CHAPTER FORTY

STILL AND SILENT UNDER SABLE SKIES, LONDON HELD ITS breath. Moonbeams limned the glistening roofs of the cramped houses, casting long shadows across the rutted streets. A dog barked; a cow lowed. The insistent clatter of hoofbeats broke the quiet as Redwald rode hard from the direction of the river crossing toward the Palace of Westminster. Snorts of hot breath clouded in the chill air. Digging his heels into the flanks of his foaming horse, the young man urged the last vestige of strength from its weary limbs. Sweat dripped from his brow. Hot despite the cold, he had taken no chances, swaddling himself in a stolen cloak with the hood pulled low to hide his identity.

He could almost sense the apprehension leaking from the dark houses on either side. He pictured the men sitting by the hearths, unable to sleep, the women anxiously tossing and turning in their beds. If they only knew the horror that would soon be marching toward their doors. Stifling his own desperation, he guided his mount toward the barred gates in the high enclosure fence. Above the palisade, cold lamps of faces glowed in the moonlight, each one filled with trepidation. The guards called for news of the battle. They looked pitifully hopeful when he said he had an urgent message from the King and could not be delayed.

Leaping from his horse, he glanced once over his shoulder to ensure he was not being watched, and then raced for the abbey church. A full day and more had passed since he had seen Harold butchered, the most dismal day he could recall. A dark night of running and hiding from Norman troops scouring the countryside for escaping English soldiers to slaughter gave way to a red dawn, a near-bungled attempt to steal a horse, and the long flight home. Ahead stretched gray days of worry. All his plans had turned to ashes, all the long years of scheming wasted. He had less now than when Asketil had taken him in after his parents’ death. And if William the Bastard’s men recognized him, his life would be lost too, his head planted on a pole beside the Thames, food for the crows.

Consumed by despair, the young man crashed through the heavy oak door into the echoing vault of the church. Candles guttered along the far wall, left by the monks for sinners desperate to pray for their souls in the long dark of the night. The dancing flames sent jewels of light shimmering across the stained-glass windows. Above the altar, the Christ glared down at the young man.

His leather shoes echoed on the stone flags. Redwald snatched one of the candles and hurried to the reliquary containing the shankbone of St. John the Baptist. He thought back to that frozen night when he had retrieved the relic for the old queen, Edith, Harold Godwinson’s sister. How long ago it seemed. With that simple act, he had earned the first step of his advancement. Power had felt within his grasp.

Fighting back tears of frustration, he placed his hands upon the casket, almost afraid that it would burn him, and then flipped open the iron-banded lid. With the candle held in a trembling hand, he pushed aside the brown bone to find what he had hidden beneath.

“It is you.”

Redwald almost cried out in shock. Clutching a hand to his mouth, he whirled in fear of his life only to see Hild standing in the doorway. Hild, his wife of four months, already with child, whom he had kissed good-bye barely a week ago. He hadn’t even remembered she was at the palace.

“Leave me,” he snapped, the thump of his heart returning to normal. “I have business.”

“Here? Do you pray for divine help?” She crossed the nave, the embroidered hem of her yellow dress swishing across the flagstones. Her hands fluttered in front of her, her voice rising. “Why have you returned alone? What of the battle? Where is the King?”

“The King is dead.” Turning his back on his wife, Redwald delved into the reliquary once more.

Only silence followed. He glanced back to see Hild’s face frozen, tears springing to the corners of her eyes.

Forcing himself to soften his tone, he continued: “England is done. You would do well to flee before the Normans come. Their soldiers will not treat women kindly.” He stifled a bitter laugh at his understatement. The Normans’ reputation for rape, cruelty, and brutality was unparalleled.

“You wish me to travel alone? But you are my husband … you should protect me,” his wife said, aghast.

Wearied by the exchange, Redwald shook his head and returned his attention to the casket. “Go.”

“How can your heart be so cold? Do you not love me?”

“I never loved you. You were … necessary.”

Hild gulped like a codfish.

“You look foolish like that. Leave now.” Redwald’s voice hardened.

“No.” Her cheeks flushed with indignation. “You will protect me, as you promised my father. The Witan will find a new king. We will stay here, safe within the palace. And if the Norman is to be king, so be it. We will throw ourselves upon his mercy. You served one monarch, you can serve another.”

Angry, Hild grabbed her husband’s arm to drag his attention from the reliquary. Redwald snapped round, eyes blazing. “There is nothing for me here. Nothing.” He felt a spiraling rage at so many wasted years. Every moment in that place only added to the miserable total. Lowering his voice, he threatened, “You will not hold me back.”

“And you will not abandon me.” Hild’s eyes flashed. Redwald could see she would not be deterred. “You are a coward,” she spat. “A weak child of a man. Come with me now, or I will tell all how you fled from the battle, abandoning the defense of England.”

“Lies!”

Hild smirked. “Is it? You think yourself so clever, moving everyone like chess pieces to win your game. But in the night when you lie with me, I see the true you.” Redwald colored at her mocking laughter. His fingers fumbled in the bottom of the reliquary. Lost to the rush of things she had kept unspoken for so long, Hild thrust her face into his and hissed, “And I used you.”

Redwald stiffened. His ears burned, his hand shook. With a cruel look of triumph in her face, Hild twirled away. “Now follow me back to the house and all this will be forgotten.”

“No.” The word whispered away like candle-smoke in the vast belly of the great stone church.

Hild spun back, her small teeth clenched. “Then I will hail the King’s men and make my claim.”

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.