Oath bound, p.5
Oath Bound, page 5
‘I owe you more than I could ever repay.’ Styrkar remembered that day he had been spared, and all the days since.
‘I hope that’s not the only reason you serve me.’
It wasn’t. Harold had been like a father to him. The father he had barely known. He had taken a worthless slave and fashioned a warrior. Styrkar had never expected to be treated like a son by anyone, let alone a man such as Harold.
‘No,’ he replied.
‘That’s good.’ Harold clapped a hand to Styrkar’s shoulder. ‘Because you are no slave. You were never a slave to me. I would have your faith and loyalty freely given. Not because it is demanded.’
‘You have it,’ Styrkar replied.
That seemed to satisfy Harold. He picked up a stone lying nearby and flung it into the river, watching the ripples it made disappear, dragged away by the flow of water.
‘You still have the collar?’
Styrkar lifted the sleeve of his shirt. Around his wrist was twisted the iron collar he’d worn since he was a boy. It had long since grown too tight to fit his neck and Harold had kept his word, removing it and letting Styrkar serve out of choice rather than obligation.
‘You should throw that thing away,’ Harold said. ‘There is no value in keeping it.’
‘It was a part of me, my lord,’ Styrkar replied. ‘A symbol of my bondage. Now it serves to remind me not to let myself become a slave again.’
‘As you wish.’ Harold gazed across the river. The fisherman was pulling in his catch. From the lightness of his net it was obvious there was little in it. ‘You once told me a story. One your mother told you, of the wolf.’
‘Of Fenrir, yes.’ Styrkar remembered it well. It was the last memory he had of his mother and one he hoped would never leave him.
‘You still believe it? That you are the son of the wolf?’
Harold worshipped his Christian god and had never put any store by the gods of the Danes, but neither had he demanded Styrkar forsake them.
‘As strongly as you believe in the Christ,’ Styrkar replied.
Harold reached inside his tunic, taking out a ring of iron.
‘I have a gift,’ he said. ‘A trinket fashioned in the old ways, a symbol of your heathen gods.’
He handed the ring to Styrkar. It was an iron torc, and at each end had been carved the head of a wolf.
‘I… I don’t—’
‘You don’t have to,’ said Harold. ‘Wear it. Or don’t. Fling it in the river if you like. But never forget who you are, Styrkar the Dane.’
Harold rose, briefly touching Styrkar on the shoulder, before leaving him by the river.
The fisherman cast his net once more. The forager pulled his swill tub from the river.
Styrkar felt the weight of the torc in his hands. It was a precious gift. Worth more than anything he had ever been given. But the value of things was only weighed by their meaning.
He forced the torc around his thick neck. The fit was snug, but not stifling like a slave collar.
As the river flowed by, Styrkar felt as though he had regained something lost in Hedeby all those years ago. For the first time in so long, he had a sense that he belonged.
6
OFFA’S DYKE, WELSH BORDER, SEPTEMBER 1063
‘You will never forget the first man you kill,’ Harold had told him. ‘His face will forever haunt your dreams and you’ll always remember those eyes staring in disbelief as you send him screaming back to God.’
It wasn’t true. Styrkar had already forgotten that first man’s face. Nor could he remember the second, or the third. After the fourth he’d even stopped counting the number of corpses he left rotting in those snow-covered mountains.
The Welsh were a savage people who lived for war. Many greased their hair into spikes, wearing nothing but war paint of pitch and chalk. And shit from the stink of them. Others were noble warriors; armed, armoured and skilled with blade and shield. But Styrkar had stolen the life from the noble just as readily as the savage. He had not cared how bravely they fought nor how kingly they looked. The Red Wolf had risen up and devoured every man who stood against him just the same.
Harold had been true to his word, allowing Styrkar to prove himself worthy of his freedom. They had struck out into the grim Welsh countryside, destroying any who might dare to face them. Harold had gathered a lightly armoured force, easily able to match the enemy for speed and mobility. They had pursued the Welsh King Gruffydd all the way to his fortress of Rhuddlan. Upon finding his enemy already fled, Earl Harold had become enraged, burning the place to the ground and slaughtering every prisoner. Styrkar had never seen his master sink to such barbarity, but he had not balked at it. Indeed, it had stirred him to even greater feats of violence.
Men were looking at him differently now. Men he had thought his friends gave him a wide berth. Others who had previously treated him with disdain now acknowledged him with respect. Or was it fear? Either way he had been proud to finally earn the name Red Wolf, determined that he would gift the head of this upstart warlord to his master. But it was not to be.
Word had been sent that Gruffydd was dead. Murdered by his own followers for fear of what Harold would do were the Welsh king allowed to retake his seat in Gwynedd. Now they awaited proof of the deed.
Offa’s Dyke spanned the length of the Welsh borderlands. It was barely more than a ditch. Whoever this Offa was, he had known little about how to defend a border.
Their ponies whickered impatiently as they sat waiting under the dark grey sky. They were hardy beasts, but not as hardy as their riders. Harold had chosen a dozen of his best to join him. Every man a veteran of his campaign against the Welsh. But the fighting was done. Now they sat and waited as the wind whipped across the flat grassy field, watching to the west, eager to know if the slaughter they had wreaked was to be rewarded.
As a group of horses appeared in the distance the men sat more upright in their saddles, braving the winds that whipped their cloaks about them. Styrkar’s hand strayed to the sword at his side as the riders drew closer, but when he saw they only numbered four he realised they had not come to fight. These were a beaten people. All they had left to show was their fealty.
The four horsemen mounted the ditch, slowing as they neared the dozen gathered before them. Three of them bore the hulking build of warriors beneath their cloaks, where the fourth was slight, face hidden beneath a hood. Harold waited at the front of the group, observing their approach in silence. A grim-looking Welshman reached for a bag strapped to his saddle. With little reverence he opened it, pulling out a severed head and raising it up for all to see. The slack-jawed face of King Gruffydd stared at them with the one glazed eye that remained in his rotting skull.
A second rider dismounted, untying a heavy bundle from his saddle and bringing it forward for Harold. Kneeling, he pulled back the cloth wrapping to reveal a ship’s prow carved into the crude likeness of a dragon head. Most likely it was from the ship Gruffydd had used to flee Harold’s wrath.
As two of his men dismounted to take the prizes they had won, Harold turned to his housecarls.
‘It is done,’ he said. ‘Let’s away.’
But the Welsh were not done yet. One of the warriors nudged his horse forward next to the slight figure who rode with them. He grasped the hood of the cloak and pulled it back to reveal the face of a woman. Her hair was black as night, billowing about her shoulders in the wind. Styrkar was taken with how beautiful she was, but there was steel in her eyes. She looked as though she would have murdered every man present had she the strength.
‘Very well,’ Harold said. ‘Bring her.’
The rain began to patter on their cloaks as they took charge of the woman and turned their horses south. The sky only continued to darken on their journey as Styrkar found himself unable to stop glancing at this woman, curious to know who she could be and why the Welsh would consider her as valuable a gift as Gruffydd’s head.
When finally they reached the shelter of a town some miles from the border, Harold ordered the woman be given her own chamber and had his men watch over it with vigilance. The horses were tended, and the men offered meat and ale as their cloaks dried and beds were prepared. When night drew in, Harold took a place by a fire in the steward’s feast hall. Styrkar sat by his side, in silence at first, but he could not hold his curiosity at bay.
‘The woman?’ he asked. ‘Who is she?’
Harold stared deep into the fire as though it troubled him. ‘She is Gruffydd’s widow. Alditha, daughter to Aelfgar of Mercia. A most troublesome thegn, when he lived.’
‘She had no children by Gruffydd?’ It seemed curious the Welsh would hand her over without them.
A smile curled up one side of Harold’s mouth. ‘The Welsh have clearly seen fit to keep Gruffydd’s issue for themselves. They are kin to the princes, Bleddyn and Rhiwallon. Most likely they will keep their nephews close lest they try and stake claim to Gruffydd’s crown in years to come. Let them. The Welsh are cowed. It doesn’t matter who rules them now.’
‘And what fate awaits Gruffydd’s widow?’
Whether it was a sparking flame from the fire, or a stirring within him, a sudden light flared in Harold’s eyes. ‘She is beautiful, is she not?’
Styrkar could not disagree, despite the concern he felt at Harold’s reaction. ‘Any man would be fortunate to have her as his bride.’
Harold nodded his agreement. ‘Fortunate indeed. Her father Aelfgar was a powerful man. Now he is dead, her brothers, Edwin and Morcar, have inherited that power. I doubt it will be long before she is wed again. Her new husband will gain much favour in the north.’
Styrkar could hear the yearning in his master’s voice. His eyes remained focused on the fire and it was obvious his thoughts were of nothing but Alditha. Was it lust for her beauty, or greed for what he could gain from a union with her?
‘Do you plan to take her for yourself?’ Styrkar asked, wary he could be overstepping his mark. ‘You are already wed.’
Harold shook his head. ‘My marriage to Edith has never been blessed by the church. It would be of little consequence were I to take a wife…’ Styrkar was about to point out Edith was the mother of his children, a woman he had made vows to, when Harold shook his head again as though ridding it of thoughts of Alditha. ‘No matter. King Edward may yet sire an heir with my sister, and I would be uncle to a prince. That would make me powerful indeed. What more could any man want?’
Despite Harold’s reassurance, Styrkar could see the hunger that still lingered in his eyes. He had just defeated a king. Laid waste to a whole country. Would such a man be satisfied with his nephew on the throne of England as he played protector? With every battle he won, and the more influence he gained, his claim to an empty throne of England was stronger. For the first time, Styrkar began to worry about what such temptation might do to his master. He could only hope Harold could resist it.
‘So what is to be done with the woman?’ Styrkar asked, hoping to divert Harold’s thoughts from what might happen to the crown once King Edward was gone.
‘She will be sent back north to her brothers,’ Harold said, a hint of reluctance in his voice before he looked away from the fire and stared Styrkar in the eye. ‘And you will be the one who takes her. I need a man I can rely on with this. There is no one I trust more than you.’
‘Of course,’ Styrkar replied, as keen to get this woman away from Harold as he was to obey his order.
‘That is not all I would ask of you,’ Harold continued. ‘From here I am to travel to King Edward and deliver proof of our victory. Once you have seen Alditha safe, I would have you travel to Walsingaha. You will join Edith on her estate and watch over my family.’
‘No,’ Styrkar said. ‘My place is at your side.’
Harold’s brow furrowed. ‘Your place is where I tell you to be,’ he snapped. Then he sighed, laying a hand on Styrkar’s shoulder. ‘We have fought long and hard this past year. You have served me more faithfully than I could have asked. More than any other man. But we are nearing troubled times. King Edward is old; his health is failing. If he dies with no heir there will be more than one contender for the crown of England. And whether I like it or not, I am one of those contenders. Others might see some advantage to threatening the life of my wife and my heirs. I would see they are protected by someone I can trust.’
Styrkar realised the honour Harold was granting. The responsibility was a heavy one, but Styrkar would bear it.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I will do as you command.’
‘Then it’s settled. Get some rest. You have a long journey ahead.’
Styrkar did as he was bid, choosing a spot close to the fire before succumbing to sleep. He awoke to the sound of slaves sweeping the floor before laying fresh hay. As he stood he barely acknowledged that these poor souls were in the same position he had been a few short years before. But Styrkar had risen from his bondage. He had little pity to spare them.
Outside their horses were already saddled, the cloud having cleared to reveal a bright blue sky. Harold’s men mounted their steeds as the door to Alditha’s hut opened. She held herself with dignity as she was led to a waiting horse and climbed atop it. Styrkar wasted no time in leading the way, accompanied by two more of Harold’s housecarls as they struck north.
Before they left the town, Styrkar noticed Alditha’s steel gaze fall upon Harold as he watched them leave. It was difficult to read her expression as she looked upon the man who had ravaged her husband’s lands and made her a widow. The man who was about to present her husband’s head to the king. The man who might have harboured ambitions to marry her.
It would have been a strange union indeed. And a betrayal of all Harold held dear. But Styrkar would no longer question it. It had never been his place to doubt the motivations of jarls and kings. For now, he would simply obey his master’s word.
7
WALSINGAHA, ENGLAND, AUGUST 1066
He brought the axe down with precision. Styrkar’s practised swing split every log cleanly, the sound of it as crisp as the weather. This was his time, his chance to be alone with nothing but the axe, to build up a sweat, keep himself strong.
He could hear the three boys laughing in the distance. Their horseplay sounded good-natured for now, but he knew at any moment it could turn nasty. But what could he expect from the sons of Harold Godwinson? Their father had recently been crowned king of all England, and they were now heirs to the throne. Better they play out their animosity now than let it fester until one of them wore a crown and his brothers took up their earldoms.
Another swing, another split log and Styrkar considered his work complete. He put down the axe, grabbing a handful of logs, and made his way back towards the main hall. It was an impressive building, stone walls supporting a thatched roof. Other than the churches that were rife throughout this land, it was one of the most impressive constructions he had ever seen. Though that was to be expected considering the standing of the woman who owned this place.
Styrkar entered, greeted by the welcome smell of stew cooking over the fire. The great table was laid out for eight. Edith, her six children and him. As he placed logs in the hearth and stoked the fire to a rage, he couldn’t help but feel more than the fire’s warmth. He felt at home.
A stone bounced off the side of the hearth, and Styrkar turned. Beneath the long table he saw a dirty face peering at him, a grin splitting it from ear to ear.
‘What was that?’ Styrkar said.
Ulf giggled from his hiding place. As Styrkar began to wander the hall looking for the stone thrower, he felt someone slap his behind. He turned sharply, seeing Gunhild standing there, her smile almost as wide as her brother’s.
Styrkar grabbed her, throwing the girl over one shoulder and tickling her ribs. She giggled noisily as Ulf ran from his hiding place to attack. In an instant Styrkar was rolling on the floor, wrestling with the two children who were reduced to fits of laughter.
‘Don’t get them too excited before we eat.’
Styrkar stopped his play-battle as he saw Edith looking down at them. She was the most beautiful woman Styrkar had ever known, though her face had become more careworn in recent months. Young Gytha was smiling by her side, too old to join in with her younger siblings, but still young enough to find their antics amusing.
‘Go tell your brothers supper is ready,’ Edith said to Gytha, and the young girl scurried off obediently.
Styrkar stood, feeling not a little foolish. Though the mistress of this estate treated him well, he still had to remind himself he was not her son. He was Harold’s servant, and as such he was here to protect this family, not become a part of it.
‘Shall we sit?’ Edith said, as her maidservant began to stir the stew on the hearth.
Styrkar did as she asked, and not for the first time felt awkward in the seat. As he watched the maid at work, he was reminded of how far he had risen. He sat at the table of a king, no longer scurrying for the scraps beneath it. Styrkar the Dane had come a long way.
There was an uncomfortable silence as they waited for Edith’s eldest sons. Edith had always been kind to Styrkar but he still did not know how to speak with her. Then again casual conversation had never been his strength.
He meant to tell her how sorry he was for recent events, but simply didn’t know how. She had been Harold’s handfast wife, their union blessed under ancient pagan laws, but now she was abandoned. Despite his vows, the king had taken Alditha as his wife – a union that bonded England’s earldoms by marriage. In Harold’s absence Styrkar had been ordered to stay with Edith, to watch over the family, but he was conscious his presence was a constant reminder of what she had lost. Neither of them had any choice in this.
The silence was broken as Gytha entered, followed by her brothers.
Godwin was the eldest, a man grown and recently granted lands in the south. He was tall, serious, just like his father. Every inch the king he might one day become.
