The Outlaw (The Bloody Hand Series Book 2) (The Bloody Hand Saga)

THE BLOODY HAND SAGA (II): THE OUTLAW By David Pilling “Many men lived in tents, disdaining to sleep in houses lest they should become soft; so that the Normans called them wild men” – Orderic Vitalis, Historia Ecclesiastica PLACE NAMES Actune – Acton Scott Deorham - DurhamWachfeld – Wakefield Salop – Shropshire Scafled - Sheffield Schrosberie - Shrewsbury Jórvík – York Wealas - Wales 1. In summer 1069 William the Bastard fell upon the north like a ravening lion. Swift his coming, terrible his vengeance. He smashed the English outside Jórvík, broke their ranks, slew without mercy. I was there. Even now, so many years and half a world away, I see it still. The horror. The shock. None of us expected the Bastard to move so quickly. He and his knights raced north like a storm, black and terrible, driven by sheer hate. Hate and fear. William could see his conquest, so hard-won in the slaughter at Hastings, slipping through his mailed fingers. A weaker man might have given up, slunk away back to his own country. Not the Bastard. Not he, that man of iron, forged in the Devil's own smithy. Our army lay in camp outside Jórvík. We had recently sacked the city, put the Norman garrison to the sword. A great victory. My beloved lord, Waltheof, had piled up Norman heads outside the city gate. As they came running through, one by one, he beheaded each man with a stroke of his axe. Several days later the grisly trophies still lay piled before the gate. Slimy and reeking, covered by a host of flies. The eyes were long gone, pecked out by hungry crows. Drunken English warriors, staggering from the taverns, were in the habit of pissing on them. “So much for Norman thieves,” they laughed. “Norman butchers, have a taste of English ale!” Fools. Halfwits. We thought the war was all but won, after a single battle. That is always the way with the English. Hubris and arrogance – and a fatal weakness for strong drink – have been our downfall, always. I was as complacent as any. Our easy victory at Jórvík had gone to my head, along with buckets of ale and mead. I was not sober for a fortnight. Time passed in a happy blur, full of music and dancing and loose women. Why not? I was a handsome lout in those days, as well as something of a hero. The tale of Thorkell grew in the telling. Every night, deep in my cups, I boasted of my recent exploits to any who would listen. If they were female, and beddable, so much the better. As a trained skald, used to praising the deeds of others, I knew well how to exaggerate my own. My well-lubricated tongue reeled off tales of how I fought a legion of Norman knights at Deorham (only one, in truth); how I had challenged the dread pirate, Gorm, and tossed him into the sea (he drowned); how I helped the famous English thegn, Hereward, clear the hall at Bourne of Flemish occupiers (I hid outside). And so on. The English were eager for heroes at that time. Few cast doubt on my nonsense. Golden days! As I drank and wenched and constructed an ever more elaborate palace of lies and half-truths, I never imagined Doom was approaching. The sky fell in quickly. One cold winter's dawn, I lay drowsing in my tent outside Jórvík. As usual, my head throbbed from the previous night's excess. As usual, I was tucked up with a girl. I don't recall her face or name, only the warmth of her body and a mane of ash-blonde hair, spilled over my chest. I groaned. Some fool was shouting outside. At first I couldn't make out his words, only the panic in his voice, trumpeting in the dawn air. “Make him shut up,” I muttered. “Someone put a boot in his mouth. Or I will.” My bedmate stirred a little. Her fingers started to toy idly with the golden hairs on my chest. I smiled as she started to work her way down. I was distracted by the racket outside. It was getting louder. More voices raised in alarm, the startled neigh of a horse. A drum started to pound. “They are leaving!” I heard someone roar. “The Danes are leaving!” My eyes flickered open. There was genuine panic in the man's voice. All thoughts of pleasure were driven from my mind. “God's death,” I muttered, pushing the girl away. I climbed out from under the heavy furs, wincing at the sudden cold, and hastily pulled on my tunic and braes. I snatched up my sword, belted it on, ducked outside. Much of the camp was still asleep. After the recapture of Jórvík, most of the men had been ordered to pitch tent outside the city walls. This was wisdom on the part of our leaders, Edgar Aetheling and my lord Waltheof. Otherwise, if they had billeted rough soldiers on the citizens, the inevitable would have happened. Looting, rape, murder. A few men stood about, looking dishevelled and frightened. One or two were pointing south, towards the River Ouse. Our Danish allies, dispatched by King Sweyn of Denmark to help drive out the Normans, had drawn up their longships on the muddy banks of the river. I looked to the Ouse. What I saw caused my heart to miss a beat. Men were streaming away from the camp. They moved in haste and disciplined silence, column after column, ever man carrying his weapons and pack. In the middle of the long lines, guarded by mailed horsemen, creaked a train of wagons, piled high with gear. My bedmate came creeping from the tent. She was barefoot, and had thrown on a headscarf and loose gown. “What's this?” she asked, leaning on my shoulder. For a moment I struggled to find words. “They are abandoning us,” I replied in a hollow voice. “The Danes have broken