Hereward

by James Wilde

  ‘What news do you have from the south?’ the earl enquired, shaking off his mood.

  ‘Edward’s court is a mess of plotting and deceit.’

  Tostig laughed. ‘That is news?’

  Judith joined them, resting one hand on her husband’s shoulder. ‘You are troubled,’ she said, her brow furrowing in concern. ‘What has driven you here to the cold north?’

  ‘My enemies have pursued me from London, determined to take my life.’

  ‘You always were skilled at finding adversaries,’ Judith said with a sad smile.

  ‘I am cursed with a difficult nature.’ Hereward returned the smile, remembering how she had once slipped him a honey cake when he had been left supperless in the cold outside the king’s hall after a fight.

  ‘Pursued you?’ The earl tossed a log on to the fire. Golden sparks soared up in the fragrant smoke. ‘Why would they risk their lives in the middle of winter?’

  ‘They are afraid that I learned dark secrets.’

  ‘Did you?’

  His face impassive, the warrior said nothing.

  Judith laughed. ‘He has learned to play the game of kings and earls.’

  ‘The king is ailing. His time on this earth may well be short, and as he has no issue the question of who wears the crown will, as you well know, be a matter of earnest debate.’ Hereward dangled his bait lightly. ‘I would think the Godwins would wish to have their say.’

  Tostig’s eyes glittered. After a moment’s reflection, he turned to Judith and said quietly, ‘Leave us to discuss this matter.’ Once she had departed with the huscarls, the earl demanded, ‘What do you know?’

  Hereward paused, searching for the correct words to describe the event that had changed the course of his life and possibly heralded his death. In his mind’s eye, the warrior saw himself stumbling drunkenly through the palace enclosure towards his home and his bed. He smelled the smoke of the hearths and the stone dust from the masons’ work on the king’s great folly, his new abbey. He heard the owls hooting in the trees on the far side of the wide, grey river, and the singing reverberating from the royal hall. He could still taste the sweet mead on his tongue and feel the night breeze caressing his skin as if every aspect of that night had been locked into his head for all time.

  When he heard the echoing cry he raced to investigate. Where the vast stone blocks and timbers for the abbey’s construction were piled high, he glimpsed fierce movement on the edge of a circle of flickering torchlight. Two men, hooded and swathed in dark woollen cloaks, were plunging spears into a third man sprawled on the hard-packed earth. A pool of glistening blood was growing around him.

  When Hereward yelled an alarm, the two murderers darted into the night. The warrior knelt beside the victim, but could see instantly that there was no saving him. The man’s face was unfamiliar; his beard and lank hair were turning white, his cheeks were hollow and his eyes were sunk deep in their sockets as if he had not eaten for many days.

  ‘Do not leave me!’ the man gasped, grabbing hold of Hereward’s wrist with a desperate strength.

  ‘I am here. Tell me who did this to you. I will see that you are avenged.’

  ‘I do not know their names.’ He dragged the warrior in closer. ‘Six summers gone I killed Edward Aetheling, the son of old King Edmund Ironside. Poisoned him. In Oxford.’

  Hereward felt his drunkenness vanish in an instant. He was still being tutored by the monks at Burgh Abbey when he had heard of the death of the man who had been chosen to succeed England’s childless monarch. Edward Aetheling, the son of the present king’s half-brother, was in his forty-first year when he was brought back from exile in Hungary with the sole intent of being groomed to inherit the throne. No culprit had ever been found.

  ‘I wanted more gold,’ the man croaked. Tears leaked from his eyes. ‘To buy my silence. And they told me they would pay me here tonight…’

  Hereward’s mind raced. ‘Who told you?’ But the victim would never answer anyone again, silenced in a more bloody manner than he had anticipated before he could implicate others in his terrible crime.

  Querying calls rang across the palace grounds, answering the warrior’s earlier cry of alarm. After a moment’s hesitation, Hereward realized he could not risk being found with the victim. Someone would suspect he had learned too much.

  Back at the house he shared with Asketil, Beric and Redwald, he found his adopted brother snoring in his sleep and woke him roughly to recount what he had witnessed. Perched on the edge of his bed, Redwald had sat with his head in his hands, more aware than Hereward how grave was the situation. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, ‘I overheard Earl Edwin instructing two men in the shadows of the abbey earlier today. I did not recognize them, and they stopped talking when I neared and glared at me until I departed.’

  ‘Edwin? His kin have always rivalled the Godwins in their lust for power. But could the Earl of Mercia really seek the throne for himself? He has no claim. The Pope would not sanction it. William the Bastard… Harold Godwinson himself… surely they would all resist?’

  ‘It is a grand prize,’ Redwald said. ‘Worth a grand risk.’

  His head still spinning, Hereward said, ‘If there is a plot here, the king’s own life could be at risk. Poison, the man said. We must raise the alarm…’

  ‘Wait.’ Redwald jumped from the bed and grasped his friend’s shoulders. ‘Did anyone witness you hear that last confession?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘Are you certain? The two murderers could have watched from afar, and if they thought you privy to such a terrible secret, your own life could be at risk.’

  ‘Nevertheless, the king must be informed.’

  ‘Of course. Let me think.’ Redwald paced around the hearth, scrubbing his fingers through his brown hair. ‘I have it. No one will suspect me. I will go to raise the alarm. You go to Aedilred’s house. He is with his kin in Wessex. Edwin’s men will not think to look for you there.’

  Grinning, the warrior clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘This is like those summer days in the fens, saving each other from trouble.’

  Redwald grinned in return. ‘Drink some ale to steady yourself, brother. I will be back soon. But not too much — you are a foul drunk.’

  He had drunk too much, and the rest of the night had spun away into confusion. But he recalled with clarity the moment when his life fell into the dark. He remembered the blood, gleaming in the firelight, the hot-iron smell of it. He remembered Tidhild’s eyes staring up at him, through him, into that everlasting night-world. His love’s eyes. And he remembered fleeing, shortly before his own father had asked the king to declare him outlaw.

  Shaking his head to dispel the memory, he eyed Tostig through the curtain of grey smoke and the whirl of scarlet sparks. ‘The court has the appearance of a still summer pool,’ he said. ‘But sharp-toothed predators swim beneath the surface. I now know for certain that the king’s chosen heir was murdered, and I fear Edward’s own life is at risk from plotters.’

  Shock flared in the earl’s face, then disbelief, as the warrior had expected. Calmly, he explained what he had seen and heard that night, and expressed his growing concern that Edwin of Mercia, his own earl, was preparing to move for the throne once Edward had died. But he did not tell Tostig of Redwald’s mission or what happened after Redwald had left, only that he had left London that night. And he hid the fact that he was outlaw, mistrusted by the king and despised by his own father, for fear it would damage his case.

  Tostig listened with rapt attention, growing more troubled with each word. ‘And these enemies who pursue you. They are the plotters?’

  ‘Or in their employ. I need to be silenced. They know I cannot stay quiet on these matters. To ensure I should not be believed, they have tried to implicate me in the shame of that night’s murder.’ Murders, he thought. ‘But they know they must have me killed, quietly, before the truth comes out.’

  ‘It would have been easier for you to flee abro
ad.’ The earl rose and strode around the hearth in thought. ‘I must send word to London. While the snows are heavy, by ship is our best course. But it must be secret. Too forward and Edwin will be alerted — plotters have eyes and ears everywhere and we do not know whom we can trust. And if we speak too loudly too soon, Edwin may be forced to move quickly, before we are ready. Our actions may even bring about the king’s murder.’

  ‘I agree. Caution is the only way. If word can be got to the king himself, he can prepare his defences and strike back while Edwin is unguarded.’

  ‘Very well, Asketilson, I will send a man on one of the trading vessels. With luck, we may hear back before Christmas.’

  Hereward felt relief that his burden had finally been shared, but, studying Tostig through the smoke, he wondered if he had made the right decision. In the fog of shifting alliances that swirled around the court during these wintry days surely near the end of Edward’s reign, no man could have a clear view of the path ahead. But his options were few. To run for ever, like a frightened hare, or to escape, recover, prepare and return to claim the vengeance that set his heart beating like the drums on the galleys.

  Tostig allowed himself a tight smile. ‘A great game unfolds around us, and we barely see the pieces, never mind the moves.’ He held a hand out to Hereward. ‘You have done a great thing this day, at risk to your own life. The king will for ever be in your debt. There is a place for you to lay your head here in my hall and I will do whatever is in my power to protect you from your enemies. For now, my huscarls could benefit from your sword-arm. Join them, and help me bring order to Eoferwic. And let us both pray that we can stave off disaster on every front.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Black smoke billowed. Hereward stood stark against a wall of flame, his body streaked with blood. Light glinted off axes slicing the air, and the clamour of battle thundered all around, and the screams of dying men, and futile prayers rattling in Christian throats, and he knew he was the cause of it. And he laughed loudly, his voice cracking with madness, as if his only joy came from the suffering of others.

  ‘Where is the God I was promised?’ he bellowed into the howling wind.

  And then all sound and fury drained away, and he was lying by his own hearth, in the fenland, and his mother was stroking his head. But, as always, he could not discern her face, and her voice came as if from the depths of a dark cave, and he felt unbearably alone. He asked her when he would find peace, but she didn’t answer. She never answered.

  Hereward woke with a start. New logs crackled on the fire and servants bustled into Tostig’s hall with ale and bread, and wooden and clay bowls for the night’s feast. The dreams tormented him. Would they ever fade away, he wondered?

  Easing into the shadows along the edge of the hall, he watched the guests arrive. In the mill of bodies, he glimpsed many he recognized from court, among them Archbishop Ealdred, a longtime ally of the Godwins and adviser to the king, in his grey linen tunic, and several thegns with gold rings on their arms and gold on the hilts of their swords. Once the most important guests were seated, the commanders of the huscarls blew in, a whirl of coarse laughter and glowering looks and loud demands for mead. It was always wise to indulge the ones who were your strong right arm, Hereward knew. Finally, the earl and Judith took the seats on the small dais at the head of the tables.

  As the echoes of the dream faded, he felt his stomach rumble, and prowled to a seat at the end of the bench. All eyes turned towards him.

  ‘Bid welcome to my guest, Hereward of Mercia,’ Tostig boomed.

  ‘I thank you for your hospitality,’ the warrior called back. ‘I will try not to sup all your ale, but I have a fierce thirst.’

  Laughter rippled around the hall, but Hereward could feel their scrutiny as they sized him up: threat, rival, fool, ally? He expected suspicion at first, but he had no quarrel with any of them and they would soon understand that. After the hard journey, he felt only the desire to fill his belly and lose himself in drink.

  As he anticipated, the men around him soon joined him in laughter and tall tales. He devoured bowls of fish and pork, cheese, bread and honey cakes, rarely loosening his grip on the wooden cup that was always kept brimful with ale. In the hot, smoky confines, the shouted conversation throbbed to the rafters, growing louder with each cup that was swilled. A man with dyed red and yellow scarves tied to his head and wrists juggled with balls of linen stuffed with straw. Scops played the harp and sang of battles and blood and the sea, and in the lull between entertainment the wisest men weaved riddles that all around the table competed to answer first.

  ‘My nose is downward. I go on my belly and dig into the ground, moving as directed by the grey enemy of the forest and my master and protector who walks stooping at my tail.’

  ‘A plough. And that grey enemy is the ox. An old one, but good.’

  After a while, Hereward felt the words become the low, constant drone of a wasp in the back of his head. He weighed every face he glimpsed, studying the subtle shift of shadows, the curve of mouth and squint of eye, the adjustment of head and arm. As in the wild, he saw faint hints that could mean life or death to him: who was a potential threat, where danger might lie, who might betray him, who held power and who desired it. The warrior watched the easy relationship between Tostig and the archbishop. There was an alliance there. He expected no less, for they both wielded power in Eoferwic, and they had travelled together to Rome to see Pope Nicholas only two years earlier.

  But time and again Hereward found his attention coming back to the scarred leader of the huscarls. His name, Hereward had learned, was Kraki, another of the many Viking mercenaries offering brutal services to anyone wishing to hire them. As the man gnawed on a goose leg, his gaze flickered back to Hereward, suspicious, cautioning.

  ‘Hereward. Will you play the harp for us?’ On the low dais, Judith leaned forward in her chair, smiling. All eyes in the hall turned towards the warrior. ‘Our guest revealed his great skill at one of the king’s feasts. His look may be fierce, but he has the soul of an angel,’ she added warmly.

  With a grin, Hereward pushed away from the table and strode to the centre of the hall to take the harp. The first note he plucked propelled him back through the years. A moment of peace, caught in the pale light reflected off the still waters of the fens, his mother listening to his early attempts at making music, nodding appreciatively. Drifting in that rarely visited place, Hereward played by instinct. He summoned an achingly beautiful melody, and sang a wistful lyric of a time before dissent, when all was peaceful and hope and joy held firm. Many of the battle-hardened men developed moist eyes, and lowered their heads to hide them.

  Embarrassed by the emotion he had accidentally revealed, Hereward ended his song. A long moment of silence was broken by applause. ‘To wield a sword with one hand and music with the other is a sign of greatness indeed,’ Judith proclaimed. ‘You hide your talents well.’

  ‘I am rarely accused of such a crime,’ he said, raising more laughter.

  When he returned to the bench, most of the guests’ attention was upon the juggler who performed by the glow from the hearth, but Hereward noticed several pairs of eyes remaining on him. Archbishop Ealdred watched slyly. Judith smiled at him, like a mother to a son, he thought. Kraki glowered from behind the remnants of his goose leg. And one other cast brooding looks coloured with resentment, one of the huscarls, a squat man with thick lips and flaring nostrils.

  The raven-haired woman who had greeted him in the hall carried in a large wooden pitcher of beer and deferentially refilled Tostig’s cup before moving along the table in his direction. Although she did not look up, Hereward sensed she knew where he was and was pretending disinterest. He grinned to himself, and nudged the drunken Dane beside him. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Acha,’ the Dane slurred when his eyes finally settled on the woman. ‘Take no interest in her. She is filled with fire and poison, and will cut you with her tongue if she has no blade to hand.’


  ‘She is not from Eoferwic?’

  ‘She is Cymri. Tostig brought her back with his other slaves from his battles in the west. Acha is not her true name, but she will tell no one what her father named her. She has found some favour here, from the earl’s wife, mainly, though what Judith sees in her I cannot tell.’

  From the corner of his eye, Hereward glimpsed the squat huscarl shift his gaze towards Acha; the man had noted the warrior’s attention. Sensing trouble, Hereward was not surprised when the Viking grasped Acha roughly round the waist and dragged her into his lap. The woman fought back, but her captor cuffed her hard around the head.

  ‘Leave her,’ Hereward called, and the drunken man at his side became instantly sober.

  ‘Do not anger Thangbrand. He fights like a cornered stoat. And Earl Tostig values his sword-arm,’ he whispered.

  Thangbrand grinned, gap-toothed. Hereward knew he was being provoked, a familiar ritual that followed him wherever he went. Positions in the hierarchy of strength needed to be defined. But he felt the blood begin to beat steadily in his head at the violence the other man had shown towards a woman.

  ‘I need no protector,’ Acha spat, her eyes flashing towards Hereward. Thangbrand laughed and cuffed her again for good measure.

  Hereward rose from the bench. His head throbbed with a powerful beat that stripped away his awareness of Judith’s troubled expression or Tostig’s intense scrutiny. ‘Only cowards harm women.’ He heard his own words as if they were spoken by another. His full attention was riveted upon Thangbrand, seeing in the Viking’s eyes contempt for both Acha and himself. The cold loathing he felt was lost beneath the thunderous pulse now filling his skull. His devil was riding him, as it had since he had first picked up a sword and felt the edge bite through flesh and bone and gristle, when he had first seen the light die in an opponent’s eyes, and heard the whisper of the escaping soul. ‘Do not raise your hand to her again.’