A Time for Swords

by Matthew Harffy

  I swallowed down my fury and nodded, saying no more.

  Leofstan caught my eye and offered a thin smile. I thought I saw a glimmer of the pleasure he used to show so often when I proved that I had listened to one of his lectures.

  Kicking my heels into my horse’s flanks I rode on, away from the impoverished and starving children with their brimming eyes and gaunt cheeks.

  Uhtric’s hostler had picked out a mud-brown mare for me. She was broad-backed and slow, but she was also peaceful and biddable. The hostler had clearly marked me out as someone not used to riding. It was true that the brethren usually travelled on foot, and by midday my thighs were raw and chafed. When we dismounted to rest and to eat some of the bread and cheese we had been given by the steward of Bebbanburg, I could barely walk. I staggered over to Runolf, who had slid down from the mule seemingly without any ill effects from the ride. The bruises on his face were turning a greenish yellow and I wondered how my own face must look. I touched my nose gingerly and winced. The pain was less acute now, but it was certainly not healed.

  “It is still there,” Runolf said, with a grin.

  I returned his smile and offered him half of my bread.

  “Did they give you food last night?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, sliding down the trunk of a beech tree to sit with his back to its bark. “Thank you.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “I heard you talking to the guards outside. They gave me the food shortly after. And some good ale.”

  I glanced over to where Leofstan sat nibbling at his own crust of bread. He raised his eyebrows as if to say, “See, I told you so.”

  I shrugged and sat down beside the Norseman. We ate in silence for some time. I did not know what to say. Praying in the cool dark of the church the night before had brought me some peace. I still did not know what God wanted from me or Runolf, but as I had knelt on the hard cold flagstones of the chapel, the only light coming from the single beeswax candle that dimly illuminated the bejewelled reliquary that housed Saint Oswald’s arm, I had felt a calmness wash over me. I had hoped for a clear sign, an answer from on high that would show me the path I must take, but all I received was this sense of tranquillity.

  Afterwards, lying wrapped in a thin blanket on the lumpy straw mattress that the steward had given me, I realised that this calm was an answer in itself. I must learn to let God lead me without dissent or anger. His wisdom was infinite and I must accept that He knew how best to put me to use. For now, the Lord had ensured that I was at Lindisfarnae when the attack occurred and that I would be the one to see Runolf defending the children. Surely it could not be chance that I was the only person on the island who could converse with him. The seed of a thought had been sown when I spoke to the Norseman in the prayer cell that night. I tried not to nurture it, hoping that it might wither and die. But now I knew that if God wished me to act on that idea, He would make His will clear to me. If He wished the seed to take root and to grow, God would see that it was given the water of hope.

  We had finished our food and one of the warriors wandered over to us and handed me a water skin. I took a long draught, allowing some of the liquid to drip onto my left palm. This I splashed on my face. It was cool and refreshing. The day was now hot and sultry. I passed the skin to Runolf, who accepted it and drank deeply.

  “Thank you too for what you said at the tree,” he said. His voice was roughened from where the noose had tightened around his throat.

  “You understood?” I asked.

  “Some of the words. Our languages are not so different, it seems. And you are not the only one with quick wits, Hunlaf,” he said with a lopsided smirk.

  I paused then, staring at him. He was a huge giant of a man, with legs like tree trunks and arms bulky with knotted muscle. I imagined that he was often mistaken for being stupid.

  I nodded and offered him my left hand. He hesitated for the merest instant and in that moment I was sure that he would pull me to him and snap my neck, or perhaps seek to use me as a hostage, enabling him to escape. If he used his strength against me there would be nothing I could do to prevent him. I looked into his eyes and saw the sharp intelligence there. I gasped, my skin cold, despite the warm day. I was going to snatch my hand away when he gripped it in both of his as they were still bound together. His meaty hands enveloped mine and I tensed. But he did not attack me. He merely stood, allowing me to pull him to his feet.

  Once standing, he towered over me.

  “Your words have kept me alive, Hunlaf,” he said. “I will not forget that.” He held my gaze for a time, before turning to his mule. “Now, where are we heading?”

  I let out a ragged breath.

  All around us, the riders were mounting again. I groaned at the thought of having to endure the long hot afternoon in the saddle.

  “We are going to Eoforwic, to speak to the king,” I said, “but first, we will stop at Werceworthe.”

  “Werceworthe?” he enquired.

  “The minster, where I live.” Wincing against the pain in my bandaged hand and the soreness in my thighs and rump, I pulled myself onto my mare’s back. “It is on the way,” I added.

  Eleven

  The sun was low in the sky when we finally reached Werceworthe. The minster buildings, the church and the settlement all nestled in a loop of the river Cocueda. The monastery cells, refectory and scriptorium were at the northernmost end of the tongue of land that was partially encircled by the wide waters of the Cocueda. The minster was thus surrounded by water on the north, east and west, and to the south, beyond a hill that overlooked the settlement, a thick wood of oak and beech grew. As we approached, weary and dusty from the long day’s ride, I welcomed the sight of the minster, buildings partly hidden by the alders that bordered the banks of the wide river.

  Uhtric’s messengers must have done their job, because when we rode down to the sandy shore of the river, the ferry was already waiting for us. It was a wide, shallow raft that four ferrymen pushed through the water using long poles of ash. When the river was in spate, it was impossible to cross at this point and we would have needed to ride far to the west before fording the river and heading eastward again to approach Werceworthe from the south.

  Mossy, mouldering timbers jutted from the river at regular intervals. The people of Werceworthe said that there used to be a bridge across the water, but no living soul could recall actually having seen it.

  “Well met,” called the oldest of the ferrymen, a cheery man with a wrinkled and weathered face that made him seem to be made from leather. His features were partially shaded by a wide-brimmed hat woven out of straw. The bright sun shone through the gaps in the hat, dappling his face in light and shade. The man’s name was Copel and I knew him to be an affable sort, always polite and willing to lend a hand at harvest time. He nodded to Leofstan and me, having recognised us. He tugged his forelock to Uhtric. “God be with you all this afternoon.”

  Uhtric was impatient and nudged his stallion forward.

  “How many horses and men can you take at once?” he asked.

  Copel rubbed his hand across his bald pate and sucked his teeth.

  “Four horses and four men, along with us, I reckon,” he said after careful consideration.

  Uhtric sighed.

  “Very well,” he said. “Let’s get moving.”

  “Right you are,” said Copel with a raised eyebrow and a sidelong glance at the lord of Bebbanburg. “We will be as quick as we can be, but it is not easy to steer this old barge when fully laden, and you won’t want to be swimming before your supper, I reckon.”

  “Can you get us all across or not?” barked Uhtric.

  “Oh aye, lord. The river is low and the tide is on the ebb. We’ll get it done. But it will take a few trips and we’ll be right tired afore the sun sets.” He sniffed, raised a thumb to one nostril and snorted out from the other a stream of snot into the river.

  Uhtric turned away, disgusted by the man.

&nb
sp; “Just get us across.”

  Despite the ferryman’s words, the process of shuttling the men and their mounts across the Cocueda did not take very long. The only disruption came when one of the warriors was pushed from the ferry by his horse, much to the amusement of the rest of Uhtric’s hearth-men. Luckily the man was not wearing his byrnie and so was able to cling to an outstretched hand before being heaved back onto the boat. He cursed and shouted abuse at his laughing comrades. His annoyance only made them laugh harder. When they stepped from the raft onto the sandy shingle of the beach the bedraggled warrior was shaking with anger. He yanked hard at his horse’s reins and when the beast refused to do his bidding, he punched it hard on the snout. The animal whinnied, eyes white-rimmed. Tugging the reins from the warrior’s grip, the horse reared up, pawing the air. The man shied away from the enraged animal, lost his footing and stumbled backwards into the river once more, splashing and tottering before ending up sitting in water that lapped about his chest.

  This sent the rest of the men into ecstatic paroxysms of laughter and more than one seemed incapable of drawing breath for a time, such was their mirth. I laughed with the rest of them. Leofstan and I had travelled across the river on the first trip with Uhtric and now we waited the arrival of the second ferry-load which included Runolf. As they finished disembarking, the wet warrior came sploshing from the shallows. The huge Norseman looked down at him, then tipped his head back, his long beard jutting, and laughed. This set the men off again, but the sound of their laughter drove the warrior into a rage. He surged out of the river and swung a fist at Runolf. The Norseman did not stop laughing, but swayed back, allowing the strike to miss him.

  “Hereward!” snapped Uhtric. “Enough of this foolishness. Whatever crimes the Norseman has committed, it is not his fault you are a clumsy oaf. And a man who mistreats his horse deserves a dunking.”

  The other warriors, sensing that the time had passed for merriment, bit their lips and pretended to see to their own mounts. Hereward glowered first at Runolf, then at Uhtric and lastly, for some reason, at me, as if I had somehow been responsible for his fall. I saw then that it was the same man who had helped Uhtric choose a tree from which to hang Runolf. Something in the man’s defiant glare kindled the spark of anger that had lingered within me since the attack on Lindisfarnae, but before I could put words to my feelings, a cry came from the village that nestled beyond the alders to the south.

  Everyone turned in the direction of the sound. A young monk I recognised as Osfrith was sprinting towards us. His habit flapped about his thin, pale legs and he waved his hands in the air as he ran.

  “Come!” he shouted. “Come quickly!”

  He arrived moments later, breathless and gasping.

  “You are well come, Lord Uhtric,” he panted, bending over with his hands on his knees, trying to regain his breath.

  “Who are you, and what is the meaning of this?” asked Uhtric, staring down at the young monk from where he sat astride his stallion.

  “I am Osfrith,” he said. “The abbot sent me to bring you at once. Please, lord. Something terrible has happened.”

  Twelve

  “And you say the brigand is in there?” asked Uhtric. His face was flushed from the rush into the settlement of Werceworthe.

  “Yes, lord,” Osfrith replied. He slipped down from the horse’s back and seemed relieved to once more be on his own feet. After he had delivered his garbled message at the ferry, Uhtric had ordered one of his men to pull the monk up onto his mount with him. It was clear Osfrith would not have been able to keep up on foot.

  The wailing scream of an infant came from the small, thatched hut that was the object of our interest. Some way from the hut, near Garulf’s forge, a large group of people had assembled. From a quick glance, I calculated that most of the villagers, and not a few of the monks, were there. We dismounted and Uhtric strode over to the gathering.

  “Ah, Abbot Beonna,” he said, spotting the leader of the brethren of Werceworthe amongst the frightened people. “What is going on here?” We moved close to hear the abbot’s answer. Osfrith’s explanation had been jumbled and confused.

  The baby screamed again from the gloom of the hut and a young woman I knew as Wulfwaru let out a moaning cry of her own. Tears streamed down her face and her husband, the tanner, Aethelwig, held her tight, whispering to her to be calm. His face was pallid and taut as he stroked her head and stared over her shoulder at the darkened doorway.

  “May God give you good health and long life,” said the abbot, a man of some fifty years, with honest eyes and dark hair that was silvering at the temples beneath his shaven tonsure.

  “Yes, yes, waes hael, to you,” Uhtric said, waving his hand to be done with the niceties of greetings. “What is happening? Your boy here spoke of a thief?”

  Beonna nodded, his expression sad.

  “Alas, I fear this thief was a good lad once, but his hunger has let the Devil into his soul.”

  “Speak plainly, man!” said Uhtric. “The sound of that child’s crying is enough to drive a man mad.”

  Beonna made the sign of the cross and took a deep breath to compose himself. I knew he was a man of contemplation and wisdom, not one prone to make hasty decisions. The clamour and excitement of the afternoon must have been sorely testing his usual calm demeanour.

  “The man inside the hut is a young ceorl, called Framric,” the abbot said at last. “He was caught stealing grain from the village store. As far as I can make out, when one of the other men threatened to take him before the reeve at the next moot, Framric flew into a terrible rage. He ran off and snatched poor Wulfwaru and Aethelwig’s son, Aethelwulf. Framric has hidden himself in their house and has threatened to kill the babe if anyone should approach.”

  As if to highlight the abbot’s words, the captive child let out a piercing howl, as if in pain. Tears flowed down the tanner’s face now as Wulfwaru seemed to swoon, collapsing into his arms.

  I turned to look at the hut where Framric was menacing Aethelwulf. The afternoon was warm, the sun sliding slowly downward, where it would be lost soon behind the hut’s roof. With a start I realised that one man stood in the open space before the hut.

  Runolf, hands still bound before him, was staring fixedly at the building. The infant screamed again and the Norseman winced. Turning, he strode towards me.

  “Tell me,” he said, his meaning clear.

  I stammered over a few words, but soon enough I had explained to him what had happened.

  “Hungry, you say?” he asked. “All this for food?”

  I nodded.

  “What is the prisoner saying?” asked Uhtric, an edge of frustrated anger in his voice.

  “He merely asks what has happened,” I replied.

  “It is no concern of his.”

  Aethelwulf howled again and Mildrith, one of the women in the group, said, “It is hungry. The poor mite must be fed soon.”

  “By God,” said Uhtric, “we cannot go on like this. It will be dark soon. And that man will either escape then or kill that baby. I will not have it.” He looked about him with his roving gaze, but evidently found no solution for he did not move.

  “I will rescue the child,” said Runolf.

  “What is he saying now?” snarled Uhtric.

  “He says he will save the babe.”

  “How?” Uhtric scowled at Runolf. He clearly wanted to dismiss the Norseman outright, and yet Runolf had caught his attention. Uhtric narrowed his eyes and stared at him. “How?” he repeated. The setting sun made the giant’s beard and hair glow like molten gold.

  To my surprise, Runolf answered in the Englisc tongue.

  “Knife. Water. Food.” His accent was thick, but the words clear enough. “And this.” He reached out with his bound hands and took hold of the edge of my habit.

  Uhtric was taken aback. I thought he was going to shout at Runolf, to tell him not to waste his time. But Runolf stared back at him with a steady gaze and something in his beari
ng gave Uhtric pause.

  “What will you do with those things?” he asked. “And how can I trust you?”

  Runolf looked at me quizzically. Clearly his new-found language skills did not stretch that far. I repeated Uhtric’s questions to him in his own tongue.

  Runolf nodded as he listened.

  “I have a plan,” he said.

  “What is it?” I asked, after translating his words for Uhtric.

  The giant Norseman nodded and told us.

  Thirteen

  “Are you sure?” I asked Runolf, dipping the freshly stropped blade of the knife into the bucket of water beside me.

  He nodded.

  “It is only hair,” he said. “It will grow back.”

  He knelt, placidly waiting for me to begin. I lifted the knife from the cold water and pinched some of the long golden-red hair at the top of his head between my fingers. I had already moistened his scalp, ladling water from the bucket with a small wooden cup. I was just about to cut into the hair when his voice made me halt.

  “It will grow.” He chuckled. “If I live that long.” I shook my head at his composure and began to shave the damp hair from his head.

  From the hut in the distance, the baby’s cries had dropped to a whimper. It was quieter here. We had retreated, taking the horses and all of Uhtric’s men away from the trampled earth before the tanner’s hut. I offered up a prayer that Framric, the thief holding the child, had not been peering out of the darkened building. If he had seen us arrive, witnessed Runolf and his hulking presence, the ruse would have no chance of success.

  I scraped the sharpened blade across the crown of Runolf’s head. The knife’s edge was keen and I was well practised in the ritual of maintaining the tonsure. I still could not quite believe that Uhtric had consented to Runolf’s plan. For a time, he had seemed ready to dismiss it, but Aethelwulf’s wailing had grown in intensity and the sun was moving inexorably towards the fiery western horizon. For the plan to work, Runolf would need to be unbound, and this is what rankled most with Uhtric.