CHAPTER EIGHT

THE SUN WAS SETTING OVER LONDON IN A CRIMSON BLAZE. A knife of shadow slashed through the heart of the white-blanketed Palace of Westminster from the stark silhouette of the new abbey’s unfinished tower. Torches sizzled in the crisp air as the Master of the Flame brought light to the enclosure and, in the King’s hall, slaves stoked the fire for the night to come.

Redwald crept through the gloom against the church’s western wall. With his hood pulled up to mask his identity, the young man eased past the shaky wooden ladders soaring up to the timber platforms on their vast pillars of elm. All around, the clatter of the stonecutters’ hammers rang out, the masons laboring in the dying light under the direct instructions of the King, who could not bear to see his great work lying unfinished for a day longer than necessary. Redwald could smell the earthy tang of the stone dust and the woodsmoke from the fires the workmen used to keep warm.

Low voices echoed from the abbey’s shadowy interior. He edged to the arch where the west door would eventually be fixed, and peered inside. Ruddy light falling through the window holes tinged the drifting snow on the floor, and he could see the moon and first stars through the open roof. Two silhouettes stood in quiet conversation in the center of the nave. When they walked a few paces toward where the altar would be located, Redwald saw that one was the King. The young man had never seen the monarch looking so frail; his skin was almost the color of the slush at his feet, his head bowed, his limbs thin. Sweeping his right arm toward the sky, Edward was saying, in a faint voice, “All things are in truth two things. This church, this great stone building, is a testament of our devotion to God. But it is also a man.”

Puzzled silence hung in the air for a moment. The second figure shifted uncomfortably. It was the man Redwald had come to spy upon, Edwin of Mercia, brimming with vitality next to his fragile companion. The earl’s red woolen cloak shone in stark contrast to the King’s bloodless appearance.

“Unformed rocks are hewn from the earth, rough and purposeless,” Edward croaked. “And then the stones are shaped by the weight of wisdom and the quiet reflection of others, and they take form, and rise up, and gather meaning, and purpose, and become something filled with God’s will. Become a testament to God and his plan.”

“You say … every church … is a man.” Redwald heard Edwin struggling to mask his baffled contempt.

“And every man is a church.” The King nodded, smiling. The earl continued to shuffle, looking around the soaring walls.

Redwald started at the sound of running feet at his back. A young messenger barged past him to whisper to the King, who gave a curt nod, bid farewell to the Mercian earl, and followed the messenger out of the church. Pressing back into the deep shadows so he would not be seen, Redwald watched the monarch pass by and thought he saw a faint smile play on Edward’s face. He struggled to understand. The King had a young, attractive wife, and wealth and power, but his servants said he had become obsessed with prophecies and omens and was building this monument as if it was in some way protection against what he feared was to come. Perhaps it was just vanity, Redwald thought, for the monarch knew his name would last as long as the great stone church stood, and that would be until Judgment Day.

Rough hands grabbed his cloak, tearing him from his reflections. Before he could cry out, his unseen assailant bundled him along the cold wall and hurled him through the doorway into the church. Sprawling in the snow, he looked up into the horselike face of Morcar, the Earl of Mercia’s brother. “It is Harold’s pup.”

Edwin drew his sword and planted the tip firmly on Redwald’s chest. “I know you. The brother of the murderer.” Redwald’s cheeks flushed.

“He was eavesdropping.” Morcar’s lips pulled back from his teeth like a cornered animal’s. “No doubt to report back to his master.” He spat a hand’s width from the young man’s face.

“You are a Mercian. You march under the banner of blue and gold.” Edwin pressed the tip of the sword deeper into Redwald’s flesh. The point burned, but the young man forced himself not to cry out. “How can you be in the employ of that Wessex bastard?”

“You know the Godwins would have crushed Mercia if they could,” Morcar said. “They plotted against our kin, and worked to see our own father killed. His final days were a struggle to survive. But Harold Godwinson will not win.” He snarled the final words.

Edwin grinned, but coldly. “What does Harold fear? That I gain favor with the King? That I will finally prevent his own ascent to power?”

“He does not fear you,” Redwald retorted, red-faced with anger. “You are too young and untested to be Earl of Mercia. And you would not be there now if not for the death of your father.”

Fury flared in Edwin’s features at the insolence. He whipped up his blade to slash it across the young man’s face.

“Hold.” The voice echoed across the cold, empty nave. Redwald recognized the confident humor lacing the word. Harold Godwinson strode in, his cloak thrown back so all could see his hand upon the golden hilt of his sword. “Has my lad slipped under your sword, Edwin?” the Earl of Wessex continued. “He is a clumsy oaf at the best of times, but that is a mistake that could have cost him an eye.”

Edwin hesitated for a moment and then sheathed his sword, stepping back. “You play a dangerous game.”

“And the King wastes his final days building monuments to God, when he should be protecting this realm … and ensuring that the throne is passed to an Englishman,” Harold snapped.

“To you?” Edwin turned away to hide his sneer.

“Or you.” The Earl of Wessex stuck out his hand to help Redwald to his feet. “In Normandy, William the Bastard has already laid claim to our throne, and he plots and waits. And King Harald in Norway thinks he should have it too. So why do we two fight when we know our true enemies?”

“Why?” Edwin’s eyes blazed. “You know why.” He shoved Morcar toward the door, and the two Mercians walked out into the dark.

“I am sorry,” Redwald said. “I was a clumsy fool. I put you at risk.”

“You are a bright lad, with great days ahead of you, but you still have much to learn. Heed me and you will gain all that you dream of.” But the young man could see that the earl was distracted, and after a moment he realized that Harold was listening to approaching hoofbeats on the frozen mud of the road beyond the enclosure. Beckoning Redwald to walk with him, Harold strode out of the church. The bonfires cast an orange glow up the stone walls of the church, but the masons had packed up their tools and gone for the night.

“It is within your power to make amends for the stain placed on your kin by Hereward’s actions,” the earl continued. “You can set poor Asketil’s heart at rest. He deserves more than the blow his wayward son has dealt him.”

“I want to serve England in any way I can.” Afraid of the answer he might receive, the young man nevertheless summoned up his courage. “Does this mean you will take me into your employ?”

“You have proved yourself.”

Redwald’s heart leapt. Harold Godwinson’s patronage was all that he had dreamed of since Asketil had first introduced him to the earl. He felt he almost had his hands round the rope that would drag him out of the slough of his early days, and he would not let go, whatever happened.

“You have worked hard to gain my trust,” the earl continued. “I like that. I remember when I was your age, and the dreams I had then. I learned from my father that life is a struggle, but the prize is always worth it.”

In the gloom, Redwald noticed Harold’s huscarls waiting around the enclosure, battle-hardened Wessex men who carried their spears as if they were a part of them; clearly, the earl would not have risked confronting Edwin and Morcar in such an isolated place without his own protection assured.

“There is much I can teach you, and much you can do for me.” Harold fixed his attention on the torchlit gate where the sound of hooves had come to a halt. The sentries were calling to someone outside the palace. “You saw just now the threat that Edwin and Morcar present. Once Edward has died, they want the throne for themselves. They whisper and plot. Power is all that concerns them, not England.”

“I will keep watch upon them, as you asked. And whatever I hear, I will bring straight to your hall.”

“Good. I fear the worst. If the prophecies and omens that fill Edward’s head are true, we all face dark times ahead.” Holding up his hand, Harold brought Redwald to a halt. The gate hung open, and five men in charcoal woolen cloaks were leading their horses into the enclosure. In the flickering light of the sentries’ torches, Redwald saw sallow, foreign features and darting, suspicious glances. But all the men walked with confidence, he noted, as if they felt that they stood on their own territory.

“Normans.” Harold’s face darkened. Steadily, his huscarls gathered at his back. “They covet everything we have. Our land, our wealth, our laws, our art. We live and breathe fire here. We drink and feast and fight and sing. But the Normans are like cold stone. Taxes and ledgers and vast, grim churches: that is the Norman.”

One of the men, the leader of the group, Redwald guessed, held Harold’s gaze for a long moment before following a sentry toward the King’s hall.

“What do they want here?” he asked.

“Sometimes I think Edward is losing his wits. At other times I think he is more cunning than a fox,” the Earl of Wessex mused. “Would he truly dare offer England’s throne to his mother’s people?”

Redwald watched the black-cloaked men disappear into the warm glow of Edward’s hall. Everything was changing, as the prophecies foretold. What did the future hold?