Shield breaker, p.7
Shield Breaker, page 7
8
Laoighse, Éire, April 1068
The day had started brightly enough, but now no matter which direction they turned their horses it seemed to be straight into the cursed rain. Styrkar might have thought this country held a majestic beauty if he could have raised his head long enough to see it.
He rode at the rear of the column. At its head was King Turlough flanked by his cloaked housecarls. Behind him was Murchad, his own men sticking close, occasionally talking to one another conspiratorially when the rain relented enough for them to do so. On the back of Murchad’s horse was strapped Harold’s banner, folded in sheep’s hide. It should have been proudly displayed in the hall of an English king, but instead it had been given away like a roll of cheap cloth.
Styrkar yearned to claim it for himself, to hold it aloft as he rallied the Saxons against their invaders, but instead here he was, soaked to the skin and forced to follow on this relentless journey. Ironic then, that in a previous life he had followed that banner willingly. Fought in its shadow alongside King Harold. But those days of glory were over. All he had to think on now was returning to Gisela’s side, and the only way to accomplish it was to suffer this trek through the wilds, then return to Dublin with all haste.
His horse stumbled on the rock-strewn path. Not for the first time he thought that perhaps he’d been given this old nag on purpose, to demonstrate his lowly position among this esteemed company. Best not to entertain that notion lest his rage get the better of him and he show these men who the Red Wolf really was. Instead he swallowed down his pride, enduring the ignominy through gritted teeth.
Just as he thought the journey might be more than he could bear, the rain stopped. Styrkar pulled back his hood, letting the sun bathe his face. Yes, he had been right – this truly was a majestic country, but just as he started to enjoy it, Murchad slowed his horse and fell back to ride beside him.
‘This banner must mean a lot to you, Styrkar, that you’d join us on such a miserable journey to see it protected.’ Murchad patted the hide roll strapped to the back of his saddle.
Styrkar glanced down at it, again counting the reasons why he shouldn’t just seize the thing for himself, no matter how many corpses he had to leave in the taking of it.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
Murchad nodded at the answer. ‘I met him once, you know. Harold. Before he was king of course, but it was obvious he was destined for greatness. Truly you are loyal in showing such devotion to a man long dead.’
That much should have been obvious. ‘Yes.’
Again, Murchad nodded at the curt response. ‘And are you just as loyal to his sons? I hear Godwin for one has grown to rely on you.’
Styrkar turned to face him, looking deep into those grey eyes, searching for something, anything that might tell him Murchad was somehow trying to bait him. He found nothing.
‘Of course.’
Murchad let out a long frustrated sigh. ‘Anyway, it’s been good talking to you, Styrkar the Dane. You have certainly helped liven an otherwise dull journey.’
With that he kicked his horse on, leaving Styrkar at the rear of the column once more.
Perhaps he had simply been seeking genuine conversation, to learn a little more about the Red Wolf, but Styrkar was in no mood to parley. He just wanted this done with, so he could get back to Dublin and learn what he needed to before returning to England.
For the rest of the day they trekked west, and Styrkar was left in peace until they eventually neared a settlement on a river. It wasn’t much more than a few fishermen’s huts and a stone-built redoubt, but as the dark sky rumbled ominously it made for a more welcome resting stop than the wilderness of Éire. More than anything, Styrkar was grateful his struggling horse would have a chance to rest before continuing its journey along the poorly-laid road.
They were met by a steward, King Turlough greeted with all the respect due his station, and led inside the fort. Styrkar took some time to see his horse stabled and cared for, before he joined the others inside.
A boy was already playing a wooden flute in one corner as another, perhaps his brother, kept time on a small drum placed between his knees. Murchad and his men sat close to the door, still talking to one another in hushed tones, as Turlough hunkered by the fireside examining his grandfather’s sword. From his stature alone, Styrkar was convinced the king was no warrior, but then Murchad looked little better suited to war. Their men however, were stout of shoulder and watchful of eye, and Styrkar was careful to sit himself with his back to the wall as he warmed himself near the hearth.
‘Will you drink with us, Dane?’ said one of Turlough’s men, holding up a mug.
Styrkar shook his head in reply, turning his attention back to the fire and ignoring the resulting grumble at his refusal. He had no desire to fall to drunkenness at the best of times, least of all now when surrounded by strangers.
Instead he watched Turlough as he caressed the sheathed blade on his lap. Eventually the king looked up and smiled, pride beaming through his white teeth.
‘I know it may not look like much,’ he said. ‘But this weapon is legendary. Briain Bóruma, my grandfather, was a great king, as I’m sure you’ve heard.’
Styrkar shook his head. ‘I do not know of him.’
Turlough raised his dark brows. ‘It surprises me that a man with a reputation like yours would not know of such a respected warrior.’
‘I have known a great many respected warriors. And I have seen most of them buried. No one will ever hear their names.’
He thought Turlough might see the comment as disrespectful, but instead the king nodded his agreement. ‘Aye, the dirt waits for us all. It’s what we do while we’re above it that counts.’
Styrkar looked back into the fire, remembering the task he had to do. Yet here he was, wasting his time with these strangers, allowing himself to be distracted by the war banner of his dead master. A master whose memory he had to betray. This had been folly – he had allowed himself to become waylaid by memories of a better time, by symbols from the past that held no bearing on his future. What did it matter if Harold’s banner was handed to an undeserving king? Styrkar had to think on the living.
As those boys continued to play their doleful tune, he rose and made his way to the door. Murchad called out, asking where he was going, but Styrkar ignored him. Outside, the night air was cold but so far the storm had held off. If he was to ride through the night he might reach Dublin before sunset the next day.
The stable was dark as he entered, his eyes taking some time to adjust as he listened to the snort of horses. Among the twenty-or-so steeds he managed to find the one he had ridden on, wondering if it might be best to take another for the long ride back to Dublin. Before he could make his decision, the stable door opened behind him with a creak.
Styrkar caught sight of two figures entering, a glint of steel in one of their hands, and he slipped further into the nearest stall. The horse within whickered nervously, and he held his breath as one of those hooded men drew closer.
Slowly he drew the knife he kept at his side, crouching low, waiting for the first one to get close. There could be no misunderstanding here – these men had come for murder. And murder he would give them.
As the knife came into view, Styrkar snatched the wrist that held it, plunging his own blade into the man’s neck. He fell before he had a chance to cry out, slipping on the sodden floor and taking Styrkar’s knife with him.
The second killer came at him, hacking desperately with an axe. Styrkar dodged away, feeling the keen edge of the weapon open up the flesh of his shoulder before grabbing hold of the man’s cloak. He grunted as Styrkar slammed him into the side of the stall and clutched his wrist. The assassin grasped the axe with both hands, pushing with all his strength, the keen edge teasing the flesh of Styrkar’s chest. A bridle hung from a hook nearby, and Styrkar snatched it, throwing it over the man’s head. The leather strap tightened about his neck and he clawed at the bridle as Styrkar twisted it in his fist.
In the moonlight he could see the man’s eyes widen, desperate, as Styrkar tightened his grip, shortening the length of leather, cutting off his airway. The axe fell from his hand as he desperately pulled at the bridle, but Styrkar had it in both hands, twisted, throttling, until the man went still.
He let him drop to the ground before scrabbling in the straw for the fallen axe and glaring at the door, waiting for more killers to come in from the night. In the scant moonlight, he was sure he could see someone waiting outside, their shadow falling on the wet earth beyond the door.
Styrkar crept closer, just as the door opened. Another hooded figure stood framed in the doorway, and he darted forward, grabbing the man by the throat and dragging him into the stable. As he slammed him against the wall, he recognised the face of Murchad, eyes wide in fright.
‘Why?’ Styrkar snarled.
Murchad raised his hands to show they were empty. ‘Peace, Red Wolf. None of this was my idea.’
‘Then whose?’ Styrkar pressed the axeblade closer to Murchad’s neck.
‘Godwin. It was Godwin and his brother Edmund who ordered this.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Why would I lie? He says you betrayed him. Wanted you out of the way, but for the sake of the father you shared he couldn’t do the deed himself. Paid handsomely in gold for me to do it too, and what kind of man would I be to refuse the future king of England?’
As much as Styrkar didn’t want to believe it, he knew it must have been the truth.
‘How did he know I would betray him?’
Murchad offered as much of a shrug as he could manage in Styrkar’s grip. ‘I don’t know, but he was pretty convinced. That’s not all you should know though.’
‘Speak it,’ growled Styrkar.
‘Ah, well, first you must agree to let me live.’
The notion did not sit well with him, but Styrkar nodded anyway. ‘Very well. If what you tell me is worth your life, I will spare it.’
Murchad quickly weighed his options, realising he’d have to take Styrkar at his word. ‘The woman, Alditha, and her child. He intends to kill them both.’
Styrkar tightened his grip on Murchad’s throat. ‘You lie. She is his father’s bride, her child his brother. Godwin would never agree—’
‘And yet he has. The other one, Edmund, he persuaded him.’
‘But your father offered her sanctuary.’
‘My father knows nothing of this. And to hide his part in it, Godwin has tasked his mercenaries to see the deed done. If you leave now, there might be time to stop them.’
Styrkar released Murchad and took a step back, wondering whether to silence him forever. Before he could decide if he should use the axe, he heard voices from outside.
‘In here!’ Murchad shouted, dashing away from Styrkar and deeper into the stable.
Men had come from the fort, half a dozen of them with swords drawn. Styrkar had no time to exact his vengeance, no time to even saddle a horse. Instead he dashed out into the night, turning to the road they had travelled along, and running back toward Dublin. With luck, he would get there before Alditha fell victim to Godwin’s wroth.
9
Wiltescire, England, April 1068
Gisela had never walked so far in her life. The road east to the capital was a long one, mercifully straight, but hatefully monotonous. All she had for company was the incessant squeak of a cartwheel as it turned and turned, playing out the rhythm of their journey. At first it had all but driven her mad, but she’d soon learned the sound of it was far preferable to the endless blether of the camp followers.
A gaggle of them dogged the Frankish column as it made its way east. Serfs and whores walked together in a throng, along with other waifs whose purpose Gisela had not managed to discern, but she guessed they must have brought some value to the Franks or they would never have been allowed to tag along. A group of women babbled incessantly, gossiping like washerwomen, their banal conversation making Gisela feel even more sick.
Perhaps joining in their conversation might have helped break up the monotony of the journey, but Gisela would be damned if she’d resort to that. Instead, she suffered the soreness of her feet and the aching in her legs as they trudged ever eastwards. All she wanted was to stop and rest, if not for her but for the life growing in her belly, but she knew that was not about to happen. For now, if she wanted to live she had to walk. One foot in front of the other, until the mounted riders at the head of the column showed enough mercy to allow them some respite.
She glanced along the ragtag column of travellers, to the mounted knights up ahead. From her position at the rear she could make out few details, but she knew Ronan would be among their number. After they had subdued the town of Exonia, the victorious knights had been summoned to the capital by the king. William himself was leading his forces east, most likely beneath his leopard standard, regaling himself in his glory. Satisfied that the country was now firmly within his grip of iron.
Gisela found herself momentarily grateful that she was at the back of the column, away from these men of Normandy and Bretagne, and the arrogance they had brought across the sea with them. The more distance she could put between herself and Ronan the better.
The crippled knight had been furious when he received his orders to ride to the capital. He ranted about his plans, about securing his position, raging like a madman, but in the end he had no choice. And consequently, neither had Gisela. Though it had pained her to leave, to think that Styrkar might return to the English coast and she would not be there waiting for him, there was little else she could do.
She dragged her gaze away from the backsides of the horses in front of her, glancing furtively at her travelling companions. No one gave her so much as a nod of acknowledgement. Another reminder she had no friends here.
Absently she placed a hand to her belly, feeling the ripe bump that was growing by the day. It would be obvious to some that she was with child, but so far no one had deigned to make comment on it. No one gave a damn but her.
At least back in Hereford even strangers would perhaps have crossed themselves and offered a blessing for her child. Here there was nothing. She was in the company of beggars, cooks and cobblers. Smiths and coopers and sinners, dragged together by their need to please the men who had come to burn their land and overthrow their king. How low had she fallen? Certainly far enough to be surrounded by people who didn’t care if she lived or died. In Hereford she had been Lady Agnes’ maid. She had mattered, at least to her mistress. Now she had nothing and no one. Her lover was across the sea, and she didn’t know if he was alive or dead. Even if he did return he would never find her now. She was more alone than she had ever been.
A shout from up ahead halted the column. The horses and the squeaking cart in front of her came to a standstill. One of the knights turned in his saddle and called for them to rest awhile.
Gisela gave a sigh of relief – all she wanted to do was rest. To take food and water and prepare herself for the remainder of the journey. But as she watched the rest of the camp followers sit themselves by the road, massaging their aching feet and carrying on their nattering, she knew she had to take her chance.
No one was watching her. The knights up ahead paid her no mind, and the rest of the vagabonds she had fallen in with didn’t even know her name. Surely she would not be missed were she to slip away into the surrounding forest.
As someone broke out a bottle of mead to share among their group, Gisela backed away, shuffling toward the edge of the road. The treeline was but a few feet distant. She could take a single step and be gone before anyone would see her. And yet she paused.
What would she do in the wilderness, alone and with child? Where would she run to? Who would take care of her?
No one. But was that not a better fate than the one awaiting her at the capital? Was death by exposure to the wilds not a more fitting end than the one Ronan would inevitably grant her?
Without another word she stepped from the road, turning her back to the column and walking casually into the forest. She resisted the urge to run, that would surely give her away, and so she walked as though she were just finding a private place to relieve herself, away from prying eyes. Any moment she expected someone to call after her, but there was only the sound of aimless chatter and the tweet of birds in the trees above.
Gisela walked until the sound of horses grew distant, those voices fading on the gentle breeze. Then she ran.
All she could see was the dense woodland surrounding her on all sides as she rushed through the brush. A smile broke across her lips at the sudden excitement, the feeling of freedom she had missed for so long. It was a fleeting release, as above the sound of her footfalls there came a shout from behind.
Desperation gripped her as she fled. Perhaps she had not been so anonymous after all, but it was too late to regret it now. There was no question of surrender, and so she did not stop. Could not stop.
She dodged through the trees, feeling her feet ache all the more, but ignoring the pain. The leather of her shoes had all but worn away after miles of walking the road and they did little to cushion her tread. Gisela could not let it slow her. If she gave in to the agony there would be more suffering to come, of that she was certain.
Her foot snagged on a tree root and she stumbled, the shoe coming off altogether. One hand instinctively went to her stomach to shield her unborn child, but Gisela managed to stay on her feet. Feverishly she tore off her remaining shoe and carried on her flight barefoot.
The woodland began to slope upwards. Behind her came more calls of alarm, this time closer than before. They were gaining, and in her exhausted state she would only get slower. She could not give in – not to the fatigue, not to despair nor any notion that she might be captured once more.
With another surge of effort, she came out of the woodland into the bottom of a long valley. Up the slope she saw an old ruin, and with nowhere else to hide she rushed toward it. Breath came in fevered gasps as she reached the ramshackle stones. It must have been some ancient monastery, abandoned and left to the vagaries of the wild, but to Gisela it might as well have been the highest bastion.
