CHAPTER ELEVEN

IN THE BRIGHT OF THE NEW DAY, THE CIRCLE OF HUSCARLS shook their fists toward the blue sky and roared their approval. Their wooden shields rattled against their hauberks to the rhythm of their cheers. As they pawed the snow of the hall’s enclosure with their leather shoes, they released blasts of clouding breath with every contemptuous guffaw.

On hands and knees at the center of the ring, Hereward kept his head down so that his blond hair fell across his swollen cheek. His mind flashed back to the first time his father had struck him after the death of his mother, and his rage burned. When he was ready, he stood up and let the icy wind cool him. Wiping the back of his hand across his bleeding nose, he shook the last of the din from his skull and turned to face his new brothers of the shield. Looking around the dense circle of weather-beaten faces, he saw contempt, but also a hint of fear. That was all he needed.

“A cowardly blow,” he said.

“You speak of honor?” Kraki circled the Mercian, bear-like in his thick furs, leather, and chain mail, his silvery helmet casting pools of shadow round his eyes. “You fight like a cornered animal.” The commander of Tostig’s huscarls was a veteran of battles across the frozen river valleys of the Varangians and of the Byzantine campaigns in the hot lands to the south, Hereward had learned. That the Viking still lived was proof enough of his prowess, but his heavily scarred skin had become a map of his successes. Brutal and cold, loyal and fair, he seemed a stew of contradictions.

“I fight to win.” Hereward spat a mouthful of blood onto the snow. From the moment he had joined the huscarls that morning, they had made it plain that he was to be punished for his savage attack on Thangbrand. As he stepped up to them with his new shield and axe, he had been tripped, then kicked and punched repeatedly. It would do little good to express the remorse he felt for the extent of the Viking’s wounds, he knew. Reparation had to be made, a balance struck, and the admission that he could not control his inner devil would carry little weight.

Kraki pressed his face close. “This is Northumbria, and we are huscarls. We do not send a man before the Witan to account for his crimes. We have our own rules. Here we follow the old ways, of blood and fire. Honor is all.” He glanced around the circle. “A man of honor has firm principles. A man of honor fights for his friends in time of need. For his people, his land.” The huscarl leader looked the warrior up and down with unconcealed contempt. “You have no honor. You are nothing.”

Hereward bit his tongue.

Jeers ran through the ranks. From the edge of the hall ground, a large brown bear rose up on to its hind legs and bellowed in response to the sound it heard. Tostig had had the beast brought over from the Northlands, for entertainment and as a symbol of his own untamed power. Though it was shackled in its own enclosure, its roar chilled all who heard it, the warrior saw.

Kraki glanced toward the bear and nodded. “There, the sound of your kin calling to you. But brutish strength and a beast’s ferocity and cunning will not keep you alive for long. That rage that burns so hot in you will be your end.”

Hereward feared that the commander’s words were true. “I will prove my value, with my sword and my axe.”

The Viking snorted. “Not this day. There is too much bad feeling toward you. Who here would want a wild animal at his side, as likely to attack him as the enemy? If you would be trusted, we must see you have been tamed.” He turned his back on the warrior and walked away. “You will toil with the slaves until I summon you, fetching water and cutting wood for the hearth. Even that work is too good for you.”

Hereward’s cheeks burned, but he would endure. He had suffered worse, and at least he had found respite from pursuit. It was even possible that Tostig would aid him in his struggle for justice.

As the huscarls surged out of the gate into Eoferwic, he suppressed his pride and joined the slaves. For most of the morning, he hacked logs from the trees dragged in from the woods to the south. A constant supply of fuel was needed to keep the winter fires burning, and fast though he worked, the woodpile never seemed to grow any larger. The other woodmen eyed him with sullen suspicion, but he kept his head down, allowing the rhythm of his labor to still his troubled thoughts. Only when the sun was at its highest and his arm muscles burned did he wipe the sweat from his brow and go in search of food.

Gnawing on a hunk of bread, he rested in the lee of the hall, watching the bear prowl its enclosure. The sweet smell of woodsmoke hung in the air, barely masking the choking odors drifting in from the filthy streets. As he looked idly round, a figure moving stealthily through the deep snow caught his eye. Though her cloak was pulled tight, he saw that it was Acha. Something about her cold expression and determined step drew his attention, and his puzzlement turned to unease when he noticed that she was approaching the house where the injured Thangbrand lay.

With a rush of realization, he threw the bread aside and raced between the huts. He caught up with Acha at the door to Thangbrand’s dwelling and grabbed her wrist as she half turned at the sound of his shoes in the snow. A knife flew from her hand into a drift. Her eyes blazed. With her free hand, she lashed out, raking her nails across his cheek. “Leave me be,” she snarled.

Hereward dragged her out of sight around the side of the hut and pressed her against the wall until she calmed down. “You planned to kill Thangbrand? Has he not suffered enough?”

“No. He laid hands upon me … he shamed me … he deserves death.”

“Have you lost your wits? You would not escape punishment. At the least, you would suffer the agonies of an ordeal. At worst, death.”

“He shamed me!”

Hereward was struck by the murderous fury in Acha’s eyes. “I cannot allow you to risk your own life—”

“Allow me?” she snapped. “You have no say in what I do. I am no little rabbit, weak and frightened and needing a man to fight my battles. In my homeland, men bowed before me—”

She caught herself, and in that moment Hereward understood that she had been a woman of some standing before Tostig had taken her prisoner. She looked away, her jaw set.

“Heed me. I know full well the curse of uncontrollable passions. We need no enemies—we destroy ourselves,” he said. “This is a mistake. I will not let you sacrifice yourself to gain revenge.”

“I do not need your protection.”

“You think I can help myself? I could not turn away and see you or any woman destroyed.”

“Then you are a fool.” She threw off his grip and pushed by him. He felt relieved to see her ignore the knife as she walked back toward the hall. Following in her wake, he recognized that he had done some good that day, a small recompense for the trail of misery he had left behind him over the years. Perhaps Acha understood that too, deep beneath her anger, for she glanced back at him once she reached the hall. Her expression looked curious, but before he could wonder what it meant, she disappeared inside.