Conquest (37 page)

Over the next few weeks, Rodrigo put his men through a gruelling regime, in which Hereward and Alphonso participated with enthusiasm. Rodrigo was a master of covert tactics. He could take fifty men through the forest and move them into position without making any sound, or giving a single spoken order. He did it with elaborate hand signals and a technique he passed on to Hereward called the ‘Tally’. Every manoeuvre had a calculated distance and timescale and his men were taught to move at a constant pace and keep two counts: one of time lapsed, the other of distance travelled. The ratio between the two could put a group of men within close proximity of their objective with remarkable accuracy. Rodrigo used anything to gain an advantage in battle – fire, noise, camouflage, disguise, smoke, water, decoys – but only in addition to a foundation of basic military technique and discipline.

One evening, after a good meal and some wine, with the
campfire warming them, Hereward asked a crucial question. ‘In all your manoeuvres, I’ve noticed that you always seem to know how to give accurate directions and know where you are at all times. How do you know so accurately? I can navigate by the stars, but I’ve watched you move without hesitation on a cloudy day and in the middle of a black night, with neither the stars nor the moon for guidance.’

‘You are very observant, my friend. The answer is simple, but also remarkable.’

Rodrigo reached into his leather bag and removed a slim circular object, wrapped in a piece of red silk, and handed it to Hereward. He had never seen anything like it before. About the size of the span of a man’s outstretched hand, it was made of bronze and riveted in the middle so that its several ‘retes’ (plates) sat in a ‘mater’ (mother case) with an ‘alidade’ (pointer) that could be rotated around a central pivot. The whole thing was covered in Arabic numbers and inscriptions, highly polished and lightly oiled.

Hereward was fascinated. ‘It is amazing, Rodrigo. But what is it?’

‘It is a Moorish astrolabe, my friend – a gift to you. I will teach you how to use it and you can take it on your campaigns against Duke William.’

‘I cannot accept, Rodrigo; it is far too valuable.’

‘Yes, they are rare, especially in Christendom, but your mission is worthy of it. Let me show you the things it can do.’

By deftly moving its retes and alidade around its face, Rodrigo began a detailed illustration of the intricacies of the astrolabe. ‘It can plot the sun, the moon and the stars, give an accurate reading of time and the calendar,
and measure height and distance – if you can read the Arabic symbols.’

Hereward was intrigued, but bemused. ‘I didn’t follow what you did and I can’t read the signs, but it looks impressive.’

‘You will soon learn. Originally, they were made for astronomers and learned men, but now soldiers are using them on campaigns and they are spreading throughout Europe. I am told that a monk in Barcelona has made one with inscriptions in Latin.’

‘Alphonso can read Arabic; he can help me. You are too kind. How can I thank you?’

‘We have become good friends, Hereward. My life has been rewarding and successful because I am stronger than other men in battle. War is the only way someone like me can rise from being the son of a small landowner to sit at the right hand of a king. Now I have met you, whose life has been lived in parallel; such a man is worthy of sharing everything I have.’

The two men grasped each other in a warrior’s embrace.

Hereward had found the inspiration he was looking for to answer the call to return to England.

The year had turned while they were in the hills above Oviedo, and their rendezvous with Edwin at St Cirq Lapopie in March was looming. Despite the chill of winter and the arduous training, they had lived well and become fit and strong. Hereward knew that it would soon be time to return to England to confront the menace of William and his Norman henchmen.

Hereward had given several displays with his Great Axe
and Rodrigo was not far off mastering it himself, even one-handed. Each had shared the other’s experiences, tactics and strategies and it was time for Rodrigo to return his men to King Sancho. Enthused by Rodrigo, Hereward had regained his fitness and skills – and, most importantly, his self-belief.

The day before Rodrigo’s elite troops were due to return to Oviedo, a menacing group of men arrived at his camp. They were unmistakably warriors; their sinister arsenal of weapons gave testament to that. They carried an astonishing array of war clubs, daggers, lances and Moorish scimitars and looked more like brigands who prey on pilgrims crossing the wastes of the Levant than professional soldiers.

Their leader was Hamilcar, a man with a complexion even darker than Alphonso’s dusky countenance. He was also a much bigger man, standing well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and the barrel chest of a stevedore. He was lacerated from his hairline to his chin with a gash as wide as a man’s finger, an injury suffered in a knife fight with a Corsican pirate. The wounding had also taken out his left eye, the remnant of which was a crater of scar tissue that looked like it had been seared with a branding iron. Although Hamilcar’s legacy from the encounter appeared severe, it was as nothing compared to the harm he had inflicted on his opponent. Other fracas had also left their marks on the man. Most of his right ear was missing, as were the two smaller fingers on his left hand and the top of the middle finger of his right. Strikingly, he possessed almost a full set of gold teeth and, hanging from those parts of him that were still intact, a king’s treasure of gold chains, rings and bracelets.

Rodrigo spoke to him directly. ‘Hamilcar of Tunis, my old friend. What brings you to my camp?’

‘Well, my Cid. I have come to see the Englishman. I hear he is the greatest warrior in Europe and that he has joined your service as a mercenary. I have come to make him a better offer!’ The big man laughed heartily, allowing the sun to illuminate his magnificent incisors in all their glory.

‘Hereward of Bourne is my guest here. I will tell him that you would like to meet him; perhaps it can be arranged when we return to Oviedo.’

‘Don’t be inhospitable, my Cid. Where is he?’

Hereward did not need a second invitation and stepped forward. ‘I am Hereward of Bourne. How may I be of service?’

‘I am honoured, sir. It is said you are nearly seven feet tall – a small exaggeration, perhaps. Nevertheless, you cast a long shadow.’

‘You speak excellent English, Hamilcar of Tunis.’

‘Thank you. My family is descended from the Carthaginians and my faith is Islam, but my father hired Christian tutors for me and I learned many things from them, including some of their languages.’

Rodrigo intervened, beginning to lose patience at the arrival of his uninvited guest. ‘You have come a long way, Hamilcar. Let us take some wine and you can tell us why we have been granted the rare honour of your presence today.’

Rodrigo’s sardonic tone alerted Hereward to the need for caution with the visitor, as did the fact that Jimena had immediately withdrawn to her tent when Hamilcar’s band appeared in camp.

Hamilcar was effusive in his praise for Rodrigo’s wine,
but gulped it more like a man needing to slake a desperate thirst than a connoisseur of a fine vintage. ‘Hereward of Bourne, I am a professional soldier. I am unsurpassed – not just in Spain, but anywhere in the Mediterranean. It is no idle boast.’ He accompanied his bragging with a leering smile, behind the veneer of which was a malice that left little doubt about his claim.

Hereward, conscious of the chivalrous traditions of the Moors and Christians of Spain, remained courteous. ‘Sir, I see from your signet ring that you are a man of noble birth from the Caliphate of Tunis.’

‘You are very observant, my English friend.’ The Moor’s voice deepened and became threatening. ‘My uncle is the Grand Caliph. I assume you know our seal through your service with that whelp of a Norman dog, Guiscard!’

‘If you mean, my Lord, Roger Guiscard, yes, I fought with him against the Moors in Sicily.’

Hamilcar rose to his full height, drained his goblet of wine and threw the empty vessel at Hereward’s feet.

Hereward remained impassive.

Rodrigo jumped to his feet and glowered at his visitor. ‘You insult a guest in my camp!’

‘Yes, I do! I seek revenge. This Englishman killed my brother in an ambush in the mountains above Catania. The survivors said that the leader of the attack was a golden-haired Northerner with a mighty double-headed axe.’ Hamilcar bellowed at Hereward. ‘You are that man!’

‘Yes. I remember the encounter. Your brother was a brave man; he fought well.’

Hereward was still sitting calmly as Hamilcar leaned towards him menacingly.

‘Let’s see how well you fight and how brave you are when death offers you its eternal comforts. You need to find peace with your Christ; it is your last day on this earth,’

Rodrigo stepped between the two men. ‘Hamilcar, this is my camp; Hereward of Bourne is my guest. I will have no contests here.’

‘My Cid, don’t jest with me, you know I have the right. This is a matter between the Englishman and me. He should never have crossed the Pyrenees. Allah himself has delivered this gift to me. He has ordained this encounter, may the Holy One be praised!’

Hereward got to his feet. ‘Rodrigo, with your permission, I will accept Hamilcar’s challenge. It is his right.’

Rodrigo turned to the formidable Moor. ‘Very well. Hereward will need time to prepare. My men will make ready the ground; the contest will begin in one hour. Gentlemen, your chosen weapons?’

Hereward spoke first. ‘Whatever Hamilcar chooses.’

‘A knightly joust. If that doesn’t end it, a duel – all weapons permitted.’

Hereward nodded and Hamilcar turned on his heels and left.

Rodrigo looked at Hereward with a worried expression. ‘I’m not sure there is a jousting tradition in your homeland. Where did you acquire the art?’

‘I haven’t, my friend. I suppose now is a good time to learn!’

‘Be careful. Hamilcar has never been unseated in a joust; he is very strong. Make sure to aim your lance at his midriff, just above his saddle. It is hard to deflect it from there. Follow the point of his lance with your shield; he may not
aim it until the last moment, so watch carefully. Whatever happens, don’t let it come down to a knife fight; he has killed many men in hand-to-hand contests.’

Rodrigo loaned Hereward one of his jousting lances and his finest war horse.

Alphonso helped him prepare. ‘This man has a crazed look in his eye. Kill him quickly!’

Doña Jimena emerged from her tent as Hereward began to ride out to the improvised tilting ground. ‘Be careful, Hereward. I know you are a great warrior, but this man has an evil reputation.’

‘Thank you, Doña Jimena. I will be careful. I have important matters to deal with in England. That is incentive enough to meet whatever danger Hamilcar poses.’

When the two men were in position some sixty yards apart, Rodrigo signalled for the contest to begin.

Lances were lowered and the horses set off at a gallop. Both steeds were soon into their stride and closing on one another at enormous speed. Rodrigo was right about Hamilcar’s threat. He was strong enough to position his lance high above and to the right of Hereward’s head until the moment of impact, when he suddenly dropped it to a trajectory aimed directly at Hereward’s heart. The jousting lance of a knight was far longer and significantly heavier than the battle lance with which Hereward was familiar. He tried to hold it steady, but it was not easy with his horse moving at full gallop. Jousting was a skill requiring endless practice – a training in which Hereward had little experience.

When the collision happened, Hereward had little
awareness of the detail of the impact. He hit the floor hard and his head whipped back, rendering him unconscious. Whereas his opponent’s aim had been perfect and had caught Hereward square in the chest, Hamilcar had easily deflected Hereward’s lance with his shield and had only taken a glancing blow. Hereward’s shield had taken the impact but, even so, he had been knocked clean out of his saddle and thrown some distance from his horse.

Doña Jimena wanted to rush to Hereward’s aid, but Rodrigo shook his head. Hamilcar pulled his horse round and rode back to his prone opponent, who was still motionless on the ground. The Moor catapulted himself from his mount with an athletic leap and strode towards the Great Axe of Göteborg, which was lying on the ground where it had fallen. Alphonso, realizing Hamilcar’s intention, made to go to his friend’s aid, until Rodrigo put a heavy hand of restraint on his shoulder.

Even though Hamilcar was a powerful man, he had difficulty lifting Hereward’s huge axe and needed both hands to raise it above his head. His expression was that of a man possessed; his eyes were fixed and he moved with a slow and deliberate gait.

Hereward still had not stirred.

When he regained a vestige of consciousness, the first hazy image Hereward saw was a glint of sun on his Great Axe as Hamilcar began to propel it towards his head. His instincts came to his aid and he rolled away just as his axe embedded itself into the earth only inches from his ear. The ground was still shaking from the impact as Hamilcar struggled to pull the axe from its deep crevice. The narrow escape from his own weapon had brought Hereward to his
senses, and he quickly used his legs to flip his opponent on to his back.

Both men regained their footing and drew their swords at the same time. A ferocious sword duel ensued. The flashing blades cut through the air with astonishing rapidity. When they clashed, they created a harmonic percussion of steel striking steel. It was many minutes before the pair began to tire; they were gasping for air and soaked in perspiration, their muscles burning from the exertion, their concentration beginning to falter. Then came a chance occurrence that threw Hereward a crucial advantage.

Hamilcar’s sword broke at the hilt, leaving him with a stub of a blade and vulnerable to Hereward’s next onslaught. The Moor immediately pulled his dagger from his sheath and discarded his shield with a bravado that belied the meagre odds he faced. His weapon was a vicious implement: a saifani jambiya, handed down through his family for generations from his ancestral origins in the Yemen of ancient Arabia. Its short, curved blade was ideal for close-quarters fighting or assassination by stealth.