James Wilde: Hereward

‘Do not think badly of Hereward.’

‘Do not think badly? He murdered a gentle woman who held only love in her heart for him. He has destroyed this family with the shame he has heaped upon us. Look what he has done to me.’ The thegn slurped the last of his ale, then threw the cup into the corner of the room. Redwald was surprised to see Hereward’s younger brother Beric slumped in the shadows there, his arms wrapped around his knees. The boy stared at the boards as if no one else was present. He had not spoken since he had learned of the murder and the accusations against his brother. Redwald recalled the girls in the kitchen whispering to him, ‘Beric is broken.’

Broken. A terrible legacy had indeed been left by the blood spilled that night.

‘Since we took you in, you have always been loyal to Hereward,’ Asketil continued. ‘And that does you credit.’

‘He was… he is… my friend.’

‘He is, and always has been, unworthy of your friendship. Since his mother died when he was young, Hereward could never be tamed. In Mercia, his name is despised for the crimes he committed as boy and man. Robbery. Drunkenness. Violence against any who crossed his path. Wilful destruction of the property of his neighbours. I did all I could to teach him how to be a man, and I failed.’

‘Do not blame yourself… Father.’ Redwald felt unworthy to use that word, even though he had lived in Asketil’s home since he was a boy.

His eyes glistening, Asketil looked away. ‘My business with the king is done, for now; I go home as soon as the snows melt. You must stay here, and work for Harold Godwinson, if he will have you. He is a great man. He… he should be king one day, and you will be well cared for, as you deserve.’ He choked on his words for a moment. ‘It was Harold who asked the king to declare Hereward exile so we would not be forced to go before the Witan and make the case for all to hear and debate across the land.’

‘And… and what of Hereward?’ Redwald whispered.

Asketil glared into the embers. ‘He will be made to pay for his crime, and soon. He has betrayed me… you and Beric… his mother’s name… and the king too. Only blood will set that right. And when he is finally gone I will not mourn him.’

Black glassy eyes glistered in the gloom. Silent and watchful, the ravens brooded in the branches of the lightning-blasted oak, the darkly gleaming canopy of their wings mirroring the churning clouds above. Hereward felt unable to look at those solemn sentinels. Their gaze spoke to him of terrors long gone and worse yet to come. And as a deep-rooted dread chilled his bones to the core, he turned and ran along the track towards his father’s hall. He was a man and yet he was also a boy, and there, waiting outside the door, was his mother. Shadows spun by the gathering storm fell across her face, but her golden hair shone beneath her white headdress. Behind her, just inside the hall, a figure loomed, silhouetted against the ruddy glow from the hearth. Hereward’s heart began to pound.

What have you done? What have you done? The words swirled around him, the ravens cawing their accusations.

His hands felt wet, but he dared not look down at them. ‘Do not worry,’ he whispered, ‘Redwald will avenge us.’

The Mercian’s eyes snapped open. Fingers of early morning light reached under the door. He lay on the thinly spread straw, his bones aching from the cold radiating through the beaten-mud floor. By the glowing embers in the hearth, the old woman snored under her filthy woollen blanket, but Alric was gone, probably to empty his bladder, the warrior guessed.

Redwald will avenge us, he thought, as the last of the troubling dream drifted away.

Rising, he stretched. Though his wounds still ached, the witch’s balm had stripped the edge off the pain, and his limbs felt stronger after the night’s sound sleep. Would he be well enough to reach Eoferwic? The woods were rife with wolves and outlaws stalked the old straight tracks, if they were even passable after the heavy snows. He fought back his doubts, knowing that the king’s life, and his own, depended on his flight reaching its end.

Thoughts of the court reminded him of Tidhild, dead at his feet, her black eyes looking up at him, and in a surge of grief and guilt he swept out into the cold morning. The glare of the sun off the dense white snow blinded him. When his vision began to clear, a shape among the trees a stone’s throw from the house coalesced into the form of the young monk. Yet the man was naked, Hereward saw with shock, with a noose round his neck, a gag across his mouth, and his hands tied behind his back. Precariously, Alric balanced on the tips of his toes on a wobbling chopping block. His eyes were wide with fear. Another rope ran from the block across the frozen ground and into the trees.

Redteeth, Hereward thought. A trap to lure him out into the open. He silently cursed himself: Brainbiter still lay on the straw where he had been sleeping. And then he cursed the monk for failing to keep his wits about him. ‘Kill him! I care not!’ he shouted.

With a snap, the rope across the snow was yanked taut and the block flew out from beneath Alric’s feet. He kicked and flailed as his full weight dragged the noose tight round his neck.

Defiance forgotten, Hereward raced from the house and flung his arms round the monk’s waist, raising him up so the noose loosened. Supporting him with one arm, he tore the rope from Alric’s neck, and together they collapsed into a drift. Hereward yanked away the monk’s gag and bonds. ‘You are a fool,’ he snapped.

‘They took me unawares-’ Alric’s words died as the shadows fell across them.

Standing up, Hereward looked deep into the wind-lashed face of Harald Redteeth, the Viking’s pupils so dilated his eyes appeared all black. Hereward saw a hint of madness there. Wrapped in furs over their mail, bristling with axes and spears, the band of six warriors clustered around their leader.

‘Stranger,’ Redteeth said with a whimsical wave of his hand, ‘you have caused me no little trouble.’

‘I have given you a taste of hell. There is more to come.’

Redteeth laughed without humour. ‘Your time is over.’ He held Hereward’s gaze for a long moment, sifting what he saw there, and then he nodded to his men.

While two Vikings grabbed an arm each and dragged Hereward back to the house, a third tossed Alric his clothes and bundled the monk along behind. The rest of the mercenaries drove the old woman outside at spear-point. Her shrieked protests and curses rang out until Redteeth snatched a spear from the nearest warrior and drove the blade through her stomach. Alric cried out in horror. It was clear to Hereward that the young monk blamed himself for this death as he did for all the ones in Gedley.

‘Kill us and be done with it,’ he said, in a voice cracking with passion.

Redteeth turned on him. ‘Your time will come, monk. I wish to savour your demise before we cut off your head and take it back to the man you have wronged.’ To Hereward, he continued, ‘I would know your secrets, stranger. You are clearly a warrior of no little skill, yet you put your own life at risk for those you do not know. What gain is there for you in interfering in my business?’

Held tight between the two mercenaries, Hereward showed a cold face. ‘Lean closer. I will whisper it to you.’

Seeing the contempt in those eyes, Redteeth nodded to Ivar. Without warning, the second in command crashed a giant fist into Hereward’s face, splitting his lip. Once the ringing in his head had cleared, the Mercian tasted iron on his tongue, and spat a mouthful of blood into the embers.

‘Let us begin with questions you can answer easily. What is your name?’ Redteeth asked.