‘And now it’s in our lowly hands on a ship bound for the edge of the world!’
‘Let me finish, Hereward. Queen Emma married two kings of England and was mother to two more, but she either decided that her husbands and sons were not worthy of the Talisman, or perhaps they refused it, so she asked my father, the only man she could trust, to find a way for it to continue its journey to its rightful inheritor. She believed in its power and that it was important for the future of the realm. My father promised to try but said that he preferred the contemplative life of the forest to a search for wisdom among future kings. “Then it must be Torfida’s task,” was her response. “If she is as beautiful as her mother was and as wise as her father, she will be worthy. Trust in the Talisman; it will find a way.” They were her final words to him.’
Hereward thought about what Torfida had said and what it might mean for their future.
He held the Talisman at arm’s length. ‘Given its illustrious history, I suppose we should take great care of it.’ Then he placed it around his neck, tucked it into his smock and turned to look out to sea. ‘One more thing, Torfida. Your father talked about the Wodewose, and not just as a figment of the imagination of our ancestors, or a myth told by the fire on long winter nights. Your father seemed certain that he was real.’
‘My father often thought about the mysteries that exist between the real world of today and the world of our memories and our imagination. As he got older, he talked more and more about the land, the forests and the traditions of our ancestors. He knew a lot about the religion of the Celtic Druids; I think he had great respect for their ways. He saw Wodewose as a symbol – like our Talisman – something to remind us of things we might otherwise forget.’
‘I think I am beginning to understand.’
Torfida looked at him contentedly; their great journey together had begun.
By the middle of the next day, the Irish coast was in sight and, by holding tight to the shoreline, the long traverse northwards to the port of Dublin was soon at an end.
As they tied up on the newly extended wooden quay, they were struck by the bustle of life there. They lost count of the number of ships loading and unloading their wares. Cases of pottery were being carried into warehouses by men as dark in complexion as they had ever seen. Rolls of linen and woollen garments were being piled into the bowels of waiting ships, and a large group of armed men appeared to be embarking on a military campaign. Einar and Martin were well travelled and had witnessed the life of a major city before, but for Hereward and Torfida this was an experience they had only heard about from others. They both stared in wonder as new sights, sounds and smells assailed them from every direction.
Dublin was a well organized city, governed by Irish chieftains under Danish laws and customs. It was a trading settlement, run under firm military rules, and offered few opportunities for permanent work, except as part of the local garrison, for whom the only excitement was settling local quarrels or quelling drunken brawls.
There were better opportunities in the Irish interior, which was not under Danish control, and where rival chieftains fought for supremacy. Here it would be relatively easy for the three men to find work as a chieftain’s men-at-arms.
However, recent events in a land far to the north presented a more appealing prospect.
The year before the great battle of Hereford between the English and the Welsh, civil war had broken out in Scotland. With the enthusiastic support of the English Earl Siward of Northumbria, the Scottish king of many years, the proud and much-respected Macbeth, had been usurped by his rival, Malcolm Canmore. A great battle had taken place on the plains of Gowrie, west of Dundee, where Macbeth had been heavily defeated in battle. He had fled to the wild and desolate north, from where he was now looking for good men to rebuild his army. Macbeth’s cause seemed to be a just one: kings who were respected by their people were a rare breed and worthy of help.
The quartet discussed their options and agreed to spend the winter of 1055 in Dublin and to set sail for Scotland in the spring of 1056. Torfida found employment as a tutor to the children of a wealthy local merchant and the men joined the militia of a Gaelic trader who made frequent visits to Cork to collect wool and linen.
The time passed quickly as the prospect of an adventure in a new land grew closer. The men practised their fighting skills every day in a gruelling series of drills and exercises, while Torfida’s charm and personality endeared her to the wealthy of Dublin and prompted many conversations with visitors to her employer’s home, one of the finest in Dublin. Guests came from many lands, and with news of turmoil throughout Europe. Henry of France had invaded Normandy, but had been defeated by the formidable Duke William. The Viking King of the Rus, Jaroslav I, had died early in 1055 and his lands, stretching from the Baltic to the Black Sea, had been split between his five sons. The predictable civil war had soon followed.
Torfida absorbed everything she could from everyone she met: new languages and dialects; information about trade and prices; stories of pilgrimages and miracles; news about the building of new churches and castles; and confirmation that the schism between the churches of Rome and Byzantium, begun by a papal bull in 1054, had become permanent.
This last piece of news greatly saddened her: if men could not agree on God’s word, on what could they agree?
Hereward and his companions were ready to leave their temporary home in Dublin in March 1056.
Their captain on the journey to the west of Scotland was a Norseman. Captain Thorkeld’s trade was weapons – the finest a warrior could want. His home port of Göteborg, in the land of the Swedes, was a place renowned for forging the swords and axes of war. There was an ancient art to the folding and working of hot iron to make it both tensile enough to take a sharp edge and malleable enough not to break. The furnaces of Göteborg were known throughout Europe for the skill of their weaponsmiths.
Thorkeld had learned of Macbeth’s plans to raise a new army. Originally, his consignment of weapons was destined for a chieftain in Cork, whom he knew would pay well, but not as well as Macbeth. So Thorkeld had decided to turn tail and return northwards. He offered Hereward and his companions free passage to Scotland in exchange for service as men-at-arms on the treacherous journey to Macbeth’s garrison in the Scottish Highlands.
They made landfall at the head of Loch Linnhe, where they bought horses for the long journey into the mountains of the north. Thorkeld left his four sailors with his ship and set off with Hereward and his companions, accompanied by six fearsome henchmen. His cargo was very valuable and these men provided escort in exchange for a share of the profits. The cargo of weapons was carefully hidden within rolls of wool and flax and the group agreed that, if challenged, Torfida would purport to be a lady of the Earldom of Northumberland with her escort.
Hereward and Torfida had never seen a land like Scotland before. The further they travelled, the bigger the mountains became; snow still lay on the highest peaks; the streams and rivers were torrents from the melting snow of a long winter and, in the great forests of pine, the wildlife was beginning to stir again after its long hibernation.
The group finally arrived at Glenmore, a huge valley protected by the tallest of mountains. Here the locals confirmed that Macbeth was camped between two vast lochs, at the site of an ancient Roman fort dedicated to the Emperor Augustus. It was a place secure from attack, where Macbeth could be supplied from both the western and the northern seas. It took most of the next day to reach the first outpost of Macbeth’s camp. As they approached, guards stationed high in the rocks hurried towards them.
Communication with the guards was not difficult: their native language was a Celtic tongue that Martin could understand. When the Sergeant of the Guard was shown what the packhorses were carrying, he insisted that they wait for a mounted escort into the camp. When it arrived thirty minutes later, it numbered more than twenty heavily armed horsemen.
Hereward’s first impression of these men was that t
hey were seasoned warriors but ill disciplined and dispirited. Their appearance was shabby, their weapons dull, their horses neglected. If these mounted men were from Macbeth’s elite housecarls, then the King had a dire military problem.
His initial assessment was not changed by the state of the King’s camp as they rode in. Few sentries could be seen, and men sat about idly poking their fires or snoozing on their sacks. Some looked up as the new arrivals passed by, but with a nonchalance not typical of a king’s army. Most disturbingly, a quick count by Hereward tallied no more than 400 men and perhaps 250 non-combatants; it was hardly an army to recapture a stolen crown.
As they dismounted, the King emerged from his hall. Macbeth was less than impressive: his eyes were sunken into his gaunt face; his skin was pale and lifeless; his dark-red hair and beard were lank and tangled; and he stooped as if his hulking bearskin cloak was too heavy for him. His men spoke to him in their Celtic language; he responded in English.
‘I hear you bring weapons to trade.’
Hereward spoke first. ‘My Lord King, our good friend Thorkeld will sell you his fine weapons. My companions and I have come to fight for your cause. We hear you are a rightful king and that your rival, Malcolm Canmore, has taken your throne by force of arms.’
‘Isn’t it more usual for men like you to fight for money and spoils, rather than a good cause?’
‘It is, sire. We would expect to be rewarded, of course, but our main purpose is to help your cause and to pursue our destinies, which have led us to you.’
‘Well, it is an unusual introduction. Perhaps you are a good omen.’
Torfida interrupted before Hereward could answer. To Macbeth’s astonishment, she spoke in North Gaelic, the language of the local people.
‘We are, my Lord King.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I am Torfida of Winchester, and I pursue the same destiny as these men. Hereward of Bourne is my betrothed.’ Torfida reverted to English, not wanting to stumble with her limited Gaelic. ‘He is a great warrior, as are his companions. They can help prepare your men for battle.’
Colour began to return to Macbeth’s face, but it was a flush of anger, not of ruddy good health. ‘Can they now? I think you are impudent, madam.’
‘I do not mean to be, sire. Hereward fought with Gruffydd ap Llywelyn at the Battle of Hereford and saved his life. Einar was Aelfgar of Northumbria’s Champion, and Martin Lightfoot was King Gruffydd’s swiftest messenger. They will testify to Hereward’s courage and strength. Hereward –’
Realizing that the King was losing patience, Hereward interrupted. ‘Let us work with your Captain, under his command… but, rest assured, we can help you.’
‘I will summon my Captain. He will be the judge of that. If he doesn’t take to you, he will run you out of these mountains on the point of his sword.’ The King turned and disappeared into his hall.
Hereward turned to Torfida, clearly displeased. ‘Torfida, you spoke too soon and said too much.’
‘This King needs your help; there is no time to waste on niceties.’
‘I have no experience of leading armies.’
‘Well, now’s the time to learn. Talk to Einar and Martin. They’ve been in armies; they can help us work out how we can impress the King and his Captain with our military prowess.’
Hereward interrupted forcefully. ‘When you say “we”, you mean “me”. Don’t ever speak out again on my behalf, or on behalf of Martin and Einar, without talking to us first.’
Just as Hereward had finished speaking, a tall man, accompanied by his men-at-arms, loomed behind him. His Sergeant announced him.
‘This is Duncan, Earl of Ross, Captain of the King’s hearthtroop.’
‘My Lord Earl, I am Hereward of Bourne, the outlawed son of Leofric, Thegn of Bourne.’
‘You have strong nerves to walk into this camp and presume to speak to the King.’
Einar rarely spoke but, when he did, everyone listened. ‘My Lord, he can match any man here. I am Einar, Champion to Earl Aelfgar of Northumbria, the son of the late Earl Siward.’
‘Not a good recommendation my friend, coming from the Champion of a house that colludes with our enemies.’
‘I was the Earl’s Champion, my Lord; I didn’t decide his alliances. Test Hereward in combat. He will prove his worth against any of your men.’
‘I think I’ll just kill the upstart.’
The Earl drew his sword and threw back his cloak. He was a powerful, dark-haired man who carried the scars of many years of combat. Hereward stepped back, withdrew his sword and adopted a defensive posture.
The fight did not last long. The Earl struck out furiously, but Hereward was able to parry every attack with ease and without striking a single aggressive blow. The Earl was impressed and, breathing heavily and none too pleased with his inability to despatch Hereward, relented.
‘You fight well, Hereward of Bourne. Find a place in our camp for the night. I will speak to the King and we will discuss this again tomorrow.’
The Earl marched away, muttering to his men. Thorkeld, who had watched Hereward’s display of swordsmanship with astonishment, stepped forward to shake his hand.
‘I have never seen a man handle a sword so well. What can you do with other weapons?’
‘The axe is my favourite. My arms are strong, and I can use both my left and my right; necessity forced it upon me a few years ago.’
‘Are you strong enough to use this?’
From under a woollen blanket, Thorkeld pulled an enormous axe, the like of which Hereward had never seen before. Freshly forged and ground, it gleamed with the blue tinge of the finest weapons. Most remarkably, it had not one blade, but two; it was a double-headed, two-handed axe. Hereward had heard from the Norse sagas that Viking gods could wield such weapons, but had assumed that they were no more than fantasies.
‘My father is the finest weaponsmith in Göteborg.’ Thorkeld held the axe out as if it were an altar offering. ‘He has only ever made two of these: one for Svein Beartooth, High Champion of Magnus the Good, Lord King of Norway and Denmark, which was buried with him when he died several years ago, and this, an exact replica. Let me see you swing it.’
It was heavier than anything Hereward had ever held before, but finely balanced. Both blades had been worked with intricately tooled etchings in the shape of serpents and dragons, and the ash shaft had been stained with russet-brown dye and deeply patterned on its shoulder and heel with geometrical designs.
He began to swing it smoothly and easily with two hands and, in short bursts, with one.
‘I’ve never seen anyone who can swing such an axe with one hand.’
Then Hereward lifted the mighty weapon in his left hand, tilted it behind his head and hurled it at a tree fifteen yards away. It tumbled in the air before embedding itself with an impact that made the tree shudder and the axe quiver. ‘I tried that once before and missed. It nearly cost me my life.’
There was a stunned silence for several moments.
Einar spoke first. ‘I didn’t think I would ever meet a man stronger than I am, but you are such a man.’
Thorkeld tried to wrench the axe from the tree, but only succeeded with the help of one of his men-at-arms.
‘The weapon is yours, Hereward of Bourne. I have been looking for a man worthy of it for many years. Use it well.’
‘I cannot accept such a gift; it is the finest axe I have ever seen.’
‘You must accept. It was made for a man like you, a man who can unleash its power.’ Thorkeld handed him a sword and seax of the same quality and design. ‘You must take these as well. I know that in years to come the chroniclers will write sagas about your exploits with these weapons.’
Hereward was overwhelmed. ‘How can I thank you?’
‘I have a feeling that in your hands, Hereward of Bourne, these weapons will become part of legend. There is something about you, I sense it… One day you will become a leader of men.’
7. Duel at Lumphanan
A long night of planning had borne fruit by the morning. Hereward and his companions had talked all night, trying to devise training routines and military tactics that would transform Macbeth’s soldiers from a rabble into an army. Martin and Einar had been involved in serious military training all their lives, and Hereward had an intuitive sense of physical conditioning and martial discipline. Torfida was able to commit to memory all the complicated routines they devised. She had no experience of military tactics, but took to the planning of them with her usual enthusiasm and intelligence.
Torfida thought it prudent to watch from a distance as Hereward, Martin and Einar marched down the side of the glen towards Macbeth’s camp. The entire army, assembled on Earl Duncan’s orders, greeted them.
Hereward was a sight to behold with his new weapons shimmering in the sun and his broad shoulders almost hiding his war shield, painted in alternating colours of crimson, black and gold to resemble the curved spokes of the wheels of a chariot. Einar had given him a Viking helmet, which had belonged to his brother. Made in quarter plates of iron, joined by reinforced bronze bands, it had a domed top and nose and eyepieces shaped to fit tightly to the face. On its front, from the tip of the nose guard to the dome, ran a piece of highly polished bronze, elegantly chased with runic swirls. He could have been a royal prince of Scandinavia rather than an Anglo-Saxon outlaw.
Formed up as an army, Macbeth’s men were even less impressive than they had appeared the day before. Few knights were present and Earl Duncan appeared to be the only man of any rank. Macbeth was nowhere to be seen. Most of the men looked bored; some were carrying injuries and a few had badly infected wounds. The Earl, one of the few men who still had the bearing of a warrior, stepped forward and addressed his men in Norse, a language all understood.
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