Oath bound, p.18
Oath Bound, page 18
As his eyes focused he could see smoke drift across the sky, followed by the shouts of panicked voices in a language he recognised but did not understand. Smoke began to fill the hut and Styrkar could hear the crackling sound of flames as they licked at a nearby building.
Panic suddenly gripped him, and he struggled against the cord at his wrist. He was bound tight, and there was nothing he could do but dig the cord further into his flesh, feeling the blood pour down his hands.
He coughed, feeling the pain in his aching lungs. This could not be the way he died. He could not perish, gagging for air in a smoke-filled room. The Red Wolf had to die with a weapon in his hand and a bellow of rage on his lips.
Styrkar shouted out, hoping someone might come for him. He was King William’s prize – surely the Franks would not just leave him to suffocate in this hut? Or perhaps Ronan had changed his mind. Perhaps the knight had decided to present Styrkar’s corpse to his king, and choking in a cloud of acrid smoke was the most fitting execution.
His eyes were streaming, the tears running down his bruised cheeks, but through the pall he saw someone rush into the hut. The figure fought its way through the smoke, stopping at Styrkar’s side. The man knelt, and Styrkar could feel him use a blade to cut at the cords binding his wrists.
He felt relief as soon as his bonds were cut, the ache in his shoulders relenting as he flexed his arms. Before he could examine the damaged flesh of his wrists, his rescuer grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. Together they stumbled through the smoke and out of the hut. Styrkar took in a deep breath of air and coughed from the bottom of his lungs. He spat a black gob of phlegm, looking up to see the face of the man who had rescued him. Kenric stared back, his eyes wide with fear, but there was a determined set to his jaw.
The town was on fire and the flames lit up the dawn. Every building had been set alight, and in the midst of the carnage Styrkar could see men fighting in desperation. It looked as though the Frankish knights had been taken by surprise, and they were at pains to defend themselves against the savagery of the townsfolk. Styrkar could only admire their resolve. The invaders had brought death to their town, and now they were taking their vengeance.
He moved to join them, but Kenric grasped his arm.
‘We have to flee,’ he said. ‘There’s no time.’
Styrkar struggled against his friend’s grip, but Kenric held on fast. He was stronger than he looked, and Styrkar had no choice but to let himself be led towards the edge of the town.
His senses were assailed from all sides as they stumbled through the smoke and the fighting. For an instant he was back on the hill at Senlac, surrounded by the screaming and the violence, but he managed to keep his wits long enough for them to reach the edge of the burning buildings.
‘Come on,’ Kenric urged, as they made their way across open ground towards the tree line.
Styrkar risked a glance back, but he could see nothing through the smoke. The sounds of battle had receded now; the crackling of fires was all he could hear.
When they reached the edge of the wood, Kenric paused, planting his hands on his knees and gasping for air. Styrkar hawked another black gob of spit, hands balled into fists. The urge to run back and take the fight to the Franks almost overwhelmed him, but he could see some of the townsfolk fleeing now. They had achieved what they wanted; to spit their defiance in the face of the invaders. To rescue whoever the Franks might have left alive. Now all that remained was to flee.
‘We have to keep moving,’ Kenric said.
Styrkar didn’t try to argue, no matter how much he wanted to exact his vengeance, and he followed Kenric deeper into the wood. They fled west across land he was unused to, their main hunting ground lying to the north and east. Kenric led a fast pace, and Styrkar realised how weak he was from being beaten and lashed to a post. Any other day he would have far outpaced his friend, but today he struggled to keep up.
Eventually they reached a clearing, overlooked by an ancient elm tree, and Kenric slumped down on a fallen trunk.
‘What is going on?’ Styrkar asked, refusing to sit despite the ache in his legs.
‘I met up with some of the others who fled when those knights arrived. At first all they wanted to do was run to the hills, but some of them were angry, their families still in the town. Didn’t take long for them to decide to fight back under cover of dark.’
‘That was brave of them,’ Styrkar said.
‘More like stupid,’ said Kenric. ‘Luckily someone came up with the plan of burning those Franks while they slept, rather than taking them on in a fight. Better to set the whole town afire than leave it to those bastards.’
‘That someone was you?’
Kenric shrugged, but his grin took the credit.
‘You have my thanks for not leaving me there,’ Styrkar said.
‘Wouldn’t abandon my old mate, would I? I hope you’d do the same for me.’
Styrkar nodded, though to his shame he didn’t know if he would. He had been obsessed with killing and revenge for so long, it was more likely he would have perished on a Frankish spear while Kenric choked to death in the smoke of the fires.
Before he could admit the truth, someone came into the clearing. There were two of them, a man and a woman, although they were barely out of their youth. The girl had a desperate look to her, face blackened by soot. The young man’s handsome face was marred by a deep frown.
‘Is this it?’ said the man. ‘Are we in the right place?’
‘That you are,’ said Kenric. ‘Where are the others?’
As though in answer, more townsfolk made their way from the trees. Styrkar recognised most of them, ordinary men, women and children he had lived among for the past weeks. Each one bore some scar from their experience, whether a wound or a face marred by loss. Every last one of them had changed from the carefree folk of old. It was a look Styrkar recognised only too well.
Around twenty townsfolk eventually gathered in the glade, and the last of them to arrive was Osgar. His face was still a swollen mass of bruises but there was a grim look to him. From the axe he carried in his hand, Styrkar could only guess that he had taken his vengeance on the Franks.
‘What do we do now?’ someone in the crowd said.
‘The next town is not too far,’ replied someone else. ‘If we follow the river—’
‘We can’t go to a town,’ a third one interrupted. ‘The Franks will follow us there for sure. We have to go deeper into the woods.’
More voices joined in, and before long the whole crowd were arguing and panicking over what they would do and how they would survive this. Styrkar had heard enough.
‘You are all outlaws now,’ he said, raising his voice above their squabbling. ‘For now and forever you will be fugitives from the wrath of the new king. He will not stop until he has tracked you down and made an example.’
If Styrkar had been hoping to inspire them into further defiance against the foreigners, it did not work. A couple of the women began to weep. Men put their heads in their hands in despair.
‘There is a better way,’ Kenric said, rising to his feet. ‘To the west they say a Saxon lord has risen in rebellion. His estates were taken from him and he has retreated to the Marcher Lands. From there he strikes back against the invaders, gathering more support to him by the day.’
‘Earl Eadric,’ said Osgar. ‘I’ve heard of him. He fights against the new king and it is said the Franks fear him. Kenric is right. We should travel west and find this rebel lord. Pledge ourselves to his cause. Surely he can protect us?’
The crowd seemed encouraged. With little other choice, this seemed their only chance for survival, but Styrkar was not so convinced.
‘Will you come with us?’ Kenric asked.
Styrkar shook his head. ‘I have had my fill of lords and fealty. There was only one king I was loyal to and he is dead.’
‘What will you do?’
Styrkar watched as the townsfolk began to gather their meagre belongings, some of them already making their way west through the trees.
‘I will recover. Regain my strength, and then I will kill the next Frankish patrol I find.’
‘So you’ll die?’ said Kenric. ‘You’re a fool, Styrkar. You would throw your life away rather than join with us? Rather than pledge yourself to a man who fights our enemy?’
Styrkar began to see the sense in Kenric’s plan. Whoever this Earl Eadric was it was obvious they fought for the same cause. But the prospect of kneeling before another lord angered Styrkar almost as much as the thought of facing the Franks again.
‘Are you coming?’ Osgar called. The rest of the townsfolk had gathered now and begun the journey west.
‘Well?’ asked Kenric.
Reluctantly, Styrkar nodded. ‘Very well. Let us see what this Saxon lord has to offer.’
‘It makes sense,’ said Kenric, slapping Styrkar on the arm. He winced at the blow, feeling the rawness of his bruises.
Together they made their way west, leaving the burning town of Coleselle behind them. Styrkar could only hope this Eadric was a man worth making an alliance with.
27
THE MARCHER LANDS, ENGLAND, JUNE 1067
They had walked for four days with little rest. It had been important they put as much distance between themselves and the Franks as possible, and Styrkar had led them at a challenging pace. Mothers and fathers carried their sleeping children when they had to, but on the whole he had been impressed with their fortitude.
When Styrkar found himself in unfamiliar lands, Osgar had taken over, leading them along the hidden paths to the border. They could not walk the main roads and pathways, and had to avoid settlements of any kind lest news of their passing reach Frankish ears. That would have been the doom of them all.
The land changed the closer they got to the Marcher Lands, turning from flat fields and woodland to barren hills. The closer they got to the lands of the Welsh princes, the more vivid Styrkar’s memories of this place became.
It had been almost four years since he had last come here. Gruffydd of Llywelyn had proclaimed himself king of all Wales and become a thorn in the side of the English. Harold had no choice but to bring this Welsh warlord to heel. It had been a hard struggle, and Styrkar had carved out his formidable reputation in those bloody days of war. Eventually, Harold routed the Welsh armies to the four corners of their kingdom and was presented with Gruffydd’s head by his own subjects. To add insult, Harold had also claimed the Welsh king’s wife, Alditha, some years after.
Styrkar had mixed feelings about those days of battle. He had relished the chance to prove himself a deadly warrior, but that reputation had been hard won. The Welsh were fierce warriors, and Styrkar had to become a savage to match their ferocity. The Red Wolf had truly been born in the Welsh mountains. Now, as they neared the Marcher Lands, he could only hope the Red Wolf would rise once more, and this rebellious earl would give him the chance to rebuild his reputation on the corpses of a different enemy.
It was the morning of the fifth day and they had rested briefly in the night, before Styrkar roused the townsfolk of Coleselle. Osgar led the way once more. He was well travelled, spending his early days as a trader, and he had not led them awry so far, so Styrkar had no reason to doubt his sense of direction.
After some time walking a scant path under a dreary sky, Osgar stopped.
‘What is it?’ Kenric asked.
Osgar gazed at the mountains on the distant horizon to the west. To the north Styrkar could see a distant tower, most likely a church.
‘We are here,’ Osgar said. ‘The Marcher Lands. Beyond those hills in the distance lie the kingdoms of the Welsh.’
‘So now what?’ Kenric replied. ‘How do we find this Eadric?’
Osgar shrugged.
To the south, Styrkar could see a distant plume of dark smoke rising into the grey sky.
‘That might be a good enough place to start,’ he said, gesturing towards the steady stream of black smoke.
‘That could just be the fires of a settlement,’ Kenric said.
‘Or a burned-out village.’ Osgar sounded worried.
‘Do either of you have any better ideas?’ Styrkar asked.
The silence that followed was the only answer he needed.
Styrkar led them south towards the smoke. The closer they got, the more they realised that this was not the wood smoke of a longhouse or the fire from a smithy. The cloud was thick and drifting a long way on the breeze.
‘Maybe we should think about this?’ Kenric whispered as they got closer.
‘And do what?’ Styrkar said.
‘How about not walking into a trap?’
‘Then where should we go?’ Styrkar snapped, fast losing his temper.
Kenric had no ideas, neither did Osgar. Despite the danger, the rest of their motley group followed them, the prospect of a Frankish patrol seeming to frighten them less than another day in the wilderness.
When they were close enough, they could see the wooden walls of the hamlet had been burned, and the blackened skeleton of the village within was visible. There was no sign of life – no wailing villagers, no pillaging Franks.
‘You think it’s safe?’ Osgar asked.
‘Only one way to find out,’ Styrkar said, striding forward.
He picked his way through the fallen timbers of the gate, conscious that the rest of their refugee band was already following him. If there was someone lurking in wait they would stand no chance, but there was nowhere to run anyway.
Styrkar gripped his axe tight, looking around for any sign of life, but there was nothing but corpses and dead livestock. The bodies lay naked – if they had been Frankish knights then their armour had been stripped from them, but by the cut of their hair, everyone who had dwelt here was English.
Someone shouted out, and Styrkar turned, ready for battle, only to see a group of the refugees falling on the gutted carcass of a pig. There was no telling how long it had lain rotting in the mud, but these people were half starved, and didn’t care. They took out their knives and began to butcher the carcass like wolves falling on a doe.
‘I see no Franks,’ said Osgar, gaping at the carnage. ‘What has happened here?’
‘Perhaps they took their dead with them?’ said Kenric. ‘Or they suffered no casualties?’
‘Or maybe this was not the work of the Franks,’ said Styrkar.
There was a clatter of timbers, and the men spun to see what had caused the commotion. From beneath the collapsed remnants of a nearby hut crawled a young man. His face was soot-blackened, his arms spindly, and he staggered towards them.
‘Mercy,’ he wailed in a child’s voice. ‘Please, mercy.’
As he fell to his knees at Osgar’s feet, Styrkar could see he was but a boy. Osgar knelt beside him, offering water from a pigskin. The youth took a deep draught until he coughed spittle down his chin.
‘What happened here, lad?’ Osgar asked.
‘They burned it,’ the boy replied, through his sobs.
‘Who did?’ Osgar gripped the boy’s arm, as though trying to squeeze the hysteria out of him. ‘Was it the Franks?’
The boy began to focus, staring Osgar in the eye before shaking his head. ‘No. It was the earl. Eadric the Wild did this. He knew we had given shelter to the Franks, but what choice did we have? They would have killed us if we refused. He came at night, razing this place to the ground so that the Franks could no longer use it and set everyone to flight.’
Once the words were out of his mouth, the boy collapsed to his hands and knees, sobbing uncontrollably. Osgar patted him on the back before rising to his feet.
Kenric turned to Styrkar, a worried expression on his face. ‘Eadric did this? The man we have walked a hundred miles to join up with?’
Osgar glanced about the ruined settlement. ‘He is as savage as the invaders,’ he said.
Styrkar shook his head. ‘This was not the work of a savage,’ he replied. ‘It is a sound strategy. Leave the enemy nowhere to rest or resupply.’
‘Are you mad?’ Osgar snapped. ‘These folk are English. These are the very people he should be protecting.’
‘Eadric is fighting a war,’ Styrkar replied. ‘These people are the casualties.’
‘And what about our people? What will you tell them? That we seek to join up with a murderous savage who burns a village to hinder his enemies?’
‘His enemies are our enemies, Osgar. Besides, if we do not find Eadric soon it won’t matter if he is a savage or a nobleman – we’ll all be dead.’
‘He’s right,’ said Kenric. ‘If the Franks find us before we find Eadric none of this matters. He’s our only hope.’
That did not seem to satisfy Osgar, and he tramped off to see if there was anything worth salvaging from the burned-out settlement. Styrkar allowed the refugees to search for what they could, but as the day turned to evening he gathered them together, and they headed west once more. They could not very well stay here. If a Frankish patrol was drawn to the smoke of the village they would be discovered for sure.
As the sun fell, they made camp and gathered around three fires. Osgar organised men to stand watch as he had done every other night, and Styrkar sat beside the fire until his turn came, pulling the filthy cloak he had salvaged from the settlement about him to ward off the cold.
The wind blew across the camp, sweeping the fires into dancing patterns as someone began to sing a low and mournful song. The lone voice was joined by a second, until half the camp was singing a soft lullaby to their slumbering children. It wasn’t until a stranger stepped from the darkness into the firelight that the singing stopped.
Styrkar’s hand went to the axe at his belt, and he silently cursed the men on guard for not doing their job. As the stranger came into the light, striking a hulking figure, Styrkar could see more newcomers lurking on the periphery of the camp.
Though there were more than twenty of them sitting about the fires, the man showed no fear. He was bedecked in furs, a vast mop of hair and beard covering his head. From within a scarred face stared two piercing eyes that shone on the firelight. As he peered through the darkness, Styrkar could see they were surrounded by a savage-looking mob, but they kept to the shadows, hanging back as their leader crouched by the flames.
