Hereward remained mute for long moments. Alric searched the man’s face and saw him struggling to accept that anyone had done him such a kindness. In that moment, the monk was gripped with curiosity about what made this man so different, so confusing. There were many caverns inside him, all of them dark, he thought.
‘Should I depart,’ the Mercian said, ‘in days to come I will sail back and kill Harold Godwinson for his crimes against me.’
‘If you take that course, you will cede England to William the Bastard. Harold is the only man who can stand against him.’
The warrior remained silent.
‘You think life harsh when the Godwins play?’ Judith continued. ‘See what it will be like if the duke seizes the prize he covets. Normandy has run red with blood for years. Rivals poisoned at court. Villages laid waste. Rebellious voices stilled with axe and sword.’
‘It is the Viking blood that courses through the Normans,’ Hereward said.
The countess nodded. ‘And yet William has thrived. What kind of man does it take to rule such a violent place? A brutal man. A cold man. A man for whom no price is too high to pay for power. Now see him on the throne of England and imagine what our home will be like.’ The monk watched a shadow cross his friend’s face as Judith shook her clasped hands in pleading. ‘Harold Godwinson can be as hard as the duke, and that is what England needs at this time. Not a sapling, but a broad oak that will not bend in any storm. Would you deprive your people of that stout resistance?’
The warrior bowed his head. ‘No.’
‘You are a strong man with a brave heart, Hereward. For once, the strongest thing you can do is walk away and never come back.’
He assented with a curt nod. Thanking his benefactor, he asked, ‘Will you arrange passage for my friend, too?’
Alric felt surprised once again.
Judith smiled. ‘It is already done,’ she said. Then she leaned in to whisper something into the warrior’s ear, and for the briefest of moments Hereward looked unaccountably sad. Then the woman pulled her hood back up and hurried away into the night.
‘What did she say?’ Alric asked when he had scrambled to his companion’s side.
‘She said all monks should be beaten whenever they speak.’ He glanced towards the eastern sky where a thin sliver of silver was just appearing. ‘The course of my life has changed this night,’ he said in a reflective tone. ‘Before, it meandered its way to the sea. Now it plunges into a deep, dark chasm, and where it will finally emerge I do not yet know.’
‘All waters run to the sea eventually.’
Bowing his head, Hereward drew a deep breath. ‘My old life ends here. Harold has won. I cannot help the king. I have been betrayed on every side, even by my own father, and now I am driven from my homeland, shamed, hunted, despised. What does the future hold?’
Alric rested a hand on the warrior’s shoulder. ‘Now we wait for God to reveal your purpose to you. The terrible things you have endured may be the Lord’s way of shaping you for the road ahead. There is a pattern to all things, though we cannot see it.’
Together, the two men strode towards the singing sailors. The torchlight lit a path to the ship, but beyond it lay only dark waters.
CHAPTER TWENTY — SIX
4 January 1063
For two days, the ship battled heaving seas and freezing northern winds that left the sailors’ beards and eyebrows white with frost. In the harsh conditions, Hereward found little time to brood on what he had left behind. Alric spent the hours huddled by the brazier that swung from a chain at the stern, or heaving over the side as the deck bucked beneath his feet. And then, on the second night, a storm swept in like a hungry wolf.
Iron waves whipped up into towering cliffs. Under pitch-black skies a lightning flash froze faces in expressions of terror as the ship’s dragon-headed prow soared almost vertically on the convulsing ocean. ‘O Lord, save my soul!’ Alric cried in fear above the booming thunder. His sodden tunic clung to him as he gripped the mast with rigid fingers. A wave crashed down, wrenching at his arms, but he held on for dear life.
‘Here!’ Hereward bellowed, throwing a length of rope for the monk to wrap around his wrist. ‘Hold tight.’ The warrior felt numb to the bone from the freezing brine. If they were pitched into the water they would not last long, he knew. All around him the sea-hardened sailors prayed for dawn as they battled with the oars.
The ship careered along black valleys like a leaf caught in the wind. The sail had long since been torn free. The cloth flapped wildly, threatening to wrench the mast from its moorings or turn the vessel over and drag them all down to the depths. The untethered rigging lashed the air. Hereward ducked as a greased hemp rope flashed towards his head, but the seaman next to him reacted too slowly. The tip of the rope tore across his face, ripping out his left eye. Stunned, the sailor crashed to the flooded deck. Before Hereward could grab him, a wave plucked the man up and threw him overboard.
Catching the rigging on its next pass, Hereward wrapped the rope around his wrist for support and braced himself, legs apart. Bitterness welled up in him. To be caught up in such a calamitous storm so close to their destination seemed unjust.
Along the deck, the sailors shivered in their rancid-smelling greased furs and clung to whatever support they could find. In their drawn faces, Hereward could see their fear of the fate that awaited them. Soon they would succumb to the warm-sleep from which no man ever awoke, he knew.
Another freezing wave smashed into him with the force of fifty hammers, ripping his feet off the deck. His mouth and nose flooded with salt water and his head spun, but the rope around his wrist held tight.
The straining ship soared high on the swell, hung for a moment and then plummeted prow-down into the next trough. Hereward’s stomach shot up into his throat. The monk retched. The vessel slammed into the water as if it had hit rocks. Men flew into the air and crashed back down on to the boards, fumbling for hand-holds. The warrior felt sure he could hear the hull screaming in protest. Beneath the deck, the ribs had been lashed into place with pitch-soaked cords to allow the hull to flex in strong water, but even that would barely cope with this ocean’s brutal punishment. The treenails were holding for now, but Hereward knew the wooden rivets couldn’t last long.
At the stern, one of the seamen struggled futilely with the steering oar. A crack sounded louder than the booming of the sea, and the oaken rudder snapped. The remnants drove up into the sailor’s face, pitching him back and into the towering sternpost. Another, quieter crack echoed as his back broke.
‘This wave-steed is dying beneath us,’ Hereward shouted. The ravens flew so close now he could almost feel their wings on the back of his neck, yet he felt no fear. A part of him welcomed what lay ahead, although he would have preferred an honourable death, with his sword in his hand. He glanced at the monk, trying to find some final words of kindness that would ease the man’s soul at the last. But the monk’s face now gleamed brightly, his eyes wide with hope.
‘A beacon,’ Alric gasped. ‘I saw a beacon. Our prayers have been answered.’ He would have pointed if he could have torn his frozen hands from the mast.