Hereward by James Wilde

The warrior rose on to the balls of his feet and for a moment the monk lost him in the glare from the thick snow lying across the hillside. ‘Five, I think. Tracking us or collecting wood?’
    The monk narrowed his eyes in suspicion. ‘Do you fear that they are hunting me … or you?’
    Hereward laughed. ‘Would you wait and ask them yourself?’ Bounding down from the rock, he scanned the way ahead over the windswept hilltops. ‘If we are caught out here in the open, we will soon be enjoying the sleep of the sword.’
    Alric had watched the warrior’s mood improve by the day as they neared Eoferwic. At times a robust humour had emerged, almost as if the Mercian sensed an opportunity to slough off whatever burden weighed him down, the monk mused. He saw learning in that face, most surely, and even some warmth. He had to accept that his wild-eyed companion was more of a puzzle than he had first believed. ‘It would be a blessed relief. I get little other sleep these days,’ he muttered.
    ‘You are free to leave at any time.’
    ‘Then who would pray for your black soul? I am all that prevents the Devil from rising up to offer you a throne beside him.’
    ‘The Devil on one hand and a monk wittering and whinging and whining all day and all night on the other. A hard choice.’ The warrior leapt to the monk’s side, landing gracefully.
    Alric shrugged and walked ahead. ‘The meek are blessed.’
    ‘Dead. The meek are dead, because they leave their spears under their beds.’
    ‘And blessed.’ Alric ducked when he heard rapid movement at his back. A large stone flew over his head and crashed into a drift. He whirled, jabbing a finger. ‘That could have staved in my skull.’
    ‘I must practise my aim,’ the warrior said, his tone wry. ‘But let us move on. There will be sharper stones in the valley.’
    Grumbling, Alric stalked ahead. He cast one look down into the black woods and saw nothing, so he picked up his step, stumbling through the knee-deep snow. The two men slipped and skidded down the steep slope, sometimes turning head over heels so that their eyelashes and hair became crusted with ice. As his chest began to burn from his exertions, Alric asked, ‘You have kin?’
    ‘Two brothers.’ Hereward paused. ‘One I call brother, but he is not blood.’
    ‘How so?’
    ‘When I was a boy, my father took him in. Redwald.’ The warrior’s eyes took on a faraway look. A hint of tenderness, Alric wondered? ‘His father was killed, by outlaws, I think. And his mother died too. The sickness.’ He shrugged. ‘He was alone, and my father welcomed him to our hall and treated him like a son.’
    ‘And does he share your love for blood?’
    Hereward laughed quietly. ‘Redwald is the better man.’ Tapping his head, he added, ‘He has sharp wits and cunning ways. He is wise beyond his years, and his plots and plans would make Harold Godwinson proud. Even as we speak, he will be putting all his skills to good use on my behalf.’
    ‘And what plans and plots does he weave?’ Alric spoke lightly, to draw out more of the warrior’s hidden side.
    ‘Ones that lead to revenge.’ The monk saw the hard look that flashed across the other man’s face. ‘Though we are not joined by blood, there is no more loyal brother than Redwald. He will take his time, and work hard, over days and weeks … years, if need be … and when the hour is right he will destroy the one who wronged me. This is his vow.’
    Alric was troubled by Hereward’s harsh tone, but also surprised by the first confidences he had heard in the ten days they had been travelling together. ‘You and your brother have a strong bond.’
    The warrior looked to the far horizon as he remembered. ‘When I was old enough to skin a deer, my father gave me his knife, as fathers do to eldest sons, and as his own father did to him. It had a short blade, old even then, but kept sharp on the whetstone, and a handle of whalebone carved into the shape of an