‘I saw you walking beside Harold Godwinson,’ she breathed. ‘You have grown well into the role he has granted to you.’ Glancing around, she whispered, ‘Let me stand with you during the ceremony. So all can see.’
‘I would be honoured.’
Her cheeks flushed with excitement. Redwald imagined the soft warmth of her thighs, but that would be a joy for another day. For now, there was serious business at hand, and it would only grow more testing in the days to come. He could not afford a distraction like Hild. ‘I must speak to someone first, but catch my eye when I return and I will take you to stand with Harold.’
‘And has your master any more gifts? Some amber, perhaps, or ivory?’ She jangled the bracelet he had given her after Harold had advised him how to make the most of the attention Hild had been showing him.
With a smile, Redwald tapped his nose and slipped away. He would find a different route back through the crowd to avoid seeing her, but give her a gift at sunset to mitigate her disappointment. He knew exactly how to play her.
Returning from a merchant, who had little useful information, the young man found Asketil waiting for him. Hereward’s father looked as though he had aged ten years in the last three, but he beamed when he saw the man he had adopted as his son.
‘You have put some strong meat on you since last we met,’ he laughed, gripping Redwald by the arms.
‘I work hard. It is good to see you looking well. How are things in Barholme?’
‘Quiet, which is good. But your name is spoken often in the taverns and fields. A local boy, now advising Harold Godwinson. It is a source of great joy to all who remember the young lad who fished and hunted and made mischief among them.’ Redwald could hear the pride in Asketil’s voice. The young man glanced down at Beric, who stood silent and sullen beside his father. Hereward’s brother was now on the cusp of manhood, but Redwald could see he was still broken.
‘He has still not spoken since that night,’ Asketil hissed when he saw Redwald looking, ‘and now I fear he never will.’
‘And no news of Hereward?’ the young man ventured.
The thegn’s features darkened. ‘His name is never mentioned in Mercia. He must be dead.’
Redwald wondered whether Asketil was right. If Hereward was still alive, he hoped his brother had finally found some peace.
A cheer rippled through the crowd. The ceremony was about to begin. The young man bid goodbye to Asketil and Beric and hurried back to Harold’s side. Edith had rejoined her husband beside the abbey wall, but she looked impatient.
‘In the dusty heat of eighteen summers and the bitter wind of eighteen hard winters, we have laboured here to build our monument to God’s glory. And now we are almost done,’ the king began, his dry croak almost lost beneath the murmur of the crowd. ‘This great abbey is more than a testament to our devotion. It is a beacon to all Englishmen, reminding us that even in our darkest times God watches over us and listens to our prayers.’
Redwald felt surprised to hear the smack of his master’s cunning in the king’s words. England faces dark times. God watches over us. And Edward’s good work here is the bond that joins the two. The old monarch was establishing his great legacy, a man of God, a protector of the people. As the king’s words rustled out, the young man thought it sounded as though Edward knew his days were ending, and that what was to come would be terrible indeed. So terrible, in fact, that people would look back on his rule with fondness. Redwald glanced aside and saw Harold’s brow was knit, his expression angry. Was Edward damning the Earl of Wessex’s rule before it had begun? Perhaps, as Harold had often suspected, the king hid his cunning behind a mask of weakness.
When Edward had finished his speech, all heads turned up towards the tower’s summit. The master mason held the final stone aloft for all to see, and then set it in place with a flourish. A great cheer rang out. The abbey was done, and ready for the consecration that had been planned for three days after the Christmas feast.
When the crowd began to disperse, Harold grabbed Redwald’s arm and steered him away from the flow of bodies. ‘I have had my fill of Edward weaving his web. King or not, he is an old man and a fool. First he leads William the Bastard on. Then he makes plain to me that it is all to keep William’s sword in its sheath and I am the one who will take the throne. Enough!’ In a cold fury, Harold punched his right fist into his left palm. ‘The time has passed for these things. Edward must name me as his chosen heir. And he will do so, by his own volition or with the edge of my axe against his neck.’
CHAPTER THIRTY — TWO
9 November 1065
In the lee of Cambrai’s fortifications, Hereward strode along the ranks of the apprehensive young men he now commanded. ‘The enemy will come at you with their shields held high, like this.’ He raised his own shield in demonstration. ‘Each one will be pressed hard against another so there will be a wall in front of you. Do not attack a wall. It does not bleed.’ He grinned, hoping some humour could raise the spirits of his ramshackle group. Wan smiles appeared on a few faces.
‘Do we run?’ one youth asked, leaning on his spear.
‘No. Never turn your back upon them. The wall will open and their axes will cut the bones from your shoulders to your arse. You stand your ground with your own shields. Watch out — they will reach underneath and try to hack your knees or your ankles. Do the same back and they will think twice.’
‘Then how do we drive them back?’
‘With your strength. Force hard enough, do not yield a step and in time their wall will break. Wait for that moment, then ram your spears into the gaps.’
Hereward turned to look out into the thick mist shrouding the damp Flemish countryside. The post-dawn birdsong was muted, the only sound the steady drip of moisture from the branches of the black trees clustering at the foot of the slope leading down from the town’s fortifications.
‘You have nothing to fear,’ he said. ‘Our enemies are no better men than you.’
The young men appeared to relax a little at their leader’s words. In the awkward way they gripped their spears, Hereward could see their lack of experience. He knew many had been called from toil on the land to join Bishop Liebert’s force in his struggle with the castellans, John of Arras and Hugh of Havet, and he hoped they were up to the battle ahead. Many of the hardened swords for hire were still recovering from their battles against incursions from neighbouring counts during the long, hard winter, the sodden spring and the baking summer. He was learning to hate Flanders, with its constantly shifting allegiances and petty rivalries. It made England seem like a land of peace and calm.
Since their parting, he had not seen Turfrida, but she had stayed in his mind when the snows fell and when the thaw came. Vadir had taunted him long and hard, calling him a lovesick girl, but Alric had welcomed the romance as a sign that Hereward was moving away from his blood-soaked past into a blessed and peaceful future. ‘Every step you have taken away from England has taught you to be a better man,’ the monk had said in his gentle way. ‘My work will soon be done and I will be able to find my own peace.’ To avoid seeing Turfrida’s face, Hereward had lost himself in his new work commanding and teaching the younger men. At first it had seemed odd — he felt too raw himself to be in such a position of authority — but as the days passed he realized how much he had learned at Vadir’s side.
He shook off his introspection and turned to see Vadir himself watching from the top of the ramparts. A broad grin split the red-haired warrior’s face. Hereward paced up the slope to his friend. ‘What do you mock now, you great bear?’
‘Mock? Nothing. My heart is warmed to see how you have grown, little man. From the wild one that all feared to a commander of men, respected by the young, in such a short time.’