‘This is Wulfric Rabe, castellan of Saint-Omer,’ Tostig said.
Turfrida’s father. Hereward recalled the gentle time he had spent with Turfrida and wished it could have been longer.
‘Count Baldwin has made me the deputy commander here,’ the former earl continued, ‘and working alongside my new friend I will ensure peace and stability in Flanders.’
‘As you did in Northumbria?’
Judith cautioned Hereward with her eyes.
Tostig looked as though he was about to fly into a rage. But then his shoulders sagged and exhaustion crumpled his face. ‘Set him free,’ he muttered, waving the back of his hand towards the soldiers. ‘You were unfairly treated in Eoferwic, I see that now. We were both victims of my brother’s plotting.’ His right fist bunched. ‘Though we are blood, Harold and I, we are brothers no more.’
‘He betrayed you.’
‘Harold betrays everyone sooner or later,’ Tostig snapped. ‘He has made one of your own Earl of Northumbria. A Mercian.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Kin of his greatest, most hated rivals, but now they serve a purpose — to unite England and thereby keep William the Bastard in Normandy. And I… I am sent into exile like some murdering criminal.’
‘Like me,’ Hereward said.
‘Work with me against our common enemy. I need good fighting men. I have lost my huscarls, and though I have these Flemings under my command-’
‘You cannot take them to England and risk starting a war.’
Tostig nodded.
Hereward spat. ‘And you believe I could raise my sword in your defence?’
‘Listen to my husband,’ Judith said. He turned to look at her and saw deep lines etched in her face, the mark of the toll taken upon her by the flight from England. ‘You are more alike than you might think,’ she continued. ‘Listen to your heart. Listen to God. Find forgiveness.’
‘We do not need to fight any longer,’ Tostig said. He beckoned to a slave for a cup of mead and downed it in one go. ‘I was misled by my brother. And now, see, we are two Englishmen in a strange land, far from the fields we know, both exiles, both cut adrift. We can find common purpose.’
‘Listen to him,’ Vadir urged. When Hereward glanced back, the elder Mercian gave a knowing wink.
Three years earlier, Hereward knew he would have ignored all entreaties, ignored even his own safety, and carved a path to kill the man with his bare hands if necessary. Yet now he could see his one-time enemy was right. Tostig was just as much a victim of his brother’s plotting as was Hereward.
Steadying himself, he said, ‘My sword, and the employ of my friends, comes at a high price.’
‘Done.’ Tostig broke into a triumphant grin, as if he had already struck a blow at his brother. ‘Count Baldwin has not only put his forces at my disposal, but also granted me the taxes collected in Saint-Omer. I will pay you well. And with the fleet he has promised me, we shall see who eventually sits upon the throne of England.’ He hurled the mead-cup across the hall in an explosion of defiance.
Out in the thin sunshine, Hereward pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘For nigh on two years I have dreamed of closing my hands around Tostig’s throat and in the blink of an eye he is my ally. I feel as if I am moving through yesterday’s fog.’
‘This is the business of leaders, little man,’ Vadir laughed, slapping his friend on the back. ‘It’s all fog and smoke, as murky as hell. You cannot trust any of the bastards, but if you keep your eye on an advantage you’ll come out of it with gold at the least.’
‘All I want is Harold dead and Tidhild avenged.’
Vadir smiled. ‘Do not turn your nose up at gold.’
Hereward still felt unsure he had done the right thing. He allowed himself to be led into the crowded streets of Saint-Omer to find a tavern. When they had eaten their fill of bread and blood pudding, and Vadir was preparing to settle in for a day’s drinking to celebrate the confirmation of their winter employment, Hereward took his leave. He felt as adrift as he had during the days of his youth when he had drunk and fought and robbed and tormented the good people around Barholme. Would killing Tostig have satisfied him? Would killing Harold?
He found Wulfric Rabe’s house easily, a newly built timber hall with two floors set in a sprawling estate, grand enough for a military leader and the defender of the people. Turfrida stood in the doorway, smiling.
‘When did you return?’ Hereward asked, shocked.
‘Three days ago. I knew I would meet you here.’
He laughed. ‘ I did not know I would be here until last night.’
Turfrida’s eyes sparkled. ‘Come. Let me show you the streets of my home. Which is your home now.’
She took his hand and led him back among the houses and workshops, amid the scent of woodsmoke and the apples stored in the barns, and she whispered the stories of her childhood that made the town and the past come alive for him.
By the time the frosts whitened the fields and bejewelled the cobwebs hanging from the thatch, they had 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.’