The cloaked man nodded with little enthusiasm. ‘This spring, at my lowest ebb, I threw myself upon the mercy of your uncle at Burgh Abbey. He owed it to your father to take me in, and give me a new life as a monk, and a new name. So when the Normans came, as they regularly did to see the abbot, they never gave me a passing glance.’ He paused. ‘Your kin have always shown me kindness, Hereward. Taking me in when I had nothing, not once now, but twice-’
‘Enough,’ the warrior interrupted. He rested a comforting hand on Redwald’s shoulder. ‘Though we share no blood, we are kin. We offer each other a hand in hard times. And you have proved your loyalty time and again, not least in your devotion to avenging Tidhild and the crime against me.’
Redwald smiled and nodded. ‘And I would join you now. So we can fight shoulder to shoulder, as we did in the days of our youth.’
‘Would you not be safer in hiding at the abbey?’ Alric asked.
‘Is anywhere safe in these times? The monks all mutter of the End of Days. They speak of the sickness sweeping through villages and towns in the west. Of starvation brought on by William the Bastard, who steals the food and razes the fields of those who fail to bow to him.’ Redwald wrung his hands as long-buried worries rushed to the surface. ‘And then the stories reached us of a new rebel, who killed bears with his bare hands and had brought all of Flanders to its knees. And they said his name was Hereward, and I would not believe…’ He bowed his head, his voice growing quiet. ‘But last night I saw.’
‘Why did you not speak out at the abbey?’ the monk pressed.
Redwald shook his head. ‘I thought you would not have me,’ he whispered.
Hereward laughed in disbelief. ‘Have you lost your wits?’
Trying to lighten the atmosphere, Redwald clapped his hands together and forced a broad grin. ‘Yet here I am. I will join you. I will be a loyal servant, and I ask only for your protection.’
‘Servant?’ The warrior shook his head in mock bafflement. ‘We are equals, brother.’
‘As I followed you, plucking up courage to speak, I have been thinking…’ Redwald’s tongue moistened his dry lips. ‘If any man could stand against William, it would be you, Hereward. But the Normans are great in power and they have their hands round England’s neck. If we could get Earl Edwin on our side… perhaps his brother Earl Morcar too
… We men of Mercia could start a grand rebellion that would shake the invaders to the core. Even the throne could be within our reach.’
Alric saw a puzzling fire flicker in the man’s eyes. Hereward, though, appeared overjoyed that his adopted brother had walked back into his life. ‘That is the spirit I remember.’ The warrior shook a fist. ‘See, monk? You feared we would be a poor force against the Norman might, but with men like this by our side we can achieve anything.’
‘We have time to plot and plan and build our strength. The Normans will not be able to find us in the fens,’ Redwald said. ‘Yes, brother, we can achieve anything.’
Alric watched the two men set off through the willows, arms round each other’s shoulders as they exchanged raucous stories of the time they were apart. Yet when Hereward roared with laughter at some joke or other, the monk glimpsed something that puzzled him. Redwald glanced sideways at the warrior, and in that unguarded moment his features showed no brotherly love. Alric thought he saw something sourer there, resentment, perhaps, or contempt, but the look flashed so quickly he could not be sure. He followed at a distance, deep in thought, but his suspicions would not subside.
CHAPTER FIFTY — TWO
The sunrise set fire to the fenland waters. Mist hung over the marshes and drifted among the stark black trees as the Norman knights mounted their steeds in the quiet enclosure. Aldous Wyvill felt pride as he studied the gleaming helmets his men had spent all night polishing ready for the coming battle. In their hauberks and with their axes sharpened on the whetstone, they would descend upon the rag-tag band of rebels like a storm of iron. The English would not know what hit them before their heads were separated from their shoulders.
The horses snorted and stamped their hooves as if they too were anticipating the inevitable rout, the commander thought. He inhaled a deep draught of the chill, damp air, his nose wrinkling at the stink of rotting leaves and marsh gas. He yearned for the green pastures of his homeland, but there was no virtue in sentimentality. It was a weakness.
‘Ride out,’ he barked, ‘and let our swords drink deeply before this day is done.’
The newly constructed gates rattled open and the column of knights moved out into the wild, fog-shrouded fens. Yet they had barely travelled beyond the edge of the village when the sound of many hoofbeats echoed further along the muddy track. Aldous brought his men to a halt and ordered them to draw their weapons. Who could be approaching at that hour?
When the riders galloped out of the mist, the commander’s tension eased at the sight of familiar armour and a familiar face. Here were the reinforcements he had requested from London when he had learned of the rebellion. Some were knights, many were clearly mercenaries. But at their core, Aldous recognized a man with a long rodent’s face and small eyes that appeared set in a permanent scowl. He wore only the finest clothes, a warm woollen tunic dyed purple and embroidered with yellow diamonds, and a furred cap that made him appear feminine among the scarred faces and harsh armour. He was Frederic of Warenne, who had been given land in the vicinity in return for funding a ship for the invasion. Aldous knew this wealthy man had married well, taking the sister of William of Warenne, who had the ear of King William.
Holding his chin at a haughty angle, Frederic urged his horse out from the protection of his guards and approached Aldous. ‘I was troubled by your message,’ he said in a reedy voice. ‘I would not have my lands put at risk by rebellious English.’
‘My words were sent too early.’ The commander removed his helmet as an act of respect, though he felt little regard for the man. ‘This rebellion barely merits the name and will be crushed before the day is out.’
As a contemptuous laugh tinkled out, Frederic raised a hand to summon someone from the column of reinforcements. ‘You speak too soon once again, Aldous Wyvill. The leader of the rebels is known as Hereward, yes?’
‘He is.’
‘Then you presume too much. My brother William was a guest at this man’s wedding in Flanders, and he returned with tales of the warrior’s exploits. When Hereward arrived in exile from England he was raw and wild, but during his stay in Flanders he learned to hone his natural talents for slaughter. He carved a bloody swath across battlefield after battlefield and earned the praise of none other than Count Baldwin, who took the warrior into his employ. The most fearsome man in all of Flanders, the count said. Hereward is far more dangerous than you could ever imagine.’
‘He is just a man.’ Aldous restrained an urge to wipe the sneering smile off the aristocrat’s face.
A jangle of mail echoed from the reinforcements as a rider dismounted and walked towards them. He was a Viking, his beard and hair dyed the colour of blood, the skulls of birds and rodents rattling against his rusted mail where they had been tied by strips of leather.
‘This man has more experience than you or I. His axe has already tasted the blood of this Hereward.’ Frederic waved his hand flamboyantly towards Harald Redteeth. ‘He was employed in the army maintaining order across the south when news of your rebellion spread throughout the ranks. His knowledge will prove invaluable.’ Frederic smiled. ‘As will his passion to see your enemy dead.’
Aldous felt unsettled by the Viking’s eyes. The pupils were so dilated the irises had all but disappeared.
‘Hereward has killed me once,’ Harald intoned, his black, unblinking stare fixed on the Norman commander. ‘And I have killed him once. We are equal. Now I would see whose fire burns the brightest.’