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.
CHAPTER THIRTY — FOUR
‘Confront Tostig and he will have you killed,’ Alric protested, throwing his arms around Hereward to hold him back.
‘Listen to the monk,’ Vadir boomed. A wall of muscle and bone, he stepped in front of the younger man. ‘Normally he speaks with an ale-tongue, but this time he’s right.’
Hereward’s anger burned. He threw Alric to one side with a ferocious sweep of his arm and drew his sword, pressing the tip against Vadir’s chest. ‘Out of my way, old man. I have waited too long for this moment.’
With his good eye, the big Mercian peered down his nose at his younger companion and then stepped aside. Hereward pushed by him towards the hall.
‘What are you doing?’ the monk shouted at Vadir. ‘Stop him.’
‘He is his own man. He lives or dies by his choices alone.’
Behind them, the horses stamped the wet turf and snorted hot, clouding breath into the cold air. The bishop had offered them double their wage to stay on in Cambrai, but Hereward rebuffed all his pleas. Only one thing now mattered. The ride from the monastery had been hard and fast, with Hereward just managing to stay ahead of his two pursuing companions. Saint-Omer had been abuzz with talk of Tostig and his wife’s arrival, and it had been easy to locate the hall Count Baldwin had already presented to his English son. Partly constructed long ago from stone and now extended with a timber frame and roof to emphasize its status, the building stood in its own estate with views across the town and the green, and the gold and brown Flemish countryside beyond.
Hereward seethed that Tostig should be so rewarded even in his time of failure. Bursting through the door, he found the former earl and his wife in conversation with three loyal Northumbrian followers. Recognizing Hereward, the men stepped back, hands falling to their sword hilts, but the Mercian could see they were afraid.
When he marched across the hall, Judith gathered her dress and stepped to meet him. The warrior kept his gaze firmly on Tostig. ‘You would hide behind your wife now?’
‘Hereward, there is no need for threats,’ Judith urged, concerned. ‘You risk only your own life. Things are not as they were-’
‘Who here is going to stop me gaining my revenge for the plot that took the life of my love?’ His eyes glittered.
‘They are,’ Tostig replied with a faint sneer. He waved a lazy hand towards the door.
Glancing back, Hereward saw Alric and Vadir forced in at spear-point, followed by a stream of soldiers in mail and helmets. The force flowed around the edge of the hall. Men caught his arms and knocked his sword from his hand. These were not inexperienced men torn from the land to support Tostig, but well-trained, professional troops, part of Saint-Omer’s standing defence.
‘Count Baldwin has saved your neck,’ Hereward said, ‘for now.’
‘More than that. The count has made me a trusted ally,’ Tostig replied.
A man with long black hair streaked with silver and a drooping moustache and pointed beard pushed his way past the soldiers. Hereward saw from his gold amulet and rings and his fine ochre tunic that the new arrival was a man of standing.