language all understood.
‘Men of the King’s army, we have a guest with us today, a knight from the land of the Saxons.’
A snigger of contempt rippled through the ranks.
‘He is a fine warrior, granted recognition by King Gruffydd of Wales. His companions, Einar and Martin Lightfoot, are experienced soldiers. We will listen to what they have to say.’
The Earl acknowledged Hereward and stepped aside. Hereward walked slowly along the front rank of men. This was his moment. There was no training that could prepare a man for an occasion like this.
Either his instincts would get him through it, or the cause was lost.
‘Who speaks for you?’
There was silence.
‘Every army has a man with a loud voice. Who speaks for this one?’
‘I can speak my mind. I am Donald of Moray, from the home of my King, Macbeth of Moray.’
A sturdy man with sharp blue eyes and greying hair stepped forward. He had obviously fought many battles: his face and hands were scarred, his mail coat had been repaired many times, and his shield bore the marks of many fierce blows.
‘You will call me “sir” when you address me, Donald of Moray.’
‘Not yet I won’t, laddie.’
‘Then how do I earn the title?’
‘You’re not man enough, young Saxon.’
Roars of laughter came from the Scottish ranks.
‘What is the military challenge a man should fear most?’
‘Combat training, four to one. We use it in the King’s hearthtroop; it sharpens our senses! We use wooden training swords, one weapon each and a shield. Nothing else permitted.’
‘Agreed.’
‘But as you boast that you are a great warrior, we’ll use real swords!’
Without hesitation, Hereward agreed once more.
The army hooted uproariously; Macbeth’s men meant to humiliate an impudent intruder… then kill him.
Hereward took off his helmet and threw it to Einar. Then he turned to face Donald of Moray.
‘I hope you will be one of the four.’
‘Don’t worry about that, laddie!’
Hereward removed his cloak and axe and the rest of his weapons.
Leaving Donald and three of his comrades, Macbeth’s men dispersed to sit on the hillside to get a better vantage point for the entertainment to come.
Two of Hereward’s opponents could have been brothers, the similarities were so strong; the third was a small dark man with a slightly crazed look in his eye. All were trained killers, but this one looked deranged.
Rapid movement and the precise coordination of sword and shield were the keys to survival in an uneven contest of this sort. Although Hereward was a man equal in size to his opponents, he was much younger and quicker on his feet.
In a contest that did not take long, what followed brought gasps of admiration from the army.
Hereward’s four opponents tried to encircle him, but he always moved to a point where he could see at least three and catch any thrust from the fourth in the corner of his eye. They attacked in unison to reduce Hereward’s freedom of movement, but he kept moving and parried his way between them. He was soon able to grab the crazed-looking one and put him in an arm lock against his elbow joint to persuade him to release his sword. He then let him go and struck him hard with the edge of his shield, knocking the sense out of him.
Three to one was much easier to deal with, as they found it much more difficult to encircle him. A slash to the thigh of one, and a heavy blow from Hereward’s shield to the head of another, brought the contest to an abrupt end. In between, he had playfully tripped them, tapped them on their backsides and ducked away from all their blows. None of the four men had been able to put a scratch on the young Englishman.
Donald of Moray fell to his knees, exhausted. He took some large gulps of air, then slowly regained his feet.
‘You are a fine swordsman; I salute you. You have earned our respect… sir.’
The army cheered. They had enjoyed a dazzling exhibition of swordplay.
Earl Duncan stepped forward. ‘Well, young man, it appears you have won the respect of the men; they seem to like you. Do you have anything else to say to them?’
Hereward bowed to Duncan. ‘My Lord Earl, with your permission…’ He then turned to address the army. ‘Men, go back to your tents and make ready! There will be a full inspection in one hour; every man to be in battle order.’
Earl Duncan was stony faced. ‘Very well, we will see how the men respond.’ His expression remained severe for a few moments, but then softened. ‘You have my authority to take in hand the preparation of the army. I will need a daily report.’
‘Thank you, my Lord.’
On Hereward’s signal, Einar took over.
‘Move! You heard what he said. Move!’
On time and in good order, the army assembled once more. They already had a more purposeful air about them: faces had been swilled, beards trimmed and knots dragged from hair. Weapons had been cleaned, as had mail and leather coats, and mud had been shaken from wolfskins and woollen cloaks.
Hereward stepped forward once more. ‘I have pledged my loyalty to your lord, Macbeth of Moray, King of all Scotland, Lord of the Isles. Does any man here not do the same?’
There was silence.
‘As I inspect your ranks, any man temporarily unfit will be excused training until he is fit for duty; any man no longer able to fight will be sent home to his family with a piece of the King’s silver in his pouch; the rest will work hard every day. You will long for battle as a welcome relief from the hard work of training, but no man will do more than I do. I will do everything I ask of you and more. We will eat together twice a day — first, two hours after sunrise, then again at dusk. There will be no personal cooking pots and no private expeditions for game. I will organize hunting parties and the King’s stewards will organize the food for all of us. There will be two hours of training at dawn, before food, and then rest. We will resume at midday and finish one hour before dusk. Everyone will use that hour to wash and prepare for food; I will have no filthy warriors at our tables.’
He paused and looked along the ranks. ‘In an army worth fighting for, every man has the right to speak his mind. Does any man here have a question, or anything to say?’
‘Who is the pretty English lassie, sir? They say she’s bewitched you and the King.’
A chorus of laughter erupted from the men. The voice was impossible to identify, hidden deep in the ranks.
Hereward replied with a grin. ‘I cannot speak for the King, but she has certainly bewitched me; we are to be married.’
A peal of cheers rang out.
‘We want to be married in Scone, by the Bishop, with the good Macbeth sitting on the Stone of Kings, in his rightful place!’
Another, louder clangour swept over the glen as the men waved their battle-axes and swords in a gesture of approval. They had first taken to Hereward, not only because of his display with a sword, but also because he treated them with openness and honesty.
For the rest of the morning he brought each rank forward and inspected every man in turn. There were many fine warriors in the army, and Hereward chose almost sixty whom he decided would become the King’s new hearthtroop. He intended to take personal control of it, reorganize it and train it as befitted an elite corps.
At the end of the long inspection, during which Hereward had allowed the men to sit, he spoke to them once more. As he turned to face them, they all jumped up as one and the ground shook. Armour and weapons clanked and clattered, creating echoes down the glen. Hereward felt a shiver down his spine.
Torfida, watching from a perch above the glen, glowed with pride. She saw Hereward, a 22-year-old former outlaw, striding around in front of his new army.
‘There will be only three parts to your training: speed, with Martin Lightfoot, the swiftest man I have ever
