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large left hand into the smallest boy’s tunic and yanked him upright. Silently, he cuffed the lad across the ear, whispered a few words to him, and threw the now-sobbing child back to the ground. While Alric tried to make sense of what he had seen, Hereward disappeared into the growing gloom, and the monk had to hurry to catch up.
    The street was deserted and icy stars were glittering in the black sky when he saw the warrior reach an enclosure. Hereward paused at the gate, surveying the dark bulk looming ahead of him, and then strode toward the golden glow falling through the open door on to the snowy ground.
    Alric’s breath caught in his throat. The thatched hall was the largest building in all of Eoferwic, dwarfing five nearby houses. There was no doubt in his mind. It had to be the hall of Tostig, the earl of all Northumbria. What connection could Hereward have with one of the highest in the land?

CHAPTER EIGHT
    T HE SUN WAS SETTING OVER L ONDON IN A CRIMSON BLAZE . A knife of shadow slashed through the heart of the white-blanketed Palace of Westminster from the stark silhouette of the new abbey’s unfinished tower. Torches sizzled in the crisp air as the Master of the Flame brought light to the enclosure and, in the King’s hall, slaves stoked the fire for the night to come.
    Redwald crept through the gloom against the church’s western wall. With his hood pulled up to mask his identity, the young man eased past the shaky wooden ladders soaring up to the timber platforms on their vast pillars of elm. All around, the clatter of the stonecutters’ hammers rang out, the masons laboring in the dying light under the direct instructions of the King, who could not bear to see his great work lying unfinished for a day longer than necessary. Redwald could smell the earthy tang of the stone dust and the woodsmoke from the fires the workmen used to keep warm.
    Low voices echoed from the abbey’s shadowy interior. He edged to the arch where the west door would eventually be fixed, and peered inside. Ruddy light falling through the window holes tinged the drifting snow on the floor, and he could see the moon and first stars through the open roof. Two silhouettes stood in quiet conversation in the center of the nave. When they walked a few paces toward where the altar would be located, Redwald saw that one was the King. The young man had never seen the monarch looking so frail; his skin was almost the color of the slush at his feet, his head bowed, his limbs thin. Sweeping his right arm toward the sky, Edward was saying, in a faint voice, “All things are in truth two things. This church, this great stone building, is a testament of our devotion to God. But it is also a man.”
    Puzzled silence hung in the air for a moment. The second figure shifted uncomfortably. It was the man Redwald had come to spy upon, Edwin of Mercia, brimming with vitality next to his fragile companion. The earl’s red woolen cloak shone in stark contrast to the King’s bloodless appearance.
    â€œUnformed rocks are hewn from the earth, rough and purposeless,” Edward croaked. “And then the stones are shaped by the weight of wisdom and the quiet reflection of others, and they take form, and rise up, and gather meaning, and purpose, and become something filled with God’s will. Become a testament to God and his plan.”
    â€œYou say … every church … is a man.” Redwald heard Edwin struggling to mask his baffled contempt.
    â€œAnd every man is a church.” The King nodded, smiling. The earl continued to shuffle, looking around the soaring walls.
    Redwald started at the sound of running feet at his back. A young messenger barged past him to whisper to the King, who gave a curt nod, bid farewell to the Mercian earl, and followed the messenger out of the church. Pressing back into the deep shadows so he would not be seen, Redwald watched the monarch pass by and thought he saw a faint