THEY LEFT AT dawn from a small harbour on the north shore of the Thames Estuary, in Essex, land of the East Saxons, having ridden there in secret the night before. Spring was in the air, the green water of the river sparkling in the sun, gulls squawking above the ship’s single mast. There was little wind, so there was no point in raising the sail, and Hakon had ordered the crew of thirty men to run out the oars.
Magnus stood with Hakon in the stern, the housecarl keeping the ship moving straight ahead, his touch light on the great steerboard. “You look comfortable there, Hakon,” Magnus said, smiling. “I’m guessing you’ve sailed a ship before.”
“A man may do many things in a life,” said Hakon, shrugging and returning the smile. “Why, he might even spend his youth as a Viking, travelling the whale’s road until he finds a generous lord to serve. And some skills a man never forgets.”
“I hope one of those skills is knowing how to track down my uncle.”
“That will not be hard. Tostig’s raids have been moving steadily south. All we have to do is sail southwards and look out for the smoke of a burning village.”
Magnus stopped smiling, remembering the column of smoke in the North, the bodies in the mud and the pools of blood.
Ahead of the ship was the open sea, and before long the wind picked up and they raised the sail. Then they flew along, the ship skimming the waves just off the low, dark line of the Kent coast. Magnus stood by the tall dragon’s head prow, scanning the land.
They saw the smoke in the early afternoon. The sun had disappeared, grey clouds moving in from the east and swallowing it, but the black smudge rising above the land was unmistakeable. Hakon ran the ship onto a narrow, curved beach, shingle crunching beneath the keel. Magnus gave the order to put on chainmail and helmets, then jumped into the surf and waded ashore, Hakon and the crew following.
They climbed the rise above the beach and stopped at the top. Further round the beach they saw another ship pulled up out of the water with half a dozen armed men guarding it. There was a wide ploughed field inland, with a burning village beyond, red flames leaping, black smoke billowing. Suddenly a band of warriors came running out of the village, pursued by a larger group. Magnus saw one of the men in the smaller band turn with his sword raised – and realized it was Tostig.
Magnus groaned. “What do we do now?” he muttered. “I can’t just stand by and watch my uncle be slaughtered. But I don’t think we can kill those men either.”
“Why not?” said Hakon with a grin. “They all look like bought men to me, the ones chasing your uncle as well. And he might be very grateful if you save him.”
Magnus glanced at Hakon, impressed yet again by the housecarl’s shrewdness, and drew his sword. “Good point,” he said. “Let’s get on with it.”
Hakon laughed, and they ran down into the field, the housecarls in their wake. Tostig’s bought men saw them coming and stopped, clearly convinced they were new enemies. But Magnus and Hakon ran on past them, heading for their pursuers. They had also stopped, confusion in their faces, although that quickly changed to surprise and panic when Hakon crashed into a man and chopped him down with his axe.
The fighting didn’t last long. Hakon made short work of a second man and the others began to give ground, huddling together, desperately trying to form a shield-wall. Magnus came up against a big warrior with a scarred face, and they exchanged blows, their sword blades clanging and thumping on each other’s shields. Then the man broke off the fight, turning and running into the village with the rest.
Magnus set off in pursuit, his blood hot with battle-rage, but Hakon grabbed his arm and hauled him back. “Let them go, Magnus,” he said. “It might be a trick. They run off into the village, you chase them – then they turn and ambush you.” Magnus took a deep breath, sheathed his sword – and saw Tostig heading their way.
Tostig stopped in front of them, a lord of war in his chainmail and helmet, blood dripping from his sword, the village burning fiercely behind him. “I owe you my thanks, nephew,” he said. “It seems the locals hired some bought men to protect themselves, so you arrived in the nick of time. But tell me – what brings you to this godforsaken corner of your father’s kingdom?”
Magnus shrugged. “I came looking for you, Uncle. I thought you might need a few more good warriors to serve you. It seems I was right.”
Tostig stared at him for a moment, his eyes narrowed. Then he smiled. “Well, a lord can never have too many good men. Come, it is time we made our escape.” He walked off, stepping over the bodies of the dead as if they didn’t exist.
Magnus glanced at Hakon, who gave a tiny nod. Then they followed him.
They sailed east then south, heading for Flanders, Magnus aboard Tostig’s ship, Hakon commanding the other ship and staying close. Tostig sat with Magnus in the stern, asking him about the argument with his father. Magnus listened to himself speaking with the tongue of a serpent, the stream of lies flowing easily, and part of him felt shocked and ashamed at what he was doing. But there was excitement in it too, and a strange feeling of power – his uncle seemed to believe every word.
“I wish I had been at that feast!” said Tostig. “I can imagine the look on your father’s face. And together we could have slaughtered Edwin and Morcar…”
Tostig did his own share of talking as well, complaining about what had happened in York. But he saved his harshest, bitterest words for Harold, the brother who had betrayed him. Magnus murmured and nodded, although Tostig barely noticed.
“You do know I aim to take your father’s throne, don’t you, Magnus?” he said at last. “Our father wanted one of his sons to be King of England – why not me?”
“Yes, I do know that.” Magnus hadn’t known it till then, of course, but it made sense now. “I also know my father will do everything he can to stop you.”
“I have you on my side, and that means we will be unstoppable.” Tostig paused, his face serious. “But are you truly on my side? Whatever might happen?”
Magnus knew what Tostig was asking. Rivalries of this kind were usually decided on the field of battle, and there would be no mercy for the loser. Magnus wondered what it would be like to see his father being killed, and felt his skin crawl as his mind filled with blood-soaked, nightmare images.
He looked Tostig straight in the eyes. “I am, Uncle,” he said.
Tostig nodded. “Now all we need is an army,” he murmured.
“And where will you get one?” Magnus was suddenly alert.
“Oh, don’t worry, Magnus, I have a plan. I’m going to pay Duke William of Normandy a visit, and ask if I can borrow his army for a while…”
The next morning they landed on the coast of Flanders and travelled to the court of Count Baldwin, father of Tostig’s wife Judith. Baldwin was old and grumpy and moaned endlessly about the cost of looking after his daughter and grandsons. Three days later the two ships were back at sea, heading west to Normandy. After a night and a day they turned into the River Orne, sailing up it to the city of Caen.
A huge new castle sat on a hill in the centre of the city, its squat towers like the folded limbs of some colossal beast ready to pounce on the tiny houses below. Tostig said they were expected, and set off for the castle with Magnus and Hakon and a couple of his men, leaving the ships tied up at the wharf.
Up close the castle seemed even more brutal to Magnus, its massive stone walls thicker than anything he had seen, even in old Roman buildings. Hard-faced soldiers in chainmail lined the battlements, and there were more inside, some practising with bows, others training with swords and the kite-shaped Norman shields. Hakon nodded his approval. “Good warriors, the Normans,” he said.
Duke William was waiting in the castle’s great keep. It turned out he was as squat and powerful-looking as his castle, with broad shoulders and small dark eyes that seemed to glitter with distrust and calculation, his head shaved high on the sides and back in the Norman fashion. There were others in the room, half a dozen guards in chainmail and several priests, but William was the one who commanded attention.
“Duke William welcomes you, Tostig Godwinson,” said a priest in English with a French accent. The duke whispered something to him. “The duke welcomes you also, Magnus Haroldsson, and asks when your father will keep his promise.”
“What promise?” said Magnus, a chill creeping up his spine. He should have realized that he would be recognized at Duke William’s court as his father’s son.
“Why, to make sure Duke William succeeds King Edward,” said the priest.
More than one of the Godwins spoke with a serpent’s tongue, it seemed.