James Wilde: Hereward

‘This is not an ending,’ Redteeth growled.

‘It is the end of your story,’ Hereward replied. ‘Except for the part where the ravens feast on your remains.’

‘You should have left well alone,’ Alric added.

‘Good Christian man,’ Redteeth spat.

The monk was a strange man, Hereward thought, but he might have his uses. Turning his back on the glowering Viking, he said, ‘You are a free man now. What will you do? Return to your monastery?’

Alric hung his head. ‘I am not free. If Harald Redteeth does not return with my head, another will come in his place, and another after that, until this matter is done.’ His eyes flickered in the direction of Gedley. ‘I will never be free.’

‘I have business in Eoferwic… grim business,’ Hereward said, searching the other’s face for even the barest hint that betrayal lay ahead, ‘and I cannot risk becoming food for the wolves.’

The monk’s eyes narrowed. ‘What manner of business?’

Hereward hesitated. How could he tell the younger man that it involved murder, conspiracy and the security of the very throne of England itself when he had no idea who could be trusted or how far the plot reached? ‘There are lives at stake,’ he said. ‘More, perhaps, than died in Gedley.’

‘You butcher without thought for God’s work. Why would you be concerned with saving lives?’

‘We all wrestle with our devils, monk. Can any man truly say he is wholly saint or wholly sinner?’

Alric’s eyes brightened as if he had alighted on some great notion. Waving a finger, he said, ‘And you would have me accompany you?’

‘If I can be sure you will not pass judgement on me on the road, as it seems in your nature to do.’ He could feel his legs growing weaker by the moment. They would need to find new shelter, and a chance to recover. ‘These wounds drag me down. You are right: I will never reach Eoferwic on my own.’

The monk pondered.

‘I will pay you well,’ the warrior added, jangling the pouch at his hip.

‘Very well,’ Alric said, setting his jaw. ‘You need me now, and I, God help me, need you for protection, at least until we reach Eoferwic.’

Hereward clapped a weak hand on his companion’s shoulder. ‘You are a whining little shit, monk, with a miserable disposition that makes for poor company. But if we can survive the hardships of this wild land, I will shoulder the burden.’

While Alric cast one tormented backward glance at the Viking balancing on the block, Hereward felt the weight of the secret he carried with him. With a heavy heart, he peered among the clustering oaks and ash trees, but saw no sign of the pursuit that had dogged him for so long. Perhaps there was some hope after all, he thought.

As Hereward lurched away with Alric supporting him, Redteeth roared his defiance: ‘This is not an ending!’

If Hereward had searched the depths of the Viking’s eyes at that moment, he would have seen that Redteeth was right. It was not an ending. The red-bearded Northman would not give in to death.

He was Death.

‘Harald Redteeth is dead. Why do you waste so much time watching for pursuers?’ Alric struggled to keep the crack out of his voice, but he felt irritable from exhaustion and hunger and the bitter wind burrowing deep into his bones.

Hereward crouched on the granite outcropping, one hand shielding his eyes from the midday sun. Now his wounds had healed, the sinewy warrior showed no sign of feeling the cold as he searched the bleak, white landscape tumbling away from the foot of the hillside below them. There were times when the young monk thought his companion more beast than man, at home in the wild countryside, perceiving scents that Alric could never smell on the knife-sharp wind, identifying spoor, detecting the merest hint of movement a day’s march away or more, hearing notes of warning in the cawing of the rooks, and, for all he knew, the voice of God in the soughing in the branches.

‘Men move through the forest below.’ The warrior rose on to the balls of his feet and for a moment the monk lost him in the glare from the thick snow lying across the hillside. ‘Five, I think. Tracking us or collecting wood?’

The monk narrowed his eyes in suspicion. ‘Do you fear that they are hunting me… or you?’

Hereward laughed. ‘Would you wait and ask them yourself?’ Bounding down from the rock, he scanned the way ahead over the windswept hilltops. ‘If we are caught out here in the open, we will soon be enjoying the sleep of the sword.’

Alric had watched the warrior’s mood improve by the day as they neared Eoferwic. At times a robust humour had emerged, almost as if the Mercian sensed an opportunity to slough off whatever burden weighed him down, the monk mused. He saw learning in that face, most surely, and even some warmth. He had to accept that his wild-eyed companion was more of a puzzle than he had first believed. ‘It would be a blessed relief. I get little other sleep these days,’ he muttered.

‘You are free to leave at any time.’

‘Then who would pray for your black soul? I am all that prevents the Devil from rising up to offer you a throne beside him.’

‘The Devil on one hand and a monk wittering and whinging and whining all day and all night on the other. A hard choice.’ The warrior leapt to the monk’s side, landing gracefully.

Alric shrugged and walked ahead. ‘The meek are blessed.’

‘Dead. The meek are dead, because they leave their spears under their beds.’

‘And blessed.’ Alric ducked when he heard rapid movement at his back. A large stone flew over his head and crashed into a drift. He whirled, jabbing a finger. ‘That could have staved in my skull.’

‘I must practise my aim,’ the warrior said, his tone wry. ‘But let us move on. There will be sharper stones in the valley.’

Grumbling, Alric stalked ahead. He cast one look down into the black woods and saw nothing, so he picked up his step, stumbling through the knee-deep snow. The two men slipped and skidded down the steep slope, sometimes turning head over heels so that their eyelashes and hair became crusted with ice. As his chest began to burn from his exertions, Alric asked, ‘You have kin?’

‘Two brothers.’ Hereward paused. ‘One I call brother, but he is not blood.’

‘How so?’

‘When I was a boy, my father took him in. Redwald.’ The warrior’s eyes took on a faraway look. A hint of tenderness, Alric wondered? ‘His father was killed, by outlaws, I think. And his mother died too. The sickness.’ He shrugged. ‘He was alone, and my father welcomed him to our hall and treated him like a son.’

‘And does he share your love for blood?’

Hereward laughed quietly. ‘Redwald is the better man.’ Tapping his head, he added, ‘He has sharp wits and cunning ways. He is wise beyond his years, and his plots and plans would make Harold Godwinson proud. Even as we speak, he will be putting all his skills to good use on my behalf.’

‘And what plans and plots does he weave?’ Alric spoke lightly, to draw out more of the warrior’s hidden side.

‘Ones that lead to revenge.’ The monk saw the hard look that flashed across the other man’s face. ‘Though we are not joined by blood, there is no more loyal brother than Redwald. He will take his time, and work hard, over days and weeks… years, if need be… and when the hour is right he will destroy the one who wronged me. This is his vow.’

Alric was troubled by Hereward’s harsh tone, but also surprised by the first confidences he had heard in the ten days they had been travelling together. ‘You and your brother have a strong bond.’

The warrior looked to the far horizon as he remembered. ‘When I was old enough to skin a deer, my father gave me his knife, as fathers do to eldest sons, and as his own father did to him. It had a short blade, old even then, but kept sharp on the whetstone, and a handle of whalebone carved into the shape of an angel. Soon after, it disappeared. I knew that Redwald had stolen it. I could see it in the cast of his features and his quick glances. He felt guilt. And he knew that I knew. But I said naught.’