. ‘The knife your father gave you on your coming of age. You thought it lost. I … I stole it. You showed me only kindness and I stole your greatest prize from you.’
‘I know.’
Redwald wrenched around, his eyes wide with shock.
‘I have always known,’ Hereward continued, his smile forgiving. ‘You had nothing in your life, and no father to give you your own knife. I understand why you took the blade. And you needed it more than me.’
The younger man swallowed. ‘You are too good—’
Hereward laughed and shook his head. ‘This is why you are so filled with sorrow? An old knife. Memories of days long gone.’
Redwald held the knife hilt out to Hereward.
The Mercian shook his head. ‘Keep it. I have no use for it.’
‘It ties you to your father, and your father’s father, and all those who came before.’
Hereward looked out into the night, his mood darkening. His thoughts flew back to Lincylene and the look of loathing upon Asketil’s face. ‘Keep it,’ he repeated quietly.
Redwald released a juddering sigh. ‘I have done terrible things, Hereward.’
‘In these times of war, we all stray into the shadows sooner or later. You are a better man than me, Redwald. If I could not forgive you anything, I could never forgive myself.’ Here was the only thing of good to come out of his blighted childhood. He would protect his brother always. ‘Do you hear my words? Think no more of these things. Look only to tim
es ahead, not things gone.’
After a moment, Redwald allowed himself a tight smile of agreement. ‘Very well.’
‘Good. Then we have matters to attend to, you and I. I need a man beside me I can trust.’ Hereward looked out across the rooftops of Ely. ‘Turfrida was lured away from the safety of these walls. The girl Edoma took her, at the orders of Madulf, so she said.’
‘Tricked by him? You think Madulf works for the king?’
Hereward said nothing.
‘Why did you not seize him upon your return?’
‘This matter should not be dealt with in anger. Let him think he has not been found out. When I am ready … when the child is born … I will act.’ Hereward gritted his teeth. ‘Every time we turn over a blade of grass, we find another of the Bastard’s snakes lurking here. There must be an end to it, if I have to test every man and woman in Ely.’
‘Folk are still frit. Their memory of Saba’s ending is as sharp as the blade you used to take his head.’
‘Not scared enough. Someone must pay for what happened to my wife, and pay with their life.’
After a moment, the younger man said in an uneasy voice, ‘Let me speak freely. I fear for you, my brother, and I fear for all here in Ely. We are back where we were. The Normans are massing and soon they will attack. We cannot challenge the king with the men we have.’ Steeling himself, he took a deep breath and added, ‘Give up this war. Leave here. Return to Flanders, or travel further afield. Or throw yourself upon the king’s mercy.’
Hereward recoiled as if burned. ‘Never.’
‘I would not see you dead.’
‘My life means nothing. What we fight for has far greater value.’
‘Then do it for your wife’s sake,’ Redwald said, holding out his hands. ‘The Normans have shown they will stoop to any depths to strike at you. Will you see her life put at risk again?’
Hereward lowered his head. That thought had haunted him since he had left Lincylene.
‘We cannot win,’ the other man pressed.
‘I know your thoughts are for me, and Turfrida, and all folk here in Ely. But it is too soon to think of running away with our tails between our legs.’ Hereward gripped his brother’s forearm. ‘All is not yet lost. I have planted other seeds. We must wait a while longer to see if one bears fruit.’
Redwald’s eyes narrowed. ‘What seeds?’
Hereward grinned, but before he could reply, Edoma raced up the slope from the direction of his house. ‘Hereward! You must come,’ she called breathlessly.
The Mercian hastened down the track behind the girl. Outside the entrance to his home, women milled about, whispering to each other in the light of a torch. They clutched bone crosses to their breasts, and some held amulets, or plucked at rabbits’ feet. He could smell the spices in their leather pouches, and the fresh-baked bread they held under their arms as was the tradition, ready to offer to the new mother if the birth were successful. Shadows danced across their faces, but he could read nothing in the expressions and his heart fell.
At the door, Edoma beckoned to him. She did not smile and her eyes seemed too dark. He was afraid of what he would find. After Lincylene, he realized how near death dwelled.
‘Come,’ Edoma urged as if she were scolding a small child.
Hereward hid his fears and stepped across the threshold. Inside, candles cast a soft golden glow across the walls. His nose wrinkled at the sweet scent of the birth-leaves smouldering in the hearth embers. Around the low bed, three grey-haired women stood with their backs to him. When he stepped forward, the old mothers turned as one, their faces as brown and wrinkled as old leather. Hereward stiffened, but then he saw their smiles as they moved away from the bed. A sigh of relief racked him.
Under a linen cloth, Turfrida lay on the bed, her face shining, her hair plastered to her head with sweat. She too was smiling. A baby suckled at her breast. ‘Welcome your son to the world, my husband. Hereward, son of Hereward.’
Barely had he time to marvel at the child before the women flooded in with their gifts of bread and salt and spices, and as the word spread through Ely, men gathered outside his house, calling his name and cheering. Kraki thrust a horn of mead into his hand, and clapped him on the back so hard he almost pitched forward. Full-throated singing rang out over the wetlands, and for a few hours he forgot his troubles.
As dawn rose, he returned to his house. Turfrida was looking down at their sleeping child, her eyes gleaming with affection. ‘Here,’ she murmured, holding out the child. ‘Hold your son.’
He peered into the baby’s face, and then shook his head. Turfrida’s brow furrowed as he stepped away. How could he tell her that in the child he could only see his own past. He wanted nothing to do with it. ‘I must have words with you,’ he began, pacing the room.
‘Such a grim tone so soon after such joy. What ails you?’ she asked.
‘The time is even riper now,’ he replied, glancing at his son. He sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. ‘You must leave Ely.’
Turfrida’s eyes widened. ‘Never.’
‘It is no longer safe for you here, and it is not safe for our son. We have enemies among us. And the Normans will now go to even greater lengths to harm me through you.’ He bowed his head, his voice falling to a whisper. ‘I do not want to be apart from you. But I have sworn to protect you and this is the only way.’
‘No,’ she insisted.
‘It must be. I will hear no other.’
Her eyes blazed. ‘Will you carry me off, kicking and screaming?’
‘If I must.’ He felt stung by the hurt he saw in her face, but he knew it was the right course. Sending her away now was the only way he could be sure she would be safe. She glared at him in defiance, but he held her gaze until she realized he would never change his mind.
Slowly she lowered her head and pulled her child closer to her. ‘Where will I go?’
‘I have spoken to Abbot Thurstan. You will be taken to Crowland Abbey. The monks there will care for you and …’ He glanced down at the boy, ‘… our son. They will treat your wounds and your burns and help you recover from the birth. No one here will be told of your whereabouts. The Normans will never find you.’
She blinked away tears. ‘For how long?’
‘We will meet again when this war is done.’
‘And when will that be?’ she snapped. ‘Months? Years? When I am old and grey, and your son is grown and does not know his own father?’
‘Better that, than you dead, and our child dead,’ he replied, more harshly than he intended. He softened, adding, ‘You will never be out of my thoughts.’
She lowered her head and whispered, ‘Nor you out of mine.’
When he embraced her, he thought she would never let him go, but he had to remain strong. For the rest of that day, he finalized the arrangements and when he was sure she was strong enough, he gave Abbot Thurstan the word. In a misty dawn, he led her out of the house and down to the gates. Turfrida wore a plain cloak and hood to hide her face, and the baby was swaddled in a thick woollen blanket in a sling across her back. Few would give her a second glance on the road north to Crowland.
At the gates, she held him tight for a long moment, and when she pulled back, she was smiling. Hereward felt proud that she had hidden her tears. Nothing could be gained by making it harder for both of them.
‘Take this,’ she said, pressing a polished grey-blue stone into his hand. A hole had been drilled through the amulet and a leather thong attached. ‘Without Alric or me to look after you, this will keep you safe.’
He thanked her and slipped the amulet over his head. ‘But Redwald will still be here,’ he added with a smile. He saw a shadow cross her face and asked what was wrong.
‘He is your brother and I know you hold a place for him in your heart,’ she began, ‘but watch him, Hereward.’
He frowned. ‘What do you say? Redwald has always been loyal.’
Turfrida pressed two fingertips again
st the centre of his forehead. ‘I will say no more. But watch him well, and keep these words locked here.’ She kissed him deeply before he could ask her again, and then she walked away.
Outside the gates, a Crowland monk waited with a donkey in the still morning. Pearly mist wreathed around his feet and drifted down to the water. Turfrida turned to her husband, her face lit by the rising sun. She smiled and placed a hand upon her heart. ‘Though miles lie between us, we will always be together here.’
Hereward watched her wind her way down the slope towards the causeway. His thoughts flew back to the first time he had seen her, at the battle-fair outside Bruges. He remembered the golden autumn sun and the crisp air scented with woodsmoke, and he recalled the way she held his eyes while the knights surged around them both. That moment had changed the course of his life.
The drifting mist swallowed her, and the sound of hooves ebbed away, but still he watched for long moments after, remembering.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
THE MOB OF grim-faced warriors waited in the pool of torchlight outside the hut. There, in the deep of the night, the Camp of Refuge was silent and still. That would change. Fingers flexed and fists bunched as vengeful eyes darted towards Hereward. He nodded. ‘Drag him out.’
Kraki wrenched open the door and stormed inside. Three of the burliest men followed him. Startled shouts rang out. A moment later, the Viking stepped back out and grunted to his leader. The three warriors dragged Madulf into the dancing light. His eyes were bleary from sleep, his mouth wide in shock.
Sighard scrambled out behind his brother. ‘Are you mad?’ he protested. ‘Leave him be. He has done no wrong.’
‘You are coming too,’ Kraki growled, stabbing a finger at the younger man.
Before the two brothers could complain further, the warriors hauled them from the camp, across the dark slopes and through Ely’s gates. At the Speaking Mound, more men had gathered in a circle of amber torchlight. Near the summit, Hengist waited, a long-bladed knife at his side, like the one the butcher used for paring meat from bone. Beside him, Edoma shifted, her face near bloodless. She kneaded her hands together, her unblinking stare locked on the approaching Madulf.