Oath bound, p.17
Oath Bound, page 17
‘We will eat like lords tonight,’ Styrkar said.
‘Lords indeed,’ Kenric replied, closing the sack and swinging it over his shoulder. ‘When we get home I will cook us up a feast worthy of a coronation. A rabbit stew like you’ve never tasted. Then we can sell the rest for coin and mead. We are like merchants, you and I. True men of wealth and breeding.’
Kenric smiled up at Styrkar, who didn’t feel the need to speak. But then he never did.
‘That’s what I like about our partnership,’ Kenric said eventually. ‘These long lingering conversations. They’re a constant comfort.’
Styrkar managed to stifle a smile. He had long since grown used to Kenric’s endless chatter, and even learned to take his occasional sarcasm on the chin. It had been something of an adjustment. His friend often cut too close to the bone with that sharp tongue of his, and had it been a fellow housecarl who shot Styrkar such a barb he might have reacted differently. But it was obvious Kenric’s banter was harmless, and he meant nothing by it.
Kenric continued to talk and Styrkar continued to listen as they took the path back towards their home. When they were within half a mile, Styrkar saw the first cloud of smoke billowing above the trees.
He raised a hand for Kenric to be silent and his friend stopped in his tracks, staring up at the black pall rising before them.
‘The town,’ he breathed.
Styrkar dropped his rabbits and grasped Kenric’s shoulder. ‘Stay here. If you see any Frankish warriors hide yourself in the trees.’
‘No,’ Kenric said. ‘I can fight.’ There was little conviction in his voice.
Styrkar shook his head. ‘I have seen this before. Many times. There is nothing you can do.’
‘What about you?’
Styrkar glanced back to the town, feeling his stomach come alive, tasting the cold spittle in his mouth. This was his chance. The opportunity he had been waiting for. The inevitability of his end.
‘It has been good knowing you, my friend,’ was all he could say.
He raced towards the town, leaving Kenric behind him. As he ran he pulled the seax clear of the sheath, feeling the reassuring weight in his hand. Excitement began to well up, anticipation of the fight, the baresark within taking control. The Red Wolf.
In the distance there was a scream from the village. He couldn’t tell if it was man or woman, but it was obvious he was too late to do anything but avenge them. Swords clashed from beyond the trees and he willed himself to run faster, plunging heedlessly through the brush. The closer he got the stronger the stench of smoke, of burning wood. Of death.
Styrkar raced from the tree line, sprinting down the path into town. The flames were high, and it looked like almost every building had been put to the flame. The longhouse burned, the mill along with it, the great wheel he had helped erect now blackened and smoking in the river.
The screaming had stopped, and there were no signs of any marauding warriors as he slowed to a stop at the centre of the town. All that awaited him were corpses.
Styrkar stood amidst the smoke and the heat. Breathing heavily from his run. His eyes scanned the surrounding buildings, but there was nothing left alive. Not even a stray dog to give him hope.
Then the first of them appeared.
He recognised the armour, their mail and helms, spears and shields braced. First one, then half a dozen, then a score. Too many to fight and hope to live. Styrkar gripped the seax tighter, feeling his lips curl back from his gritted teeth.
Let the first of them come. He would show these bastards how the Red Wolf died.
But they did not close in. They surrounded him, keeping a safe distance as they stood and waited.
‘Come on,’ Styrkar snarled. ‘Fight me.’
In answer, a gap appeared in their shields.
A Frankish knight limped forward. He wore no helm and the mail hood was drawn back from his head to reveal a dark mop of hair, shaved at the sides in the Frankish manner. There was an expression of smug superiority to his face. It was a look Styrkar had seen often, just before he turned that smug look to fear, then terror.
‘Greetings,’ said the knight. ‘My name is Ronan of Dol-Combourg.’ His English was as good as any native Styrkar had ever heard and he spoke as though to an old friend. It seemed odd as they stood amid such carnage. ‘I have come in search of the one they call the Red Wolf. And it looks like I’ve found him.’
Styrkar did not answer. He stared at the strange foreigner, waiting for him to make his move, but the man only grinned, before gesturing over one shoulder.
A break appeared in the Frankish shields, and a huge warrior stepped through, dragging a body along with him. Despite the prone man’s battered and bloody face, Styrkar recognised him as Osgar. The giant knight drove his friend to his knees, grabbing his jaw in one massive hand and making him look up.
‘You were surprisingly easy to find,’ said Ronan. ‘I simply followed the corpses left by a red-haired giant until I came upon this place. Though I must admit I am a little disappointed; you are no giant at all. Just a man, if a little on the large side. But from the collar around your neck, I see I have found the right one.’
‘You can talk, Frankish,’ Styrkar said. ‘Now, can you fight?’
Ronan glanced around at his men. ‘We can all fight, my friend. We have nothing to prove on that score. But fighting would be a needless waste. I would rather take you alive.’
‘I will never be taken alive. If you think otherwise, you’re a fool.’
‘Unfortunate,’ Ronan replied.
There was more movement, as some of the knights moved aside, allowing Styrkar to see beyond the circle that surrounded him. More Frankish warriors stood beside the collapsed huts, dishevelled villagers on their knees, women and children among their number. The knights had naked blades in their hands and the intent was obvious.
‘Drop your sword, Red Wolf, and I promise no one else will be hurt. Refuse, and I promise you the massacre of this place has only just begun.’
Styrkar looked from sallow face to sallow face. All he wanted was the chance to fight to the death, but he knew it was not just his own life he would be paying with. There was more at stake than just a last chance at vengeance. He had lived among these people, and they had grown to know him, to accept him as one of their own. How could he risk their lives? There was no question what these foreign bastards would do; Styrkar had seen it all across these lands and knew he had no choice.
The seax slipped from his grip and stuck in the ground by his feet. Ronan smiled at him as his men closed in. The giant who had dragged Osgar across the ground came to stand before him. Styrkar looked up, waiting for his hands to be bound behind him, but before any of the Franks made a move, the giant struck him a crunching blow to the jaw.
He fell, tasting blood in his mouth, smelling the damp earth beneath him. The village spun, and he struggled to push himself up onto his knees.
‘Are you watching?’ Ronan shouted as Styrkar floundered on the ground. ‘This is the one you call the Red Wolf.’
Styrkar could see more villagers being brought forward to witness his capture. Before he could move, the giant kicked him in the ribs, knocking the wind from his lungs.
‘This man is an outlaw,’ Ronan continued. ‘A scourge upon these lands. Defiant in the face of your new king.’ Another kick, and Styrkar felt more pain driven through his body. He became nauseous, the vision blurring at the edge of his periphery.
‘This is your hero,’ Ronan cried. ‘And this is the fate of all those who oppose the new order of things.’
Styrkar had time enough to cover his head with his arms as more of the Frankish knights joined the giant. He had no idea how long they kicked him, but when eventually he could draw breath it felt as though his entire body had been beaten to a blackened pulp.
He could not have fought back, even had he wanted to. But Styrkar knew the time for defiance was over. If the people of Coleselle were to live, he had to sacrifice himself.
As he lay, beaten and bloody in the mud, Ronan came and knelt beside him.
‘Get used to this position,’ he said. Styrkar tried to speak, but his face was numb and all that came from his mouth was blood. ‘Much worse awaits when I finally present you to the king.’
Blackness began to consume Styrkar’s vision, until eventually the mercy of darkness took him.
25
COLESELLE, ENGLAND, JUNE 1067
He was alone in the silence with only his regrets for company. Styrkar’s body ached, his ribs felt as though they had been smashed and with his hands bound behind him he struggled to breathe. Every lungful of air was laboured, and all he could concentrate on was sucking in one agonising breath after the other.
The hut was blackened and burned. One timber prop remained, and he was lashed to it. The burned-out roof let in the night air and Styrkar could see a sky full of stars above. He did not know how long he had been here; consciousness came to him fleetingly before he succumbed to the pain and darkness once more. On occasion it had been light, then dark, and he had been awoken by the screams outside or the laughter of a foreign soldier. Now, with the coming of night, all was silent.
His arms strained against their bonds, but the Franks had bound him tight. It only made him regret his easy surrender all the more. Styrkar should have known not to rely on them to keep their word. He should have fought to the death, and to Hel with the consequences. From the noises he had heard, they had made their sport with the surviving townsfolk despite his surrender. Now he waited for his own fate, trussed up like a sacrificial goat. But regret would not help him now. All he could do was hope an opportunity would arise where he could avenge himself. Deep down, he knew that chance was further away than ever.
Styrkar squinted through the shadows as he heard footsteps approaching. With a creak of the timbered floor, someone entered the hut, carrying a torch that made it impossible for Styrkar to see in the sudden brightness. As he glared through swollen eyes, his sight adjusted enough to see the crippled knight standing in the dark. Ronan, he had called himself. His expression was almost sorrowful.
‘You look in pain, my friend. I wish there was something I could do to make you more comfortable.’ He planted the torch between the floorboards and knelt. ‘Would you like a drink?’ Ronan waved a cup below Styrkar’s nose and he could smell mead. It would have been good to wet his lips with it, but instead Styrkar turned his face away.
‘No? To be honest I don’t blame you. This is far from the worst thing I’ve tasted on this island, but it still does not compare to what I’m used to. In my homeland we prefer wine. When I first arrived here I admit, this stuff turned my stomach, but I think I might be getting a taste for it.’
Ronan stood and took a sip, grimacing at the taste. Then he looked back down at Styrkar.
‘Tell me, where did you come from?’ When Styrkar didn’t reply, Ronan carried on regardless. ‘I will make an assumption that you fought in the great battle. You are a warrior, of that there is little doubt, so how did you survive? Perhaps you ran away before the end? That would explain why I don’t remember seeing you.’
Styrkar gritted his teeth at the accusation of cowardice, but still he did not speak. Instead he fixed Ronan with a defiant glare, though he knew it was a worthless gesture. It only brought a smile to Ronan’s lips.
‘Don’t feel bad, Red Wolf. Running was the best thing to do. The English were destined for defeat. They stood no chance against our horsemen. Your King Harold was a fool to think he could stand against us.’
‘Harold was a warrior king,’ Styrkar snapped, unable to hold his peace any longer. ‘He had already fought and won a great battle. We had marched for hundreds of miles before we even faced you on the field. Put a sword in my hand and I’ll show you what one of his warriors can do. I’ll kill all you Frankish bastards.’
Styrkar strained against his bonds but he knew it was hopeless. He was spouting empty threats.
‘You were one of his personal guard, I would wager,’ Ronan said. ‘I already know your name is Styrkar. That one did not take me long to prise from the tongue of this town’s elder. That is no English name. Norse perhaps?’
‘I am no Norseman,’ Styrkar replied. ‘I am a Dane.’
‘Well, Styrkar the Dane, you may have fought well at the battle – that much I do not question. But you should also have accepted your defeat with grace. You and the rest of your English rebels will find no peace until you bow to the new king. Resistance will not end well for any of you. William is your master now, and there is nothing you can do about it.’
Styrkar gritted his teeth, tasting the blood on his gums, knowing he should have remained silent, but he could not.
‘Harold was not just my king or my master. He was as a father to me. His wife was like a mother. His sons my brothers.’
Ronan raised an eyebrow, looking down with amusement. The expression only served to anger Styrkar even more.
‘I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but Harold’s sons have fled across the sea to the west. They have abandoned this place, and perhaps you should have done the same, Styrkar the Dane. This was not your country and these are not your people. Why would you remain?’
Styrkar knew he should have stayed silent, but it was too late now. He had already begun, and it was most likely that he would die in this place. What did it matter now what this foreign knight knew?
‘I had to stay… for Edith. She had lost everything. She was a mother to me and… the boy Ulf. Harold’s son. And you bastards took him.’ Those last words were spat from bloody lips. Once again Styrkar strained against the rope that bound him, feeling the timber he was lashed to crack under the strain, but still it held him fast.
‘And what of Edith?’ Ronan asked. ‘What changed that you would abandon her for this life of violence?’
The image came back to him in a sickening rush. Edith hanging from the great oak, her flesh pale and frozen in the chill morning air. Her gown fluttering in the breeze as her bare feet swung above the frosted earth.
‘She is dead,’ Styrkar said.
He waited for the next gibe, for Ronan to find his pain amusing, but when he looked up he saw only sympathy on the knight’s face. Ronan took a slow sip of mead before he fixed Styrkar with a mournful look.
‘I too lost my mother. Many years ago, when I was but a boy. And I, like you, was taken in by a second father. The Count of Penthièvre is a hard man, but I suffered his displeasure and served as his squire, desperate for approval. I almost had it too, until the day I fell from a horse, foot caught in the stirrup. It dragged me for miles, and when it finally stopped I was left broken. But I could not allow myself to stay that way. Would not let myself be defined by my one weakness. So I understand what it is to feel pain. To feel loss.’ With a blink of his eyes the sorrowful look was gone. ‘But I have since learned to forget the past. To dwell on your demons only leads to…’ he gestured to Styrkar beaten and bloodied and bound to a post ‘…only leads to destruction. I am not so determined to bring myself low. I have ambition, Styrkar. I am unsatisfied with my lot. It is my goal to live the life of a wealthy man. To have land, power, admiration. Had I fallen into a pit of bitterness I might have become like you, but I learned long ago that you cannot battle against the established rule of law. You have to work within it. What did you possibly hope to achieve, Styrkar? Did you think this Red Wolf would fight his way to the English throne and cut down the king himself?’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Styrkar, fixing Ronan with as defiant a look as he could muster from his battered face. ‘But I would not have given in. I would not have stopped until as many dead foreigners lay at my feet as I could cut down. I would have strangled every last invader with my bare hands given the chance.’
‘Then it was fortunate I stopped you,’ Ronan replied before draining the rest of his cup and flinging it into the dark.
He reached to his side, and for a moment Styrkar thought he might draw a blade and cut his throat. Instead, Ronan pulled the sheathed seax from his belt, kneeling beside Styrkar and drawing the blade a few inches. The steel shone in the torchlight, the runes carved upon it glittering as though enchanted by ancient druidcraft.
‘A beautiful weapon,’ Ronan said. ‘Was this the sword you were going to murder the king with?’
Styrkar had no idea how to answer. He had not even considered how he might kill a king. All he had wanted was to take as many lives as he could until these foreign knights stopped him.
‘At least tell me where it came from. The man who crafted this was an artist. I might well have him make me a weapon of my own.’
If Styrkar told Ronan its heritage he might well have kept Harold’s weapon as a trophy. Paraded it around for all to see – the captured sword of a king. Better Styrkar keep his mouth shut – he had already said more than enough.
Ronan shrugged and rose to his feet, sheathing Harold’s blade once more.
‘No matter,’ he said. ‘This sword will have to suffice. The sword of the Red Wolf. The first of many rewards for your capture. When I give you to the king, he will gift me a gilded sword of my own, I am sure. Rest easy, Styrkar the Dane. You will not have to think on your failure for long. With any luck the king will be merciful and your death will be swift.’
With that, Ronan turned and limped back out of the hut.
Styrkar was left alone with nothing but the starlight, and the prospect of a quick death.
26
COLESELLE, ENGLAND, JUNE 1067
Styrkar woke groggily, with a foul taste in his mouth. Blood had dried on his lips and they cracked as he opened them and tried to suck in a shallow breath. When his chest expanded to help relieve his lungs, the cord that bound his wrists cut deeper into the flesh and he winced at the pain.
The stars had gone now, and through the gap in the roof he could see the dark sky reddening with the dawn. It was then he could smell it; burning, but this was no warming hearth, this was thatch and timber.
