Man With a Sword Read online

  The way he said the last words made Hereward glance at him sharply. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  King Swein took a long time to answer; but at last he said, ‘A man’s family is always important to him - or should be. And not so long ago two folk came begging to my house - a lady named Euphemia and a little boy named Cnut. I took them in because the lad’s name is one I am fond of.’

  Suddenly Hereward’s heart leaped with joy. He looked at King Swein with a new understanding.

  ‘My wife and son are at your court, Swein?’ he asked.

  The Dane nodded. ‘They are safe and sound there,’ he said. ‘And one day, before long, mayhap, they will be safe and sound in England. That is, if the head of their house will see good Danish sense and stop galloping through dreamland to find fairy gold!’

  Hereward kneeled before King Swein and said, ‘Lord, my only dream is of happiness with my kin. The only gold I desire is my dear wife and son. I am your man, if you will promise to return these two to me safely.’

  King Swein smiled and nodded. ‘I will keep you to that,’ he said. ‘Hereward, you are my man and I am your lord. May God send storm to sink my ships if I betray you after this. And may he send lightning to strike you down if you betray me. Is it a bargain?’

  Hereward nodded dumbly.

  ‘Very well,’ said the Dane, after they had drunk a horn of beer together, ‘I am not in England for pleasure. I am here to see how the land lies; and soon I shall come up the Humber with the banners flying. And, with God’s help, I shall go to York and set up my standard there, as poor Hardrada once hoped to do.’

  Hereward bowed his head and said, ‘Do not ask me to go to York. I will not follow another leader into that fateful city.’

  But King Swein said merrily, ‘Say no more, old enemy! I have other plans for you. You shall stay here, or in Lindsey, or in the Isle of Axholme till I get to Denmark and back again. I shall not ask you to go north again to York. Your task will be to lead the men of Lindsey towards London when I return! They will follow you because you are one of them; your forefathers from the northland once settled in Lincolnshire as theirs did, in the old Danelaw that they wrested from English Alfred. How does that seem, soldier? How would you like to lead these Englishmen who were once Danes?’

  Hereward took the King’s hand and said, ‘It seems well, lord. Only bring my family to me, when you return.’

  King Swein stood up, as a sign that his talk with Hereward was ended. He said, his right hand raised high, ‘If I do not deliver them to you, then may I lose all I have gained. Will that suit you, thegn?’

  Hereward bowed his head and said, ‘No man could ask for more, lord.’

  Then he went from the wind-break smiling so broadly that the other Danes nudged each other and smiled, thinking the Englishman had taken leave of his senses.

  15. The Man in the Marsh

  The tall reeds stood about Hereward like watchers, whispering to each other in the night wind. All round him the waters of Ouse and Trent gurgled darkly at his feet, catching for a moment the reflections of scudding clouds and fitful moon-gleams. It was as though the sky lay at his feet, not above his head. And over his head, what? The rushes were too high for a man to see far across Axholme. It was a wild, flat, desolate waste, cut through with water-channels, the marshland that lay between great rivers at their meeting-place. It was the home not of decent peasants, but of men outside all law.

  Hereward thought: ‘No army could take Axholme. The men would stumble into waist-deep mud, the horses would break their legs in ditches. Here, a man who knew his way about by night need fear no one - except other lawless ones like himself.’

  He found a moss-covered rock and sat on it, casting his line into the black water without any hope of taking a fish. He had come to this lonely spot to think, to get away from plotting and planning and the treachery of one man against another. He had come to think quietly of his wife and son, the only creatures in all the world for whom he had affection now.

  ‘If Swein keeps his word,’ Hereward thought, ‘the time may not be far away when we shall be together. Perhaps in the Welsh hills, or even in far Ireland, there is a valley, a village, where we can start again, and where we can forget the men who struggle for a worthless crown or a wooden throne.’

  As he was thinking this a water-rat slid into the puddle beside him with a hasty splash. Then a heron suddenly took to the wing beyond the reeds, crying harshly. The hair on Hereward’s neck rose; if the wild creatures were disturbed, there must be a reason, he thought. His hand went down to his empty sword-belt, and then he remembered and smiled bitterly. His sword lay shattered on the field at Stamfordbridge. Unless, by now, some farmboy had refashioned it into a hedging-knife. Hereward shrugged his shoulders and, thinking what a poor weapon his fishing-rod would be, cast his line once more and decided that no man, not even a great king like Hardrada, could stay the hand of fate once it was clenched to strike.

  He even began to whistle, a gay little love-song that was still going the round of the camps, though it was three generations old by now:

  Come, sweetheart, come,

  Dear as my heart to me,

  Come to the room

  I have made for thee.

  Here there are couches spread,

  Tapestry tented

  Flowers for thee to tread,

  Green herbs sweet-scented…

  And as he whistled he thought of Euphemia; and he smiled in his heart, a little bitterly, to think of the couches and the flowers he could offer her now - a heap of damp hay under a wind-break and marsh-marigolds. No more!

  Then, as he reached the end of the second verse, he heard the rushes part behind him, and was suddenly aware that someone stood looking down at him. The moonlight cast a long dark shadow at Here ward’s feet, and he knew then that this must be a very big man.

  He had begun to whistle the third verse when the man behind him said in a slow and thoughtful voice, ‘An English fisherman whistling the lam, Dulcis Arnica. That is something I never hoped to hear.’

  Hereward turned his head slowly and tried to get a sight of the man, but the moon stood behind the stranger and all Hereward saw was a burly, hunched figure in a heavy riding-cloak, and wearing a round iron helmet.

  Hereward turned back and pretended to be busy with his line. ‘Any man may whistle a love-song,’ he said, ‘whether he is English or not, whether he is fishing or not. Love is for all men, stranger.’

  The cloaked man came beside Hereward and stood their silently for a while before saying, ‘Aye, that is true - but how many men today think of love?’

  Hereward heard the sword clanking beneath the long cloak. He guessed there would be a dagger too. He began to whistle again.

  The man said, ‘Have I your permission to sit beside you?’ Hereward moved over on the mossy rock and said, ‘I do not own Axholme. You have as much right as I have, stranger.’

  The man bowed his head and sat down. Then he eased back his heavy helmet with its nose-guard and spread his legs. He seemed a very confident man, one who could size up a situation quickly, one who knew no fear. He said quietly, ‘I would say you were a man of sense - yet you come fishing here at midnight. Surely, no fish will bite now? And just as surely it is dangerous for an unarmed man to sit among the reeds where he cannot see who is coming at him?’

  Hereward smiled and answered, ‘I have eaten so much fish in Norway that I never wish to see a fish again. This rod is an excuse to give me something to hold in my hand. As for Axholme being dangerous, it is no more so than a ship on the winter sea, a meadow outside York, a room in a king’s house, the high altar of a church. Men die in any place that God decrees. Death can reach a man although he builds walls as thick as those of Dover round him.’

  For a while there was only the sound of the wind and the water and a night-hawk harrying the small marsh-fowl.

  Then the man said, ‘Have you a wife, friend?’

  Hereward nodded. ‘A lovely wife a
nd a lusty son,’ he said.

  The man said gently, ‘Then why do you not go to them, and keep clear of bloodshed?’

  Hereward said, ‘That is good advice. But my wife is in Norway, and I cannot swim as far as that until the weather gets better.’

  The man laughed and said, ‘I deserved that reply. My own wife is in Normandy. Though I am more fortunately placed in that I could go in my own ships to join her, whatever the season.’

  Hereward said, ‘Then why don’t you go? Why sit talking in the mud to a fool like me when you could be happy?’

  The man said, ‘Can I try your rod and line? I have not fished since I was a lad. There has always been too much to do.’

  Hereward handed him the rod and chewed a grass-stalk while the other cast the bait a time or two.

  At last the man handed back the rod and said, ‘This is not my lucky day, but it is yours.’

  Hereward began to wrap the line round the rod, carefully, because he might need to use it tomorrow. Slowly he said, ‘I do not consider it greatly fortunate to meet a stranger and to hear that his wife is in Normandy. That does not bring my own wife nearer to me. It does not put gold in my pouch.’

  The cloaked man smiled and said, ‘In my life, I have observed that it is the chance encounter that brings great things with it - not always the carefully planned meeting.’

  He rose and stretched and yawned. His cloak parted and Hereward saw the long mail hauberk and the heavy chausses that reached down to the ankle. He saw the long sword and the broad-bladed dagger.

  He said, ‘You are a Norman from the camp in Lindsey. You are not so wise yourself to cross the Trent on a night as dark as this. I would advise you to go back before the dawn comes.’

  The man said, ‘I shall do that. But I am weary of knights and barons and priests. Weary of camp gossip. I thought I would visit my enemies for a spell; at least they want nothing from me, except my death.’

  Hereward said, ‘You seem to be a bit of a fool, like me.’

  The man nodded. ‘That is what I thought,’ he said. ‘I think we both had a Viking grandfather - and that always leaves a man a bit weak in the head.’

  Hereward reached among his bundle of clothes on the ground and found his skin-bag of ale. ‘Then let two stupid Vikings drink together,’ he said. ‘This is a drink that is brewed according to an old recipe from Acre.’

  The man squirted the ale into his mouth so that it made a glistening arc in the moonlight. Now his head was back and his dark stubbled chin was thrust upwards. But he did not seem to think that he was in any danger.

  He wiped his lips then handed back the goat-skin. ‘It is flavoured with cinnamon and a touch of clove,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘I like it - but I confess I am more at home with our own rough cider of Normandy. Come with me, friend, and we will drink it in Falaise together next summer under the oak trees in the sun.’

  Hereward laughed and said, ‘I have never been offered a holiday before on the strength of one draught of ale! You must be a fool, man!’

  The other began to laugh, too, and said, ‘I am not offering you a mere holiday, fisherman. I am offering you my friendship and perhaps a holding of land - enough to rear your son on, and keep your wife in new dresses and jewellery.’

  Hereward stood, too, and looked more closely at the man. ‘Friend,’ he said, ‘I think you are some homesick captain who needs a drinking-mate. Well, you’ll find one, sooner or later, here or there, and then you’ll be content. But don’t go about the country promising everyone you meet a holding of land - or one day Duke William will get to hear about it, and then you’ll have no ears left to keep your helmet on! Take my advice, soldier. That Duke of yours is not to be trifled with.’

  The man laughed and said, ‘He calls himself “King” now, have you not heard? Archbishop Aeldred put the crown on his head, and the Bishop of Coutances read out the ceremony in good French. It was all done according to law. Even Edith, the Confessor’s widow, agreed to it.’

  Hereward said bitterly, ‘She is Godwinson’s sister. So she has an eye to profit. Of course she would agree.’

  The man said, ‘You hated Harold then? I have found many hundreds who did - and only a few dozen who did not. That sort of king must always look to be hated, even by his own - people. Yet who else was there? Only Edgar the Atheling, whose lips are scarcely dry of his mother’s milk; and those two rogues, Edwin and Morcar, who would sell their dearest friend to keep what they have got.’

  Hereward shook his head and said, ‘Do not spoil a pleasant >meeting by this talk of policy. Keep it for your camp, and the priests and barons there. All I want now is a quiet farm and a big dog outside the gate to keep away meddling captains who want me to shed my blood so that they can sit more securely on their stolen thrones.’

  The big man put his hand on Here ward’s shoulder. ‘Friend,’ he said easily, ‘what else does any man want? It is only that some men are called by destiny to sit on thrones and bring peace to the land. Ask any king, and you will find that all he wants, in his heart, is a quiet farm and that big dog outside the gate to keep meddlers away.’

  Hereward could, if he had wished, have snatched the dagger from the man’s belt just then, and have put it into his heart, through the opening under his armpit. But he said, ‘What do we know of kings, stranger? Two fools standing in a bog at midnight, our senses fuddled with a draught of ale! Go on your way, friend, and good fortune keep you safe when the arrows whine again and the horses plunge.’

  The man seemed a little sorry to part so abruptly. He held Here ward’s arm a while and said, ‘You may be a fool, but you are an honest fool. Come with me and I swear, by God’s Splendour, that you shall have all your heart’s desire in return for your honest fool’s friendship.’

  Hereward gently drew his arm away and said, ‘There is only one man who swears by Gods’ Splendour, friend - and that is your own Duke, William the Norman. Do not overreach yourself, using the Duke’s oaths, and offering rewards to every landless man you meet; or one day you will find yourself in the dungeon at Falaise and no tongue to offer with! God go with you over the river. Good night.’

  The man stood still in the moonlight, with the waters murmuring about him, as Hereward pushed his way through the rushes back to the staked causeway leading to the Danish camp.

  He called softly to Hereward, ‘Let me advise you, too, friend. Make your way from this place before tomorrow night. After that, you might wish you had accepted my offer.’

  Hereward waved to him and said, ‘Into your boat, Norman. You will get rheumatics standing there in the marsh. Only Englishmen and frogs can live in such places.’

  The man was still standing there, watching him, when Hereward turned round. But though he waved, Hereward did not make any reply. He was thinking of Euphemia and Cnut once more.

  16. Black Bargain

  Time passed. In York, Englishmen rose and burned their own city, then butchered the Normans who came to suppress them. Great earls led the English rebels; men like Morcar and Waltheof, who looked like a lion with his mane of hair.

  And then the Conqueror came north and put the villages to the torch, and men to the sword. Slaves in the north fetched no price at all. You could have bought a man for less than you could a horse or a cow. The countryside stank with smoke. Young children crept from house to house in the districts that escaped, begging to be put to some task in return for food to fill their swollen bellies. They were weary of eating acorns and grass.

  The north had become a wilderness. It was even worse than when the Danes had come, in the time of Ethelred.

  Hereward was at Brigg in Lindsey. There he ate well and had his feet to a warm fire. The men of Lindsey were old men of the Danelaw. They knew how to hide away a man who was wanted by the foreign soldiers. They knew how to keep their mouths shut - and their front doors open.

  Hereward dined each day with the sons of Swein of Denmark, who had a shelter a little way up the street, beyond the church.

&nb
sp; Each night, as the torches flared, they told him, ‘When our father comes again into the Humber, all will be well with you. Give him your help, call the folk here about you to fight for him, lead them - and you shall have your wife and son again. Swein the King has promised this, and he is not the man to go back on his word. He is a Dane, my friend.’

  Hereward bowed his head and smiled secretly. He, too, knew Danes. And they were not always as they thought they were, in other men’s eyes.

  But the months passed and still there was no news of Swein setting forth from Denmark.

  One bright morning Hereward went into the little square-towered church beside the River Ancholme and knelt before the plain altar there. In a low voice he said, ‘God, I have been a laggard in observing Your wishes. That I acknowledge. I like a straight-speaking man, God. I like a man who admits to his faults, whether he be a cowherd or a thegn. I have been too full of other things, Lord. But now I have the sense to see that I have been wrong. Forgive me, God.’

  Candles fluttered in the draughty little church, and women up for the market crossed themselves to see this big, raw-boned soldier, a sword and dagger beside him, muttering so loudly.

  Hereward said, ‘God, a bargain with You, if You please.’

  He waited for a while, to see if the candles went out, or a sudden thunderstorm flung tiles from the church roof. But these things did not happen, so Hereward went on.

  ‘God,’ he said, ‘I have a wife and a son, and to me they are more than anything in life. More than the sun in the sky and the corn in the earth. More than the fishes in the river, or the stars in the heavens.’

  He waited once more, in case there was a sign. But there was only a small hunched weary priest who passed up and down to see that no boys stole the wax candles from the platform before the image of the Virgin; or no peasants, drunk in the market square, flung turfs through the windows, being Northmen by blood and so not real Christians.