James Wilde: Hereward

Noisy workshops hummed with the activity of craftsmen, or rang with the hammers of metalworkers. Despite the chill, many worked in the open air in front of their places of business, out of the smoke and the reek. Alric had heard that ten thousand souls lived here now, and if that were true it would be amazing, for could there be any more in all of England?

When the wind changed direction, he inhaled the dank odours of the wharves along the Fosse, which were filled with the creak of wood and the slap of sailcloth from the great vessels moored along the frozen banks. At Jarrow, he had heard of the wonders that were brought to Eoferwic by the trade ships: silk from Byzantium and fine gold jewellery from the Low Countries, colourful seashells from the hot lands far to the south, soapstone from the Northlands, and wine and pottery from the Frankish kingdoms.

After so long in the wilderness, Alric was happy to see the men and women bustling along the street, and the children running at play. The chatter and the shouts sounded like music to his ears. He breathed deeply of the comforting woodsmoke and wished he could live in a city all his days, where life was easier and learning and discourse thrived. Emerging from his reverie, he realized the warrior was striding off along the street.

‘Wait,’ he called, hurrying alongside. ‘Where do you go?’

Hereward stopped and turned, his pale eyes catching the fiery gleam of the setting sun. ‘Our time together is done. I saved your life, but I do not own it.’

‘I paid you back in kind. Your journey here would have been harder without me.’

‘I give thanks for the aid you gave me, but now I travel alone.’ Pausing, he looked to the crimson horizon. ‘In my dreams, I see the path ahead littered with corpses. I must cross rivers of blood beneath a sky lit by fire. No peace for me, churchman, and peace is all your kind speak of. Our ways lead in different directions. I go to the setting sun, where the dead wait. You face the dawn. Understand?’

‘No man should walk through life alone.’

Hereward leaned in, his stare unwavering. ‘Are you listening? Death waits for any who walk by my side. I did not save your life only to see it wasted on some godly whim. I can only offer you hell. Go now, or I will take my sword to you.’ He held the monk’s gaze for a moment longer and then turned and marched away without a backward glance.

Alric took a deep breath to steady himself. God had offered this warrior to him. Saving Hereward was the reason why he had been placed upon this earth, he had decided, and he could not allow himself to be deterred so easily. Yet he knew he would not sway the warrior with words alone. He watched him walk away into the twilight and then he followed, keeping close to the houses where the men gossiped away from the worst of the wind and he would not easily be seen. Hereward strode on, pausing every now and then to exchange a few words with passers-by, perhaps asking for directions.

A small crowd of men and women had gathered outside a metalworker’s hut where the drifting acrid smoke caught the back of the throat. Perched on a pile of logs, a man with only one eye and one hand complained in a loud voice and shook his good right fist in the air. Caught up in the speaker’s passion, the attentive audience shouted words of encouragement. Distracted, Alric heard only snippets, enough to know that the group was unhappy about someone or something. He was watching Hereward, who had stepped aside to avoid five wild-bearded Viking warriors brandishing spears who stormed into the crowd, barking demands that the listeners go home. Clearly afraid, the men and women scattered. By the time the last one had gone, the one-eyed man was nowhere to be seen, and the gruff warriors were roaming among the huts, searching for him. The leader of the group paused to study Alric. A jagged scar ran from above his left eye across his nose to his right cheek. His stare was cold and unwavering, the look of a man who saw enemies everywhere.

The night was coming in hard. Only a sliver of red and gold lay in the western sky. Alric shivered in his woollen habit as the temperature plunged. All around him men began to vacate their workshops, abandoning their hammers or their looms to make their way back to their hearths for the evening meal of bread, bean stew and ale. The monk slipped through the steady stream of weary workers until he saw Hereward turn left into a street echoing with the calling of swine, where the smell of rotten apples hung thick in the icy air.

Near the pen where the fat black and pink pigs were kept, four youths taunted a smaller lad. Tears streaked the boy’s pale cheeks and he lumbered around with a limp, trying to avoid their swipes. Hereward paused to watch. Alric waited too, studying the warrior, wondering what thoughts were passing through his head. The four bigger boys grew rougher, finally knocking the weaker one to the frozen mud. Hereward flinched.

The monk smiled, a tingle of expectation running down his spine. This was it, he thought, the moment when the warrior revealed his true nature, that deeply buried goodness that Alric had sensed during their long journey. His soul.

As the four bullies launched sharp kicks at the whimpering lad, Hereward roughly pulled them back, flinging one of them so hard that he fell on to his behind. The monk broke into a grin.

He lies to himself about who he is, he thought with a nod. My task, then, is to bring him to awareness of the good inside him.

Hereward hooked his large left hand into the smallest boy’s tunic and yanked him upright. Silently, he cuffed the lad across the ear, whispered a few words to him and threw the now sobbing child back to the ground. While Alric tried to make sense of what he had seen, Hereward disappeared into the growing gloom and the monk had to hurry to catch up.

The street was deserted and icy stars were glittering in the black sky when he saw the warrior reach an enclosure. Hereward paused at the gate, surveying the dark bulk looming ahead of him, and then strode towards the golden glow falling through the open door on to the snowy ground.

Alric’s breath caught in his throat. The thatched hall was the largest building in all of Eoferwic, dwarfing five nearby houses. There was no doubt in his mind. It had to be the hall of Tostig, the earl of all Northumbria. What connection could Hereward have with one of the highest in the land?

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 labouring 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 centre of the nave. When they walked a few paces towards 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 colour of the slush at his feet, his head bowed, his limbs thin. Sweeping his right arm towards 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.’