James Wilde: Hereward

Hereward lurched forward and stopped the next swing of the broom with one hand. ‘Hold.’

Eyes blazing, the woman looked the blood-smeared warrior up and down.

‘We will pay you well for shelter,’ he said, jangling the pouch. ‘Till sunrise, and then we will be away.’

‘Not him.’ She pointed a quavering finger at Alric. ‘His kind have tormented us for generation upon generation. First they come with smiles, then they come with scowls, finally they come with sticks and spears.’

‘If he troubles you, I will clout him myself.’ Hereward rested against the door for support. He regretted becoming involved in this business. It was a distraction, and now here he was, weakened and wounded, with miles still to go to Eoferwic. He knew he would never reach the town on his own.

‘Who are you, coming here like a butcher?’ the woman said.

‘My name is Hereward, and I thank you for your help. The monk goes by the name Alric. Let us sleep on your floor till dawn and we will be gone.’

‘How do I know you won’t kill me and steal all I own?’

Hereward looked round at the almost bare room, at the bed of straw next to the fire, and the few meagre cooking pots. Bunches of dried herbs were stacked along one wall. He smelled the sweet aroma of lavender and sorrel. His gaze shifted to dangling skulls large and small — badger, rabbit, mouse, sheep — suspended on fibre strips.

‘Because you are a witch and you will curse us!’ Alric shouted, scrambling to his feet.

‘Yes!’ The woman pointed her bony finger at him again; he backed away a step.

Sighing, Hereward grabbed Alric and manhandled him against the grubby wall. ‘We are seeking shelter for the night,’ he hissed. ‘Do not ruin it with your stupid ways. Or would you rather I killed her and be done with it?’

Alric looked from Hereward to the woman, his brow furrowing with concern. ‘Very well,’ he whispered.

From his pouch, Hereward plucked a silver penny which he tossed to the woman. ‘Payment for one night. Fair?’

The woman took it eagerly and nodded. ‘There is bread,’ she said. ‘And water. I have herbs which will help your wounds heal.’ She indicated a corner of the room away from the hearth. ‘Make your bed there, but know I sleep with one eye open.’

The two men gathered some filthy straw from a pile and scattered it against the wall. The bitter cold still reached through the hard-packed floor and the thin wattle wall, but the fire offered some comfort, and at least they were out of the biting wind. After Hereward had rinsed his wounds with water, the woman ground up some herbs in a crucible and mixed them with a handful of pig fat for him to apply to the gashes. It stung at first, but soon all his injuries felt pleasingly numb.

During the application of the balm, Alric sat in a daze, hands hugged around his knees. Once the woman had lain down and was snoring loudly, he asked, ‘Where do we go from here?’

‘I know where I go,’ Hereward replied. ‘To Eoferwic.’

‘I could return to the monastery and seek sanctuary, but…’ The monk’s words tailed off.

‘You will have to confess your sins.’

Alric glared at the warrior until he saw that Hereward was not making a point, and then his shoulders sagged. ‘I cannot go back. I cannot stay here. Harald Redteeth will not cease in his endeavours until he finds me.’

Clutching his bloodstained knife tightly against him, Hereward laid down his head. Exhaustion filled him, and it would be several days’ hard journeying through the snow to Eoferwic. ‘Sleep,’ he said. ‘We are safe for now. And the world will not seem so bad at first light.’

The raven flew back to earth, and Harald Redteeth returned with it.

For a few moments, he gathered his thoughts, still immersed in the sensation of flying. When the memories of his walk along the shores of that great black sea had receded, he marched towards the makeshift camp, and bellowed, ‘Ho! To me now!’

Crawling out of their shelters into the gently drifting snow, his bleary-eyed men gathered around him.

‘Break up the camp. We set off in pursuit of the stranger,’ Redteeth growled.

Clapping his arms around him for warmth, Ivar replied, ‘It is not first light for many hours.’

‘Our plans have changed.’ Pulling down his breeches, he urinated into a vessel from one of the burning houses. ‘Drink,’ he said. ‘Let the juices of the toadstool fill you with the passion of our ancestors.’

He passed the vessel of steaming urine to Ivar, and then to the other men. The power of the toadstools lived on within it, but his journey had removed the poison that could trap them on the shores of the great black sea.

‘Hear your ancestors call to you,’ he said. ‘Feel the pull of the tides, and the rising fire in your belly. Now is the time we track the stranger. Now is the time to strike.’

The hooded man rode into the teeth of the blizzard, his unlined face numb from the cold. His grey woollen cloak lay beneath a thick covering of snowflakes, as did his horse’s brown mane, and the packhorse behind him, laden with one of the secrets of God. He felt unable even to turn his head to search for the two armed guards who had accompanied him on the long journey from the small village near Winchester.

The white curtain obscured London’s filthy streets, but occasionally he glimpsed torches away in the dark. Deaf from the howling gale, he didn’t hear the guard yelling at him until the man rode alongside, slapped a hand on his shoulder and pointed ahead. The high timber palisade surrounding the king’s palace loomed out of the storm. A cloaked and hooded sentry stood on a platform above the great gates, holding a lantern aloft to see who was approaching.

‘It is I, Redwald,’ he called through numb lips, ‘on the queen’s business.’

The gates opened in jerks as the sentry and another man wrenched them back against the drifting snow.

‘Hell’s teeth, she had better reward you well for being out in this weather,’ the sentry called as the young man rode by.

In the enclosure, the wind dropped a little, but the bitter cold still ate into Redwald’s bones. At least he had done good work, and he would be rewarded, if not now, later. Barely suppressing a grin, he threw back his hood to reveal a face that still had many childlike qualities. The curly brown hair, the apple cheeks and full pink lips suggested an innocence which he used to his advantage around the court. He had seen at first hand what a hard place it was, filled with strong, cunning men all seeking their own advantage in a constant shadow-game. But he would not be broken by it. He would survive.

Clambering down from his horse, the young man stamped the snow from his leather shoes, and clapped his hands together and blew on them. The guards had already slipped away in search of fire and mead. Their footprints joined the tramped paths leading to the doors of the newly built timber-framed houses jumbled tightly together across the enclosure, every thatch and wooden roof creaking under a thick white blanket. The Palace of Westminster, King Edward’s new home and the culmination of years of devout dreams, sprawled across most of Thorney Island on the banks of the Thames to the west of the City of London. The earls and the king’s thegns complained about the bitter wind blowing off the river in winter, but Redwald had heard that Edward had been directed to build there by God.

And looking at the vast silhouette looming up beyond the palace buildings, the young man could almost believe it. The stories burned in his head: that a fisherman had had a vision of St Peter at the site, that the ageing king had heard angels and had set about the building of a monument to God with an energy that dwarfed that of much younger men. Redwald recalled the gossip that the monarch had never lain between the thighs of his wife and the new abbey was all that the old man cared about in life. Studying the outline, he thought he understood the king’s mind. Every day Redwald had watched the best stonemasons in all Europe raise up the grandest church in the world to replace the one used by the Benedictine monks, and Edward had been there, overseeing the construction arch by arch, column by column. Following the lines, even in the dark he could see it was almost complete; only the roof and part of the tower remained unfinished.