The Fighting Man. Adrian Deans
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new danger. I could see shapes moving in the mist up ahead and smell the smoke of the fire. Then there was the sound of a blow and a cry, so I cast all caution aside and leapt into the clearing.
Which was filled with men dressed in fine clothes and heavily armed, and immediately I assumed that another of Malgard’s assassin troops had found me and swung my sword at the nearest – who ducked effortlessly and kicked my legs from beneath me.
‘No Brand!’ screamed Valla, but I heeded her not, jumping back to my feet and brandishing the sword – threatening all six of the strangely clad men.
Who all started laughing.
∞ ∞ ∞
Such was my surprise, and so friendly did they seem despite being large, fierce-looking and arrayed for war, that I lowered my sword.
‘A fighting man with a blooded sword,’ boomed the largest of them – a tall man with blondish hair and a fine moustache. ‘And offering battle to all six of us. Who’ve you been killing lad? One of these?’
He had an unusually loud voice, like an actor playing a role, but exuded a natural authority, to which I submitted without question. Lying on the ground and groaning was a filthy looking creature dressed in skins and rags not unlike Valla, although not as clean and fair.
‘The Rockers,’ I stammered, ‘ … the people of the wood.’
‘Indeed … so you’re on our side,’ he said. ‘But there is a strange tale here … three travellers … two dressed as Danes but speaking our tongue … the third dressed as one of the forest folk whom we have sworn to scour from these woods.’
‘Scour from the woods?’ I repeated in sudden doubt. ‘These are my woods. Why would you wish to do me such a service?’
Once again the men roared with laughter.
‘Your woods?’ asked the blonde leader, smiling. ‘By what authority do you claim the woods?’
‘By this authority,’ I said, holding up my fist with the ring of office outermost. ‘I am Brand, son of Holgar … thegn and reeve of Stybbor.’
In the distance a horn blew and the men all turned in that direction.
‘The hunt is on!’ cried another man, younger and shorter than the leader, but not unlike him of face. Like the leader, he was heavily muscled and dressed more richly than the others – all of whom wore moustaches in the style of the leader.
‘I would hear your tale Brand Holgarsson,’ said the leader, ‘but we have work to do for the present … to finish the fight you started.’
He nodded once again at my sword, grinning, then lifted a hunting horn that hung on a baldric at his side and blew a great double blast. Then all but one of them took off into the mist, which was now thinning enough to let a few stray beams of sunlight into the clearing.
The soldier that remained pointed at the ground where Valla sat with Carl, and I squatted – not knowing whether to feel fear or great excitement.
Carl was white-faced and Valla simmered with her usual rage.
‘Why were you not watching?’ she demanded.
‘Peace!’ insisted the soldier, and we fell silent. The mist still swirled and the forest was quiet, but a brooding sense of anticipation was strong in the air and I simply couldn’t sit still. I stood, but the soldier ignored me as he leant on a spear and peered into the mist. A horn rang out again to the right, answered by another to the left, and then someone was running towards us. Almost unconsciously, I drew once again my sword to face whatever was coming.
Then there was a pounding through the bracken and a wild man flew out of the mist, swerved away from the soldier and straight onto my sword. He managed to avoid the point but was forced to stop and the butt of the spear took him in the back of the head. Then there was a scream as he crumpled to the ground and a woman ran to his body, glaring at the soldier and snarling at me.
She looked remarkably like Valla, or at least was dressed in a similar panoply of skins and rags. But Valla was clean, whereas this woman was covered in dirt and her hair hung like filthy tangled cords. Her man also was filthy – very thin, with lank, red hair and snaggled teeth. He had a red rag tied around his upper arm, wet with fresh blood, and I knew immediately that his wound had been caused in the night by my sword. In all likelihood, this was the Rocker who had tried to kill me in my sleep.
The horns blew again much closer, and there was shouting and laughter. More shapes emerged from the thinning mist but moving slowly – defeated. There were six more of the Rockers – four men and two women – herded by the soldiers into the clearing and forced down onto their knees – snarling, spitting and swearing at their captors, until the man who looked like the brother of the leader kicked one of them in the face, and they fell silent – awaiting their doom.
The leader now swung back a cloak to reveal a strange device – a grinning warrior with a raised sword, legs bent into an angular position for the sake of a pattern, which had a Viking look to it.
‘You have been warned,’ he declaimed. ‘You have been told to leave my domain or know my justice.’
The man with the red rag suddenly groaned and his face twisted with pain. The woman stroked his brow with such tenderness that I actually felt a flash of envy – remembering suddenly the loss of my own family.
‘Now you have a final chance,’ continued the man, who seemed to be claiming my woods for himself. ‘Will you serve or die?’
He seemed to be offering them serfdom or death, and one of the men stood and spat at the ground at the leader’s feet. Without another word, the leader’s brother swept the man’s head half off his shoulders and all in the clearing were sprayed with hot blood which continued to pump like a stuck boar in a shambles as the women screamed and the men stared.
‘Will you serve?’ repeated the leader, uncaring of the horror at his feet, and all the rest hung their heads in submission, save the wounded snaggle-tooth who lay still on the ground – and his woman staring at Valla. She muttered something to the others and they all glanced up in fear, and a couple crossed themselves while others made the sign against the evil eye.
The leader of the armed men looked at Valla with sudden interest.
∞ ∞ ∞
‘Call me Harold,’ said the leader. ‘And this lout is my brother, Tostig.’
The three of us walked at the back of the procession towards a town with the name Theodford. The Rockers were all bound together at the neck, save the snaggle-tooth who was carried on a rough stretcher of boughs and rags.
I told Harold and Tostig my story, at which they swore and exclaimed with anger at all the appropriate points and I found myself warming to them (despite being yet wary of their violence).
‘I knew Holgar,’ said Harold. ‘Not well … but I’ve not spent much time at home in East Anglia since the king saw fit to promote me to Wessex.’
‘East Anglia?’ I echoed in confusion, and Tostig laughed.
‘You’re in the presence of your lord, fool!’
‘My lord?’
Harold slapped me over the shoulder and laughed himself.
‘Our brother Gyrth is your lord … but Gyrth is with the king. Tostig is Earl of Northumbria. And I, by the grace of King Edward, am Earl of Wessex, but I own many hides yet in East Anglia … which I suppose makes you my tenant and vassal Brand Holgarsson … thegn of Stybbor.’
Such was the confidence I felt in this stranger – and such was the sudden overwhelming sense of acceptance and welcome – that I fell to my knees and blinked at him through tears of relief and adoration.
‘My Lord! Please accept—’
‘Get up you idiot!’ roared Tostig, and all in the procession turned to stare