Sword of Shame

PROLOGUE

‘May I see it?’

Sir Ralph de la Pomeroy eyed his guest for a moment, then wandered to the chest that stood at the wall, its lock gleaming in the flickering light from the fire. ‘It’s a beautiful piece of work,’ he said.

It was still in its original, slightly scratched, leather scabbard, a simple enough sheath with bronze at the point and mouth. From it protruded an unadorned hilt with a simple disc pommel and cross-hilt fashioned to look like two dogs’ heads, mouths gaping. He took it up, hefting it in his hand again. Even with the scabbard covering the blade, it had a natural balance about it-almost a life. It felt as though it held a strange energy all of its own. His fingers tingled merely to grasp the hilt.

Sir Ralph passed it to the priest and stood away, still dubious about this man.

Bartholomew of Holsworthy was English, and Sir Ralph was not entirely sure where the man’s loyalties lay. He appeared always to be content with the change of government, but so many folk were still living out in the woods beyond the reach of the law that no one could be fully trusted. This man had lived here before the Norman adventure, and must have known and liked many who’d been executed.

The priest’s breath caught in his throat as he drew the blade from the plain sheath with its ox-hide covering. He traced the fine engraving and felt the thickening in his throat at the thought of the two brothers; he was forced to blink to conceal the tears.

‘I know this sword.’

The blade had been long in the making. Bran the smith had started work on this, his greatest undertaking, twenty years before the invasion.

Blond, heavy-set, with eyes the colour of cornflowers on a summer’s afternoon, Bran showed his parentage. His mother had been raped by Viking invaders during the worst of the reign of Hardacnut, the son of Cnut, who treated this kingdom like his personal purse. He was determined to rival the navies of the Vikings, and set about building many ships, and when the people complained bitterly at his sudden imposition of taxes, Hardacnut came marching with his men. One of them was Bran’s father.

His mother had enough love remaining in her for Bran, but after what the Vikings did to her family, wiping out all the menfolk, she had nothing but revulsion for those responsible, and the man who raped her beside the body of her murdered father was the focus of all the spite and bile in her damaged soul.

It was because of his conception that he had chosen to become a smith. Working in the fields with those who taunted him about his bastardy was impossible. In preference he chose the solitary work of a bladesmith.

Not that it had been a bad life. He was married to his darling Gytha, a dark-haired, slender, lonely woman who cared nothing for his birth, but only that he was a kind, gentle father to their children. Not many men were as lucky as Bran, he reckoned. A beautiful wife, two sons: one fair like Hardacnut’s men, the other more dark like Gytha’s folk. Curious how in his family the boys had taken on the appearance of their forebears.

Enough wool-gathering! The iron and steel had been heated, and now his eyes told him that they were at the perfect temperature. He began the long process of beating them together until the heat and the hammering welded them into one coherent strip. Then he hammered them again, reheated the resulting bar, and beat yet another strip of red-glowing metal to it.

After that he deliberately left it alone for several days. It was like a good cider, he always said-cider tasted better for being left to mature, and his blades strengthened with age. You couldn’t hurry a good blade.

It was almost two weeks before Bran returned to it. He took it in his hands and studied it critically. Wiping it on a corner of the great leather skin he used as an apron, he looked at it carefully before deciding how to proceed, and then set it back in his forge. First he rounded off the end which would become the point, and then he reheated it and beat it until the bar grew longer and flatter. The next day he began to give it shape, and he hammered the heated metal into a diamond section.

There were many more stages in the creation of the sword, each of them undertaken with the maximum of care, the swordsmith roaring and cursing when the coals flamed too hotly and the metal began to glow too furiously; taking the utmost caution to make sure that the metal was at the correct temperature at all times, never too hot, never too cold for the task at hand, and then the quenching, to give the metal its flexibility and strength.

The blade was finished. He had taken a week and a half just to smooth the rough metal with his big circular stone. While Dudda, his older son, cranked the handle, the smith ran the blade gently over the rotating sandstone, slowly removing burrs and imperfections. Then they went to the second, finer wheel, and began the smoothing and polishing process, the old smith frowning as he gazed at the metal while it changed from blackened, dull grey to a shining white steel. Still scratched, he set the blade on his workbench and began to polish it with his fine stones, while Brada, the fair-haired second son, sat in the corner of the room and played with off-cuts of metal.

And when all was done, he sat on a stool with a mug of ale in his fist and stared at the blade with pride, saying to his sons, ‘When a man holds this blade in his hand, he shall be invincible. No invader shall succeed against it. The man who wields it defending our country shall always overcome!’

When the invasion came, Bran was long dead.

On the ship, Rollo saw a great, thunderous, foaming immensity slamming down on the heads of the men before him. He had time, just, to grab at the mast as the grey/green flood poured towards him, drenching him in an instant.

Rollo fitzRollo, Breton staller to King Edward, set his jaw as he stared ahead between the men bent at the oars. He could show no weakness, not here on the ship with all his men about him. If they saw him worry they would panic. Even now he could see some eyeing him covertly as they strained against the waves.

Hunching his shoulders, he felt the full weight of his mail. It had been smeared with oil before leaving the port, as had his sword and his daggers, but the long byrnie felt as though it was more of an encumbrance than protection. He hated water. Water was the natural enemy of any warrior; how could a man fight when his mail coat and weapons were rusted? And a knight always feared the depths aboard ship, with twenty pounds of steel at shoulders and breast, drowning was inevitable. No, no warrior liked water, he told himself disconsolately, rubbing absent-mindedly at a patch of rust.

A man had to risk all to win renown: that was the thought uppermost in his lord’s mind, he knew. Casting a look at the ship ahead of them, he squinted at the man who stood staring fixedly ahead, his back to Rollo. This venture would result in their deaths, or utter glory. To thieve the goods from a merchant at the roadside, that was one thing; this-stealing a kingdom-this was another entirely.

Spray jetted over the prow, and he blinked away the salt. If he were to die, Edith would be safe. He didn’t want to think of the dangers to his woman of being widowed with a young child to support. At least he had done his best for her. Edith was at William’s castle, and she should be safe enough there. As safe as anywhere else. She wouldn’t be able to return home to Britain if Rollo and his men failed.

Water! Another wave burst upwards at the prow, and he ducked in a vain attempt to avoid it as foam swamped the crew. Rollo wiped his eyes, swearing under his breath. If he survived, he would never again go to sea. At least his sword would be safe in its new sheath. The lining of sheep’s fleece should protect it from this foul weather.

He was miserable. Every breeze made him shiver, as though he was clad in ice, even his fine linen shirt was drenched. The flesh of his face was taut, like old leather that had dried too quickly in front of a fire, he thought, and then he caught sight of his reflection in a facet of a burnished steel shield-boss, and he grinned sourly at the sight.

The distorted reflection showed a powerful man of three-and-thirty, tall, swarthy, dark-eyed, with a square jaw that was closely shaven-there was no telling when he’d see a barber once they’d landed. His shoulders’ breadth was almost the same as those of Mad Swein, the axe-wielding mercenary, and his thighs were as thick as a bull’s neck. He was the picture of an experienced warrior, yet his eyes were scared.

Now, glancing about him at the men at their oars, forty of them, bent and grunting with the effort as they came closer to land, he told himself again that this was right. This was what King Edward would have wanted. Yet the doubts remained, and that was why he had the appearance of a haunted man.

When he had learned his swordsmanship, he had always been told to watch the eyes: the eyes would always give away his enemy’s intentions. A sudden narrowing was all a man needed to warn of impending attack. After all, it took time to swing a two pound sword. If a man was forewarned, he could protect himself.

Always, when he looked into another man’s eyes, he assessed the character of the man. If he had to gauge his own quality in the reflection, he would think himself weakly, mortally fearful. It was no more than the truth, he confessed, forcing his gaze from the mirror.

Only a short while ago he had been a resolute and confident figure. As King Edward’s Breton staller, he was used to having the ear of his king at all times. The staller was the king’s own representative in the lands he commanded over the water. While King Edward lived, he had no more devoted man in his service. But now the king was dead; Rollo had been forced to seek a new lord, and he had found his man in William the Bastard of Normandy.

The clouds parted. Ahead there was a clear view as a yellow sun pierced the mists. Until now the seas had been grey and a mistiness had lain over the ships. It gave the men a feeling of enclosure, as though God had taken them into His care and was leading them to a landing He had chosen. Rollo sincerely hoped it was the landing which the Abbot of Fécamp had recommended. My lord Abbot had owned lands about here, around a place called Steyning, and he had given William and his ship masters descriptions of the best landing places and the type of country they could expect inland.

Now they could see the land ahead of them, and the men all paused, as though they realized that this green, lush view would hold either their fortunes, or their graves.

Through the gap in the clouds Rollo felt a sudden warmth, and glanced over his shoulder. The sun was beaming down at him, and he was gladdened to think that perhaps this meant God was smiling on him and this whole venture. He knew that Harold had a great number of men he could call on. If he called up the fyrd, he would have a much larger force than this, and yet if God was with William, even Harold must fail. And die.

Rollo straightened his back and bared his teeth. This was a good day, a good day to fight.

A good day to die.

Yes. Bran was long dead by then.

Although he had made more blades, he was convinced that he had poured his finest craftsmanship into the one. The effort involved with others seemed pointless. They would not respond in the way that this would; it was perfection. He would sit up late at night with a jug of ale and stare at it, occasionally picking it up and testing the balance, longing to see it with hilt and sheath, but reluctant to sell it on because it would feel as though a part of him was sold with it.

Eventually the decision was taken from him. After six years Bran died. Brada had trapped a wily old wild cat, and Bran was scratched while trying to help his son kill it. The wound soured, and he died one night in early winter, listening to the sobbing of his family all round him. The last words he heard were Dudda’s hissed accusation to Brada: ‘This is all your fault! You killed father!’

Even when the young priest, Bartholomew, buried the smith’s body, watching him placed kneeling in the grave, Dudda was not talking to Brada. It hurt their mother terribly, with so much already to mourn.

Later, Bartholomew was present when the blade was sold in Exeter. It had been bought by a tranter who carried it with three and twenty others in a wrapped bundle, and the vicar, as Bartholomew now was, saw it on a bench at the fair. He saw the mark of Bran stamped into the hilt, and touched it gently, remembering the kindly smith he had buried all those years before.

A short while later, it was a trader from London who saw the blades and wandered over to look at them. Bartholomew greeted him reservedly. He was suspicious of ‘foreigners’.

‘I am Paul from London. I may be interested in some blades-what have you here?’

‘Fine blades, master,’ said the tranter.

‘So you say,’ the merchant said drily.

Bartholomew felt urged to respond in Bran’s defence. ‘These were made by a great smith locally. They’re his best work.’

‘Aye? I’ve heard that line before,’ Paul said cynically.

‘It is said, “He who lives in falsehood slays his soul; he who lies, his honour”,’ Bartholomew said sententiously. ‘I do not lie-these blades are marvels of his craft. I would be proud to wear a blade like this.’

‘You buy it, then!’

The vicar smiled sadly. ‘I wish I could afford it.’

‘Come on, then. Let’s see them,’ Paul said to the tranter.

He was a sharp-eyed man, Paul. Brown hair worn long under his old leather cap, and his belly showed his wealth. He had a belt strong enough to take the weight of his gut as he walked about the market, his thumbs hooked in it near the buckle. He was always smiling, and his thin lips were pursed in a whistle as he passed the stall, but then his square face took on a more serious, speculative expression.

It took his notice as soon as he caught sight of it. The workmanship was exquisite compared to the others. As he picked it up and held it at arm’s length, he could feel the life in it. Surprised, for a sword blade would usually only appeal to him once it had been dressed with hilt and guard, he eyed it more closely. It was uniform, with a noticeable taper and sharp point. Over thirty inches long, he guessed. The polishing had smoothed the blade to a gleaming silver, and as he looked at it, there were no indications of pitting, just a perfect mirror-finish.

‘Where did you say you found this, friend?’

‘In an old widow’s place. She died a while ago, and this was under her bed, if you’ll believe me, master,’ the tranter smiled. ‘Her man was a smith-might have made this for himself, eh? One of a kind, I’d reckon.’

Yes. One of a kind, Paul thought. He bought the lot, giving his farewells to the priest and the tranter. Once back at his workshop in London, he set it on a bench and studied it. There were six other blades he was working on, two new, and four older ones which needed new hilts. As he worked at these, every so often his attention would wander over to the new blade sitting on his workbench, and he took to touching it, glancing about his room as he wondered which style of hilt would best suit this sword.

The cross was easy. He had seen a sword made by another man some little while before, who had taken a bar of steel and created a piece of art by hammering the two ends over and cutting them until they resembled a pair of dog’s heads, one at either side. He would do that for this too, he told himself. And the grip would be good lime wood, with wire and leather wrapped well about it. Above would be a plain steel pommel. There was no need to over-decorate this weapon.

It would be a sword any man could desire. A sword of honour, dignity, and purpose.

The landing was not as bad as Rollo had feared. Their enemy was not yet warned, although Rollo was sure that he had seen flames in the distance, as though a great signal fire had been lit.

His ship raced on and on, until the beach seemed impossibly close, and then, at the last minute, the oars were raised safely away at the shipmaster’s bellow, and there was a moment’s dread silence.

All over the boat men braced themselves. They knew little what they might meet, but they were only too aware of the reputation of their enemy, a wonderfully resourceful, cunning warrior who had beaten all. He was there, somewhere, and his rage at learning of their invasion would be uncontrollable. Many of them would soon be dead. Swein the axeman flexed his arms and smiled widely as he caught sight of Rollo’s set expression, and Rollo grinned in return.

Then they were thrown to the deck. There was an awful grating, and the ship shuddered and jerked, before toppling gently to rest at an angle.

At Rollo’s feet, two men collided, their heads slamming together. He shouted to the men at the prow and immediately they began to leap into the waves and thrust themselves through the water, standing on the beach with axes, swords and spears in their hands, waiting to see if any would contest their landing. As the bridgehead grew, some ran forward to a small hill from where they could view the surrounding land while the others disembarked and began unloading stores.

On board, Rollo pushed and bellowed at the remaining men. As he prepared to jump himself, he realized a man still stood by him: one of the two who had knocked heads. This man wore a steel and leather cap, while the other had been bareheaded. The cap’s metal edge had smashed through the thin bone of the temple, shattering his eye-socket, and blood smeared the planks beside him. Two sailors glanced at the body, then dropped it into the sea.

Rollo was about to shout when he realized that the man was weeping.

‘He was my brother.’

‘You’ll join him if you don’t get off the ship and help,’ Rollo grated, and swung over the ship’s side.

Paul was a master of his craft, but when the sword was dressed, a large pommel of steel balancing the weight nicely, the cross with dogs’ heads to protect the hand, a plain black leather grip bound with silver wire, he felt that there was still something missing. Struck with a thought, he took it to a friend, a jeweller.

‘Ulric, take a look at this!’ Paul said, taking the waxed leather wrapping from it as he entered the little shop.

‘A lovely piece,’ Ulric said. He was a heavy-set man with a thick greying beard and narrowed brown eyes that scowled all too easily, the legacy of long years working gems and gold into intricate patterns.

‘Could you carve me an inscription?’ Paul asked.

Ulric shrugged. Paul had often come for fine work. ‘What do you want?’ he asked as he picked up a burin and eyed it speculatively.

On the beach, as the knights calmed frightened horses and saddled them before riding out and ensuring the host was safe from attack, the carpenters were already at work bringing the heavy sections of pre-built castle from the ships and heaving them over to the chosen site. The hammering and shouting continued from first light through that long day, and in all that time Rollo had no break, just snatched bites of bread and a hunk of cheese washed down with brackish water from a skin. By the end of the day he was exhausted, and he dropped onto his blanket with relief. He didn’t even recall closing his eyes, but fell immediately into a deep sleep.

The next morning was chill, and Rollo had to crouch at a fire to warm himself, idly thinking again of his wife and their child. He had been fortunate, Edith was a woman with intelligence and beauty. Before he wed he had been a member of Edward’s bodyguard, but it was his attachment to Edith that had established him in authority. Edith was the daughter of King Edward’s cousin, and as soon as Rollo married her, he found he had more money and influence.

And then Edward died, and Rollo found himself abroad as the new king was elected. Harold had taken charge, of course. He was the strongest contender-there was no doubt of that. The Godwinson was revered for his victories over the Welsh; he was the country’s best general. But Harold had never trusted Rollo. There was nothing for him under Harold’s reign. Better to try to win the kingdom for another man, and take what he could.

William claimed his right because Harold was his vassal.

Two years before Harold had been shipwrecked and captured by Count Guy of Ponthieu at Beaurian who had hoped to ransom him. William forced the Count to release Harold to his protection, and while Harold was in his care, he made his captive swear an oath of support. An oath sworn under duress holds no legal standing, but William was confident. He had bullied and slaughtered his way to maturity, killing all those who plotted against him. Power for him was something to be used, not harnessed or jealously hoarded.

Edith and their child needed a secure future, and the best manner of winning it was here at Pevensey, fighting for William.

Bran’s son Dudda had never married. After his father died, all the fault of that fool Brada for catching a wild cat, the family had been thrown into poverty. Dudda had stayed with his mother to support her, but Brada had soon left. Dudda heard he’d gone to the coast, seeking a ship in his shame.

It was no more than he deserved. Meantime, while he assuaged his guilt with exile, Dudda was left to look after the homestead. He was by no means a master of the craft of smithing, though, and soon his mother had succeeded in persuading him to join the household of a local thegn. As she said, at least he would be guaranteed his bread and ale each day.

The king himself saw Dudda fight one day, and rewarded him with coins and a promotion. Now he was in charge of his own small host in Sussex. Courageous to a fault, he would always throw himself at an enemy with reckless abandon, and never more so than when attacking the blond warriors from the northern seas. He hated the Norsemen with a passion.

The memory of their treatment of Bran’s mother still poisoned all his thoughts of Vikings. He refused to admit that he had any trace of Viking blood in him, and lived only to kill them. It was this which infuriated him when the new king took the host north to protect his new kingdom from Harold Hardrada’s invasion. Dudda should have been there too. It was little consolation to hear that King Harold Godwinson wanted him here to protect the coast against the forces of William the Bastard of Normandy.

Dudda wanted to be fighting Vikings, not some Norman bastard.

Cerdic the sheathmaker was an older man than Paul, with hair as black as a raven’s wing. His language was strangely accented, because he came from the barbaric far north of the country originally, but his abilities with wood and leather had brought him here to London, where his marvellous sheaths won praise from all who saw them.

Short and thickset, he had a cast in one eye that made it difficult to tell where he was looking as he spoke. A long scar that rose from his wrist up to his elbow was the remaining evidence of his youth when he had last fought in the fyrd.

Today he took the sword with a low whistle of appreciation. ‘This is the best you’ve made in a while. What does this say?’

Paul smiled and ran his finger down the inscription that had been engraved in the fuller. ‘“Qui falsitate vivit, animam occidit. Falsus in ore, caret honore”-that is, “He who lives in falsehood slays his soul. He who lies, his honour,”’ he translated loosely.

‘Well, with a moral like that, your sword will need something to set it off,’ Cerdic said. He was quiet a moment, holding the sword in his hands and considering. Taking it up in his hand, he felt the balance and swung it about him at breast height. ‘Bloody good!’

‘I’ll leave it with you, then.’

Cerdic scarcely acknowledged his departure as his friend left his workshop. He was still feeling the weight of the sword, testing it for its centre, setting his head on one side as he looked down its length, and then nodding to himself. Finally, he sat on a stool and looked at the hilt.

The basic form of the sheath was already prepared-he stored many blanks of wood. Shaped, lined with fresh sheepskin, glued together and wrapped in good leather, with carving on the hide itself, many were long enough to suit this blade. He’d want some good decoration for the sheath, too. Some good bronze. He had some which would be adequate for workaday blades, but nothing for this. With a slate and block of chalk, he made a rough outline of the sort of pieces he wanted, and paid a lad to take it to his favourite supplier. The he began to rummage through his stock of wooden blanks.

It was late in the afternoon when he began to hack into the hard wood he had selected. The adze was sharp as a chisel, and it took little time to shave off the inner surface with a sweeping, careful stroke, the blank resting on the floor and held in place by straps. He had already marked out the dimensions of the sword in chalk, and now he cut out the form of the blade, pausing every so often to rest the sword in the space to ensure it fitted. The precise size didn’t matter too much. It was a case of making the hole large enough for the blade, together with its protective sheepskin case, to fit.

His workshop was a small lean-to near the London Bridge gate, and from his open doorway he had a good view of the travellers coming and going along that great roadway. Usually he would win good custom from the people who came up this way because he was on the route to the street of armourers, and many men had need of the smiths. There were always swords to be rehoned, sharpened or replaced. With the ever-present threat of war, men looked to their arms, and even if the sword was good and strong, all too often the sheath was beyond repair. One sword could have six or seven sheaths in a man’s lifetime if he was regularly off on journeys.

Today a pair of men arrived. One, a vicar, looked exhausted. Priests tended to be bad customers, they rarely had to wear their swords on their hips when they travelled, but left them safe while others defended them from attack. This man wore nothing. However his companion was interesting-he looked wealthier than Cerdic’s usual customer. He had dark hair braided in two long plaits, and his clothing was worn and faded, the russet cloth of his cloak was thinning and stitched together to mend the many tears. A youthful face, but sad: a man who’d seen much of life already. His sword was all but hanging out from a broken sheath. ‘My horse. It stood on the thing last night,’ he said bitterly.

‘Master,’ Cerdic said with a grave nod. Warriors deserved respect. ‘Let me have a look. Ach! It is stuck in here. The sheath is ruined, but I fear the sword may be too. I’ll have to cut the sheath away to see how the blade has suffered.’

‘I am called to go with the fyrd…That sword. Let me try it.’

Cerdic nodded and passed it across to the man, trying not to grin. As soon as he’d entered the room, the traveller’s eyes had gone to the sword on Cerdic’s table. And no surprise-it was the most beautiful piece of work in the room. It all but glowed, and the covetous eye of the warrior had fixed on it in a moment. Anyone who lived by the strength of his arm must be attracted to a weapon that had clearly had so much time lavished upon it.

‘Master, this is beautiful! It reminds me…’ the man said, holding it out before him. He turned his wrist, and the metal flashed backwards, wickedly, before coming to rest pointing at the doorway. He span on his heel and raised it to an imaginary enemy, then let it slash down, continuing the movement up and behind him, bringing it around to his breast and pausing, studying it closely again.

‘My old sword is damaged; I need a new one. I can’t count on a sword that is liable to shatter.’

‘Ah, that’s not mine to sell.’

‘I am a thegn: Dudda son of Bran,’ Dudda said with quiet menace. ‘I will have this sword, no matter what it costs.’

Cerdic nodded. ‘Then you’d best speak to Paul. I can introduce you.’

‘Paul…’ the priest said, running a finger over the insciption on the blade and frowning as he recognized the quotation. ‘I wonder…’

Rollo was glad to have Swein at his side as he mounted his horse. The great beast was comforting, a good, biddable brute, but if it came to charging a shield wall with lances pointing at them, Rollo would be happier knowing that Swein was near.

Swein was one of those northmen who inspired terror in his enemies and commanded respect from his comrades. Rollo had seen him in battle, and he felt that the Norse blood flowed vigorously in his veins. With an axe in his fist he was the picture of a berserker, worth more than twenty ordinary members of the fyrd.

For all that, he was sure that Swein was not from Scandinavia. The man’s accent was more Saxon than anything else. Rollo reckoned he was the son of a minor thegn who had embarrassed his master and been forced to flee. Perhaps he had killed a man and couldn’t afford to pay the fine? Whatever the reason, Rollo was simply glad that he was here with him in William of Normandy’s host with the other mercenaries. They’d have need of men like Swein if they were going to break the Saxon shield-wall.

He had served in the fyrd himself. Standing in the shield-wall with farmers and peasants, linking shields and grasping their swords or lances. So long as they worked in unison, the enemy would break on them like the tide on an unforgiving shore. And when the moment was right, the shield-wall would begin to shove forward, swords rising and falling to hack at any within range. The line of warriors would stamp forwards, trampling dead and wounded alike, while men behind would stab and slash at the bodies in case a man was feigning death and intended to rise up among the men of the fyrd to cause mayhem.

Yes, the fyrd was strong, and provided that their commander had time to run them through their paces, giving them their commands for even a half day, there was little which could be done to overwhelm them.

That was Rollo’s fear: that the fyrd might arrive prepared. The men under Harold were strong and determined, as they should be for they were fighting for their kingdom. But the Normans under William were determined too. They had the sea at their backs, and if they failed, they would die.

Bartholomew was exhausted. He was in London with Bishop Leofric, and had been sent to acquire provisions for the household. Many were congregating on London, desperate to hear how the battle had gone in the north where good King Harold was protecting the realm from the devils from over the sea.

The thought that the Norsemen could be ravaging the lands was terrifying. Down in Wessex, the folk had grown used to peace. The Danes tried to land and ransack towns and churches when they could, and while their attacks had grown rarer, no one could forget the tales of men hacked to death, women raped and discarded to lie beside their dead husbands and children, farms laid waste, priests cut down before their altars…Bartholomew was terrified that all this could come to pass again. Well, if the land was invaded, he would go with the host to protect his land, his people. He wouldn’t wait to be slaughtered.

He wanted a sword too. He walked with Dudda to Paul’s shop, a pleasant house in West Ceape, the busy road that held so many stalls and shops. Inside there were weapons of all descriptions, all serviceable, and some beautifully made.

‘I have met you,’ Bartholomew said when he saw Paul. ‘You bought blades from Exeter.’

‘I seem to recall your face,’ Paul admitted cautiously. A merchant should always be wary of those who claimed to remember him-it could be this priest remembered a bargain that went sour.

‘You picked up a marvellous blade there. We saw one like it earlier today,’ Bartholomew murmured. ‘One that had a lovely inscription on it.’

‘Oh, of course. Yes, I remember now. That is a magnificent sword, isn’t it? It took time and skill to have it mounted.’

Bartholomew studied the swords about the room while the other men argued about the price of the sword. It would be a source of pride to Bran, he felt, were the old smith to know that the sword would be bought and used by his own son.

It was as he haggled over another, cheaper but serviceable sword, that the cry was heard in the streets.

‘The Normans! The Normans have landed!’

Two days later, Rollo took a force of thirty men to engage any small groups nearby. They must harry any attempted muster, and send messengers if they found a large force.

It was a cold morning, with a mist lying heavily on the ground ahead of them. At the beach, in the security of their stronghold, Rollo had been easy in his mind, but now, leaving the sturdy fortress behind, he felt the first stirrings of anxiety. Ahead of him somewhere there were men watching him. Perhaps practising their manoeuvres.

He had trained with them: he knew how they’d fight. They’d ride to a muster-point, leaving their horses with boys, and run to a ridge or hillock, forming a line six to ten men deep. At the command all would thrust their shields forward, overlapping each with their neighbour, each of them depending upon his neighbour for protection. On the order they could unlink shields, lift them overhead, turn, and reform with a new wall protecting their rear. When directed, they could begin pacing slowly down the hillside, all the while shouting their battle cries and stabbing forward with spears.

Each of them would feel the courage that came from conviction: they knew that Harold had never failed in battle. He was a tough fighter, and he would die rather than lose his kingdom. Each man would be ready, his shield a reassuring weight on his arm, the sword in his fist heartening. Many of the blades that Rollo would encounter would be ancient. Most of them had been used in other battles, older fights. They had been a father’s or grandfather’s weapon, used against Vikings or neighbours over decades, and now brought here to Pevensey to slaughter these latest invaders.

Rollo had served Edward in many a line. His strong right arm had battered and slashed at enough men, and his sword showed its age. It had been his uncle’s sword. His father’s had gone to his brother, of course, his older brother. That one was twice as old even as this battered lump of metal. Rollo had been forced to have this one re-sheathed three times, and it had been given a new hilt a short while before they embarked for this coast.

A thump at his thigh brought him back to the present. Like the others, he wore a massive kite-shaped shield over his shoulder, so that after an attack, as he wheeled and hared off, his back would be protected. It was essential, but by God’s heaven, it was clumsy.

Harnesses squeaked and jingled. At any other time, on another day, the noise would have eased his spirits. The musical sound of thousands of small rings tinkling together from the men’s byrnies and mail neck-covers, sounded like ten thousand tiny bells.

A horse snorted. Another shook his head, and there was a curse as his rider dropped his spear. They were leaving the plain before the fortress where the mist lay spread like a blanket. Before them were thick woods, and Rollo, fearing ambush, spurred his mount into a canter to pass through the dangerous area. It was still and quiet even as he rode in among the trees, and he kept a careful eye open to possible danger, but saw nothing until he heard the scream behind him. He had an urge to crouch low and gallop away, but he restrained himself and glanced over his shoulder. And his bowels turned to ice.

On either side archers had launched missiles at the men behind him. Now, as he watched, three of his men toppled and were leapt upon by the enemy, scramasax blades flashing, and he saw a flurry of blood like red snow erupt from a man’s throat. He and his men couldn’t ride down the attackers, not in among the trees; they must perish. Better that the survivors should be saved. He roared at his men, drew his sword, and spurred his horse on, ignoring the jeers of the enemy. The wind started to rush in his ears as he pelted along the track, and, when they were almost out of the woods, he looked back and saw that the majority of his force was safe.

There was a flash of light, and the sun breached the clouds. He lifted his reins to lash his horse’s flanks again, and then hesitated, feeling a chilly sweat wash over him.

Before him stood a line of byrnie-clad men, at least fifty, all capped with steel and leather, all clutching great round shields, all with the long hair and beards of grown men used to fighting, and all grasping long spears. Even as he set his horse at them, they deployed, and over the howling wind in his ears, the rattle of harnesses and grunts from his hastening steel, he heard the gutteral roar bellowed by the commander. The shields were pushed out, edge on to Rollo, then snapped round so that a row of overlapping circles faced him. Another shout, and he saw the shafts of the spears disappear as they were lowered to point at him, and all he could see now was the deceptively pretty sight of the sun glittering on the spear-points.

There was only a matter of yards to go. He could see no escape: the line blocked his men’s path. The only option they had was to fight their way through this small host. He raised his sword and shrieked his defiance, then lowered his head and flung himself and his horse at the shields.

The crash was shocking. Wooden shields shivered with the appalling collision, and he saw grim faces recoil as his horse rammed into them. A man fell back, then down as hooves rose and battered at him. Men stared at opponents, and slashed and stabbed and hacked and thrust, determined to kill before dying. A tall, dark man was in front of him now, a man whose cap came down over his features and left only his eyes shining at either side of his nose-guard. Fleetingly Rollo caught sight of his great sword, sparkling like a diamond in the sun, but then his mount sprang aside, and he lost sight of him.

He saw Swein at his side, the huge man wielding his axe with broad strokes. The huge axe-head clove through caps and skulls, and about him there was already a mess of limbs and sprawled men, but still the shield-wall held, and then Rollo saw a lance thrust forward and pierce Swein’s horse’s breast. There was already a stub of lance jutting from the beast’s flank, and now he seemed to realize that he was dying. He reared, throwing his hooves in all directions, and tossed his mane, but his eyes were wild not with the rage of battle, but with the terror of encroaching death.

Even as he grew conscious of Swein’s mount, Rollo realized that his own was floundering. There was less energy in his movements, and Rollo knew that a spear must have reached his vitals. He waved his sword and roared at the top of his voice to call his men to retreat, to pull back so that they might win space to charge again, but as he shouted, there was a high whistling noise, a fluttering whine that ended in a wet slap, and he saw one of his men fall, grabbing frantically for the arrow’s fletching that protruded from his back, rolling on the ground and screaming until his own horse, stamping about the field, crushed his head.

The archers were back-there was no escape that way. Rollo knew his horse was soon to die. He kicked his feet from the stirrups, and managed to leap from the saddle just before the brute collapsed, crushing a section of the wall as he fell.

It was the opening he had needed. Hoarsely bellowing to his men, Rollo gripped his sword in both hands and sprang forward. He felt, rather than saw, Swein run to his side, and he knew that two more of his men were behind him. Forming a compact group, they met shoulder to shoulder, heavy shields protecting their flanks as they stamped their way in among their enemies. The enemy withdrew, and suddenly Rollo knew that the decisive moment had arrived. He saw a glint, and into his mind flashed the memory of the man in the midst of the line, the warrior with the dark hair under his Saxon helm. With a weapon like his, he must be the leader.

‘With me!’ he shouted, and threw aside his shield. Instead he grabbed a small, circular wooden shield that lay on the ground near its dead owner. The shield was covered in fresh skin which had dried on the wood, forming a solid, strong, but light protection. There was a bronze boss in the centre, and now he used that to ram at the men who stood in his path. A lance came near, and he knocked it away, running his blade down the length of the shaft. He saw fingers fly off, a shriek, and the pole dropped, the man falling back among the press. Another man thrust at him from his side, but Rollo blocked the stab and slammed the boss into his face, feeling bones crunch; he punched his sword into the man’s belly and ripped it aside. He shoved another from his path, swept his sword across, the point lifted. The blade ripped through the man’s throat; there was a gush of blood, bubbles, horror in the man’s eyes, and then…then he was before the commander.

It took no thought. The man appeared, and Rollo instantly crossed to meet him. The others were with him, he knew that. From the corner of his eye he saw Swein’s axe part an arm from a torso, saw a second man approach, and saw the axe whirl into his stomach. It sliced through his cheap shirt of mail, and his entrails were spilled.

Then Rollo was on him.

Dudda had been shocked by the sudden appearance of the cavalry force. He and his men had only arrived last night, tired and footsore from the march, and he had counted on drilling them before a fight. These madmen had arrived before he’d been able to put them through their most basic paces, and now his men were pressed hard. Bartholomew was somewhere near. He only hoped his friend wasn’t dead.

The captain was plain enough, sitting up there on his horse. Terrifying in his metal clothing, so high above everyone else. None of the men, including Dudda, had seen men riding horses into battle. Men rode to war, yes, but they left their mounts safe behind the battle lines. These men pelted towards their enemy like demons on their chargers.

Dudda raised his sword, the blade tapping the front of his helmet, and he closed his eyes, uttering a short prayer on the cross for victory. His sword’s blade gleamed, and he was reminded of that day, many years ago, when he had sat with his father and helped sharpen and polish a blade which his father said was the best he had ever made. He had said, what? ‘When a man holds this blade in his hand, he shall be invincible!’

It was enough to make him smile to himself. This sword made him feel invincible. Bartholomew said he was sure it was that same sword, his father’s best creation. It felt it, certainly. Today, here, he would test it.

Dudda saw the mad captain of his enemies approaching, and lowered his sword, hefting his shield. He was thegn, and no foreign murderers would take these lands from his people again. No more rapes, no more slaughters.

‘To me! To me!’

The invaders must perish!

Seeing the man smile under his cap, Rollo snarled and lifted his own worn, chipped blade. Circling, he bent, left shoulder to the man, peering over the rim of the shield, waiting for an opportunity. The man’s eyes remained fixed on his, and Rollo knew he had an opponent worthy of the name. This was no poor brutish peasant who’d been called to the fyrd at the last moment to try to stem the tide of Norman warriors, but a leader of warriors.

There was a flash in the man’s eyes: he’d caught sight of Swein. The axeman was approaching from Rollo’s right. While the man was distracted, Rollo bared his teeth and leapt forward. His blade caught on the other man’s, he felt the clash of steel, heard the ringing of tempered metal, then the slam as his blade bit into the man’s shield, and the two whirled away from each other, circling again.

Rollo grinned, then bounded forward again, his sword hanging low, only to jab upwards at the man’s legs, but he had already moved away; Rollo tried a slash at his hamstrings, but he blocked the blow with a casual backwards hack of his sword, followed by a sweeping blow towards Rollo’s shoulder. It was a pathetic attempt, and Rollo moved his shield to prevent it, and then realized that the man’s sword wasn’t where it should have been. A flick of his wrist had brought the blade almost to Rollo’s gut. He had to join shield and sword together, pressing down as he sucked in his belly and bent his back away. It was only just in time, and he felt the snag as the steel caught on his byrnie.

His relief was short-lived. He stumbled on a discarded limb and instantly started to tumble. The man’s attack was immediate. Rollo could only throw himself sideways, falling painfully on one arm. There he swung up with his sword, and the clang of steel striking was a shivering impact deep in his bones. His shoulder seemed to reverberate with the clamour.

Scrambling to his feet, he saw the sword swing, blocked it, but this time there was a subtle difference in the clash of weapons. A niggle of doubt assailed him. There had been a strange thrill in his blade.

He knew his sword all too well. This blade had been his since his uncle had died, nearly twenty years ago. He’d worn it ever since; had killed fifteen men with it, slaking the steel’s thirst for human blood, and never had he felt that odd little twitch.

Another smashing blow, and he felt it give. There was a weakness! The hilt had come loose, or the blade was cracked. It could not continue to take such a hammering from this man. He moved away, retreating, trying to keep his eyes from betraying his sudden concern, but the fellow started to set about him more seriously. The sword flashed and sparkled redly in the sun’s glare, and then the commander was harrying him hard, the bloody blade whirling about him, and suddenly Rollo knew he must die.

His hilt was broken, and the leather-covered wooden grip moved in his hand. The blade was no longer fixed to it, and the blade turned without his wanting it to. Now there was no let up, and he could do little but block the attacks. It was pointless to return to the assault, for the blade would turn and not hit true. It was all but useless. There was a shivering in the blade, and he saw it fall in two, his fingers stinging, and saw the fierce delight in the other man’s face.

Suddenly there was a roar, and Swein launched himself at the man from his side. Rollo saw the commander’s eyes narrow as he turned to face the new threat.

Dudda’s blood sang in his ears. He felt as though the spirits of his ancestors were with him. He could not be harmed, not while he wielded this sword, his father’s sword. It was a guarantee of victory, and soon he would conquer this rabble of murderers and cut-throats, ready for the real battle when King Harold returned and put the Norman Bastard’s host to the sword.

But as he was about to end this man’s life, another man came roaring at him, approaching from his left front, running at him with that axe like a Viking from the sagas. Dudda tested his sword in his hand, swinging it up in a wide arc, feeling the way that it came alive. Then he saw Bartholomew run at the new enemy, his cheap sword smeared with gore, his shield, broken and splintered, still on his arm.

Bartholomew lifted his sword, but the huge Norseman swept his axe aside, clashing with the sword, and with a flick of his wrist, sent it flying away. The axehead swept back towards the priest’s head, and Bartholomew ducked. His feet were entangled with a set of reins from a dead horse, and he tumbled to the ground.

‘No!’ Dudda started forward, convinced he was already too late. He reached the Norseman as the axe began to descend, and slammed into the man, slashing at his hamstrings. The man collapsed screaming in agony, the giant tendons snapping with a sound like bones breaking, and Dudda hefted his sword, ready to stab, and then thrust down with all his strength.

He roared with savage delight, and went to Bartholomew. The priest was all right, and he turned back to finish off the axeman…and then hesitated, staring. Horror washed over him, and the sword fell from his nerveless fingers.

‘Brada? Brada?’

Rollo saw his chance. His own sword was useless, but the other was near. He sprang up and launched himself forward. Without breaking his run, he snatched up the Saxon’s sword, and let his momentum carry him on. His thrust passed through the man’s bicep near his elbow, and carried on into his flank.

Dudda gave a bestial roar of rage and agony, and tried to release his sword arm, but Rollo was on him. He shoved the blade deeper and deeper, feeling the warm wash of blood over his hands. Even as Dudda toppled backwards, Rollo kicked his body, held the sword aloft and screamed:

‘Victory! Victory!’

There was a pause, and then a collective moan seemed to come from the enemy as they saw their leader shivering on the ground, and while they watched, Rollo kicked at his helmet, sending it spinning. He found himself looking down at a man who was younger than him, dark, square-jawed, grey-eyed. There was no time to consider. The man closed his eyes, and Rollo leaned down casually, resting the sword’s point on his throat. He lifted it a short distance, ready to plunge it down, and…

…There was a slamming buffet at his side. He felt the air explode from his lungs. There was a blankness in his mind, and he shook his head with confusion, glancing about him. When he looked down, he saw that a great axehead was buried in his ribs, and he gazed at it with astonishment. It was Swein’s.

He lifted his arm to stab with his new sword-but his arm was gone. It lay twitching on the ground beside him, and he had just enough energy left in him to pick up the sword in his left hand and try to turn to repay his executioner, when he felt the axehead move.

Bartholomew wept as he jerked at the axe-haft, sobbing with exhaustion and despair. Setting his foot on Rollo’s body, he pushed with all his might, and the axe came free.

As he stood there, gazing dully at the bodies lying on the ground, he saw Dudda slowly crawl to the great Norseman, whose fair hair was red with gore where it lay on the sodden earth. Dudda was weeping with the effort, but the priest heard his quiet voice:

‘Brada! My brother! I am sorry! Forgive me!’

Rollo felt a shiver run through him. He tried to remove his helmet, but his hand wouldn’t respond, and he remembered it had been cut off. His left hand was too weak to do anything but lie on the ground.

‘Brother! My brother! No!’

They were the last words Rollo heard spoken. He was suddenly exhausted, and he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness as Dudda, Bran’s son, sobbed beside his brother on his knees, and then slowly sank forward to slump, dead, over him.

Some hours later, a party of cavalry was sent to find out what had happened to the raiding force.

They found the tracks easily enough, and in the middle of woods, a man trotted back to the leader. ‘There are arrows all over the place. They must have been ambushed.’

Sir Ralph de la Pomeroy nodded and saddles creaked as men felt for their weapons. There was a heightened tension among them all as they continued. Soon they were out of the trees, and found the battlefield.

‘Dear Lord God,’ a man sighed.

It was a slaughterhouse. Limbs and bloody torsos lay about the grass, which was red with gore.

‘Kill any still living,’ the knight said dispassionately. They had no facilities for prisoners. His horse began to pick his way through the mess while he glanced about him. He had no feeling for the tatty mercenaries lying dead. None were from his homeland. ‘Any we should take back?’ he demanded.

‘Rollo fitzRollo, the leader. He’s here.’

‘Bring him, then.’

The horseman nodded and went with another to fetch the body. They threw it onto a horse and bound it carefully with rope about the remaining wrist and ankles to hold it in place, and looked about them cautiously as they worked.

‘Do you think we’ll win this?’ asked a man-at-arms from Bordeaux called Odo.

‘I hope so. If not, we’re shafted. There’s no escape for us.’

‘If they can do this…’

‘A lucky ambush, that’s all,’ a man muttered from his horse nearby.

‘Lucky? They got Swein.’

‘Him?’ Odo asked.

‘The mad axeman. He was right close to Rollo-just here.’

It was sobering to see him lying there, a gaping sword wound in his breast. Many had thought him invincible.

A cough from another man made them both reach for their knives, and they stepped forward cautiously. A wounded mercenary lay nearby, hidden by a horse’s corpse. Seeing he was an ally, the two released the grip on their weapons as he choked, blood trickling from his mouth. Odo went to his side as the other wandered off to a Saxon’s body, tugging at a ring on a dead forefinger.

Odo patted the man’s hand and helped him to a sip or two of water while his companion grunted, pulling at the ring, then shrugged and took out his knife. Soon the ring was in his purse, the finger discarded, and he strolled back to Swein. Then he hesitated, frowned, and leaned down. He pushed Swein’s body aside. ‘Odo: look at this!’

Hearing the cry, Sir Ralph glanced in their direction. He spurred his horse forward. As Swein was pulled away they saw he had been lying on top of a sword-a marvellous sword with a great disc pommel and curving cross. ‘Give that to me!’

‘I found it!’

The knight glanced at him. A miserable cur from the wharves of Le Havre or somewhere, he guessed. ‘And I have taken it,’ he said with deliberation. He picked it up, and saw the inscription. ‘“Who lives in falsehood kills his soul…?” was that you, then, axeman? Anyway, come to my quarters when we’re back at the fort, and I’ll pay you for finding this,’ he said to the scowling man-at-arms.

As he passed his sergeant, he murmured. ‘If that scruffy churl appears, give him a kicking for his nerve and tell him the sword’s worth nothing to him. It’s mine.’

‘Sir.’

Later that day, Sir Ralph smiled to himself as he picked up the sword again.

It was a perfectly balanced weapon, beautiful and strong. There were only a couple of little nicks in the sharp steel, very little after a vicious battle like today’s. It was a marvellous weapon, this. Astonishingly good for a mere local thegn in a quiet district like this. He would have it engraved with his name. Yes, a shield to show it was owned by a nobleman, and de la Pomeroy engraved underneath it, the letters filled with silver, so that all who saw it would know it was Sir Ralph’s weapon.

He whirled it over his head and smiled to himself.

Shameful, of course, that it hadn’t protected the thegn or his land. Because it hadn’t. Its owner was dead, and Sir Ralph was perfectly confident that this country would soon be his Duke’s. God was on the side of the Normans.

‘You know it?’ Sir Ralph asked again.

Bartholomew recalled those hideous days, running from the beaches, finding King Harold’s host hurrying down from London, joining them in the hope that they would hurl the invaders back into the sea and destroy them all, and then the despair, the total, overwhelming despair, as Harold died, run down by a Norman knight’s lance

It had taken weeks to make his way back to the cathedral. His wounds were not extensive, and he had been well nursed with the prayers of his companions. Later, the Normans had arrived, laying siege to the city, hanging and torturing those they caught until the city surrendered. Then came the new rule: houses were torn down to make space for the castle, the symbol of King William the Bastard’s power. And when men like Sir Ralph de la Pomeroy arrived to take control, they viewed simple dissent as an excuse for murder.

Bartholomew had seen so many deaths now. So many. And many had been killed by Sir Ralph using this very sword. He shook his head and set the sword back in the scabbard. His fingers were revolted by its very feel. He could not wait until he had returned to the little chapel in Exeter where he had been made chaplain. Perhaps by the time he died he would have grown to comprehend this appalling catastrophe. He doubted it.

Too many good people had died, and brother had killed brother. Dudda and Brada among others. Yes, he had heard Dudda’s last words to his brother: ‘Brother, I love you…forgive me!’

This shameful sword, their father’s greatest creation, had killed his line. His fingers touched the silver engraving. ‘De la Pomeroy,’ he read, and felt sickened.

Sir Ralph was welcome to it.