CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

“KEEP YOUR EYES AHEAD,” HEREWARD WHISPERED.

Alric barely heard the warrior above the music of the fens. Wind whistled through the high branches of the willows. Dry wood cracked under the monk’s shoes. Leaves rustled. Rooks cawed. Since they had left Burgh Abbey, Alric had concentrated on the burning in his thighs as they waded through black mud, skirted silent lakes shimmering with a brassy glow as morning broke, stumbled along flinty causeways, and splashed across white-foamed rushing streams. He felt tired and hungry and he feared what was happening to his friend. All the good work of years appeared to be draining away by the moment.

“What is there to see apart from water and wood?” he grumbled.

The warrior slowed his step so that he dropped back alongside his traveling companion. “We have been followed ever since we left the abbey,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the way ahead.

“How do you know? I have seen nothing. And heard nothing above this din.”

“He is skillful and cunning. In the dark, he shrouded himself in black cloak and cowl. Since sunrise, he has put just enough distance between us to prevent us from hearing his footsteps, but not enough to lose sight of us.”

“A Norman scout?” Alric’s chest tightened.

“Mayhap,” the warrior growled, “which is why I drew him on. Knights could have been hiding at Burgh Abbey; and if the alarm had been raised there, we would have had little chance of escape. But here … this is my land.”

Before the monk could ask another question, Hereward melted away. Alric felt the warrior by his side one moment, but when he glanced across he saw only swaying branches and heard only the ghost of footsteps disappearing across the muddy ground. He tried to steady himself, but they had spent most of the journey talking about Norman tactics, the swift strikes from their cavalry, their use of bowmen to bring death from a distance, but most of all their cruelty, which he had witnessed at first hand in the head of Hereward’s brother hoisted above the hall gateway. Of all potential enemies, the Normans were the worst with their coldness and efficiency.

His heart hammering, he continued to struggle through the undergrowth, unsure of what the warrior wanted him to do. Suddenly Hereward’s battle cry shattered the peace of the woodland. Rooks took flight as one, with a thunder of black wings from the treetops, their raucous cries alerting everyone within miles.

Turning on his heel, Alric weaved back through the swaying willow branches that obscured his view. He was afraid of what he would find: his friend dead in a bog, a horde of well-armed Normans closing in from all sides? The final sweep of branches fell aside, and he stumbled across Hereward wrestling on the sodden ground with the black-cloaked stalker. Clearly no stranger to battle, the other man fought as furiously as Hereward. Alric was shocked to see that his friend had already been disarmed, his sword lying half-buried in a bank of rust-colored fern. Yet Hereward refused to allow his opponent a moment to catch his breath, raining down punches and butts with his head.

“Wait,” the other man croaked. “Hereward … wait.”

At the sound of his name, the warrior came to a halt. One fist raised, he tore the cowl away with his other hand. Alric saw curly brown hair and full lips that made the features seem oddly innocent, like a child’s. The warrior’s bafflement gave way to a broad grin.

“Redwald?” For a moment, he stared at the battered figure, and then jumped to his feet. Hauling the other man into his arms, he hugged tightly, slapping his brother on the back. “Redwald! I thought you dead!”

“And I you.”

Hereward held the cloaked man at arm’s length to study him. Alric watched a shadow cross his friend’s face. Redwald looked gaunt and pale, his gaze skittering like that of a whipped dog. Forcing a grin, the warrior said, “You look well. How did you find me?”

“I took revenge for you, Hereward,” the other man said with an almost childlike desperation to please. “Harold Godwinson died with prayers for forgiveness upon his lips … prayers in your name.”

The warrior nodded. “Then Tidhild can rest easily. Her death has been avenged.” He shrugged, throwing a puzzled glance at Alric. “For so long, seeing Harold Godwinson suffer for his crimes was all that filled my heart and mind. Yet now I feel grief for Tidhild’s passing, but no joy at Harold’s death. Other matters loom larger.”

The monk smiled. “As we march along life’s road, we see the trees and hills we pass in a different light. What was, is not always what is.”

Hereward sighed, waving an arm toward his friend. “This is Alric, a monk, who sees it as his life’s work to save my soul. We must pity him for that thankless task. But beware, Redwald, he talks. And talks. And ties your wits in knots. When you want to feast, or drink, or lie with a woman, he talks. What was, is not always what is.”

“It is good to have friends,” Redwald said with a hint of regret. “Since the Normans invaded, I have spent all my days running and hiding. They are a fierce enemy, Hereward. They never slow, they never stop. Once William arrived in London, he collected the names of all who were close to King Harold and resolved that he would not rest until each one was accounted for.”

“And thereby tried to cut out the heart of any future resistance.”

“Many ended their days with their heads upon poles outside the palace or tied to a stake at low tide on the river, where the waters slowly washed away their screams.”

“But you were always a cunning one, Redwald. You survived.”

The cloaked man nodded with little enthusiasm. “This spring, at my lowest ebb, I threw myself upon the mercy of your uncle at Burgh Abbey. He owed it to your father to take me in and give me a new life as a monk, and a new name. So when the Normans came, as they regularly did to see the abbot, they never gave me a passing glance.” He paused. “Your kin have always shown me kindness, Hereward. Taking me in when I had nothing, not once now, but twice—”

“Enough,” the warrior interrupted. He rested a comforting hand on Redwald’s shoulder. “Though we share no blood, we are kin. We offer each other a hand in hard times. And you have proved your loyalty time and again, not least in your devotion to avenging Tidhild and the crime against me.”

Redwald smiled and nodded. “And I would join you now. So we can fight shoulder to shoulder, as we did in the days of our youth.”

“Would you not be safer in hiding at the abbey?” Alric asked.

“Is anywhere safe in these times? The monks all mutter of the End of Days. They speak of the sickness sweeping through villages and towns in the west. Of starvation brought on by William the Bastard, who steals the food and razes the fields of those who fail to bow to him.” Redwald wrung his hands as long-buried worries rushed to the surface. “And then the stories reached us of a new rebel, who killed bears with his bare hands and had brought all of Flanders to its knees. And they said his name was Hereward, and I would not believe.…” He bowed his head, his voice growing quiet. “But last night I saw.”

“Why did you not speak out at the abbey?” the monk pressed.

Redwald shook his head. “I thought you would not have me,” he whispered.

Hereward laughed in disbelief. “Have you lost your wits?”

Trying to lighten the atmosphere, Redwald clapped his hands together and forced a broad grin. “Yet here I am. I will join you. I will be a loyal servant, and I ask only for your protection.”

“Servant?” The warrior shook his head in mock bafflement. “We are equals, brother.”

“As I followed you, plucking up courage to speak, I have been thinking.…” Redwald’s tongue moistened his dry lips. “If any man could stand against William, it would be you, Hereward. But the Normans are great in power and they have their hands round England’s neck. If we could get Earl Edwin on our side … perhaps his brother Earl Morcar too … we men of Mercia could start a grand rebellion that would shake the invaders to the core. Even the throne could be within our reach.”

Alric saw a puzzling fire flicker in the man’s eyes. Hereward, though, appeared overjoyed that his adopted brother had walked back into his life. “That is the spirit I remember.” The warrior shook a fist. “See, monk? You feared we would be a poor force against the Norman might, but with men like this by our side we can achieve anything.”

“We have time to plot and plan and build our strength. The Normans will not be able to find us in the fens,” Redwald said. “Yes, brother, we can achieve anything.”

Alric watched the two men set off through the willows, arms round each other’s shoulders as they exchanged raucous stories of the time they had been apart. Yet when Hereward roared with laughter at some joke or other, the monk glimpsed something that puzzled him: Redwald glanced sideways at the warrior, and in that unguarded moment his features showed no brotherly love. Alric thought he saw something sourer there, resentment, perhaps, or contempt, but the look flashed so quickly that he could not be sure. He followed at a distance, deep in thought, but his suspicions would not subside.