‘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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘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.’
‘Why?’ The monk’s brow furrowed.
‘Because he had nothing of his own. Not for him a knife handed down from his father, or land, or gold. And more… who we are’ — the warrior pressed his right hand on his heart — ‘comes from the ones who forged us. When he lost his mother and father, Redwald lost the knowledge of who he was.’
Alric was touched. ‘So you allowed him to keep the gift your own father gave to you, because it was the only thing he had in all the world.’
‘And in that moment we were bound together as true brothers.’
Alric’s thoughts turned to the many friends who had died in Gedley, men and women who had trusted him, whom he had betrayed through his own weakness. And above all the one death that haunted him more than all others. Tears burned his eyes. Redemption would come hard, he thought, if at all. Could he ever clear the stain on his soul?
Reluctantly, the monk lurched up the next hillside. He watched the broad shoulders of the man ahead of him, the erect back that defied the savage cold, and he imagined Hereward’s past. A fighting man who betrayed his thegn. A woodcutter’s son who killed in an argument over food, or a woman. From what depths did the inhuman brutality surface? What had driven the Mercian into this cold, inhospitable place in the cruel heart of winter? What business did he have in Eoferwic and how could it prevent many deaths? His crime must have been terrible indeed. He had little faith in God, less in his fellow man. Alric was his final chance.