Time of the Wolf Read Online Free PDF Page B

the palace buildings, the young man could almost believe it. The stories burned in his head: that a fisherman had had a vision of St. Peter at the site, that the aging King had heard angels and had set about the building of a monument to God with an energy that dwarfed that of much younger men. Redwald recalled the gossip that the monarch had never lain between the thighs of his wife and that the new abbey was all the old man cared about in life. Studying the outline, he thought he understood the King’s mind. Every day, Redwald had watched the best stonemasons in all Europe raise up the grandest church in the world to replace the one used by the Benedictine monks, and Edward had been there, overseeing the construction arch by arch, column by column. Following the lines, even in the dark he could see that it was almost complete; only the roof and part of the tower remained unfinished.
    The hairs on Redwald’s neck tingled erect; it was more than a sacrament: it was a sign of power, earthly power, for if you could build such a thing you could do anything.
    â€œDo you have it?” The excited woman’s voice cut through the howl of the wind.
    Redwald turned to see the Queen stumbling eagerly through the snow, a thick woolen cloak of madder-red protecting her from the elements. Though Edith had passed her thirtieth year, the young man still saw the beauty of her youth that had enticed many a male. Some would say the King, almost twice her age, was a lucky man, he thought. But he would not wish it for himself: though she stood behind the throne, she might as well have been seated upon it. He recalled hearing the lash of her tongue as she chastised her attendants, and sometimes, in her quieter moments, he remembered seeing the cold determination in her face. But then Edith was a Godwin, of Wessex, and many believed that that family was England, in essence.
    â€œI do,” Redwald replied with a quick smile, eager for praise, “but it did not come easily.”
    â€œQuickly, then. Bring it into the warm.” The Queen turned on her heel and marched back toward the King’s hall.
    Calling for one of the boys to take the mounts to stable, Redwald fumbled with frozen fingers to remove the small oaken chest from the back of the weary packhorse. He half expected it to glow, or to feel warm to the touch, but the iron hinges were unbearably cold. Holding the box tight to his chest, he navigated the slippery paths to the hall.
    He eased through the doorway and sighed in gratitude as warmth washed over him. Flames blazed high in the great circular hearth in the center of the lofty room. Two slaves continually fed the fire with logs to keep the winter at bay. The orange glow washed over the tapestries hanging on the walls, the Opus Anglicanum unmatched anywhere in Europe, but the illumination did not reach the shadows that clung to the broad rafters. After the hardship of his journey, Redwald relaxed at the sight of the works of art on display: the breathtaking fresco painted on the eastern wall depicting the Stations of the Cross, the casket carved from whalebone, the gold plates studded with jewels and intricately engraved, the ivory cross filled with carved angels. Surely, as the King’s guests said when they saw them, there was no place grander than England in all the world.
    Throwing off her cloak, the Queen beckoned to Redwald and pointed to the long table where he should lay the casket. As he put the box down, a booming voice rang through the hall: “More old bones?”
    Redwald beamed as Edith’s brother, Harold Godwinson, strode across the room; a stablehand had once suggested to him that Harold never walked slowly anywhere. Powerfully built, with a strong jaw and a handsome face, his jet-black hair gleaming in the firelight, the Earl of Wessex flipped open the lid of the box to reveal a yellowing tibia. “As I thought. What is it this time?”
    Redwald hung on the older man’s