He held the Talisman at arm’s length. ‘Given its illustrious history, I suppose we should take great care of it.’ Then he placed it around his neck, tucked it into his smock and turned to look out to sea. ‘One more thing, Torfida. Your father talked about the Wodewose, and not just as a figment of the imagination of our ancestors, or a myth told by the fire on long winter nights. Your father seemed certain that he was real.’
‘My father often thought about the mysteries that exist between the real world of today and the world of our memories and our imagination. As he got older, he talked more and more about the land, the forests and the traditions of our ancestors. He knew a lot about the religion of the Celtic Druids; I think he had great respect for their ways. He saw Wodewose as a symbol — like our Talisman — something to remind us of things we might otherwise forget.’
‘I think I am beginning to understand.’
Torfida looked at him contentedly; their great journey together had begun.
By the middle of the next day, the Irish coast was in sight and, by holding tight to the shoreline, the long traverse northwards to the port of Dublin was soon at an end.
As they tied up on the newly extended wooden quay, they were struck by the bustle of life there. They lost count of the number of ships loading and unloading their wares. Cases of pottery were being carried into warehouses by men as dark in complexion as they had ever seen. Rolls of linen and woollen garments were being piled into the bowels of waiting ships, and a large group of armed men appeared to be embarking on a military campaign. Einar and Martin were well travelled and had witnessed the life of a major city before, but for Hereward and Torfida this was an experience they had only heard about from others. They both stared in wonder as new sights, sounds and smells assailed them from every direction.
Dublin was a well organized city, governed by Irish chieftains under Danish laws and customs. It was a trading settlement, run under firm military rules, and offered few opportunities for permanent work, except as part of the local garrison, for whom the only excitement was settling local quarrels or quelling drunken brawls.
There were better opportunities in the Irish interior, which was not under Danish control, and where rival chieftains fought for supremacy. Here it would be relatively easy for the three men to find work as a chieftain’s men-at-arms.
However, recent events in a land far to the north presented a more appealing prospect.
The year before the great battle of Hereford between the English and the Welsh, civil war had broken out in Scotland. With the enthusiastic support of the English Earl Siward of Northumbria, the Scottish king of many years, the proud and much-respected Macbeth, had been usurped by his rival, Malcolm Canmore. A great battle had taken place on the plains of Gowrie, west of Dundee, where Macbeth had been heavily defeated in battle. He had fled to the wild and desolate north, from where he was now looking for good men to rebuild his army. Macbeth’s cause seemed to be a just one: kings who were respected by their people were a rare breed and worthy of help.
The quartet discussed their options and agreed to spend the winter of 1055 in Dublin and to set sail for Scotland in the spring of 1056. Torfida found employment as a tutor to the children of a wealthy local merchant and the men joined the militia of a Gaelic trader who made frequent visits to Cork to collect wool and linen.
The time passed quickly as the prospect of an adventure in a new land grew closer. The men practised their fighting skills every day in a gruelling series of drills and exercises, while Torfida’s charm and personality endeared her to the wealthy of Dublin and prompted many conversations with visitors to her employer’s home, one of the finest in Dublin. Guests came from many lands, and with news of turmoil throughout Europe. Henry of France had invaded Normandy, but had been defeated by the formidable Duke William. The Viking King of the Rus, Jaroslav I, had died early in 1055 and his lands, stretching from the Baltic to the Black Sea, had been split between his five sons. The predictable civil war had soon followed.
Torfida absorbed everything she could from everyone she met: new languages and dialects; information about trade and prices; stories of pilgrimages and miracles; news about the building of new churches and castles; and confirmation that the schism between the churches of Rome and Byzantium, begun by a papal bull in 1054, had become permanent.
This last piece of news greatly saddened her: if men could not agree on God’s word, on what could they agree?
Hereward and his companions were ready to leave their temporary home in Dublin in March 1056.
Their captain on the journey to the west of Scotland was a Norseman. Captain Thorkeld’s trade was weapons — the finest a warrior could want. His home port of Goteborg, in the land of the Swedes, was a place renowned for forging the swords and axes of war. There was an ancient art to the folding and working of hot iron to make it both tensile enough to take a sharp edge and malleable enough not to break. The furnaces of Goteborg were known throughout Europe for the skill of their weaponsmiths.
Thorkeld had learned of Macbeth’s plans to raise a new army. Originally, his consignment of weapons was destined for a chieftain in Cork, whom he knew would pay well, but not as well as Macbeth. So Thorkeld had decided to turn tail and return northwards. He offered Hereward and his companions free passage to Scotland in exchange for service as men-at-arms on the treacherous journey to Macbeth’s garrison in the Scottish Highlands.
They made landfall at the head of Loch Linnhe, where they bought horses for the long journey into the mountains of the north. Thorkeld left his four sailors with his ship and set off with Hereward and his companions, accompanied by six fearsome henchmen. His cargo was very valuable and these men provided escort in exchange for a share of the profits. The cargo of weapons was carefully hidden within rolls of wool and flax and the group agreed that, if challenged, Torfida would purport to be a lady of the Earldom of Northumberland with her escort.
Hereward and Torfida had never seen a land like Scotland before. The further they travelled, the bigger the mountains became; snow still lay on the highest peaks; the streams and rivers were torrents from the melting snow of a long winter and, in the great forests of pine, the wildlife was beginning to stir again after its long hibernation.
The group finally arrived at Glenmore, a huge valley protected by the tallest of mountains. Here the locals confirmed that Macbeth was camped between two vast lochs, at the site of an ancient Roman fort dedicated to the Emperor Augustus. It was a place secure from attack, where Macbeth could be supplied from both the western and the northern seas. It took most of the next day to reach the first outpost of Macbeth’s camp. As they approached, guards stationed high in the rocks hurried towards them.
Communication with the guards was not difficult: their native language was a Celtic tongue that Martin could understand. When the Sergeant of the Guard was shown what the packhorses were carrying, he insisted that they wait for a mounted escort into the camp. When it arrived thirty minutes later, it numbered more than twenty heavily armed horsemen.
Hereward’s first impression of these men was that they were seasoned warriors but ill disciplined and dispirited. Their appearance was shabby, their weapons dull, their horses neglected. If these mounted men were from Macbeth’s elite housecarls, then the King had a dire military problem.
His initial assessment was not changed by the state of the King’s camp as they rode in. Few sentries could be seen, and men sat about idly poking their fires or snoozing on their sacks. Some looked up as the new arrivals passed by, but with a nonchalance not typical of a king’s army. Most disturbingly, a quick count by Hereward tallied no more than 400 men and perhaps 250 non-combatants; it was hardly an army to recapture a stolen crown.
As they dismounted, the King emerged from his hall. Macbeth was less than impressive: his eyes were sunken into his gaunt face; his skin was pale and lifeless; his dark-red hair and beard were lank and tangled; and he stooped as if his hulking bearskin cloak was too heavy for him. His men spoke to him in their Celtic language; he responded in English.
‘I hear you bring weapons to trade.’
Hereward spoke first. ‘My Lord King, our good friend Thorkeld will sell you his fine weapons. My companions and I have come to fight for your cause. We hear you are a rightful king and that your rival, Malcolm Canmore, has taken your throne by force of arms.’
‘Isn’t it more usual for men like you to fight for money and spoils, rather than a good cause?’
‘It is, sire. We would expect to be rewarded, of course, but our main purpose is to help your cause and to pursue our destinies, which have led us to you.’
‘Well, it is an unusual introduction. Perhaps you are a good omen.’
Torfida interrupted before Hereward could answer. To Macbeth’s astonishment, she spoke in North Gaelic,
