by James Wilde
It was done. And whatever would be, would be.
When the new king processed out of the abbey into the bitter night, the archbishop followed, and then Ealdred of Eoferwic, the earls and the thegns. Redwald waited until the church was almost empty, enjoying the growing quiet.
In the king’s hall, the fire roared high. Cloaks were thrown off and cups of ale downed and filled once more from the iron cauldrons hanging in the corner. Servants heaved wooden plates and bowls laden with goose, pork and beef on to the feasting table, a grand spread that made the funeral meal look like a beggar’s scraps. But Redwald thought too many faces remained taut, and the urgency of the drinking was more to quell fear than in celebration.
Flushed from the ale, Harold swept over when the jugglers and tumblers danced around the tables, raising laughter and cheers. He pulled Redwald to one side and whispered, ‘The coronation went well?’
Redwald, who had remained sober as he always did when in attendance on Harold, heard a querying note at the end of the sentence and knew his master was seeking approval. He thought it a sign of weakness, perhaps fuelled by guilt at how he had achieved the crown, but he smiled and replied, ‘The majesty of the occasion brought tears to the eyes of all present.’
‘Really?’
Redwald nodded. ‘England now has a king who will be loved at home and feared by enemies wherever they might be.’
Harold nodded. ‘Do not think that I am not aware of your loyalty, and the talents you have employed in my rise to power. You will be well rewarded.’
I expect to be, the young man thought, and for the briefest moment his head swam with visions of two brothers laughing as they hunted waterfowl in those long-gone Mercian days.
‘Your wise advice must be close at hand at all times from now on,’ the new king continued. ‘I will ensure you have a station that meets both our needs.’
When Harold returned to the feasting, Redwald slipped away. The celebrations bored him. He saw little gain in them now that everyone was drunk. He needed to attend to the maggot squirming deep in his head.
Was Hereward still alive somewhere? Had he been wrong to put his brother from his thoughts once the warrior had vanished from Eoferwic?
Brooding, he tramped through the crisp snow to the abbey once more. It lay silent and still now. Pausing at the door, he peered through the dark in the direction of the small house he had shared with Asketil, Beric and Hereward when they were at court. Memories still haunted him of the night that Hereward had fled. Absently, he rested his hand on his gold and whalebone sword hilt and thought of a black river of days stretching behind him and ahead. That terrible night had set his life on a new course.
Inside the abbey church, he went straight to the reliquary, unable to resist the lure of the casket any longer. Flicking open the lid, he let his fingers encircle the old bone. He found no peace there.
‘Redwald?’
The young man jumped so sharply at the voice, he almost threw the casket away. It was Hild, wrapped in a blue cloak, her pretty face flushed from the cold. ‘What is that? I have seen you visit it many times,’ she said, peering at the box.
‘A memory.’
She nodded and smiled sadly. ‘A memory of Hereward. I understand.’ Her voice became comforting. ‘You were close, but he is not blood. You must put him out of your mind.’
Redwald laughed inwardly at the unconscious irony of her statement. How could he ever forget his brother, the man who had befriended him when he felt lost and alone? Who had given him a place in the world, and offered only loyalty? He closed the casket and stepped away from it.
‘I saw you leave the feast.’ Hild’s eyes fluttered, saying more than her words. Then, as if she realized she had been too brazen, she added, ‘I would not have come here at this hour, unannounced, but-’
Redwald waved his hand to dismiss her excuse. Hild was younger than him by a year, but she had a drive that would have done Harold proud. Since Harold’s patronage had become clear, she had set her sights upon him, the young man knew, and she had been relentless in her pursuit. ‘It is good to see you,’ he said.
She smiled, pleased at the attention. Redwald saw in her eye a hint of triumph; she considered her manipulation was working. His black mood still enveloped him, and he felt colder than he had done even in the snowy night. He needed more. She seemed to sense his thoughts for her eyes widened, but when he leaned in to kiss her plump lips she placed a cold finger against his chin. ‘No,’ she said with mock indignation.
Removing her finger, he slipped his hand round her waist. She resisted only a little. Pulling her close, Redwald enjoyed the weight of her breasts on his chest and her hips against his.
‘What drives you?’ she breathed.
‘I have given my life to one aim and I cannot rest until I have achieved it. But sometimes the road is a lonely one.’ He let the words hang, knowing that she would respond.
‘I… I would accompany you on your journey.’ On tiptoes now, her hands on his shoulder, her face filled his vision. He felt surprised to see the desire there.
For one moment, he pressed his lips against hers, and allowed himself to float in the peaceful dark of the embrace. The rush of emotions shocked him. He became afraid he might cry like a child. Distracting himself, he allowed his hand to move to the curve of her breast.
‘I… I cannot,’ she stuttered, although he knew she felt the opposite. ‘I would not be used by you and discarded.’
‘You and I are much alike,’ he said, staring into her dark eyes. As he spoke, he made up his mind. ‘And would you resist if I said I would marry you?’
Hild started as if she had been burned. Her lips worked, but no sound came out.
‘I will marry you and protect you and be the husband you long for. But tonight I need comfort from you, for I cannot face the long hours till sunrise alone.’
After the briefest hesitation, she nodded. ‘But… but you must not tell my father. Or anyone at court. I would-’
‘I will never tell a soul.’
Redwald pulled her out of the abbey and across the snow to the large house Harold had secured for him not far from the king’s hall. Pushing her towards the bed, he tore off her headdress and grasped her lush brown hair in his fists, pulling her face towards him. He kissed her long and hard this time, and when he broke the embrace her breath caught in her throat. Fire burned within him, and a desperate need for release. He pulled off her dress and her white linen shift and thrust her on to the bed, running his hands over her breasts and down between her legs. She was ready for him and there was no longer any pretence of resistance. Holding her wrists with his left hand, he bit her neck and breasts and pinched her, and when she cried out he was surprised how much it excited him. The more she gave in to his advances, the rougher he played. Here was his release, he thought; here was his escape from the pain in his heart.
The next morning they locked eyes across the snow-swept palace enclosure, and shared a secret smile, and in the days to come they began to make plans to wed. Redwald informed Harold, who slapped the young man on the back and roared with laughter. Amid a stream of crude humour, he thrust a cup of mead into Redwald’s hands and said it was the best thing that could have happened. A man needed a wife, and a soon-to-be-great man needed a wife like Hild. Her father, a balding Wessex thegn called Blacwin, was just as enthusiastic.
Barely two weeks after Harold’s coronation, the joyous mood faded. A strange ship sailed up the grey Thames and moored on the frosted bank beside the palace. In shining helmets with broad nose-shields and long mail shirts, the crew looked dressed for war, but one ship was not a threat. Yet from their armour all could see these grim-faced men were Normans. A dark mood fell across the palace as word spread, colder even than that bitter winter.
Five men disembarked, the only ones not wearing armour, but in their black hooded cloaks and with their fierce dark eyes they appeared just as menacing. At the gates they waited, seemingly oblivious of the cold, while H
arold’s advisers debated the appropriate course of action. When they were admitted to the palace, the five Normans strode directly to the king’s hall. Harold waited on his throne. On either side of the monarch, the ranks of earls and thegns stood like sentinels; a show of strength. Barely visible, Redwald waited in the shadows just behind the throne, studying the new arrivals.
The Norman leader was a tall, slender man with a sharp nose and a heavy brow. The translator introduced him as Odo of Bayeux, the representative of William, Duke of Normandy. Redwald had spent much of his time since the coronation diligently learning all he could about the Normans from Harold. He knew Odo was much more than that pallid description. As the half-brother of William the Bastard, the Norman was one of the duke’s most senior advisers, both a cleric and a warrior, renowned for crushing all opposition to William’s word. Angel and Devil.
Harold knit his brow. ‘I welcome you to my hall,’ he said with little enthusiasm. ‘What is the reason for this visit?’
Echoing his master, the translator said in halting English, ‘I bring a message from William of Normandy. He would know why you have usurped the throne that was promised to him.’
Harold sniffed. ‘There was no promise, as your master knows full well. He seeks any excuse to claim what he has always wanted, a prize far greater than he deserves. I am King Edward’s chosen heir and that is the end of it.’
Odo seemed unmoved by Harold’s dismissal, almost, Redwald thought, as if he expected the response and a decision had already been taken on how to proceed. The Norman nodded slowly, then spoke quietly to his translator, who said simply, ‘Then only one course can lie ahead: war.’
CHAPTER THIRTY — SEVEN
3 June 1066
‘Kiss her! Kiss her! Then take her home for a good plunging!’ Vadir bellowed from the back of the hall. The assembled friends and family of Hereward and Turfrida laughed. Still drunk from the previous night’s feast, the red-haired man’s good eye struggled to focus. Alric dug his elbow in his companion’s ribs in a futile attempt to shut him up.
Cheeks flushing, Wulfric Rabe glared at the towering bear of a man. Intoning ‘I give you care of my daughter’, the castellan nodded to Hereward. Cupping the back of his bride’s head, the new husband pulled his wife close and kissed her firmly on the lips. The throng trilled their support for the union, and patted their chests above their hearts. When the warrior pulled back from the embrace, the monk saw Turfrida’s eyes flash with affection and knew the decision had been a good one.
Taking his new bride by the hand, Hereward led her through the hall. Alric allowed himself a sly smile. He knew the fierce warrior had been like a frightened child, tossing and turning all night at the prospect of the morning’s ceremony. The long negotiations with Wulfric over his daughter’s future had gone smoothly, and the scribe had been summoned to draw up the contract that would stand Turfrida in good stead in the eyes of the law. The monk muttered a quiet prayer. This was God’s work indeed, he thought, a soul saved. He marvelled at the calm he now saw in the man he had first encountered rising from a pool of blood. Perhaps there was hope for him too, Alric thought. The wound of his own crime still felt raw, and barely a week passed when he did not shed a tear for the life he had cruelly stolen. But the blackness that had enveloped him in those early days had lifted, a little. He could see the light.
When the men gathered around Hereward and clapped his back and whispered crude hints in his ear, the women took Turfrida to one side and danced in a circle while the harpist played a jaunty tune. Alric cast one eye towards his friend’s new father, who was engaged in intense conversation with two wealthy men. Gilbert of Ghent and William of Warenne both had close ties with the Norman court, Alric knew. He had overheard that Wulfric sought to uncover what they knew of William the Bastard’s plans and what it would mean for Flanders. In one corner, Judith stood alone, watching the conversation. Although she had given her blessing and smiled through the ceremony, Alric thought how sad Tostig’s wife looked, almost as though she were in mourning. She feared for her husband, he guessed.
Hauled to the back of the hall where the wedding feast of goose, pork, beef, bread, cheese and sweet cakes was laid out on a creaking table, Hereward found a cup of ale thrust into his hand with a rousing encouragement to down it in one. When his oath had been sealed and the other men had fallen upon the food and drink, Alric and Vadir pulled their friend to one side.
‘You do not regret staying here while our former master sails to wreak his revenge on his brother Harold?’ Vadir asked, gulping back his ale. ‘Tostig spent long enough persuading you to go with him.’
‘You too,’ Hereward pointed out.
‘You are such a little man. How could I leave you to drink all this ale alone?’
‘I am sure he is filled with regrets,’ Alric said in an acid tone. ‘Why, he could be grunting in the company of sweat-stained men like you instead of falling into the soft embrace of his new wife.’
‘I would wager he still dreams of sticking his sword into flesh,’ Vadir replied with a broad grin.
‘The sooner we get a new king on the throne, the sooner I will live without the yoke of exile around my neck.’ Hereward swilled down a cup of ale.
Vadir levelled a cautionary eye. ‘Tostig’s fight is not your fight.’
When the fire had died down to glowing embers, Hereward took Turfrida’s hand and together they leapt the hearth to seal their handfasting. But the cheers ebbed away as a messenger burst in, searching for Wulfric. The two men exchanged insistent whispers in one corner before the castellan hurried to speak with Gilbert and William, and then finally edged to Judith. Her features grew pale as if she knew what was to come. After Wulfric had spoken to her for a moment, she bowed her head, her eyes filling with tears, and hurried from the hall.
‘Looks grim,’ Vadir muttered, swaying from the ale. ‘That cannot be good for Tostig.’
Seeing the two Mercians eyeing him, Wulfric came over. ‘Tostig will not be returning,’ the castellan said in his thick Flemish accent. ‘He sailed his fleet to the Isle of Wight, where he took on provisions, and then proceeded to raid the English coast.’
‘I wager Harold Godwinson took that well,’ Vadir growled.
‘The new king called out all his ships and his army and drove his brother back. Tostig would not have taken such a defeat well. He has been consumed by rage for his betrayal for too long.’
‘Then why does he not return to Flanders?’ Hereward asked.
‘He took his fleet to raid England’s east coast, and there your own — the earls Edwin and Morcar — soundly thrashed him,’ Wulfric replied, his tone grave. ‘With his tail between his legs, he has sailed to Scotland. He plans to stay with his old ally King Malcolm for the summer. But…’ He paused, lost to reflection for a moment. ‘My messenger tells me Tostig has sent word to Harald of Norway, requesting council.’
‘What does Tostig want with that cold-hearted knife-tongue?’ Vadir asked.
The castellan glanced back at the feasting wedding party to make sure he would not be overheard. ‘Tostig plans to persuade Harald to reassert his claim to the throne of England, and to raise a levy so the two men can invade by the end of summer.’
‘He would hand the throne to that Viking pirate?’ Hereward exclaimed. Alric felt troubled by the fire he saw in his friend’s eyes. It burned too quickly, too brightly, still.
Vadir dropped a heavy hand on the younger warrior’s shoulder. ‘Stay calm, little man. This is not our fight, unless someone seeks to give us gold and lots of it to get involved. It will all be over soon enough and then we will see how things stand.’
‘It may not be over as soon as you think,’ Wulfric said, his voice low and grave. ‘I also have news from Normandy and from Rome. The Pope has assented to Duke William’s invasion plans. Seven hundred warships and transports are being readied at Dives-sur-Mer, to sail before summer’s end. An attack from the north and the south. King Harold’s forces will be divided. It
seems William the Bastard’s prophecy that England will be swamped in a tide of blood will come true, one way or another.’
CHAPTER THIRTY — EIGHT
25 September 1066
Under a merciless sun, a dark cloud was charging across the verdant Northumbrian plain. Billowing grey dust swept in its wake, licking over the trees and water meadows. The baked ground throbbed with the pounding of hooves and leather soles. The still air rang with the jangle of mail shirts. In that stifling autumn heat, a storm of spears and axes was descending on a river crossing sixteen miles beyond the ravaged defences of Eoferwic.
When barbs of brassy light glinted off the snaking River Derwent, the commanders brought the swollen English army to a rumbling halt. A lull gradually settled on the horde, broken only by snorting horses and creaking leather. No man uttered a word.
Ahead of the mounted warriors, two men rode out to get a clear view of the terrain. Harold Godwinson wore the tarnished armour that had served him well during his long, uncompromising ascent to the throne. His helmet was of the old style, with broad plates covering the ears and cheeks, and it was dented and scratched from the spear-points and axes it had deflected. His mail was brown, rust and dried blood from years of campaigns merging into one. In contrast, Redwald gleamed in the morning sun. His armour was all new, a helmet with a mail coif to cover his neck and a mail shirt he had taken receipt of only days earlier.
‘Our enemies will have seen the dust-cloud and heard the hooves,’ the young man said, shielding his eyes against the harsh light.
‘Good,’ Harold replied with a tight smile. ‘Let them know their death approaches and let them fear.’
Glancing back over the sea of fighting men, Redwald felt a stirring deep in his heart. Never had such a force been amassed on English soil. Harold’s own huscarls were the elite core of the army, their heavy armour combat-worn, their axes nicked and stained. Alongside them stood a coterie of mercenaries, the most fearsome warriors the king’s gold could buy. Flanking them rode a group of mounted javelin-throwers of a kind never before seen in England. Harold had witnessed the lethal effectiveness of such a force on his travels in Europe, the younger man knew. The javelins would rain down on their enemies as they advanced, pinning men in place to die screaming. Redwald cast his eye over the field-workers who stretched beyond the hardened soldiers, almost as far as he could see. They had been collected along with the West Mercian and East Anglian fyrd as the army drove north, marching almost day and night for four full days. Once the call to arms went out, each man had raced to his home to collect his spear and shield from under his bed. Many carried the bows and arrows they used for hunting, but others were armed only with stones fastened to pieces of wood. They wore no armour, these levy men. Most of them still had straw in their hair and dung on their tunics, but though their eyes were fear-filled, Redwald saw determination in their ruddy faces.