Knights of the Hawk

spoke at one and the same time of grief and fury, loss and pain. His shoulders trembled as he spoke.

‘I am Magnus,’ he said, so quietly that I could barely hear him, ‘son of Harold.’

It took me a moment to comprehend what he was saying, a moment that stretched into an eternity as, dumbfounded, I stared at him.

‘Harold?’ I asked. Only one man by that name came immediately to mind, but surely it couldn’t be true. ‘You mean the-?’

The oath-breaker and usurper, was what I’d been about to say, but stopped myself in time. Even I was not so stupid as to deliver such an insult to the man’s own son, even if both charges were true.

‘Harold Godwineson, by God’s grace king of the English people,’ Magnus said, his voice rising. ‘I am his eldest surviving son, and the heir to his realm. The realm that your bastard duke, Guillaume, stole from us!’

He was almost in tears as he said this last. That was when I remembered where I had seen the design on his signet ring, so long ago that it could have been another life entirely, and yet it was not that long ago at all. That same dragon mark, or rather its reverse, I had seen imprinted in red sealing wax on a letter written by Magnus’s mother, Eadgyth, who had taken holy orders after the death of her husband, and retreated to an abbey in Wessex.

‘By rights you should call me king,’ Magnus said. ‘By rights Eadgar and all those who flock to his banner should be swearing themselves to my service and bending their knees before me. By rights England belongs to me, and yet here I am, king of nothing. Nothing!’

How many men had falsely laid claim to England’s crown in recent times? First there had been the oath- breaker Harold and his namesake, the King of Norway, and then, after each had perished to the sword, there had been young Eadgar. There was talk, as well, that Sweyn, the Danish king who last year led his raiding-fleet to Northumbria in support of the ætheling, had secretly been plotting to turn on his English ally and seize the kingdom for himself.

And now Magnus added himself to their number. Five false claimants in as many years, and those were just the ones of whom I’d heard. But where was his retinue? What host did he command?

The tavern-keeper was glancing nervously towards the door, I noticed, probably contemplating whether or not to go and fetch help. His look of confusion suggested he wasn’t familiar with the French tongue, and no doubt that ignorance was only adding to his alarm. It was as well that there was no one else in the alehouse at this hour to hear Magnus’s ravings, or surely our arguing would have spilt over into a brawl by now, and then the tavern- keeper would indeed have reason to be worried.

But the storm had passed. Magnus was weeping now, his hands covering his eyes and hiding his tears. ‘“Hu seo thrag gewat,”’ he said between sobs, ‘“genap under nihthelm, swa heo no wære.”’

How that time has faded away, dark under night’s curtain, as if it had never been. I recognised the phrase from an old poem, one of many that Ædda, who was almost as fond of words and verses as he was of the horses in his care, had once recited to me. But I didn’t know what to say to it, and so for a long time we sat in silence.

Magnus Haroldson. Hard to believe that the usurper’s own flesh and blood was sitting here before me. I recalled having heard in passing about the raids that he and his two elder brothers had launched upon the coast of Wessex, whilst we were occupied fighting the king’s wars in Northumbria last summer. Nothing much had come of those raids, and they had been repelled with little difficulty and with great injury inflicted upon the invaders’ small band. Indeed, on one of those occasions the brothers’ own countrymen, the folk who lived in those parts, had stood against them and helped drive them out. If the object of those expeditions had been to reclaim the crown that their father had for a brief few months worn, then they served as an example of the low regard in which the English folk held the house of Godwine. Little wonder, then, that such bitterness lingered.

Eventually, I signalled to the tavern-keeper to bring us another jug of ale, which after a moment’s hesitation he did. It was thin and a little too bitter for my taste, but it was better than nothing.

‘Not so long ago I happened to cross paths with your mother, Eadgyth,’ I said, remembering that visit we had paid to the nunnery in Wessex a couple of years before.

To have any chance of confronting Haakon and claiming Oswynn back, I needed Magnus as an ally, and for us to set our differences aside, yet at this moment I was close to losing him. Somehow, I had to try to win back his confidence.

‘My mother?’ he asked, eyeing me suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that I met her, and spoke with her, too.’

‘Spoke with her where? Does she still live at the abbey at Wiltune?’

So he knew of her whereabouts. ‘This was a couple of years ago, but yes. She is safe there, and seemed in good health, too, though she grieves for your father, and greatly misses her sons.’

‘She told you that?’

I nodded. That last part I had made up, although Magnus would never guess that. Fresh tears ran down his cheek.

‘I have not seen her in more than five years,’ he said. ‘Not since she and my father left Lundene to face your duke in battle. He forbade me and my brothers from going with him, said we were too young, though I was already fifteen winters old then and they were older still. I would rather have suffered death in the shield-wall than endured the pain of exile.’

There was silence for a while. A cold draught gusted in as the door opened and two red-haired men with thick arms and broad shoulders entered. I guessed they were brothers for they shared the same wide brows and prominent ears. They caught me staring at them and I turned away. I had no wish to cause trouble here tonight.

I looked Magnus in the eye. ‘You will not win back your father’s kingdom,’ I said, as gently as I could, in a low voice so that the Irishmen wouldn’t hear.

He shook his head, but it could not be denied. These were words he needed to hear.

‘You can’t,’ I went on. ‘Not now. That battle is over. England belongs to King Guillaume. But you can win back your honour and your pride. And I will help you do it.’

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why would you help me?’

‘Because Guillaume is my king no longer,’ I said. ‘Like you, I’m an outlaw, an exile, lordless and landless. All I have left are oaths, and the loyalty of those with me. I’ve spent long enough fighting wars on the behalf of others, risking my life for precious little reward. But no more.’

‘How do I know I can trust you?’

‘Isn’t it enough that we share an enemy?’

‘If we’re to fight alongside one another, I want to know who’s guarding my flank.’

That was only fair, I thought. He had been honest with me regarding who he was, and now I would be honest with him in return.

‘Snorri was right,’ I admitted. ‘My name isn’t Goscelin. I’m no Fleming, nor am I a simple traveller.’

‘Then who-?’

‘Listen and I’ll tell you. My name is Tancred.’ I paused for a moment to see if that meant anything to him, but it looked as though I was to be disappointed. ‘I’m the man who won the gates at Eoferwic, who fought Eadgar on the bridge and almost killed him. I’m the one who gave him his scar. I was the one who led the attack upon Beferlic, who fired the ships and helped destroy his storehouses. If it weren’t for me, the ætheling you hate so much would be master of England by now.’

He had fallen quiet by then, his lips pursed, and I took that as a sign that my words had had their desired effect. I’d been relying on the supposition that even if news of the rebellion on the Isle hadn’t yet reached his ears, he’d at least have heard the tales of how Eadgar and his allies were routed in those great battles. And it seemed I was right.

‘If there’s anyone who can help you do this, it’s me,’ I said. ‘That’s why you should trust me.’

Twenty-one