Time of the Wolf (27 page)

“Do we run?” one youth asked, leaning on his spear.

“No. Never turn your back upon them. The wall will open and their axes will cut the bones from your shoulders to your arse. You stand your ground with your own shields. Watch out—they will reach underneath and try to hack your knees or your ankles. Do the same back and they will think twice.”

“Then how do we drive them back?”

“With your strength. Force hard enough, do not yield a step, and in time their wall will break. Wait for that moment, then ram your spears into the gaps.”

Hereward turned to look out into the thick mist shrouding the damp Flemish countryside. The post-dawn birdsong was muted, the only sound the steady drip of moisture from the branches of the black trees clustering at the foot of the slope leading down from the town's fortifications.

“You have nothing to fear,” he said. “Our enemies are no better men than you.”

The young men appeared to relax a little at their leader's words. In the awkward way they gripped their spears, Hereward could see their lack of experience. He knew many had been called from toil on the land to join Bishop Liebert's force in his struggle with the castellans, John of Arras and Hugh of Havet, and he hoped they were up to the battle ahead. Many of the hardened swords for hire were still recovering from their battles against incursions from neighboring counts during the long, hard winter, the sodden spring, and the baking summer. He was learning to hate Flanders, with its constantly shifting allegiances and petty rivalries. It made England seem like a land of peace and calm.

Since their parting, he had not seen Turfrida, but she had stayed in his mind when the snows fell and when the thaw came. Vadir had taunted him long and hard, calling him a lovesick girl, but Alric had welcomed the romance as a sign that Hereward was moving away from his blood-soaked past into a blessed and peaceful future. “Every step you have taken away from England has taught you to be a better man,” the monk had said in his gentle way. “My work will soon be done and I will be able to find my own peace.” To avoid seeing Turfrida's face, Hereward had lost himself in his new work of commanding and teaching the younger men. At first it had seemed odd—he felt too raw himself to be in such a position of authority—but as the days passed, he realized how much he had learned at Vadir's side.

He shook off his introspection and turned to see Vadir himself watching from the top of the ramparts. A broad grin split the red-haired warrior's face. Hereward paced up the slope to his friend. “What do you mock now, you great bear?”

“Mock? Nothing. My heart is warmed to see how you have grown, little man. From the wild one that all feared to a commander of men, respected by the young, in such a short time.”

Hereward waved away the other man's taunting. “You taught me well.”

“And you listened. Few have ever paid heed to me.” Peering past Hereward, Vadir leaned in and whispered so the younger soldiers couldn't hear. “Now listen once more. The men I sent out before dawn have returned with news. Only one small force of around twenty men makes their way through the fog, seeking to take us by surprise and rout us. But they are battle-hardened. Leather-skinned, scarred old warriors like me.” His gaze fell to the small knot of young men below them and his expression grew grave. “Tell them to take care.”

Hereward passed on the warning. Then, with a whistle and a flick of his fingers, he summoned the men he had chosen to fight to fall in behind him. With reluctance, they plucked up their shields and their spears and trudged down the incline into the misty woods. The fog muffled the steady tramp of feet over the leaf-mold, but he knew it would also mask the approach of their enemies. Underfoot, brown leaves crackled and the dying bracken crunched. Falling droplets pinged off helmets and shields, but the men remained silent, their wide eyes trying to pierce the folds of gray. In their faces Hereward saw the flush of childhood play and memories of hands gripping mothers' skirts. They were only a little younger than he was, but by their age he had seen things most people would never encounter in their worst nightmares. He had robbed. He had beaten stronger men until they cried for mercy, their faces unrecognizable. He had killed, many times. He had lain with a woman. And he had seen his own mother beaten to death. He had never been a child. Hereward hoped he had trained them well.

Under cover of the trees, he brought the men to a halt. For long moments, he cocked his head and listened, past the drips and the rustling of rabbits and mice in the undergrowth, past the ragged breathing of his frightened men. All was still.

Satisfied, he turned to the broad-nosed farmer he had chosen to lead the attack. “If I could go with you into the battle, I would, but the bishop has ordered me to prepare the defenses along the ramparts. But you are all strong and brave. You have nothing to fear from the enemy.”

The youth nodded, his anxious gaze darting around over Hereward's shoulder.

Once the small force had disappeared into the woods, Hereward waited for a while, listening and praying, and then made his way back to the fortifications. As he directed the rest of the men to collect their spears and take position along the ramparts, he found his thoughts turning back to Tidhild and his mother, the betrayals of his father and Harold Godwinson, and to Redwald. He hadn't thought of them with such force in many months. Had Redwald taken revenge on his behalf? Had his shame been expunged? In response to the questions, he felt his devil stir deep inside him; it had been asleep for so long, he had thought it gone.

Still there,
he thought bitterly.
Why has it chosen this moment to remind me of its presence?

Unable to answer his own question, he kept himself busy for the rest of the morning. But as the daily bread was handed out to the men, a shout rang out through the mists, and then another, and another. Racing to the ramparts, he saw the remnants of his fighting force fleeing back up the slope from the trees. They were bloodied and scared. Many had lost their spears. But his anger died in his chest when he saw how few remained. Catching hold of the nearest man, he demanded to know what had happened.

“They came out of the mists.” The man's eyes looked dazed and faraway, like those of someone drunk on ale. “We stood our ground, like you taught us. Behind the shield wall. Striking out low and high. We drew first blood with our spears, and more too. It was going well. Then … then.…” He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. “Those bastards found a gap in our wall. Drove a spear into Blavier's eye. That was the start of it.”

“The shield wall did not hold?”

“When Blavier fell, two broke ranks and fled. One fell beneath an axe before he had taken three steps. A spear drove into the back of the other. Then fear struck us all. The wall crumbled. The enemy fell upon us like wolves.”

Hereward turned away, unable to contain his disappointment. He saw Vadir standing on the fortifications watching the bedraggled remnants of his force scramble up the slope. Every man shook, their eyes filled with tears. Vadir exchanged a look of condolence with Hereward, wise enough to know words would not help. He led the survivors back to their camp, and left Hereward alone to deal with his emotions in his own way.

In the distance, the jubilant cries of the castellans' men rose up for a while, then died away, letting silence creep back to the foggy wood. Hereward watched and brooded. The gray day inched on, and when twilight fell he lit a campfire, still hoping for another attack so he could release his simmering feelings. In the growing chill of the night, the dancing flames illuminated a lone figure trudging from the direction of Cambrai.

“If you have come to talk to me about God, you will receive a response from my fists,” Hereward said when Alric appeared on the edge of the circle of light.

“Do you think I only preach the Lord's word?” The monk squatted next to the fire. “I have come to sit with my friend.”

Hereward grunted. “I thought I was only a soul to be saved.”

Alric prodded the fire, watching the sparks fly up in the smoke while he chose his words. “No man can save all the innocents that cross his path.”

“You wanted to say ‘Only God,' didn't you?”

The monk smiled sadly. “Only God, and we do not know his plan.”

“I commanded the men who died this day. I taught them. I failed them.”

“You did what you could. But in the end their choices are their own.”

Hereward peered up at the stars sprinkled across the vault of the heavens. “My heart aches when I recall their faces. Yet in days past I would not have mourned them. Death is the price of battle.”

Alric cast a sympathetic glance at his friend. “Raw feelings are the price we pay for striving to be good men.”

“You think I have now moved to the side of the angels?” Hereward gave an empty laugh. “That I have been saved because I mourn a few poor souls?”

“I think you struggle with the burdens of your early days. But you no longer allow them to turn you away from God.”

“And if I was still the devil you said I was that first cold night in Northumbria, would I have saved those men from slaughter?” Hereward glared at the monk through the flames. Disturbed by whatever he saw in his friend's face, the monk flinched.

“I do not profess to know God's will, but I know you. I started along this road to save myself by saving you. Now I see the peace that lies within your grasp, and that is reward enough.”

Staring into the fire, Hereward muttered, “The ravens never leave me.”

“You have Vadir to keep you on the straight path now. He knows of battle and blood. He knows your mind, and he is wise. He is like a father—”

“Do not mention my father.”

Alric recoiled at the vehemence in his friend's voice. Hereward hoped that the monk recognized the truth: that his devil could only be chained, not killed, and that it was always straining to break free.

The burning wood popped and crackled, shattering the uncomfortable silence, and then the tramp of leather shoes echoed over the dark fortifications.

It was Vadir, who cast a searching glance at Hereward, but appeared satisfied by what he saw. “All of Cambrai is afire with news from Saint-Omer,” he boomed.

“What news that excites the Flemish would be of interest to us?” Hereward said with a shrug.

“This news will interest you more than most.” The big man squatted beside the fire, looking from one face to the other. “Tostig Godwinson now stands on Flemish soil. No longer an earl, he has fled England an outlaw, with his wife Judith and a handful of loyal men by his side. He seeks refuge at the court of Count Baldwin. There is talk that he even seeks an alliance with William the Bastard.”

Hereward laughed without humor. “Tostig, an outlaw. We are brought to the same level.”

Uneasy, the monk eyed his friend. “What lies on your mind?”

The firelight glimmered in the warrior's eyes. With a lupine grin, he replied, “Revenge.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

H
OOFBEATS THUNDERED THROUGH THE MOONLESS NIGHT
. In pools of dancing torchlight, the sentries opened the gates of Bruges to admit the riders. Seven there were, cloaked in black and distinguished by their close-cropped hair in the Norman style. Grim-faced, they cast only cursory glances at the deferential guards as they rode hard toward the hall occupied by two visiting Normans.

From the shadows outside the tavern, Harald Redteeth watched the riders rein in their steeds and dismount in a flurry of cloaks. He had known they were coming. The
vaettir
had told him as he had wandered the shores of the vast black sea, and they whispered still that here was purpose and meaning that would ripple out into days yet to come. While servants took the horses to water, two well-attired men, heavy with gold rings, marched out to greet the new arrivals with cheery hails. The Viking knew the wealthy men were William of Warenne and his brother-in-law Frederic. William had the ear of his namesake, William the Bastard, and had arrived in Bruges to encourage wealthy Flemings to support the Norman duke's plans to seize the throne of England. An offer of gold or ships would result in a grant or land once William took the crown, Redteeth had learned.

He studied the black-cloaked Normans' hard faces and warriors' gait as they followed William and Frederic into the hall, and he felt he knew their minds. They shared blood, he and they. Normans were the spawn of the
vikingr
in days long gone. Did they still listen to the
vaettir?
Did they have fire and iron in their hearts? If only the English knew what terrors they encouraged with their kingly games.

Once the hall's door had closed, Harald Redteeth returned to the smoky confines of the tavern. In a corner, a group gathered around two men arguing over the black and white bone pieces on a merels board. On stools next to the hearth, four other men sat drinking ale from wooden cups, laughing as they swapped bawdy tales. The Viking didn't understand the words, but he recognized the rhythms of the speech and the gleam in the Flemings' eyes.

Taking his seat in the shadows, he supped his mead and waited.

When two further cups burned in his veins, the door swung open and three men sauntered in. Their bearing spoke of power and wealth, a swagger at the hips, superior gazes cast across the drinking men grown timid, sword hilts inlaid with gold. He identified the leader of the group from his aquiline nose and piercing eyes. A weak man, spoiled by good living, Harald noted. Yes, this was the one he awaited.

As the men collected their ale and settled into a corner to laugh loudly, the Viking mercenary rose, stretched, and wandered over. Ivar, his second in command, watched with dead eyes from the other side of the tavern. Redteeth grinned at his old friend. “Soon, now,” he whispered to himself, to Ivar.

The three men looked up when he arrived at their side, still grinning. They snarled at him in Flemish, no doubt warning him to leave them alone. Harald fixed an eye on the hawk-nosed leader. “You are Hoibrict, grandson of Count Manasses?” he asked.