King's Man

His remark was typical of his familiarity with the Old Gods. Baldr was the most handsome of all of them. When he was born his mother asked all potential sources of harm that they would never hurt him. She obtained the promise from all things that might harm him - fire, water, disease, all animals, including snakes. She even asked the trees to give her their pledge. But she made an exception of the mistletoe, which she considered to be a plant too young and slender to be a risk. Confident of this protection, the other Gods amused themselves at banquets by pelting Baldr with rocks and stones, throwing spears at him and shooting arrows. Always the missiles fell short or were turned aside, until the trickster Loki made an arrow from mistletoe and gave it to Baldr's brother, Hod. Unthinkingly, Hod, who was blind, shot the arrow and killed his brother.

'Odinn the Wise One told us that it is better that men do not know their fate,' I answered, and quoted a verse from the Havamal, the Song of Odinn:

'Medium wise should a man be

Never too wise

No man should know his fate in advance

His heart will be freer of care.'

Harald grunted his approval of the verse, then dismissed me. 'Go back to your family in Vaster Gotland, Thorgils, and enjoy the rest of your days with them. You have more than discharged all your duties to me as a king's man, and I release you from that obligation. I will only send for you again if I can turn to no other.'

TWELVE

HARALD NEVER NEEDED to summon me again. When I did come back to his court a full ten years later, it was of my own free will and burdened with a sense of impending doom. I was in the sixty-sixth year of my life, and I felt I had nothing left to live for.

The unthinkable had happened: I had lost Runa. She died of disease when our peaceful corner of Vaster Gotland fell victim to one of those petty but vicious squabbles which plagued the northern lands. I was away from home on a trip to the coast to buy a winter supply of dried fish when a band of marauders crossed our previously tranquil territory, and of course they burned and pillaged as they went. My brother-in-law fled with his own family and Runa and the twins into the recesses of the surrounding forest, so they all survived unscathed. But when they crept out of their shelter and returned to our houses, they found the carefully hoarded stocks of food had been looted. There was no time to plant a second crop so they sought to lay in emergency supplies. I returned home with my purchases to find my family anxiously scouring the forest for edible roots and late-season berries.

We might have come through the crisis if the winter that followed had not been so harsh. The snow came earlier than usual and fell more heavily. For weeks we were trapped in our cabins, unable to emerge or seek assistance, though our neighbours would

have been of little help for they too were suffering equal distress. The fish I had brought back was soon eaten, and I cursed myself for not purchasing more. All my hoarded wealth was useless if we could not reach the outside world.

Gradually we sank into a numbed apathy caused by near starvation. Runa, as was her nature, put the well-being of our children ahead of her own needs. Secretly she fed them from her own share of our dwindling rations and concealed her own increasing weakness. When spring finally came and the snows began to melt and the days lengthened, it seemed that all of us would survive. But then, cruelly, the fever struck. Initially it was no more than a soreness in Runa's throat, and she found difficulty in swallowing. But then my wife began to cough and spit blood, and to suffer pains in her chest and shortness of breath. In her already weakened condition, her body offered no resistance to the raging of the illness. I tried all the remedies I knew, but the speed of her decline defeated me. Then came the dreadful night — it was only three days after she showed the first symptoms — when I lay awake beside her and listened to her rapid breathing grow more and more desperate and shallow. By dawn she could no longer lift her head, nor hear me when I sought to comfort her, and her skin was dry and hot to the touch, yet she was shivering.

I went to fetch a bowl of fresh water in which to soak the cloth I laid on her brow, and returned to find she was no longer breathing. She lay as still and quiet as a leaf which, after trembling in the breeze, finally departs from the bough and drifts silently downwards to settle, lifeless, on the earth.

Folkmar and I buried her in a shallow grave scraped from the rocky soil. A half-dozen of our neighbours came to join us. They were little more than walking skeletons themselves, their clothes hanging loose on their bodies, and they stood in silence as I knelt down and laid a few mementoes of Runa's life beside the corpse in its simple homespun gown. There were a pair of scissors, the little strongbox in which she had kept her jewellery, and her favourite embroidered ribbon which she had used to hold back her auburn hair. Looking up at the faces of the mourners and the heart-broken twins, I felt totally bereft, and the tears were streaming down my cheeks.

It was Folkmar who comforted me in his down-to-earth peasant way. 'She never expected so much happiness as you and the children brought her in her final years,' he said. 'If she could speak, she would tell you that.' Then, solemn-faced, he began to cover the corpse with earth and gravel.

It was another week before Folkmar gently stated what he and his wife had decided even as they stood at Runa's graveside. 'We'll take care of the twins,' he said. 'We will treat them as our own until you can arrange something better for them.'

'Better?' I said dully, for I was still too grief-stricken to consider any course of action.

'Yes, better. You should return to Harald's court, where you have influence and command respect. There you can do more for the twins than anything which can be found here. When the time is ripe, maybe you can arrange for them to be taken into royal service, or perhaps fostered to a rich and powerful family.'

Folkmar's trust in my competence touched me deeply, though I doubted that I could achieve half of what he expected. Yet he and his wife were so insistent that I could not bear to disappoint them, and when the weather improved sufficiently I took the twins for a long and melancholy walk in the forest until we came to a dank clearing, surrounded by dark pine trees. There, as the melting snow dripped from the branches, I told my children the details of my own life that they had never heard before. I described how I had been abandoned as an infant and brought up by kindly strangers, and made my own way in the world. As intelligent youngsters do, they already knew where my talk was leading, and looked at me calmly. Both of them had inherited Runa's light brown eyes, and also her way of waiting patiently for me to reach the conclusion of my little speeches. As I groped to find the right words, I thought to myself how strange it must be for them to have for their parent a man who was old enough to be their grandfather. That wide gap in our ages was one reason why I felt I hardly knew them, and I found myself wondering what they really thought of me. Their mother had been the link between us, and once again the sorrow of her death nearly overwhelmed me.

'Both of you — and I as well — must learn how best to live now that your mother is gone,' I ended lamely, trying to keep my voice steady and not show my grief, 'so tomorrow I'm going to travel to the king to ask for his help. I will send for you as soon as our future becomes clear.'

They were the last words I ever spoke to them.

I arrived in Harald's new capital at Trondheim just in time to attend what was to prove the most important council meeting of Harald's reign. A sea-stained merchant ship had put in to Trondheim with news from London. On the fifth day of January the king of England, Edward, had died without leaving a direct male heir. The English kingdom was in turmoil. The English council, the witan, had elected the most powerful of their number to the vacant throne, but he was not of royal blood and there was much dissent. There were other claimants to the kingship, chief among them the Duke of Normandy, as well as the brother of the newly appointed king, who felt himself overlooked.

'I have as good a claim as any,' Harald stated flatly as his council gathered in an emergency session to discuss the situation. Out of respect for my grey hairs and my long service to the king, I had been asked to attend the meeting. 'My nephew Magnus was promised the kingdom of England by Knut's son and heir. When Magnus died, his claim passed to me as his co-ruler.' There was a silence. There were those among us who were thinking privately that Svein Estrithson in Denmark had an equal or even better claim because he was the great Knut's nephew. 'I intend to press for what is mine by right,' Harald went on, 'as I did for the throne of Norway.'

The silence deepened. All of us knew that the only way Harald could pursue his claim was by force of arms. He was talking about waging full-scale war.

'Who holds the English throne now?' someone enquired tactfully. The questioner knew that it would give Harald a chance to tell us what he had in mind.

'Harold Godwinsson,' said Harald. 'He maintains that Edward named him as his heir while on his deathbed. But there is no proof.'

'That would be the same Harold who defeated the combined Welsh and Irish army last year,' observed one of Harald's captains, a veteran who had family connections among the Norse in Dublin. 'He's a capable field commander. Any campaign against him will need careful planning if it is to be successful.'

'There can be no delay,' declared Harald. 'With each month that passes, Harold Godwinsson makes himself more secure on the throne. I intend to attack this summer.'

'Impossible,' interrupted a voice, and I turned to see who was so bold as to contradict Harald so directly. The speaker was Harald's own marshal, Ulf Ospaksson. I had known him since our campaigns in the service of the Basileus, and he was the most experienced and canny of the king's military advisers. 'Impossible,' Ulf repeated. 'We cannot assemble a sufficiently large invasion fleet in that short time. We need at least a year in which to recruit and train our troops.'

'No one doubts your skill and experience,' answered Harald, 'but it can be done. I have the resources.' He was adamant.

Ulf was equally stubborn. 'Harold Godwinsson has resources too. He rules the wealthiest and largest kingdom in the west. He can raise an army and pay to keep it in the field. And he has his huscarls.'

'We will smash the huscarls to pieces,' boasted a young man, intervening. He was Skule Konfrostre, a close friend of Harald's son, Olaf, and one of the council's hotheads.

The marshal gave a weary sigh. He had heard enough of such bravado in his days as a soldier. 'According to their reputation, one English huscarl is worth two of the best of Norway's fighting men. Think of that when you come up against their axes.'

'Enough!' broke in Harald. 'We may never need to face their axes. There is a better way.'

Everyone was straining to hear what the king had decided. It was another of Harald's rules that everyone had to stand while in the royal presence, unless given permission to be seated. Harald was sitting on a low stool while we stood in a circle around him. It did not make it any easier to hear what was being said.

Deliberately Harald turned his head and looked straight at me. I felt again the power of his stare, and in that moment I realised that Harald of Norway would never settle down to the quiet enjoyment of his realm nor abandon his grand design of being a second Knut. The death of the English king had been something that Harald had been waiting for. To the very last, the king was a predator at heart.

'Thorgils here can help,' he said.

I had no idea what he was talking about.

'If two claimants to the throne act together, we can depose Godwinsson and divide England between ourselves.'

'Like in Forkbeard's time,' said a sycophant. 'Half of England ruled by the Norsemen, the other half in Saxon hands.'

'Something like that,' said Harald dryly, though looking at him I knew him well enough to know that he was lying. Harald of Norway would never share the throne of England for long. It would be like his arrangement with Magnus for the Norwegian throne all over again. If Magnus had not died in an accident, Harald would have dispossessed him when the time was right.

Harald waited for a few moments, then continued. 'My information is that William the Bastard, Duke of Normandy, is convinced that Edward left the throne of England to him and that Harold Godwinsson is a usurper. My spies also tell me that William intends to press his claim, just as I will, by invading England. With Thorgils's help we can make sure that the two invasions are coordinated, and that Harold Godwinsson is crushed between the hammer of Norway and the anvil of Duke William's Normans.'

A glint of humour came into my liege lord's eyes.

'William the Bastard is a devout Christian. He surrounds himself with priests and bishops and listens to their advice. I propose to send Thorgils to his court as my emissary to suggest a coordination of our plans. Nothing would be more appropriate than to send Thorgils disguised as a priest.'

There was an amused murmur from the councillors. All of them knew my reputation as a staunch adherent to the Elder Faith.

'What do you have to say to this scheme, Thorgils?' Harald asked. He was baiting me.

'Of course I will carry out your wishes, my lord,' I said. 'But I am not sure that I will be able to pass myself off as a Christian priest.'

'And why not?'

'Though I had some training in a monastery when I was young,' I said, 'that was long ago, and in Ireland the monks followed a different version of the White Christ belief. Their way of worship has fallen into disuse. It has been supplanted by teachings from the All Father of the Christians in Rome, and by the new generation of reformers in the Frankish lands.'

'Then you must learn their ways and how to think like them so that you are mistaken for one of them. I want you to get close enough to William the Bastard so that you can form an opinion of him before you reveal your true identity as my ambassador. You must satisfy yourself that the Duke of Normandy will make a worthy ally. Only if you think that he will carry out his invasion are you to propose that he coordinate his attack with mine. Otherwise you are to maintain your disguise, and withdraw quietly.'

'And if I judge the duke to be a serious contender, what date should I suggest he launches his invasion?'

Harald chewed his lip, then glanced across at Ulf Ospaksson. 'Marshal, what do you recommend?'

Ospaksson still looked doubtful. Clearly he was uneasy at the idea of launching a major onslaught with so little preparation. I heard the reluctance in his voice as he set out his advice.

"We will need as much time as possible to raise an army, gather our ships and equip the fleet. Yet we cannot risk crossing the English Sea too late in the season when the autumn gales are due. So I would say that early September is as late as we dare leave it. But it will be cutting matters very short, and it will be impossible to supply the army once it is ashore in England. The distance from Norway is too great.'

'Our army will live off the land, just as it always has,' said Harald.

An image came into my mind of the dreadful famine that ravaged my home in the wake of the warriors. I took a deep breath and risked Harald's anger by asking, in front of the councillors, 'My lord, when I go on this mission for you I will be leaving my family and neighbours behind.'

Harald drew his eyebrows down in a scowl. I knew that he hated to be asked favours, and he had detected that I was about to ask for one.

'What are you trying to say? All of us will be leaving families behind.'

'The district where I spent the last four months is wracked by famine,' I explained. 'It would be a kingly act if you could send some assistance.'

'Anything else?'

'I have two children, my lord, a boy and a girl. Their mother died only a few weeks ago. I would be glad if they could benefit from royal favour.'

Harald grunted — whether in agreement I could not tell — before turning back to the matter of raising his army. Half of the levies of Norway were to assemble at Trondheim as soon as the harvest was in, every available warship was to be pressed into service, a bounty would be paid to the smithies for extra production of arrowheads and axe blades and so forth. Only later did I learn that, to his credit, he had arranged for three shiploads of flour to be sent to Vaster Gotland, but that when his messengers reached my home they found they had been mistaken for raiders, and that Folkmar had disappeared. Last seen, he was heading in the direction of the Thor temple at Uppsala, taking my twins with him.

I spent the next two weeks trying to learn as much as possible about the man on whom I was being sent to spy, and the more I learned, the more I feared that Harald was overreaching himself if he thought such a wily ally would cooperate. William the Bastard attracted gossip like rotting meat attracts flies. His mother, it was said, was a tanner's daughter whose heart-stopping beauty had caught the eye of the Duke of Normandy, and their illegitimate child was only seven when he had inherited the ducal title. Against all expectations the youngster had survived the power struggles over his inheritance because he possessed what the Christians liked to call 'the devil's luck'. On one occasion a hired murderer got as far as the boy's bedroom, and he awoke to see his would-be killer struggling with his guardian, who had taken the precaution of sleeping in the same room. The murderer cut his guardian's throat but made such a commotion that he was forced to flee before he completed his mission. Even William's marriage was the subject of lurid description. Apparently he had married a cousin, although his own priests had forbidden the union as too close to incest, and, to add spice to the gossip, it was rumoured that his bride was a dwarf who had borne him at least half a dozen children. On one point, however, all the rumours and speculation met: William of Normandy had shown himself to be a master of statecraft. He had connived and fought until he had secured his grip on the dukedom he had inherited, and now he was the most feared warlord in France, as powerful as the king of France himself.

This, then, was the man that my lord had sent me to evaluate and perhaps ensnare within Harald's grand design. It would be a dangerous assignment, and I was not at all sure that I still had the mental agility or the subtlety to act the spy. If I was to carry it off, it would only be with the help of Odinn, himself the great dissembler. It would be my last effort, and a distraction from the pain of losing Runa.

I began by acquiring my own disguise. I decided to wear the simple brown robe which would mark me as a humble monk. At Harald's court there were enough Christian priests for me to observe and copy their mannerisms, while the Latin I had learned in Ireland was more than good enough to mimic their prayers and incantations. The only dilemma I had was about my tonsure. Discreet enquiry among the priests revealed that the shape and manner of my haircut could be significant. Apparently the area of the scalp that was shaved, the length of remaining hair and the way it hung could indicate a White Christ devotee's background in the same way that the painted pattern on a shield indicates a warrior's allegiance. So I chose to have my head shaved completely of its last few remaining white hairs. If questioned, I would say that it was in honour of St Paul who was, according to the priest I interviewed, completely bald.

A cog took me from Norway south to its home port of Bremen and then towards the coast of Normandy, where I intended to disembark. This cog was a vessel that I had never experienced before, and I was ill at ease throughout the voyage. Designed for cargo carrying, the sides of the ship rose rather too high out of the water for my liking, and the bow and stern were made yet more clumsy by high wooden platforms. I thought the cog resembled a large barn that had somehow floated out to sea, though I had to admit that she was uncommonly capacious. The cog on which I sailed carried twice as much cargo as any ship I had ever travelled on, and as she waddled down from port to port I watched her hold fill up with stores that was clearly war material. There were bundles of shields, bales of sword blades, flax cloth for tent making, large quantities of ship-building nails as well as more humdrum gear such as boots, spades and bill hooks. Our ultimate destination was Rouen, Duke William's capital.

Njord the sea God, however, imposed a different outcome on our voyage. The cog loaded her final batch of cargo in Boulogne — a mixed consignment of metal helmets, tanned hides and pickaxes — and was working along the coast when, in the early afternoon, the weather turned against us. It was a typical spring gale when the sky swiftly darkens, clouds come scudding up from the west, and heavy bursts of cold rain spatter the sea with exploding raindrops. The sea, which had been a neutral blue-grey, turned a greenish black, and as the wind gathered in strength the swells began to mount and grow more violent until they toppled and broke. At first the cog's size and weight made her seem impervious to the deteriorating conditions, but eventually the waves which are Njord's servants gradually took control. Our Bremen skipper did his best to find shelter from the storm, but as luck would have it the gale had caught him at a point where he had no safe harbour to run to. So he ordered the sailors to shorten sail and tried to ride out the worsening conditions. Our deep-laden ship wallowed sickeningly as the waves rolled under her keel, and the wind buffeted the high bow and stern. It required all the steersman's skill to keep her riding to the seas, and it was impossible to prevent her drifting downwind as her slab sides acted as an unwelcome sail. As the wind shifted further into the north, I saw the skipper begin to look alarmed. He sent his crew below decks to fetch up the spare anchors from the bilges and get them ready on the heaving deck.

By now the rain was so heavy that it was impossible to see more than an arrow's flight in any direction, yet it was clear that the cog was being driven towards the unseen coast and into danger. I took care to conceal my own unease - priests are not supposed to be experienced mariners - but I noted how the waves were becoming shorter and steeper, and I suspected we were passing over shoals. That suspicion became a certainty when the

churning of the waves began to throw up a yellow tinge of sand and mud. Once or twice I thought I heard the sound of distant breakers.

Then, abruptly, the rain stopped and the air around us cleared as if a hood had been lifted from our eyes. We turned to look over the lee rail to see where the wind had brought us. The sight brought an urgent command from our skipper. 'Let go all anchors,' he yelled.

Away to our port side, less than half a mile away, was a low shoreline. A beach of grey sand, glistening with the recent rain, sloped gently towards a ridge of dunes, and behind them rose a barrier of bone-white cliffs. To a landsman's eye it might have looked as if our cog was still far enough from land to be in deep water and safely clear of danger, but our skipper knew better. The gradual slope of the beach and the white crests of the waves between us and the shoreline told him that we had entered shoal ground. At any moment our vessel's keel might touch bottom.

The crew scrambled to carry out their captain's orders. Their greased leather sea boots slithered on the slippery deck as they wrestled the largest of our anchors, a great iron grapnel weighted with bands of lead, across to the side rail and heaved it overboard. The anchor rope flew after it, the first few coils disappearing quickly, but then suddenly slowing as the anchor hit the sea floor close beneath the surface.

'Jump to it!' bellowed the captain. 'Get the second anchor down.'

This time the anchor was smaller, a wooden shaft with a metal crossbar, easier to manage but less effective. It too was flung overboard, and by now the skipper had run forward and laid his hand on the main anchor rope. He was feeling its tremor, trying to sense whether the anchor itself had dug into the sea floor and was holding firm. His conclusion was evident as he shouted at the crew to throw out more anchors. 'Everything!' he yelled. 'She's dragging!' Desperately the crew obeyed. Four more anchors were tossed into the sea and their anchor lines made fast to strong points on the deck. But these emergency anchors were feeble affairs, the last one no more than a heavy rock with a wooden bar thrust through it, intended as a fang to bite into the sand.

All this time the cog was heaving up and down as each wave rolled under her hull, the anchor ropes went taut and then grew slack as the vessel worked her tethers, and the motion tugged the anchors treacherously across the soft sea floor.

There was nothing we could do but wait and hope that one or more anchors might take a firmer grip and halt our slithering progress. But we were disappointed. There came the deeper trough of a large wave, and we felt the keel of the cog thump down on the sand. Several moments passed, and then the vessel shuddered again, though the wave trough had been less obvious. Even the most inexperienced novice on our crew knew that our ship was being pushed farther into the shallows. Inexorably the gale drove the cog onward, and soon the shocks of the hull striking sea floor became a steady pounding. The cog was a credit to her shipwrights. Her stout hull stayed watertight, but no vessel could withstand such a battering for ever. The gale was showing no sign of easing, and each wave carried our ship a few inches farther towards her tomb.

Before long she was tilting over, the deck at so steep an angle that we had to cling to the rigging to prevent ourselves slipping into the sea. The cog was halfway towards her death. Even if her hull stayed intact, she would be mired in the shifting sands until she was buried and her timbers rotted. Her skipper, whose livelihood depended on his vessel, finally recognised that the sand would never let her escape.

'Abandon ship,' he called despondently, shouting to make himself heard above the grumbling of the waves which tumbled all around us.

When the gale had first hit us, our vessel's main tender - a ten-oared rowing boat — had been towing astern on a heavy cable, but when the cog struck the sands, the lighter boat had been carried ahead by the waves, the cable had parted, and our tender

had been swept away. The remaining boat was a square-ended skiff, clumsy and heavy, suitable only for sheltered waters. The crew took axes and hacked away the low bulwarks to open a gap through which they pushed her into the seas. Even as the skiff slid overboard and hit the water, the breaking crest of a wave rose up and half filled her. The sailors shoved and jostled as they began to climb over the rail.

The skipper held back; probably he could not bear to abandon his ship. He saw me hesitating at the spot I had chosen. I was clinging to a shroud at the highest point on the vessel so that I did not tumble down the sloping deck. He must have thought that I was too frightened to move, and was hanging there, frozen with in terror.

'Come on, father,' he shouted, beckoning me. 'The boat is your only hope.'

I took a second look at the squabbling boat crew and doubted what he said. Gathering up the hem of my brown priest's gown, I tucked the material into the rope belt around my waist, waited for the next wave to crest, and the last the skipper saw of me was my flailing arms and naked legs as I launched myself out into the air and flung myself into the sea.

The water was surprisingly warm. I felt myself plunging down, then rolled and turned by the waves. I gasped for air and gulped down seawater, gritty to the taste. I spat out a mouthful as I came to the surface, looked around to locate the shoreline, and began to swim towards it. Waves broke over my head again and thrust me downward so that I was swimming underwater. I struggled to keep my direction. Another wave tumbled me head over heels, and I lost my bearings. As I came back to the surface, I squeezed my eyelids together to clear my vision, and my eyes stung with the salt. Once more I looked around, trying to realign myself with the shore, and caught a glimpse of the ship's small boat and its desperate crew. Four of the sailors were rowing raggedly, while the others bailed frantically, but their craft was dangerously low in the water. Even as I watched, a breaking wave lifted up the skiff, held the little boat there for a moment, and then casually overturned it, stern over bow, and flung the crew into the water. Most of them, I was sure, did not know how to swim.

Grimly I battled on, remembering my days in Iceland when I had taken part in the water games when the young men competed at wrestling as they swam, the winner attempting to hold his opponent underwater until he gasped for mercy. I recalled how to hold my breath, and so I kept my nerve as the waves crashed over me, trying to smother me, but also washing me closer to the shore. I was an old man, I cautioned myself, and I should dole out my last remaining strength like a miser. If I could stay afloat, the sea might deliver me to land. Had Niord and his handmaidens, the waves, wanted to drown me, they would have done so long ago.

I was on the point of abandoning the struggle when suddenly a pair of hands gripped me painfully under the shoulders and I found myself being hauled ashore, up the sloping beach. Then the hands abruptly released their grip, and I flopped face down on wet sand, while my rescuer, speaking in thickly accented Frankish, said, "What shitty luck. All I've got is a useless priest.' At that moment I closed my eyes and passed into a haze of exhaustion.

A kinder voice awoke me. Someone was turning me on my back, and I could feel the clinging wetness of my monk's gown against my skin. 'We must find some dry clothing for you, brother. The good Lord did not spare you from the sea just to let you die of ague.'

I was looking up into the anxious face of a small, wiry man kneeling beside me. He wore a monk's habit of black cloth over a white gown, and was tonsured. Even in my exhausted condition I wondered to which monastic order he belonged, and how he came to be on a windswept beach, the scene of a shipwreck.

'Here, try to stand,' he was saying. 'Someone nearby will provide shelter.'

He slipped one arm under me and helped me rise to a sitting position. Then he coaxed me to my feet. I stood there, swaying.

My body felt as though it had been thrashed with a thick leather strap. I looked around. Behind me the waves still rumbled and crashed upon the sand, and some distance away I could see the wreck of our cog. She was well and truly aground now, lying askew. Her single mast had snapped and fallen overboard. Closer, in the shallows, the upturned hull of the ship's skiff was washing back and forth in the surge and return of the breakers. Occasionally, a large crest half rolled the little boat, and she gyrated helplessly. A group of about a dozen men was standing knee-deep in the sea, their backs turned towards me. Some were staring intently at the little skiff, others were watching the waves as they came sweeping towards the shore.

'No use asking them for help,' said my companion.

Then I noticed the two bodies lying on the sand, just a few yards away from the watchers. I guessed they were corpses of sailors from the cog who had drowned when the skiff capsized. When last I saw them, they were fully dressed. Now they were stripped naked.

'Wreckers and scavengers. Heartless men,' lamented my companion. 'This is a dangerous part of the coast. Yours is not the first ship to have come to grief here.' Gently he turned me around, and helped me stumble towards the distant line of cliffs.

A fisherman took pity on us. He had a small lean-to against the foot of the cliffs, where he kept his nets and other fishing gear. Over a small charcoal fire he heated a broth of half-cured fish and onions, which he gave us to eat while I sat shivering on a pile of sacks. A cart would be coming shortly, he said. The driver was his cousin, who passed by at the same time each day, and he would carry us into town. There the church priest would assist us. Listening to him, I found I was able to follow his words as they were mainly of the Frankish tongue, though mixed with a few words I recognised from my own Norse, as well as phrases I had heard when I lived in England. With my companion, I conversed in Latin.

'Where am I?' I asked the fisherman.

He looked surprised. 'In Ponthieu, of course. In the lands of Duke Guy. By rights, I should take you to his castle at Beaurain and deliver you as sea flotsam. Everything which is washed up by the sea is the duke's by right. That's the law of lagan. But I wouldn't be thanked for that, not since that business with the Englishman. The one who's now scrambled on to the throne over there, though he has no right. '

Odinn had a hand in my shipwreck, I thought to myself. The broth was warming me and I could feel the strength beginning to seep back through my limbs. 'What's his name, this Englishman?' I continued to enquire through lips that were painfully cracked and tasted salty.

'Harold Godwinsson,' answered the fisherman. 'He was cast up on the shore, just like you, along with half a dozen of his attendants. We get a dozen or so ships wrecked here every year, always on a north-west gale. He was a nobleman all right, anyone could see that from his fancy clothes. Even those plunderers, the wreckers, knew that they would have to take a care. No knowing what would happen if they messed about with the castaway. Too rich a fish altogether. Might stick in their gullets. So straightaway they took him to the duke, expecting a reward, though little good it did them. The duke stowed the man and his attendants in his dungeon while he made some enquiries as to who he was, and when he found out how important and wealthy he really was, he sent a ship over to England — my oldest brother was the first mate on her — asking for a good fat ransom. But our duke got no more profit out of it than the wreckers. Word of the castaway reached William the Bastard, and before you know it, a gang of his men-at-arms is on our doorstep telling our duke that he has to hand over the captive, or his castle will be torched and his head will be on a pole. Not a threat you ignore if Bastard William is behind it. Also he's Duke Guy's overlord, so he had a right to tell him what to do. So this captive is released from the dungeons, dressed up in a new set of finery, and the last we saw of him he was being escorted off to Rouen as though he was William's long-lost brother.'

The fisherman hawked to clear his throat, turned his head and spat a gob of phlegm accurately through the door of his shack. 'That's my cousin now, coming along with the ass and cart. You better get moving.'

'Bless you,' said my companion. 'Thrice bless you. You have done a Christian act today, for which God will reward you.'

'More than the duke would. He's a mean sod,' commented the fisherman sourly.

The little cart made slow progress. Its ill-shaped wheels wobbled on a single axle, and the vehicle lurched and slewed as it bumped across the tussocks of sea grass. I felt so sorry for the struggling donkey that I slid down from the pile of damp and smelly nets and walked beside the tailgate, holding on to the cart for support. I must have given the impression that I had recovered from my near drowning, because my companion could no longer restrain his curiosity.

'How came you to be upon that ship, and what is your name, brother?' he asked.

I had been expecting the question and had prepared what I hoped was a satisfactory reply.

'My name is Thangbrand. I have been preaching in the northern lands on behalf of our community in Bremen, though I fear that the word fell on stony ground.'

'Bremen indeed. I have heard that the bishop there holds authority over the northern kingdoms. But you are the first of his people that I have met.'

I relaxed. I doubted there were any survivors from the shipwreck who could throw doubt on my story.

'But you did not say why you were aboard the boat that wrecked.'

'The bishop sent me to seek out more recruits for our mission.

The northerners are a stubborn people, and we need help if we are to succeed in spreading the word of our Redeemer.'

My companion sighed. 'How true. Minds and ears are often closed to the magnificent and awesome mystery. Truly it is said that Christ was facing westward when he hung from the cross. All can see how in that direction the word of God has spread most easily. His almighty right arm pointed to the north which was to be mellowed by the holy word of the faith, and his left hand was for the barbaric peoples of the south. Only the peoples of the east are condemned, for they were hidden behind his head.

'And you, brother, how came you to be on the beach in my hour of need?' I asked, anxious to turn the conversation away from my own background and learn more about my pious companion.

'My name is Maurus and I am named for the assistant to the teacher of the Rule. I come from the region of Burgundy where its governance has long flourished.'

Baffled by his reply, I remained silent and hoped that he would provide a few clues as to what he was talking about.

'I was on my way to the Holy and Undivided Trinity to present to Abbot John a chronicle which celebrates the life of his predecessor, the saintly Lord Abbot William. I do this on behalf of the chronicler himself as he is no longer able to travel due to advancing years and ill health.'

'And this chronicler?'

'My mentor and friend, Rudolfus Glaber. Like myself he is from Burgundy. For years he has laboured compiling and writing a Life of Lord Abbot William. In addition he has written five books of Histories to relate the lives of the other important men of our time. Even now he is engaged in writing a sixth book, for he is determined to leave a written record for posterity of the many events which have occurred with unusual frequency since the millennium of the Incarnation of Christ our Saviour.'

I took a closer look at Maurus. He was, I guessed, somewhere between forty and fifty years old, small and sinewy, with a brick-red complexion that was either scorched by long exposure to the sun and wind or was the result of too much strong drink.

'Forgive me for my ignorance, brother,' I said, 'but this Rule you mentioned. What is that?'

He looked mildly shocked by my ignorance. 'That the brethren of a monastery obey one common will, are equal in agreement, and work and follow a uniform way of prayer and psalmody, eating and dress.'

'That makes them sound like soldiers,' I commented,

He beamed with approval. 'Exactly, servant soldiers of Christ.'

'That is something I would like to see.'

'You shall!' Maurus said enthusiastically. 'Why don't you travel with me to the Holy and Undivided Trinity? The monastery is second only to my own monastery of Cluny for the renown of its strict rule and discretion, the mother of virtues.'

It was precisely what I hoped he would say, because to travel in the company of a genuine priest would be excellent camouflage. His next words were even more encouraging.

'The monastery is at Fecamp, in Duke William's lands.'

THIRTEEN

IT TOOK US a week to reach Fecamp, walking by day and taking rides on farm carts when they were offered. At night we stayed with village priests, and twice we slept under hedges as it was now early summer and the night was mild. Throughout our journey I looked about me, trying to assess the resources which might allow Duke William to launch an invasion of England. What I saw impressed me. The countryside was fertile and well farmed. Rolling hills were cultivated for large fields of wheat, and every village was surrounded by carefully tended orchards. There were also large tracts of forest, mainly oak trees, and frequently we passed groups of men carrying saws and ropes, or we heard the sound of axes in the distance and encountered timber wagons drawn by oxen and piled high with raw logs, sawn baulks of wood, and the crooks and roots of large trees. I could recognise boat-building timber when I saw it, and I noted that the timber cargoes were all heading north, towards the coast of what the local people called 'the sleeve', the narrow sea separating Frankia from England.

Several times small groups of heavily armed men passed us. The weapons they carried looked well cared for, and I guessed them to be mercenary soldiers. Eavesdropping on their conversation as they passed, I identified men who came from Lotharingia,

Flanders, and even Schwabia. All of them were seeking hire by Duke William. When I commented on this to Maurus, he grimaced and said, 'Just as long as they keep their swords sheathed while they are among us. With the Duke you never know. He has brought peace to this land, but at a cost.'

We had reached the crest of a low hill and were beginning our descent into the far valley. In the distance a small walled town straddled the banks of a river.

'I once passed through a town just like that one over there,' Maurus recalled sombrely. 'It was border country, and the townsfolk had made the mistake of denying the duke's authority. They gave their allegiance to one of his rivals, and quickly found themselves under siege from the duke's men. They thought their walls could not be breached and compounded their error by insulting the duke himself. Some of the bolder citizens stood on the town walls, jeering and calling out that the tanner's daughter was a whore. The duke tightened the siege, and when food within the town ran out and a delegation of burghers came to beg for clemency, he had their hands cut off, then had them hanged from a row of gibbets erected opposite the main gate. The town surrendered, of course, but he showed no mercy even then. He gave his soldiers leave to put the place to the sack, then to set it on fire. There were only ashes and blackened house frames when I passed through.'

Duke William the Bastard, I thought to myself, was a match for my lord Harald when it came to being ruthless.

'Did not the town priests intervene, asking for their flock to be spared?' I asked.

'There is God's mercy, and the duke's mercy,' stated Maurus bleakly, 'and the sins of the earth can rise even to the heavens. The calamities we have suffered since the millennium of the Incarnation of Christ our Saviour are a sign that we have strayed from the path of righteousness.'

'It is true that there has been famine in the northern lands,' I commented, thinking of Runa's pitiful death.

'Famine, and worse, is our punishment,' said Maurus gloomily. 'My friend Glaber has written of it. For three years the weather was so unseasonable that it was impossible to furrow the land and sow crops. Then the harvest was destroyed by floods. So many died of hunger that the corpses could not be shrived in church, but were thrown into pits, twenty or thirty at a time. In their desperation men and women began to dig up and eat a certain white earth like potter's clay which they mixed with whatever they had by way of flour or bran to make bread, but it failed to allay their hunger cravings. Others turned to eating carrion, and to feasting on human flesh. Travellers like ourselves became victims of brigands who killed us in order to sell our meat in the markets. One trader even sold human flesh ready cooked. When arrested, he did not deny the shameful charge. He was bound and burned to death. The meat was buried in the ground, but another fellow dug it up and ate it.'

Maurus paused, and for a moment I wondered if he was imagining what human flesh tasted like, for I had noted that he paid the closest attention to his food and drink. Even in the humblest home he would encourage the housewife to improve her dishes with sauces, and he was constantly complaining about the standard of cooking in Normandy which, if he was to be believed, compared unfavourably with what he was accustomed to "in Burgundy.

'But that is all in the past,' I ventured. 'Today the people look well fed and content.'

'We must not ignore portents which foretell a great tragedy,' Maurus responded. 'In a certain town in Auxerre, the wooden statue of Christ in the marketplace began to weep tears, and a wolf entered the church, seized the bell rope with his teeth, and began to toll the bell. And you can see for yourself the blazing star which appeared in the night sky in late April, and now burns every night, moving slowly across the heavens.'

Years earlier my teacher, a learned drui in Ireland, had told me about this wandering star and predicted its appearance. But to have told that to Maurus would have made it seem that I had learned witchcraft, so I said nothing.

'The world is tainted with blind cupidity, extreme abominations, thefts and adulteries,' he continued. 'The devil's assistants show themselves boldly. I myself have seen one. In my own monastery in Burgundy, he appeared to me in the form of a mannikin. He had a scrawny neck, jet-black eyes and a lined and wrinkled forehead. He had a wide mouth and blubbery lips, and pointed hairy ears under a shaggy mop of dirty hair. His lower legs were covered with coarse brown fur and he dribbled. He shrieked and gibbered at me, pointing and cursing. I was so terrified that I ran into the chapel, flung myself face down in front of the altar and prayed for protection. Truly it is said that the Antichrist will soon be set free, because this foul mannikin was one of his harbingers.'

But when we reached Fecamp and the monastery of the Holy and Undivided Trinity, it seemed to me that Maurus's fellow monks did not share his pessimistic view of the future. They were busy refurbishing their church in a manner clearly intended to last for years to come. The huge building swarmed with stoneworkers, labourers, carpenters, glaziers and scaffolders. The central feature was the tomb of the Lord Abbot William, whose Life had been written by Rudolfus Glaber. It was the scene of miracles, so a monk told me in hushed whispers. A ten-year-old boy, gravely ill, had been brought there by his despairing mother and left before the tomb. The child, looking around, had seen a small dove sitting upon the tomb, and after watching it for some time had fallen asleep. 'When he awoke,' the monk told me, 'he found himself perfectly cured.'

His pious tale was of less interest to me than the cloister gossip. The monks of the Holy Trinity were remarkably knowledgeable about what was going on in the duchy. They had their informants everywhere, from the smallest hamlets to the ducal court itself, and they discussed avidly the war preparations that Duke William was making — how many ships each of his great lords was expected to supply, the number of men-at-arms needed if the venture was to be a success, the quantity of wine and grain being hoarded in great bins, and so forth. The monks were very enthusiastic about the forthcoming campaign, and listening closely I discovered why: the monastery of the Trinity owned rich farmlands in England, and after Harold Godwinsson took the throne, they had ceased to receive any income from their property. Now they wanted Duke William to restore what was theirs, once he had supplanted Harold as king of England. The monastery had even pledged to supply Duke William with a warship for his fleet, paid for from the monastery's ample funds.

I commented to Maurus that some might see it as a contradiction for the house of God to be providing instruments of warfare, and he laughed.

'Let me show you something which is an even more useful contribution to his campaign. Come with me; it is only a short walk.'

He led me out of a side gate to the monastery and down a rutted lane until we came to an orchard. Unusually, the orchard was surrounded by a strongly built stone wall.

'There!' he said, pointing.

I peered over the wall. Grazing under apple trees were three extraordinary animals. I recognised that they were horses, but they did not look like any horses that I had ever seen before. Each animal was broad and heavy, with short muscular legs like thick pillars, and a back as broad as a refectory table.

'Stallions, all three of them,' explained Maurus approvingly. 'The monastery will donate them to William's army.'

'As pack animals?' I queried.

'No, no, as destriers, as battle chargers. Each can carry a knight in full armour. There is not a foot soldier in the world who can withstand the shock of a knight mounted on a beast like that. Our monastery specialises in the breeding of these animals.'

I thought back to the incident outside the walls of Syracuse when I had witnessed Iron Arm, the sword-wielding Frankish knight, use his brute strength to destroy a skilful Arab rider mounted on an agile steed, and I had a vivid picture of William's heavy cavalry mounted on their destriers, smashing down a shield wall of infantry.

'But how will William manage to transport such heavy animals on his ships and land them safely on the English shore?' I asked.

'I have no idea,' admitted Maurus, 'but there will be a means, that's for sure. William leaves nothing to chance when he wages war, and he has expert advisers, even from this abbey.' I must have looked sceptical, for he added, 'Do you remember meeting the monastery's almoner yesterday? He sat near us during the evening meal in the refectory, the gaunt-looking man with three fingers missing from his left hand. That's a war wound. Before he entered the monastery, he was a mercenary soldier. He's a member of Duke William's council and helps in planning the invasion. The monastery owns a parcel of land on the coast of England, just opposite the shortest sea crossing. It will be an ideal spot for William's troops to come ashore, and the almoner - his name is Regimus — will accompany the fleet so he can point out the best place to beach the boats carrying our troops and, of course, the heavy horses.

I was thoughtful as I walked back to the monastery. Everything I had heard about the Duke of Normandy indicated that he was serious about invading England, and that he was preparing his campaign with close attention to detail. I had the impression that when William the Bastard decided on a course of action, he followed it through and made sure that it was a success. It was not 'devil's luck' which had brought him this far; it was his determination and shrewdness, coupled with his ruthlessness. My earlier misgivings that Harald might be foolhardy in seeking an alliance with William came seeping back. And this time I also had to ask myself whether I too was being rash in involving myself so closely with these Christians who seemed so self-confident and pugnacious.

I made my excuses to Maurus, telling him that I intended to travel onward to Rome carrying the bishop of Bremen's request for more priests to be sent to the northern lands. Maurus was content to remain at Fecamp, and now that I had had the experience of travelling with him, I was more confident in my disguise as an itinerant preacher for the White Christ. However, when I left the monastery early on a bright summer morning, I did make one important adjustment to my costume. I stole a black habit and a white gown from the laundry, leaving in their place my travel-stained robe of brown. From now on, I would pretend that I was a follower of the Rule.

Looking back on that theft, I realise that it was perhaps another sign that I was now too old to be a successful spy, and that I was becoming careless.

I needed a private audience with the duke at which I could propose the alliance with Harald of Norway, but I had failed to take into account how difficult it would be to gain access to him. William would be fully occupied with his invasion plans, and far too busy to listen to a humble priest, and his bodyguards would be suspicious of strangers, fearing that they were hired killers sent by the duke's enemies or even by Harold Godwinsson in England. So, recklessly, I had devised a stratagem which I hoped would lead to a meeting with the duke and only a handful of his closest advisers. This hare-brained scheme arose from a remark made by one of the monks at Fecamp. When Maurus had described how he found me half-drowned on the beach, the monks had told us that Harold Godwinsson had spent several months at the duke's court after a similar accident had befallen him. There Harold had been treated generously, and, in return, he had sworn allegiance to the duke and promised to support William's candidacy for the English throne. 'Godwinsson treacherously broke his oath by seizing the throne for himself. He is a usurper and needs to be exposed,' asserted one of the monks. 'There is a brother at the monastery in Jumieges who is writing a full account of this act of perfidy, and he will soon be presenting it to Duke William, just as brother Maurus here has brought to us the Life of Lord Abbot William, lovingly prepared by his friend Rudolfus Glaber in Burgundy. Duke William keenly appreciates those who write the truth.'

Thus, when I reached the duke's palace at Rouen, I pretended I was on my way to its chapel, but then swerved aside and found my way to the anteroom where his secretaries were hard at work. Standing there in my black habit, I said that I wished to meet the duke privately on a matter of importance.

'And what is the subject that you wish to discuss?' asked a junior secretary cautiously. From his expression I judged that, but for my priestly dress, I would have been turned away on the spot.

'For many years I have been compiling a history of the deeds of great men,' I answered, allowing a sanctimonious tone to creep into my voice, 'and Duke William's fame is such that I have already included much about him. Now, if the Duke would be so gracious, I would like to record how he came to inherit the throne of England, despite the false claims of his liegeman Harold Godwinsson. Then posterity can judge the matter correctly.'

'Who should I say is presenting this request?' said the secretary, making a note.

'My name,' I said, uhblushingly, 'is Rudolfus Glaber. I come from Burgundy.'

It took three days for my request to filter through the levels of bureaucracy which surrounded the duke. I spent the interval observing the preparations for the forthcoming campaign. Not since my days in Constantinople had I seen such a well-managed military machine. A space had been cleared in front of the city wall where, in the mornings, a company of bowmen practised their archery. Their task would be to pin down the enemy formations under a rain of arrows until the mounted knights could deliver their charge. In the afternoons the same practice ground was used for infantry drill.

A little to the north of the city was a grassy field where I watched the manoeuvres of a large conroy, a cavalry unit contributed to the duke's army by the Count of Mortagne. The Convoy numbered about a dozen knights accompanied by an equal number of squires or assistants. All wore chain mail, but only six of the knights were mounted on the heavy destriers. The others rode horses of a more normal size, and so they were practising how best to coordinate their attack. The lighter cavalry cantered their horses up to a line of straw targets and threw their lances, using them as javelins. Then they wheeled away, leaving their comrades on the heavy horses to advance at a ponderous trot so that their riders could run the targets through with their thicker, weightier lances or slash them to shreds with long swords. When this part of the exercise was over, the light cavalry dismounted, laid aside their metal swords and were given practice weapons with wooden blades. The conroy then divided in two and fought a mock battle, cutting and hacking at one another under the gaze of their leaders, who from time to time shouted out an order. At that moment one side or the other would turn and pretend to flee, drawing opponents forward. Then, at another shouted command, the fugitives would halt their pretended flight and the heavy cavalry, who were still on horseback and waited in reserve, lumbered forward to deliver the counter-blow.

While this was going on, I quietly sauntered forward to take a closer look at one of the battle swords that had been laid aside. It was heavier and longer than the weapons I had seen when in the emperor's Life Guard in Constantinople, and it had a groove down the length of the long straight blade. There was also an inscription worked in bronze lettering. I read IN NOMINI DOMINI.

"Very appropriate, don't you think, father?' said a voice, and I looked up to meet the gaze of a heavily muscled man wearing a leather apron. No doubt he was the armourer for the conroy.

'Yes,' I agreed. 'In the Lord's name. It seems to be a fine blade.'

'Made in the Rhine countries, like most of our swords,' continued the armourer. 'Quality depends on which smithy makes them. The Germans turn them out by the dozen. If the blade snaps, it's not worth repairing. You only have to prise off the handle grips and fit a new blade.'

I remembered the consignment of sword blades taken aboard the cog before she wrecked. 'Can't be easy finding a replacement blade.'

'Not this time,' said the armourer. 'I've served the count for the best part of twenty years, making mail and repairing weapons on his campaigns, and I've never seen anything like the amount of spare gear that is being provided — not just sword blades, but helmets, lance heads, arrow shafts, the lot. Cartloads and cartloads of it. I'm beginning to wonder how it will all fit on the transports - if the transports are ready in time, that is. There's a rumour that some of us will be sent to Dives to help the shipwrights.'

'Dives? Where's that?' I asked.

'West along. The gear that's coming in to Rouen is being shipped downriver. The boats themselves are being built all up and down the coast. Dives is where the fleet is assembling. From there it will strike at England.'

It occurred to me that Harold Godwinsson must know what was going on, and that the English could put a stop to the invasion by raiding across the sea and destroying the Norman fleet while it was still at anchor. William's transports would make easy targets. By contrast, Harald's Norwegian ships, now gathering at Trondheim, were too far distant to be intercepted.

I was just, about to ask the armourer if Duke William was taking any precautions against an English raid when a pageboy arrived with an urgent summons to the ducal palace. My request for a meeting with the duke had been granted, and I was to go there at once.

I followed the lad through the streets and along a series of corridors into the heart of the palace, where Duke William had his audience chamber. My suspicions should have been aroused by the swiftness of my reception. The pageboy handed me over to a knight who acted as the doorkeeper, and within moments I was ushered into the council chamber itself, the doorkeeper at my heels. I found myself in a large, rather dark room, poorly lit by narrow window slits in the thick stone walls. Seated on a carved wooden chair in the centre of the room was a burly man of about my own height but running to fat, with a close-cropped head and a bad-tempered look on his face. I guessed him to be in his mid-forties. I knew he must be Duke William of Normandy, but to me he looked more like a truculent farm bailiff accustomed to bullying his peasants. He was eyeing me with dislike.

Five other men were in the room. Three of them were obviously high-ranking nobles. They were dressed, like the duke, in belted costumes of expensive fabric, tight hose, and laced leather shoes. They had the bearing and manner of fighting men, yet they were strangely dandified because they wore their hair close-shaved from halfway down their heads in pudding-bowl style, a foppish fashion which, I later learned, had been copied from the southern lands of Auvergne and Aquitaine. They too were regarding me with hostility. The other two occupants of the room were churchmen. In stark contrast to my plain black and white costume, they wore long white robes with embroidered silk borders at the neck and sleeves, and the crosses suspended on their chests were studded with semi-precious stones. The crosses looked more like jewellery than symbols of their faith.

'I hear you want to write about me,' stated the duke. His voice was harsh and guttural, in keeping with his coarse appearance.

'Yes, my lord. With your permission. I am a chronicler and I have already completed five books of history, and— with God's grace - I am embarking on a sixth. My name is Rudolfus Glaber, and I have travelled here from my monastery in Burgundy.'

'I think not,' said a voice behind me.

I turned. Stepping out of the shadows was a man wearing the same plain black and white costume as myself. My glance dropped to his left hand, which lacked three fingers. It was Regimus, the almoner of the monastery of the Holy Trinity at Fecamp. In the same instant the doorkeeper, standing directly behind me, clasped his arms around me, pinioning my arms to my sides.

'Brother Maurus never mentioned that you came from Burgundy, and you do not speak with a Burgundian accent,' said the almoner. 'The brother in charge of our laundry also reported that a gown and habit were missing from his inventory, but not until I heard about a mysterious black-clad monk here in Rouen did I deduce that you must be the same man. I had not expected you to be so bold as to claim you were Rudolf Glaber himself.'

"Who are you, old man?' interrupted William, his voice even harsher than before. 'A spy for Harold? I did not know he employed dotards.'

'Not a spy for Harold, my lord,' I wheezed. I could scarcely breathe. The doorkeeper was gripping me so hard that I thought he would break my ribs. 'I am sent by Harald, Harald of Norway.'

'Let him speak,' ordered William.

The painful grip eased. I took several deep breaths.

'My lord, my name is Thorgils, and I am the envoy of King Harald of Norway.'

'If you are his ambassador, why did you not come openly rather than creeping about in disguise.'

I thought quickly. It would be disastrous to confess that Harald had asked me to evaluate William's invasion plans before offering an alliance. That was true espionage.

'The message I bring is so confidential that my lord instructed me to deliver it privately. I adopted this disguise for that purpose.'

'You soil the cloth you wear,' sneered one of the exquisitely dressed priests.

The duke silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand. I could see that William demanded, and received, instant obedience from his entourage. He seemed more than ever like a bullying bailiff.

'What is this message that you bring from Norway?'

I had recovered my confidence enough to glance at William's attendants, then say, 'It is for your ears only.'

William was beginning to get angry. A small vein on the right side of his forehead had started to throb.

'State your message before I have you hanged as a spy or put to torture to learn the truth.'

'My lord Harald of Norway suggests an alliance,' I began quickly. 'He is assembling a fleet to invade the north of England, and knows that you are planning to land forces in the south of the country. You both fight the same enemy, so he proposes that the two armies coordinate their attack. Harold Godwinsson will be obliged to fight on two fronts, and will be crushed.'

'And what then?' There was disdain in William's voice.

'After Godwinsson has been defeated, England is to be divided. The south ruled by Normandy, the north by Norway.'

The duke narrowed his eyes. 'And where will the dividing line be drawn?'

'That I do not know, my lord. But the division would be based on mutual agreement, once Godwinsson has been disposed of.'

William gave a grunt of dismissal. 'I'll think about it,' he said, 'but first I need to know the timing. When does Harald plan to land his forces.'

'His advisers are pressing him to invade England no later than September.'

'Take him away,' said William to the doorkeeper, who was still standing behind me. 'Make sure he is kept in safe custody.'

I passed that night in a cell in the ducal prison, sleeping on damp straw, and in the morning I was encouraged when the same pageboy who had brought me to the palace reappeared to tell the guard to release me. Once again, I was led to the duke's audience chamber, where I found William and the same advisers already gathered. The duke came straight to the point.

'You may inform your lord that I agree to his proposal. My army will land on the south coast of England in the first or second week of September. The precise date will depend on the weather. My transport barges need calm conditions and a favourable wind to make the crossing. According to my information, Harold

Godwinsson has called out the English levies, and is presently holding his forces on the south coast, so it is likely that he will dispute our landing. Therefore it is important that King Harald keeps to his programme and opens a second front no later than mid-September.'

'I understand, my lord.'

'One more detail. You are to remain here with me. It may be necessary to communicate with your king as the campaign gets under way. You will act as our intermediary.'

'As you wish, my lord. I will prepare a despatch for King Harald confirming the details. If you can provide a vessel, I will send the message to Norway.'

That same day, feeling quietly satisfied that my mission had been accomplished so easily, I wrote out a summary of what had happened. To prevent William's secretaries tampering with my report, I hid my meanings in phrases that only those who knew the ways of skaldic verse would understand. Harald became 'the feeder of eagle of sea of carrion vulture' and the Norman invasion fleet was 'the gull's wake horses'. And when I came to write about William himself, I buried my meaning even deeper, because I was not complimentary about his character. He became the 'horse of wife of Yggr' because Harold would know that Yggr's wife was a giantess, and that she rode a wolf. Finally, to make doubly sure that the letter was treated as genuine, I folded the parchment, using the same system of secret folds which, in Constantinople, would prove that the despatch was authentic and which was known to Harald, and gave the letter to a mounted courier, who took it to the Norman coast. From there a ship would carry the despatch to Trondheim.

For the next five weeks my status at William's court was ambiguous. I was neither a prisoner nor a free man. I was treated as if I was a minor retainer in the service of William, yet everywhere I was accompanied by an armed guard. All around me the preparations for the invasion continued apace, and in early

August, when William moved with his retinue to Dives to begin the embarkation of his troops, I went with him.

The scene at Dives was the culmination of the months of preparation. The port lay at the mouth of a small river, and by the time I arrived almost the entire invasion fleet had mustered in the roadstead. I counted at least six hundred vessels, many of them simple barges specially designed to carry troops. Lines of tents had been erected on the beach, and the army engineers had built cookhouses, latrines and stables. Squads of shipwrights were putting the finishing touches to the transports, and there was a constant coming and going of messengers and despatch riders as the infantry and conroys mustered for their embarkation. I had wondered how the destriers, the heavy horses, would be loaded, and now I saw the method. The cavalry transports were brought up on to the gently sloping beaches at high tide, and anchored. The ebbing tide left the flat-bottomed barges stranded, and the carpenters then placed low ramps up which the horses were led — sometimes with difficulty — and then stabled in the barges with their feed and water. There the massive animals seemed content to stand and eat as the incoming tide refloated the vessels and they were warped out into the roadstead.

On the eleventh day of September the duke did have his 'devil's luck', because, just at the time he had promised his invasion, the wind turned into the south-west as a gentle breeze, and held. At dusk William summoned me to his command tent, and, in the presence of his commanders, gestured towards the northern horizon.

'Now you can tell your master,' he said, 'that William of Normandy keeps his word. Tomorrow we complete our loading and sail for England. You will be staying behind to make your final report.'

The following morning I watched the entire fleet raise anchor and, taking advantage of the flood tide, set out to sea. As I trudged back up the beach to where my guardian man-at-arms stood waiting, I felt I had served my liege lord well, and for the last time. When the opportunity came I would be king's man for Harald no longer, and I would return to Sweden and seek out my twins. I was feeling old.

The man-at-arms was content to dawdle. It was pleasant on the coast, and he was in no hurry to return to his barracks at Rouen, so we spent the next few days at Dives. The place, now that the fleet had sailed, had a slightly desolate atmosphere. The beach where the barges had loaded still showed signs of the departure, and there were traces where the tents had stood, piles of horse droppings, grooves left by the carts that had brought the stores, and charred marks where cooking fires had burned. There was an air of finality. The roadstead was empty. Time was suspended while we waited to hear what was happening with the invasion.

The weather continued fair, with bright sunshine and a light south-west breeze, and to pass the time I arranged with a local fisherman to go out on his boat each morning when he checked his nets. There, ten days after I had watched the Norman fleet depart, we were bobbing gently on the sea when I identified a familiar profile. A small vessel was beating down towards us. Hard on the wind, she was making slow progress, but there was no mistaking her origin. She was a small trading ship, Danish- or Norwegian-built. As she tacked her way into the roadstead at Dives, I was sure that she had come to collect me, and that Harald must have received my letter.

I asked the fisherman to row me across so that we intercepted the vessel before she made her landfall. Standing up in the fishing boat, I called out a greeting, glad to speak Norse once again. I was still wearing my stolen monkish gown, so the vessel's skipper must have thought it odd that a Christian priest spoke his language, but he spilled the wind from his sail and the vessel turned up into the wind so I could scramble aboard. The first person whom I saw on deck was Skule Konfrostre, the same young hothead who had boasted that the Norwegians would smash the English huscarls. I was perturbed to see that he was very agitated.

'Is everything all right with Harald's campaign?' I asked, alarmed by his manner. 'Has he landed safely on the English coast?'

'Yes, yes, our fleet crossed from Norway in late August and safely reached the coast of Scotland. When I left him, Harald was advancing down the coast. He sent me to find out what was happening with the attack that Duke William promised. He has heard nothing further.'

'You need not worry about that,' I said complacently. 'I watched Duke William's fleet sail for England ten days ago. By now they should be well ashore and advancing inland. Godwinsson is caught in a trap.'

Skule looked at me as if I had lost my wits.

'How is it, then, that only yesterday, as we passed southward along the coast, we saw the Norman fleet lying quietly at anchor some distance up the coast. The skipper knows the place. He says it is a port called St Valery, in the lands of the Duke of Ponthieu. They have not even crossed to England yet.'

I felt as if the deck had shifted beneath my feet. I, who had thought to deceive Duke William, had been the victim of a much greater deceit. Too late I thought back to the day that I had first suggested Harald's plan for a coordinated attack. I recalled the armourer who had met me at the practice ground and how he had been so eager to tell me that Dives was the departure point for the invasion, and how, once I had that information, I had quickly been brought before the duke. To my chagrin I realised that my disguise as a monk had been penetrated far earlier than I knew, and that William and his advisers had thought up a scheme to turn my presence to their advantage: I was to be used to conceal the true direction and timing of the Norman attack. After I had revealed myself as King Harald's envoy and suggested the coordinated campaign, William and his advisers must scarcely have believed their good luck. They had duped the King of Norway into landing on English soil to face Harold Godwinsson's army, while the Normans hung back and waited to make their landing unopposed. It would not matter who won the first battle — Harald of Norway or Harold of England — because the victor would be weakened when he came to face Duke William and his conroys.

'We must warn King Harald that he faces the English army on his own,' I exclaimed, queasy with the knowledge of what a fool I had been. Then, to hide my humiliation, I added bitterly, 'So now, Skule, you will learn what it's like to face the huscarls and their axes.'

William, Duke of Normandy, had used me as a pawn.

FOURTEEN

THE VOYAGE NORTHWARD to warn Harald was a misery for me. I spent my time regretting how gullible I had been, then tormenting myself by imagining how I should have seen through William's subterfuge. Worse, now that I knew the extent of the duke's guile, his next move was clear to me: Godwinsson would have his spies in the duke's camp, and the duke would make it possible for them to relay to their master the news that, for the time being, the Norman invasion was at a standstill. Thus, as soon as Harold was confident that the Normans posed no immediate threat, the English king would head north to beat back the Norwegian invaders. The prospect of what might follow a Norwegian defeat filled me with despair. From the day I had first met Harald of Norway long ago in Miklagard I had imagined him as the last, best champion for the Old Ways of the north. Often he had disappointed me, but he still retained an enduring quality. Despite his arrogance and his despotism, he remained the symbol of my yearning that it might be possible to restore the glories of the past.

'Our fleet crossed from Norway to the Shetlands late in August,' Skule Konfrostre confirmed as we journeyed, adding to my discomfort. 'Two hundred longships we were, as well as smaller vessels, the largest fleet that Norway could muster. Such a

spectacle! Harald has staked everything on this venture. Before we set sail, he went to the tomb of his ancestor St Olaf and prayed for success. Then he locked the door to the tomb and threw the keys into the River Nid, saying he would not return there until he had conquered England.'

'If you are a Christian, my friend, you may well find yourself fighting other Christians,' I retorted grumpily. 'If Harald overwhelms the English, then his next enemy in line will be Duke William and his Norman knights, and they are convinced that the White Christ is on their side. The duke himself constantly wears a holy relic around his neck, and his senior army commander is a bishop. Mind you, he's the duke's half-brother, so I don't suppose he was appointed for his religious qualities.'

'I'm not a Christian,' said Skule stubbornly. 'As I said, Harald left nothing to chance. He did not forget the Old Gods either. He made sacrifices to them for victory, and he cut his hair and nails before we sailed, so that Naglfar will not benefit if we fail.'

I shivered at the mention of Naglfar, because the young Norwegian had touched on my darkest premonition. Naglfar is the ship of corpses. At Ragnarok, the day of the final dread battle when the Old Gods are defeated, Naglfar will be launched on the floods created by the writhings of the Midgard Serpent lying deep within the ocean. Built from the fingernails of dead men, Naglfar is a monstrous vessel, the largest ever known, big enough to ferry all the enemies of the Old Gods to the battlefield where the world as we know it will be destroyed. If Harald the Hard Ruler had trimmed his nails before sailing for England, then perhaps he foresaw his own death.

Our grey-bearded skipper's opinion only added to my dejection. 'The king should never have sailed in the first place,' he interrupted. 'He should have heeded the omens. Christian or otherwise, they all point towards disaster.' The skipper, like many mariners, was swayed by omens and portents, and my silence only encouraged him to continue. 'Harald himself had a warning dream. St Olaf appeared to him and advised him not to proceed. Said it would result in his death, and that's not all.' He looked at me, still in my black and white gown. 'You're not a White Christ priest, are you?'

'No,' I replied. 'I am a follower of Odinn.'

'Then let me tell you what Gyrdir saw on the very day the fleet sailed. Gyrdir's a royal officer, and he was standing on the prow of the king's ship, looking back over the fleet. It seemed to him that on the prow of every vessel was perched a bird, either an eagle or a black raven. And when he looked towards the Solund Islands, there, looming over the islands, was the figure of a huge ogress. She had a knife in one hand and a slaughtering trough in the other, and she was chanting these lines:

'Norway's warrior sea king

Has been enticed westward

To fill England's graveyards

It's all to my advantage

Birds of carrion follow

To feast on valiant seamen

They know there will be plenty,

And I'll be there to help them.'

I felt sick to my stomach. I remembered the words of the message that I had sent to Harald. I had referred to him as 'the feeder of eagle of sea of carrion vulture'. I had meant that Harald was the sea eagle, the image that I had held of him from the day I had first set eyes on him in Constantinople. Now I realised that the words in my letter could be interpreted to mean that he was the one who would deliver the carrion flesh of his own men to the ravens and eagles. If so, I was the one who had enticed him and his men to his doom with my letter from Normandy.

'You said there were other portents?' I asked shakily.

'Several,' the seaman replied, 'but I can remember the details of only one. Another of the king's men dreamed it. He saw our fleet sailing towards land. In the lead was King Harald's longship flying its banner, and he knew that the land they were approaching was England. On the shoreline waited a great host of warriors, and in front of them was an ogress - perhaps it was the same one, I don't know. This time she was riding a gigantic wolf, and the wolf held a bleeding human carcass in its jaws as easily as a terrier grips a rat. When Harald and his men came ashore, both sides joined battle, and the Norwegian warriors fell in swathes. The ogress collected up their corpses and hurled them, one by one, into the mouth of the great wolf until its jaws ran with blood as the beast gulped down its feast of victims.'

Now I knew for certain that my own power of second sight, dormant for so many years, had returned. When I had composed my report in Normandy, I had referred to Harald as a sea eagle and hidden Duke William's identity under the guise of the wolf which the ogress Yggr rides. In doing so, I had touched unwittingly upon the future: every death among Harald's men would be sustenance for the wolf, the name I had chosen for Duke William. Failing to recognise my own augury, I now quailed at the prospect that my premonition would prove correct. Should William emerge victorious, I would have helped put on the throne, not a possible champion of the Old Ways, but a voracious follower of the White Christ.

Even the weather conspired to depress me. The wind stayed as a gentle breeze from the south-west, so our ship ran speedily up the narrow sea between England and Frankia. I knew the same wind was ideal for William to launch his invasion, yet when we passed the port of St Valery and our skipper took the risk of sailing closer inshore to look into the roadstead, we saw the great assembly of William's ships still riding quietly at anchor or securely hauled up on the beach. Clearly, the Duke of Normandy had no intention of making the crossing until he heard that Harold Godwinsson had turned his attention to countering the threat from Norway.

Thanks to that favourable wind we made a near-record passage, and my hopes of averting disaster rose when we encountered one of King Harald's warships. It was patrolling off the river mouth into which Harald had led his fleet less than three days before. There were a few shouted exchanges between the two vessels, and Skule and I transferred hastily to the warship. Her captain, understanding the urgency of our mission, agreed to navigate the estuary at night and row up against the current. So it was that, a little after daybreak on the twenty-fifth of September, I came in sight of the muddy river foreshore where Norway's massive invasion fleet lay anchored. To my relief, I saw that the fleet was intact. The river bank swarmed with men. Harald's army, it seemed, was safe.

'Where do I find the king?' I demanded of the first soldier we met on landing. He was taken aback by the urgency in my tone, and looked at me in astonishment. I must have made a strange sight - an elderly bald priest, the hem of my white undergown spattered with river mud, and my sandals sinking in the ooze. 'The king!' I repeated. 'Where is he?'

The soldier pointed up the slope. 'Best ask one of his councillors,' he answered. 'You'll find them over there.'

I slipped and slithered up the muddy bank, and hurried in the direction he indicated. Behind me I could hear Skule say, 'Slow down, Thorgils, slow down. The king may be busy.' I ignored him, though I was short of breath and painfully aware that my advancing years had taken their toll. I may have made a dreadful error in supplying false information to Harald, but I still desperately wanted to undo the harm I had done.

I saw a tent, larger and grander than the others, and hastened towards it. Standing outside was a group talking among themselves, and I recognised several of Harald's councillors. They were in attendance on a young man, Harald's son Olaf. Rudely I interrupted.

'The king,' I said, 'I need to speak with him.'

Again the anxiety in my tone took my audience aback, until one of the councillors looked a little more closely.

'Thorgils Leifsson, isn't it? I didn't recognise you at first. I'm sorry.'

I brushed aside his apology. It seemed to me that everyone was being fatally obtuse. My voice was quivering with emotion as I repeated my demand. I had to speak with the king. It was a matter of the greatest urgency.

'Oh, the king,' said the councillor, whom I now remembered as one of Harald's sworn men from the Upplands. 'You won't find him here. He left at first light.'

I clenched my teeth in frustration. 'Where did he go?' I asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep my voice calm.

'Inland,' said the Norwegian casually, 'to the meeting place, to accept hostages and tribute from the English. Took nearly half the army with him. It's going to be a scorching day.' He turned back to his conversation.

I seized him by the arm. 'The meeting place, where's that?' I begged. 'I need to speak with him, or at least with Marshal Ulf.'

That brought a different reaction. The Norwegian shook his head.

'Ulf Ospaksson. Don't you know? He died in late spring. Great loss. At his burial ceremony the king described him as the most loyal and valiant soldier he had ever known. Styrkar is the marshal now.'

Another chill swept over me. Ulf Ospaksson had been Harald's marshal ever since Harald had come to the throne. Ulf was the most level-headed of the military advisers. It was Ulf who had opposed the idea of the invasion of England, and now that he was gone, there was no one to rein in Harald's reckless ambition to be another Knut.

The blood was pounding in my ears.

'Steady, Thorgils. Easy now.' It was Skule behind me.

'I must speak with Harald,' I repeated. It seemed to me that I was wading through a swamp of indifference. 'He has to reshape his campaign.'

'Why are you so agitated, Thorgils?' said one of the other councillors soothingly. 'You've only just got here and already you're wanting to change the king's mind. Everything has been working out just as planned. These English troops aren't as fearsome as their reputation. We gave them a thrashing just five days ago. We advanced on York as soon as we had got off our ships. The garrison came out to fight, led by a couple of their local earls. They blocked our road, and it was a fair fight, though perhaps we had a slight advantage in numbers. Harald led us brilliantly. Just as he always does. They came at us first. Hit us hard with a bold charge against our right wing. For a while it looked as if they might even overwhelm our men, but then Harald led the counter-attack and took them in the flank. Rolled up their line in double-quick time, and the next thing they knew we had them penned up against marshy ground, and nowhere to go. That was when we punished them. We killed so many that we walked on corpses as though the quagmire was solid ground. The city surrendered, of course, and now Harald's gone off to collect the tribute and stores the city fathers promised, as well as hostages for good behaviour in the future. He won't be long. You might as well stay here until he returns to camp. Or maybe you would prefer to give your information to Prince Olaf, who will tell his father when he gets back.'

'No,' I said firmly, 'my message is for Harald himself, and it cannot wait. Can someone arrange for me to have a horse so that I can try to overtake the army?'

The councillor shrugged. 'We didn't bring many horses with us on the fleet — we needed the ship space for men and weapons. But we've captured a few animals locally, and if you look around the camp, maybe you'll find one that suits. Harald can't have gone far.'

I lost more time trying to locate a horse, and succeeded only in finding a starveling pack pony. But the scrawny little creature was better than nothing, and before the troops had finished their breakfast I was riding away from the ships and along the trail that Harald and his army had taken as they marched north.

'Tell him we need some good juicy cattle,' a soldier yelled after me as I left the outskirts of the camp. 'Something to get our teeth into instead of stale bread and mouldy cheese. And as much beer as he can bring back. This weather makes a man thirsty.'

The soldier was right. The air had a dry, still feel. The sky was cloudless, and soon the heat would be intense. Already the ground was cracked in many places, baked hard by the sun, and I could feel my pony's unshod hooves hammering down on the unyielding surface.

It was easy to follow the army's trail. The dust was churned up where the foot soldiers had tramped along, and occasionally there were piles of dung left by the horses that Harald and his leading men were riding. Their road followed the line of a small river, the track keeping to the higher ground on its left bank, and on both sides the low hills were desiccated and brown from the summer drought. From time to time I could see the footmarks where men had left the track and gone down to the water's edge to slake their thirst. I saw nothing of the soldiery themselves, except at one place where I came across a small detachment of men guarding a pile of weapons and armour. At first I thought it was captured material left behind by the enemy, but then I recognised that the weaponry and shields and the thick leather jerkins sewn with plates of metal belonged to our own men. They must have taken them off and left them there, under guard, as it was too hot to march in such heavy gear.

The soldiers told me that Harald and his army were not far

ahead, and sure enough I saw them in the distance when I topped

the next rise and found myself looking across a bend on the river.

The army was waiting on the far bank. Side tracks converged on

the main road shortly before it crossed a wooden bridge, and from

there the main road continued on up the far slope and over the

crest of the hill, leading directly to the city of York. It was a

natural crossroads and I could see why the place had been chosen

for the assembly point where the men of York would bring their

tribute.

I kicked my pony into one last effort, and came down into the valley. A handful of Harald's troops had not yet crossed the bridge, and my haste attracted their curious glances as I scurried past. Most of the men were sprawling on the ground in the sunshine. Many had stripped off their shirts and were bare-chested. Swords, helmets and shields lay where they had casually put them aside. A score of men were standing in the shallows of the river, splashing water on themselves to keep cool.

I clattered across the worn grey planks of the bridge. For a moment I thought of dismounting. The bridge was in poor repair, and there were wide cracks between the planks, but the little pony was sure-footed, and a moment later I was riding up the slope of the far bank towards a knot of men gathered around the royal standard. Even if the flag, Land Ravager, had not been flying from its pole, I would have recognised the little group as Harald's entourage. Harald himself was visible, towering above most men. His long yellow hair and drooping moustaches were unmistakable.

I slid off the pony's back, stumbling as my feet touched ground. It had taken me half the morning to reach Harald, and I felt stiff and saddle sore. I brushed aside the bodyguard who tried to intercept me as I approached Harald and his little group. They too looked completely at ease. Doubtless they were contemplating the pleasant task of how best to divide up the spoils. Among them I saw Tostig, half-brother of the English king. Until recently he had ruled these lands as its earl, but had been deposed. Now he had thrown in his lot with Harald, anticipating that he would regain his former title.

'My lord,' I called out as I approached the little group. 'I am glad to see you well. I have news from Frankia.'

Everyone in the little group turned to look at me. I realised that my voice had sounded cracked and harsh. My throat was dry and dusty from my ride.

'Thorgils. What brings you here?' asked Harald. There was an angry edge to his question. He was staring down at me from his great height, obviously irritated. I knew that he was thinking

I had abandoned my responsibilities. He would have preferred me to stay in Normandy, to act as his intermediary in dealing with Duke William.

'I had no choice, my lord. There are developments which you must know at once. I could not trust anyone else to bring the news.'

'What news is that?' Harald was scowling.

I decided that I had to be blunt. I needed to shock Harald into changing his plans, even if it meant drawing down his wrath on me.

'Duke William has betrayed you, my lord,' I said, adding hastily, 'It was my error. He used me as a tool to deceive you. He made me believe that he had agreed to your offer, and that he would time his invasion to coincide with yours. But that was never his intention. His fleet has not yet sailed. He is deliberately hanging back, giving time for the English king to attack you.'

For a long moment Harald's expression did not change. He continued to scowl at me, and then — to my surprise — he threw back his head and laughed.

'So Bastard William deceived me, did he? Well, so be it. Now I know what he is like, and that knowledge will be useful when we meet face to face and decide who really takes the realm of England. I'll make him regret his treachery. But he has miscalculated. Whoever beats Harold Godwinsson will hold the advantage. There's nothing like a recent victory to put heart into one's troops, and the English will follow the first victor. As soon as I have disposed of Harold Godwinsson, I'll drive William of Normandy back into the sea if he is so bold as to make his invasion. When he hears of my victory he may even cancel his invasion plans altogether.'

Once more, I sensed that I was swimming against a tide of events, and there was little that I could do.

'Duke William will not set aside his invasion, my lord. He has planned it down to the last detail, trained his troops, rehearsed, and committed all his resources to it. He may have as many as eight thousand fighting men. For him, there is no going back.'

'Nor for me,' Harald snapped. 'I came to take the realm of England and that is what I'll do.'

I fell silent, not knowing what to say.

Tostig intervened. 'Harold is far away. He has to march the length of England if he is to meet us on the battlefield. In the meantime our army will grow stronger. As people hear about us they will join our cause. Many in this region have Norse blood in their veins and trace their line back to the time of great Knut. The English will prefer to throw in their lot with us than with a gang of plundering Normans.'

Somewhere near us, a horse neighed. It was one of the handful of small Norwegian horses which Harald had brought with him. They were sturdy animals, ideal for long journeys across bleak moorland, but by no means as powerful as the battle chargers that I had seen in Normandy. I was wondering how they would withstand a charge of Norman knights, when someone said, 'At last! The good burghers of York are finally showing up.'

Everyone in our little group looked westward, up the slope of the hill towards the unseen city. A faint cloud of dust could be seen beyond the distant crest. The horse neighed again.

The first figures to come over the brow of the hill were indistinct, no more than dark shapes. I wiped away the sweat that was trickling down into my eyes. The black and white costume of a follower of the Rule could be very hot on a warm day. I should find myself a light cotton shirt and loose trousers and get rid of the Christian costume.

'That's not a cattle herd,' commented Styrkar, Harald's new marshal. 'Looks more like troops.'

'Reinforcements from the fleet, sent up by Prince Olaf so as not to miss the division of the booty.' The speaker sounded a little resentful.

"Where did they get all those horses, I wonder?' asked a veteran, a note of puzzlement in his voice as he stared into the distance. 'That's cavalry, and a lot of it.'

King Harald had turned and was facing up the hill. 'Styrkar,' he asked softly. 'Did we post any sentinels on the hill?'

'No, my lord. I did not consider it necessary. Our scouts reported only a few peasants in the area.'

'Those are not peasants.'

Tostig was also watching the new arrivals. More and more men, both mounted and on foot, were coming over the brow of the hill. The leading ranks were beginning to descend the slope, fanning out to make room for those behind them.

'If I didn't know otherwise, I would say those are royal huscarls,' said Tostig. 'But that's impossible. Harold Godwinsson would always keep his huscarls with him. They are pledged to serve the king and guard his person.' He turned to me. "When did you say Harold would know that the Norman fleet was delayed and was staying on in Frankia?'

'I didn't say,' I replied, 'but my guess is that Duke William deliberately planted that information on Harold soon after he left Dives. That would be about twelve days ago.'

Styrkar was making his calculation. 'Let's say it was ten days ago, and then allow Godwinsson two days in which to consult his councillors and make his plans. That would give him a little more than a week to march north and get here. It's difficult but not impossible. Those troops could be led by Harold Godwinsson himself.'

'If it is Harold,' said Tostig, 'it might be wise to fall back to our ships and gather the rest of our forces.'

But Harald seemed unperturbed. 'Well, if it does prove to be Harold, then he's got here by forced marches, and his troops will be footsore and weary. That makes them ripe for slaughter.'

He gave a snort of confidence, and I could see how his faith in his own success as a military commander was unshakeable. In the past decade he had never lost a major fight, and now he was certain that his battle luck would hold. Godwinsson, as far as Harald was concerned, was offering himself for defeat. With growing dread, I knew differently. I recalled the details of my nightmare on the night before Harald returned from Kiev on his splendid ship with silken sails. I had dreamed of a great fleet and its tall commander struck down by an arrow at the moment of victory, and when I had voiced my fears, I had been told that I had seen the death of the Greek general Maniakes, Harald's near double. Now, far too late, the image sprang into my mind of the great assembly of Harald's longships drawn up on shore or lying at anchor in the shallows of the river just ten miles away. That spectacle, I knew with absolute certainty, was the true fulfilment of my dream. Yet again I had failed. Years ago I should have warned Harald about the macabre portent.

'If it is Harold Godwinsson, then we had better get the formalities concluded,' Harald continued. He looked about him, caught my eye, and said, 'Thorgils. You're just the man. You can be my herald in your black and white gown.' He smiled grimly. 'They won't attack a man of the cloth, even if he's a fraud. Ride out and ask for a parlay.'

Knowing that I was being swept along by events over which I had no control, I walked back to where my pack pony was hopefully nuzzling the earth, trying to find a few wisps of dried-up grass. I felt that I was no more than a puppet in some vast and cruel game being played out by unseen powers. My legs ached as I hauled myself back on to the wooden saddle and plucked on the rope reins. Reluctantly, the pony lifted its head and began to walk. Its legs, too, were stiff and painful. Slowly, almost apologetically, the little pony and I climbed up the slope. Ahead of us, more and more English foot soldiers and cavalry were appearing over the ridge and taking up their positions across the hillside. The Norwegians below me were no longer relaxing in the sunshine. They had scrambled to their feet and were searching for the weapons and shields they had laid aside. There was no sense of order or discipline. They looked towards Harald and his councillors, waiting for instructions, and they watched me on my pony slowly plod towards the hostile army.

I noted a cluster of banners among the English cavalry, and veered in that direction. As I rode along the front rank of the English line, the foot soldiers called out, asking what I wanted. I ignored them. Around the banners was a group of some twenty men. All were mounted. I made a mental note to tell Harald that many of the English troops now massing behind their leaders were also on horseback. That would explain how Harold Godwinsson had managed to travel so quickly and take us by surprise. At least a third of his force were cavalry, and I guessed that the remainder were levies that he had collected locally.

The gleam of a sword hilt caught my attention, a dull yellow glint among the riders. I looked again, and knew that the ranks of horsemen nearest the banners were royal huscarls, Godwinsson's personal force, the finest troops in England. Since Knut's time they had carried gold-hilted swords. Many of them also carried spears, while others had long-handled axes dangling from their saddles. I wondered whether they would choose to fight on horseback or on foot.

'King Harald of Norway wishes to talk with your leader,' I called out when I was close enough to the group around the banners for them to hear me distinctly. They were English nobles, all wearing costly chain-mail shirts and helmets decorated with badges of rank. Their horses were tall, strong-boned animals, not nearly as massive as the Norman destriers, but far superior to the smaller Norwegian horses in Harald's army.

I reined in my little pack pony and waited at a safe distance. I saw the group confer among themselves, and then half a dozen came forward at a trot. Among them a tall, heavily moustached man rode a particularly handsome chestnut stallion. There was something about his bearing, the way that he sat in the saddle, that told me at once that this was Harold Godwinsson himself,

the king of England, though he was careful to remain among his companions as if he was just another rider.

'Tell King Harald that there is nothing of substance to discuss. But the King of England, grants him an audience. He may speak with the king's herald,' came a shout.

I was fairly sure that it was Godwinsson who had spoken. It was an old trick for a leader to pretend to be his own spokesman. Harald had often used it himself.

I turned and waved to Harald and his entourage, beckoning them forward.

The two groups, evenly matched in numbers, met midway between the two armies. They halted their horses, careful not to get within a sword's length of one another, and I thought to myself, as I watched them, how very similar they were. All were bearded and moustached, with hair that was mostly blond or light brown, and all of them seemed to be both haughty and suspicious as they eyed one another across the narrow gap. The main difference was in the shields they carried. Those of Harald's men who had wisely brought their armour carried round shields, brightly painted with war emblems, while several of the English riders held longer, narrow shields with a tapering lower edge. I had seen these same shields among Duke William's men and knew that on horseback they gave an advantage, for they protected a rider's lower leg as well as the vulnerable flank of his horse. It was another warning, I thought to myself, that I should give to Harald.

The exchange between the two groups was brief. The rider who purported to be the royal spokesman — more than ever I was sure that it was the English king himself — demanded to know with what purpose the Norwegian army was trespassing on England's soil. Styrkar, the royal marshal, replied for the Norwegians. 'King Harald has come to claim the throne of England which is his by right. His ally and companion, Tostig here, has come to claim what is also his by right — the earldom of Northumbria, of which he was unjustly deprived.'

'Tostig and his men may remain, provided they stay in peace,' came the answer. 'The King of England gives his word that he will be reinstated in his earldom. He will, in addition, grant Tostig one-third of the realm.'

Now I was sure that Godwinsson himself was speaking, for the speaker had made no attempt to confer with his colleagues. It also occurred to me that the parlay was no more than play-acting. Tostig must have recognised his half-brother, the English king, yet he was pretending that he did not know him. The entire meeting was a sham.

Tostig spoke up. 'And if I accept that offer, what lands will you give to Harald Sigurdsson, the King of Norway?'

Hard as a blow of a fist to the teeth came back the unrelenting reply, 'He will receive seven feet of English ground. Enough to bury him. Or more, as he is much taller than other men.'

The two groups of riders stiffened in their saddles. Their horses, sensing the sudden surge in tension, began to fidget. One of the English riders slapped his reins on his animal's neck to make the creature calm down.

To his credit, Tostig soothed the situation before it broke into open violence. 'Tell the King of England,' he called out, still keeping up the pretence that he did not recognise his own half-brother, 'that it will never be said that Tostig, the true Earl of Northumbria, brought King Harald of Norway across the sea in order to betray him.' Then he turned his horse and began to ride away down the hill. The parlay was over.

Kicking my pony into a trot, I hurried to rejoin Harald's group. I rode up behind Harald in time to hear him ask Tostig, "Who was that who spoke for the English? He had a deft way with words.'

'That was Godwinsson,' Tostig replied. Harald was obviously taken aback by the answer. He had not intended to compliment his rival.

'Not a bad-looking man,' he acknowledged, then drew himself to his full height so he sat very tall in the saddle, and added, 'but a little puny.'

On the threshold of a battle, Harald's vanity was dangerous, I thought to myself. Combined with his self-belief, it could lead us into disaster. It was unlikely that he would compromise his pride by ordering a strategic withdrawal to the fleet. In his eyes, that would seem too much like an abject retreat.

We came back down the hill to rejoin the Norwegian troops with Styrkar shouting to our men that they were to fall back across the bridge and take up a defensive position on the far slope. At least our marshal was not blind to our danger. If we remained where we were, the English would be attacking us downhill. Nevertheless, our withdrawal was a scrambled affair, the men gathering up their weapons and converging on the little bridge with no sense of order or discipline. They jostled their way across the loose planks of the bridge in an untidy torrent, and made their way up the far slope where they began to regroup.

Seeing the backs of their enemies, the English forces took their chance to try to turn the Norwegian withdrawal into a rout. A detachment of their cavalry came cantering down the hill and closed with our stragglers. It was not a concerted attack so much as a haphazard onslaught to take advantage of the moment. I had already crossed the bridge with Harald and his entourage, and looked back to see a chaotic engagement unfold. Isolated bands of Norwegian warriors or single individuals were ducking and dodging as they tried to evade the lances and swords of the English horsemen. There were occasional shouts of defiance and whoops of anger as our men turned and tried to fight back against their mounted opponents. I could see that the English forces were relishing the advantage of surprise. They knew that they had taken the Norwegians completely unawares, and this gave them a powerful advantage.

As I watched the confused fighting, my attention was caught by an extraordinary sight. Slowly making its way through the skirmish, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, was an ordinary farm cart. It was the sort of vehicle which might be found in any modest farmyard, a simple wooden platform on two solid wheels drawn by a single horse. On the back of the cart were several sacks of grain, some barrels, and, bizarrely, several chickens trussed up and hanging head down in batches. I could only suppose that the carter was one of those engaged to bring supplies to the Norwegian army as part of the tribute from the citizens of York, and he had blundered into the fight inadvertently. Now he was petrified by the danger in which he found himself and too scared to react, while his horse between the shafts was an ancient nag, half blind and deaf. Even as I watched, the cart reached the approaches to the bridge, and the elderly horse stopped in puzzlement, gazing at the press of struggling men which blocked its path.

The last of the Norwegians' rearguard - those who had not been cut down by the English - had reached the bridge. They were more disciplined than their fellows, and had formed up in a squad which turned to face the enemy; now the men were retreating step by step. As they passed the stationary cart, one of the Norwegian fighters reached up and pulled the driver from his seat, sending the poor wretch flying. Moments later, the cart horse disappeared, as the bewildered animal, its harness cut, galloped away. A dozen hands grabbed the cart and wheeled it to the middle of the bridge, where it was overturned to act as a barricade to delay the English advance. Moments later the Norwegian rearguard was running up the slope to rejoin the rest of Harald's troops.

The overturned cart did not block the bridge completely: there was a gap between the cart and the bridge's edge barely an arm's span in width, but sufficient to allow a man to pass. In this opening a single Norwegian warrior now took up his stance, facing the enemy. He had a fighting axe in one hand, a heavy sword in the other. Who he was I would never know, but he must have know that his position was suicidal. He was making it clear that, single-handed, he would hold the gap until his own side had taken up their battle formation. He challenged the English to come forward and fight him. For a bleak moment I wondered if that lone warrior was not like myself, a forlorn dreamer defying the inevitable.

Still, the English hesitated. Then one of their cavalrymen rode out on to the bridge, his spear poised. But the moment the horse stepped on the loose planks, the animal shied and would go no farther. With an angry wrench of his reins, the cavalryman turned his horse and rode back to solid ground. A second rider attempted the bridge, but his mount also baulked. So it was an English foot soldier who advanced to accept the Norwegian's challenge. Judging by his long coat of mail, the Englishman was one of Harold's professional soldiers, a royal huscarl, and he advanced with a confident step, sword in hand, scorning even to lift his shield. It was his fatal error. He was not yet within reach of the Norwegian when, without warning, his opponent flung his axe. The weapon whirled across the gap and struck the huscarl in the mouth, felling him instantly. With a satisfied whoop the Norwegian ran forward, bent down to retrieve his weapon and, moments later, was running back to take up his position once again. There he clashed his sword and axe together defiantly, daring the next to come forward and fight him.

Three more times an English huscarl accepted the challenge, and each time failed to clear the passage. The Norwegian champion was a master of hand-to-hand fighting. He killed one challenger with a sword thrust through the body, decapitated the second with a swiping back-handed axe blow that seemed to come from nowhere, and deftly tripped up the third attacker who had come close enough to grapple with him, then pushed him over the edge of the bridge into the river below. Each encounter was met with groans or cheers by the two armies watching the spectacle from each side of the river, and for a time it seemed that the Norwegian champion was invincible.

'He can't hold out for ever,' someone beside me muttered.

'Eventually the English will bring up their archers and shoot him down.'

'No,' countered another voice. 'The huscarls want to claim the victory for themselves. They won't let some common bowman take the credit. Look there, upstream.'

I glanced to my right. Drifting down the river on the gentle current was a small boat. Little bigger than a washtub, it was a humble punt that some farmer would use to paddle his way across the river rather than make a detour to reach the bridge. In the boat sat an armoured English huscarl, his weight almost swamping the little craft, and he was paddling with his hands to keep the boat in mid-river where it would pass directly under the Norwegian's position.

'Look out, beware to your right,' someone shouted, trying to warn the Norwegian. But our champion was too far away to hear, and the cluster of huscarls on the far end of the bridge had already begun to set up a deafening chant, beating rhythmically on their shields to drown out the sound of any warnings. As the little boat neared the bridge, two huscarls stepped out from their ranks and began to advance deliberately towards the barricade. This time they took no chances. Both carried long shields, and they crouched down behind them to protect themselves from another axe throw. The Norwegian had no choice but to wait until they were within sword range, and then he struck, hacking down with his axe and sword hoping to beat down their guard. But the two huscarls stayed behind their shields, knees bent and deflecting the blows, only occasionally making a stabbing thrust with their own swords in counter-threat.

Helplessly we watched from our vantage point, knowing what would happen. The Norwegian's stamina was extraordinary. He continued to rain down blows on the two huscarls until the moment came when his opponents judged that the man in the boat was directly under the bridge. Then they rose up and hurled themselves forward. The Norwegian retreated back a pace so that he stood in the narrowest part of the gap between the cart and the edge of the bridge, and there he traded blows with his attackers. But it was exactly where they wanted him. Even as the Norwegian concentrated on fending off the huscarls' frontal attack, we saw the boatman grab one of the timbers supporting the underside of the ancient bridge and bring his little craft to a stop. Then he stood up, and, still holding on to the bridge with one hand he brought his spear up vertically and slid it through a gap between the planks. There he waited, the spear pointing upwards, while his comrades gradually pushed the Norwegian champion back to the precise spot. Then, suddenly, the boatman thrust upwards with his spear, the iron point driving straight into the Norwegian's crutch, unprotected by his long shirt of chain mail. The surprise attack spitted the Norwegian. He doubled forward, clutching at his groin, and one of his opponents took the chance to step forward and chop down with his sword at the gap below the helmet, killing his foe with a blow to the back of the neck. The fight was over, and even as the Norwegian body splashed down into the river, a squad of huscarls was running forward to lay hold of the upturned cart, drag it to the edge of the bridge, and heave it over.

Moments later the advance guard of Harold's army began to clatter across the open bridge and advance towards us, led by a file of mounted huscarls. Watching their confident approach, I recalled Ulf Ospaksson's words when he had tried to dissuade Harald from invading England. Then he had said that one English huscarl was reputed to be worth two of the best of Norway's fighting men. Now we would learn the truth of the dead marshal's warning.

FIFTEEN

'FALL BACK, MY LORD, fall back.' Strykar was still pleading with Harald. 'Let us make a fighting retreat. It is best we make our stand near the ships when the rest of our men have joined us.'

'No!' retorted Harald sharply. 'We make our stand here. Let the rest of our forces come to join us. Send riders to summon them. They must come at once or they will miss our victory.'

The look on Styrkar's face made it clear that he disagreed profoundly with Harald's decision, but he was in no position to argue with his king. The marshal beckoned to three of our few horsemen.

'Ride to the ships. Spread out so that at least one of you gets through,' he ordered. 'Ask Prince Olaf to send up the rest of the army and not lose a moment, or they may arrive too late. They must get here before dusk.'

The marshal glanced up at the sky. The sun was past its zenith, still blazing from a clear blue sky. I saw the marshal's lips move, and I wondered to which God he was praying. He lacked Harald's utter conviction that our ill-prepared army would survive the English attack, and when I had watched the three riders kick their mounts into a gallop and ride back along the trail we had taken, I took a moment to count how many horsemen still remained. There were fewer than fifty.

Harald, by contrast, was behaving with as much swagger and self-assurance as if he, not the king of England, held the advantage. He cut a regal figure in a cloak of richly ornamented blue brocade and his customary browband of scarlet silk to hold back his shaggy blond hair. To complete the dashing effect he was mounted on a glossy black stallion with a white blaze, a trophy from his victory three days earlier and the only blood horse in our company. But he was not dressed in Emma, his famous full-length shirt of chain mail said to be impenetrable by any weapon. Emma, like so much of our body armour, had been left behind with the fleet.

'Form shield wall!' bellowed Strykar, and the cry was taken up and passed along by the veterans in our army. Our men began to shuffle into position, shoulder to shoulder, the rims of their round, leather-covered shields overlapping. 'Extend the line!'

The marshal rode out a little way in front of our troops and turned to face the men. He was mounted on a tough little Norwegian pony, and was gesturing to indicate that the shield wall should be as wide as possible.

Suddenly Harald shouted, 'Wait!' He rode forward and, turning to face his men, he called out, 'In honour of this battle, I have composed a poem.' Then, to my mingled astonishment and pride, he proceeded to declaim:

'We go forward into battle without armour against blue blades. Helmets glitter.

My coat of mail

And all our armour

Are at the ships.'

I found a lump was gathering in my throat. Not for a generation had any war leader in the northern lands been sufficiently skilled in the old traditions to be able to compose a paean on the eve of a battle. Harald was honouring a custom that had almost passed from use. It was a mark of his deep-felt longing to restore the glory of the Norse kingdoms, and for all his vanity and arrogance I loved him for it. Yet even as I felt the rug of admiration and remembered the oath which I had sworn to serve him, I knew in my heart that it was all a show. Harald was seeking to encourage his men, but the harsh truth would reveal itself when the arrows began to fly and the two armies locked in battle.

Harald was not finished. His horse was giving trouble, fidgeting and turning from side to side, so that there was a short pause while Harald brought his mount back under control. Then he shouted at his troops, 'That was a poor verse for such a momentous occasion! This one is better. Remember it as you fight!' and he proceeded to declaim:

"We never kneel in battle

Before the storm of weapons and crouch behind our shields;

So the noble lady told me.

She told me once to carry my head

always high in battle

where swords seek

to shatter the skulls

of doomed warriors.'

When his words died away, a strange silence fell. Some of our men in the army, the older ones at least, had grasped the sombre import of Harald's words. From them came a low murmur. Others, I am sure, were not close enough to hear the king, while still more would have lacked the knowledge to understand the significance of his verse. Harald was warning us that we could be facing our final battle. For a moment there was a brooding lull, and from it emerged an eerie sound. A harp was being played somewhere in our ranks. Whoever had brought the instrument was a mystery. Probably it was one of those small light harps favoured by the northern English, and the harpist had picked it up on the earlier battlefield and brought it with him instead of his weapons. Whatever the reason, the first few clear notes hung in the air as a doleful lament. It was as if the harpist was playing a sorrowful tribute to our coming downfall.

As I and the army listened to the melancholy tune, it seemed as if the entire host was holding its collective breath. Not a sound came from the English lines. They too must have been listening. Then, cutting across the tune, came another sound, equally unexpected. In that hot, airless afternoon a single rooster crowed. The creature must have escaped from the toppled cart at the bridge, and now, for some unknown reason, it chose to let loose its raucous call, jarring across the plangent notes of the harp.

Once again Styrkar was bellowing at the top of his voice. 'Extend the line, extend the line. Wings fall back, form circle.' Slowly the flanks of our shield wall curved, the outer men stepping backward, glancing over their shoulders so that they did not trip, until our entire line had re-formed into a ring. In the first and second ranks stood those men who wore some of their armour, and all of our veterans. Behind them, within the circle, waited our archers and hundreds of our troops who were virtually defenceless. They wore no body armour, and some even lacked helmets. They clutched only their swords and daggers, and wore shirts and leggings, nothing more. When it came to a fight, they would be fatally vulnerable.

Harald and Strykar rode the perimeter, checking the shield wall. 'You are facing cavalry,' Styrkar called out. 'So remember, front rank direct the points of your spears at the riders. Second rank, plant the butts of your spears in the ground and hold them steady, aim lower, at the horses themselves. Above all, keep the line intact. Do not let the English break through. Should that happen, leave the king himself and our own horsemen to deal with the intruders. We will be waiting inside the ring behind you, ready to ride to any point where there is need.'

Harald and the marshal made the full circuit of our shield wall, and as they turned and began to ride in, preparing to take up their places, Harald's black stallion put its foot into a hole and stumbled. Harald lost his balance. He clutched at the animal's mane to steady himself, but too late. He lurched forward over the stallion's shoulder and tumbled to the ground while the startled horse danced away. Harald kept hold of the reins and pulled the stallion back to him, but the harm was done. The watching troops let out a groan, seeing the poor omen. But Harald laughed it off as he rose and dusted himself off. 'No matter,' he shouted, 'a fall means that fortune is on its way,' and rode into the shield ring. But many of his troops looked uneasy and afraid.

On my humble pack pony I found myself with the mounted force in the centre of our defensive circle. I glanced around nervously, looking for someone to lend me a weapon to carry. But everyone was preoccupied, watching the enemy. Harald, Tostig, Styrkar and two squadrons of perhaps twenty riders each were all we had to plug any breaches in the shield wall; all the rest of our army was on foot. By contrast the entire first wave of the English army now advancing against us was composed of mounted cavalry - huscarls armed with long spears and lances.

Perhaps the wild courage of the lone defender of the bridge had made the English cautious. Our battlefield was on an expanse of rough pasture sloping gently towards the river, open ground ideal for cavalry, yet the English horsemen appeared hesitant in their initial attack. Their riders came at us, cantering to within range, then thrusting tentatively with their spears at our shield wall before turning away and riding clear. There was no massed shock charge like that I had witnessed in Sicily when the Byzantine kataphract destroyed the Saracens, nor the crashing onslaught I had seen the Norman heavy horsemen rehearse. The English cavalry simply came, engaged, and then withdrew.

For a while I was puzzled. Why did the English not launch a mass attack? Harold Godwinsson must have seen that we had despatched riders to call up reinforcements from the fleet. As soon as the fresh troops arrived, the English would lose their advantage. The more I puzzled, the less I understood Godwinsson's tactics.

Only when the English cavalry had made their fifth or perhaps the sixth probing attack, did I begin to grasp what was happening. The English huscarls intended to wear us down. Each time they rode up and engaged our front ranks in combat, several score of our men were killed or badly wounded, while the English horsemen rode away virtually unscathed. Our shield wall was slowly weakening as more of our reserves had to step forward and fill the gaps. By forming a defensive ring, Harald and Styrkar had lost the initiative. The English controlled the battlefield. They were bleeding us to death.

As that long, cruel afternoon wore on, our circle slowly contracted and the men within it grew more hot and thirsty under the broiling sun. The English, by contrast, took water from the river to quench their thirst and launched their attacks whenever they wished. Soon they were riding right around the shield wall, almost casually, selecting the weakest points. Our army was like a wild ox in the forest surrounded by a pack of wolves. We could only stand and face our foes, and present our best defence.

'Can't put up with much more of this,' said a veteran Norwegian. He had been in the front rank and had fallen back after receiving a lance thrust in his shield arm. 'Just give me a chance to get close enough to those English horsemen, and I'll make sure that they leave their bones here.' He finished tying the makeshift bandage around his bleeding arm, and before he strode away to take his place once again in the shield wall, he looked up at me. 'You haven't got a flagon of water to hand have you, old man? Some of the lads with me are truly parched.'

I shook my head. I was feeling tired and useless, too weary to fight and burdened with the knowledge that my failings had contributed to our predicament. Soon afterwards there was another war cry, and once again the mounted huscarls were cantering down towards us. This time, I noted, far fewer arrows flew through the air to greet them. Our archers were running out of arrows.

Suddenly Harald was in front of me. There was something half-crazed about his appearance. He was sweating heavily, the perspiration running down his face, dark stains of sweat at his armpits. His black stallion was equally distraught: foam dripped from its mouth, and there was white sweat on its powerful neck where the reins touched.

'Styrkar!' Harald snapped, 'we must do something. We have to counter-attack!'

'No, my lord, no,' said the marshal. 'It is better we hold on, wait for the reinforcements to arrive. Only a few hours more.'

'By then we'll all be dead of thirst if not from the English spears,' said Harald, glancing towards the English huscarls. 'Just one good charge will smash the enemy.'

As he was speaking, his horse put down its head and tried to buck his rider off. In his frustration Harald snarled with anger and rapped the stallion between the ears with the flat of his sword. The horse only became more skittish, rearing and plunging, as Harald, who had already fallen from the saddle once that day, tried to control his mount. The members of his entourage scattered out of the way to avoid the highly strung animal. Only my small pack pony, still exhausted from our long ride, stood firm. Harald's stallion careered into us, and I was almost knocked from the saddle.

'Get out of my way,' Harald snarled at me. He was puce from anger.

Looking up into his face as I scrambled to my feet, I saw the battle gleam in his eyes. Harald was losing control of himself, just as he had lost control of the battlefield.

Just then there arose a great cry from our troops, a swelling roar of exultation. They were brandishing swords and axes above their heads as if in victory. Beyond them I could see the backs of the retreating English cavalry. Once again the huscarls' charge against the shield wall had been rebuffed, and they were pulling back. Whether at that moment it was Harald's anger, or a genuine misunderstanding by our men, or that their pent-up frustration simply boiled over, I shall never know, but the sight of the

English cavalry falling back was seen as a full retreat, and our shield wall erupted. Our soldiers, both veterans as well as raw recruits, broke ranks. They abandoned all discipline and spontaneously charged forward in a broken mass, chasing after the retreating English cavalry, shouting at them to turn and fight, then veering off to run at the English infantry where they stood waiting to engage in the battle. It was a disastrous error.

Even then, I think, Harald could have saved the day. He could have ridden forward, shown himself ahead of his troops, ordered them to re-form the shield wall, and they would have obeyed him. But just at that critical moment Harald's black stallion bolted. The panicked horse galloped straight ahead of the Norwegian charge, and it seemed to every man there that Harald himself was leading the assault. From that moment forward, the battle was lost.

I watched, aghast. I had seen William's Norman knights rehearse how to defeat the shield wall by pretending to flee, then turning on their disorganised pursuers as they were drawn out of position. But that had been practice, and what I now witnessed was real. The English cavalry stayed clear of the pursuing Norwegian infantry, and then swerved aside, leaving their own foot soldiers to take the brunt of the Norwegian onslaught. Harald's men had already been run off their legs when the Norsemen's charge burst on to the English levies, and the impact was irregular and ineffective. The two sides mingled in a seething mass of violence, the men hacking and stabbing and slashing at one another. There was no sense of purpose, only that both infantries were desperate to inflict the greatest damage on one another.

Harald himself stood out like a beacon in a sea of turmoil. Seated high on his horse, whose frantic run had been halted by the mass of men, he could be seen fighting like a berserk warrior from the ancient days. He had neither shield nor armour, but held a long-shafted, single-bladed axe in each hand, his favoured weapons since his days in the Varangian guard. He was roaring out in anger. Each of his axes would normally have required a two-handed grip, but Harald was such a giant that he could wield them one in each hand. All around him the English foot soldiers were attempting to dodge his furious sweeping blows and, too slow, were falling to his attack. I tried to calculate where Harald was heading, and whether there was some purpose to his frantic advance, but I could see no selected target for his wrath. The English cavalry had withdrawn to one side and were regrouping, waiting for the right moment to ride to the rescue of their infantry. Among them I thought I recognised Harold Godwinsson, but he was too far away for me to be certain. Harald himself was oblivious to the gathering danger. His own battle flag, Land Ravager, was nowhere to be seen. His standard-bearer had been left far behind in the mad forward gallop.

Like hundreds of his own men, I looked towards Harald himself, waiting for a signal telling us what to do. Without his guidance we were lost. And as I did so, I saw the arrow fly. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I was sure I saw a dark blur skim over the heads of the struggling infantry, drawn fatally towards the tall figure on the black stallion. It remains a moment frozen in time for me: I saw the scarlet headband on Harald's brow, the blue cloak flung back over one shoulder so that his arms were free, and the two deadly axes rising and falling remorselessly as he hacked his way through the press of soldiers. His personal bodyguards had fallen back, hindered by the throng of men, but even if they had been close to him they could have done nothing to save their master. The arrow struck Harald in the windpipe. Later I heard it said that Harald's war cry was cut short into a single, choking gasp that turned to a bubbling grunt. All I saw from a distance was Harald suddenly sway in the saddle, stay upright for several heartbeats, and then slowly topple backwards, his tall figure disappearing into the chaos of the battle.

At that appalling moment, as those Norwegians close to the dying king halted in dismay, Harold Godwinsson unleashed his mounted huscarls at us. He sent them against our northern flank, even as word was spreading across the battlefield that Harald

Sigurdsson was struck down. The news, which elated the hard-pressed English infantry, shocked our own embattled men. Not one of them had dared imagine that Harald the Hard Ruler would ever be killed in battle. He had seemed invulnerable. From a dozen major battles and countless skirmishes he had emerged alive and as the victor. Now, suddenly, he was gone, and there was no one to take his place. Our troops faltered.

The mounted English troops smashed into the demoralised Norwegian foot soldiers and shattered what little was left of their formation. The riders tore great gaps through the disorganised mob of our men, cutting them down as if they were huddled sheep. At first the huscarls used their spears as lances, but then they abandoned these weapons and drew their swords or unslung their axes because the slaughter was so easy. Our men were confused and defenceless. They attempted to parry the attacks with whatever was to hand — staves, clubs, their daggers — but it was futile against an armed huscarl mounted on his horse and swinging a heavy sword or the deadly long-shafted fighting axe. It was a massacre. The huscarls rode back and forth through our men like reapers clearing a field of standing corn, and those they left on their feet were set upon by the triumphant English infantry who rushed in to increase the carnage.

Weaponless, and still wearing my monk's gown, I sat on the little pony watching the disaster unfold. Despite all my forebodings, I was still unprepared for the extent of the catastrophe. This, I knew, was a defeat from which there could be no recovery. Never again would my people muster such a large army nor follow a leader with so much to offer us. This was annihilation, the final calamity, and I grieved to see Harald killed. But even as I mourned, I found consolation in knowing that the man to whom I had sworn allegiance would have preferred to die with honour on the battlefield than fade away, old and pain-racked, in his bed, knowing that he had failed in his great ambition to restore the greatest kingdom of the north. The disappointment would have embittered Harald for the rest of his days. I told myself that even

in defeat, he had earned himself exactly what he would have wished: an honourable reputation that would never fade.

With that thought in mind I nudged my pony in the ribs and rode down the hill to retrieve Harald's body.

All my life I have known moments when a strange sensation of physical invulnerability comes over me. It is as if I am no longer aware of what my limbs are doing. My mind goes numb and I feel that I am advancing down a long, brightly lit tunnel where nothing can do me harm. That was how I felt as I rode forward on a tired pack pony that hot afternoon through the shattered fragments of a defeated army. I was vaguely aware of the crumpled corpses of our men lying on the ground, their blood and urine darkening the dust around them. Occasionally I heard the groans of the wounded. Here and there was a slight movement as some poor wretch tried to drag himself upright or to crawl away and hide. In the distance small bands of Norwegians were still putting up some resistance, but they were surrounded and outnumbered by their opponents, who were moving in to finish them. Somehow I was ignored.

I rode towards the last place I had seen Harald, the spot where he had toppled from his horse. A small cluster of men was gathered around something on the ground. They were bending over it, pulling and tugging. As I approached, my pony stumbled. Looking down I saw that it had tripped on a broken wooden pole, its end splintered. The flag attached to it was Land Ravager, Harald's personal standard. Nearby lay the body of his standard-bearer, a great gaping wound in his chest. He, like the others, had worn no armour. I reined the pony to a halt, got down and picked up the banner. Only a few feet of the pole remained. With Land Ravager in my hand I walked towards the group of men, leading the pack pony. Irrationally I thought that somehow I would be able to load Harald's corpse on the pony and ride back to the fleet, unscathed.

The men were English foot soldiers. They were stripping Harald's body of valuables. His fine blue cloak was already gone, and someone was tugging at the heavy gold rings on his fingers. Another man was pulling off a shoe of soft leather. Harald's body lay face up, a great dusty bruise across his cheek. The arrow that killed him was clearly visible. It had passed right through his neck. But that I had already dreamed.

'Stop that!' I croaked. 'Stop! I have come to collect the body.'

The looters looked up in surprise and irritation. 'Clear off, father,' said one of them. 'Go say your prayers in another place.' He unsheathed his dagger and was about to saw off one of Harald's fingers. Something clicked inside my mind and I passed from my distant reverie into sheer rage.

'You bastards!' I shouted. 'You defile the dead.' Letting go of the pony's reins, I raised the broken shaft of Land Ravager and struck at the looter. But I was too old and slow. Contemptuously he knocked aside the pole and I almost overbalanced.

'Clear off,' he repeated.

'No!' I yelled back at him. 'He is my lord. I must have his corpse.'

The looter looked at me narrowly. 'Your lord?' he said. I did not answer but took another lunge at him with the pole. Again, he knocked aside the blow. 'How come he is your lord, old man?'

I realised that I made a strange sight: an elderly priest in a long black gown, his bald pate showing stubble, and wielding a broken wooden pole. The other looters had moved away from Harald's corpse and were forming up in a circle around me. I was trembling with anger and exhaustion.

'Let me have the body,' I shouted. My voice was thin and wavering.

'Come and get it,' jeered one of the men.

I ran at him, using the pole as a lance, but he dodged aside. I pulled up and turned to see that his comrades had again taken up their positions around me and were laughing. I lunged again. The pole was heavy in my hands, and the long skirts of my monkish gown hampered me. I tripped.

'Over here, grandad,' taunted another voice, and I spun round to see someone dangling Harald's scarlet headband from the tip of his dagger. 'You'll need this,' he jeered.

The sweat was running down into my eyes so that I could scarcely see. I lumbered towards him and tried to snatch the headband, but it was whisked out of reach. I felt a thump in my ribs. One of my tormentors had struck me with the flat of his sword. I reeled away, trying to approach Harald's body. A foot reached out and I tripped headlong into the dust. The blood pounding in my ears, I picked myself up, and not knowing who or where I was striking, I swung Land Ravager in a circle, trying to keep my tormentors back. I heard their scornful laughter, then someone must have come up behind me and hit me, because I felt a terrible pain in my head as I slumped forward on my knees and then down on to my face.

Slowly everything began to go dark, and in the last fading moments something came into my mind which had been troubling me since the opening moments of the great battle. The hair rose on the back of my neck, and an icy cold shiver prickled my skin as the certainty came to me that the Old Ways were finally gone. As I slipped away into darkness, I recalled the prophesy of my own God, Odinn the All-knowing. He had foretold that Ragnarok, the last great battle, would be heralded by the sound of a harp played by Eggther, watchman of the giants, and that Gullinkambe the rooster, perched in Yggdrasil, the World Tree, would cry his final warning. Since the beginning of the world Gullinkambe had been waiting in the branches to announce the time when the forces of evil were unleashed and on the march. Together the two sounds, the harp and the rooster's crow, would herald the last great battle and the final destruction of the ancient ways.

SIXTEEN

TOSTIG RALLIED THE remnants of our army, so I was told later. One of our men picked up Land Ravager from where I lay on the earth, apparently lifeless, and brought the banner to Tostig, who was grimly fighting a rearguard action. He set up the flag as a mustering point, and those of our men who were still on their feet — less than a fifth of our original force — gathered there and formed a final shield wall. Seeing their plight, Harold Godwinsson offered them quarter. Defiantly, they refused. The English closed in and cut down all but a handful. Soon afterwards the Norwegian reinforcements from the fleet arrived, too few and too late. Most had made the same mistake of leaving behind their armour so that they could run all the faster from the ships. They appeared on the battlefield in small groups, disordered and out of breath. There was no doubting their courage, for they flung themselves on the English troops. The lightly equipped archers, first on the scene, did such damage that Godwinsson's troops quailed under the arrow storm. But when the archers had exhausted their stock of arrows, they lacked armoured infantry to protect them and were overwhelmed by the huscarls' counter-attack. The remaining stragglers of the relief force met a similar fate, finding themselves outnumbered by an enemy already flushed with triumph. By the end of that catastrophic day, the Norwegian force was virtually

wiped out. The mounted huscarls harried the survivors back to the landing beach, where a handful saved themselves by swimming out to those ships which had been warped out into the river for safety. The remaining vessels were set ablaze by the victorious English.

I heard the details of the calamity in dribs and drabs, for I was on the point of death for many weeks and not expected to survive. A priest from York found me on the battlefield where he had gone the day after the great battle to pray over the dead. Scarcely breathing, I lay where I had fallen in the English battle line, and he presumed I had been with Godwinsson's men. I was brought back to York on a cart, along with the badly wounded, and nursed to health by the monks of the minster.

It took almost a full year for me to regain my strength because I had been badly hurt. There was a gaping gash on my skull — how I acquired it, I do not know — and it led my healers to suppose that my wits were addled by the blow. I had the good sense to encourage their error by pretending that I was not yet sound of mind and speaking little. Naturally I used the interval to watch and listen and acquire the information which allowed me to present myself as an itinerant priest swept up in Harold Godwinsson's lightning advance to the battlefield at a place called Stamford Bridge. This deception was made easier by my advanced years, for all the world knows that old people mend more slowly than the young, and later, when I made mistakes in my pretended guise, the errors were ascribed to an approaching dotage.

This prolonged convalescence gave me ample time to marvel at the gullibility of the monks of York. Not only did they think I was a devout and maundering colleague, but they readily swallowed the pap of misinformation fed to them in the official accounts of what had happened in the struggle for the throne of England. Frequently my tonsured companions would assert that all good Christians should give their unstinting support to the new king, William, because Christ had clearly shown himself to be on his side. Apparently William of Normandy - no one called him William the Bastard now — had disposed of Harold Godwinsson on the battlefield further south, in Hastings, just as effectively as Godwinsson had crushed Harald Sigurdsson nineteen days earlier. The proof of their God's favourable intervention, according to the monks, was that William's invasion fleet was held back on the north coast of Frankia by a headwind until 'by the grace of God' the wind changed to the south and allowed his barges to cross the sea unscathed to a landing unopposed by Godwinsson. I knew, of course, that 'the grace of God' had nothing to do with it. William the Bastard stayed on the Frankish coast until he knew his stratagem had succeeded and Harold had marched away to face the Norwegian army. In short, King William was not a virtuous believer rewarded for his piety, but a sly double-dealer who betrayed his ally.

But then, history - as is well known — is written by the victors, if it is written at all. It was with that commonplace in mind that I began to pen this account of my life which is now nearly at an end, and I suspect that Odinn himself had long prepared me for this task. It cannot have been entirely coincidental that I met the imperial chronicler, Constantine Psellus, when I was in the Varangian guard and observed his passion for telling an unvarnished history of the rulers of Miklagard. And I must admit that I enjoyed posing as a royal chronicler when I was on my way across Normandy to Duke William's court, even though that imposture was brief before I was exposed as a fraud. Now it amuses me that my deception is reversed: I find myself a genuine reporter of events, but one who writes in secret and cloaks his identity behind a monk's humility.

A question which has been puzzling me as I write my chronicle was answered as I composed these final pages. I used to wonder how the ways of the White Christ, apparently so meek, came to overwhelm the more robust tenets of my Elder Faith. Then, only yesterday, I was present when one of the local monks — it was the junior almoner - was recounting with breathless wonder how he had been in London and witnessed the court ceremony when a local magnate swore allegiance to the new sovereign, our pious and amulet-wearing William. The monk mimed the ceremony for our benefit: the solemn entrance of the nobleman, the king seated on the throne, the approach between ranks of courtiers, the bending of the knee, and the kissing of the regal hand. As the monk went down on his knees to illustrate the moment of homage, I noted the easy familiarity of his action. It was a gesture he repeated each day before the altar, and I recalled my lord Harald prostrate in submission on the marble floor before the throne of the Basileus, a ruler also declared to be a chosen instrument of that same God. Then I knew: the worship of the White Christ suits men who seek to dominate others. It is not the belief of the humble, but of despots and tyrants. When a man claims he is specially selected by the White Christ, then all those who follow that religion must treat him as if they are revering the God himself. That is why they go down in obedience before him. Often they even clasp their hands together as if in prayer.

This is a contradiction of all that the God is meant to stand for, yet I have witnessed how, among rulers of men, it is the truly ruthless and the ambitious who adopt the Christian faith, then use it to suppress the dignity of their fellows. Naturally this opinion would horrify the inoffensive monks around me, and some of them are genuine and selfless men. But they are blind to the fact that even here, within the minster, they bow the head in obedience to their superiors, whatever their quality. How different it was for those who followed the Elder Faith. As a sworn follower of Harald of Norway, as his king's man, I never had to bend the knee to him, either in an act of submission or to acknowledge his leadership. I only knew that he was more suited to rule than me, and that I must serve him as best I could. And when I was a priest of the Elder Faith among the Old Believers of Vaster Gotland, I would have been shocked if those who came to me to ask for guidance or to intervene with the Gods had believed that I was divinely appointed. I was judged only for my knowledge of the ancient lore.

So this is the ultimate power of the White Christ faith: it is a belief suited to despots who would curb men's independence.

I will never abandon my devotion to Odinn, though some might say he has abandoned me, just as he and the Gods have forsaken all those who followed the Elder Faith. Our world may have come to an end, but we never expected our Gods to be all-powerful and eternal. That sort of arrogance is reserved for the Christians. We knew from the very start that one day the old order would collapse, and after Ragnarok all would be swept away. Our Gods did not control the future. That was ordained by the Norns, and no one can alter the final outcome. While we are on this earth, each individual can only live his life to the best of his ability, strive to mould daily existence to best advantage, and never, like the unhappy Mac Bethad of the Scots, be duped by outward signs and appearance.

Still, it grieves me that the body of my king Harald was taken back to Norway and placed in a Christian church. He should have received a true funeral in the old style, been burned on a pyre or interred within a barrow grave. That is what I had in mind when I tried vainly to rescue his body from the battlefield. I know that it was an old man's folly, but at the time I was sure that the Valkyries had already carried away his soul to Valhol, or that Freyja's servants had selected him and he was now in her golden hall, Sessrumnir, as befits the warrior whom some are already calling the last of the Vikings.

I myself do not expect to go to Valhol nor to Freyja's hall. Those palaces are reserved for those who fell in battle, and — truth be told — I have never been a warrior, although I did my military training with the brotherhood of the Jomsvikings and have been present at the great battles: in Clontarf when the Irish High King fell, when the great Greek general Maniakes smashed the Arabs in Sicily, and of course at the bridge in Stamford. But I was never really a fighting man. When I took up arms, it was usually for self-defence.

The thought of Sessrumnir has reminded me yet again of the twins, Freyvid and Freygerd. What has happened to them, I wonder? The last report I had was when their uncle Folkmar took them and fled for safety into the fastnesses of Sweden. It is too late for me to go to seek them, but in my bones I feel sure that they have survived. Once again I believe this is Odinn's wish. He taught that after Ragnarok, when all has been consumed by fire and destruction, there will be two survivors, twins who have sheltered beneath the roots of the World Tree and survived unscathed. From them will spring a new race of men who will populate the happier world that emerges from the ruins. With that knowledge I can console myself that my line may again bring the return of the Elder Ways.

So, in these closing days of my life, I am content to set down on paper my gratitude to Odinn for the guidance he gave me. Odinn Gangradr, the journey adviser, was always at my shoulder. He showed me many marvels: the glittering reflection of the great ice cliffs in the still waters of a Greenland fjord, the endless sweet-smelling pine forests of Vinland in the west, the Golden Dome of the great Saracen temple in the Holy Land, the slow curl of the early morning mist rising from the surface of the broad river which leads eastward from Gardariki, the land of forts. And, more important, Odinn also brought me to the company of women I loved, and who loved me — a young girl in Ireland, a maiden among the ski-runners of the north, and — in the end — to the embrace of Runa. How can the monks around me compare their lives to that?

I am still restless, even at my advanced age. When I was at my weakest and sat feebly in the herb garden next to the small infirmary, I would notice the high-flying birds passing overhead on their distant journeys, and wanted to rise and follow them. Now that my body is mended and I have reached the conclusion of my chronicle, I will add these final pages to the cache of writing that I have concealed within a secret hiding place in the thick stone wall of the scriptorium. When the opportunity presents itself, as it surely will if I keep my allegiance to Odinn, I will slip away from this minster and make a new life somewhere in the outside world.

Where will I go? I cannot be precise. That is not a vision that has been given me. All I know is that my fate was decided long ago, at the time of my birth, and by the Norns. They were kind to me. I have enjoyed my life, and even if I had been able to change its course, I would not have done so.

So I will leave this minster with a sense of happy expectation and my twins in mind. I will find a place where, in my final duty as a devotee of Odinn, I shall preach, and instruct my listeners that there will be a second coming of the Old Ways.

My lord abbot, If you will forgive this final notation, I must report that two years past our monastery received occasional reports of an unidentified preacher known locally as the 'the black priest'. This man established himself at a remote spot on the moors, and the common folk flocked there to listen and pay their devotions. It seems that he was greatly revered, though what he preached is unknown. Now he is seen no more, and it is presumed that he has departed this life. His parishioners, if they may be called that, come almost weekly to us to importune that we build and consecrate a chapel at the place of his hermitage. They say he was some sort of saint. I tremble at the possibility that with such an act we may be serving the Antichrist. But the people are most insistent, and I fear that if we spurn their request, they will be deeply vexed, to the detriment of our own foundation. In this, as in all things, I seek your blessed guidance.

Aethelred

Sacristan and Librarian