by Jae

Comments are welcome. E-mail the author at hyacinth@ala.net

Hige sceal þe heardra, heorte þe cenre,
mod sceal þe mare, þe ure mægen lytlað.
Her lið ure ealdor eall forheawen,
god on greote; a mæg gnornian
se ðe nu fram þis wigplegan wendan þenceð.
Ic eom frod feores. Fram ic ne wille,
ac ic me be healfe minum hlaforde
be swa leofan men licgan þence.

The mounted men came up frighteningly fast, the thunder of their mounts' hooves all but lost in the din of screaming men and the clash of iron on iron. One on each side. Choose. And out of the corner of his eye, the red banner going down into the churned up turf on the ridge. Echoes drifted up from the meadow, the shrill neighing of dying animals and the shouting, most of it now in the strange foreign tongue. The choice was made: the one on the right. One blow of the battle axe, and the man went down.

Will Scarlet awoke with sweat streaming into his eyes. His arms felt heavy at his side, as if they'd borne a great burden. He shook off the droplets of sweat and rubbed his face. The full moon's light seared the campsite. He lay back down, breathing deeply and willing the trembling in his limbs to stop. For the second night straight, the dream had come -- the same charging knights coming down on him, the feel of the axe's bite into chain mail, and then ... waking up in cold terror. Will had fought his share of battles, but not the one in the dream. A man would remember that.

But I don't remember it, he told himself.

His comrades gave him plenty of room the next day. He knew he was touchy, and was glad to be left alone with his thoughts. His grandmother had told him dreams were omens, whether for good or ill. Maybe that's what it was, a warning. That the outlaws of Sherwood would be facing those horsemen. But they weren't attired like the Sheriff's men. Certainly not the one whose helmet had gone flying as he hit dirt. The odd way his hair was shaved off in the back, like nothing Will had ever seen. He thought about telling Robin. If it was a portent of some new enemy they'd have to deal with, why not give his leader time to prepare? But he couldn't think of any way to tell it, no way that would make sense.

***

The afternoon was warm, and Will was uncomfortable waiting in the brush for the wagon to pass by. They'd had word of it a week or so before, and Robin had gone over the plan more times than Will needed to hear it. Much might need to have it explained three or four times, but Will had it the first time, and it always annoyed him to have to listen to it repeated. Yes, Robin. I'll be right there, and you and Nasir will block the path, and Much and I will come from behind. Got it.

The rumbling of the wheels took Will by surprise. Already, Robin and Nasir had moved out ahead of the horses. An arrow from Robin's bow took out the mounted guard. Another guard bore down on the Saracen, his sword held high. Much had already left cover.

"Come on, Will!"

Will shook himself and scrambled out, his hand on his sword hilt. Two more guards had wheeled their horses round. Will could only stare at them. Two mounted men, one to his right, one to his left. But not the same men. He barely got his blade up to block the downward slash of the Norman's weapon. Much had wounded the other's horse but had taken a lick that knocked him senseless. So Will faced two opponents, one still in the saddle. He crouched down, ducking the swordswing of the horseman, and quickly turned to thrust at the other. But the fellow had his shield up. Will felt a stabbing pain in his shoulder. Not deep enough to do any real damage, just enough to hurt like hell. The pain made him angry, and he roared, charging at his enemy. He was swingly wildly, he knew; but the guard, probably a raw recruit, couldn't handle the speed of the attack and went down on his backside, hunkering under his shield. Will heard the mounted guard behind him again, and as he dispatched the one on the ground, he knew with an old soldier's instinct that he wasn't going to be able to turn in time.

Damned luck. Should have been paying attention.

But the death blow from behind never came. The attacker made a gurgling sound as Robin's arrow imbedded itself in his throat. The horse careened into Will, knocking him down. His sleeve was soaked with blood, but he hardly noticed as someone bound it up. Marion would see to it properly later. There were more important things on Loxley's mind right now such as why his most seasoned fighter had nearly gotten himself killed by some green lackey of the Sheriff's.

On the way back to camp, Will lagged behind, avoiding any questions. He picked at his supper, taking no part in the small talk around the fire. He'd even been brusque with Marion, telling her the wound was only a scratch and needed no more doctoring. She'd looked at Robin, but he'd told her with his eyes, Leave him alone. Eventually, he picked a spot of ground, stretched out and closed his eyes....

The dragon banner still stood, somewhere to his left. The sight of it had strengthened him, earlier in the day. But now ... there were too many of these villains breaking through the ranks. Odd, the thought of sitting on a horse's back to do your fighting. There was something demonic about it; about their strange way of shaving their hair off behind, and especially about the man who led them. Up the hill came the tight knot of foemen, straight towards the banner. He tightened his grip on the axe handle. The earth itself seemed to heave beneath his feet.....

Someone was shaking him, none too gently. "Will! Will, wake up!" Robin's voice. Every muscle in his body had tensed. He realized he was shaking violently. "Will, you were talking in your sleep."

And Loxley, who missed nothing in the forest, had heard him. "Talk to me, Will. What is it that's been eating away at you these last few days?" Robin's hand was on his shoulder, his voice low and deliberate.

"I don't know," Will said. Well, it's the truth, he thought. I don't know. "It's probably all this sittin' around, nuffin' to do for days at the time. It would get to a man after a while, wouldn't it?"

"Do you expect me to believe that?" Robin said. "You nearly got yourself killed today. You looked like you were ... somewhere else. You want to tell me that happened because you were bored? I know better."

"It's nuffin' to worry about," Will hissed. "Just forget it, will you?"

"I can't forget it, Will," Robin said. "When you put yourself in danger, you put all of us in danger. I've never seen you like this. But one thing I'll promise you. Until this passes, you're out of any action. And don't argue."

"I tell you, I can 'andle it!" Will shot back. "It'll stop, it 'as to!"

"What has to stop, Will?"

Scarlet grimaced. What the hell, he thought. If he couldn't trust Robin of Loxley, there was no hope for it anyway. "Alright, alright," he muttered, propping his back against a tree. "It's this dream I've been 'avin'. The same one, every night. These two men, mounted like a couple o' Gisburne's lackeys, but at the same time ... not like them at all. Like foreigners, understand? An' they're comin' at me, one to each side. An' instead of my sword, I've got this huge battle axe, the kind folk used way back. One of them, I hit with the axe. But the other one, 'e's got 'is sword up, and ... and then I wake up. And I feel like I've been runnin' for miles. Or fightin' for hours. And that's all there ever is to it."

Will paused as a gust of wind blew across the clearing, stirring up leaves and whipping the lower branches of the trees. He looked Loxley in the eye. "You're 'erne's son. You tell me what it means."

Robin nestled his chin in his hand. "I don't know what it means. Maybe it's a warning. Something you've got to face some time in your life."

"'ere's the odd thing, Rob. It don't feel like now. An' I don't feel like me. I mean, it's me alright, but not like I am now. Sounds crazy, don't it? Maybe that's it. Moon madness." Will tried to chuckle, but there was little humour in it.

Robin gazed at the pale circle of the moon, its face mottled by the overhanging boughs. "Madness? No, I don't think so, Will." He eased over beside his companion and folded his hands awhile in thought. "There've been times when I felt like that. I'm not saying I had dreams like you've had ... just feelings, that's all. There's certain places I've been, and I felt like I'd been there before. But I hadn't been there." Robin smiled, lost now deep in thought himself. "Do you remember when we took that chest of coins to Father Orwin? I'd never in my life been inside his church before. But ... I saw the inside of it, in my head. And when we went in, it was just like I'd seen it, in here," he said, tapping his temple.

"'ow can that be?" Will scoffed.

"I never told anyone about it," Robin replied. "Not til now. Will, it was as if I'd been there. In another time. But that's not the best part. When Orwin said Mass afterwards, I ... remembered parts of it. The words, I mean."

"Well we all know some of the words, eh? What're you gettin' at?"

"I remember saying the words. And just like you said, it was me, but it wasn't. It was another lifetime, Will. That's the only explanation I have for it."

Will laughed. "What, you, a bleedin' priest?" He slapped his thighs, laughing til his eyes teared. "That's a good one, Robin. A priest. Ha! "

Robin smiled and punched Will's shoulder. "Just remember your dream, Will Scarlet." He got up and headed back to his own place.

"Robin!" Will called after him. "You said I was ... talkin'. What'd I say?"

"Strange words, Will. Good night."

***

Although Will seemed more nearly his old self in the next few days, there were still times when he appeared to be lost in himself. The outlaws went about their business, foraging for food, arguing, horseplaying, and waiting. For three nights, Scarlet slept soundly.

Sunday morning he went fishing with Tuck. Tuck took his fishing seriously, and had little to say on most occasions. Will squirmed uncomfortably on the rough seat. He cast his line too short, reeled it in, and cast again. A nibble.

"You've caught something there, Will," Tuck said, nudging him in the side. "I said, you've got something on your hook, man."

"Hm? Oh, yeah. Right." Will tugged on the pole, and yanked back an empty line. "Dammit," he said. "Damn fishin' anyway."

"Why curse the Lord's free gift of food, Will? Just because you don't know how to fish is no reason to be ungrateful for the ones you so greedily consume. Or is it something else?" Tuck had not taken his eyes off his own line.

Will sniffed. "Tell me, do you think we live, and die, and maybe come back again? What I mean to say is, do you think we get anuvver chance?"

Tuck raised his eyebrows. "Another chance? No, I don't think so, Will. Scripture says it is appointed that man die once and after that comes the judgment. There's no coming back again."

"I don't care what the Scriptures say, Tuck. I'm askin' what you think."

"Are you suggesting that I would argue with Holy Writ, Will?"

"I think you'd argue with Jesus Christ, Tuck. Haven't you ever been somewhere, and felt like you'd been there before, only you ain't? Hm? Robin's felt that way. What else could explain it, tell me that."

"Robin is not an ordinary man, Will. You know that," Tuck offered. "What got your mind on that track? I've never heard you go on about things like that before."

"Nuffin''s got my mind on it, Tuck. Nuffin' at all," Will spat. "I'm sorry I asked. Should've known better than to ask you." He tossed the fishing pole aside and stalked off.

***

Later that evening, Will found it hard having much appetite for supper, and even harder getting to sleep. The slightest forest sounds jarred him awake. Finally, after hours of tossing about, he dozed....

"No!" he shouted, straining to raise his weapon. It had grown impossibly heavy. It seemed as if night had suddenly fallen, though he knew the sun was still in the afternoon sky. One foe was down. If only he could stop the other, they could still hold out. Just a few more minutes. There had to be more reinforcements somewhere. Too few of us here. A trio of horsemen, all with swords raised for the kill. All coming towards the red banner. God Almighty! And one man stood between him and them. The anguish was murderous, the last final moment of knowing that he was going to die at that man's hands. The three riders closed in. And the last glance, the last thing he saw before death claimed him, was the Red Dragon falling.

Frantically, Will struggled to fill his lungs with air. Some innate sense told him that his consciousness hovered on the border between worlds; that he could give up and slip into the dream forever, or bring himself back through the void. 'Wake up,' his mind shouted. 'Must wake up ...'

Scarlet was gulping for air, fighting to regain consciousness. God help me, I'm dying! he thought, panic-stricken. It seemed an eternity before he regained control of his body. The heaviness, the fatigue, drained his senses. His eyes fought their way open, and the bright light of the moon hurt. Gently, he began to move his hands over his body. No wounds. I'm not dead, he told himself. His jerkin was wet with his own sweat. Tired as he was, Will stumbled towards the creek and threw one handful after another of cold water on his face. He waded out waist-deep and let the dark, cold flow swirl around his legs. "I'm going mad," he said aloud. "Mad." He ducked his head under the water and came up sputtering. Shaking his streaming hair, he caught a glimpse of movement on the other side. Just a deer, foraging in the night.

He trudged through the water, back to the near bank. And there it was again, but now on the opposite side of the stream. And it wasn't a deer. It was a man.

Will blinked water from his eyes. And the figure came into focus. Herne. And then, the Hunter was gone.

***

After that night, the Sherwood band grew used to Will being gone for days at the time. He never announced his departure, and when he returned, he simply walked into camp.

"He'll get himself captured if he's not careful," John had observed. "Let me follow him. Find out what he's up to. He'll never know I'm behind him."

Robin laughed. "I'd wager you're wrong about that, John."

"You don't think I can stalk a man in Sherwood?" John asked sullenly.

"Any other man, yes. But not Will Scarlet." Robin had left it at that. No one was to follow Will or question him about his strange behaviour. Robin had already followed him, the first time he wandered off. He'd taken a meandering path deep into Sherwood until it became an impassable tangle. Every so often, he'd stop to listen but heard nothing besides the quiet, ordinary sounds of the woods. He'd never known Robin was behind him. When it happened again, Robin only went a half mile or so before turning back. As long as Scarlet wasn't going into the villages, let him wander. It would give him time to think, and maybe, Robin thought, time to find what he's searching for.

***

On an unusually warm fall afternoon, Will had just awakened from a nap. He'd taken to sleeping in the daytime and sitting up at night. The dreams never came in the daylight. He roused himself, and speaking to no one, faded into the trees. But this time, he didn't take his old route. Instead, he turned towards the main road, towards Nottingham. It felt good for awhile, walking along the road into town as if he were an ordinary tradesman or villager going to market. Other travellers passed him by, some waving and some offering a friendly greeting. He ignored them, keeping his head down and walking to the side of the road. He could never again walk openly into Nottingham, or any other town in the shire. He was an outlaw -- a wolfshead in his own land, for defending what was his.

Instinctively, he moved aside as the clatter of horses' hooves came from behind. From the sound, he figured 15 men or so. Probably a detachment sent out to collect the onerous taxes that lined King John's coffers, and those of de Rainault, his Sheriff. It was said the King spoke English like any common peasant! But he coveted coin like a Norman. Richard ... John ... what did it matter to a man like Will Scarlet? All Normans were the same, whether highborn or low, cleric or lay; even the women were harridans. What else could one expect from these spawn of demons? Will had heard the stories of the witch Melusine, ancestress of these Plantagenets. Of how she'd extracted her husband's promise never to see her on a Saturday. And all was well til the day his curiosity had got the better of him, and he'd hidden in her chamber. To his horror, below the waist she had the form of a blue and white serpent. Then there was the countess who'd been forced to go to Mass by her husband's men-at-arms and at the words of the Consecration, had she not vanished into thin air, leaving the retainers still holding the corners of her robe? So it was told, and Will had no trouble believing every word of it.

He stepped off into the shadows along the road to let the troops pass. Gisburne! Will felt the bile rise in his gut. That was one fellow he'd love to cross swords with again, just the two of them. He'd come close, in the past, to ridding Sherwood of this arrogant young fool. Gisburne had halted his men beside a cart heading in the opposite direction. He was gesticulating wildly, apparently in some disagreement with the driver of the cart. Suddenly, one of the soldiers trotted over and pulled the man from his seat. Others surrounded the back of the wagon, pulling aside its cover and tossing pottery, bolts of cloth, and brassware in the dust. One held a small chest up for Gisburne's attention. Will could hear the driver protesting loudly. The soldier tossed the chest to his leader, who easily broke the flimsy lock with his dagger. As the detachment rode off, the man who'd found the chest lashed out with his boot and kicked the driver in the stomach, sending him sprawling. Will cursed under his breath. There was nothing he could have done, he knew. For all that Robin of Loxley took back from the proud Normans, it was never enough. For each cruel knight who got an arrow for his misdeeds, ten more rose up to take his place.

The days when men like Will could seriously dream of retaking their land were long past, as Robin's own father had learned. Aelric's rebellion had never had a chance! And Will knew in his heart that the outlaws of Sherwood had no more of a chance. What would happen to their people when they were gone, as they surely would be in the not-too-distant future? Will expected to meet his death at the hands of someone like Guy of Gisburne; he expected to see his friends meet theirs the same way.

Better than swinging at the end of a rope, he thought. At least they'd die fighting. But who would take their place? Will had seen a entire village of men cowed by one armored man on horseback. Was there, in some dark hovel, another Hooded Man growing to manhood? Another such as Little John to fight at his side? Or would the next generation be left at the mercy of the oppressors? Will had no children to worry after, at least. The Normans had seen to that.

He watched in silence as the cart's owner picked himself up, salvaging what wasn't broken and tossing it back in his wagon, keeping up a steady steam of curses all the while. Disgustedly, Will turned back towards Sherwood. His home, for as long as he lived.

***

Wearily, Will found the roughest spot of ground he could and lay down. Just to rest his aching limbs. The rocks, he hoped, would keep him awake.

. . . They were heading out of London along the old Roman road called Watling Street. It was still a good road, soundly made, though neglected since the Romans left it centuries before. They passed through the settlement that some still called by its Roman name, Durobrivae. Hrofesceaster. Then another little Roman road. Great builders, the Romans were. And before them stretched the expanse of Andredesweald. Its oaks had stood before the Romans came; before the dark Celts came. Perhaps before that.

The passage through the forest was like a waking dream, so tired were the housecarles from their long march south. Flush with victory over one invader, they were now sent hurrying to the coast to face yet another.

Finally, they saw the gentle slopes of Caldbeck Hill, and the great apple tree which was to be the rallying point for all the fyrdmen. Following in the footsteps of Alfred, to choose a tree! It was Thursday, the 12th day of October.

The housecarl watched as men began to file in, thegns and soldiers who had horses. Surely the whole of England would come in the next few days. More than enough men to hold back even this presumptuous bastard from across the Channel. Rumours passed among the assembled men, and debating the truth or falsehood of them at least helped to pass the time. The most disturbing tale was that the invaders weren't keeping to their bases, but were preparing to attack. If that were true, there would be no time to dig in. No time to build walls, no time to wait for the rest of the army. No time to rest.

Will turned restlessly in his sleep, the sharp edge of a stone gouging his side. The pain half-waked him, and instinctively, he reached for the comforting presence of his sword. He slipped back into the dream with the hilt in his hand.

They moved to the ridge the next day -- Friday, the 13th. Bad luck: the old gods were twelve, and Loge was the thirteenth. And Friday was the day of the week on which the world would end. The air was damp, but not wet enough to bring a rain. The housecarl fingered the hard lump beneath his shirt. The solid coldness of the iron against his chest comforted him. Some of his comrades wore crosses for protection, and those who were lucky enough to own blessed medals were probably rubbing them now, asking St. Cuthbert or St. Winifred to preserve them through the day. The man signed himself quickly, thumping his forehead, chest, and each shoulder. Few among this host would recognize the old gesture for what it was -- an outward expression of the iron symbol he wore under his clothing ... the Hammer of Thunor. He wondered if the old gods would turn away from his people, who centuries before had turned away from them. He knew there were others like him in this vast array of thegns and housecarls and shire levies of the fyrd -- others who kept the old ways, perhaps paying lip-service to the new religion, but remaining true to the gods their forefathers had brought to these shores. He glanced up at the battle standards shifting in the slight breeze. The Dragon of Wessex, ready to devour these foreign invaders. The king's own banner, the Fighting Man. He was honoured to be so near the king's position. But he was worth any two of his comrades, and he knew it. The king knew it, too. The pointed bottom of his shield was stuck firmly in the ground in front of him, as if to say, "Here I take my stand." There were always the men in the very back, the ones with the farming tools, if worse came to the worst. But the soldier knew they weren't the ones to win the battle -- if the shield wall broke, they'd run back to their farms, probably feeling no shame at their cowardice.

He could see the enemy archers creeping in, and behind them, men with swords and maces. The archers fired their first volley, killing in absolute safety. Then out came the men at arms. They were routed, perhaps too well. The mere sight of the slaughter sent one wing of the bastard's army into a panic, and the spectacle of the enemy in flight was too much for those at the western end of the Saxon shield wall. They broke away in pursuit of the fleeing enemy, and the housecarl watched helplessly as the Norman horsemen cut them down to a man.

The sun was high overhead now, and they came again, the archers, then the men at arms, then the knights. And the shield wall still held, but they were coming through in places. If we can only hold til nightfall, he thought. But somewhere in the enemy host, the commander told his archers to aim higher.

Will awoke with a start. His sword rose up at the figure standing over him, but he quickly checked himself. The massive head of a stag loomed eerily above him in the cold moonlight. "'erne," he breathed.

"Come," the shaman said. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and faded into the trees.

Will realized he was not tracking the man, nor could he see him. But he knew where to turn, when to take the way where no path was cut. He'd never felt so weary in his life. He pulled himself into the small boat, and as it moved slowly into the mouth of the cave, he let one hand trail in the water, just to make sure it was real. He had never been alone with the man who spoke with the god's voice, and he had never felt so alone.

Will was led out onto a rocky ledge where a small fire glowed in the gloom. Shadows danced along the walls of the cave. The shaman lifted off his headdress, revealing his longish grey hair.

Nuffin' to be afraid of, Will thought. He told himself he was trembling because of the chill of the cave. Slowly, he raised his head and met the man's eyes. "'erne," he said simply.

"Sometimes," the other replied. He smiled slightly. "But at the moment, a man like yourself."

"Why did you bring me 'ere?" Will asked. "It's got sommat to do wif the dream, ain't that it? 'ow'd you know?"

"So many questions ... " the old man said.

"'ow about some answers," Will demanded. "Not the kind you give Robin. Sommat I can make sense of."

The shaman laughed softly. "The answers aren't nearly as important as the questions, Will Scarlet."

Will made a sound of disgust. "Now that's just what I was talkin' about. It's gibberish to me. What's the point of askin' a question if you don't get an answer?"

"Tell me why you fight," the shaman said simply.

"You mean, in Sherwood? Because it's the only way I can pay them back."

"Revenge."

"Ain't that the word for it? It's good enough reason to me," Will said. "What's that got to do wiv why I'm 'ere?"

"Everything." The man moved to the back wall of the cave and picked out a small bowl from an assortment of vessels that lay there. Sitting down again beside the fire, he poured a thin stream of liquid into the bowl. "Beware of what you think you know."

Will spat. "I fink I oughta go back to the camp and get some sleep." But he couldn't sleep, not for long -- and he knew it. "This damned dream ... " He let his thoughts trail off, and looked away nervously.

"Then let's finish it," Herne said. Slowly and with deliberate movements, he went about the preparation of incense.

Will watched in silence as he took pinches from jars and pouches lined up against the back wall. He combined the mixture with his fingers in a small clay bowl and set it gently down beside the fire.

Will was shaken by the realization that the shaman already knew everything. His eyes spoke that much. Embarrassed, he turned away from the fire.

"Am I mad, then? Is that it?" he whispered.

"No more than I," the shaman replied. "There is truth even in madness."

Will felt his anger rising. "What kind of answer is that, eh?" He swung around to face the man again. The expressionless face of Herne only stared in return. Will dropped his gaze, as the tension left him. "Look, what I mean is, I don't understand you the way Robin does. Your words don't make any sense to me."

"Are you afraid?"

Will glanced around the cave. The shadows on the wall reminded him of so many phantoms, dancing in the moonlight. The forms leaped with the flames, the crackling and hissing of the burning wood providing an eerie accompaniment. Phantoms of dead soldiers.

He look at the man who could see the future, forcing himself to meet the shaman's gaze. "No." His voice sounded hollow and unsure here in Herne's cave, without the company of his friends, and beyond the protection of the trees of Sherwood. He raised his hands in a gesture of resignation. "Well, mebbe."

The shaman nodded. "You are afraid," he said evenly.

Will leaned closer, heedless of the fire's heat. "Is that what I 'ave to say to get an answer? Alright, then, I'm afraid. I'm afraid of sommat that ain't even real!"

"You believe it isn't real?" the shaman asked, reaching for the small bowl he had prepared.

"It's a dream, man, don't you understand that? It's a bloody dream about a man I don't even know. People I've never seen. And I'm gonna die in that dream sooner or later, that's what scares me. When I wake up, I feel like I'm ... " He paused to gather his thoughts. "Like I'm 'alfway there. 'alf dead. I ain't scared o' dyin'. I just want to know why."

As he finished speaking, the shaman tossed a fistful of the incense into the flames. Startled by the sudden flash, Will drew back. As he sat, stunned, the shaman's hand reached through the flames towards him. His worn sleeve, which should have blazed up, was untouched by the fire. Then it seemed that the man's face leapt up from the blaze itself. "Come," Herne intoned. "Meet death."

Will leaned forward into the dancing flames. His nostrils were assaulted by the acrid smell of the incense, but there was no burning of his flesh. The fear was still very much with him, though. He kept his gaze locked on Herne's face, and felt himself falling forward into the very heart of the fire ...

***

Aim higher, the Bastard had surely told his archers. And that was our ruin, that one simple command. They brought down enough men in the rear ranks so that the wall at last gave way. All the flush of the victory at Stamford Bridge and the pride they had felt in their prowess vanished as the gaps in the shield wall widened. No sagas would tell the story of how they'd beaten the great Hardrada, the greatest warrior of the age. There would be no one left to write them down. And the sagas of this battle would be Norman victory songs, sung in Norman halls. The housecarle instinctively reached for the hammer which lay on his heaving chest. So, Thunor had forsaken his people. The Christian priests had destroyed his temples, and this was his bloody revenge. It would be Thunor's way, to give them a taste of victory, then bring them to utter defeat. The Christians among the ranks had thought their god would give them victory. And didn't these Normans worship the Christ as well? The housecarle remembered his mother's words: "When men go to war, all the gods turn away." He was a warrior, and the son of a warrior, and he had only laughed at the woman's thinking.

His vision was clouded with sweat and blood, but the housecarle strained to search the sky overhead. It was said that Woden cast his spear over the host of the defeated. But only the sinking sun met his gaze.

It was strange how slowly time seemed to pass now. Earlier, it had appeared that his enemy was moving with demonic speed, too quick for his axe to counter; but now the man moved as in a dream, his mouth open as if to shout. The housecarle stamped his foot on the good English soil. "Wake up, fight!" he told himself. But there was no waking from this. This was death.

He thought of his mother -- her husband gone, and all her sons at Hastings. He thought of the little gifts she took to the Lady Freya in the secret place in the forest. "Maybe there are no gods, mother," he thought. "No gods, no goddess in the forest. Only men dying and women left behind."

He reached for the hammer beneath his shirt. If nothing else, he would throw off the last semblance of loyalty to any higher being than himself before death took him. As he grasped its familiar form, he heard a great shout go up somewhere to his left. "The king is dead!"

For the first time in his adult life, Wulfraed felt fear. He had followed Harold Godwinson on every campaign of his career. He had fought with him in Wales, and together they had faced the unbeatable Hardrada -- and won. Victory had seemed so sure with such a man in command. But now, the Banner that had given them all courage lay trampled in the dirt, and the Normans were slaughtering what was left of the king's household troops. And Harold was dead.

As his hand tightened around the hammer token, Wulfraed heard a strange voice calling to him. The only man he saw was the Norman soldier, bearing down on him in that strange slow movement, raising his sword for the final blow. The voice continued to speak to him, but he knew it wasn't the voice of a Norman:

"The housecarles died to the last man. Even after Harold fell, no one ran. They were a symbol of courage for all who came after them."

"Thunor!" the housecarle called, though he knew it wasn't the god's voice either. If Thunor was watching, Wulfraed would show him how a mortal man, bereft of gods and king, could face death without flinching.

Wulfraed lifted his axe to meet the Norman's sword. The sword arced down, and the last man died on the hill.

***

Will opened his eyes slowly. The first thing he felt was the heat of the fire. He put his hands to his face.

Real, he thought. Not dead. He accepted a cup of water, and took a moment to savour the feel of the cool liquid on his parched throat.

"What 'appened after that?" he said finally.

"After that? After that, they ruled." The shaman took the cup and filled it again, this time from a tall vessel decorated with a complex spiral pattern. He proffered the cup, and poured a draught for himself. "William had King Harold buried under a cairn on a cliff near the battlefield," he continued. "He had a stone put there that read, 'By command of the Duke, you rest here a King, O Harold, That you may be Guardian still of the shore and sea."

Will's eyes narrowed. "'e dared to mock 'im like that?"

Herne smiled. "No mockery, Scarlet. Just a bit of Viking magic. It was the least the Bastard could do, all things considered, eh?"

He pondered the shaman's words. Then the laughter began, a deep throaty laugh Will knew well. From nights spent round the campfire, from long hours in the great hall, its table laden with platters of meat and great jars of mead. The King's Hall.

He gazed at the man Herne had chosen to be his voice in Sherwood, and realized why he had been captivated by his eyes from the start. The same laugh ... the same eyes.

"You," Will breathed.

"Tell me why you fight, Will Scarlet." The laughter had died away, but the mirth in the man's eyes remained. As Will's gaze rose to meet it, the unspoken answer passed between them.

Scarlet rose, and drawing his sword from the worn scabbard, he held it out, letting his expression speak the plea he could find no voice for.

The shaman nodded, and came to stand before him. Taking the blade, he traced a runestave of protection on its surface with his finger. "You will serve Herne's Son, and in so doing, you will serve me. Do you so swear?"

Will took the sword, holding it reverently in his hands. "I swear it," he said. "By ..."

"Will you swear by the Mass, Will? Or by Thunor?" the older man smiled.

Will poised the blade above his scabbard and shoved it home. "By Scathelock," he said. "I swear it by Scathelock."

The shaman smiled. "As good an oath as any I've heard. You understand that what was between us must not pass beyond this place. It is not good to dwell too long in the past."

"I understand," Will said.

"On the other hand," Herne said, holding out his arms, "it is not good to forget, either."

Will gave him the embrace of one warrior for another.

***

This story is dedicated to my father, Herman, who was born on the 14th of October.

Historical Epilogue

It isn't quite the truth that "no one ran at Hastings." After the death of King Harold, resistance crumbled, and large numbers of fyrdmen left the field and slipped into the safety of the forest, Andredesweald. This, along with casualties from the onslaught of Norman archers, led to a shrinkage in the shield wall which finally allowed the Norman army to attack the English flanks. Although many sought the safety of the forest, on one matter both Norman and Saxon chroniclers agreed: the royal hearth troops, the housecarles and king's thegns, true to the ancient Teutonic code of honour, died with the king.

Notes:
Hrofesceaster = Rochester
Fyrdmen: The part-time amateur Saxon army. They were less heavily armed than the housecarles, and got little in the way of training. At the time of Hastings, the southern fyrd had not fought a battle for 50 years. The lenth of time each thane was obliged to serve in the fyrd was based on his land-holdings.

Translation of introductory lines, from The Battle of Maldon, 10th century:
Spirit shall be the harder, heart the keener
Pride shall be greater as our might grow less
Here lies our chief all hewed down,
the good man on ground. Grieve may he ever
who now from this war-play thinks to wend.
I am old in years. I will not go from here
but I by the side of my lord
by such a loved man think to lay me down.

Back to Main Page