the language of the local people.
‘We are, my Lord King.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I am Torfida of Winchester, and I pursue the same destiny as these men. Hereward of Bourne is my betrothed.’ Torfida reverted to English, not wanting to stumble with her limited Gaelic. ‘He is a great warrior, as are his companions. They can help prepare your men for battle.’
Colour began to return to Macbeth’s face, but it was a flush of anger, not of ruddy good health. ‘Can they now? I think you are impudent, madam.’
‘I do not mean to be, sire. Hereward fought with Gruffydd ap Llywelyn at the Battle of Hereford and saved his life. Einar was Aelfgar of Northumbria’s Champion, and Martin Lightfoot was King Gruffydd’s swiftest messenger. They will testify to Hereward’s courage and strength. Hereward — ’
Realizing that the King was losing patience, Hereward interrupted. ‘Let us work with your Captain, under his command… but, rest assured, we can help you.’
‘I will summon my Captain. He will be the judge of that. If he doesn’t take to you, he will run you out of these mountains on the point of his sword.’ The King turned and disappeared into his hall.
Hereward turned to Torfida, clearly displeased. ‘Torfida, you spoke too soon and said too much.’
‘This King needs your help; there is no time to waste on niceties.’
‘I have no experience of leading armies.’
‘Well, now’s the time to learn. Talk to Einar and Martin. They’ve been in armies; they can help us work out how we can impress the King and his Captain with our military prowess.’
Hereward interrupted forcefully. ‘When you say “we”, you mean “me”. Don’t ever speak out again on my behalf, or on behalf of Martin and Einar, without talking to us first.’
Just as Hereward had finished speaking, a tall man, accompanied by his men-at-arms, loomed behind him. His Sergeant announced him.
‘This is Duncan, Earl of Ross, Captain of the King’s hearthtroop.’
‘My Lord Earl, I am Hereward of Bourne, the outlawed son of Leofric, Thegn of Bourne.’
‘You have strong nerves to walk into this camp and presume to speak to the King.’
Einar rarely spoke but, when he did, everyone listened. ‘My Lord, he can match any man here. I am Einar, Champion to Earl Aelfgar of Northumbria, the son of the late Earl Siward.’
‘Not a good recommendation my friend, coming from the Champion of a house that colludes with our enemies.’
‘I was the Earl’s Champion, my Lord; I didn’t decide his alliances. Test Hereward in combat. He will prove his worth against any of your men.’
‘I think I’ll just kill the upstart.’
The Earl drew his sword and threw back his cloak. He was a powerful, dark-haired man who carried the scars of many years of combat. Hereward stepped back, withdrew his sword and adopted a defensive posture.
The fight did not last long. The Earl struck out furiously, but Hereward was able to parry every attack with ease and without striking a single aggressive blow. The Earl was impressed and, breathing heavily and none too pleased with his inability to despatch Hereward, relented.
‘You fight well, Hereward of Bourne. Find a place in our camp for the night. I will speak to the King and we will discuss this again tomorrow.’
The Earl marched away, muttering to his men. Thorkeld, who had watched Hereward’s display of swordsmanship with astonishment, stepped forward to shake his hand.
‘I have never seen a man handle a sword so well. What can you do with other weapons?’
‘The axe is my favourite. My arms are strong, and I can use both my left and my right; necessity forced it upon me a few years ago.’
‘Are you strong enough to use this?’
From under a woollen blanket, Thorkeld pulled an enormous axe, the like of which Hereward had never seen before. Freshly forged and ground, it gleamed with the blue tinge of the finest weapons. Most remarkably, it had not one blade, but two; it was a double-headed, two-handed axe. Hereward had heard from the Norse sagas that Viking gods could wield such weapons, but had assumed that they were no more than fantasies.
‘My father is the finest weaponsmith in Goteborg.’ Thorkeld held the axe out as if it were an altar offering. ‘He has only ever made two of these: one for Svein Beartooth, High Champion of Magnus the Good, Lord King of Norway and Denmark, which was buried with him when he died several years ago, and this, an exact replica. Let me see you swing it.’
It was heavier than anything Hereward had ever held before, but finely balanced. Both blades had been worked with intricately tooled etchings in the shape of serpents and dragons, and the ash shaft had been stained with russet-brown dye and deeply patterned on its shoulder and heel with geometrical designs.
He began to swing it smoothly and easily with two hands and, in short bursts, with one.
‘I’ve never seen anyone who can swing such an axe with one hand.’
Then Hereward lifted the mighty weapon in his left hand, tilted it behind his head and hurled it at a tree fifteen yards away. It tumbled in the air before embedding itself with an impact that made the tree shudder and the axe quiver. ‘I tried that once before and missed. It nearly cost me my life.’
There was a stunned silence for several moments.
Einar spoke first. ‘I didn’t think I would ever meet a man stronger than I am, but you are such a man.’
Thorkeld tried to wrench the axe from the tree, but only succeeded with the help of one of his men-at- arms.
‘The weapon is yours, Hereward of Bourne. I have been looking for a man worthy of it for many years. Use it well.’
‘I cannot accept such a gift; it is the finest axe I have ever seen.’
‘You must accept. It was made for a man like you, a man who can unleash its power.’ Thorkeld handed him a sword and seax of the same quality and design. ‘You must take these as well. I know that in years to come the chroniclers will write sagas about your exploits with these weapons.’
Hereward was overwhelmed. ‘How can I thank you?’
‘I have a feeling that in your hands, Hereward of Bourne, these weapons will become part of legend. There is something about you, I sense it… One day you will become a leader of men.’
7. Duel at Lumphanan
A long night of planning had borne fruit by the morning. Hereward and his companions had talked all night, trying to devise training routines and military tactics that would transform Macbeth’s soldiers from a rabble into an army. Martin and Einar had been involved in serious military training all their lives, and Hereward had an intuitive sense of physical conditioning and martial discipline. Torfida was able to commit to memory all the complicated routines they devised. She had no experience of military tactics, but took to the planning of them with her usual enthusiasm and intelligence.
Torfida thought it prudent to watch from a distance as Hereward, Martin and Einar marched down the side of the glen towards Macbeth’s camp. The entire army, assembled on Earl Duncan’s orders, greeted them.
Hereward was a sight to behold with his new weapons shimmering in the sun and his broad shoulders almost hiding his war shield, painted in alternating colours of crimson, black and gold to resemble the curved spokes of the wheels of a chariot. Einar had given him a Viking helmet, which had belonged to his brother. Made in quarter plates of iron, joined by reinforced bronze bands, it had a domed top and nose and eyepieces shaped to fit tightly to the face. On its front, from the tip of the nose guard to the dome, ran a piece of highly polished bronze, elegantly chased with runic swirls. He could have been a royal prince of Scandinavia rather than an Anglo-Saxon outlaw.
Formed up as an army, Macbeth’s men were even less impressive than they had appeared the day before. Few knights were present and Earl Duncan appeared to be the only man of any rank. Macbeth was nowhere to be seen. Most of the men looked bored; some were carrying injuries and a few had badly infected wounds. The Earl, one of the few men who still had the bearing of a warrior, stepped forward and addressed his men in Norse, a
