night, the dancing flames illuminated a lone figure trudging from the direction of Cambrai.
‘If you have come to talk to me about God, you will receive a response from my fists,’ Hereward said when Alric appeared on the edge of the circle of light.
‘Do you think I only preach the Lord’s word?’ The monk squatted next to the fire. ‘I have come to sit with my friend.’
Hereward grunted. ‘I thought I was only a soul to be saved.’
Alric prodded the fire, watching the sparks fly up in the smoke while he chose his words. ‘No man can save all the innocents that cross his path.’
‘You wanted to say “Only God”, didn’t you?’
The monk smiled sadly. ‘Only God, and we do not know his plan.’
‘I commanded the men who died this day. I taught them. I failed them.’
‘You did what you could. But in the end their choices are their own.’
Hereward peered up at the stars sprinkled across the vault of the heavens. ‘My heart aches when I recall their faces. Yet in days past I would not have mourned them. Death is the price of battle.’
Alric cast a sympathetic glance at his friend. ‘Raw feelings are the price we pay for striving to be good men.’
‘You think I have now moved to the side of the angels?’ Hereward gave an empty laugh. ‘That I have been saved because I mourn a few poor souls?’
‘I think you struggle with the burdens of your early days. But you no longer allow them to turn you away from God.’
‘And if I was still the devil you said I was that first cold night in Northumbria, would I have saved those men from slaughter?’ Hereward glared at the monk through the flames. Disturbed by whatever he saw in his friend’s face, the monk flinched.
‘I do not profess to know God’s will, but I know you. I started along this road to save myself by saving you. Now I see the peace that lies within your grasp and that is reward enough.’
Staring into the fire, Hereward muttered, ‘The ravens never leave me.’
‘You have Vadir to keep you on the straight path now. He knows of battle and blood. He knows your mind, and he is wise. He is like a father-’
‘Do not mention my father.’
Alric recoiled at the vehemence in his friend’s voice. And in that moment, Hereward saw that the monk recognized the truth: that his devil could only be chained, not killed, and that it was always straining to break free.
The burning wood popped and crackled, shattering the uncomfortable silence, and then the tramp of leather shoes echoed over the dark fortifications.
Vadir cast a searching glance at Hereward, but appeared satisfied by what he saw. ‘All of Cambrai is afire with news from Saint-Omer,’ he boomed.
‘What news that excites the Flemish would be of interest to us?’ Hereward said with a shrug.
‘This news will interest you more than most.’ The big man squatted beside the fire, looking from one face to the other. ‘Tostig Godwinson now stands on Flemish soil. No longer an earl, he has fled England an outlaw, with his wife Judith and a handful of loyal men by his side. He seeks refuge at the court of Count Baldwin. There is talk that he even seeks an alliance with William the Bastard.’
Hereward laughed without humour. ‘Tostig, an outlaw. We are brought to the same level.’
Uneasy, the monk eyed his friend. ‘What lies on your mind?’
The firelight glimmered in the warrior’s eyes. With a lupine grin, he replied, ‘Revenge.’
CHAPTER THIRTY — THREE
Hoofbeats thundered through the moonless night. In pools of dancing torchlight, the sentries opened the gates of Bruges to admit the riders. Seven there were, cloaked in black and distinguished by their close-cropped hair in the Norman style. Grim-faced, they cast only cursory glances at the deferential guards as they rode hard towards the hall occupied by two visiting Normans.
From the shadows outside the tavern, Harald Redteeth watched the riders rein in their steeds and dismount in a flurry of cloaks. He had known they were coming. The vaettir had told him as he had wandered the shores of the vast black sea, and they whispered still that here was purpose and meaning that would ripple out into days yet to come. While servants took the horses to water, two well-attired men, heavy with gold rings, marched out to greet the new arrivals with cheery hails. The Viking knew the wealthy men were William of Warenne and his brother-in-law Frederic. William had the ear of his namesake, William the Bastard, and had arrived in Bruges to encourage wealthy Flemings to support the Norman duke’s plans to seize the throne of England. An offer of gold or ships would result in a grant of land once William took the crown, Redteeth had learned.
He studied the black-cloaked Normans’ hard faces and warriors’ gait as they followed William and Frederic into the hall, and felt he knew their minds. They shared blood, he and they. Normans were the spawn of the vikingr in days long gone. Did they still listen to the vaettir? Did they have fire and iron in their hearts? If only the English knew what terrors they encouraged with their kingly games.
Once the hall’s door had closed, Harald Redteeth returned to the smoky confines of the tavern. In a corner, a group gathered around two men arguing over the black and white bone pieces on a merels board. On stools next to the hearth, four other men sat drinking ale from wooden cups, laughing as they swapped bawdy tales. The Viking didn’t understand the words, but he recognized the rhythms of the speech and the gleam in the Flemings’ eyes.
Taking his seat in the shadows, he supped his mead and waited.
When two further cups burned in his veins, the door swung open and three men sauntered in. Their bearing spoke of power and wealth, a swagger at the hips, superior gazes cast across the drinking men grown timid, sword hilts inlaid with gold. He identified the leader of the group from his aquiline nose and piercing eyes. A weak man, spoiled by good living, Harald noted. Yes, this was the one he awaited.
As the men collected their ale and settled into a corner to laugh loudly, the Viking mercenary rose, stretched, and wandered over. Ivar, his second in command, watched with dead eyes from the other side of the tavern. Redteeth grinned at his old friend. ‘Soon, now,’ he whispered to himself, to Ivar.
The three men looked up when he arrived at their side, still grinning. They snarled at him in Flemish, no doubt warning him to leave them alone. Harald fixed an eye on the hawk-nosed leader. ‘You are Hoibrict, grandson of Count Manasses?’ he asked.
The knight looked startled, but quickly regained his composure. ‘If you value unbroken bones, leave now,’ he sneered in faltering English.
‘But we have much to discuss,’ the mercenary said, holding his arms wide.
One of the men started to stand, his fingers falling to his sword hilt as he snarled some epithet. His hand a blur, Harald snatched the man’s wooden cup and drove it into his face. Teeth smashed, lips pulped. The Fleming crashed on to his back unconscious. Before the other man could rise, the Viking whipped his axe Grim against the bare throat.
‘Now,’ Harald said, still grinning, ‘we shall talk of matters of great import, of blood-oaths, and vengeance, and death.’ He ignored the tumult rising up from the other men in the tavern and fixed his gaze on Hoibrict’s apprehensive face. ‘My journey to this point has been long and hard. I have followed a trail of words and memories that at times seemed to take me in circles. Until I heard of a nobleman who had been shamed in a contest by a raw English warrior. The whispers I hear…’ he fluttered the fingers of his left hand against his ear, ‘tell me this proud Flemish man may lead me to the one who has wronged both of us. And then, perhaps, we can have a reckoning that will lighten both our hearts. The warrior’s name is Hereward.’
He saw the light of recognition in the knight’s eyes and knew all would be well.
