your king.’
‘Never. I am loyal to my mistress,’ she replied, the lie apparent.
‘You scheme and plot and twist men and women to your advantage more skilfully than anyone I know. I should watch you,’ he said as they came to a halt outside a small, filthy hovel.
She gave him an enigmatic smile. ‘Then if you are aware of my games, you are protected from them.’
Ducking down, she eased through the doorway. Hereward followed and found himself in a smoky space lit by the glow from the embers in the hearth. Unfamiliar plants smouldered in the fire, filling the air with an odd scent that was at first sickly-sweet but carried bitter undertones. The skulls of birds and small woodland animals hung from the roof in strings that rattled as the warrior pushed his way through them. He felt reminded of the house where the wicce had given them shelter after the escape from Gedley. By the fire sat a grey-haired woman with rheumy eyes, beating out a steady rhythm with a hollow wooden pipe. Her forearms were covered with faded blue- black etchings, and her cheeks too.
‘Britheva, I have brought the one I told you about,’ Acha whispered, crouching next to the elderly woman.
‘He is welcome.’ The woman’s throaty voice held an accent that Hereward didn’t recognize. He squatted on her other side.
‘You are a wise woman,’ he said. ‘I thought the church had driven you out of all the towns.’
‘The tide comes in, the tide goes out. The rocks remain.’ Peering deep into her guest’s face, Britheva held out a hand, snapping her fingers with irritation until Hereward offered his own. The woman grabbed his wrist and flipped it back and forth a few times, examining his skin. She nodded. ‘Feeder of Ravens.’
The warrior flinched inwardly. The familiar vision of the black birds rising up from the lightning-split oak loomed large in his mind.
‘What do you see?’ Acha asked in a deferential whisper.
After a moment’s silence in which there was only the wind whistling in the shadowy roof space and the crackle of the fire, Britheva closed her eyes and let her head fall back. ‘These are the days we feared,’ she croaked.
Acha bowed her head, her black hair falling across her face.
‘From across the whale road they come, on wave-steeds, bringing doom to all,’ the elderly woman continued. ‘Amid the spear-din, the battle-sweat will stain the hillsides. A new breaker of rings will arise, but his rule will be brutal and bloody.’
‘The End-Times,’ Acha breathed, ‘as the Bible foretold.’
‘Starvation. Sickness. Many will die. This land will be blighted. And all the beauty we have made here, and the joy, and the songs, the wisdom of our ancestors, all the great things we have made and the great things we have done, will be washed away as if by the spring floods.’ Britheva fixed an eye on Hereward through the swirl of blue smoke. ‘Are you afraid, Feeder of Ravens?’
‘There are prophecies and portents everywhere these days. If these dark times come, they come.’
‘You are ready.’ The elderly woman chuckled. ‘You have been forged in fire. You know death as a friend, I see that, and not only on the battlefield.’
Hereward flinched inwardly once more; the wise woman struck too close. Unbidden, his mind flashed to his mother’s dead face, her glassy eyes staring into his own, her features barely recognizable. And then to Tidhild, his love, lying in the pool of still-fresh blood, her pebble-eyes staring too, accusing. He had brought death to her hearth; he alone carried the responsibility for her ending. He had always feared he was cursed, and now it seemed this woman recognized it too.
He started to rise, but Britheva grabbed his wrist once more and held him back with surprising strength. ‘Does the truth cause you pain?’ she hissed. ‘There is a reason for all things. The pattern unfolds around us, but we see only the smallest part of it.’
‘And what do you see for him?’ Acha asked.
Britheva peered into Hereward’s face for a long moment. ‘I see him surrounded by fire, a wall of flames.’
‘No prophecy, that,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘It has already happened.’
‘And it will happen again, and again, and again, for fire is your destiny, and blood too. The ravens will always follow you, their friend.’
‘So be it. I have accepted who I am.’
The woman sniggered. ‘You do not know who you are. Not yet. But you will learn. If you live.’
Hereward felt a spurt of anger at the woman’s words. ‘You cannot see inside me,’ he snapped. Britheva only smiled.
‘Is he the one you saw?’ Acha pressed.
‘It is possible. All things are possible. The gods play their games, but sometimes men resist.’
‘And then they are punished?’ the younger woman went on.
‘And then they are punished.’
Acha stared at Hereward and in her face he saw something surprising: a desperate hope. ‘Perhaps you will save us all,’ she said quietly.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘Everyone is gripped by a fever,’ Hereward said in irritation as he and Acha walked back to Earl Tostig’s hall. ‘If doom and destruction lie ahead, why fret? It will come soon enough.’
‘Do you not fear Judgement Day?’
The warrior wrapped his cloak tighter around him against the stinging flakes. ‘I fear nothing. My sword and my axe and my good right arm serve me well enough.’
The woman eyed him from the depths of her hood, but said nothing.
Twilight was giving way to black, and the snow swept down in sharp flurries. Outside the houses and workshops, men stamped their feet and blew on their hands as they prepared to end their last working day before Christmas. Conversation rang with good cheer, and the hails were loud and hopeful. Through the doorways, Hereward could see the comforting red glow of fires and smell the night’s stew bubbling in the pot. Beyond Eoferwic, the night was deep and dark and still. No stars shone, and there was no moon.
As the great hall loomed ahead, Acha came to a halt and stepped in front of the warrior. ‘You and I can find common purpose.’
‘To betray Earl Tostig?’
‘Though you refuse to acknowledge your destiny, it seems that great things lie ahead for you. I would join you on that journey. I am tired of this life here. I am weary of the struggle and the strife and the pawing hands of the men, and the sameness.’ She leaned in closer so that it seemed she was about to kiss him. ‘In Cymru, I dreamed of glory and wonder, not this sour existence. I want more.’
When the wind plucked her words away, a muffled silence lay across the hall’s snow-swathed enclosure for just a moment before a deep-throated growl rolled out from the dark. The hairs on the back of Hereward’s neck prickled erect.
‘What beast was that?’ Acha whispered, afraid. She pressed closer, looking round.
Hereward peered into the night. Nothing moved. ‘All this talk of the End-Times has left you seeing the Devil in the shadows.’ He flashed her a grin, making light of it.
Another growl rumbled out, and this time he could smell musk on the wind. Acha felt his muscles tense. ‘What do you see?’
Hereward’s hand dropped to his sword hilt. Wolves would not have ventured so far into Eoferwic, even if they were starving, he knew. Puzzled, he sniffed the air, and stilled his breathing so he could listen clearly.
A roar thundered out of the night. The ground vibrated from a heavy tread, gathering speed, and a moment later a shape as big as a cart burst into view. The unmistakable silhouette loomed against the snow.
Tostig’s bear, the one shackled and penned in the corner of the enclosure. Free.
Acha shrieked. Hereward thrust the woman to one side, drawing his sword, but the beast was on him before he could pull the blade wholly from its scabbard. Another roar. His ears rang. A blast of meaty breath. A mouth torn
