Guilt, Hereward thought, because he had let down Vadir: he couldn’t reach his friend in time to prevent the fall of the axe.
If only he had realized the lengths Harald Redteeth would go to achieve his vengeance. If only he had watched the path behind him instead of the road ahead. If only he had killed his enemy outright when he had the chance.
Hereward refused to submit to this destiny. He hurled himself at the archer with a roar. The man loosed his arrow, but his arm trembled in shock at the ferocity of the attack and the shaft sped by. Hereward drove his sword through the archer’s gut so hard the tip ripped out of his back. Snatching up the bow and arrow, the English warrior cast one lowering glare at the advancing Hoibrict. Whatever the Flemish man saw in that look, his features drained of blood and he turned and ran.
Harald Redteeth grasped the badly wounded Vadir’s hair and yanked it up, exposing the man’s neck. Holding his axe high, the Viking cast one final taunting look towards his hated rival.
Hold steady, Hereward thought, trying to calm the blood rushing through his head. Be strong. He notched an arrow, took aim and fired. Harald Redteeth stared back at his enemy, unruffled.
The shaft sped past its target by a hand’s width.
Cursing, Hereward flashed back to the wasted moment on the snowy field outside Saint-Omer when Vadir urged him to learn to use the bow.
You may need this skill one day.
Sickened, he drew another arrow.
Harald Redteeth swung his axe down.
Silence closed around the Mercian, and filled his head. It rang with regrets. With trembling hands, he let the bow fall.
The Viking was laughing and dancing, a comical, soundless performance. And from his raised left hand, Vadir’s head swung by the hair, dripping blood. Once, twice, the wild man swung the thing around his own head, and on the third circuit he let go. Vadir’s head landed on the thatch of the nearest house, bounced and rolled down to fall in the dirt.
Hereward felt overwhelmed by a rush of grief so powerful he thought his legs would fail him. Vadir had been more than friend, more than guide; he had felt almost kin. In an instant, fury supplanted the grief, a long-suppressed rage that drove all civilized thoughts from his head. Hurling the bow and arrow aside, he ran towards the Viking. Harald Redteeth braced himself, whistling that unsettling tune as he gripped his weapon.
As the Mercian neared his prey, he glimpsed movement on either side. Ahead, he saw the Viking’s expression darken. Victorious in battle, the remnants of Robert’s men were sweeping into the village. Redteeth sensed any advantage he might have had was gone, and he turned on his heel and ran from the village. Consumed by passion, Hereward pursued him, over the ramparts and across the fields to the trees lining the hillside.
Nothing could have stopped him, not mountains, nor sea. His vision closed in on the fleeing Viking, and only death would free him from the bloodlust that now gripped him.
On the edge of the shadowy woodland Vadir’s killer slowed and glanced back. His satisfied grin sprang back to his lips when he saw that only one pursued him, the man who had haunted his thoughts for nigh on five years.
Tearing off his helmet and throwing it aside as he ran, Hereward drew his sword without slowing his step.
His pupils so wide and black they appeared to be tunnels into his head, Harald Redteeth swung his axe with a grunt. With a yell, Hereward clashed his sword against the Viking’s weapon, for a moment fearing his blade would shatter. The impact threw both men off their feet. The Mercian scrambled up first and launched himself at his enemy. His head rammed into the Viking’s stomach and both warriors pitched down the slope. Initially they rolled in unison, bouncing off outcropping rocks and careering off trees. Gathering speed, they flew apart. Hereward cracked his head, saw stars, but somehow kept hold of his sword. Skidding through fern, he glimpsed blue sky ahead.
Bursting from beneath the verdant canopy, his legs swung over the edge of a cliff. The grey sea churned far below. One hand caught hold of an exposed tree root, almost wrenching his arm from its socket. For a moment, he dangled above the dizzying drop, and then his leather shoe found purchase and he eased his way back up to solid ground.
Dazed, he drew himself upright. A flash of reflected light dazzled him. Harald Redteeth burst from the shadows beneath the trees, his axe already in flight.
Instincts afire, Hereward threw himself back, but not far enough. The axe ripped through his mail into the flesh of his chest. The force of the blow propelled him back over the cliff.
Wind tearing at his hair, he felt guilt that at the last he had failed Vadir, and he had failed himself. The final thing Hereward saw was the Viking’s grinning face before the cold sea claimed him.
CHAPTER FORTY — TWO
The keening cry echoed through the small house next to the great church of Saint-Omer. Startled from his duties, Alric hushed the frightened children and instructed them to continue repeating the Latin he had taught them. Racing into the sun-dappled street, the monk found Turfrida clutching her arms around her, her face streaked with tears.
‘You are hurt?’ he asked, concerned.
Racked with silent sobs, the woman couldn’t speak for a moment, and then she gasped only, ‘Hereward…’
Alric felt a pang in his heart. He had learned to trust in God whenever his friend marched off to fight, but he always knew that sooner or later Hereward’s battle prowess would fail him. ‘You have had word back from the Scheldt?’
Turfrida shook her head. Wiping the snot from her nose with the back of her hand, she stuttered, ‘A vision came to me as I stood on the hill where my husband and I always walk… a raven, falling from the sky. And when I looked at my feet, the bird lay there, crawling with white maggots.’
‘You think God speaks through this vision?’
‘The raven is Hereward, I know it. He has met death.’
Alric forced a comforting smile and said softly, ‘Your husband has met death many times. Indeed, the two are close friends, and he has introduced death to others.’
‘Perhaps that is it,’ the woman replied, her chest heaving. She took long, deep breaths until she calmed and then she allowed the monk to lead her back to her house, where she sat by the hearth with her uncompleted sewing. But a dark cloud hung over her that no comforting words could dispel. Her sadness would only ease when she held her husband in her arms once more. Alric hoped that time would come, and soon.
He returned to the children, but he was in no mood for any more teaching and sent them all home. For the rest of the day, he prayed in front of the church’s plain wooden altar, seeking solace among his troubled thoughts. He followed the contours of his mismatched friendship with the Mercian, from the suspicion and dislike of that first frozen night in Northumbria to the ease with which they spent time together in Saint-Omer. The monk realized he’d grown to like the surly warrior, for all his many flaws. Perhaps he even admired some of the qualities he found lacking in so many others: courage, loyalty, love, even honour, something the monk had thought to be entirely absent during their early days together. Their destinies had seemed entwined, both seeking salvation from a bloody past, both unable to achieve it without the help of the other. Now he wondered if he had been mistaken.
For some reason that Alric couldn’t understand, he woke at dawn the next day and felt the urge to go to the road out of Saint-Omer and look to the horizon. He stayed there until midmorning, and returned again near sunset.