become closer still. On windswept hilltops, she pointed to the sky and told him the meaning in the patterns the crows made, and the secret words in their calls, and she led him to the magic pool and sacred wells where wishes would be answered. When Christmas neared, they kissed beneath the mistletoe, and were caught mid-embrace by Vadir who mocked in a good-natured way before punching Hereward firmly on the arm in a gesture of respect. And as the church bells pealed in joyous celebration on Christmas morn, the warrior found himself at peace.
But there was little peace in Saint-Omer. Mercenaries flooded into the town from all over Flanders, many of them Englishmen. Hereward came to understand that Tostig was amassing his own army, paid for by Count Baldwin: to attack Harold Godwinson, perhaps, or to invade England, to take the throne for himself.
Rarely seen, Tostig hid away in his house, plotting and brooding, but Hereward often saw Judith trudging alone through the snow or the icy rain to the church to kneel on the frozen flagstones and pray. Turfrida’s father was a serious man, too, but he laughed loud and long when drunk, and under his daughter’s subtle spell he grew to like Hereward. He put the Mercian in charge of training the Saint-Omer force, pulling him to one side one cold morning to urge him to pay particular attention to the young, inexperienced men.
His memories of Cambrai still burning hot, Hereward trained the young recruits better than he ever had before. They learned to hate him, for he forced them to practise with their spears until long after the sun had set, and a circle of torches illuminated the field. They repeated strategies and tactics until they were sick and weary, and he cursed them and berated them, and lifted them up when their spirits fell.
One morning when the snow was thick, Vadir arrived at the door swaddled in furs and a thick woollen cloak, blowing on his hands and stamping his leather-shod feet. ‘Stop hiding by your hearth like a sewing woman,’ he boomed, ‘there is work to do.’
Baffled, Hereward wrapped himself in his own cloak and followed the elder Mercian out into the bitter morning.
Clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder, Vadir said, ‘I watch you, little man, with this one good eye. And I have seen your dedication to teaching the apple-cheeked, bright-eyed, wooden-headed boys. But you must not neglect your own skills.’
‘My skills are already honed.’
‘And that is where you show your inexperience. If you want to keep your head fixed on your shoulders, you can never stop learning. Someone, somewhere, will always find a new way to kill you, and you must be ready and at your best.’ The big man led Hereward to the field outside the ramparts where a bad-tempered soldier waited, his hood pulled up against the bitter wind. He held a bow and a pouch filled with newly fletched arrows.
‘What is this?’ Hereward asked, suspicious.
‘It is called a bow, little man,’ Vadir replied with sardonic humour. ‘Your education truly is limited.’
‘What need do I have for that?’ Hereward recalled using the bow for hunting when he roamed the Mercian countryside, and had even seen a few men use arrows in battle.
‘Across Flanders, Normandy… everywhere on this side of the whale road, men are skilled in archery to kill other men.’
Hereward snorted. ‘When you kill, you need to see a man’s eyes, feel his blood pumping over you. A sword, an axe, a spear… these are the honourable ways to slay. That…’ he pointed at the bow, ‘is for cowards, who would hide behind a tree, fire an arrow into a man’s back and then run away before they are seen.’
Vadir roared with laughter. ‘Will you protest as much when you are lying on the ground looking like a spiny- backed igil, or will you fight fire with fire? Learn. You may need this skill one day.’
Irritated, Hereward took the bow from the soldier and listened to the instructions on where to place the arrow and how to draw the greased hemp string. He sniffed with contempt, set the arrow in place and flexed the bow. When he released the string, the arrow flipped into the air.
Resting his hands on his knees, Vadir laughed until he wept. Hereward snatched up the shaft and tried again. The string slipped out of the notch and the arrow flopped impotently to the snow.
‘Not as easy as it looks, is it?’ the big man chuckled, wiping his eyes.
Determined to excel, Hereward persisted. When his fingers were numb and he was chilled to the bone, he could finally send the arrow across the field, but with little accuracy. ‘Enough,’ he snapped. ‘You waste my time. I will never have a need for this weapon.’ He thrust the bow into the hands of the soldier and marched back into Saint-Omer, with Vadir’s mockery ringing in his ears.
Few would risk travel when the coldest weather bit, but men trailed into town every few days and made their way to Tostig’s hall with snippets of news from England. Rumours swirled like the last season’s leaves caught in the wind. King Edward was ailing; his days were numbered; he had fallen into a fever-sleep, never waking, but ranting and raving about angels and devils hovering over his bed. William the Bastard had sent men to hide in London and report back to him on the plans of Harold Godwinson. Those who failed to provide useful information were put to the sword. And in his Normandy redoubt, the duke drew up plans for war. Gold was donated to the Church by the sackful, and William played the part of a devout man to gain the Pope’s support for invasion, so Hereward heard in the tavern.
Tostig emerged from his gloom on the eighth day after the Christmas feast, proclaiming to all that the coming year would be better than any in living memory. A messenger from Count Baldwin had told him that his ships would be ready when the worst of the cold weather passed, so Alric heard from a slave in the house.
On Twelfth Night, when the festivities were long concluded and Hereward drifted in drunken sleep, Turfrida called his name. Lurching to the door, he found her with a tear-streaked face peering from the depths of her hood. She pushed her way inside and threw her arms around him beside the red embers in the hearth.
‘What is amiss?’ he asked. ‘Your father-’
‘My father is well and wrapped in ale-sleep.’ With a shudder, she threw off her hood. ‘I dreamed of ravens, a cloud of them blackening the sky.’
‘What does that mean?’ he asked, trying to throw off his stupor.
Turfrida took his hand. ‘You must not sail with Tostig. You must stay here with me.’
‘How can I? I have taken his pay.’
‘We must marry. My father will be happy that his new son is a military man of great reputation and he will want you to stay here to defend Saint-Omer.’
Hereward gaped. ‘Marry?’
‘If you sail with Tostig, you will never return. This is a truth that has already been written.’
‘But if I am needed-’
‘You are needed here more, by me. And you will be needed by many others in times to come. A great destiny is being written for you, Hereward, but it will all turn to ashes if you do not heed me this night.’
Struggling to understand, Hereward prowled his house for the rest of the night, torn between Turfrida’s warning and the fear that he would bring shame upon himself if he walked away from the call of battle.
The time of peace had passed.
CHAPTER THIRTY — FIVE
5 January 1066
Shadows flickered at the edge of the room. In them, Death waited. The king lay on his bed, clinging to the last of his life. His skin was the colour of ashes, his face little more than a skull draped in parchment. His breath rasped out slowly and then stopped for what seemed like an age until the two watching men felt convinced it was the monarch’s last. Time and again. Beside the hearth, Redwald struggled to warm himself against the roaring fire. His bones felt as cold as the thick, grey ice that lined the banks of the Thames. A log cracked and spat and the young man jumped, then felt foolish. He realized he was holding his own breath tight in his chest.
Harold Godwinson ranged around the bed, casting hate-filled glares at the dying man. Sweat stained the armpits of his brown tunic and left a black streak down his back. The gold rings at his wrist jangled with every grim step. In the firelight, the earl’s shadow appeared to move of its own accord. Every time it loomed over the bedridden form, Redwald winced and stared at his master’s flexing fingers and the pale curve of Edward’s throat.
