Shield breaker, p.16
Shield Breaker, page 16
A raucous noise caught his attention from beyond the town’s boundary. It might have filled any other man with terror as it rose above the rooftops before dying out like a doused fire, but for Styrkar it held no fear. Whatever fate lay in wait he would face it, no matter how weak he felt.
The road led to a clearing just beyond the town. A crowd had gathered, all warriors, baying and jeering into a pit dug deep and wide. Styrkar was held back some yards away to watch the spectacle. None of his captors spoke, but he knew what this was – his fate was to be sealed in butchery.
To one side of the pit he could see Harding surrounded by his housecarls. Though the rest of the crowd were frenzied by what they witnessed, Harding stood expressionless, unmoved by the grim show.
Though he could not see into that pit, Styrkar knew what this was. A battle to the death for the entertainment of others. Coins were being exchanged, even hides and chickens, as these men who thought themselves warriors watched their prisoners die for sport. But men had died for less. Styrkar had killed them for less. Perhaps this might be the most fitting end for him after all.
A sudden cheer erupted from the crowd. More coins passed hands as some men looked inconsolable at their loss, others elated at their win. A corpse was dragged from the pit, perhaps a once proud warrior, now nothing but meat. After him came crawling another of the Norsemen, his hair hanging limp, his body riven with cuts and filth. Styrkar caught a look of desperation on his face. He had won his battle, been spared the journey to Valhöll, but for how long?
As the Norseman was led away, Styrkar was prodded in the back by the butt of a spear and urged forward to take his turn. The fates of other men left his thoughts, and the crowd turned to see what was next, their loathing immediate and obvious. Faces that had moments before been filled with elation twisted to hatred, and some spat on the ground in front of him. It seemed as though every man here wanted him to share the fate of the corpse they had dragged from that pit. For the Red Wolf to become one more butchered animal on the pile. Grumblings of discontent worked their way through the gathering, and Styrkar wondered if he would even have the chance to fight for his life before someone drew a blade and struck him down.
Harding stepped forward, and the noisome crowd fell silent. His men tugged on the tether and drew Styrkar short, as their fledgling lord regarded his prize.
‘This is an auspicious day,’ Harding said, loud enough for all to hear. ‘Standing before us is the fearsome Red Wolf.’ That brought mirth from some of the crowd and Styrkar was made keenly aware he looked anything but fearsome. ‘The man who survived Senlac Hill. Who fought the Franks at Hereford. Look at him – see how far he has fallen. He betrayed my father, Eadnoth, who you all knew. Betrayed our new king, who’s favour we now hold dear. But perhaps even a traitor has a chance at redemption.’
With a gesture, Harding had his men take the rope from Styrkar’s neck. At spearpoint he was then urged forward to the lip of the pit. He had a chance to glance into its dark confines before a kick to the back propelled him forward.
Styrkar fell into the hole, landing heavily in the muck. It stank of filth and blood, a familiar stench only a veteran of the battlefield would recognise. As he stood to the growling cheers of the crowd, someone else was bundled toward the edge of the pit.
To yet more cheers another of the Norsemen was thrown in. As this one rose to his feet, Styrkar could see he was barely a man at all; more a boy, his blond hair matted, his face desperate and fearful. Upon seeing his opponent, the boy’s face twisted in anger and he unleashed a howl of fury. It was obvious he was trying to instil as much courage in himself as he could, a sign that he was afraid, but Styrkar could have no pity for this frightened boy, not if he was to live out the day.
One of the housecarls threw two swords into the pit and they landed between the fighters. There was no order for them to begin. No herald to tell them what to do, and the boy rushed forward to grasp one of the weapons. Styrkar was faster. Everything was instinct now, the roar of the crowd forgotten as he dashed to the centre of the pit and closed a hand on one of the swords. The boy barely had a chance to reach his own weapon, before Styrkar had raised the blade and hacked him down. His opponent fell face-first in the slop, his neck hacked to the spine, head lolling awkwardly. He gave out a gurgling breath in the filth before lying still. A boy who had travelled here with dreams of the riches he might pillage, now dead in the dirt.
Silence filled the pit as Styrkar took a step back from the corpse. He looked up, seeing every eye on him, their disdain clearly writ. Their sport had been ruined. This was not the contest they had been brought here to witness.
Harding glared his displeasure into the hole. It was obvious he would be the one blamed for this poor spectacle.
‘Again,’ he bellowed. ‘Bring two.’
Styrkar could only stand and wait as two more of the Norse were bundled through the crowd by burly housecarls. These two were far from children – one bearing the old scars of battle on his face, the other heavy about the shoulders despite days imprisoned at Harding’s displeasure.
Without further urging from their captors, both dropped into the pit, accepting what they had to do. Styrkar took a breath, forgetting his fatigue, knowing that he would need all the Red Wolf’s rage if he was to survive.
Two shields were thrown to the Norse along with a sword each. No sooner had the battle-scarred veteran taken up his arms than Styrkar darted forward. The Norseman barely had a chance to bring his shield to bear as he was forced back under the weight of Styrkar’s attack, slipping on the boggy earth and falling to one knee. Before Styrkar could finish him, he remembered this man was not the only threat.
Instinct made him turn, made him raise his sword in time to parry an overhead strike from the second warrior. Their weapons rang, the blow heavy, but Styrkar met it with all his strength, then he darted aside as the other Norseman rose to his feet.
Styrkar backed to the edge of the pit as his enemies stood side by side, locking their shields in the mockery of a shield wall. It was the only tactic they could rely on in the narrow confines of the pit, but at least they could not flank him.
As he backed away he almost stumbled over the corpse of the boy he had killed. The lad’s sword still lay untouched, and Styrkar bent to pick it up. A weapon in both hands might not give him much of an edge against two warriors, but by Fenrir’s teeth it made him feel better.
The warriors glared from beyond their shields as the crowd snarled its hunger into the pit. Both men seemed reluctant to attack, biding their time. Perhaps they had heard of Styrkar’s reputation. Perhaps they thought it easier to defend themselves than attack, and that behind their shields they were at an advantage. The Red Wolf would have to prove them wrong about that.
Styrkar’s lips curled back from his teeth and he snarled a challenge before charging forward. Both warriors braced their shields as he unleashed the baresark, filling himself with animal fury and smashing the wooden shields with his swords, one then the other, unrelenting, offering neither man the chance to strike back.
The sound of the steel on wood was drowned by the roar from above, spurring him to greater effort. One shield cracked, splinters flying. Then at the next blow it split, and Styrkar’s blade hacked in, slicing open the defender’s arm. He bellowed, the one with the scarred face, staggering back as Styrkar stabbed in with his other sword, taking him in the throat. The blade was buried deep in him, and it was wrenched from Styrkar’s grip as he fell, but there was no time to gloat over his triumph.
In fury, the second Norseman battered Styrkar with his shield, driving him back to the wall of the pit. They both spat and hissed their rage; at such close quarters neither could bring a weapon to bear. Styrkar roared, his voice rising above that of the fevered crowd, and he shoved against the shield with all his might, giving himself room to strike. Again he battered at the Norseman, again and again. The broad-shouldered warrior looked desperate, finding space to swing his blade desperately, but Styrkar ducked the steel, grasping his own sword with both hands.
Then he went at that shield as though felling a tree. Splinter by flying splinter the shield was whittled to tinder until the Norseman was driven to his knees. Heaving in air, Styrkar staggered back. The warrior realised he was beaten, holding little more than wooden shards and a useless blade in his battered hands. He knew there was nothing he could do in the face of such berserk fury and his eyes spoke a plea for mercy.
But the Red Wolf was not sated. He had to be fed.
With a roar, he struck his final blow, cleaving open the Norseman’s skull to the tumultuous bellow of the gathered crowd.
When the man slumped to the mud, Styrkar stared up, heaving in breath, seeing the approval on the faces of men who a short time ago had wanted nothing but his murder. Among them he saw the face of Harding, a smile stretched across it.
The sword in Styrkar’s grip felt heavy, but he was sure he had the strength to make at least one more corpse if he had to. But that opportunity would have to wait. Two housecarls jumped into the pit, spears levelled as they snarled at Styrkar to drop the sword. It slipped from his fingers, his yearning for death abating as the Red Wolf left him, nothing but a weak and tired man.
As he had done once before that day, he allowed them to tie him about the neck and push him out of the pit. Styrkar was almost throttled as they dragged him up with that rope, and hauled him across the ground like the worthless meat they had pulled out earlier.
The hysteria of the crowd had been replaced by mirth, and though some of them still looked at him with hatred, others nodded with approval, satisfied with the display he had given.
‘The shield breaker,’ someone shouted, to the amusement of some. But for others it was a name they approved of.
As Styrkar rose on trembling legs and was dragged back towards the compound of prisoners, someone struck up a chant, and in his wake the name Shield Breaker was sung in a bellowed chorus.
A glance back, and he saw Harding glaring at him. That confident smile was gone now, replaced by contempt. Perhaps he had not envisioned the crowd turning Styrkar from prisoner to hero. Maybe all he really wanted was to honour the memory of his father with yet more death.
Well, he would have to wait. For now, at least, the Red Wolf lived.
23
Waruic, England, September 1068
He yearned for sleep, to fall back into the quiet comfort of oblivion, but his mouth was too dry, his thirst too unquenchable to allow it.
When Ronan lifted his head, a feat of tremendous effort, he could see the flap of the tent blowing gently in the breeze. He tried to call out, to summon aid, but couldn’t even manage the most pitiful of croaks. His eyes wandered in delirium until they fell on the jug and cup that sat next to his pallet bed. He stretched out an arm withered by inaction, fingers falling inches short of the cup. When he tried to move his body closer, pain lanced through his side as though he had been stabbed. Again.
Ronan let himself roll back, feeling a tear run down the side of his face, unable to wipe it away. At least there was no one here to see him weep. That was one mercy at least.
Memories flooded back as he lay there like some feeble old man, thoughts of how he had allowed himself to be attacked. And by who? Some peasant waiting in the shadows? A pig herder not fit to clean his boots?
And what had happened since then? As much as Ronan tried, he could not piece that time together. Days and nights melted into one, faces came and went, but where were those faces now? Had he been abandoned? Left to die here in some quiet corner of this misbegotten land?
He gritted his teeth, trying to swallow, but could conjure no spit in his mouth. Turning his head he focused on the jug once more. This time when he moved he snorted in defiance of the pain, growled till it hurt his throat. His fingers stretched, almost there, the cup just within his reach. Probing fingertips almost grasped it, but instead flipped the cup from the small table to spill its contents on the ground. Anger seethed up in his broken body – he would not be defeated. Ronan moaned, a pitiful mewling as he stretched further, ignoring the agony that wracked his body as he grabbed the jug. Damn it was heavy, but he managed to lift it, grasping it in two hands as he poured its contents into his mouth.
After swallowing down all he could, he collapsed again. Heaving in breath, feeling the cool water run down his face, forcing a smile at his one tiny victory, but he could not just lay here forever hoping for rescue.
There was daylight beyond the opening of the tent. He swallowed, leaned forward, then called, ‘Is anyone there?’ His voice sounded as broken as his body felt. A plea no one could have heard. Ronan fell back to his bed defeated.
How long had he been here? There was a chill to the air that told him much time had passed since they had taken the town of Waruic. Had it been days? Weeks? Had Robert moved on and left him here to be tended by idiots with no aptitude for the task?
Movement as someone entered the tent. Ronan lifted his head, feeling a spark of hope ignite. When he saw who had entered, he realised his notion of being left with ‘idiots’ had not been far off the mark. Still, when Mainard approached his bed, Ronan could not help but feel some relief at seeing a familiar face.
‘By Christ, but you look pale as a corpse,’ Mainard said. ‘I can’t believe you’re alive.’
‘My thanks for your reassuring words,’ Ronan breathed. ‘Why don’t you just dig my fucking grave now?’
Mainard bowed his head in shame. For all his discomfort, Ronan couldn’t help but feel guilty for his ingratitude.
‘My apologies,’ Mainard replied.
‘No. You have my thanks for keeping me alive. I owe you a great debt.’
Mainard shook his head. ‘I wasn’t the one who tended you. I just did as I was told, and brought water, dressings and such.’
‘Then who?’ Ronan asked.
Mainard looked awkward, as though he was reluctant to reveal who Ronan’s saviour was. ‘The woman. Gisela. She has not left your bedside for days. She treated you with utmost care, as though you were kin. Without her you would be…’ He was reluctant to mention the fate they both knew was obvious.
Ronan wondered if Mainard was mistaken, or just making it up from some notion of modesty. But no, Mainard was anything but modest. Still, Ronan found it hard to believe this woman, who he had treated as nothing more than leverage for his own ends, would care for him like one of her own.
‘Gisela? Where is she now? I must thank her.’
This time Mainard looked even more uncomfortable and chewed his lip as though trying to stop the words.
‘Speak man,’ Ronan demanded, pushing himself up on his bed and regretting it as the tent span around him.
‘She is birthing her child,’ Mainard said, as though it was a concept he understood little of.
‘And?’
‘The labour is… difficult. She has suffered for two days with it.’
It was not an unusual thing. Though Ronan’s knowledge of midwifery was scant, he had known women take an age to give birth. ‘What are you not telling me?’
‘They say it is unlikely she or the child will live.’
Ronan had no idea who ‘they’ might be, but he could only trust Mainard was telling the truth of it. The idea that Gisela had saved him, despite all he had done, and now might perish sat ill in his gut. Perhaps it was his weakness of spirit, or his gratitude at being spared, but Ronan knew he could not just lie in a torpor while this woman suffered.
‘Get me up. I have to see her.’
Mainard shook his head, raising a hand to ease Ronan back in his bed. ‘No, you have to rest.’
‘Fuck rest,’ Ronan snapped, so violently it hurt his parched throat. ‘Get me out of this stinking pit and take me to her.’
Mainard offered no further word of protest, and eased Ronan from the pallet bed. All Ronan wore was a linen undershirt to hide his modesty. It was filthy and damp, but his pride mattered little now.
He squinted in the bright daylight as they left the tent, and Mainard took his weight on one shoulder. Cold air hit him in a rush, causing his head to spin, but still he pressed on, his legs almost giving way at every step. Through his spinning vision Ronan saw the camp had been all but broken. Only a few remnants remained, tattered embers abandoned for the wolves. He truly had been left behind to rot, but what could he expect from a man like Robert of Comines? That he would assign a priest to Ronan’s bedside all hours of the day and night?
A scream brought Ronan out of his self-indulgent reverie. It was a pained cry like an animal in a trap. One that would have curdled his blood was it not already frozen by the afternoon chill.
‘That’s her,’ Mainard said as they struggled toward another tent in the distance.
‘No shit,’ snarled Ronan, all his effort concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. ‘I’m wounded not bloody deaf.’
They moved with more urgency, Ronan doing his best to limp closer to the anguished cries. It felt as though both his legs were crippled now, but still he closed the distance to the tent before pausing outside. Another scream froze him to the spot.
‘We don’t have to do this,’ Mainard said, fearfully.
But he did have to do this. He owed Gisela at least as much care as she had granted him.
‘Take me inside,’ Ronan ordered, and they both struggled into the confines of the tent.
He was hit by the stench of sweat and blood as soon as he entered. Candles lit the dank interior, and Ronan could see two women ministering to Gisela as she lay on her back in the corner. She was naked, belly swollen, and one of the women was kneeling between her legs.
