Raven's Hoard
Page 6
They strolled along the beach and discussed what to do next. Nate suggested they try to get back to Piel and into the tunnel again – after all it was through that tunnel that they had travelled to the future. They couldn’t risk going in the ferry dressed as they were and they had no modern money. They decided to bide their time until the tide turned and they would walk across. However, the tide would not turn in quite the way they had hoped.
CHAPTER 10
THE BERSERKER AD 650
The wind swept into the cove sending sand and debris hurtling across the beach, into the dunes. The power of the gale forced them to huddle closer behind the wreck, pulling their clothes tight about them for protection. Grains of sand spat and scratched at their skin and their hair tangled and matted in the wind. As they protected their eyes from the smarting bombardment the cloud of sand spun into a whirlpool gaining momentum and power. The drag of the airstream became more powerful and pulled them towards the eye of the storm. They tumbled and fell towards the phenomenon, whirling and rotating, until they could not tell beach from sky. Giddiness overcame them and they were disorientated, Dolly felt sick, and just as she could stand it no more they came to a halt, crashing into each other, like wreckage after a storm.
Before any of them could speak, a bright light filled the horizon, crashing waves subsiding, grey clouds melting into blue and a warm sun filtered into the clear sky. The friends froze, a chill running through their bodies even though it was a warm day. Out at sea, passing Piel Island a boat glided easily through the waves towards them.
“What is it?” gasped Dolly. “I’ve never seen a boat like that before.”
Tom peered at the vessel, shaking his head in disbelief.
“For God’s sake!” cried Nate excitedly. “It’s a longship! A bloody Viking longship! What’s going on?”
The longship sliced through the water like a keenly honed knife and was followed by two more. The rhythm of the oars was hypnotising and the sheer speed with which the boats drew near was terrifying. At the prow of the first ship stood a wild, red-haired Norseman, alert and as fierce as the painted dragon on the prow of his ship. The ships slid to shore, scattering the shingle as they slowed to a stop. The Viking leapt into the air raising his sword high above him, his war cry curdling the blood in the young people’s veins. He landed heavily on the sand, screaming his battle-cry again and running towards the headland, his swordsmen crowding behind him. The noise of the men’s cries split the tranquillity of the day and as they gathered, some armed with axes, some with spears or swords and many with more than one weapon, the youngsters shrank into the dunes hoping to be overlooked.
They had not seen on the headland a small force of local warriors, who were now racing to meet the Viking raiders. Behind them a beacon fire had been lit and its thin, wiry plume of smoke wove its way into the air, stitching the blue sky with grey. The friends pressed their bodies flat to the base of the sandhill and hardly dared breathe for fear of discovery. They had no need to worry – the Vikings had seen their quarry and ran rapidly towards the warriors, whooping and leaping joyously, impervious to the danger of battle. The noise was terrifying and ear-splitting. Metal clashed against metal, weapons hissed through the air, screams of agony met cries of triumph and victory. Bodies crashed heavily into each other, bones and skulls cracked and split, men fell to the ground never to arise again.
The gang watched in awe from their hide. Although they had endured some dangerous and scary adventures together, nothing compared to this. Dolly was shaking with fear and even the boys were ashen faced.
“I can’t believe this… how are we here?” whispered Nate.
“I know not! ’Tis foul magic of some devising!” answered Tom, horror-struck by the carnage before them.
It seemed ages before the battle ceased and the companions fell silent, unable to tear away their gaze from the dreadful scene. Finally, the party of warriors from the headland were so diminished after their brave struggle that the remaining men fled across the bloodied beach. The tall, red-haired Viking who had first leapt from the dragon ship gave chase, followed by a few of his number. Two men were seized and were dispatched cleanly. A few of the others escaped over the rise towards the small church beyond. The Viking raiders collected the weapons which had fallen from both sides and slung their haul into the ships. They regrouped, now much calmer, and began marching towards the small hamlet and the church over the fields. The companions crawled along the back of the sand dunes to watch. They crept silently along the edge of the dunes, keeping well out of sight.
In a split second the friends were wrenched from their hiding place by rough, strong hands. As they struggled and screamed, flailing and fighting to be free, a rich laugh rang out across the beach. The band of raiders looked back and acknowledged the guttural words coming from the mouths of their strapping captors. Dolly was slung easily over a dark-haired warrior’s shoulder as though she weighed no more than a feather. She wriggled and squealed, trying to break free. He paced ahead, catching up with the other raiders. The lads were half carried and half dragged along, until they too reached the raiding party. Each time they tried to escape they were smacked around the head with the powerful flat of the warriors’ hands.
A conversation continued between the men, interspersed with harsh laughter. The three knew that their fate was the source of the amusement. As they reached the dip before the small village of Crivelton, screams arose from the huts. Women and children ran asunder, away from the raiders. As the warriors ran through the village, plundering and setting fire to the huts, more screams pierced the smoky air. Prisoners were taken and rounded up with the three friends, guarded by just a couple of Vikings brandishing sharp axes and swords. The children were crying and everyone was terrified. It became obvious they were to be taken as slaves. Nate had read about captives being taken from England to be sold in Ireland as slaves by the Norsemen.
The only men left in the village were those too old or infirm to fight and these were ignored and pushed away. Those who did attempt to fight were slaughtered on the spot without hesitation.
The village was silent. Unexpectedly, the silence was split by the resonant peal of the church bell. Monks rang the alarm, alerting the surrounding area to the danger. The prisoners were dragged towards the small wooden church and left near a tree, guarded still.
Suddenly a small party of local Saxons from a settlement east of Crivelton raced into the village wielding fierce weapons, filling the air with bloodcurdling cries. The Saxons had responded to the beacon fire warning of the danger. The tall, red-haired chief rallied his berserkers to his side and a great battle ensued. The youngsters could hardly bear to watch. Brutal fighting on both sides took its toll, heavy clashes of steel followed by the dull thuds of bodies falling to the ground. The cruel noise of battle filled the dusk, showing no sign of abating. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the wooden church was on fire and the monks lay dead, alongside their Saxon kinsmen. Few Saxons remained standing and the Norsemen were assured their victory until, swiftly and unexpectedly, a boy of no more than fourteen leapt from behind a burning hut swinging a war axe half his height in length.
He took Red Hair by surprise, smashing the long sword from his hand, sending it spinning through the air, landing like a javelin in the earth, vibrating with the energy from the blow. With a second blow he hit him fair in the chest, felling him like a pine tree. The Vikings rounded on the lad, grabbing and slashing at him with their swords. One blade glanced off his shoulder and he stumbled momentarily, but he was nimble and managed to twist and squirm free. His fellow warriors banded together to allow him to escape. The lad ran for his life, the older warriors fought valiantly, finally retreating across the field towards the coast and away from the bloody Battle of Crivelton.
Nate thought he was going to be sick. Dolly was. Tom was paralysed with shock and all around them children and women cried and murmured with fear. The warriors took up their leader’s body and placed his sword in his hands across h
is chest. They dug a shallow pit and lay his body and sword within. Across his chest they positioned a wooden shield and added smaller grave goods to go with him to Valhalla, the drinking hall of Odin and his heroes. Not for him a burning ship burial; the dragon ship was needed. Soberly they piled earth on top of him, raising a mound above him, which in the following years would become part of the landscape.
The wind rose blowing leaves and ash around, becoming a whirlpool of energy. Their fellow captors faded and flickered like an old movie. The Norsemen and the carnage they had wrought diminished like a bad memory. They were back to where they had started and were safe once more.
Nobody spoke. It was all too much to take in. Nate broke the silence.
“All that killing…”
Dolly screwed up her eyes and shuddered.
“Aye! Such killing!” responded Tom. “I’ve seen violence in my time, I have witnessed hangings at Lancaster – ’tis nought to compare with those… devils!”
“But why, pray, did we have to see such torment?” asked Dolly.
Silence.
Each thought their own thoughts.
CHAPTER 11
REVELATIONS
“I know… I know what it is!” The light dawned on Nate. “It’s the sword! It’s the sword! The red-haired Viking! He’s the one that stole it!”
“Nay! Think’st thou so?” replied Tom in astonishment. “That heathen devil – was the one who took the holy sword that slew St Oswald?”
“Well, why else were we treated to such a film show?”
“Film show?” Tom grimaced, unsure of what he meant.
“Oh!” Nate sighed in exasperation, “Never mind… er… you know, like a play, the theatre? You must have theatres in your time!”
“Aye that we do, though I have never been to such a place. ’Twould be costly. I did once see a circus… aye ’twas a grand…”
“Whatever!” retorted Nate impatiently. “What I’m getting at is – we saw the sword buried with him… we didn’t get hurt… we were supposed to see it. Just like we had to meet on the beach, even though we are from a different time! Don’t you see, it’s another piece of the puzzle?”
It took seconds to allow the information to sink in fully. The three looked at each other, each with the same thought.
“We need to find where the Viking is buried.” Nate shook his head. “But where will it be? It looks nothing like where we are now.”
“Nay, ye are not thinking, Nate. We can surely recognise the place by the church?”
“S’pose it’s a start… but I’ve no idea where the village is… and what if the church isn’t in the same place?”
“Tis only one way to be sure, lads… we must repair to our church and see what places can be recognised!” Dolly jumped up briskly, brushed down her dress and pushed the strands of hair beneath her slightly grubby-looking cap.
The boys stood up and got their bearings. Night was drawing in, which did not leave much time. They scrambled up the banking and walked through the trees towards Rampside church, following the direction the raiding party had taken.
The quiet birdsong was in great contrast to the battle-cries that echoed in their memories, from the last time they had passed this way. The silhouette of the church stood proud against the pale pink sky of the emerging sunset. The rolling fields disguised any trace of Crivelton. Nate knew that there had been a village there many centuries ago, which had disappeared by his time. Nobody even knew where it had been. It seemed strange to imagine that the village had been rebuilt at all, after such dreadful destruction.
It was useless to look for the tree where they had been imprisoned. They had to look for a bump or mound. He remembered that the burial mound, though hastily constructed, had been on top of a small, natural drumlin which made it look bigger than it really was. The village had been in a small dip with the wooden church sitting slightly higher, along the rim of the small hill. Nate looked towards the church. The footpath ran into a hollow, a low-lying field and then up past the nineteenth century church. The church had replaced earlier chapels and it was said that it was the oldest place of worship in the area.
The sun was setting fast, gloom settling and mist beginning to rise like wraiths from the graveyard. From the field the church stood proud, perched on an egg-like mound. The hill looked less obvious with the large church crouching above it, but it had to be what they were looking for.
They ran towards the graveyard. Dolly grabbed Tom’s arm. She was scared. They looked round in despair. Where would the Viking be? The graveyard had no burial mounds or bumps. Could it have been flattened or removed? They tried to orientate themselves, but there were no clues as to where he might lie.
“I believe we must go within yon chapel,” suggested Tom.
“Better than stay in this bone yard…” whispered Dolly.
“I THINK YOU’RE RIGHT!” shouted Nate.
The others jumped from their skins.
“Sorry.” Nate lowered his voice. “Didn’t mean to scare you… but I think the mound is inside! The church has been built over it!”
They went to the door. Luckily it was still unlocked. There had been an open day earlier and the church had not yet been closed. The door creaked more loudly than they wished it to and they slipped inside and looked around. The final rays of the dying sun filtered through the windows. They crept around the nave walking towards the bell tower. Tom and Dolly were especially reverent, not really happy to be inside a church when no service was taking place. This church was not the one they knew in their own time, but it was still a holy place.
Nate moved quietly, hardly daring to breathe, until he came to the vestry. He lifted the latch and they went in.
Little revealed itself to them, but they wandered around looking for clues or indications of where the Viking might have been. There seemed to be no way down beneath the church and here and there were plaques and monuments, mostly from Victorian times. The carpet running down the nave of the church covered the floor and there was no way to look beneath. As they returned to the back of the church, they noticed the carpet runner was loose. Nate flipped it back to reveal a stone flag floor; disappointed, he replaced the carpet. The church kept its secret close, and hard as they tried they were unable to find a single clue to help them. Nate sank on to the nearest pew and sighed heavily.
Whatever were they supposed to do next? There was the treasure to find, Tom and Dolly needed to go back to their time and what was it all about anyway?
They all sat silently, becoming more sullen.
As they sat in the darkening church a noise disturbed the quiet. A scraping sound echoed around the church, but it was coming from outside. The three companions looked at each other and with a single movement jumped from their seats and moved towards the door. Tom pulled the heavy door open slowly and peered around the side. When he had assessed that it was safe to go out, he beckoned them to follow.
They slipped into the churchyard and discovered the source of the noise. At the back of the overgrown graveyard an elderly man was digging slowly but rhythmically.
“’Tis the gravedigger!” stated Tom with some authority.
“Do you think, Sherlock?” Nate sniggered.
Tom looked quizzically at him.
They watched for a minute and slowly the realisation dawned that they had shifted in time yet again. This man was dressed differently to all of them, he wore a grubby shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a buff-coloured waistcoat, a once red kerchief at his throat, shabby old trousers and scuffed leather boots laced with string. On the gravestone next to where he was digging was a folded jacket and perched on top of that a battered pork pie hat. He smoked a stubby clay pipe and had wispy white hair and whiskers framing his nut-brown, wrinkled face. Nate smirked to himself – he thought he looked like a garden gnome.
The man stretched and leaned on to his spade, breaking from his labour. He drew out a dirty rag from his pocket and wiped his brow, and drew on his pipe.
“We aren’t really here! He can’t even see us!” gasped Nate incredulously.
“Aye! ’Tis true – he sees us not!” Tom shook his head, taking in yet another bizarre event which he could not explain.
“’Tis most peculiar!” Dolly agreed. “More strange magic methinks!”
Neither of the boys could disagree. Instead they watched this strange sideshow.
The old man was standing knee deep in the rectangular hole he had created. Again he rested and wiped the beads of sweat from his face, and something attracted his attention. He bobbed down into the grave so that all that could be seen of him was the arch of his back.
“Well, I’ll be beggared!” he exclaimed in a gravelly voice.
He dug in the base of the grave and pulled at the soil-covered object. He brushed the soil gently from it, revealing the tip of a corroded lump of metal; he delved further and tugged hard. From over the boundary wall, about seven metres away, a younger man appeared. He was dressed similarly to the old chap but with a wide-brimmed hat.
“Aye up, father. I told thee t’wait on me!” he called.
“Nay, lad, I thowt I’d get a start on’t… see – there’s summat queer in’t bottom o’ t’ hole. Tha can ’elp me get it out.”
The young man bent, placing his large workman’s hands on his knees, and peered into the grave. He straightened himself and took off his coat and hat, flinging them on to the ground beside him. He seized the shovel from his father, jumped into the hole next to him and began digging. The older man climbed out and knelt beside the hole.
“What dost tha make of it, Thomas? Can it be brought out in one piece?” he enquired.
The young man nodded and continued digging. Eventually he had cleared the object and was able to ease it out gently; as he stood up he held it in his hands and laid it carefully on the grass. Both men gazed at the object curiously. Thomas placed his foot on the tip and pressed the sword down to straighten it; it moved and a sickening crack snapped as the end of the brittle blade split.