A Time for Swords

by Matthew Harffy

  The shapes of the wooden frames that covered the flaking fish began to become clearer as I approached. The rising sun caused the fog to glow with a golden light. The mist was already thinning and I could make out the shadowy shape of the singing girl. She was moving from one fire to the next, pulling aside the frames, adding fuel as necessary, checking the fish and turning them when she deemed they needed it. She hummed and sang all the while, oblivious of my presence.

  Again I felt a strange sense of familiarity. I shuffled a few steps closer, my emotions roiling. I wanted her to notice me, but I also wished to continue to watch her unseen. She was clearly poor. Her peplos and dress were threadbare and she was barefoot. Her hair was the russet brown of autumn leaves and it hung down her slender back in a single braid. She moved with the grace of a cat, no gesture out of place. She was lithe and strong, and her clothes, old and shabby as they were, still managed to accentuate the feminine curves of her hips and breasts.

  “What are you staring at?” she asked without warning. She turned quickly to face me. Her plait swished and curled behind her.

  “I… I…” I stammered. My mouth was as dry as if I had been hung over the smoke fires to cure along with the fish.

  Her eyes blazed at me with a sudden anger and I thought she might pick up one of the sticks from the fires and strike me. I took a step back, mouth working but no words coming to me.

  She stepped toward me and I flinched. Without warning, her expression changed from one of anger to amazement.

  “Hunlaf?” she said. “Is that you?”

  And just like that, I recognised her. I knew those eyes that glittered in the early morning sunlight. How many times before had I seen that same slight smile on her lips? With the golden dawn limning her features, I saw that her face was as beautiful as her singing. My heart jumped and pounded. She had always had a pretty face, but age had made her blossom.

  “Aelfwyn?” I replied. “What are you doing here?”

  She grinned.

  “I could ask you the same, cousin,” she said with a broad smile. In an instant she had closed the gap between us and embraced me. I felt the warm curves of her body against me and squirmed uncomfortably. Pushing me to arm’s length so that she could get a better look at me, she shook her head, still smiling. “I thought you were yet at Magilros.”

  “I left there two years ago.”

  “Are you to live here?” she asked, her tone tinged with excitement. “On the island?”

  “No.” I shook my head to clear it. I still couldn’t quite believe Aelfwyn was there on the beach in the smoky haze of the dawn. “I live at Werceworthe. To the south. We brought vellum for the brethren here.” The mention of vellum brought with it thoughts of The Treasure of Life and its secrets, but just as quickly, I pushed the anxiety away.

  “How long has it been?” she said, turning back to the fish and the fires.

  “Six years since you left.” She was my mother’s sister’s youngest daughter and we had been inseparable as children; more like siblings than cousins.

  She glanced back at me.

  “Six years,” she said, looking me up and down. “I suppose it must be!”

  I imagined myself as she saw me and felt my cheeks redden. I was as young as she, but where she moved with youthful grace, her lustrous hair shimmering like a serpent down her back, the crown of my head was shaved in a tonsure, making me look much older than I was. She was supple, with skin tanned by the sun and wind. I was pallid from days spent inside praying and reading, studying the ways of the Scriptures and learning how to copy letters from ancient manuscripts.

  “It is wonderful to see you again, Hunlaf,” she said with a grin. “Are you able to stay here?”

  “I think we will be returning to Werceworthe tomorrow, or maybe the next day.”

  She laughed and the sound brought back a flood of memories.

  “I meant here on the beach,” she said. “I am busy and I need to tend to these fish. But I would hear your tidings.”

  I blushed.

  “I think my master has forgotten I am here,” I admitted. “I shouldn’t really be outside of the minster, but I had no chores.”

  “Good,” she said. “Then we can talk while you help me.”

  “I don’t really know much about smoking fish.”

  “It shouldn’t prove too complicated for one as clever as you,” she said. “Ora et labora, isn’t that right? Pray and work. Well, you are not praying, so get working.”

  Her use of Latin stunned me into silence and I found myself staring at the way her hands moved the spits of wood. She had always had nimble fingers and I remembered how she would sit with my aunt and weave, twisting the tablets and intertwining the numerous threads as she chattered with her sisters and mother.

  “How do you come to be here?” I asked after a while. “I heard a few years ago from a wool trader that you had wed a man from Berewic.”

  “I did,” she replied with a quick smile. A strand of hair slipped from her braid and fell in front of her eyes and she flicked her head in a way I had seen her do countless times before as we had roamed the woods and hills around our home. “With eight sisters there were never going to be enough men closer to home.” She paused and turned to face me with a wink. “What with the best ones becoming monks.”

  I lowered my eyes at her words and went to fetch some of the cut logs from the pile. She threw her head back and laughed. The peals of her mirth followed me. I walked back and handed her a log, which she placed carefully on one of the fires. The smoke was pungent and hot and stung my eyes until they streamed as if I was crying.

  “So if your husband was from Berewic, how is it that you are on Lindisfarnae?” I could see she was not prosperous from her clothing and worried she might be a widow.

  “He is a fisherman.” She shrugged. “We follow the fish,” she said, as if that explained it. “Besides, he has family here. They needed extra hands and we needed a home of our own.”

  “You have children?”

  Her hands hesitated as she turned one of the sticks that held the skewered fish. For the first time I saw her smile slip.

  “We have not been blessed with children.”

  “You are yet young,” I muttered, embarrassed and unsure of what to say.

  “My husband’s uncle says they have lived here since before the time of Saint Cuthbert,” she said, changing the subject, cheery again. “They have always fished.” She gestured at the smoking mackerel.

  “And smoked their catch,” I replied. A ridiculous grin stretched my mouth. Happiness pervaded my spirit the way the smoke permeated the mackerel flesh. I was awash with joy at meeting someone I had believed lost from my childhood.

  She laughed, happy again. How could I have almost forgotten that laugh? Now that I heard it again, it felt as if we had been apart for days, not years.

  “Nothing slips past you.”

  She laughed again as she moved along the beach to the other smoke fires and I followed along behind her.

  “Remember how we used to wade into the river to catch salmon and trout with our hands?” I asked.

  She smiled at the memory.

  “How could I forget? More often than not we never caught anything.”

  “Well, you did catch a fever!” I said, remembering with the softening that comes with the passing of time, the feeling of terror when I had learnt Aelfwyn was ill. My mother had died, elf-shot with a fever and when I heard that my cousin had become sick after falling into the Tuede, I had been distraught.

  “By Christ’s teeth,” Aelfwyn said. I crossed myself at her blasphemy and it was her turn to blush. “I have never been so cold as that day. I think that was the last time we ever went fishing.” She pushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “The memory was so bad that when Eadwine came with the bride-price for me, I told my parents I would never be wed to a fisherman.”

  “Do you regret changing your mind?”

  “No, Hunlaf. I don’t.” She
looked me in the eye and I saw the truth there. I was happy for her.

  As we progressed down the strand we spoke of our life in the small village beside the Tuede. And with each passing moment the years that had separated us fell away, replaced with the vivid memories of our shared experiences.

  I had all but forgotten my previous worries about secrets and heresy until Tidraed came looking for me. I heard his voice in the distance, but ignored it for a time. But the mist had already cleared and I could hear his calls coming closer.

  “I must go,” I said to Aelfwyn.

  She nodded.

  “I hope you are better at praying than you are at working,” she teased.

  I didn’t know what to answer to that, so I said nothing.

  “Hunlaf!” Tidraed had seen me now, and was hurrying towards the beach. “Where have you been? Brother Leofstan has been looking for you since Terce.”

  I did not want Tidraed to see Aelfwyn. I felt stupidly possessive of her. Sadly, already feeling bereft at being parted from her, I turned towards Tidraed.

  “I am here most mornings, Hunlaf,” Aelfwyn said. I flashed her a smile and hurried to intercept Tidraed further up the beach.

  *

  For the rest of that day my thoughts were filled with memories of Aelfwyn and worries about the book. I spoke to nobody. Tidraed had sullenly ignored my requests for information as we had walked back to the minster and, despite saying that my teacher had been looking for me, Leofstan was nowhere to be found. I longed to talk to him about meeting my cousin, but more than that, I wished to unburden my anxieties about The Treasure of Life, to hear from him what he had ascertained and what should be done with the book.

  As I recited the offices of Sext and None along with the rest of the congregation, my mind was constantly wandering back to the bejewelled book, to the forbidden secrets and dark knowledge that might lurk within its pages. As I collapsed into my bed that night, I pondered the possibility of telling Aelfwyn about the book when I saw her in the morning. If I saw her, I thought, rolling over, trying to get comfortable on the thin straw mattress. Leofstan had sent Tidraed for me when I had gone missing the day before. If he put me to work in the morning, I would not be able to sneak down to the beach.

  When I woke for Vigils, Leofstan’s bed was still empty and I wondered at his prolonged absence. There was still no sign of him when I returned, bleary-eyed from the nocturnal prayers. But when I opened my eyes in the grey pre-dawn light before Matins, I heard snoring from his bed. I did not wake him, but on my return from reciting the liturgy, he was sitting in the cell waiting for me.

  His eyes gleamed in the gloom and he fidgeted with nervous energy.

  “You must be wondering where I have been hiding, Hunlaf,” he said.

  “Reading the book?”

  “Yes.” He lowered his voice to the barest of whispers. “I need more time to fully decipher what I have read there.” He let out a long breath. “But it is incredible.”

  “Is it heresy?” I asked in a quiet voice.

  He hesitated, then nodded in the dark.

  “There are those who would say so.” He sighed. “They cannot be allowed to destroy it. By all the saints, if what I have understood is correct, the text provides directions. A map, if you will.”

  “A map to what?”

  “To answers. To the very centre of our faith.” He grew silent, as if the words he spoke unnerved him. “I cannot yet be certain.” He hesitated. “Your keen eyes and sharp mind will be useful to help me study it, to unlock the secrets contained within the book.”

  I felt a surge of pride that Leofstan would want me to aid him with something so important.

  “You mean to take it back to Werceworthe?”

  “It is for the best,” he said, nodding. “Oslac agrees.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Hygebald too.”

  “You have told the bishop about The Treasure of Life?”

  He raised his eyebrows at my use of the tome’s title.

  “Of course. I could not keep it from our spiritual father. He agrees that we should not mention it to the others here and that we should carry it back to Werceworthe. There, you and I will unravel its mysteries.”

  “Tell me more of what you have read?”

  He shook his head.

  “Now is not the time.” He looked about him at the lightening cell that was lit by the dawn filtering beneath the door and around the ill-fitting shutter that covered the small window. “Or the place.” He gestured vaguely to encompass the minster beyond the walls of our small room.

  Without warning he yawned and lay back on his bed.

  “You are exhausted,” I said. His eyes were already closed. Such was his obvious fatigue, I decided not to mention my encounter with Aelfwyn. That could keep for later.

  “The flesh is weak,” he whispered drowsily.

  “Sleep now,” I said. “I will fetch you some shellfish to restore you.” Leofstan loved shellfish and I had hoped that my offer to find some would provide me with an excuse to venture down to the beach once more to see Aelfwyn.

  Leofstan grunted and moments later he was snoring once more.

  It seemed I needn’t have bothered with an excuse; I would once again be free to do what I pleased.

  I slipped away from the minster just as I had the previous morning, crossing the vallum and making my way down to the beach.

  My heart sank when I did not find Aelfwyn on the beach. I had expected her to be there, surrounded by fish and smoking fires and I had looked forward to being able to once again talk with her as easily as if we had never been parted. Following the conversation with Leofstan, I had decided I would not mention The Treasure of Life. I was confused about the book and feared she would not understand my teacher’s motives. The truth was I did not fully comprehend Leofstan’s plans and the thought of the book still filled me with anxiety. But I cherished the memory of the chance encounter of the previous dawn, and longed to spend time once again with my cousin and childhood friend. For a time at least I would be able to cast off my worries and reminisce about those endless summer days when Aelfwyn and I would rove all along the vale of the Tuede.

  But there were no smoking fires and the strand was empty of people. So I half-heartedly plucked whelks and winkles from the sand and used a stone to knock limpets from their rocky perches before the tide came in and drowned the mudflats once more.

  For a time I watched the birds and that lifted my spirits somewhat, though it did not provide the relief from my concerns that I had hoped to find in Aelfwyn’s company.

  I spotted a couple of black and white oystercatchers, their beaks as bright as flames in the morning gloom. There were also many dunlins, sporting their black summer bellies and darting this way and that over the sand and shingle in search of food. I even saw a long-legged redshank. It stopped its probing of the mud to stare right at me, before deciding I was too distant to be a threat.

  When the first screams came on the light breeze, my initial thought was to look for a new species of bird. Maybe the sounds came from a bird I was not familiar with; perhaps one of the waders that dotted the beach and would teem over the mudflats when the sea rolled away at low tide to expose the land between the holy island and Northumbria. I loved watching birds diving into the slate-dark waters of the North Sea and I knew the calls of all those that frequented the skies and waters around Werceworthe, but I did not recognise these high-pitched ululating screams. Mayhap there were birds here in Lindisfarnae that I had not seen or heard before. The thought excited me, briefly shaking me out of my dark humour. But I could see no birds save the usual gulls and terns out to sea and the waders on the beach. The acrid scent of smoke stung my nose and for the briefest of moments I thought that Aelfwyn must be further along the shore, tending her fires to preserve the latest catch of mackerel.

  But there was something different about this smoke. It was thick, cloying, somehow unpleasant. Fresh shrieks echoed in the morning air and I suddenly felt as though I had been plu
nged into the cold sea. Those were not the cries of some unusual bird, those were the screams of people. Men and women in fear for their very lives.

  Four

  It seems hard to believe now, but there was a time when we did not look to the seas with fear. When I was a boy we would hear the wolves howling their sadness in winter, and we were fearful, as we huddled around our fires, that the beasts might come down into the village and worry the sheep. We did not travel alone, as there were brigands in the hills, and we all knew of people who had gone missing, never to be seen again. The old greybeards spoke of the battles against the Picts when Eadberht had been king of Northumbria. But those were distant memories, tales to be told around the crackling hearth-flames on long dark nights.

  There were dangers in the land, of course, and the Picts still fought on the borders from time to time, but that was far away. The kings of Northumbria came and went, plotting, fighting and murdering one another in their great halls, but their dynastic struggles had no impact on my life or the world where I grew up. On the banks of the River Tuede, life was quiet and peaceful, cloaked in a sense of calm and order.

  So it came as a great shock to me to hear the screams of the dying on that warm June morning.

  The early morning mist had begun to dissipate as the day warmed and the breeze from the seaward side of the island picked up. The damp sack in my hand was heavy with the limpets and winkles I had harvested from the sands and rocks before the tide had rushed back to cut off the island home of Saint Cuthbert once again from the mainland. I should not have tarried when I’d discovered Aelfwyn was not on the beach, but my head had been filled with swirling thoughts that eddied and fretted in my mind like storm-tossed seas.

  I listened and now the noises were clear. Shouts and howls of terror. And there were other sounds on the breeze: the clash of metal and thudding crashes such as would be made by an axe chopping into timber. The jagged scrape of a man’s laughter, evil and full of hatred, was carried to me on that bitter breeze. And then the terrifyingly piercing scream of a woman in agony sliced into my senses.