Rough hands grabbed his cloak, tearing him from his reflection. Before he could cry out, his unseen assailant bundled him along the cold wall and hurled him through the doorway into the church. Sprawling in the snow, he looked up into the horselike face of Morcar, the Earl of Mercia’s brother. ‘It is Harold’s pup.’
Edwin drew his sword and planted the tip firmly on Redwald’s chest. ‘I know you. The brother of the murderer.’ Redwald’s cheeks flushed.
‘He was eavesdropping.’ Morcar’s lips pulled back from his teeth like a cornered animal’s. ‘No doubt to report back to his master.’ He spat a hand’s width from the young man’s face.
‘You are a Mercian. You march under the banner of blue and gold.’ Edwin pressed the tip of the sword deeper into Redwald’s flesh. The point burned, but the young man forced himself not to cry out. ‘How can you be in the employ of that Wessex bastard?’
‘You know the Godwins would have crushed Mercia if they could,’ Morcar continued. ‘They plotted against our kin, and worked to see our own father killed. His final days were a struggle to survive. But Harold Godwinson will not win.’ He snarled the final words.
Edwin grinned, but coldly. ‘What does Harold fear? That I gain favour with the king? That I will finally prevent his own ascent to power?’
‘He does not fear you,’ Redwald retorted, red-faced with anger. ‘You are too young and untested to be Earl of Mercia. And you would not be there now if not for the death of your father.’
Fury flared in Edwin’s features at the insolence. He whipped up his blade to slash it across the young man’s face.
‘Hold.’ The voice echoed across the cold, empty nave. Redwald recognized the confident humour lacing the word. Harold Godwinson strode in, his cloak thrown back so all could see his hand upon the golden hilt of his sword. ‘Has my lad slipped under your sword, Edwin?’ the Earl of Wessex continued. ‘He is a clumsy oaf at the best of times, but that is a mistake that could have cost him an eye.’
Edwin hesitated for a moment, and then sheathed his sword, stepping back. ‘You play a dangerous game.’
‘And the king wastes his final days building monuments to God, when he should be protecting this realm… and ensuring the throne is passed to an Englishman,’ Harold snapped.
‘To you?’ Edwin turned away to hide his sneer.
‘Or you.’ The Earl of Wessex stuck out his hand to help Redwald to his feet. ‘In Normandy, William the Bastard has already laid claim to our throne, and he plots, and he waits. And King Harald in Norway thinks he should have it too. So why do we two fight when we know our true enemies?’
‘Why?’ Edwin’s eyes blazed. ‘You know why.’ He shoved Morcar towards the door and the two Mercians walked out into the dark.
‘I am sorry,’ Redwald said. ‘I was a clumsy fool. I put you at risk.’
‘You are a bright lad, with great days ahead of you, but you still have much to learn. Heed me and you will gain all that you dream of.’ But the young man could see that the earl was distracted, and after a moment he realized that Harold was listening to approaching hoofbeats on the frozen mud of the road beyond the enclosure. Beckoning Redwald to walk with him, Harold strode out of the church. The bonfires cast an orange glow up the stone walls of the church, but the masons had packed up their tools and gone for the night.
‘It is within your power to make amends for the stain placed on your kin by Hereward’s actions,’ the earl continued. ‘You can set poor Asketil’s heart at rest. He deserves more than the blow his wayward son has dealt him.’
‘I want to serve England in any way I can.’ Afraid of the answer he might receive, the young man nevertheless summoned up his courage. ‘Does this mean you will take me into your employ?’
‘You have proved yourself.’
Redwald’s heart leapt. Harold Godwinson’s patronage was all that he had dreamed of since Asketil had first introduced him to the earl. He felt he almost had his hands round the rope that would drag him out of the slough of his early days, and he would not let go whatever happened.
‘You have worked hard to gain my trust,’ the earl continued. ‘I like that. I remember when I was your age, and the dreams I had then. I learned from my father that life is a struggle, but the prize is always worth it.’
In the gloom, Redwald noticed Harold’s huscarls waiting around the enclosure, battle-hardened Wessex men who carried their spears as if they were a part of them; clearly, the earl would not have risked confronting Edwin and Morcar in such an isolated place without his own protection assured.
‘There is much I can teach you, and much you can do for me.’ Harold fixed his attention on the torchlit gate where the sound of hooves had come to a halt. The sentries were calling to someone outside the palace. ‘You saw today the threat Edwin and Morcar present. Once Edward has died, they want the throne for themselves. They whisper and plot. Power is all that concerns them, not England.’
‘I will keep watch upon them, as you asked. And whatever I hear I will bring straight to your hall.’
‘Good. I fear the worst. If the prophecies and omens that fill Edward’s head are true, we all face dark times ahead.’ Holding up his hand, Harold brought Redwald to a halt. The gate hung open and five men in charcoal woollen cloaks were leading their horses into the enclosure. In the flickering light of the sentries’ torches, Redwald saw sallow, foreign features and darting, suspicious glances. But all the men walked with confidence, he noted, as if they felt they stood on their own territory.
‘Normans.’ Harold’s face darkened. Steadily, his huscarls gathered at his back. ‘They covet everything we have. Our land, our wealth, our laws, our art. We live and breathe fire here. We drink and feast and fight and sing. But the Normans are like cold stone. Taxes and ledgers and vast, grim churches, that is the Norman.’
One of the men, the leader of the group, Redwald guessed, held Harold’s gaze for a long moment before following a sentry towards the king’s hall.
‘What do they want here?’ he asked.
‘Sometimes I think Edward is losing his wits. At other times I think he is more cunning than a fox,’ the Earl of Wessex mused. ‘Would he truly dare offer England’s throne to his mother’s people?’
Redwald watched the black-cloaked men disappear into the warm glow of Edward’s hall. Everything was changing, as the prophecies foretold. What did the future hold?
CHAPTER NINE
Hereward warmed his hands against the fire roaring in the hearth of the vast hall. Relieved to be out of the harsh Northumbrian night, he watched the flames making the gold plate shine like beacons in the half-light. Jewels of red, blue and green sparkled in the sumptuous tapestries covering the walls. Looking round, he saw the hall was the finest he had seen; the earl was clearly enjoying the riches to be had in the north. Newly built in the latest two-floored style, the timber of the frame still smelled fresh. The sunken floor comprised boards suspended over a straw-stuffed vault to keep the building warm in the winter months. Two feasting tables and benches ran the length of the hall, and at the far end, on a raised platform, was the earl’s seat, carved with dragons on the arm rests. When he listened, the warrior heard the cracked, dark wood of the throne speak to him of the old days, when men were great heroes filled with fire and vengeance, not weak, sickly things who used shadow-words to achieve their aims.
Yet for all the comfort, his thoughts swept out across the frozen flood-plain into the suffocating dark. He saw burnished helmets, and eyes glowing with fire, spear-points stabbing towards the stars with each relentless step, and he knew there would be no peace for him in this life. Soon his enemies would be at the gates of Eoferwic and he would be forced to take a stand. But here it would be on his terms, perhaps even with good men at his back. He felt relieved that there would be no more running, and that he could finally be true to himself. Survival was nothing without truth.