Free Time of the Wolf by James Wilde

smile play on Edward’s face. He struggled to understand. The King had a young, attractive wife, and wealth and power, but his servants said he had become obsessed with prophecies and omens and was building this monument as if it was in some way protection against what he feared was to come. Perhaps it was just vanity, Redwald thought, for the monarch knew his name would last as long as the great stone church stood, and that would be until Judgment Day.
    Rough hands grabbed his cloak, tearing him from his reflections. Before he could cry out, his unseen assailant bundled him along the cold wall and hurled him through the doorway into the church. Sprawling in the snow, he looked up into the horselike face of Morcar, the Earl of Mercia’s brother. “It is Harold’s pup.”
    Edwin drew his sword and planted the tip firmly on Redwald’s chest. “I know you. The brother of the murderer.” Redwald’s cheeks flushed.
    â€œHe was eavesdropping.” Morcar’s lips pulled back from his teeth like a cornered animal’s. “No doubt to report back to his master.” He spat a hand’s width from the young man’s face.
    â€œYou are a Mercian. You march under the banner of blue and gold.” Edwin pressed the tip of the sword deeper into Redwald’s flesh. The point burned, but the young man forced himself not to cry out. “How can you be in the employ of that Wessex bastard?”
    â€œYou know the Godwins would have crushed Mercia if they could,” Morcar said. “They plotted against our kin, and worked to see our own father killed. His final days were a struggle to survive. But Harold Godwinson will not win.” He snarled the final words.
    Edwin grinned, but coldly. “What does Harold fear? That I gain favor with the King? That I will finally prevent his own ascent to power?”
    â€œHe does not fear you,” Redwald retorted, red-faced with anger. “You are too young and untested to be Earl of Mercia. And you would not be there now if not for the death of your father.”
    Fury flared in Edwin’s features at the insolence. He whipped up his blade to slash it across the young man’s face.
    â€œHold.” The voice echoed across the cold, empty nave. Redwald recognized the confident humor lacing the word. Harold Godwinson strode in, his cloak thrown back so all could see his hand upon the golden hilt of his sword. “Has my lad slipped under your sword, Edwin?” the Earl of Wessex continued. “He is a clumsy oaf at the best of times, but that is a mistake that could have cost him an eye.”
    Edwin hesitated for a moment and then sheathed his sword, stepping back. “You play a dangerous game.”
    â€œAnd the King wastes his final days building monuments to God, when he should be protecting this realm … and ensuring that the throne is passed to an Englishman,” Harold snapped.
    â€œTo you?” Edwin turned away to hide his sneer.
    â€œOr you.” The Earl of Wessex stuck out his hand to help Redwald to his feet. “In Normandy, William the Bastard has already laid claim to our throne, and he plots and waits. And King Harald in Norway thinks he should have it too. So why do we two fight when we know our true enemies?”
    â€œWhy?” Edwin’s eyes blazed. “You know why.” He shoved Morcar toward the door, and the two Mercians walked out into the dark.
    â€œI am sorry,” Redwald said. “I was a clumsy fool. I put you at risk.”
    â€œYou are a bright lad, with great days ahead of you, but you still have much to learn. Heed me and you will gain all that you dream of.” But the young man could see that the earl was distracted, and after a moment he realized that Harold was listening to approaching hoofbeats on the frozen mud of the road beyond the enclosure. Beckoning Redwald to walk with him, Harold strode out of the church. The bonfires cast an orange glow