Oath bound, p.15
Oath Bound, page 15
Ronan knew it was a futile act. He could have told Brian that Breton builders and English workers would not mix. The former were too regimented, the latter too lazy, and the language barrier would only result in more misunderstanding. Then again, Brian didn’t have much choice. He was hardly going to pay for peasants to be shipped over from the mainland when he had an endless supply of slave labour right on his doorstep.
As the master builder continued to rant, Ronan considered chiming in to help breach the language barrier. He could after all speak both tongues like a native, but as he watched he decided it was more amusing to just witness proceedings.
The man from Frankia was desperate for the English to understand that the mortar they had mixed was deficient. Constructing brickwork with too much sand would eventually lead to the structure’s collapse. Of course, the English labourers just glared back in slack-jawed indolence, causing the builder to pick up a trowel and stab the mortar repeatedly to make his point. As he raged, there was a sudden noise from the stone wall they had recently built.
Ronan watched with growing mirth, as the huge wall collapsed behind them, punctuating the builder’s point better than any language. As the man began to jump from one foot to the other, incensed, Ronan couldn’t help but tip his head back and laugh.
‘Let them be, Ronan,’ a familiar voice shouted behind him. ‘It’s bad enough I’m losing money without you laughing about it.’
Ronan turned towards Brian, who sat some feet away. He was in a wooden chair purloined from some unfortunate native, his feet up on an empty wine cask.
‘Please,’ Ronan replied. ‘This is the best show I’ve seen in an age.’
‘Come join us,’ Brian said, holding up a jug.
Ronan realised his cup was empty and wasn’t about to turn down the offer of having it filled.
He limped back down the hill, the sound of the incensed builder fading. Beside Brian sat his brother Alan. Both were reclining in the sun, as appreciative of the weather as Ronan.
‘I’m glad you find my architectural struggles so amusing,’ Brian said.
‘Apologies, my friend,’ Ronan replied. ‘I haven’t had much to laugh about in recent days.’
‘You won’t be laughing when it’s finished. It will be the most fearsome fortress in all of England. What say you, Alan?’
His brother merely shrugged, seeming to care little about the formidable potential of his brother’s castle.
Ronan glanced at Alan, who was chewing on a grass stem. He had never liked Brian’s younger sibling. He might have been sitting quietly now, minding his own affairs, but Alan was as debauched and unpredictable as he was deadly with a lance. It was a volatile combination that made Alan difficult to be around.
As Ronan clacked his cup against Brian’s, Alan stood, making his way towards the stump of a tree with an axe protruding from it. He plucked the axe free and flung it at a target board some feet away. Ronan made sure to keep him visible in his periphery. It would not have been out of character for Alan to plunge that axe into the nearest bystander, and right now that was Ronan.
‘He is anxious,’ Brian said. ‘He thinks it is too quiet. That soon we will be embroiled in more war.’
Ronan watched as Alan flung the axe a second time, his aim true. ‘Then perhaps not the best time for the king to have left for home.’
‘This is home now,’ Brian replied. ‘And it is in safe hands while we are here. William trusts us to guard his kingdom in his absence, and the more forts and castles we build, the more the English will be cowed.’
‘So you think your brother worries without reason?’
Brian shook his head. ‘There are sparks of rebellion igniting all over the country. We cannot rest on our past successes.’
‘We should be curbing every rebellion with sword and flame,’ Alan said, flinging the axe and hitting the target again.
‘Indeed,’ Brian answered. ‘But where to start, brother? As soon as one revolt is curbed, another rises in a different place, like vermin in a field. William would be generous with his rewards for the man who could end these troublesome uprisings.’
Ronan’s interest was suddenly piqued. The notion that he could further ingratiate himself with the king made him think on the prospect of quelling his enemies. As though he had not already done enough to prove himself. But if further proof were needed, he should at least try to provide it.
It had already been made clear to him he would inherit no lands, but still Ronan could not subdue the need for recognition and the ambition that festered within. Surely if he demonstrated he was capable, more so than the king’s noble allies, then the reward would be great.
‘Have you heard of the one they call the Red Wolf?’ Alan said, throwing the axe again. It hammered into the target board and there was a crack as the wood split.
‘The what?’ asked Ronan, still staring at the axe in the wood.
‘The Red Wolf. Now there’s a head I’d like to take. The Bastard would reward a man handsomely if he could lay that at his feet.’
‘Folklore,’ Brian said. ‘This Red Wolf is just a legend cooked up by the local populace to disguise their rebellious ways. No one man could cause the havoc this Red Wolf has supposedly reaped.’
‘Don’t be so eager to dismiss the rumours, brother,’ Alan replied. ‘Our own men have made testament to how real he is. A hero of the English, they say. Eight feet tall, half warrior, half beast. He took the eyes of one young knight. The hands of another. Wears their parts like trophies, wandering the wilds like a devil.’
‘Then he is no hero,’ said Brian. ‘He is just a savage, like the rest of these curs.’
‘But still a man,’ Ronan said.
‘Half beast.’ Alan was adamant.
Ronan shook his head. ‘I’m not so easily spooked by folk tales. If this Red Wolf does exist he is a man like any other. And he will die like any man. Do you really think the reward for his capture would be so rich?’
‘Rich indeed,’ Alan replied. ‘You think you’re up to the task, cripple?’
Ronan ignored the barb. ‘Cunning always overcomes the beast, my friend.’
‘Cunning won’t do you any good, Ronan,’ said Brian. ‘He is protected by the English wherever he goes. There was talk of him moving from the east into the English flat country, but since then, no word. He has gone to ground, for now, and the English will not speak of him to any of our countrymen.’
‘Then lucky for me I speak their language like a native,’ Ronan said.
‘Ah yes,’ Alan said. ‘Sometimes I forget you are one of them.’
Again, Ronan did his best to ignore Alan’s suggestion that he was half a savage. It was true his mother was one of these English, a refugee from the time of King Edward. But to his own mind Ronan was every inch the Breton knight, even if his flaws were pointed out to him often.
‘Then we are agreed,’ Ronan said. ‘I am perfectly suited to tracking down this Red Wolf.’
Brian laughed. ‘You would spend your time with these marsh dwellers? Mix with the peasants to find this outlaw?’
‘I will bring this wolf before the king,’ Ronan replied, the idea beginning to excite him. ‘And perhaps he will reward me with a castle to rival your own.’
As he spoke, there was the sound of rumbling, as another part of Brian’s construction collapsed in a heap. The sounds of the incensed master builder bellowed out from atop the hill and Alan began to laugh uncontrollably.
‘I hope you have better luck with its construction than my brother,’ he said, plucking the axe from the broken board.
Later the three of them ate within the old fort, and that night Ronan could barely sleep for thinking of what he might achieve.
The next morning, Brian informed him where this Red Wolf had last been seen and even granted him a conrois of his own knights to help find him. If Ronan could track this fugitive, it would reflect just as well on Brian.
As he rode out of the settlement with Aldus at his side and twenty men at his back, he could only think of the land and power that would eventually be his.
His thoughts were momentarily diverted when, from the corner of his eye, he saw a body at the side of the road. The man was unmistakably English, and from his garb most likely a labourer who had helped with the building of the castle. A familiar axe was buried in his head.
Such was Alan’s way of finding amusement. Or perhaps he was offering a way to motivate his brother’s workforce. Ronan could only hope it was not some portent for the mission ahead.
As he left the body behind, he determined that it was not. If anything, it was a portent of his success. For there would be much death if he was to persuade the English to tell him the whereabouts of this Red Wolf.
22
COLESELLE, ENGLAND, MAY 1067
Styrkar had done his best not to outstay his welcome. The Abbess Wynflaed had expressed regret at him leaving the abbey, but he knew it was time to go. Despite trying not to unnerve the nuns he knew his presence was a burden on them. They may no longer have feared the Red Wolf, but if he was discovered by a Frankish patrol there was no telling what they might do.
He had stayed just long enough to regain his strength. The nuns had washed and fed him, even trimming his unkempt beard and oiling his hair. He now wore it in a topknot as he wandered further west, feeling like a new man. The women had seemed proud of their work when they had bid him farewell. Not even Edith had taken such good care of him, but he left before growing too used to their ministrations. It would not do for him to rely on the comforts granted by others. He was still a fugitive, and there was no telling what hardships might lie ahead.
The seax of Harold was given a fresh scabbard from the stores of the abbey, and it sat comfortably at his hip. It was a reminder that he still had much to achieve, though Styrkar still had no idea how he might accomplish his aims. Edith’s words were still fresh in his mind, despite the months since she had died.
Earn it, she had told him. And by Fenrir’s teeth he had tried. But he was not done yet. He would not be done until the Frankish conqueror was in his grave and his followers driven from these lands. An impossible task, but Styrkar could not let the weight of such a burden sway him.
He had wandered north for a whole day and night since leaving the abbey, without knowing where he was going. In that time he had encountered no patrols and only seen farm workers on the distant hills and a sheepherder with his flock. It all seemed so normal, as though the battle at Senlac and the death of the king had never happened. When he eventually crested a hill and saw a settlement by a river in the distance, the illusion of normality bedded in even more.
It looked such an idyllic setting, untouched by the ravages that had already afflicted much of the eastern part of these lands. For the briefest of moments, Styrkar yearned to cast aside his weapon and enter this community, forgetting his promise to Edith, his duty to his king. But he could never forget. He refused to.
As he walked down the hill and into the village he was reminded of the times of peace so long ago. Of the days he had accompanied Harold into village after village and been greeted with joy by so many of his subjects. Styrkar had never been a genial man, but he could still appreciate the virtue in others.
Entering the village, the bustle of the place felt alien to him. He had been wandering, killing, spending his nights in the cold of the wild, and after the violence he had wrought the laughter and mundanity of this place was like being in a welcome dream.
He heard the ring of a hammer, the blacksmith busy at his forge as a few men and women crowded the entrance, eager for his wares. Further on, children frolicked in the road, the high-pitched giggles loud in his ears as they played without a care in the world. A man traded fish at a stall, surrounded by a gaggle of women bartering noisily for his catch. At the end of the road a woman was loudly berating her husband as a sot, while he sat in ignominy taking every word with stoic resignation.
Styrkar almost laughed at the scene but caught himself. He had no right to laugh. He had no right to be here among these people, with their ordinary lives. The animal that lurked within was a danger to these people, and he knew it. Better that he leave them to their normality lest they face the same curse that afflicted him.
Towards the river, Styrkar’s eye was suddenly drawn by the noise of raised voices. He could see beyond the hamlet a large stone building on the riverbank. Ropes had been erected atop a pulley, and as he drew closer he recognised the place as a watermill. The wheel sat at an awkward angle, more ropes tied through the spokes, as a crowd of men struggled to lever it into place.
A dog suddenly barked at Styrkar’s heels and he started, hand straying to the seax at his side. He gripped the handle, staring down at the dog, fighting the urge to strike it. When the hound eventually ran off into the distance, he knew he had to get away from here.
‘Cured fish?’ said a voice behind him, and he almost drew the blade as he saw a toothless man holding out a stinking fillet of herring.
Styrkar held up a hand in refusal, feeling more and more unnerved by the place. He walked away, reaching a well and sniffing the bucket to make sure it was fresh before filling his waterskin. He had seen enough of this place; he had to go before he hurt someone.
After walking from the settlement he paused at the water’s edge, glancing downriver to see the men still struggling with their waterwheel.
‘I told you this wouldn’t work,’ barked one of them, a short thin man who appeared to be avoiding as much of the manual labour as he could.
‘Because you’ve come up with the best ideas so far,’ bellowed another, a balding man with a prominent gut from indulging in too much ale.
‘We need to readjust the ropes. The pulley needs to be higher.’
‘We just need more bloody muscle. All you’ve done is stand there and watch.’
The thin man made to answer, but stopped when he saw Styrkar observing them. He raised an eyebrow, and the fat man turned his head, looking on curiously.
‘So? You just going to stand there, or are you going to help us out?’ said the man with the thick waist.
All Styrkar could do was stare back. It seemed an odd request. Days before he had been slaughtering men in the night, now he was being asked to help out some struggling villagers.
‘Is he all right?’ said the thin man.
‘Maybe he’s foreign?’ said his friend.
‘Do you understand what we’re saying?’ the thin man said, as though Styrkar might be deaf.
The temptation to walk away and leave these men behind was overwhelming, but Styrkar also felt the need to help. There was something about their struggle, and the fact he knew he could help them, that made him drop the sack the nuns had given him and walk towards the waterwheel.
‘I understand you fine,’ he said as he joined three other men on one side of the rope.
‘All right then,’ said the fat man. ‘Let’s give this another go. On my count, heave…’
He counted down from three. Styrkar pulled on the rope with all his might, the wheel moving easily this time as they muscled it onto the stone supports. More men pushed from the side and the wheel slotted into place.
‘There we go!’ said the bigger man. ‘I told you we just needed more muscle!’
He slapped Styrkar on the shoulder as though they were old friends. Styrkar should have been annoyed at the man’s familiarity, but something inside him appreciated the gesture.
‘I still think we should have adjusted the pulley,’ said his thin friend.
Ignoring him, the big man turned to Styrkar.
‘Let me get you a drink,’ he said. ‘We’re headed to the longhouse. We’ve been at this all day and I think we deserve a reward.’
Before Styrkar could answer, the shorter man chimed in. ‘We haven’t bloody finished yet. We still need to secure—’
‘That’s enough for one day,’ he said. ‘What say you?’
The question was directed at Styrkar. He had never been a drinker. He was a fighter, and the fuddled head mead and ale gave was never good for a man of the sword. But there were no enemies here. No one to fight. Besides, it had been so many weeks since he had spent any time in the company of ordinary folk, he had to admit he missed it.
‘I will come,’ he said.
With that the big man clapped him on the back, guiding him back towards the hamlet, accompanied by a dozen labourers.
They reached what they called the longhouse, but Styrkar was sure he’d seen more welcome-looking cowsheds. When they decided to perch themselves outside in the sun he felt some relief. The big man, whose name was Osgar, placed a cup of mead in his hand and Styrkar began to relax a little. The labourers introduced themselves, a list of names he would never remember, and began to make small talk in the midday sun until eventually Styrkar was alone with Osgar.
‘So where do you come from?’ Osgar asked.
Styrkar was unsure how to answer. He couldn’t very well explain his relationship to their dead king and the fact he’d left a trail of bodies all the way from Walsingaha.
‘I have been wandering since the invaders came. They burned my town close to Lundenburg. I have been looking for honest work since then.’
‘Farm work? Well, there’s still plenty round here, if you fancy staying. I can put a word in with the local landowner. That is if he still has any farmland by the end of the month. The Franks have been taking over estates all around here.’
‘Does that not concern you?’
Osgar shrugged. ‘Why would it? They still need men to work the fields. What difference who owns it? The Franks still pay with the same coins. Some of them might have a different head hammered on the front, but you can spend them just the same.’
‘But the new king is not of these lands.’
‘One king, another king. What’s the difference? We still have to rise in the morning, still have to plough the field, still have to mill the flour, still have to make the bread, still have to catch the fish. What does it matter where the king comes from? Is he going to make me work any harder than I already do?’
