Conquest

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 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.