A Time for Swords

by Matthew Harffy

  I sometimes wonder what would have become of my life if I had chosen another path in that moment. If I had listened to the horrific sounds of slaughter and done that which most men would have thought sensible and run in the opposite direction.

  Of course, I will never know. But the mind does like to play such games, imagining a life unlived, wrongs righted and decisions overturned.

  And yet, on the beach of Lindisfarnae, as the stench of burning became stronger and the screams of the dying grew louder, the thought of fleeing did not enter my mind. Before I was even aware of my own decision, I was sprinting over the thin grass that grows on the sandy soil, not away from the danger, but towards it.

  *

  My feet pounded the soft earth as I sped back towards the dwellings of the ceorls. A green plover, startled by my passing, burst from the long grass that brushed against my bare legs as I ran. I stumbled in shock and surprise at the bird’s screeching call, so like that of the screams of the people dying in the minster and the huts of the villagers. I rushed on, my lungs burning and the thickening smoke stinging my eyes.

  I came up over the low rise from the beach to a scene of chaos. When I had left the minster at dawn, its buildings had rested peacefully, close to the natural harbour and overlooked by the mound of rock at the island’s tip. A few small fishing boats had been canted in the shallows of low tide, and the morning had been still and quiet. Now the brightening day was filled with noise, fire and smoke.

  And death.

  In the harbour were three huge ships, sleek and menacing with terrifying carven serpent head prows. Around the ships were congregated several men. The land all around was full of movement. Dozens of armed warriors had poured from the ships and had made their way into the grounds of the minster. Three of the monastery buildings were burning, great pillars of flame and smoke smudging the sky. My heart lurched as I realised one of the fires was the scriptorium. I imagined the gold cover of The Treasure of Life melting, the parchment leaves curling, smouldering and then bursting into flames. Leofstan and I would never unpick the secrets within its pages now. I felt tears prickle my eyes as I thought of so many books being consumed, just like in my nightmare of Alexandria. Countless days of painstaking work and skill gone in an instant. So much knowledge snuffed out and lost. I was a long way off, but as I crested the rise I could feel the heat from the fires on my face.

  The screams of the brethren came to me on the hot wind of the conflagration. It was not only books that were being destroyed that day. A deep rage, as hot as the flames, began to kindle within me, replacing the concerns that had plagued me since we had arrived on the island.

  Who were these warriors? Where had they come from in their dragon-prowed ships?

  Someway off, a tall, red-bearded brute, in a crimson cloak and a helm that covered his eyes, pointed to the collection of buildings where Aelfwyn and the other villagers lived. His voice was loud and guttural. I could not make out all of his words, but the tongue was familiar to me as that of the traders from the north who would sometimes sail along the Tuede, inland from Berewic. With my ease at picking up languages, I had learnt how to converse in the Norse tongue during my childhood meetings with those merchants who sold amber, beaver pelts and fox furs, whalebone, walrus ivory, and many other wondrous items, from beside their broad-bellied boats on the shingle beach of the river. But even if I had not been able to understand any of his words, the red-bearded man’s meaning was clear. Several other warriors, armed with spears, huge axes, swords and vicious-looking knives followed the red-cloaked leader’s order and ran away from the minster and towards the village.

  I was gripped by indecision. As I watched, I saw two of the heathen devils dragging one of the brethren from the church. Dark shapes dotted the ground and I realised with a twist of my stomach that they were corpses. The two warriors pulled the monk away from the burning buildings. I recognised him. It was Tidraed. He screamed and struggled until one of the raiders struck him hard across his pock-marked face. Tidraed collapsed to the ground and they laughed. One of them rolled him onto his front and the other pulled up Tidraed’s habit, exposing his pale buttocks. The warriors laughed again and began to loosen their belts.

  I turned away, my gorge rising.

  A shout of command cut through the screams and tumult. The massive leader, in his bright cloak and polished helm strode towards the two men abusing the young monk. He shouted at them again and, reluctantly, the warriors released their captive. Tidraed sprawled on the ground, sobbing with relief. The leader said something to the two men and pushed them away. Their faces were dark with anger at their interrupted sport, but they clearly feared the tall leader and did not argue. Shaking their heads and grumbling, they wandered off towards the beach, where the raiders were piling up the riches they had pilfered from the minster.

  The leader scanned the burning buildings, impassively taking in the destruction that his men had wrought. He began to turn and fear lanced through me. If he saw me, he would surely send men to kill me, or worse. I knew I should run, but I could not move. The Norse leader shifted his balance as something caught his attention. Tidraed, still on his hands and knees, was scrabbling away through the grass. For a heartbeat, the red-cloaked raider watched him and I thought he was going to allow Tidraed to escape. But then, with three swift strides, the leader closed the gap, pulling a long knife from his belt. Taking hold of the monk’s habit, he hauled Tidraed back and, without pause, plunged his knife into the young monk’s right eye. The blade went in up to the handle and Tidraed flopped onto the earth, motionless.

  I could not breathe. The Norseman had killed Tidraed with no more emotion than a ceorl slaughtering a sheep at the arrival of winter.

  All about the minster, other monks were already dead or were being abused. A small group, their faces pallid with fear, were being goaded with spears by laughing warriors down towards the harbour. Fleetingly, I wondered whether Leofstan yet lived. There were so many bodies littering the ground between the monastery buildings, it seemed most of the brethren had already been slain.

  Countless bearded warriors swarmed the smoke-swirled enclosure. Surely none of the monks could survive against them. As I stood there, unsure of what to do, the roof of the scriptorium collapsed in a great crumping whoosh, sending up a huge shower of sparks into the heavens. This was the funeral pyre of the minster, and the sight of it snapped me out of my daze.

  I glanced about me. So far, none of the heathens had seen me standing alone on the slope rising from the beach. To my right lay the burning minster, the dying monks and the savage warriors returning to their ships in the harbour laden with reliquaries and ornaments from the church. To my left I could see the backs of the raiders who were loping like wolves towards the village.

  Towards Aelfwyn.

  Looking back towards the burning minster, my gaze met that of the Norse leader. His face was partially covered by his helm, but his eyes gleamed bright as he stared at me. His were the eyes of a hunter. A predator; the eyes of Death.

  I knew then I had no choice. If I should die that day, and it seemed certain I would, I would die trying to save Aelfwyn from these men of evil and violence. I spun away from the staring leader and his cold eyes and sprinted after the hulking figures of the seamen. He did not seek to pursue me, or to call a warning to his men. I was no threat to them in his eyes. I was but a scrawny, unarmed monk in a thin robe. The men I followed hefted long-hafted axes, their iron-bossed circular shields slapped against their backs. Most had simple helms of iron and some wore long byrnies of metal rings. These were formidable warriors, men who lived and breathed fighting and killing as I lived and breathed reading and writing and illuminating sheets of vellum. They were as different from me, as a wolf is to a lamb.

  I should have been terrified, but the strangest thing happened. As I ran behind them, my habit swishing against my bare calves, a cold calmness settled on me, replacing the searing ire. I was empty-handed and had no protection. I had no plan and no
weapon, but I raced after the raiders, allowing this unusual coldness to envelop me. I had never felt anything like it before, but over my long years I have come to recognise and to embrace the calm that comes over me in battle. It sets me apart from most others. Most men are born to raise families, to plough their fields, or, in the case of monks and priests, to pray and spread the word of God. But there are some who are born different. When these men are tempered in the fires of battle, they do not break, but become sharp and hard like the best steel. I found out on that morning of chaos that, despite having been cloistered away with holy men for much of my life, I was such a man. I was born to battle.

  I heard shouts from behind me, but I did not turn. I could not chance one of the warriors I was pursuing turning and spotting me. I watched their backs and followed. None of them glanced behind. They were fully focused on the buildings and what further plunder they could find. Beyond the buildings, some of the villagers were running away, fleeing inland, perhaps in the hope that the raiders would not follow them. As they reached the settlement, one of the band shouted a command and they split into different groups. They unslung their shields and without delay made their way between the huts in search of defenders and prey.

  I did not pause. Offering up a silent prayer to Saint Cuthbert to watch over me, I hurried between two buildings after the smallest group that numbered but five warriors.

  It was madness. What could I do against five armed killers? But thoughts of my own safety had fled with the wanton destruction and murder that had ripped through the peace of that morning. I rushed on.

  A sudden wailing shriek filled the air and as I rounded the corner I saw one of the warriors step from a doorway with an infant in his hand. He held it upside down by the feet. The child’s mother was screaming and clawing at the man, but he seemed barely to notice her. The babe’s cries were loud and terrible. The man shook the tiny creature, but its cries intensified. Seemingly disgusted with the noise, he swung it hard into the lintel of the door, dashing its brains out. The mother’s screams raised in pitch as she scratched and tore at the warrior’s face. Turning, he punched her in the stomach and shoved her back inside the hut. Two other men followed him into the dark interior of the house.

  The last two men seemed about to join them when something caught their attention. I followed their gaze and saw a flash of movement. I gasped to see it was Aelfwyn, her youthful beauty and slender curves evident for the briefest of moments before she disappeared behind a long squat building. The two raiders let out a roar and sped after her.

  I sprinted in their wake.

  The moment I skittered around the corner hot blood splattered my face. For a heartbeat I stood there, shocked into inaction; uncertain what had happened. The warrior that was furthest from me tumbled backwards, his face a gore-slick mess. One of the villagers, a young, broad-shouldered man, had buried a wood-axe into the raider’s head and now, as the dead attacker collapsed, the weapon was pulled from the man’s hands. Faster than thought, the second sea-wolf leapt forward and plunged his own sharp axe-head into the defender’s shoulder. The man clutched at the oak shaft, his eyes wide and filled with terror.

  “Eadwine!” screamed Aelfwyn, who stood just behind the dying man.

  “Run, Aelfwyn,” he said, his voice wavering with the pain and horror of his approaching death.

  The warrior yanked his axe free with a grunt. Eadwine fell to his knees. Despite his command to run, Aelfwyn stood as if rooted to the ground. Her mouth opened and closed as though she could not find air to breathe.

  She stared aghast as the invader slammed his blood-drenched axe down once more into her husband. Eadwine fell, his body slumping on top of the man he had killed. The axe-wielding warrior licked his lips and stepped over the corpses towards Aelfwyn. Such was her fear she did not move. Her mouth was open wide but she did not shout. She would face her end in silence.

  The warrior reached for her. She flinched, shying away from him, finally spurred to action. But it was too late. As fast as a striking serpent he grasped her wrist and pulled her towards him. He growled something in his foreign tongue and, dropping his shield to the ground, he reached up with his left hand to squeeze her breast. Aelfwyn whimpered in terror and closed her eyes to shut out the evil that was about to befall her.

  Within all the horror that surrounded us, the stench of blood and smoke, and the screams of the infant’s mother coming from the nearby hut, Aelfwyn was like a shining piece of gold in a field of churned mud; a ray of sunshine through a dark storm cloud. And she was my kin. I would not allow any harm to come to her.

  With the icy calm that had engulfed me I glanced down at the two bodies entangled on the ground. Eadwine was still twitching. He gasped for breath. But his skin was the colour of new cheese and his blood pumped ever more slowly from the cavernous wound in his shoulder. Without hesitation, I pushed him aside, to reveal the dead warrior beneath. Eadwine moaned. I ignored him. Sheathed at the heathen’s belt was a long-bladed knife. I wrapped my scribe’s fingers around its antler handle and pulled it forth from the finely-tooled leather scabbard. The seax was heavier than I had anticipated, but I was strong with the need to protect Aelfwyn; powerful with my fury at these savages who had rent our peaceful existence asunder.

  I stepped quickly behind the man who was now lifting Aelfwyn’s skirts, thrusting his dirty hand between her pale thighs. Aelfwyn’s eyes were still clamped shut and she was shaking her head, as if she could negate what was happening.

  Something must have warned the foul heathen of my presence, for in the instant before I struck, he lifted his head and spun towards me. His eyes widened in shock as he saw me approaching, wicked knife held high. He pushed Aelfwyn away at the same moment that I lunged. He raised his hand to parry my clumsy blow, but I had all the force of my horror and righteous hatred behind that thrust. He partially deflected it, but the keen edge found his throat, opening up a deep gash that instantly welled with blood. He howled with anger and pain, clutching at my arm and grinding my thin wrist in his meaty fist. I threw myself into him and we crashed to the earth, everything forgotten now apart from the enemy we each grappled with.

  He was much stronger than me, muscled arms as thick as my legs. And yet the cut was deep and I had the advantage of landing atop him. He tried to push me off and for a moment he lifted me in the air. He would have thrown me clear of him too, had I not punched down again with the blood-smeared knife. The blade scraped across the rings of his byrnie, and perhaps Saint Cuthbert had listened to my prayers, for the sharp steel skittered upward and plunged into the open wound in the man’s throat. This time it found a pulsing artery and hot blood spurted, drenching us both. His strength quickly left him then, and his grip on me loosened. Soon his hands flopped at his side. He snarled and gurgled at me as blood filled his throat, but I could not make out the meaning of his words. At the last, his eyes widened in terror and I believed death had claimed him. But then, in a final convulsive effort of will he reached to the side and his grip found the haft of the axe he had dropped. I readied myself to withstand a renewed attack, unbelieving that he had enough strength left to fight as his blood soaked the earth around us, turning it to mud.

  But as his fingers wrapped about the axe, the horror left his eyes and he grinned savagely. A heartbeat later, he trembled and then was still, eyes unseeing and glazing even as I looked down.

  I stared into those dead eyes for what seemed a long time but must have only been moments. My breath came ragged and burning. My vision blurred and darkened. I had slain a man, his blood even now cooled on my skin. I panted and shook my head. I had been concerned about heresy and now I was a murderer. I had broken God’s sixth commandment. And yet I felt no shame, only a surging tide of hatred for this man and the others who were slaying and defiling all who stood in their path.

  I heaved myself to my feet with a grunt and looked about me. Aelfwyn had gone, no doubt taking the opportunity to flee. If any of the raiders should see her, she would be do
omed. I staggered after her, leaving the three corpses behind. The cries of the mother who had been taken into the hut had diminished over time. No sound came now from the house. Her attackers would soon step out into the daylight and I would be no match for the three of them. I shuddered to think of what had happened to the woman and her child, but hurried away, placing a barn between me and them.

  I was in a narrow alley, shaded from the rising sun that was still low in the sky. Was it still truly so close to dawn? How had so much changed in so little time? Such a glut of death and suffering in an eye-blink.

  I stumbled down the alleyway. My face was cold and tight; the mask of dead men’s blood cooling in the shadows. My back felt exposed and I was certain that any moment the woman’s attackers would suddenly block out the light between the buildings behind me. I pressed on. Nobody followed me.

  I slowed as I approached the end of the alley. The taking of the raider’s life had sobered me, reminding me how readily death lurked round every corner, at the end of every path.

  Pressing myself against the timber of the barn, I peered around the corner. There was no sign of Aelfwyn and I wondered where she could have gone. Perhaps she had taken refuge in one of the buildings.

  The space between the huts was empty. The people of the settlement had all fled and I imagined that the raiders would soon tire of pillaging the hovels of peasants when there were riches to be had back at the minster. Of course, as I had seen, there was also a different kind of treasure that these men sought. They sated their lusts on the island’s inhabitants and, as evidenced by the monks being led to the harbour, they would surely also make thralls of those they thought would fetch a good price.