Conquest moe-1

by Stewart Binns

  The odds were heavily in Canmore’s favour.

  Macbeth thought long and hard about the challenge and turned to Hereward for advice.

  He was forthright. ‘Sire, let us stand our ground here. It will be many days before Duncan’s army of cut-throats arrives from the north. We’ve grasped the initiative; that’s why Canmore has issued the challenge.’

  ‘But I have a chance to resolve this here and now. It is my throne; I can win it back myself and prevent more bloodshed. Remember, I need to keep my army intact. King Edward has greedy eyes for Scotland and has been plotting my downfall for years. If too many Scots kill one another here at Lumphanan, who will stop Harold Godwinson’s housecarls when Edward orders them to cross our borders?’

  The King had made up his mind. He rode along the ranks of his men as word of the challenge filtered through to them.

  At first, there was silence, then a cry went up: ‘Hail, Macbeth, King of the Scots.’

  A retort soon came from the opposing army standing 500 yards away: ‘Hail, King Malcolm.’

  As the competing chants echoed around the glens, Macbeth turned to the messenger. ‘Tell Malcolm Canmore that I accept his challenge for the Throne of Scone. All weapons, treasure and the loyalty of their men go to the victor to unite Scotland under a strong king. We will meet in fifteen minutes.’

  Macbeth chose Earl Duncan and Hereward as his seconds, while Canmore chose two Lowland earls from the English borders.

  Macbeth was almost forty years of age; Canmore was fifteen years his junior and a much more powerful man.

  The preparations for the contest were meticulous. Tridents were placed in the open ground, midway between the armies, to receive the combatants’ cloaks and weapons. The duel would begin with swords and shields, but axes and spears were placed in the tridents and could be used at any time.

  When everything was ready, the two men faced each other.

  As the seconds retreated, Hereward placed the Talisman around Macbeth’s neck.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘It is an amulet of kings from many generations and many lands. It is said that it has been worn since the days of Rome. You should wear it as the true king.’

  Macbeth looked at it. ‘Not the most attractive of charms!’

  ‘No, but a very powerful one.’

  ‘Thank you, Hereward, for all you have done for my army… and for me.’

  Earl Duncan spoke the final words before stepping away. ‘For Scotland, my Lord King, for the Throne of Scone.’

  Canmore and Macbeth eyed one another warily.

  Macbeth spoke first. ‘For the throne of Scotland, Malcolm Canmore.’

  ‘For the throne of Scotland, Macbeth of Moray.’

  A long and gruelling struggle followed.

  Canmore began impetuously, and Macbeth was able to parry his attacks with ease. After a while, some blows began to land on both men, but their mail coats prevented deep wounds. There was a passage when each held the other’s sword arm and cuts and bruises were inflicted in a scuffle of shields and sword hilts. Both men became soaked in perspiration, the steam from which rose in a haze around them. They discarded their helmets, revealing their sweat-soaked hair and matted beards. Both armies roared and hollered for their leader as they witnessed a fight fit for legend by two kings battling for the throne of their domain.

  As Macbeth began to tire, he found it hard to fend off the blows. Suddenly, Canmore’s sword glanced off the King’s shield and made a deep gash in Macbeth’s forehead. Blood flowed down his face, making it difficult for him to see.

  Canmore attacked ferociously as Macbeth wilted, until, unable to defend and parry any more, he was struck through the midriff by the full thrust of Canmore’s lunging sword. He sank to his knees, the sword still embedded in him, his blood spewing through his mail coat and cascading on to the ground. He could not speak and had only moments to live. His rival, not satisfied with his opponent’s imminent death, went for his axe and, as he knelt before him, decapitated Macbeth in one mighty blow.

  A great cheer swept across the valley from Canmore’s army.

  In a final act of cruelty, Canmore picked up Macbeth’s head by its hair and raised it to his army.

  ‘This is the head of Macbeth, once King of Scotland. I am Malcolm Canmore, King of Scotland, Lord of the Isles!’

  His army began to run towards him in a frenzy of excitement; the spoils were theirs, without having to spill any of their own blood. Canmore threw Macbeth’s head on the ground, where it left a trail of blood as it rolled away. The soldiers laid down their weapons as Canmore’s stewards rushed to unload Macbeth’s gold and silver. A horse was brought for his body and his head was placed in a hemp sack.

  Hereward was bereft.

  There was nothing he could have done to help Macbeth: the rules of combat were unbreakable; no one might intervene, no matter what happened between the two men.

  He collected the Talisman from the ground where it had fallen. It was covered in blood, which he chose not to remove. Nor did he place it around his neck, but carefully folded its chain and slowly pushed it into his belt pouch. He resolved to give it back to Torfida.

  He was sorry that he had given it to the King – whatever its powers, it had not been of much help to Macbeth.

  Following the tragedy at Lumphanan, the four companions accompanied Macbeth’s family and Earl Duncan to the distant island of Iona for his burial.

  It was a moving and solemn occasion, as the mourners sang the ancient melodies of the Scottish kings and the horn players sounded the final lament. The island was a lonely, windswept land, a holy place for the Scots and a mystical sanctuary that held the remains of many generations of their nobility.

  As the horns sounded their final notes, the wind swirled around the mourners and rain started to lash their faces, mingling their warm tears with the cold outpouring of the western skies. The assembly stood in silence for several minutes until the squall subsided. Then a small fissure opened in the black clouds of the horizon and the setting sun paid its homage to a dead king.

  Earl Duncan, Lord of Ross, raised the King’s sword in salute and then passed it to Queen Gruoch, who laid it gently on his body. Six of his hearthtroop, led by Donald of Moray, lowered the elaborately carved lid of his stone sarcophagus on to his tomb.

  Then there was silence.

  Macbeth’s widow, a woman of beauty and charm, bade them farewell. She granted Hereward a parchment endorsing his bravery, as well as a significant gratuity from her estates.

  Hereward had given the Talisman back to Torfida after Macbeth’s death, saying that he never wanted to see it again.

  Torfida had quickly become very animated. ‘You gave it to him as a lucky charm, an amulet to ward off evil. That’s not what it is. You still don’t understand, do you? It’s a symbol of wisdom and kingship, not a lucky charm. The wisdom must come first, then the warrior may wear it and harness its power – because he understands its meaning.’

  ‘You talk in riddles. The damned thing is just a lump of amber. The only mystery is how it hoodwinks apparently intelligent people like you.’

  Torfida had stormed off in a fury, leaving Hereward to look back on the sad events in Scotland.

  It was something he would do many times in the months and years that followed, as they travelled far from Scottish shores.

  As Godwin of Ely completed his story of the demise of Macbeth, King of the Scots, he breathed a prolonged and mournful sigh.

  There seemed to be tears in his eyes, but he soon closed them. Within moments, he had fallen into a deep sleep.

  It had been a long night; dawn would soon be bringing a new day to the old man’s precious haven.

  Prince John Comnenus got to his feet and stretched himself. He ordered that an extra bearskin be placed over their ancient storyteller and that the fire be replenished. Leo the priest had also fallen asleep.

  As the two princes walked towards the east and the rising sun, John Azoukh smil
ed to himself. ‘He tells the story as if it happened yesterday. But it was sixty years ago!’

  ‘I suppose he has had plenty of time to remember everything in detail; there’s not much else to do up here in the mountains. I suspect that’s part of the reason he’s here, so that he can remember.’

  ‘Our storyteller is obviously Hereward of Bourne. Why do you think he has assumed the identity of Godwin of Ely?’

  ‘I’m sure that will become clear as the story unfolds. We’re still only in 1057. My father was just a nine-year-old boy then. This man has lived a very long time.’

  ‘Isn’t it interesting how his life has moved in a great circle? Now, he’s a wild hermit, living out his days in isolation.’

  ‘Exactly as the Old Man of the Wildwood foretold.’

  The two princes strolled for a while, deep in thought. After several minutes of reflection, it was John Comnenus who ended the quiet introspection.

  ‘The Talisman hasn’t yet revealed itself as an object worthy of the respect my father gives it. The King of the Welsh seemed wary of it, while its influence on Macbeth didn’t seem to help his cause!’

  John Azoukh looked at his friend and smiled. ‘I suspect the importance of the Talisman is also part of the story to come. It would not have ended up adorning the neck of the Emperor of Byzantium if it didn’t have some significance.’ He paused, seeming concerned for his friend. ‘Would you risk a fight to the death for the Purple of Byzantium, as Macbeth did for his throne?’

  ‘That is a good question, my friend. I have been thinking about that. Would I have the courage? Would I be prepared to lose everything to fight for what I thought was right?

  ‘I’d like to think so, but it’s easier to say than to do. Macbeth must have known he had little chance against a stronger, younger man. Perhaps it was his way of regaining his self-esteem after the crushing blow of losing his crown and his sad personal decline. Now, at least, he will be remembered for his courage, not for his defeat.

  ‘I hope I’m never in the same position and that I never have to make that choice.’

  John Azoukh placed his arm around the heir to the throne. ‘I hope so too. Let’s get some sleep.’

  It was well past noon before Godwin of Ely was ready to continue his story.

  The day had become typically hot. There was no need for bearskins and log fires. Instead, the stewards built shades from leafy branches and drew fresh cool water from the lake.

  After a long and relaxed lunch, with much good humour and a little wine, the four men settled themselves for the continuation of the saga of the life of Hereward, Thegn of Bourne.

  8. Ancient Wonders

  Although Hereward had the trappings and demeanour of a nobleman, he still used the simple title Hereward of Bourne. Even so, wherever they went, they were in demand; everyone wanted to know what sort of man carried such mighty weapons, to meet the beautiful woman at his side and admire their formidable companions.

  They journeyed to Göteborg to visit Thorkeld and his father. The old man was delighted to meet the owner of his lethal masterpiece – the Great Axe of Göteborg, as it had come to be known – and thrilled to hear that it had already drawn blood in battle. In Scandinavia, they wandered to most of its major settlements, all the while absorbing Norse culture. Einar and Hereward, in particular, felt a great affinity with the lands of their ancestors.

  They then travelled, via the Baltic port of Riga, to the Viking city of Novgorod, where Norse craftsmen were building a new cathedral, a project which captured Torfida’s imagination. She spent countless hours with the master carpenters, learning the many intricate joints they used in their magnificent timber structures.

  Martin and Einar both found Viking wives during their extended stay in Novgorod. Martin’s spouse, Ingigerd, was short and slim with flaxen hair and bright blue eyes. Einar had married Maria, a buxom redhead, who treated Ingigerd like a younger sister. And so, the quartet that had left Scotland became a sextet.

  They moved on, travelling down the mighty rivers of Russia to Kiev, the southern capital of the Viking Rus. Viking rule was firm in the Rus, a territory that extended from the Baltic to the Black Sea, and the native Slavs had long since given up their armed resistance against the colonizers from the north. Kiev was the seat of the kingdom; it was a bustling, lively city at a crossroads of routes that stretched from the ancient lands of the Mediterranean to the military powerhouse of Scandinavia.

  The Rus was still enjoying the benefits of the benign rule of King Jaroslav the Wise, whose long reign had only just ended. Through astute alliances and marriages, as well as skilful military campaigns, Jaroslav had created a powerful empire across a vast tract of territory. Trade from there to the south, to Constantinople – the celebrated capital city of the Empire of Byzantium – was constant, and they saw furnishings, jewellery and clothes of breathtaking finery being carried by caravans of traders.

  Torfida longed to continue to Constantinople and then into the Mediterranean to see the cities of the ancient world, especially Rome. There, she could learn more languages, refine her Greek and Latin and hear of new advances in medicine, astronomy and mathematics.

  Hereward preferred to return to Scandinavia. In Göteborg, they had heard of the famous exploits of Harald Hardrada, King of Norway, a great warrior, said to be six and a half feet tall. Hereward had been intrigued to learn that while still in his early twenties, Hardrada had been Captain of the Varangian Guard of the Emperor of Constantinople. Hardrada was waging a long-term campaign for supremacy in Denmark against Svein Estrithson, King of the Danes. If ever there was a man worth fighting for, it was surely Hardrada. He might also be a man whose qualities of leadership were such that he would be a worthy recipient of the Talisman, fulfilling Hereward’s mission as a messenger.

  Torfida tried to force a decision. ‘We must go south; our destiny leads us to the Mediterranean. I must see Constantinople.’

  Hereward was rarely short-tempered with Torfida, but he had yet to come to terms with the death of Macbeth. ‘And what of the rest of us? What of our destinies?’

  ‘All our destinies are the same; we have already made that choice. My destiny is your destiny.’

  ‘I would rather fight with Hardrada. He is a Norseman, a man with the blood of my Danish ancestors.’

  ‘I sense that your quest lies to the south, not to the north. I have heard of a man like Harald Hardrada. He is a Norman called Robert Guiscard. He fights in the Mediterranean from a city called Melfi, in the south of Italy. He has just been proclaimed Count of Apulia following the death of his brother.’

  ‘Torfida, removing the burden of this Talisman is more important than the direction of our journey.’

  ‘We have to be patient until we find the man who should wear it. It is not yet time to part with it; your journey still has many twists and turns. A great battle is coming, Europe is in turmoil, I have been listening to all the accounts. Strong leaders are emerging and one of them will bring our mission to an end. One of them will be the right man; you will know.’

  ‘Macbeth was a great king and a brave man. What he did that day at Lumphanan, in saving all those lives, and accepting a challenge he had little chance of winning, was surely worthy of the Talisman.’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘I don’t understand; you said it wasn’t the right time.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting Macbeth didn’t have the right to wear the Talisman; I’m sure he did. But you gave it to him to help him win, and it couldn’t do that for him. His life had run its course; he had all the wisdom he needed and the courage to do the right thing.’

  ‘I should have given it to him earlier, when he paid off his men and began to act like a king again.’

  ‘It still wouldn’t have altered his destiny. You would still have been with him at the end to retrieve it from the battlefield. Its journey, and ours, goes on.’

  Torfida smiled at him with a warmth he had not seen in a long time. He reflected on what she had
said before getting to his feet.

  ‘Give me the Talisman; it is time for me to wear it again.’ He pulled Torfida into a tight embrace. ‘Isn’t it time we got married? I think the Talisman of Truth has just imparted an important message: it’s time I made an honest woman of you!’

  They laughed together and swung one another round in a whirl of joy.

  At long last, the pain of the events in Scotland could begin to recede. Kiev in the spring presented itself as the ideal place for their union. April was on the fulcrum between the formidable winters of the heartlands of Asia and its equally prodigious summers. And so, as the temperate air of the Levant began to exert its influence, they decided that the time was right to marry in the eyes of God.

  Hereward and Torfida were married in April 1059, in the historic wooden cathedral of Kiev by Theodore, Archbishop of the Rus. The cathedral was a towering masterpiece in elaborately carved oak, and the wedding was a glorious occasion. Martin and Einar stood either side of Hereward; Ingergerd and Maria flanked Torfida.

  When it came to the time for the two principals to step forward and proclaim their vows, Torfida lost her composure and began to sob. With Hereward holding her firmly and whispering sympathetically, she eventually gathered herself a little. The spontaneous joy of Torfida’s outburst brought tears to the eyes of her female companions.

  Hereward had never seen Torfida so unable to control herself, and he realized how vulnerable she was under her veneer of wisdom and self-confidence.

  Although she had said her destiny was to be his guide to the intangible mysteries of the Talisman, Hereward knew he would need to be Torfida’s constant guardian in the much more corporeal challenges they would face on their journey together.

  Hereward, Torfida and their extended family set sail from Kiev two days after their wedding. It was a week before the festival of Easter and the Dnieper was hectic, with merchants, soldiers and pilgrims hoping to reach their destinations before the festivities began. After a short stay in the bustling Black Sea port of Odessa, they sailed through the Bosporus, the gateway between two worlds, and were soon staring at the immense walls of the golden city of Constantinople.