Man With a Sword

by Henry Treece

  The man shook his head. The gold wire tinkled on his shoulder-brooches. ‘I am young yet,’ he said. ‘No old king. You are old. Perhaps fifty, perhaps sixty - but old. An old carle, young when Cnut was young, maybe. But old now.’

  Hereward rose and wiped his hand across his brow. He felt old, true, but somehow he knew that he was not old. His hands were unwrinkled; his beard had not come to its full growth. He scratched his head, bewildered, and then said, ‘I am trying to remember a man like you. There was a song I heard once, by a camp-fire in Germany. I forget how it went. It told of a man like you.’

  The man eased his boar-head helmet up and said, ‘Did it go like this?’

  Then, in a high light voice he began to sing:

  There was a man came from the north

  To Miklagard the grand;

  Like snow upon the wintry wind

  He blew across the land.

  He shook the city walls and rocked

  The tallest of the towers;

  But when the Emperor let him in

  He smiled - and there were flowers.

  Ten years he stayed in Miklagard

  And there was no more cold;

  Bees honey gave, and cows their milk,

  And all the streams ran gold.

  If he should leave the citadel

  The sky would fill with rain;

  And all the girls would lose their smiles,

  Winter would come again.

  ‘Varanger, stay with us,’ they cry;

  ‘Don’t leave us,’ they all sing.

  ‘If you should go the sun would die;

  God would deny us spring.’

  He stopped singing and began to study his broad spadeshaped fingernails. Then he said, ‘Was that the song, then?’

  Hereward came to him, nodding, and said, ‘Aye, that was the song. I only heard it a few times, but I have never forgotten it.’

  There was a strange bird inlaid in silver on the man’s round shield and about it spirals of copper, and curious signs like the tracks an adder leaves in the dust. Hereward bent over and traced the bird and the signs with his forefinger. The man let him do it, held out his shield a little so that he could reach. He said to Hereward, ‘The bird is the raven, Landwaster. That is how the Byzantines see him, with spiked wings. Such a bird could never fly, hey, grandad?’

  Hereward shook his head. ‘What are the others?’ he asked. ‘Are they old runes, then?’

  The man said, ‘That is the tongue of the Saracen. It is a prayer for luck in battle. An old emir I knew had that put on my shield for me. It calls on a god named Allah. He is like Jehovah or Odin - big and powerful in the air and the earth and under the sea. He is everywhere. If a man prays to him - as well as to Odin and the Whitechrist - then he can’t go far wrong, can he, grandad?’

  Hereward looked him steadily in the eye and said, ‘If you call me that again, I shall take a foot off your height with this axe.’

  The man said, ‘Did you not hear about me in the song?’

  Hereward waved his hand and said, ‘That was a song. I am talking about “grandad”. Stop it, or there will be no more songs; no more mouth to sing with.’

  The man suddenly rested his shield by the wall and held out both his hands towards Hereward. ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘At last I have met a man who dares to threaten me - and to mean it! I have sailed and walked over half the world to find such a one. Now I find an old fellow in a greasy wolfskin with a rusty chopper in his hand who dares challenge me. God bless you, old brother.’

  Hereward began to weep then, because he thought this man was a god, and he thought of himself as a worthless thing, hardly a man even.

  Gytha came to the steading door and began to call out that Griffog the Welshman was sick and that no man worth his salt would fight with him.

  But the warrior only smiled at her and said, ‘Have no fear, old woman. This day I have found a real man. I tell you, it is easier to find gold, or a queen, or a stallion that can outrun the wind, than it is to find a man. He and I are the two men left in the world. He shall go with me and we will find a pair of thrones to sit on.’

  Gytha sat down on the doorstep and began to wail with her shawl upon her head. Hereward went over to her and stroked her white hair gently.

  ‘Do not mourn, mother. I will come back to you with gold. Be patient.’ But Gytha only wept the more bitterly.

  The big man came up behind him and said, ‘My tongue trots ahead of my wit. Perhaps you should not leave your mother, after all.’

  Hereward turned and said, ‘If I stay here, I shall rot. Gytha has been good to me and one day I may return and bring something for her to make her happy. Let us go.’

  The man frowned a little, then felt in his belt-purse and drew out a handful of gold coins. He laid them on the doorstep beside the old widow. Then the two turned and went through the snow. They looked back before they went over the hill and saw that Gytha still had her shawl over her head. The coins lay, faintly gleaming in the winter sun, beside her, untouched.

  As they struck down towards the sea, the man said, ‘Those were good gold bezants from Miklagard. A man could buy five horses with them.’

  Hereward, who still carried the axe, halted and looked at the man. ‘So you have bought me for the price of five horses,’ he said suspiciously. ‘You will make me your slave then?’

  The man called back, ‘Don’t be a fool, Griffog. I have a hundred slaves, in Miklagard and in Kiev on the Russian river. I do not need you for that.’

  Hereward said, ‘That is as well. I may be slow in the wit, but today I have found my hand is still good on the axe-shaft. I have been a paid-man, I seem to remember - but I was never a slave.’

  The big man waited for him and put his arm about his shoulders. ‘Old Griffog,’ he said, ‘you are no slave now. You are my dear friend. I have known enough men, of white skin and brown skin and black skin, to know who is a true man and who a false. Be content now and give yourself to the great things that lie ahead.’

  So the two stumbled on through the snow-drifts towards the sea, which lay two days ahead of them. The first night they stayed in a small village that had recently been visited by King Swein’s carles, judging by the burned thatch here and there, and the lame men about in the fields and streets. Here, as they warmed their feet by a pine-log fire and drank mulled beer, they saw a strange thing through the window. A dog was snuffling along the muddy lane outside, when suddenly a cat appeared before it. The dog began to growl, as all dogs will, and the cat seemed about to give battle. But while the dog’s attention was fixed on the cat, two other cats, one of them lacking a fore-leg, came from other directions and set on to him. There was snarling and barking and loud yowling, and the dog got the worst of it before he ran, helter-skelter, under a wood-pile for safety.

  The big man laughed at this and said he always relished a good fight. But Hereward was dark-browed and grim. At last he said, ‘That was like a dream which always troubles me - three against one; and two of them coming from behind. That happened to me, I think, once before the world grew sad about me.’

  The man’s smile left his broad face and he said gently, ‘The old scar in your head, the wounds on your body…. Yes, I saw them when you took off the wolf-skin yesterday to wash in the stream. Three wounds may mean three men - with one like you who would not turn away from any man. Tell me, Griffog, who were the three men?’

  Hereward tried to think, but always the truth slid away from his grasping and he shook his head.

  The big man said, ‘I can see by the white scars on your hands and arms that you have been in many battles. These three men must have come at you on some hill in Wales, when you and your clansmen held a shield-wall there against another chief. Is that it?’

  Hereward shook his head again. ‘They were not Welshmen,’ he said. ‘I cannot think what they were - but not Welshmen.’

  The other drank deeply of his beer and said, ‘Well, it matters not at all now, whether they were Wels
hmen, or Normans, or Englishmen.’

  Hereward rose and kicked viciously at the logs on the fire. ‘It still matters,’ he answered. ‘One day I will see them again, and then I will discuss a little matter with them. But the words will be spoken with an axe or a sword-edge.’

  The man slapped him on the back and said, ‘That is what I like to hear - good talk of vengeance! It is not what the Christ-men teach in the churches, but it is good northern talk, all the same. No true man can live without vengeance; it is meat and drink. It keeps him going when life is harsh. Now sit and drink more of the good beer before it goes cold.’

  With his cup at his lips, Hereward suddenly said, ‘I remember now - they were Englishmen. But their names will not come to my tongue.’

  The other said, ‘Drink, drink, drink, man! Their names will come to you when you meet them again. And then I hope I am beside you, for three against one is too much in the scales. But we two together - that will be a fight for them to tell their grandchildren of.’

  Hereward wiped his lips of the beer and said, ‘After I have met them, they will tell no one of the meeting.’

  The big man laughed, and soon afterwards they rolled up in blankets on the straw and went to sleep.

  Late on the next day they came down to a deserted inlet where no steadings were, and only the hungry gulls made a sound, wheeling and crying in their harsh, timeless voices over the rocks and the salt breakers.

  Tucked away in the little haven was a longship, and men aboard wrapped in bear-skins and crouched over braziers, as though they had been waiting for some days.

  When they saw the big man they stood up and waved their hands or their swords at him.

  One of them, a black-bearded elderly man with only one eye, shouted, ‘You have been long enough, Hardrada. We thought Swein had you in his dungeons and we were coming to look for you. Come on and let’s be away. The tide is right.’

  Hereward stopped and looked at his companion. Then he went on to his knees before him, memory flooding back to him.

  ‘Hardrada,’ he said, ‘that is who you are! God save me, I should have known. There is only one like you in the world.’

  Harald Hardrada put his hands under Hereward’s armpits and lifted him as easily as he would a child.

  ‘Never kneel before me, Griffog,’ he said. ‘I am only half a king yet. My nephew, Magnus, still holds the throne of Norway. But it will be mine one day. I am his heir. In the meantime, I am a soldier who likes to have fearless men about him. Come now and shake hands with my shipmaster, Karr. He shall fit you out with sword and helm and byrnie. Then we shall sail, Odin and the Whitechrist willing, to Tunsberg. Who knows, King Magnus might be ready to let me have my share of the kingdom now!’

  So Hereward and Harald Hardrada sailed to Norway that winter, although few others would have dared the Skager Rak at such a time of the year.

  It was over six years since Hereward had met Kormac at Holmganga, and the time had passed like one day; a dark day, with a sunny afternoon.

  7. Hardrada’s Judgement

  and the Melon

  That year King Magnus died suddenly while foraging in Denmark and was soon forgotten by most of the fierce men of Norway. So Harald Hardrada, though he spoke few gentle words to any but his own lords and carles, became the Hero of the North and King of Norway, in his nephew’s place.

  Sometimes, at his Folk Moots held in the various towns and even villages, men would come to him with their problems and grievances as his favoured carles squatted about his chair. Once a black-browed franklin stood before him and said, ‘King, three of my thralls have run away, over the hill to the steading of my neighbour, Herlief of Stavanger. They will not return, nor will he give them back. I ask judgement.’

  King Harald said, ‘Are they men or women, man?’

  The franklin said, ‘A pretty girl and her two strong brothers, King.’

  ‘No doubt the pretty girl will marry well; and no doubt the two strong brothers would fight any man who tried to take them back?’

  The franklin nodded.

  Harald said, ‘Then, as good Christians, let us be both charitable and wise to our health, friend. Let the girl marry the hero she will find and live happily with him; and do not let us bait the brothers lest they take up an axe and split our heads. Leave them be.’

  The franklin began to bite his knuckles and say, ‘But what do I receive for them? Herlief is not a rich man, lord.’

  ‘That being so, let him pay one hen and two brave cocks. The one for the girl, the others for the brothers.’

  When the franklin began to wave his big head about and clench his red fists in anger, the King said, ‘You asked for my counsel, and you have got it. It may seem hard counsel, but it has been spoken now in the presence of witnesses. We are now on to another page of the book; the story of the franklin who threatened a king. Once this happened in the days of the good Saint Olaf; so Olaf, my kinsman, sent this man to pray on his knees for forty days and nights, with only bread and water, in Jerusalem. And the prayer was that one day kings should deliver better justice. If you think I have been unjust, then I command you to sell all you have, to put your wife and daughters in the care of the Church, and to pray for me in Jerusalem for forty days and nights without ceasing. I will send a. carle with you to see that you do not fall asleep and so bring dishonour to yourself in the Holy Church there. What say you, franklin?’

  The man fell on to his knees and said, ‘I accept your counsel, Harald. Let the three stay with Herlief.’

  Another time a monk came rushing into the King’s steading at the time of judgement and said, ‘Harald, a young boy whom I have been teaching to read and write for three years has joined a shipload of Vikings to sail to Greenland. The Church paid his father good money for this boy, to make him a priest. I have spent many hours teaching him to read and write. He should be brought back. Send for him before the longship sails, lord.’ Harald Hardrada said, ‘Look at you, brother; you are fifty at least, and have forgotten what a young boy likes. Your arms are thin and your eyes are weak. You have never known the joy of axe-play, or the thrill of searching the far salt-horizon for new lands. As for this reading and writing you speak of, what are they, set beside horses and byrnies? Just air, and bad air at that! My purse-keeper shall pay the Church what the Church once paid the boy’s father. So he will be free; then one day he may come back to you with a present of carved walrus ivory. Or even a book in some foreign tongue, full of writing, that will give your brain something new to bite on. Our young men are always going into foreign churches and bringing back such things.’

  The monk said, ‘I want nothing that is stolen, lord.’

  ‘Brother, you and I steal the air we breathe. It belongs by right to God.’

  ‘But think of the time I have wasted with this boy.’

  ‘Men are always wasting time. It is a human condition, friend. I wasted time waiting for this kingdom while Magnus sat on the throne. Edward of England wastes time building a great Minster in London - he has enough churches already. My carles waste time telling tales of ancient warriors. And you waste time coming to me this morning, when I have a year’s taxes to count out. I bid you go away and pray for me; I am a stupid man and need your prayers. The boy who ran away will not need them for another forty years.’

  This sort of hard counsel was given by the King at every court he held. Yet the people loved him for it - all except the grasping carles and the greedy priests.

  One night, in a barn near the sea, Harald said to Hereward, ‘Well, you have heard my judgements these five years. What do you think of me?’

  He often teased Hereward in this friendly way, before the other carles, because the answers were sometimes amusing.

  This time Hereward said, ‘I own nothing but the hole in my head. Even my sword and byrnie are the king’s. So I can speak without fear or favour, Harald. You can have the hole in my head, if you want it.’

  King Harald said, ‘You mean to say that I take every
thing from everyone, hey, Griffog?’

  Hereward said, ‘Not exactly, Harald. I saw an old woman swallow a hen’s egg yesterday. And she seemed to relish it, what is more. You did not take that from her; and if you want to take it now, you are too late, I would guess.’

  All the carles laughed at this, and filled Hereward’s drinking-horn again. Even the King laughed and said, ‘I am well answered, Griffog. So you think I hold Norway in my hand and squeeze it dry?’

  Hereward said, “You hold it in your hand, certainly. But maybe Swein of Denmark would squeeze it drier, lord. Better the hand which only holds hard than the one which pinches.’

  King Harald nodded, pleased that his friend was so forthright and honest. He said, ‘Do you regret serving me, Welshman?’

  And Hereward answered, ‘Does a man regret the wind that blows his ship along, or the sun that ripens his harvest? Ask me no more, Harald. I cannot talk and drink at the same time.’

  Then he turned his back on the King and began to play with a dog that lay on the hearth. She was a bitch named Elsa and had a fine litter of puppies. All puppies and kittens and children would let Hereward handle them; and they all seemed to understand the gentle words he spoke to them. Once an old carle named Storkud bent over Hereward while he was talking to a newly-born calf and said, ‘What language is that you speak? I cannot understand it.’

  Hereward said, ‘The calf cannot understand the language I speak to you - so all is fair.’

  No one could get the better of Hereward in these crack-brained arguments. It was as though a different sort of sense had come into his head through that hole.

  On the other hand, a new sort of nonsense had come, too. If the summer was too hot, or the winter too icy, this seemed to affect him, and then men had to be wary. He would flare into a mighty rage over the smallest thing - like someone telling him that his shoe was unlaced, or that a speck of rust was growing on the shoulder of his byrnie. He once half-throttled a famous carle who had only pointed out that the leg of the stool that Hereward sat on was cracked.