Conquest

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.