Oath bound, p.30
Oath Bound, page 30
Mainard nodded enthusiastically, leading the way through the dark. Ronan followed, half hoping that the man’s information was worthless and he’d have the excuse he’d need to relieve his boredom.
44
BRIEN, ENGLAND, JANUARY 1068
The rabbit-skin cloak was wrapped tight around his shoulders as Styrkar worked away at the wood. The winter air was chill, but so far the season had been mild. Nevertheless, he was thankful for the crackling fire that warmed the room.
In one hand he held the small knife, in the other was the wood he was gradually whittling away at. As always, he’d had no idea what kind of figurine he was carving when he began, but gradually a gull was revealing itself. A head, a wing, tapering tail feathers all appearing as though he had no control over what he was creating.
Before they came to this place it had been years since he’d last carved, and he had forgotten what a simple joy it was to create something from a simple block of wood. The process allowed his thoughts to drift and a smile crossed his face as he fashioned the final touches.
Gisela had helped turn this old ruin into their home. Together they had restored it as best they could – thatch for the roof, stone to rebuild the walls, timber to make the door. At first they had still spoken of leaving, of taking a boat across the sea to Flanders where they might start anew, but those conversations had waned. Now this was their home. Remote and peaceful. Styrkar had never thought that this might be a life he would crave, but most men had no idea what they truly wanted until it was forced upon them.
When he had finished carving out the gull and smoothed over the rough edges with a stone, he stood and placed it on a shelf alongside the other animals he had carved. Wolf, bull, squirrel, raven. All stood side by side on the mantel. Styrkar held his hands out to warm them on the fire as he looked proudly at his creations. He had spent so many years destroying, he had never learned to appreciate the simple pleasure that could be gained from creating something.
A fleeting thought crossed his mind that perhaps, in the coming months, he might be able to carve something for a child, but he dismissed it as soon as it came. He and Gisela had not talked about such things, and Styrkar did not want to encourage those thoughts. Did not want to raise his hopes of something that might end up dashed. He was happy to simply exist without thinking too much on the future.
The door to the villa opened, and Gisela entered. Her face was flushed from the cold, her body encased in layers of bulky animal skins. She had been skinning a fox outside and her hands were still moist from the labour. It was something Styrkar would have preferred to do himself, but she had insisted.
‘Someone is coming,’ she said.
Immediately Styrkar reached for the crude axe he had made and walked out into the cold air. Along the coastal path he could see a lone figure making his way south, approaching with haste.
‘Who could it be?’ Gisela asked. She had followed him out into the cold. Styrkar would have preferred her to stay inside where it was safe, but he had learned the hard way that she was not a woman to be told what to do. It was a quality he couldn’t help but admire in her.
As the man came closer, Styrkar recognised him beneath the heavy hood of his cloak.
‘Kenric,’ he said, feeling some relief that it was a friendly face.
When Kenric was within a few yards a smile crossed his lips, but Styrkar noted it did not reach his eyes.
‘It’s good to see you,’ Styrkar said, as he approached.
‘The feeling’s mutual,’ Kenric replied, stepping forward to grasp Styrkar in a hug.
‘Come inside,’ Gisela said. ‘You must be freezing.’
They stepped into the villa, and as Gisela threw another log on the fire, Kenric hunkered down in front of it, rubbing some heat into his limbs.
‘I didn’t know if you’d still be here,’ Kenric said. ‘Part of me was hoping you’d be long gone.’
‘Then why have you come?’ Styrkar replied. ‘I take it your journey has been a long one. Why make it if you were unsure you’d even find us?’
‘I wanted to warn you,’ Kenric said, rising to his feet and fixing Styrkar with a grave expression. ‘It’s the least I owe you, friend.’
‘Warn us of what?’ Gisela asked.
‘Earl Eadric is hunting you. He has travelled south with some of his housecarls and the fiercest Welsh hunters the Prince of Powys could spare. He wants revenge on you for murdering his men and deserting him. Wants revenge on both of you.’
‘And how does he know where we are?’
Kenric looked to the ground. His shame was obvious. ‘I was hunting to the north. Minding my own business, you might say, when they found me. Wanted to know where you were and I did my best not to tell of it. They beat me, tortured me, but I’m no warrior, Styrkar. I’m not like you. When I said I last saw you to the south, Eadric made me show him the way, but I managed to escape. Took the road here as quick as I could manage to warn you.’
Styrkar stepped forward, and Kenric recoiled as though he might be struck. Instead, Styrkar gripped him by the shoulders. ‘You have my thanks, old friend. I do not blame you for this.’
Kenric nodded, but he still looked deeply ashamed of what he had done.
‘Where is Eadric now?’ Gisela asked, the fear palpable in her voice.
‘Not far north of here. Only a few miles. The Franks are building a fortification, and Eadric chose to camp there. They might still be waiting, so if we leave now we can be miles from here by the time they arrive.’
‘All right,’ Gisela said. ‘Then we will run.’
‘No,’ Styrkar replied. He hadn’t even given his answer any thought, but then he didn’t need to. He was done running. From his past, from the Franks. He would not run away from this.
‘What do you mean, no?’ Gisela said. ‘Are you not listening? Eadric is only miles from here. He could be on his way now, with killers by his side. You cannot fight them all.’
Styrkar looked at Gisela, seeing the fear in her eyes. The desperation. He knew if they fled now, it would not be the last time. They would live their lives in fear forever. There had to be an end to this.
‘Kenric, you must stay here and protect Gisela.’
‘No,’ she said, moving forward and grabbing him by the fur cloak she had made. ‘You’re not to do this.’
Styrkar ignored her, keeping his focus on Kenric, unable to look his lover in the eyes. ‘Tomorrow, if anyone comes down that path but me, you are to take her far away from here. Across the sea to Flanders if you can.’
‘You won’t do this,’ Gisela cried, and as she began to weep he held her close, so the sound of it was muffled against his chest.
Styrkar felt something inside him break, but in this he knew there was no choice. If they were ever to be free he had to face up to his past one last time.
He took Gisela by the shoulders, then placed a hand beneath her chin so she was looking him in the eye.
‘I will be back,’ he said.
She did not reply, but instead reached up to kiss him urgently. When she was done, she turned and fled to another room in the villa.
‘Sure you don’t want me to come with you?’ Kenric said.
‘We both know there’s not much point in that,’ Styrkar replied.
‘Want to borrow my bow?’ he asked, patting the weapon slung across his back.
‘There’s even less point in that,’ Styrkar said. ‘I couldn’t hit a pig barn from five paces, remember?’
Kenric shrugged at the truth of it.
Styrkar placed his axe in his belt beside the tiny knife he wore. Before he left he paused, picking up the torc he had placed away on a shelf. As he fixed it around his neck, old memories returned. Memories of enslavement, of duty, of his thirst for revenge. When this was all over, one way or another, he would fling the thing into the sea. Right now he needed it, for what was the Red Wolf without his iron collar?
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, friend,’ Kenric said, as Styrkar opened the door to the tiny house he had made.
He paused for a moment on the threshold, dismissing the nagging urge to stay. To gather his things with Gisela and run. Then he closed the door behind him.
As he made his way north he hardly felt the winter chill. No sooner had he begun to walk the long coastal path than he saw a companion dart from the brush, padding alongside him.
The wolf looked up eagerly, as though they were on the hunt together. It looked thin, like it had not eaten for days.
‘Not long now, my friend,’ Styrkar said, his words leaving a trail of mist as he thought about the death he was about to deal. ‘Soon you will get to eat your fill.’
45
WORLE, ENGLAND, JANUARY 1068
Kenric had been right, the hunters were not far north. By the time Styrkar had covered the ten or so miles along the coast, night had fallen, then all he had to do was follow the fires in the distance. They had not moved yet, as though they were waiting for something, or someone. Surely they could not have known he was coming? Kenric had told him Eadric was keen to pursue his quarry. If he knew where Styrkar was, why did he wait here?
Styrkar put those thoughts from his mind as he crept through the dark, the outline of the half-built fortifications coalescing before his eyes. There was no need to think on such things now – he had to focus on the job at hand. The job of killing.
The sound of voices pealed out through the dark. These men were not expecting to be attacked, not anticipating that the hunter might become prey.
Earthworks had been built around the base of the hill, some of the wooden timbers already erected. The skeleton of the castle sat atop a steep mound, offering a perfect view of the surrounding countryside. When its construction was complete, this would be a formidable bastion to attack. But it was not completed yet.
The closer he got, the louder the noise grew. English and Welsh voices competed on the night air, as though their uneasy alliance meant the only way they could fight was by drowning one another out with their din. It would be to Styrkar’s advantage.
He crept closer, pausing in the dark as he saw a bulky warrior patrolling the fort’s perimeter. An axe was slung over one of his shoulders but from his vantage point, Styrkar could not see if he was armoured. Instead of a helm he wore a thick hat of fur to ward against the cold. It was all the opening Styrkar would need.
As the man walked past him, just visible in the ambient light from the camp, Styrkar darted forward. He had a chance to see the warrior’s eyes widen as Styrkar fell on him from the shadows, knife stabbing out to pierce the man’s throat. They both fell to the ground and Styrkar clamped his hand over the man’s mouth to stifle his gurgling cries. He struggled, but with all Styrkar’s weight upon him there was nothing he could do but exhale his last blood-filled breath.
When the warrior was still, Styrkar stood, waiting in the dark. A howl of laughter from the camp told him they had not heard the murder, and he picked up the man’s axe and stripped the sword from his belt. The man wore mail beneath a thick fur cloak, but there was no time to don it. Styrkar had to keep moving, had to be swift with the killing.
Climbing up past the earthworks, he looked across the flat top of the mound. Three fires burned, half a dozen men hunkering around them, sharing their skins of ale and the skewers of meat they had cooked. Horses were tethered at the other side of the camp, whickering nervously as the warriors cajoled one another.
Styrkar could have rushed in, could have cut down at least two of them before they knew they were even under attack, but the rest would have overcome him in no time. There had to be another way.
Silently, he crept around the edge of the camp. Scaffolding had been erected to support the building of ramparts, and as he ducked beneath the timbers he came upon a bale of straw. Barrels of pitch sat next to it, used to seal the gaps between the timbers of the palisade.
Lifting one of the barrels he hefted it, testing the weight. He could easily throw it across the camp, but whether his aim would be true was another matter. Quietly he cracked open the lid, raising the barrel to shoulder height before he let fly.
Pitch spilled onto his furs as he launched it across the camp. It came down beside one of the fires, spilling its load and scattering flaming tar across the camp. One man was caught in the flames, burning pitch sticking to his legs and igniting his cloak.
As the man screamed, Styrkar sent another barrel flying. This one shattered in the midst of another fire, the pitch spreading to ignite the scaffold erected nearby.
The camp erupted in confusion, a couple of the men trying in vain to douse the flames that were consuming one of their number. Styrkar took his chance, darting forward, a growl issuing from his throat as he raised his makeshift axe and buried it in the head of a bellowing Welshman. Before his victim fell, Styrkar darted off into the darkness.
Eadric was on his feet now, shouting at the warriors, but his voice was lost amidst their panicked cries.
As Styrkar stalked the perimeter in the blackness, one of the Welsh fled from the camp in a panic. Styrkar lurched from the shadows, sword flashing across the warrior’s throat. The Welshman staggered back, gurgling his last.
One of Eadric’s men screamed that they were surrounded, as the remaining Welsh bellowed in their own language.
‘Stand your ground,’ Eadric ordered, but it was too late.
The nerve of the Welsh warriors gave out and they scattered from the camp, fleeing into the surrounding dark. Only Eadric, Wulfsige and one of his men stood firm.
Styrkar saw no need to wait. He could not tarry, or the Welsh might regain their courage and return. He charged, raising the Dane axe high. The last of Eadric’s men turned, only managing to vainly raise his arm as Styrkar brought the axe down, caving in the front of his head. As he fell dead, Wulfsige bellowed, rushing at Styrkar and battering him back with the boss of his shield.
The axe went flying into the night, and Styrkar pulled the sword from his belt as he staggered backwards. The flames of the fire had taken now, the scaffold along with the half-built palisade was burning furiously.
Wulfsige came again, his axe flashing in the firelit night, and Styrkar was forced onto the back foot. He staggered, the flames licking at his clothes and igniting the pitch that had spilled on his fur cloak.
As the fire singed his face and beard, Styrkar dropped the sword in his hand, slapping at his cloak in vain.
‘Come on bastard,’ Wulfsige bellowed with relish, charging in one last time, raising his axe for the killing blow.
Styrkar tore off his cloak, flinging it at Wulfsige. The flaming furs wrapped around his shield, fire licking at his face and as he staggered back, Styrkar leapt forward, shoulder crashing into his chest and knocking him back to the ground.
Wulfsige grunted, Styrkar’s full weight on top of him. The temptation to smash the man’s face with his fists was almost uncontrollable, but Styrkar’s instincts were screaming at him.
He rolled aside, just as Eadric charged in, axe raised.
The earl brought the weapon scything down as Styrkar dodged, the blow that was intended for him hacking into Wulfsige’s chest. The housecarl let out a piteous squeal as his ribs were crushed, his last breath squeezed from his lungs by the axe head.
Eadric struggled to pull the weapon free, planting a foot on his still-writhing housecarl. Styrkar jumped to his feet, scrambling across the camp towards a burning corpse that lay by the fire. The flames licked at his arm as he grasped the man’s sword from its sheath and wrenched it free.
No sooner had he grasped the weapon than he was forced to duck another swing of Eadric’s axe, the earl growling savagely. Styrkar leapt back out of range and the two men stood assessing one another.
‘It didn’t have to come to this,’ Eadric said.
‘It would always have to come to this,’ Styrkar replied. ‘You should have let me go. Should have forgotten you ever laid eyes on me.’
‘Some things can’t be forgotten, Red Wolf,’ Eadric said, hefting the axe once more and advancing.
Styrkar waited, picking his moment as the axe came crashing down. He dodged, feeling the air part as the axe missed by a hair. Then he darted forward, sword flashing to slice into Eadric’s thigh.
The earl bellowed, incensed at the wound, limping after Styrkar and swinging the axe about his head like a berserker. Styrkar dodged through the flames, ducking and swaying aside as the axe split the air around him. Eadric was breathing heavily now, and with one last burst of effort he leapt through the flames at Styrkar, bellowing his terrifying war cry.
Styrkar swung, his eyes never leaving the axe, as he cleaved the haft in two. Eadric barely had a chance to realise he was holding nothing more than a useless stick as Styrkar smashed the pommel of his sword into the earl’s face.
Eadric fell back, crashing to the ground. There he floundered, spitting blood and teeth as Styrkar stood over him victorious. When the earl looked up at him, there was a crimson smile on his gap-toothed mouth.
‘Get on with it,’ he said. ‘Don’t gloat, boy. It’s beneath you.’
Styrkar’s hand twitched, as though the sword yearned to strike the killing blow. Instead, he lowered the weapon.
This was what Eadric wanted; to perish in battle at the hands of a fierce warrior. But Styrkar was no longer slave to another man’s desires. No longer blinded by loyalty and the lust for revenge. He would decide his own fate now, and he stared down at the beaten warrior. The only sound was the crackle of flames and the panicked cries of the horses still bound to the burning palisade.
‘You are beaten,’ Styrkar said. ‘Coming after me was foolish.’
Eadric laughed again and it turned into a hacking cough as he spat out more blood. ‘It looks that way, boy. Enough talk. Strike the blow.’
‘No,’ Styrkar replied. ‘I will not. And because I have spared your life you will vow never to come after me again. You will forget the name of Styrkar the Dane. Go back to the Marcher Lands and lament the day you ever thought you could kill me.’
