Man With a Sword

by Henry Treece

  HENRY TREECE

  Man with a Sword

  DECORATIONS BY

  WILLIAM STOBBS

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  IN ASSOCIATION WITH

  THE BODLEY HEAD

  This book is for

  J. B.

  Table of Contents

  Man with a Sword About this book

  1. Holmgang

  2. Baldwin of Flanders

  3. Visitors from England

  4. King Swein’s Figs

  5. Attack at Night

  6. Boar’s Head Helmet

  7. Hardrada’s Judgement and the Melon

  8. Miklagard

  9. Bad News

  10. Earl Tostig

  11. Stamfordbridge

  12. Shield-Ring

  13. End of an Age

  14. Gay Bargain

  15. The Man in the Marsh

  16. Black Bargain

  17. The Golden Borough

  18. The Fortress at Ely

  19. Departure and Attack

  20. The Ruined Causeway

  21. The New Enemy

  22. The New Causeway

  23. Escape

  24. Dungeon

  25. Queen Matilda

  26. Baron

  27. A Man Alone

  28. The Quarrel

  29. The King’s Letter

  30. Cnut

  31. The Affairs of Princes

  32. Two Old Men

  33. The Road to Normandy

  34. The Priory of Saint Gervase

  35. The Little Garden

  About this book

  It is both fascinating and infuriating that we know so little about such a character as Hereward. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle only mentions him twice. Under the year a.d. 1070: ‘Then the monks of Peterborough heard say that their own men would plunder the minster; namely Hereward and his company …’ And under the year a.d. 1071: ‘And the outlaws then all surrendered … except Hereward alone …’

  There are many legends, but few facts. His parentage seems to be quite unknown, though there are several incidental entries in the Domesday survey which connect him with the western edge of the Lincolnshire Fenland.

  There is also the tradition that Hereward led the life of an outlaw in the once-forested district known as Bruneswald, in parts of Huntingdon and Northampton.

  The historian, Sir Frank Stenton, assumes Hereward to have been ‘a Lincolnshire thegn of moderate estate … who represents the spirit of Native resistance to the Conqueror’. And Hereward certainly seems to have resisted sufficiently to anger the Conqueror into saying, ‘By God’s Splendour … I will find … a man who will meet all his attacks.’ So writes William of Malmesbury in 1125.

  Florence of Worcester, writing a little earlier, tells of Here-ward’s escape from Ely; and, according to other chroniclers, he at last made peace with William the Conqueror.

  Whatever the truth, Hereward does not seem to have appeared after the winter of 1085. In this story, however, I take the liberty of letting him live two years longer, so that he may be present at the death of his old enemy, King William.

  It is always tempting to fill in the gaps of history. How did Hereward’s career begin, one wonders. Reading William of Malmesbury, one finds that in 1041 Gunhilda, the English wife of the German Emperor, was insulted by a man ‘of gigantic size’. Since no one would defend her against this giant, she sent over to England for a young warrior, who fought her enemy and, ‘through the miraculous interposition of God’, was able to ham-string him.

  Might not this young warrior have been Hereward?

  Henry Treece

  1. Holmgang

  Almost a mile out of Bruges, in a crook of the river, lay a little green islet shaped like a fish. And rightly was it shaped, for boys fished there among the leaning alders in the summer, laughing and teasing the girls, and pushing each other into the shallow water as a joke or to show off to their sisters how strong they were.

  Sometimes monks came there to walk up and down the grass and pray, or contemplate, or speak over the words of the blessed Saint Benedict. Often they had to drive the shouting boys off the islet with sticks, so as to get a little peace.

  The boys would splash into the rippling water, naked as the day they were born, pretending to be afraid, but calling out, ‘Baldheads! Baldheads! See if you can catch us now!’

  The monks would pretend not to hear. With solemn faces they would gaze towards the grey roofs and towers of Bruges, then, signing themselves, would begin their meditation.

  Once they used to chant, ‘From the fury of the Northmen, good Lord defend us!’ But now Northmen were everywhere, many of them grown very respectable, wearing decent clothes, speaking Flemish or Frankish, holding castles, even sitting on thrones. There was no use in that prayer any more. God had defended Flanders in his own way - by making the Northmen see sense.

  Even the little green islet was owned by a Northman, a baron named Odo. His grandfather, who sailed out of Hedeby, had called himself Odd - but that name was not delicate enough for a baron, so he got the Bishop to change it when he was baptized at the age of forty.

  But the island was still known by its old Danish combat name, Holmganga, or ‘going to the island’, for men with quarrels to settle sometimes came with their swords, and many an argument had been finished there. The green grass had often been another colour; and the old men said that heads had sometimes hung from the gnarled crab-apple tree.

  Today, with the late sun slanting down across the towers of Bruges, casting a red glow over the flat fields and waterways, the islet was crowded with folk - all men, and most of them big raw-faced fellows who wore their hair long on to their shoulders, or plaited and then rolled into a bun at the nape of the neck.

  Some wore iron helmets and short byrnies that only covered the chest. But none of them carried a sword or even as much as a dagger. And they were strangely silent, for the sort of men they were.

  They stood round an enclosed space, watching thralls preparing it. In the middle was laid a square of stitched hide, ten feet along each of its edges. Round the hide they had scored three lines in the flat turf, one a foot beyond the other. At each corner of the last square they had set up hazel poles.

  As one of the thralls drove in the last pole, sweating, he turned with his hand over his eyes to keep the sun out and said, ‘Is this holmgang-field set right, Kormac?’

  There was a big man lolling on a stool among the crowd. He was eating a chicken leg and drinking beer from a bull’s horn. The iron byrnie on his broad chest was red with rust and tattered along its edges, the mail hanging down in shreds as though it had seen much service. His face was like a bull’s, broad and hairy, with wide nostrils and rolling great eyes. Across his knees lay a sword, hacked and bent, its blade mostly black with age. But the last nine inches, towards the point, were clean and sharp, glinting like old silver in the sun.

  When the servant spoke this man looked up, the beer-horn at his lips, then nodded. He threw the chicken leg away, pushed the wooden stopper into the horn, then took his iron-hilted sword and began to stab it into the turf again and again, seeing how far he could bury the blade each time. Always it was nine inches, no more and no less.

  A grey-haired man beside him said, ‘Nine inches into the ground, two feet through a man, hey, Kormac?’

  Kormac turned his head and gazed into the red sun, as though getting his eyes used to it. In a thick voice he said, ‘I took this sword from a king’s grave when I was first growing a beard. The witch-woman in my steading told me I should never drive it more than that into the ground. She said that when I drove it less than that, my friends should prepare a death-ship for me.’

  The grey-haired man laughed and said, ‘Then you will not be needin
g your ship today, Kormac. It seems the Englishman will give you no trouble.’

  Kormac wiped the sword edge on the skirt of his linen tunic and said, ‘It is just as well. I have been a paid killer for other men all my life, since I left home in Norway, yet today I haven’t a bed to lie on - much less a ship to burn in!’

  A youth whose face-hair was just coming, but who already wore a byrnie, called out, ‘All men fear you, Kormac. That is worth more than a ship. There is a seat for you at every feast-hall. Your sword, Lang the long one, speaks louder for you than a king’s herald does for him. You are rich.’

  Kormac did not look at the boy. He said in his mumbling voice, ‘Boys, women, and empty barrels - all sound, and nothing else. Get back to your father, Egil, and grow up to be a quiet farmer. A fighting-man’s life is lonely; he cannot get a woman to marry him, he cannot have boys of his own, he cannot even have a bed to die in comfortably. He has nothing but his sword, and a few false friends to cheer him on when he is winning. They leave him fast enough as soon as he takes a fall or two. Did you ever see men following a berserk who had lost his sword-hand?’

  The youth said, ‘I would follow you if you had no hands at all, for the hero that you once were. I would feed you and fight for you.’

  Kormac looked over his shoulder and said to the grey-haired man, ‘Take this boy away. He talks as though I am finished already. I hear Odin’s ravens croaking in his voice. Send him home to his father. I do not want him near me.’

  The men began to laugh, but they stopped when one of them called out, ‘The Englishman is coming, look! His boat is full of men.’

  Kormac gave the shallow boat a glance, then said, ‘All men from the court, and that means no men. I can smell the scent they use from here. The woman, Gunhilda, seems to like pretty boys.’

  The grey-haired man said, ‘But it is not pretty boys you are fighting this day, Kormac. The Englishman is no courtier.’

  Kormac was binding a broad strip of hide round his right wrist, paying great attention to it. He did not look up, but said, ‘Describe him to me.’

  The old man knew what this meant; he had tended fighting-men all his life, and had been one himself, before the sight of his right eye had gone. Fighting-men always pretended not to notice their opponents, as though they were too small to be seen. He nodded and said, ‘He is about twenty, not a big man, but broad in the shoulder. He carries his left hand in his tunic, as though to protect it. He seems a thoughtful fellow; and good-looking, apart from his broken nose. I think he has lived among the Normans, for his yellow hair is cropped as short as a sheep’s back.’

  Kormac said, ‘He doesn’t fight with his hair. It is that left hand I am interested in. I never liked fighting left-handed men; they come in on the wrong side. But we’ll manage, friend. I’ll make him change hands early on, then he’ll be at a disadvantage. Are there any priests with him?’

  The man shook his head. Kormac smiled and said, ‘Thank God for that! It’s bad enough fighting against a queen’s champion, without fighting the Pope as well’

  The Englishman walked up from the boat, ahead of his velvet-cloaked companions, pulled hard on the hazel stakes, as though testing them, then stared at the sun, as if he were deciding where he should stand in the combat.

  All the time he was whistling between his teeth, almost soundlessly, like a groom rubbing down a horse. It was a monotonous little tune, and seemed to annoy the courtiers, who stood in a small group on their own, away from Kormac’s followers.

  The Englishman stripped off his short byrnie, his tunic, and undershirt, flinging them carelessly beyond the holmgang-field. Kormac’s men watched him keenly. His body was lean and white, as though it had not seen much sun. But his muscles, though youthful, were those of a lithe, fast-moving man. In the middle of his chest was tattooed a small serpent coiling round a cross.

  The grey-haired man whispered to Kormac, who did not bother to turn round, but said, ‘My sword, Lang, will chop its tail off! It won’t wriggle then.’

  The Englishman must have heard this, but he went on whistling. Then he scratched his cropped head violently, as though it itched; and after that he stooped and drew his sword from its long, clumsy-looking sheepskin sheath.

  The sword was also long, but it was not clumsy. Its blade was narrower than most men had seen, and was polished as brightly as silver. Down its middle ran an intertwining pattern in blue steel, and its bronze cross-pieces were curved downwards and shaped like lions drinking. Its pommel was of black jet that glinted like a jewel in the sun, but not prettily.

  The Englishman began to sing in a hoarse voice:

  Nadr, Serpent of the Wound,

  Dinner is almost ready.

  Are your teeth sharp, Nadr?

  Are you thirsty, then?

  Do not fret, little one,

  All will soon be yours.

  Then, without warning, he began to whirl the sword round his head, so fast that it seemed like a blinding circle of light. The sound it made was that of a snake hissing.

  The man with grey hair whispered, ‘I do not like this, Kormac.’

  Kormac reached down and took another drink from his beer-horn, then, wiping his lips, said, ‘Just a young cock crowing to keep his courage up.’

  ‘His left arm, from knuckle to shoulder, is covered with old scars.’

  ‘I’ve got as many myself - aye, and down my body, too, to the waist.’

  The grey-haired man said, ‘He has no scars on his body. That speaks of nimble legs, Kormac.’

  The men were ready, and a tall fellow called Hrut began to cry out the rules of holmgang; that each man was entitled to wear out three shields, held before him by a chosen follower; that if his sword got broken, he could use axe or dagger; that once blood flowed on to the skins in the middle, the fight was to stop; that if either man was driven back beyond the hazel stakes he should be declared nithing, and unworthy of manhood.

  Kormac had heard these words a hundred times and did not listen. The Englishman nodded at each rule, then went on whistling and smiling in a pleasant way.

  When Hrut called out and asked them to choose their shield-holders, both men shook their heads and waited for the signal to start. Hrut gave it and the combat began.

  At first they circled each other like wary dogs, watching keenly, trying to gain the advantage of the sun. Then suddenly Kormac’s sword streaked out. Men held their breath. The Englishman swayed sideways, lifted his arm, and let the blade pass harmlessly. Before the giant could draw it back, he had been hit across the top of his head with the flat of Nadr.

  Kormac did not cry out, though the blow sounded like a man chopping wood for kindling. But his eyes blurred and his face wrinkled up and became very red.

  The Englishman did not press home his advantage, but stepped back a pace and sang, ‘All will soon be yours, little one.’

  Kormac heard this and his anger flared. He rushed forward and swept Lang outwards like a mower’s scythe. The Englishman had to give ground, until his back was set against one of the hazel stakes.

  Kormac’s followers sucked in their breath, sure that the Englishman would be defeated now. Then they saw why he had dragged on the hazel poles earlier, testing them. For he was leaning against one of them, almost like a man sitting on a bench, and parrying Kormac’s blows with easy movements.

  ‘It is like an old woman spinning,’ shouted a Northman called Ubbi. ‘Come away from the stake and fight, Saxon.’

  The Englishman spoke for the first time and said, ‘Go home and milk your goats, comrade.’

  He could not have chosen more telling words, for Ubbi had seven goats and was always talking about them. The crowd laughed, already liking the young man. But the black-clothed courtiers frowned, as though they did not care for such unknightly comments.

  It would have been better if everyone had stayed silent, for while that gust of laughter blew, Kormac swept in and struck the Englishman a blow on the point of the left shoulder, as he had said he would
do. The bright sword dropped from the youth’s hand on to the turf. Then he stood unarmed, rubbing his shoulder and looking at his arm. There was no blood on it, because Kormac’s sword had twisted in his grip and only the flat of the blade had struck.

  For a second Kormac made as though he was getting into position to give the death-blow; but the Englishman did not even look at him. Instead, he kept rubbing his shoulder, and gazing beyond the alder trees as though he thought of going down to the river to fish.

  Kormac lowered his sword and said abruptly, ‘We can’t end it so soon. Men would say I fought a mere boy. I declare a rest-space.’

  He turned and walked back to the grey-haired man. The Englishman bent and picked up his sword in his right hand, shaking it again, ignoring the courtiers, most of whom were frowning at him as though he was their enemy and not their champion.

  Kormac called over, ‘If you are thirsty, there is beer enough for two in this horn, boy.’

  The Englishman shook his cropped head and said, ‘Later, thank you. Then I can drink it all.’

  Once more the crowd laughed. Kormac was furious. He rose to his feet and clenched his hand about his sword.

  ‘Come, then,’ he said, ‘you shall have your drink in heaven with the angels!

  But the Englishman held up his hand to halt him for a moment while he went over to the skin in the centre, and tried to smooth out a fold with his foot. Then, finding it impossible, he shrugged and turned to face Kormac, the ruckled skin only a yard behind him. Kormac had noticed this, too, and smiled. It was such a fold that a shuffling man might trip over.

  So when the fight began again, he flailed Lang so fiercely that no man could have stood against that sword. The Englishman moved back, his feet on the skin. Then, as everyone had expected, his heels struck the fold, he seemed to lose his balance, and he fell. Kormac’s men were silent now, wondering how the kill would be made. The courtiers let out a snort of annoyance.

  Kormac brought Lang down swiftly. But the Englishman, lying on the skin, simply moved his head and the bright-pointed blade buried itself nine inches in the ground.