Time of the Wolf Page 8

  “Acha,” the Dane slurred when his eyes finally settled on the woman. “Take no interest in her. She is filled with fire and poison, and will cut you with her tongue if she has no blade to hand.”

  “She is not from Eoferwic?”

  “She is Cymri. Tostig brought her back with his other slaves from his battles in the west. Acha is not her true name, but she will tell no one what her father named her. She has found some favor here, from the earl’s wife, mainly, though what Judith sees in her I cannot tell.”

  From the corner of his eye, Hereward glimpsed the squat huscarl shift his gaze toward Acha; the man had noted the warrior’s attention. Sensing trouble, Hereward was not surprised when the Viking grasped Acha aroughly round the waist and dragged her into his lap. The woman fought back, but her captor cuffed her hard around the head.

  “Leave her,” Hereward called, and the drunken man at his side became instantly sober.

  “Do not anger Thangbrand. He fights like a cornered stoat. And Earl Tostig values his sword-arm,” he whispered.

  Thangbrand grinned, gap-toothed. Hereward knew he was being provoked, a familiar ritual that followed him wherever he went. Positions in the hierarchy of strength needed to be defined. But he felt the blood begin to beat steadily in his head at the violence the other man had shown toward a woman.

  “I need no protector,” Acha spat, her eyes flashing toward Hereward. Thangbrand laughed and cuffed her again for good measure.

  Hereward rose from the bench. His head throbbed with a powerful beat that stripped away his awareness of Judith’s troubled expression or Tostig’s intense scrutiny. “Only cowards harm women.” He heard his own words as if they had been spoken by another. His full attention was riveted upon Thangbrand, seeing in the Viking’s eyes contempt for both Acha and himself. The cold loathing he felt was lost beneath the thunderous pulse now filling his skull. His devil was riding him, as it had since he had first picked up a sword and felt the edge bite through flesh and bone and gristle, when he had first seen the light die in an opponent’s eyes and heard the whisper of the escaping soul. “Do not raise your hand to her again.”

  Dimly, he heard a roar run along the great tables, urging the two of them on to battle. He half-glimpsed the fists shaking in the air and the cups raised high. More entertainment for a cold night. They did not know what terrible thing they were wishing upon that hall.

  Thangbrand stepped away from the table. His eyes flared in the firelight, and his lips moved. To Hereward, the sound that issued forth was the dull drone of lazy summer bees, but it mattered little; the words would be familiar. Of slights, imagined or created, of honor, of glory and hurt and blood.

  Hereward rounded the end of the table and faced his opponent. “I wish you no harm,” he said, the words ringing clearly in his head, though the expressions on the faces all around held a startled look, as if he had made an animal noise. “Return to your bench and apologize to the one you have injured and there will be an end to this.”

  The Viking’s shoulders dropped, his stout legs braced. Fingers twitched toward his axe, but he would not dare raise his weapon in the earl’s hall, Hereward knew. His mouth torn wide in a battle cry, the huscarl thundered forward, broad arms wide and fingers crooked.

  The warrior met his opponent like an oak resisting a gale. Bone and muscle clashed like hammers. Digging his filthy, broken nails deep into Hereward’s upper arms, the huscarl attempted to fling the warrior toward the hearth and was surprised when his rival, taller but slighter, resisted. The two men threw each other around the hall in a wild dance. Thangbrand was strong, but in his blood-driven state Hereward felt no pain, only burning rage; no exhaustion, only a single-minded will to crush the man before him.

  Attempting to cripple, the Viking kicked at the tendons at the back of Hereward’s ankles. The Mercian shifted his weight to avoid the strikes and butted his head into Thangbrand’s face. The huscarl’s nose exploded. Hereward scented blood, and his head thrummed in response. He butted again, shattering teeth.

  As the Viking reeled back, he raked his nails across Hereward’s face, attempting to hook out an eye. The Mercian caught a finger and snapped it. Howling, Thangbrand crashed into the bench, grasped a cup, and flung mead at his opponent’s head. Blinded, Hereward staggered back. The cup rammed against his skull. Stars flashed behind his eyes.

  Spitting like a wildcat, Acha threw herself onto Thangbrand. The Viking shook her off, punching her in the jaw for good measure, and Hereward felt the last of his control drain from him. With a roar, he leaped.

  Impressions flashed through his mind, like the sun through branches on a woodland gallop. Thangbrand’s face torn in horror. Blood spraying, blows raining down. Hereward’s silent world spun, for how long he did not know, flashes of fists whipping through his head in a blur until the stink of searing flesh in his nose brought him to his senses.

  One hand was gripping Thangbrand’s throat, while the other was holding the Viking’s face, side on, in the blazing fire. Screams were tearing out through shattered teeth and ragged lips, sounding, Hereward thought, almost like a gull’s cry. The huscarl’s features were almost unrecognizable, so badly beaten were they. And now the right side of his face sizzled and charred.

  Rough hands dragged Hereward back. The reedy screams died to a whimper as the Viking mercifully lost consciousness in the arms of his rescuers.

  Whatever had transpired during the time that was lost to him, Hereward could see that it had affected every man and woman in the room. Eyes flashed toward him, filled with fear or loathing, but those gazes never lay upon him for more than a fleeting moment for fear they would draw his attention. Nothing he saw there surprised him. Such looks had followed him since he’d been a child. Alone as ever, he had survived, and that was all that counted.

  “Animal.”

  “Devil.”

  The same words repeated, as they always had been, as they always would be. The pulse of blood in Hereward’s head faded away. He didn’t struggle against the strong arms holding him fast, or flinch when axes rose to his chest. He ignored the curses and the threats and the hate-filled stares. Raising his head, he looked for Acha, but she was nowhere to be seen, and Judith too appeared to have fled the hall. Even those he wanted to please could not bear to see him. As always.

  No matter. He had survived.

  “Wait.”

  The bodies surrounding Hereward parted. Tostig strode up to the warrior, his sharp blue eyes searching his guest’s face. In a low, emotionless voice, he said, “You have stained my hall with blood. You came here seeking my aid, yet you have done all within your power to give offense. What do you truly wish, Hereward Asketilson? To destroy yourself? If so, the road you have chosen leads that way.”

  “He must be punished for what he has done to Thangbrand,” someone muttered.

  Tostig searched for the speaker. All heads bowed, and the earl returned his attention to Hereward. “These are hard times, and there are harder times ahead. Everywhere I turn, I hear talk of portents and omens. You have deprived me of one of my strongest men when my huscarls are pressed to their limits. Here is your punishment, man of Mercia. You will replace Thangbrand in my warband, and we will see how you survive in the simmering cauldron that is Eoferwic. Pay back your debt, with your life if need be.”

  The earl turned on his heel and strode away. Hereward looked around at the faces of the scarred, bearded men surrounding him, every eye burning like an ember. They were brothers, and he had wounded one of their own. For every moment he spent in their midst, death would never be far away.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IN THE BRIGHT OF THE NEW DAY, THE CIRCLE OF HUSCARLS shook their fists toward the blue sky and roared their approval. Their wooden shields rattled against their hauberks to the rhythm of their cheers. As they pawed the snow of the hall’s enclosure with their leather shoes, they released blasts of clouding breath with every contemptuous guffaw.

  On hands and knees at the center of the ri
ng, Hereward kept his head down so that his blond hair fell across his swollen cheek. His mind flashed back to the first time his father had struck him after the death of his mother, and his rage burned. When he was ready, he stood up and let the icy wind cool him. Wiping the back of his hand across his bleeding nose, he shook the last of the din from his skull and turned to face his new brothers of the shield. Looking around the dense circle of weather-beaten faces, he saw contempt, but also a hint of fear. That was all he needed.

  “A cowardly blow,” he said.

  “You speak of honor?” Kraki circled the Mercian, bear-like in his thick furs, leather, and chain mail, his silvery helmet casting pools of shadow round his eyes. “You fight like a cornered animal.” The commander of Tostig’s huscarls was a veteran of battles across the frozen river valleys of the Varangians and of the Byzantine campaigns in the hot lands to the south, Hereward had learned. That the Viking still lived was proof enough of his prowess, but his heavily scarred skin had become a map of his successes. Brutal and cold, loyal and fair, he seemed a stew of contradictions.

  “I fight to win.” Hereward spat a mouthful of blood onto the snow. From the moment he had joined the huscarls that morning, they had made it plain that he was to be punished for his savage attack on Thangbrand. As he stepped up to them with his new shield and axe, he had been tripped, then kicked and punched repeatedly. It would do little good to express the remorse he felt for the extent of the Viking’s wounds, he knew. Reparation had to be made, a balance struck, and the admission that he could not control his inner devil would carry little weight.

  Kraki pressed his face close. “This is Northumbria, and we are huscarls. We do not send a man before the Witan to account for his crimes. We have our own rules. Here we follow the old ways, of blood and fire. Honor is all.” He glanced around the circle. “A man of honor has firm principles. A man of honor fights for his friends in time of need. For his people, his land.” The huscarl leader looked the warrior up and down with unconcealed contempt. “You have no honor. You are nothing.”

  Hereward bit his tongue.

  Jeers ran through the ranks. From the edge of the hall ground, a large brown bear rose up on to its hind legs and bellowed in response to the sound it heard. Tostig had had the beast brought over from the Northlands, for entertainment and as a symbol of his own untamed power. Though it was shackled in its own enclosure, its roar chilled all who heard it, the warrior saw.

  Kraki glanced toward the bear and nodded. “There, the sound of your kin calling to you. But brutish strength and a beast’s ferocity and cunning will not keep you alive for long. That rage that burns so hot in you will be your end.”

  Hereward feared that the commander’s words were true. “I will prove my value, with my sword and my axe.”

  The Viking snorted. “Not this day. There is too much bad feeling toward you. Who here would want a wild animal at his side, as likely to attack him as the enemy? If you would be trusted, we must see you have been tamed.” He turned his back on the warrior and walked away. “You will toil with the slaves until I summon you, fetching water and cutting wood for the hearth. Even that work is too good for you.”

  Hereward’s cheeks burned, but he would endure. He had suffered worse, and at least he had found respite from pursuit. It was even possible that Tostig would aid him in his struggle for justice.

  As the huscarls surged out of the gate into Eoferwic, he suppressed his pride and joined the slaves. For most of the morning, he hacked logs from the trees dragged in from the woods to the south. A constant supply of fuel was needed to keep the winter fires burning, and fast though he worked, the woodpile never seemed to grow any larger. The other woodmen eyed him with sullen suspicion, but he kept his head down, allowing the rhythm of his labor to still his troubled thoughts. Only when the sun was at its highest and his arm muscles burned did he wipe the sweat from his brow and go in search of food.

  Gnawing on a hunk of bread, he rested in the lee of the hall, watching the bear prowl its enclosure. The sweet smell of woodsmoke hung in the air, barely masking the choking odors drifting in from the filthy streets. As he looked idly round, a figure moving stealthily through the deep snow caught his eye. Though her cloak was pulled tight, he saw that it was Acha. Something about her cold expression and determined step drew his attention, and his puzzlement turned to unease when he noticed that she was approaching the house where the injured Thangbrand lay.

  With a rush of realization, he threw the bread aside and raced between the huts. He caught up with Acha at the door to Thangbrand’s dwelling and grabbed her wrist as she half turned at the sound of his shoes in the snow. A knife flew from her hand into a drift. Her eyes blazed. With her free hand, she lashed out, raking her nails across his cheek. “Leave me be,” she snarled.

  Hereward dragged her out of sight around the side of the hut and pressed her against the wall until she calmed down. “You planned to kill Thangbrand? Has he not suffered enough?”

  “No. He laid hands upon me … he shamed me … he deserves death.”

  “Have you lost your wits? You would not escape punishment. At the least, you would suffer the agonies of an ordeal. At worst, death.”

  “He shamed me!”

  Hereward was struck by the murderous fury in Acha’s eyes. “I cannot allow you to risk your own life—”

  “Allow me?” she snapped. “You have no say in what I do. I am no little rabbit, weak and frightened and needing a man to fight my battles. In my homeland, men bowed before me—”

  She caught herself, and in that moment Hereward understood that she had been a woman of some standing before Tostig had taken her prisoner. She looked away, her jaw set.

  “Heed me. I know full well the curse of uncontrollable passions. We need no enemies—we destroy ourselves,” he said. “This is a mistake. I will not let you sacrifice yourself to gain revenge.”

  “I do not need your protection.”

  “You think I can help myself? I could not turn away and see you or any woman destroyed.”

  “Then you are a fool.” She threw off his grip and pushed by him. He felt relieved to see her ignore the knife as she walked back toward the hall. Following in her wake, he recognized that he had done some good that day, a small recompense for the trail of misery he had left behind him over the years. Perhaps Acha understood that too, deep beneath her anger, for she glanced back at him once she reached the hall. Her expression looked curious, but before he could wonder what it meant, she disappeared inside.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TERROR HAUNTED EVERY PART OF EOFERWIC. AS THE COLD days passed in the slow march toward the Christmas feast, Hereward had grown to realize that this place was no London or Mercia, where the rule of law held sway. Northumbria truly was wild and untamed. Though the age of the Vikings had passed, their spirit of fire and rock had been embedded in the land, he found, and the people here were of an independent nature. They felt aggrieved that Tostig, a man of the south, had been imposed upon them, and they caused trouble on a daily basis. Even the earl’s decision to hire Northmen for his huscarls had done little to placate the people. Those loyal to Tostig were beaten, their houses burned. Open talk of rebellion rustled in the marketplace and along the wharves and in the tavern.

  Hereward cared little. He had his own plans for revenge, and they consumed him. But he knew he had to bide his time until he learned whether the earl’s messenger had successfully convinced the King, or Harold Godwinson, of Edwin of Mercia’s crimes. At least there had been no sign of the enemies who had pursued him so relentlessly across moor and hill. Perhaps they had fallen to the wolves or the cold, he hoped.

  In the quiet moments during his hard labors alongside the slaves, he found himself watching for Acha. They had exchanged looks across the smoky hall, but her dark features always kept her feelings locked away. Three times he had tried to speak to her, but she had spurned him as if he was not there, and he had no way of knowing if this was some game she was playing or if sh
e truly did hold him in contempt. Beside the waters of their Mercian home, his brother Redwald had once warned that some woman would be the death of him, and when he looked into Acha’s cold gaze he wondered if that might be true.

  A week after the brawl with Thangbrand, a gray pall blew across the south end of Eoferwic, and he was at last summoned from his menial tasks to join the earl’s men. Another fire had been lit, by the rebels, it was feared, and Kraki ordered Hereward to fetch his weapon. The familiar feel of his sword in his hand soothed him. As Kraki waved the huscarls out of the enclosure and over the frozen ruts into the wall of smoke rolling across the tightly packed houses, Hereward knew he should keep one eye on his companions. They loped like a pack of wolves on each side, clutching axes that could easily be turned on him in the confusion.

  Wind-whipped flakes of charred wood and smoldering straw mingled with the falling snow. Out of the billowing cloud, frantic men, women, and children jostled along the narrow street. The fire’s roar drowned out their frightened cries. “Keep your wits about you,” Kraki called. “These bastards are like ghosts. You’ll have a face full of blood from a split head before you even know anyone’s there.”

  Thrusting fleeing men and women aside, he strode up to Hereward, his eyes lost to the shadows beneath his helmet. “The rabble-rouser is in there,” he growled, jabbing his axe toward the smoke. Through the folding gray, red and gold glowed dimly. “Find him before he escapes again.”

  “What about the fire?”

  “You weren’t scared of the flames when you burned Thangbrand,” the Northman sneered, his ragged scar flexing above his beard. “Ravenswart is rounding up enough of these frightened mice to carry water so we can stop the fire spreading. Get in there, and don’t come back until you have that bastard.”