by James Wilde
Redwald felt all the fury born of failure rush through him like a spring flood. His fingers folded round the knife hidden for so long under the old bone, and without a second thought for the life growing inside her he plunged it into her belly. He thought the shocked expression on her face almost amusing. Blood bubbled from her lips. A calm descended on him as the heat of his emotions ebbed away and he realized he felt nothing. Before she could call out, Redwald stabbed again.
When Hild lay dead in a growing red pool, he stepped back to steady himself against the wall. In his open palm lay the knife, a handle of whalebone carved into the shape of an angel; Hereward’s old knife. Pressing the back of his left hand against his mouth, he stared into the wide, frozen eyes of his wife, but felt no grief for her or his unborn child. Instead, his thoughts flashed back to the last time he had wielded that knife. He recalled Tidhild, Hereward’s love, lying on the floor of her home, the same staring eyes, the same spreading, dark pool.
Tidhild, stabbed three times by his own hand, with the knife he had stolen from his brother.
Those dead eyes staring.
Redwald sucked on his teeth. The vision had haunted him ever since, day and night, but not in a troubling way, he understood now. He had been fascinated by what it represented, the power he held over all things. And still he felt no regrets. For a long time he had worked to inveigle his way into the confidence of Harold Godwinson, and thereby earn his own advancement. Small tasks here and there, difficult work, earning trust. He knew how the earl’s mind worked, for they were alike in many ways. So it had not surprised him when he had overheard Harold meeting with his two accomplices to plot the murder of a man who demanded gold in exchange for keeping his lips sealed. That was simply the game men played in pursuit of power. But then Hereward had come to the house that night, threatening to tell the king of the plot he had uncovered. Harold would have been exposed. What choice did he have, Redwald thought? He had to stop Hereward speaking to anyone. His brother’s rage was well known; everyone would believe the warrior had it within him to kill his own love in a drunken argument. And then Redwald could encourage Hereward to flee, and Harold would reward his loyalty and his cunning and all would proceed as planned.
With bitterness, he stared at the bloodstained knife in his hands. The weapon had drawn him back time and again to relive that night of power. And now he would be running, as he had made his brother run, an outlaw in all but name, powerless, friendless, without land, or woman, or gold. Redwald laughed hollowly at the joke God had played upon him. Balancing the knife in his palm, he closed his eyes, still feeling some of the power it held. His path had been deflected, but not blocked. He would find another way to prevail. Stooping down, he wiped the blade on Hild’s dress, and then he ran from the abbey into the night and an uncertain future.
CHAPTER FORTY — ONE
29 August 1067
The warship ploughed through the choppy waves towards the brooding island. Warriors heaved on the oars as they sang their song of blood and death to the beat of wood on water. With the sharp smell of new paint swirling in the wind from the freshly decorated shields hanging on the outside of the vessel, Vadir leaned against the bowpost. ‘How many men wait there, unseen, silent among the trees with their swords and axes and spears?’ he said, his mood grim. ‘I tell you, Hereward, this expedition reeks of disaster. There will be blood on the water before we are done, and it will not all belong to our enemies.’
Shielding his eyes against the afternoon’s late-summer sun, Hereward scrutinized the dappled islands dotted among the strong currents of the wide Scheldt estuary, each one black with dense tree cover. ‘When the count needs his taxes, he is not likely to listen to fighting men.’
Vadir snorted. ‘He has everything to gain here and nothing to lose. It’s not his neck at stake.’
That morning Hereward had dutifully reported his assessment of the dangers to Count Baldwin’s son Robert, their new commander. But Robert was a man intent on making his name as quickly as possible. His attentions were focused upon extending his influence deep into Zeeland, a power struggle that ebbed and flowed like so many of the rivalries around Flanders. The expedition to recover unpaid taxes from the rebellious residents of the scattered islands was merely to keep his father quiet. Robert expected it to pass without incident. Gold would be heaped upon the beaches once the islanders were terrified into submission by the sight of the warrior-laden warships sweeping up the Scheldt. Any man who had held a spear in battle could see what was lacking in that dream, Hereward thought. Fear rarely made men run — initially it made them fight harder.
‘Still, the gold and mead that Robert has paid us since we joined his ranks has been most welcome,’ Vadir said. ‘It seems our reputation is growing, and that can only be good.’
All true, Hereward thought. It seemed that wherever they went they were now well known. Even Robert had sought them out, at Saint-Omer, when it became clear that Tostig was not coming back to Flanders. The count’s son needed good commanders, if only to keep his men in line. And the warriors knew Hereward and Vadir understood their complaints, where Robert never would.
The two men watched the other eight warships cutting through the white foam with Robert’s blue banner flying from a pole on each one. The fleet drew towards Wacheren, the largest island, with the stone steeple of the church of St Willibond just visible above the treetops. The Abbot Thiofrid, of the monastery of Echternach, had been encouraging the residents to refuse to pay their taxes. Hereward had suggested burning the monastery to the ground, but Robert had been less than keen to consider this course of action. ‘In my experience, men like Abbot Thiofrid are only pious when they pray,’ Hereward had told Robert. ‘The rest of the time they play the games of kings and counts and do a better job of it by hiding behind their God-given masks.’ But Robert would not be moved.
The foreman barked the order to the starboard rowers to slow their strokes. The warship turned through the narrow gap between the sandbanks. Wacheren loomed up ahead of them.
‘Your monk must count himself lucky not to be here. He seems at ease sitting at home with the women and trying to interest your wife in Bible stories,’ Vadir muttered, scanning the treeline near the rock-strewn beach for any sign of resistance.
‘Alric believes there is a natural goodness in all men. He is sickened by the sight of blood because it shows him, more often than not, that his view is misplaced.’
‘Ha,’ Vadir laughed, ‘you are as sour as early apples when it comes to people.’
‘I know what I see with my own eyes and feel with my heart.’
During the five seasons since his marriage, Hereward had found himself at peace in Saint-Omer. More than a good wife, Turfrida had been a good companion, advising him on the best course suggested by her understanding of those mechanical arts which the Church would prefer were never practised. When England fell to the bloody William the Bastard, Hereward had been keen to sail to offer his resistance, but both Turfrida and Vadir had counselled against it. ‘All the omens show you will never return to the life we have here,’ she had told him, her cheeks flushed with concern. ‘The bloodshed in Hastings was only the beginning. William now has to bend your unruly land to his will, and he has never shirked from a task like that. If you must return, wait until the moment is right.’
And so he had waited, and waited, and had grown close to his father-in-law, Wulfric Rabe, and he and Vadir and Alric had wanted for nothing. His time with Turfrida had been enjoyable, and his campaigns had brought them wealth. They had not yet been blessed with a child, but it would come. Alric had seemed happier still, and had spent his days working at the church and teaching the children. Hereward felt pleased that the monk had found his peace.
But still England would not leave his thoughts, hovering like a black cloud on the horizon on a summer’s day.
‘What is on your mind?’ Vadir asked as he eyed his friend askance. ‘You have that look on your face. The one that makes my heart si
nk.’
‘I was thinking of my brothers, young Beric, and Redwald.’ He paused, his throat tightening. ‘And my father. I wonder how they fare, now William has been crowned king. I wonder if they still live.’
The red-headed man made a non-committal noise deep in his throat, but Hereward could tell his friend did not like the course the conversation was taking.
‘I was thinking, perhaps, of a journey to Mercia, to see my old home. It would be good to drink mead with Redwald again.’
‘A journey home means no pay,’ Vadir grumbled. ‘And with a monarch as bloody as William the Bastard upon the throne, I would expect England to be much changed.’
Hereward studied Wacheren. It looked like an upturned bowl floating on the grey waters, steep, tree-covered slopes rising from the boulder-strewn shores to the village on the summit. ‘If only the islanders defend their home without help from warriors we should be done before there’s sweat on our backs,’ he mused. Vadir dismissed the thought with one raised eyebrow.
Three of the warships broke away to patrol the channels among the islands. No sly attack would come from silent ships disgorging fighters at their backs. The other vessels sailed around Wacheren, each dropping anchor at a different point.
As the Mercians’ ship neared the shore, the sun dipped behind the island and the chill of the shadow fell across the oarsmen. The black water lapped against a small stony beach where a cracked, grey-wood jetty on rope-lashed pillars protruded out into the sea. The two English warriors searched the dense bank of trees rising up to the skyline. All was still.
When the anchor splashed into the shallows and the creaking boat strained to a juddering halt on the greased rope, the dripping oars were raised from the water and drawn into the vessel. Hereward held up one hand. Helmets gleaming on bowed heads, the men sat in silence, unmoving. The two Mercians turned their heads and listened.
‘No birdsong,’ Vadir hissed. ‘Our enemies wait under leaf-cover.’
Twirling his hand, Hereward thrust it in the direction of a path disappearing into the shadows among the trees. ‘Take the sleep of the sword to all who stand in our way,’ he yelled, leaping over the side into the shallows. The cold water splashed on to his mail, but beneath his helmet his head burned. Drawing Brainbiter, he shouted, ‘For Mercia! For Robert!’ With an answering roar, the warriors grabbed their shields from the side and their axes and spears from under their seats and leapt into the water behind him.
But as they splashed towards the small rocky beach, the air filled with whistling. Arrows whizzed from the trees. A shaft flashed a hand’s width from Hereward’s head. Throwing up his shield, he ordered his men to do the same, but his voice was nearly drowned by cries behind him. Turning, he saw arrows ram into eyes, into chests, into necks. Many shafts lashed harmlessly into the black water, where blood now pooled. Vadir’s prophecy had been correct. Thrashing, the wounded men slumped beneath the surface until the nearest warriors dragged the still living towards the shore.
Another flight of arrows sped through the air. This time they thudded into raised shields. The men clustered into a knot, heads now protected by a roof of wood. ‘Stay together,’ Hereward shouted as his force stumbled out of the sea and rattled up the stones to the treeline.
‘When this business is done, I will find three of the best Frankish whores in all Saint-Omer and you will not see me for an entire week,’ Vadir growled.
‘Only three? You are getting old.’
Under the cool green canopy, the men broke formation. The path was only wide enough to travel single file. It had been cut into steps and edged with wood to keep it in use when the rains came. The two Mercians bounded up the track, their men close behind. Among the trees, ferns and rocks, they glimpsed shadowy figures scrambling up the steep slope towards the village. Arrows flashed past the trunks intermittently, but the warriors kept their shields high and their bodies low.
‘Cowards’ weapon. I told you,’ Hereward hissed, darting from cover to cover.
‘You cannot deny that the bow does its work well, though,’ Vadir puffed. Wrenching an arrow from his splintered shield, he tossed the shaft away.
Glancing through the swaying blades of emerald grass up the hillside, the younger warrior came to a sudden halt. For an instant, he had a view through the trees to one solitary sun-drenched clearing amid the dark. A figure had stood there briefly, almost as if it had wanted to be seen. Something about that fleeting outline tugged at the depths of his memory. Unease rippled through him.
‘What is wrong?’ Vadir was watching him suspiciously.
‘Nothing. Keep your wits on staying alive, not on me.’
The path turned sharply, following the contours of the hill. A tangle of exposed roots and dense vegetation blocked any other easy access to the summit. Ahead, Hereward noticed yellowing turf and branches spread across the beaten mud. When Vadir moved to cross, the younger Mercian blocked him with an outstretched arm. Crawling on his knees, he stabbed his sword on the dead vegetation and some fell away into a gulf beneath.
Peering into the hole, Hereward reported, ‘Sharpened wood… spears rammed in the bottom.’
‘A Viking trick,’ the big man replied with a curse. ‘If more of these bear-traps lie around, let us hope the other commanders are as sharp-eyed and sharp-witted as you.’
As the warriors edged round the pit, arrows tore into two more men who failed to keep their shields up. Both soldiers plummeted into the hole, the sticky impact followed by their dying moans.
When the force neared the top of the winding path, Hereward raised his hand once more to slow his men. From around the island echoed the sounds of battle, punctuated by the agonized cries of the dying.
‘Let us hope that is the enemy howling their way down to hell,’ Vadir said, unconvinced.
Hereward looked out across the flat, broad summit of the hill. Past the fields, a system of ditches and low ramparts protected the cluster of timber-framed houses with the stone church at the centre. No smoke drifted from any of the houses. Nothing moved. The only sound he could hear was a dog’s barks floating across the grassland.
‘The islanders are gone,’ he hissed to his waiting warriors. ‘The only men you will encounter here are our enemies. Cut them down without a second thought.’
When the order had been translated, the Flemish warriors beat their shields with their weapons. A moment later they burst from the trees, helmets aglow in the sunlight. Their battle cry resounded across the summit of the hill. Arrows whistled around their ears, but the men moved too fast to be easy targets. From the trees, two clutches of enemy warriors erupted, the variety of shield designs marking them as spears for hire. A third group emerged from the village on to the ramparts, and a moment later a fourth appeared. Within moments the other bands of Flemish warriors began to straggle on to the summit.
Iron clashed upon iron amid a tempestuous din of throat-rending screams and frenzied shouts. Gritting his teeth, Hereward led the way into the melee. Roaring men thundered towards him, their eyes glazed by battle passion. An axe strike glanced off his helmet, a spear skimmed his chain coif. In the crush of battling bodies, he washed back and forth as if he were being tossed by a churning ocean. Snarling faces filled his vision. The choking stink of sweat, blood, piss and shit burned his nose.
Then, through the swirl of bodies, Hereward glimpsed a familiar hawk-like face. Piercing eyes fixed upon him with a burning intensity as if he were the only important one on the field of battle. Memories skittered through his head between thrusts and parries. And then the name sprang to his lips: Hoibrict, the grandson of Count Manasses whom he had shamed on the tournament field in Bruges so long ago.
The swamp of mud and blood sucked at his leather shoes. Round and round he spun, with barely a moment to think, but the sight of the Flemish noble nagged at the back of his head. He glimpsed Vadir, roaring with laughter and drunk on battle, burying his axe in a collarbone.
Again Hoibrict fell into view. His eyes burne
d with hatred as they locked on to Hereward’s gaze. The Fleming yelled some threat or other, the words lost to the din of battle. As the nobleman disappeared in the swell once more, a warning jangled through Hereward’s head. Something here was not right.
He searched the sea of helmets as he fought until he found Hoibrict, and this time the Fleming was cutting a path through friend and foe alike. Towards Vadir.
A cruel revenge, Hereward thought, and what he expected of a weak man like Hoibrict. ‘Vadir,’ he barked. ‘Your back!’ But the din of battle drowned his voice. He set out to close the gap, cutting his way through the mass.
The hawk-faced man loomed closer to his prey.
Hereward bellowed again, and this time Vadir heard. As he spun round he swung his axe to deflect Hoibrict’s thrust with ease. Faced by the towering warrior, the nobleman recoiled in shock. For a moment, the Fleming hovered, unsure. His eyes flickered between Vadir and his approaching rival.
‘Seek your revenge face to face like a man,’ Hereward yelled.
Hoibrict turned and ran. A moment later another man joined him, the two of them bounding like rabbits towards the village.
‘That bastard.’ Hereward glanced around at the dying battle. ‘Something stinks here even worse than you.’
‘Then let us ask what it is… with the help of your sword and my axe.’ Vadir laughed loudly, whisking his weapon in the direction of the fleeing men.
Leaving the clash behind, Hereward and Vadir raced across the ramparts. As they skidded down the final slope to the edge of the houses, the two warriors could hear running feet ahead.
‘The coward tries to hide.’ The big man stooped to peer between the buildings. ‘You take that side, and I’ll go this way. Between us, we’ll surprise him.’
Hereward nodded, pressing one finger to his lips. He kept low as he edged past a barn and a plot where herbs grew. He felt a simmering anger at Hoibrict’s cowardice. The Fleming betrayed his knightly status and shamed his own bloodline. Better to die under a hundred axes than to flee honest combat. On the other side of the village, the dog began barking again. The nobleman had revealed his position and it would cost him dearly, Hereward thought with contempt. He sprinted silently past one house and to the lee of the next one, keeping one eye open for the man who had accompanied Hoibrict.