‘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.
Had they been in that sour-ale-reeking room since the autumn leaves had fallen? Since the summer fields of golden barley, or the spring flowers? Time had no meaning here, Redwald thought. His head spun with echoing moans and cries and shouts and threats, and a mounting desolation. He had stood by and watched, and done nothing, when perhaps he could have ended the king’s suffering with a word of guidance, or warning. But the torrent of abuse had crept up on him. At first, only sly urging had echoed around the room, then insistent demands, then menaces. By the time Harold had hurled himself on to the bed to shake the supine form, Redwald had realized it was too late. Trapped in his complicity, his silent observation had been an encouragement to his master. He might as well have joined in the persecution. He felt only numb.
How had he sunk to such depths? Redwald recalled the Christmas feast and Harold pressing the king to name him as heir to the throne. Edward had smiled politely and whispered, ‘In good time.’ The next day had seen the rehearsal for the consecration of the abbey, the chanting of the monks ringing off the stone walls and the sweet smell of the smouldering spices filling the air. From the back of the nave, Redwald had watched Harold berate the monarch under the arch of the great west door. In the candlelight, the earl’s face had appeared like a snarling beast, his teeth bared, his hands shaking with passion. And, trembling from the cold, the weakening monarch had nodded thoughtfully, and smiled, and then shuffled away to join his wife for the Mass.
That was the moment Harold had decided to leave any vestige of morality behind, Redwald now realized. He remembered the earl’s face framed in the candlelight, and how he had puzzled over the fixed stare and strange calm that had come over his master. Harold had made his peace with what he needed to do. Redwald remembered hurrying to the casket that contained the relic of John the Baptist and pressing his forehead against the cold wood. What lay within was not comforting. It taunted him with visions of mortality and sacrifice.
How far will you travel along the road to damnation to achieve your heart’s desire? Harold had said. How far? To the end, if the prize is great enough.
Edith appeared at the door, kneading her hands together in worry. ‘What news…?’
The earl silenced her with a cold stare. ‘Leave. You should not see this.’
‘The bishops would pray at the bedside,’ Edith whispered.
‘No. Are you a fool?’ Redwald thought his master was about to strike his sister. ‘Tell them the king has woken and insists that no one troubles him.’