Oath bound, p.4
Oath Bound, page 4
Styrkar had run with the survivors and now only five of them remained. A glance back through the trees told him their pursuers were not ready to give up yet, but if they could just reach the boat even a crew of five might be able to escape.
They burst from the thick canopy, out onto an open field. Ahead Styrkar could see the vast blue of the sea, and smell the salt in the air. They weren’t far.
‘Come on,’ Ordulf wheezed at them from up ahead. ‘Faster, you dogs.’
Ragi and Kjartan sped on past, and Ordulf watched as Styrkar helped Topi along. For a moment Styrkar thought he might also help the young warrior, but instead he turned and ran after the other two.
Sparing another glance back, Styrkar could see their pursuers crashing through the brush in the distance. They weren’t far behind, and he pulled Topi along more eagerly.
When they’d almost reached the beachhead, Styrkar could smell something other than the sea. There was an acrid stench of smoke in the air, of something that had been burned just a few hours before. As he reached the headland he stopped, glaring down at the beach.
‘Shit!’ Ragi shouted at the sky. ‘We are cursed.’
The five of them looked down at the remains of their ship. It had been set on fire, the front half now little more than charred timbers, the rest floating uselessly in the sea. There would be no escape.
Ordulf drew his sword, still panting from their flight. Ragi pulled his axe and Kjartan just stood, hands by his sides, his weapons lost in the earlier fight.
‘Remember who we are,’ Ordulf said as Styrkar laid Topi down on the ground. The young warrior was pale, his flesh clammy as he gripped the wound in his side. Blood had poured down his thigh, soaking his leggings. His sword was still in its sheath but he looked in no condition to wield it.
‘We will not die like farmers or fishermen,’ Ordulf continued. ‘We are warriors.’
If Ragi or Kjartan shared their leader’s enthusiasm for a noble death, neither was in the mood to say so.
Styrkar stood with them, facing the trees, awaiting their fate to come rushing out to cut them down. But it did not rush. The English knew they had the Norsemen cornered. There was no longer any need for haste.
Three warriors came forward carrying shield and axe. Then another three. Then a half dozen. They stood a few yards away, watching, as though unwilling to take on the beaten and wounded raiders.
‘What are you waiting for?’ yelled Ordulf as loud as he could manage. ‘Which of you will fight me?’
A few of the English glanced at one another in confusion, a couple of them shrugging.
‘I don’t think they understand you,’ said Kjartan.
Ordulf fixed him with a withering glare, eyebrow raised. ‘I can bloody well see that,’ he replied.
Styrkar heard the snort of a pony from within the wood. From beyond the trees walked a black horse, its rider staring intently. The English warriors made a gap for him to ride through and he sat atop the mount, glaring at the beaten raiders. His chin was clean-shaven, a dark moustache drooping down past his mouth, giving him a grim aspect.
Another rider came to join him and they both regarded the raiders. Styrkar felt his hands begin to shake and he balled them into fists. He was determined to show no fear, even at the end… especially at the end.
‘I will fight you,’ said the mounted warrior. He spoke the Norse language like a native.
As he climbed down from his horse, the second rider began to protest. Styrkar could not understand what was being said but it was clear he was not happy with this man rising to Ordulf’s challenge.
Despite the protest, the warrior ignored the other rider, taking his shield from his pony’s saddle and drawing his sword. Ordulf stepped forward, sword in hand, hefting his own shield. He planted his feet in front of the English warrior and raised his head.
‘If I beat you, will your men grant my freedom?’
The warrior shook his head. ‘You will die here today,’ he replied. ‘All that’s in question is how… fighting for your life, or begging for it.’
That was all Ordulf needed to know, and he roared as loud as his hoarse throat would allow, charging forward, sword raised.
The English warrior braced himself as Ordulf smashed into him. It barely knocked him back a step and he countered, smashing his sword once, twice, three times against Ordulf’s shield. Styrkar watched as their leader stumbled under the blows, staggering back against the power of his enemy.
Shaking his head, Ordulf charged in again. This time he tried to batter the warrior back with his own shield, but the Englishman moved aside, the impetus of Ordulf’s charge making him stumble forward. The warrior hacked in with his sword, opening up the back of Ordulf’s neck.
The raider staggered, desperate to stay on his feet but his legs would not obey him and he fell to his knees. The English warrior did not gloat in his victory, wasting no time as he struck again, severing Ordulf’s head from his shoulders.
He turned to face the rest of them. ‘Who is next?’ the warrior asked.
Ragi and Kjartan looked to one another, unsure of what to do. Kjartan shook his head, splaying his hands to show he was unarmed. Ragi looked to the row of English, realising this was his last day, that there was no other way than to die. For the first time Styrkar saw fear in these men’s eyes and it sickened him to his stomach.
All their talk of great deeds, all their talk of dying a hero’s death was nothing more than wasted air. They were just like any other men. They were not great warriors. They were cowards.
Styrkar knelt by Topi, who lay silently in the grass, and pulled his sword from its sheath. Stepping towards the warrior in his bare feet, with no armour but the iron collar at his neck, Styrkar said, ‘I will fight you.’
There was some laughter from the watching English. They didn’t take him seriously, but then why would they? What could he do against this mighty warrior who had just bested the fearsome Ordulf as though he were some worthless sheep farmer?
The English warrior was less amused though, and he regarded Styrkar with a curious look. It took some time before Styrkar realised he was being shown respect. For the first time in his life someone regarded him as an equal.
‘Begin,’ said the warrior with a nod.
Styrkar charged. He raised the sword high, aiming at the shield but intending it as a feint. If he could strike low when the warrior raised it perhaps he had a chance.
The warrior struck forward with his shield before Styrkar had a chance to bring his sword down. The rim smashed against his jaw and he went down, dazed, the grass soft against his face.
Rage bubbled within him, threatening to consume him. He had lived his life as a dog, scrabbling in the dirt to survive. There was no way he would die in the same manner.
Picking up the sword once more, he charged again. This time the warrior parried his blow, sending the sword spinning from his grip before driving the pommel of his weapon into Styrkar’s nose.
Stars flashed before his eyes as he fell backwards. The copper tang of blood filled his mouth. Styrkar floundered, expecting the final blow to come, but as his eyes focused he saw the warrior was waiting patiently. Though his hands were shaking, Styrkar was no longer afraid, just furious. He would not die like this. He could not die like this.
‘Come on,’ he said, as he staggered to his feet. ‘Kill me. Come on.’
The warrior stood unmoving. It only served to fill Styrkar with yet more anger, and he bellowed from the bottom of his lungs, charging like an animal, unarmed, unarmoured. This would be his death, but anyone who cared to witness would not see him die a slave.
He didn’t even see the shield coming this time. It took him in the side of his head, driving him to the ground. All the strength was gone from his limbs, and yet he still tried to drag himself to his feet. A kick drove him back to the dirt, and before he could think to rise once more, the warrior planted a heavy foot in his chest.
‘You have courage,’ he said. ‘But my horse has more skill with a sword.’
‘Let me up,’ Styrkar snarled, writhing with all his strength, but he could not move, barely able to breathe beneath the weight of the warrior.
‘What’s your name, boy?’ the warrior asked.
There was no use fighting it now. He was powerless. Best this was over with.
‘My name is Styrkar,’ he said.
‘Not much of a raider, are you, Styrkar?’
‘I am…’ The word was lost on his tongue for a moment, but Styrkar knew what he was, better than any man. ‘I am a slave.’
The side of the warrior’s mouth turned up for the briefest moment and then the smile was gone. ‘You have much courage for a slave. Are you loyal to these men?’ He gestured to Kjartan and Ragi, who stood watching silently.
‘My master is Magni,’ Styrkar replied.
‘And where is this Magni now?’
Styrkar shook his head.
‘If he is not here, then you are a slave with no master. And I can claim you for my own. What say you? Will you die here on this hill, or will you be my slave?’
It was no choice at all.
‘Yes,’ Styrkar replied. ‘I will be your slave.’
The warrior took his foot from Styrkar’s chest and offered his hand. He pulled Styrkar to his feet and clapped a hand to his back. The rest of the English warriors closed in on the other three surviving raiders. Styrkar could not help himself, and he turned to watch. As the English advanced, Ragi ran to meet them but he was hopelessly outnumbered and cut down in an instant. Kjartan and Topi could only wait for the end.
Styrkar did not feel any pity, not even for young Topi. They had come bringing death with them – it was only fitting this was how it ended.
The English warrior pressed his sword pommel to Styrkar’s bruised chin, turning his head away from the killing. ‘Don’t feel bad for them, Styrkar the Norseman. They knew what they were facing when they landed on these shores.’
‘I am no Norseman,’ Styrkar replied. He knew where he came from; he had never been allowed to forget it since the day he had been taken by King Harald. ‘I am a Dane.’
‘I am Harold, son of Godwine. Jarl of Hereford. And you fight like you don’t care if you live or die, Styrkar the Dane. So tell me, do you wish for death?’
Styrkar was unsure how to answer. Before that day he had never been asked his opinion on anything. Living and dying meant little to him, but there was one thing he knew for sure.
‘No, I do not wish for death. I only wish to be free. And if you take this iron from my neck I’ll serve you of my own free will until I am dead… or you are. Whichever comes first.’
Harold nodded. ‘All in good time,’ he replied. ‘First I need to teach you to fight.’
5
BOSEHAM, ENGLAND, SEPTEMBER 1062
The hall stank of sweat and embers. The place was stifling in contrast to the crisp air outside, but for some reason they had chosen to do this indoors. Forty men, all crammed together, the feasting table moved aside to make a space for the fighters.
Styrkar wore his mail shirt but no helmet. In his hands he gripped an axe. Almost five feet of haft topped with a steel head. He remembered the first time he had lifted one of these weapons, how heavy it had felt in his arms. Now he wielded it as though it weighed nothing, but he had grown much in the past few years. Though barely out of his youth, Styrkar was bigger and more powerful than most of Harold’s housecarls.
Opposite him stood Wistan, sword and shield gripped tightly, mail shirt, helmet, that keen angry look he always wore on his face. Styrkar would have thought him a friend, but he knew Wistan had never cared for him. Most of the housecarls treated him as one of their own, but some still considered him a slave. An animal. Harold’s faithful hound.
‘Come on, boy,’ Wistan barked. ‘Let’s have it.’
Styrkar just stood and waited. He couldn’t let Wistan bait him, no matter how loud his bluster. It wouldn’t be long before the man lost patience.
There were shouts of encouragement from the crowd as the men were watched eagerly. Styrkar knew this was a test, but he would not let the occasion get the better of him. He had to take this seriously. Though they were not to strike a wounding blow, Styrkar knew well enough that mistakes were often made in practice fights, and he doubted his opponent would lose any sleep over hacking off a sliver of flesh with his blade.
Wistan bellowed. It filled the hall, and might have served to frighten a lesser man, but Styrkar had faced much more fearsome foes. He had rowed with them, run with them, seen them die. Wistan might make the noise of a devil, but he was a man like the rest.
Styrkar braced himself as Wistan came at him, shield held to the fore. His arm was up, sword raised as he peered over the shield. Raising the axe, Styrkar timed his strike to perfection, bringing it crashing down against the shield. It stopped Wistan in his tracks, sending splinters of wood flying.
Wistan retreated, reconsidering his actions. He was losing face, and to nothing more than a freed slave. Styrkar could see the anger in his eyes, the helmet doing little to mask the man’s annoyance.
‘Come on,’ he shouted again, his frustration growing.
He ran in again, this time slower, more measured, but it gave Styrkar the opportunity he’d waited for. As Wistan brought the shield within range, Styrkar hooked its edge with the axe, yanking it aside and leaving Wistan open. Before the housecarl could retreat Styrkar had brought the haft around, smashing it into the front of Wistan’s helmet.
The housecarl fell back on his arse to a tumultuous cry of approval from the watching warriors.
‘The bloody Red Wolf!’ someone cried.
It was a name they’d chosen to grant Styrkar over the years, as much for his red mane of hair as his quick temper. Though he would never admit it, he liked it.
‘Arseholes,’ Wistan barked, rising to his feet.
He looked ready to go again, and Styrkar took a step back, raising the axe. Before the next attack came, a familiar voice shouted, ‘Enough!’
The hall fell silent. Even Wistan lowered his arms, taking a step back towards the edge of the hall.
Harold came forward from the crowd, standing before Styrkar, looking him up and down. It was a relief when he finally nodded his approval.
‘Good work,’ Harold said. ‘You’ve come far. No longer the animal I chased down on the coast a few years ago.’ That got sniggers from some of the men.
‘He was lucky, this time,’ said Wistan. ‘That boy has the luck of a saint.’
Harold shook his head. ‘He didn’t seem lucky to me. But if you say it’s so, maybe I should test it.’
He held his hand out to Wistan, who obediently handed over his sword and shield. Styrkar felt the hairs prickle at the back of his neck. Harold had taught him sword, axe and spear over the years. They had sparred many times, but never in front of such a crowd. He had never been tested like this.
‘Shall we get to it?’ Harold said.
Styrkar didn’t wait. Later he would have no idea what came over him, but it was as though the wolf inside knew it had to attack or be defeated. He didn’t roar to signal his move, just threw himself forward, axe raised high.
Harold raised the shield, catching the axe as it came down. More splinters of wood went flying, but Harold stood his ground. He batted the axe aside, sweeping the sword at Styrkar’s head. It only just missed, Styrkar ducking to avoid having his skull caved in.
The gathered housecarls were silent now, watching intently. The sense that this was mere practice was gone, and Styrkar knew if he didn’t defend himself as though his life depended on it, he could end up dead.
He struck with the axe again. Harold knocked it aside, but Styrkar was conscious of the counter, darting aside, not relenting, attacking once more. There was a crack as the shield split, and Styrkar knew he had the advantage. He brought the axe down, but Harold dropped his shield, reaching up and grabbing the weapon’s haft, his sword arm moving swifter than Styrkar could comprehend.
He stood frozen, the blade an inch from his eye. All he could do was stare at the rune-carved steel. There was no noise in the hall – everyone was watching, waiting, seeing what their earl would do.
Harold lowered his blade and grinned. It cut through the dread atmosphere, and the housecarls cheered with delight.
Styrkar breathed a long sigh as Harold clapped him on the arm.
‘Much improved,’ he said. ‘The Red Wolf is a warrior to be feared, but you still have a way to go before you can challenge for the earldom.’
More laughter. The thought of any man challenging Harold, whether they could best him in a fight or not, was preposterous. He was one of the most powerful men in the country, second only to King Edward himself. Anyone who took on the son of Godwine had better have the devil’s help. Or an army.
Harold took the axe from Styrkar’s hand and flung it to one of his housecarls. He clapped Styrkar on the back and led him from the hall. As they left there was the sound of more raucousness, as challenges were called and men argued for who would be next to fight.
Outside, Styrkar felt the crisp air cool the sweat on his brow. Harold led them through the settlement, returning nods from the townsfolk they passed until eventually they reached the bank of the river that flowed south to the harbour. Across it a man fished, casting his net in the water. Further downstream another man rowed his swill tub, foraging for samphire in the reeds.
Harold sat on the bank, watching the river as it flowed past, listening to the sound of it. Styrkar was unused to such moments of reflection, but he sat down next to his earl nonetheless.
‘Are you ready for what’s coming?’ Harold asked him.
Styrkar knew exactly what he meant. The power of the Welsh had risen in the west. King Gruffydd had stood as a threat for many years, and Harold’s patience had run dry.
‘I’ve never been more ready,’ he replied.
‘You are one of my most loyal, Styrkar,’ Harold said. ‘Though you have only served me a short time I would rather have you at my shoulder than many men I have known all my life.’
