Conquest 03 - Knights of the Hawk

by James Aitcheson

  All these thoughts were running through my mind when the knocking began. At once I stopped still. There were men outside, shouting in words I didn’t understand, pounding on the oak door.

  A shiver ran through me. Some of the dead man’s friends must have heard the women’s screams, and had come to find out what was happening.

  ‘Quiet,’ I hissed, pointing at Eanflæd. ‘Not a sound.’

  She nodded and then whispered in the ears of the other two, in whatever language it was they spoke. There was no other way out of this place. I swore violently, under my breath.

  ‘I could talk to them,’ Magnus offered.

  ‘And say what?’ I countered. Would the Danes be so dim-witted as to mistake his voice for that of their pot-bellied friend? Even if they did, how was he to explain why the door was locked, or the reason for the screaming?

  Outside, the pounding grew more insistent, the shouts louder and angrier. They couldn’t yet know there were four of us, or guess who we were, or why we were here. All of those things they would soon work out, however, as soon as they came through that door, saw our barricade, realised that they didn’t recognise our faces and that we didn’t speak their tongue. When that happened, we could abandon all hope of leaving this place alive.

  Every man’s luck ran out eventually. There were few truths greater than that. We had done well to make it this far, but I ought to have known this could only end badly. Now we would pay the price for our recklessness.

  Yet I would not give up easily. Not without a fight.

  ‘Barricade the door,’ I said. ‘Bring that cooking-pot across, and anything else we can use.’

  The inner of the two doorways could only be locked from the outside, which meant we had no choice but to make our stand in the small guard-chamber. While Magnus and Ælfhelm together manoeuvred the iron cauldron across the floor, Godric and I set the heavy bar in place across the door, so that even if they did manage to unlock it, they would still have to break it down.

  ‘What can we do?’ Eanflæd called from the other room.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, ‘except pray for our sakes that they don’t get in.’

  I helped Magnus and Aelfhelm overturn the cauldron on to its rim so that it would be more difficult for our foes to tip over, and then we set about piling whatever other obstacles we could find against the door. Some of the benches were fixed to the walls, but some were not, and we dragged those that we could in front of the doorway so that anyone coming through would with any luck trip and make it easier for us to kill them.

  There was a jangle of metal as the enemy tried the lock. I heard it click, and heard, too, their cries of success, short-lived as they were as the foemen found the door barred against them. The oak rattled against the stout bar, and through the gap between the door and its frame I heard them shouting. How many were out there, it was impossible to say, but from the noise I reckoned there had to be at least half a dozen already, and such a commotion would only attract more. What they thought was happening in here, I could only guess. Maybe they thought that their friend the wood-whittler had allowed his lusts to get the better of him and had decided to have his way with his lord’s most prized bed-slaves.

  In the other room, one of the women began shrieking again, and I cursed.

  ‘Keep her quiet,’ I called through to Eanflæd, although by then it was already too late.

  Sooner or later the enemy would break through and slaughter us. They had to, for they were many and we were few. Nonetheless, if this was my day to die, then I was determined to take as many as I could with me to my grave.

  Swords drawn, we stood facing the door, watching it shudder. I imagined a horde of flaxen-haired Danes lining up outside, each waiting for his turn to test his shoulder against the timbers. Then, without warning, the pounding ceased. I glanced at the others, raising a hand so that they knew not to speak. But the respite was only brief. The silence was broken by the unmistakable sound of an axe-blade biting into wood. Again the door shook. It wouldn’t be long.

  ‘I didn’t think I’d ever go to my death fighting shoulder to shoulder with a Norman,’ Magnus said to me in what was barely more than a whisper. ‘But you have been a steadfast ally, and for that I thank you.’

  ‘And you,’ I replied solemnly, without looking at him, without glancing either to left or to right. My gaze was fixed firmly on the door as I waited for the timbers to give way and for the first of our foemen to burst through. ‘May God grant our sword-arms strength.’

  Neither Ælfhelm nor Godric spoke. Possibly they were both lost in prayer or thought, rehearsing in their minds what they would do when the enemy came upon us, imagining how they would strike and how they would spill Danish blood. Or possibly they simply realised, as I did, that there was nothing more to say.

  All I could think about were the things I regretted. Not being able to see Oswynn one last time. Not taking my vengeance upon Haakon for what he had done. Bringing Godric with me on this expedition. For all that recent weeks had changed him, he was still not much more than a boy, eager and full of promise. Now that promise was to be snuffed out because of me.

  Beneath my helmet my brow was running with sweat. It trickled off my brow, stinging my eyes. The dim lantern-light played across the surface of my blade and lit up the turquoise stone decorating the pommel, and I felt the cord wrapped around the hilt digging into my palm as I gripped it tight. Like Rollant defending to the last the pass against the pagan hordes of King Marsilius, so I too would go bravely to my death. This was my stand, my Rencesvals, I thought bitterly.

  The door timbers flexed as the axe struck again. The door couldn’t hold much longer, surely. In another few blows splinters would fly, the enemy would be through. And then the slaughter would begin.

  ‘Stay close,’ I murmured. ‘Don’t let them draw you out. If they break through the barricade, fall back to the second room. Remember that each one we cut down is another corpse that his friends will have to climb over before they reach us. We will hold fast. We will fill the morning with their blood.’

  I almost followed that by raising a cry for Normandy and for King Guillaume, so familiar had those words grown in recent years, so instinctive had they become, just as the movements of the thrust and parry, the cut and the slice were ingrained through long hours of practice into my limbs, into my soul. But I choked them back, realising even as the phrases formed upon my tongue what an affront to Magnus it would be to utter them, and indeed how little they now meant to me. The friends and allies, present and absent, who had supported me in this endeavour were the only men, the only causes, in whose names I now fought.

  For Magnus and Ælfhelm. For Godric, Serlo and Pons. For Aubert, for Eudo and for Wace.

  The door flexed once more. The hinges made a terrible shearing sound, and the bar that we’d set in place trembled. Another blow followed, and suddenly the planks were cracking along the grain, buckling under the force of the impact. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the sweetness of the air roll across my tongue, quelling the fears that dwelt at the back of my mind and burying them deep, doing my best to still my fast-beating heart and allow the battle-calm to overtake me, steeling myself for what was to come. Readying myself to meet my God.

  Then the sound of steel upon oak ceased, and I opened my eyes, expecting to see the first of the foemen staggering beneath the lintel. The first who would die.

  But though the shouting continued, the door still stood. At first I couldn’t understand what was happening, why the enemy seemed to have given up. I glanced at the others and saw the same bewilderment in their expressions. Only then did I hear the horns sounding out across the camp: a series of rapid, insistent blasts followed by a single sustained note. Again the pattern was repeated, and again, and a fourth and a fifth time as well. And though their words were a mystery to me, I realised from their tones that the Danes standing beyond the door were suddenly crying out for a different reason: no longer out of haste to break down the d
oor and discover what was going on in this hall, but in confusion and alarm.

  Feet thudded upon turf, steadily growing further away from us. From the din that was erupting outside I reckoned the whole camp had to be rising. It didn’t take me long to guess the reason why.

  They had come. Nihtegesa and Wyvern had come, and not a moment too soon.

  Twenty-eight

  AS IMPATIENT AS we were, nevertheless we dared not emerge until we could be sure it was safe. Across the yard the war-horns continued to blast out their warning notes, hooves thudded upon turf, men shouted to one another, dogs barked in excitement. But no more axe blows came, and no longer could I hear footsteps outside the hall.

  Trying to make as little noise as possible, I climbed across the crude barricade we had thrown up. With Godric’s help I lifted the bar from across the door and tentatively opened it, by only the smallest fraction at first, but enough to be able to see out. I half expected to find at least one of the Danes left guarding the entrance to the hall, but there was no one.

  Elsewhere across Jarnborg, all was disorder. Men, some only half-dressed, were scrambling from their tents into the morning light, struggling to their feet, running back and forth, swigging from leather flasks to lend them courage, hurriedly tugging on leather jerkins and mail shirts, belting scabbards upon their waists and snatching up spears and shields and whatever other weapons they could find to hand. Meanwhile their lords were yelling for order, trying to gather their hearth-troops around their banners even as they poured out through the gatehouse: an unruly horde sallying forth with blades drawn and raised to the sky.

  And then, striding out from the great stone hall, came Jarl Haakon himself, he of the black-dragon banner. He wore a helmet with a nasal-guard, so his face was partly hidden. Nevertheless I recognised him not just by the greying braid at his nape and the keenness of the eyes that stared out from beneath his helmet’s gilded rim, but also by the rings of twisted gold he wore upon his arms, by his silver-gleaming hauberk, and by the dozen or so huscarls guarding him. His cheeks were red as he barked instructions to those around him, doing his best to ignore the hounds who were racing around him and his men, their tails up, occasionally leaping up to paw at their chests and lick at their faces. They sensed that something was afoot, and they wanted to be a part of it.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Magnus, who was behind me, but I waved him silent.

  Haakon’s stable-boys brought him and his retainers their horses. Without hesitation they mounted up and rode out, bellowing at all the others making for the gates to get out of their way. The black dragon was flying to battle, flying to vanquish his foes and drive them from his shores once and for all.

  Or so he thought. Hooves thundered as he galloped through the midst of his followers, closely followed by his huscarls, and still I kept my gaze upon them until they had disappeared through the gatehouse arch, with the rest of his army charging on foot in their wake.

  ‘Come on,’ I said to the others as the last of the enemy filed out from the fortress. Even in the short while that we had been holed up inside this hall, the mist had lifted considerably. The skies had grown lighter, and there was even a small patch of blue through which the sun was breaking. If we were looking for a portent, there could be few better than that.

  Throwing the door open, I ran up the wooden steps into the yard, which was strangely quiet now. Only a few stragglers remained: those for whom the previous night’s celebrations had proven too much. Bleary-eyed and pale of face, they staggered about in search of weapons. Some were doubled over, spewing forth long trails of vomit on to the muddy ground. They didn’t notice us; or else, if they did, they didn’t think anything of us. They had more pressing concerns.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Eanflæd called as she came rushing after us, clutching her skirts to avoid tripping on the steps. ‘What about us? Are you just going to leave us here?’

  ‘You’ll do best to stay here, where you’re safe,’ I replied. ‘We’re going to find Oswynn.’

  ‘And then to burn this place to the ground,’ Magnus added grimly.

  I tossed the keys to her and she caught them neatly in two hands. ‘Lock yourselves in if you have to, if you feel safer that way, although that door won’t hold much longer,’ I told her. ‘We’ll come back for you, I promise.’

  ‘Wait,’ she said, just as we were about to set off. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Tancred,’ I replied. ‘And this is Magnus. Haakon wronged us both, and we’re here to take our revenge upon him. But we have to go now, or else everything we’ve done so far will have been in vain.’

  She seemed content with that explanation, and she would have to be, for that was all the information I was prepared to give her then. I signalled to the others and we set off across the yard, past the stables, towards Haakon’s hall. Taking care not to make a sound, keeping low so as to be less easily spotted, we moved along the side of that long stone building towards the gable end where the two huscarls had been posted earlier. I led the way, creeping towards the corner of the hall, where some dozen or so empty barrels were stacked. I crouched behind them, peering through the slightest gap, and saw that of the two guards, only one remained, looking more than a little agitated as he glanced around, his long-handled axe in hand. He was probably a few years younger than me, around the same age as Magnus, round-faced and looking uncomfortable in his hauberk.

  ‘How do we get past him?’ Ælfhelm murmured, startling me, for I hadn’t noticed him beside me.

  It was a good question. The entrance to Haakon’s hall lay in full view of most of the rest of the fortress, and I couldn’t see how we could kill him without attracting unwanted attention.

  ‘I have an idea,’ Magnus said. ‘Wait here.’

  Before I could say anything to dissuade him, he was rising to his feet and darting back the way we had come.

  ‘Magnus,’ I hissed in warning, but he was already too far away to hear me. Rather than heading back towards the building where the bed-slaves were quartered, though, he disappeared instead around the far end of the hall. Silently I cursed him for not telling us what he had in mind, for leaving us here.

  That was when I heard what sounded like his voice, calling out in what must have been the Danish tongue from the far side of the hall. Ducking as low as possible so as not to be seen, I watched the entrance to see what the young door-guard would do. Whatever it was Magnus had said, suddenly the Dane was turning towards the source of the noise. Again the Englishman called out, and this time it was enough to draw the guard from his position. He ventured round the corner and out of sight.

  This was our chance.

  ‘Now,’ I said as we scrambled from our hiding place, making for the doors to the hall. I thrust them open, and burst inside, with the two Englishmen behind me, into a long, dark feasting-hall. The wreckage of the previous night’s celebrations lay everywhere: broken pitchers, abandoned ale-cups and drinking horns, rushes stained with the contents of several men’s stomachs, and, suspended on an iron spit over the still-smoking hearth, the almost bare carcass of what had once been a pig, but was now hardly more than bone, with scraps of charred meat hanging from it. A putrid stench of piss and vomit filled the room, causing the bile to rise in my throat, but somehow I managed to hold it down.

  Nothing moved, save for the mice scrabbling among the rushes in search of crumbs of food, and a scrawny cat that was licking its lips as it padded the length of the long trestle table that stood on the dais. A pair of torches in sconces mounted on the walls offered the only light. Apart from us the hall was empty. Behind us I heard the door open and I tensed, my hand leaping to my sword-hilt, but it was only Magnus.

  ‘Is he—?’ I began.

  ‘Dead,’ he confirmed.

  I nodded. ‘Build up that hearth-fire, and do it quickly,’ I called to the three of them as I took one of the torches from the wall and marched towards the dais end of the hall, where I saw a flight of stairs leading up. ‘Anyt
hing that you think might burn, throw it on. We don’t have long.’

  Haakon’s bedchamber would most likely be on the up-floor. Hurriedly I picked my way through the remains of the feast, over ale-soaked bedrolls and puddles that might have been water but which could well have been piss, then ran up the stairs, shouting: ‘Oswynn!’

  No answer came. Reaching the top, I found myself in what must have been Haakon’s bedchamber. The faint light of my torch flickered across the roof-beams and the sloping thatch above. Richly embroidered tapestries in bright hues hung upon the walls to keep out the draughts. A squared tæfl board lay on the floor, the ivory and jet playing-pieces scattered everywhere.

  And then, at the far end of the chamber, I saw the bed, and curled up beneath the blankets and the furs, sobbing, a figure I knew only too well, for I would have recognised that black hair anywhere.

  ‘Oswynn,’ I said. ‘Oswynn!’

  There was a stand for the torch at one side of the hall, and I set it down there before rushing over to her.

  ‘No,’ she said as I approached, shaking her head wildly and retreating further beneath the coverlets, and I wondered if she’d mistaken me for Haakon. ‘No, please.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said as I knelt down at the bedside. ‘It’s me.’

  She raised her head from the pillow then and looked at me through red-rimmed eyes, a fearful look upon her face. For long moments all she did was stare at me in shock, as if I were an apparition, but then her expression began to soften as recognition took hold.