‘I do not need to be a knight to kick your arse across this field of combat,’ Hereward replied, rattling his sword in its scabbard. ‘Here, this makes us equal.’
The Fleming laughed in a studiedly contemptuous manner. With a swing of his arm, he clattered his blade against the side of Hereward’s head.
The warrior lunged, grabbing the startled knight round the neck with one hand. ‘I was mistaken,’ he mocked. ‘We are not equals after all.’ The Fleming’s eyes bulged as Hereward increased his grip.
Four of the knight’s retainers succeeded in dragging their choking master free. Vadir stifled laughter behind his hand.
Spluttering, the knight hid his dismay. ‘English dog,’ he snapped, darting forward to slap Hereward across the face with the back of his hand. He leapt back behind his retainers before the warrior could respond. ‘We shall see who has the upper hand at the end of this day.’
When he had gone, Alric sighed with relief. ‘In the days when we met you would have snapped his neck or skinned him alive. We should be thankful you only assaulted his pride.’
Hereward grinned. ‘I am a new man, monk. Though losing an ear would have taught him to curb his tongue.’
Vadir shook his head in weary disbelief. ‘He says you are a common fighting man so you attempt to strangle him like a drunken ceorl,’ he sighed. ‘Honour!’ The red-haired man whacked Hereward on the chest with the back of his hand to emphasize his point. ‘Honour. Learn that and we will make a man of you, perhaps even a knight.’
‘I wake in the night with the word buzzing in my ears. How could I not learn it?’ He watched the disappearing knight. ‘And who is that weak-armed son of a whore?’
‘That is no way to talk about Hoibrict, the grandson of our old friend Manasses,’ Vadir chuckled. ‘He’s been asking around about you. You made an impression in the count’s hall that cold morning.’
‘If he is the worst I encounter on this field, we already have enough work to see us through until the snows melt and the flowers bloom.’
‘Watch your pride,’ Alric cautioned. ‘With your ability to conjure enemies out of thin air, you may find surprises ahead.’
Shrugging, Hereward let his attention drift to the gathering crowd. Plenty of wealthy merchants wandered around the edge of the field, talking business or showing off their new amulets or gold rings to the many bright-eyed young women who always gathered for the contests. Hereward noted at least three counts too, with their retinues trailing behind.
Remembering Acha’s sullen features with a surprising pang, Hereward looked around the flushed faces of the watching women. They clasped their hands together, whispering in clutches. Sparkling eyes flashed towards the most favoured combatants, and many women, unmarried and married, offered blue or yellow ribbons to the young fighters to tie around their wrists. The victors would win a greater prize later that night.
One young woman was looking his way. Beneath her white headdress he glimpsed the tease of brown hair curled at the ends with tongs, and her feline face wore a wry, interested expression. A gold brooch gleamed at her breast.
‘Who is that?’ he asked, his eyes locked on the woman.
Vadir followed the warrior’s gaze. ‘Someone you should know. Name’s Turfrida. She brings fire to the loins, does she not? But that is the least interesting thing about her. Her father is the castellan of Saint-Omer, Wulfric Rabe, and a man with gold to hire swords like ours.’
While Hereward was still considering asking Turfrida for her favour, Hoibrict sauntered up to her and after a moment’s conversation walked away with her yellow ribbon. He saw the Mercian looking and added a triumphant swagger to his step.
‘You have to be quicker than that with women,’ Vadir grumbled. ‘They’re fickle, easily flattered and always looking for the best offer.’ He shrugged. ‘Behind their hands, the locals whisper that she’s a witch, but I’d wager that’s more to do with how she bewitches men’s hearts.’
Hereward continued to stare at Turfrida, wondering what it was about her that attracted him so, but now that she had offered her favour to another she studiously avoided his gaze.
Alric stepped into Hereward’s line of vision to inspect the chain-mail coif protecting the warrior’s cheeks and neck. ‘This time remember what we told you,’ the monk said. ‘Whisper a prayer to God. Chew upon your tongue. Do anything but give sway to that demon inside you. Are you prepared?’ The monk fixed a warning eye on Hereward.
‘I know this is only a game, if that is what you mean.’
‘It would not do for you to start slaughtering the contestants, even with a blunted weapon. Your potential employers look for men of honour, not wild beasts as likely to turn on their own as on their enemies. The fullness of our bellies depends upon you.’
‘Words, words, words. I am already too weary to fight.’
‘Leave him be, monk,’ Vadir sighed. ‘God knows, his temper is like a forest fire, even without you fanning the flames.’ The big man slapped Hereward on the back. ‘Besides, has he let us down yet? No. He keeps us fed. And these women who so influence their husbands and fathers would rather see a strutting young cock than a greying old wolf like me. Now, make sure your arse stays on the horse and your head stays on your shoulders. We want to open those gold-stuffed purses of our good and noble onlookers.’ Shaking his mane of hair to disperse the horseflies, Vadir held up the heavy iron helmet so that it gleamed in the autumn sunlight. Hereward studied the decorative band of metalwork that ran from the base of the skull over the top and down the front to protect the nose, the plates sweeping under the eye sockets. A few dents marred the shining surface, but the helmet had served him well during the long months since he had left Guines with Alric and the red-headed brawler.
Lowering the heavy helmet on to his head, Vadir said, ‘There’s gold aplenty out there. And many men who want to deprive us of our fortunes.’ Glancing towards Hoibrict, he added, ‘The monk is right… you have a habit of making enemies wherever you go. Let us hope that one of them doesn’t leap back and bite you on the arse.’
Alric led up the warrior’s chestnut horse, a fine beast, strong and brave, and held it steady for Hereward to mount. The warrior eyed the other men riding into position. The lots had been drawn, near a hundred warriors on each side. Many of the riders wore layers of thick wool under their mail to protect against the blows from the blunted weapons or the falls from horseback that killed many at each battle-fair, but Hereward had refused that protection. It was a hot day, and he wanted nothing that would drain his fire or slow him.
On the edge of the field, the count, a slim man with a drooping moustache, raised one hand. Silence fell across the crowd. His voice droned out in the lazy afternoon, but the words meant nothing to Hereward. When the count waved his hand and ordered the battle-fair to begin, Hoibrict turned to the English warrior and levelled his sword in an unmistakable threat.
‘For Mercia,’ Hereward cried with pride. ‘For England.’ He dug his heels in the horse’s flanks and propelled himself towards the melee.
CHAPTER TWENTY — EIGHT
The thunder of hooves drowned the crowd’s cheers. His view restricted by his eye-holes, Hereward saw only a heaving sea of men on horseback. Helmets and mail glinted in the sun. Full-throated war cries and bellowed insults closed around him as he crashed into the midst of the fighting. Blunted swords flashed in front of his eyes. Horses smashed against him like the waves on the black rocks at the coast. Elbows and fists rammed into head, shoulders, ribs. Blades crashed against his nose and face, and bruised his arms and chest beneath the mail, but he fought on. The red and yellow strips of linen tied around the combatants’ thighs to signify membership of their side disappeared in the confusion. Survival became the priority.
Hereward lashed his sword back and forth to carve a space for himself. The blade rang off helmets and clattered against mail coifs, smashing the chain into cheeks and necks. Unseated, one rider tumbled beneath the surging bodies and pounding hooves. Hereward couldn’t tell if the man was an ally or an enemy.
The crush rolled around the field. Some warriors broke from the tight knot to pursue each other through the wood edging the grassland, searching for a superior position. Bodies littered the torn-up turf. Many lay still, others cried for help, all twisted and broken. Horses galloped riderless. Some men dragged themselves towards the sides,
