Conquest 03 - Knights of the Hawk

by James Aitcheson

  I disliked his tone, but his reasoning at least showed he had a wise head upon those shoulders. Wiser, indeed, than those of many older and, one would have hoped, clearer-thinking Englishmen I had encountered in these last few years.

  ‘Did you fight for Eadgar Ætheling?’ I asked.

  Magnus’s cheeks flushed red, not with ale but with anger. ‘That pretender? What makes you think I would ever march under his banner?’

  ‘Then who? Wild Eadric, was it?’

  ‘Eadric?’ he echoed, frowning. ‘Are you trying to insult me?’

  ‘You tell me, then. King Sweyn? Morcar?’

  ‘Enough,’ he said, cutting me off. ‘I didn’t fight for any of them. I fought for myself, for my brothers, and for my family.’ He stopped then, frustration writ upon his brow and in the set of his teeth. ‘You still don’t have the slightest notion who I am, do you?’

  My patience, too, was running thin. ‘Should I?’

  He sat back down upon his stool and buried his head in his hands. An anguished groan escaped his lips that spoke at one and the same time of grief and fury, loss and pain. His shoulders trembled as he spoke.

  ‘I am Magnus,’ he said, so quietly that I could barely hear him, ‘son of Harold.’

  It took me a moment to comprehend what he was saying, a moment that stretched into an eternity as, dumbfounded, I stared at him.

  ‘Harold?’ I asked. Only one man by that name came immediately to mind, but surely it couldn’t be true. ‘You mean the—?’

  The oath-breaker and usurper, was what I’d been about to say, but stopped myself in time. Even I was not so stupid as to deliver such an insult to the man’s own son, even if both charges were true.

  ‘Harold Godwineson, by God’s grace king of the English people,’ Magnus said, his voice rising. ‘I am his eldest surviving son, and the heir to his realm. The realm that your bastard duke, Guillaume, stole from us!’

  He was almost in tears as he said this last. That was when I remembered where I had seen the design on his signet ring, so long ago that it could have been another life entirely, and yet it was not that long ago at all. That same dragon mark, or rather its reverse, I had seen imprinted in red sealing wax on a letter written by Magnus’s mother, Eadgyth, who had taken holy orders after the death of her husband, and retreated to an abbey in Wessex.

  ‘By rights you should call me king,’ Magnus said. ‘By rights Eadgar and all those who flock to his banner should be swearing themselves to my service and bending their knees before me. By rights England belongs to me, and yet here I am, king of nothing. Nothing!’

  How many men had falsely laid claim to England’s crown in recent times? First there had been the oath-breaker Harold and his namesake, the King of Norway, and then, after each had perished to the sword, there had been young Eadgar. There was talk, as well, that Sweyn, the Danish king who last year led his raiding-fleet to Northumbria in support of the ætheling, had secretly been plotting to turn on his English ally and seize the kingdom for himself.

  And now Magnus added himself to their number. Five false claimants in as many years, and those were just the ones of whom I’d heard. But where was his retinue? What host did he command?

  The tavern-keeper was glancing nervously towards the door, I noticed, probably contemplating whether or not to go and fetch help. His look of confusion suggested he wasn’t familiar with the French tongue, and no doubt that ignorance was only adding to his alarm. It was as well that there was no one else in the alehouse at this hour to hear Magnus’s ravings, or surely our arguing would have spilt over into a brawl by now, and then the tavern-keeper would indeed have reason to be worried.

  But the storm had passed. Magnus was weeping now, his hands covering his eyes and hiding his tears. ‘“Hu seo thrag gewat,”’ he said between sobs, ‘“genap under nihthelm, swa heo no wære.”’

  How that time has faded away, dark under night’s curtain, as if it had never been. I recognised the phrase from an old poem, one of many that Ædda, who was almost as fond of words and verses as he was of the horses in his care, had once recited to me. But I didn’t know what to say to it, and so for a long time we sat in silence.

  Magnus Haroldson. Hard to believe that the usurper’s own flesh and blood was sitting here before me. I recalled having heard in passing about the raids that he and his two elder brothers had launched upon the coast of Wessex, whilst we were occupied fighting the king’s wars in Northumbria last summer. Nothing much had come of those raids, and they had been repelled with little difficulty and with great injury inflicted upon the invaders’ small band. Indeed, on one of those occasions the brothers’ own countrymen, the folk who lived in those parts, had stood against them and helped drive them out. If the object of those expeditions had been to reclaim the crown that their father had for a brief few months worn, then they served as an example of the low regard in which the English folk held the house of Godwine. Little wonder, then, that such bitterness lingered.

  Eventually, I signalled to the tavern-keeper to bring us another jug of ale, which after a moment’s hesitation he did. It was thin and a little too bitter for my taste, but it was better than nothing.

  ‘Not so long ago I happened to cross paths with your mother, Eadgyth,’ I said, remembering that visit we had paid to the nunnery in Wessex a couple of years before.

  To have any chance of confronting Haakon and claiming Oswynn back, I needed Magnus as an ally, and for us to set our differences aside, yet at this moment I was close to losing him. Somehow, I had to try to win back his confidence.

  ‘My mother?’ he asked, eyeing me suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that I met her, and spoke with her, too.’

  ‘Spoke with her where? Does she still live at the abbey at Wiltune?’

  So he knew of her whereabouts. ‘This was a couple of years ago, but yes. She is safe there, and seemed in good health, too, though she grieves for your father, and greatly misses her sons.’

  ‘She told you that?’

  I nodded. That last part I had made up, although Magnus would never guess that. Fresh tears ran down his cheek.

  ‘I have not seen her in more than five years,’ he said. ‘Not since she and my father left Lundene to face your duke in battle. He forbade me and my brothers from going with him, said we were too young, though I was already fifteen winters old then and they were older still. I would rather have suffered death in the shield-wall than endured the pain of exile.’

  There was silence for a while. A cold draught gusted in as the door opened and two red-haired men with thick arms and broad shoulders entered. I guessed they were brothers for they shared the same wide brows and prominent ears. They caught me staring at them and I turned away. I had no wish to cause trouble here tonight.

  I looked Magnus in the eye. ‘You will not win back your father’s kingdom,’ I said, as gently as I could, in a low voice so that the Irishmen wouldn’t hear.

  He shook his head, but it could not be denied. These were words he needed to hear.

  ‘You can’t,’ I went on. ‘Not now. That battle is over. England belongs to King Guillaume. But you can win back your honour and your pride. And I will help you do it.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why would you help me?’

  ‘Because Guillaume is my king no longer,’ I said. ‘Like you, I’m an outlaw, an exile, lordless and landless. All I have left are oaths, and the loyalty of those with me. I’ve spent long enough fighting wars on the behalf of others, risking my life for precious little reward. But no more.’

  ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

  ‘Isn’t it enough that we share an enemy?’

  ‘If we’re to fight alongside one another, I want to know who’s guarding my flank.’

  That was only fair, I thought. He had been honest with me regarding who he was, and now I would be honest with him in return.

  ‘Snorri was right,’ I admitted. ‘My name isn’t Goscelin. I’m no Fleming, nor am
I a simple traveller.’

  ‘Then who—?’

  ‘Listen and I’ll tell you. My name is Tancred.’ I paused for a moment to see if that meant anything to him, but it looked as though I was to be disappointed. ‘I’m the man who won the gates at Eoferwic, who fought Eadgar on the bridge and almost killed him. I’m the one who gave him his scar. I was the one who led the attack upon Beferlic, who fired the ships and helped destroy his storehouses. If it weren’t for me, the ætheling you hate so much would be master of England by now.’

  He had fallen quiet by then, his lips pursed, and I took that as a sign that my words had had their desired effect. I’d been relying on the supposition that even if news of the rebellion on the Isle hadn’t yet reached his ears, he’d at least have heard the tales of how Eadgar and his allies were routed in those great battles. And it seemed I was right.

  ‘If there’s anyone who can help you do this, it’s me,’ I said. ‘That’s why you should trust me.’

  Twenty-one

  FORTUNATELY MAGNUS SEEMED to be convinced by my reasoning, which was just as well, since I doubted my coin would extend to hiring for myself an army sufficient for this task, as well as a guide who knew the islands and the sea-routes of the Suthreyjar, and not to mention a ship as well. God’s favour was clearly shining upon me, and I accepted with no little thanks these gifts He’d sent my way, welcome as they were after everything I’d endured in recent weeks.

  Thus while Nihtegesa was being repaired and caulked ready for our voyage in the days that followed, Magnus rode out in person to solicit the support of those of his followers who dwelt outside the city.

  ‘Most of them left when it was clear I no longer had the means to pay them,’ he told me. ‘It would have been fruitless to try to prevent them going, so I released them from their oaths. Some have taken service with other lords; a few have found themselves Irish wives and a corner of land on which to settle. Still, if I seek them out and tell them what I have in mind, I hope that a few at least will be willing to rejoin me.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘I can but try.’

  His faith was well placed. Almost a week after we had first made port in Dyflin, the first of Magnus’s old retainers came to the city and presented himself at his hall. A thickset Englishman in his middle years, he was dressed in mail and armed with spear and sword, as well as a long-handled axe that he carried slung across his back. His top lip was adorned with a thick moustache, and his tangled beard was flecked with breadcrumbs. His name was Ælfhelm and he was, I soon learnt, one of the longest-serving and most trusted retainers of the usurper’s family. He had been left to defend Lundene when Harold had marched to meet King Guillaume, and so had been spared a bloody end at Hæstinges.

  On first seeing myself and my knights, and recognising us for the Normans we were, he reached straightaway for his sword-hilt. I believe he would have tried to face all three of us at once had Magnus not blocked his path, explained who we were and why we were here.

  Ælfhelm spat on the floor. ‘Why should I ally myself with these whoresons?’

  ‘Because I wish it,’ Magnus answered.

  ‘It was men like these who slew your father and his brothers. Have you forgotten that?’

  ‘They’re friends,’ Magnus insisted, and though that seemed to me a little overstating matters, given that we had met only a few days previously, I didn’t argue. In any case, it seemed to put an end to the debate. The bearded one’s mouth twisted into a scowl and he kept glancing suspiciously at us as Magnus led him into the hall and the two of them exchanged what tidings they had. We would have to keep a close watch over him, I reckoned.

  Nor was he the only one we would have to be wary of. In all, twenty-six of Magnus’s huscarls responded to his summons, each one accompanied by a manservant or stable-boy, and a couple with their lovers and mistresses. They were men of all sizes and appearances, some of an age roughly with myself, while others were older even than Ælfhelm, although he seemed to be chief among them. All, however, regardless of age, possessed the same hard eyes, stiff bearing and sour temper that spoke to me of battles fought and lost, of feuds unsettled, of thoughts of vengeance rarely uttered but ever-present, of untold bitterness against the circumstances that had brought each one of them to these shores. These were the men alongside whom I would have to fight if I wanted to reclaim Oswynn.

  In my time I had been forced to make cause with some unlikely allies in pursuit of common ends, but these were without a doubt the unlikeliest of all. In another place and another time, they would have had no more hesitation in cutting us down than we would them. As it was, only Magnus stood between us and a grim fate. I supposed since he was their lord and, in their eyes, their king, they were oath-bound to accept his wishes, but even bearing that in mind did not make me feel any safer. I was not alone, either.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Serlo confessed to me when the five of us were alone later that day, having ventured down to the market to provision ourselves for the voyage north.

  ‘Neither do I, lord,’ said Pons. ‘How soon will it be before they turn on us?’

  ‘They won’t,’ I said firmly, more to convince myself than because I truly believed it. ‘I have Magnus’s word. He’s someone who understands honour, and the value of keeping one’s oaths.’

  ‘Like his father kept to his oaths, you mean?’ Pons asked, and there was an obvious barb to his tone. He was referring, of course, to the pledge of fealty Harold had made to Duke Guillaume, and his promise to support the latter’s claim to the English crown: a promise Harold later broke when he seized the crown for himself.

  I didn’t offer an answer to that, for I knew there was none that would satisfy him.

  Pons sighed in exasperation, and shook his head in disbelief. ‘You can’t rely on the word of an Englishman.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Godric protested.

  ‘Except for the whelp here, of course,’ he added. ‘But he’s not like them.’

  ‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘And what about men like Ædda, and all the folk at Earnford?’

  ‘You know what Pons means, lord,’ said Serlo. ‘The moment we’re out on the sea, they’ll cast us over the side, if they don’t come for us sooner. In the night, perhaps, while we’re sleeping. They’ll kill us and then they’ll have their way with the girl.’

  ‘Then make sure your sword is always at hand,’ I said. ‘And stay together. They’re less likely to try anything if we keep close.’

  We continued in silence. I found a merchant selling the tufted cloaks that Snorri had praised so highly, and handed over a clutch of silver in exchange for five of his finest. Winter was fast approaching; almost everywhere the branches were bare, having finally cast off the robes they had clung to since summer, the robes that once had been full of brightness but which the turning of the seasons had made drab. Each dawn when we awoke was colder than the last. Across the city the thatch upon the houses and the workshops was covered with frost, and that morning we had stepped outside to find all the puddles in the street hard with ice. It was a good thing that Nihtegesa was, by then, seaworthy again, the rot having been discovered to be less severe than at first we’d feared.

  ‘I’m told she’s still letting in some water, but all ships leak to a greater or lesser extent,’ Magnus had told me. ‘So long as we make sure to bail her now and then, she’ll do fine. Were we travelling to Ysland or anywhere across the open sea, I’d want her in better condition, but she’ll suffice for where we want to go.’

  Even so, he had insisted upon waiting another day or two in case any more of his retainers showed themselves. Had the decision been mine, I would have set out straightaway rather than delay for the sake of a couple more swords and risk the wind changing in the meantime. Since they were his men and it was his ship, however, I’d had little choice but to defer to him.

  ‘This whole expedition is folly, lord,’ Pons muttered after we had been walking a while longe
r. ‘Coming here to Dyflin is one thing, but now you want us to venture in winter across the northern seas, and all in pursuit of a woman.’ He nodded towards a slim, freckled Irish girl of perhaps sixteen summers who was helping her mother, herself far from unattractive, carry rolls of cloth. ‘There are women here, lord!’

  ‘Oswynn isn’t just any woman,’ I said. ‘She’s my woman.’

  ‘Truthfully, lord, what chance do you think you have of claiming her back, assuming that she still lives, or that this Haakon hasn’t sold her to one of his pirate friends?’

  ‘She was alive and in his company when Eithne met them a few months ago.’

  ‘And happy, lord?’

  I stared at him. ‘What?’

  Serlo frowned and placed a hand on his sword-brother’s shoulder. ‘Pons,’ he said warningly.

  But Pons wasn’t about to listen. ‘Did Eithne ever tell you whether she seemed happy in his company?’

  I glanced at the girl, who hadn’t understood what we were saying, although she couldn’t have failed to hear her name, spoken in harsh tones. Her cheeks had turned pale. She sensed something was amiss, even if she couldn’t be sure what.

  ‘Ask her,’ said Pons. ‘Ask her now.’

  ‘No,’ I said, doing my best to restrain my anger. ‘I’m not going to ask her. I don’t need to.’

  Why? Because I was afraid of what the answer might be? Afraid to learn that all this effort to which I’d gone was, in fact, for naught? Afraid to find myself bereft of any cause to fight for?

  ‘What is it, lord?’ Eithne asked me in English.

  ‘Nothing,’ I muttered. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘You’ve said yourself that it’s been nearly three years since you were last with her, lord,’ Pons said. ‘Even if we do find her, and even if you manage to bury your sword-point in Haakon’s throat, that doesn’t mean she’ll necessarily thank you for it.’