Man With a Sword Read online

  Then, even as Kormac strained to pull it clear again, the youth on the skin took aim and smacked his own blade across the back of the giant’s legs, just behind the knee. It was as though he was a boy whipping a top.

  Kormac’s face suddenly changed to a mask of agony. His big eyes went even bigger; his mouth opened, but no sound came out. Then his great hand unclasped and his sword dropped to the ground. He staggered, then fell like a ruined tower, his legs as useless as sticks.

  The grey-haired man cried out, ‘Look, the Englishman has ham-strung him! Kormac is finished!’

  As men clustered round the fallen swordsman, the Englishman bent over him and said, ‘Can you find a space in your groanings to declare that this was fair fight, comrade?’

  Kormac wiped his hand over his face and said hoarsely, ‘Yes, it was fair! Leave me.’

  The Englishman said, ‘Now will you declare that the Lady Gunhilda is a good woman, and not a wicked witch as you said before?’

  Kormac was biting at the holmgang-skin, but he was able to nod and mutter, ‘She is as you say. I was wrong.’

  The Englishman patted him on the back and said, ‘I am sorry it had to come to this. It was not of my choosing. I am her

  Champion and earn my bread by obeying her. Now would you care to drink from your beer-horn? I will fetch it for you.’

  Kormac gave a deep groan and shook his head. ‘It is a priest I need, not a beer-horn. The beer is yours, leave me.’

  The Englishman stood back so that Kormac’s friends could get to him. Then he wiped his sword and put it away in the sheep-skin, and walked over to where Kormac had left the beer-horn. While he was drinking from it the boy, Egil, rushed up weeping and knocked the horn out of his hands.

  Trembling with anger, he said, ‘Kormac was worth three of you.’

  The Englishman nodded and answered, ‘Perhaps he was. But he lies on the ground now. If you wish to help him, then get your father to give him a job on his steading. Perhaps the man’s legs will knit and then he will be able to hobble after the geese.’

  As Egil went back towards Kormac, one of the courtiers touched the Englishman on the shoulder and said coldly, ‘Come, it is time to return to the palace and tell our mistress that her good name has been successfully defended.’

  The Englishman bowed his cropped head, like a servant obeying a command. He stopped only to fling five coins on to the skin beside Kormac, then he walked down to the waiting boat. On the way over the river none of the courtiers spoke to him. They looked about them blankly, as though he did not exist. But he was whistling and did not seem to mind.

  2. Baldwin of Flanders

  Empress Gunhilda, sister of King Harthacnut of England, and wife of Henry, Emperor of Germany, sat in the darkening hall of Count Baldwin of Flanders. She was a sadfaced woman with a pale skin and a heavy jaw that made her look more like a man, although her robe of stiff silk from Spain, with its Moorish embroidery, was very dainty. And for a woman of her size her feet were neat in Arabian slippers, covered with pearls.

  Baldwin of Flanders sat on a dais below her, near the oak kingpost of the hall. It was carved with an interlacing pattern that ended in a dragon’s head, like the prows that northern men still put on their longships. A craftsman from Wisby in Gotland had carved this kingpost in return for a year’s bread and board.

  Baldwin was a fat-faced man with small eyes like a pig. When master in his own palace he was merry and drunken and loud-voiced. But when the wife of the German Emperor visited him he seemed to shrink to half his size. Some of his courtiers whispered that this was because of his bad conscience; because he had plotted for months to rebel against the Emperor; or because he had given rough northern men trade-rights to sell slaves in Flanders, against the wish of the Pope. Some even said his bad conscience was due to the fact that he planned to ally himself with Magnus of Norway and invade England. But those who thought they really knew hinted that he was simply afraid the moment he set eyes on Gunhilda, who always had a few sullen young men with her from the old Danelaw in England, men prepared to put a knife into any man who displeased their mistress.

  This day, as twilight came on, Baldwin was more than ever uneasy. Earlier in the day a messenger had come clattering into the courtyard with a great deal of noise and the blowing of horns. In any other circumstance this would not have mattered; but this particular man came from Magnus of Norway and flaunted his banner of the White Bear for anyone to see.

  Baldwin was hoping that the Empress Gunhilda had not been looking out of the upper window, or that some servant had not run whispering the news to her, for she detested Magnus.

  Gunhilda had seen the messenger. She missed little; and specially those things she was not intended to see. Now, Count Baldwin of Flanders shuffled in his broad oak chair, waiting.

  Gunhilda spoke at last. ‘Life is most strange, my lord. I, the daughter of King Cnut, the sister of King Harthacnut, the wife of the Emperor of Germany, and the mistress of more castles than I can call to mind, am troubled. How do you account for that?’

  Count Baldwin began to bite his lip. He wondered whether a spy had overheard his conversation with the messenger of Magnus. That fool with the White Bear banner had been quite outspoken about his master’s plot to capture Gunhilda and hold her in Norway, so as to force her husband’s support in the fighting against Swein of Denmark.

  Baldwin kicked out at a dog that was passing; but he was clumsy and missed the creature.

  ‘Lady, this world is a sad, dark place. We carry our load along its rocky paths to find heaven.’

  He was hoping he could turn the talk into other, less dangerous, channels.

  Gunhilda laughed contemptuously. ‘Don’t talk like a hedge-priest, Baldwin. You do well enough. If my husband did not show a friendly interest in you, then either the French King or the Duke of Normandy would march into Flanders for meddling in their affairs.’

  Baldwin forced a humble smile. ‘Dear lady, how is that possible? Your great brother, Harthacnut, King of England, would never allow it. He knows how well I have tried to act towards his family. He knows that I gave him, and your blessed mother, Emma, shelter here in Flanders when all the nobles stood against them. He knows that I defied Earl Godwine of Wessex for his sake and that Godwine has never forgiven me. Further, he knows that any Englishman in trouble is welcome at my court. Lady, Flanders is almost like another English county!’

  Gunhilda arranged one of her heavy flaxen plaits and spoke coldly. ‘He knows nothing of the sort, Baldwin. He died suddenly at a wedding feast three days ago. He was always a drunken fool at feasts, my brother. He was a fool anyway. Look at the taxes he levied on the English to keep his lazy sailors loyal. Look at the way he burned Worcester down when two of his tax-collectors were killed - and no more than they deserved! Why, my good father, Cnut, must be turning in his grave even now.’

  Baldwin crossed himself. ‘One should speak no ill of the dead, lady,’ he mumbled. ‘Your brother sits in heaven now - and the news weighs on my heart - so we should forget his faults. We all have faults, lady. Even you and I, perhaps.’

  Gunhilda gave a deep chuckle. ‘You talk like a mumbling old monk, teaching the beef-brained sons of peasants. “We all have faults, ” you say. Of course we have, but some of us have the sense to keep them secret, or to turn them into virtues. I have faults; I like power, for instance. But I try to give value for every alliance I make. I am not mean with my gifts, Baldwin. No one could accuse me of that.’

  Baldwin bowed his head meekly and muttered something that might be taken as praise. He did not dare look Gunhilda in the face - any more than he had ever dared look old King Cnut in the face. These Vikings were hard to talk to, he thought; they said such forthright things.

  Gunhilda went on, almost to herself, ‘But that fool of a brother - he was the tool of any earl who spoke fair words to him. Look how he fell in with Godwine, a man whose word can never be trusted once he has gone through the door! No man who drinks as much as
my brother should ever sit on a throne and conduct the affairs of a kingdom. Give Harthacnut four jugs of ale and he would sign an alliance with anyone who put a quill into his hand and helped him make his cross. Believe me, Baldwin, I do not sorrow for him. I sorrow for poor Edward, the one they already call “the Confessor”. There’s another fool, if you like - but a holy fool. He spends more time on his knees than on his feet, silly fellow! And the earls laugh at him behind their hands. He is a pigeon ripe for the plucking, they think. And, be assured, they will pluck him before too long. He has spent too much of his time in Normandy to understand English ways. Before you can say a Mass, Saxon Godwine will have him married off to one of his daughters, and then there will be an end to royal power in England.’

  Count Baldwin rose from his chair and scratched at his thin sandy hair. ‘Lady, lady, we should not speak of these great ones in this manner. Someone might hear.’

  Gunhilda mocked him. ‘Someone might hear! Why, have you another of your spies hidden behind the hangings, Count? Who should hear? And what does it matter if they do? I tell you, Edward is nearly forty, and he’s as great a ninny as he was when he was four. I know him, don’t forget. He is my half-brother. I used to play with him when we were children. I know what he is like - a prayer-gabbling milksop who should have been a priest. Why, Earl Godwine will mould him like clay once he gets his big butcher’s hands on him. Mark my words.’ Baldwin was standing by the window, looking down into the courtyard. He knew that everything this loud-voiced queen said was true. He knew that her brother and her half-brother were fools; but he knew just as well that his place was to tolerate them all - the fools and the tyrants, the kings and the earls. Do them all a favour in turn - and so keep Flanders safe.

  Just now he hoped to arrange matters so that Gunhilda made a journey into the north; then it would be the task of Magnus of Norway to keep her there. Once Gunhilda was locked up in Bergen, say, Baldwin might breathe freely again and have a little time to decide what to do next.

  ‘Lady, to live one’s life in these difficult times is much like doing a piece of embroidery. There are so many threads of so many colours, and they keep getting tangled.’

  Gunhilda tapped with her long fingernails on the arm of her chair. ‘I think you are as big a fool as any of them, Baldwin. You are as crafty and drunken and priest-ridden as any man outside Rome, I swear. And always wondering whom you can betray next. Come now, don’t look coy; you know I speak the truth.’

  Baldwin was lost for words. In his mind he already pictured Gunhilda dressed in rags and lying on the straw in a northern dungeon. The thought pleased him. But the Empress’s next words did not.

  ‘I know you well enough, Count,’ she said, smiling like an over-fed cat. ‘I know that it was you and Magnus of Norway who put about the rumour that I was a witch. I have my own spies, you see. And they speak the truth - not like those underpaid rogues you keep in your own kitchens! I have my champions, too, my lord. That young Englishman who is out fighting the rogue Kormac for me now at Holmganga is one of many. He would cut your throat before you could take a fresh breath if I but snapped my fingers - so!’

  She snapped her fingers, and Baldwin shuddered. He put his hand up to his twitching mouth. ‘Lady, let us jest no further. As for the poor boy you mention, he may be lying stark on

  Holmganga this very moment. We should say a prayer for him, not joke as we are doing.’

  The heavy oak door suddenly swung open and the Englishman stood there, smiling. In his battered mail and with his long sword hanging down in its sheepskin scabbard by his leg, he looked more like a brigand of the heathland than a courtier.

  He looked down at Baldwin and said, ‘I need no prayers, Count. Keep them for Kormac, the killer someone sent to finish me. The killer who will kill no more - unless he learns to fight from a stool.’

  He paced into the room and Gunhilda smiled at him, as an indulgent mother would smile at a too-forward son whom she doted on.

  ‘So, my good name is safe?’ she said.

  The young man answered, ‘I have crippled Kormac, lady. That is all I know.’

  ‘Hereward, I am the luckiest woman in Europe to have such a champion as you.’

  The Englishman said in his light voice, ‘That’s as may be, lady. I come to claim my reward.’

  For an instant even Gunhilda was taken aback. But then she smiled again. ‘Yes, my young eagle. I promised you your heart’s desire. What is it? Name it and you shall have it.’

  Hereward walked over to the hearth-fire in the middle of the hall and kicked at the smouldering embers. With his back to the Empress, he said firmly, ‘I hear great things of your kinsman, Swein of Denmark. I would like to visit him and see what pickings there are to be had in the north. Swein would pay well for another sword to help him against Magnus, would he not, lady?’

  Gunhilda pursed her lips for a moment, then smiled. ‘I will give you the best harness and weapons, the best horse - all a warrior could want. And, what is more, I will make the journey north myself, with you as my protector. My husband is too busy about his own affairs - quarrelling with popes and princes - to mind what I do. And I could take you to Swein. He will listen to me, Hereward. I will see that he gives you an army to lead, never fear.’

  Hereward knelt down by the dog and began to pull its ears, trying to make it bite him. But the dog was old and good-natured. It liked the scent of this Englishman, and the rough way he played. The dog began to lick the swordsman’s face until Hereward pushed it away, laughing.

  ‘I do not want an army,’ he said. ‘I want armour, weapons, a horse, a ship, perhaps - and the chance to make a fortune.’

  Gunhilda smiled and shook her head. ‘You can never forget your father was only a thegn, can you?’

  Hereward’s face was grim for an instant. ‘I can never forget that my mother was a Dane,’ he said. ‘And that we held lands and houses - until your brother, Harthacnut, burned us out for killing tax-collectors we had never even seen.’

  Baldwin drew in his breath and was about to say that such talk was treason. But Gunhilda only nodded.

  ‘Yes, my brother was a fool to ill-treat folk like yours. But he is dead now, and I shall make amends. Never fear, Gunhilda rewards her friends - and punishes her enemies.’

  She gave Baldwin a sly look as the young man escorted her from the room.

  The Count bowed his head. But in his heart there was no humbleness. He was wondering where it would be best for his men to ambush Gunhilda and her arrogant young champion as they travelled north to Denmark. Magnus of Norway would pay a high price for two such birds, he suddenly decided. They would make good hostages.

  3. Visitors from England

  King Swein of Denmark, nephew of old King Cnut and cousin of the Empress Gunhilda, was sitting in his hall at Aarhus eating figs. Each year, just before the fall of the leaf, a Russian trader would come to Aarhus with a cargo of figs wrapped in oiled silk for Swein. On the silk wrapper were painted words in long flowing Arabic script, which Swein used to love tracing with his finger. The trader told him that the Arabic was a magic spell to bring him good fortune and was written by a Saracen wizard. No one at Swein’s court knew Arabic - and scarcely any Latin - so the trader’s word was never questioned.

  King Swein made one of his craftsmen carve the Arabic shapes into the interlacing pattern of his kingpost, down the back of his oak chair, across the face of his coffer chest where he kept his fur robes; and he even had his swordsmith inlay the inscription in silver plate down the middle of his sword-blade. This sword was called Blood-torch and had a pommel as big as a crab-apple of jet from Whitby in England. Swein wanted it to be a better sword than that of King Magnus, which was called Leg-biter and had guards of walrus tusk and a hilt covered with beaten gold. In everything Swein wished to become the better of Magnus, though this did not often happen. All the same, Blood-torch had great luck. The first time he carried it Swein killed three wolves and a German baron who would not let the royal hunti
ng-party pass through a narrow stone gate. So Swein had great faith in the Arabic spell, and even said that one day it would regain him the kingdom of Norway. When he told the Russian trader about this the man said, ‘Lord, you have wisdom. The power of that spell is great - but just as great is the power of the figs. They are a magic fruit - as you can see, they are like nothing else - but must be eaten regularly, just as one must pray regularly if good is to come from it. Am I to increase the amount next year?’

  King Swein nodded. Next year the price of the figs doubled, because, as the Russian said, magic was harder to come by in the East since so many Norman war-bands were passing through the countryside and carrying Christianity there.

  But Swein paid without complaint and had special iron coffers made with treble locks so that no one else should steal his figs and gain power. He did not even offer them to ambassadors from England - although he was well thought of in that country, where his uncle had once been King, and his cousin, Harthacnut, the King after him.

  On this day Swein had three visitors from England. He did not wish to receive them with his mouth full - nor did he wish to share his fruit, as a good host should on such occasions.

  The Englishmen were outside, waiting in the little dark anteroom. Swein could hear them coughing and clanking their long swords against the benches and swearing at the dogs.

  He swallowed the last fig and beat on the floor with his council-staff for the door to be opened.

  The Englishmen entered, looking very black of brow and tight of lip at having been kept waiting. The first one was a head taller than Swein, wore a ragged cloak, and had an untrimmed beard. The mail armour under his rough wool tunic was red with rust. But his heavy sword was contained in a polished black leather scabbard tipped with a chape of gold. The Englishman held this sword as though it were a great kingdom, and when he bowed before Swein he was concerned not to let the gold chape knock against the table-leg.