“What is to stop him running off?” he asked.
When I translated the lord of Bebbanburg’s words to Runolf, he smiled and held up his hands so that everyone could see clearly the hemp cords tied about his wrists. His hands were as huge as shovels and his forearms were knotted with bunched muscles.
“Does the lord Uhtric truly believe these bonds could hold me?” Runolf asked. He raised an eyebrow, awaiting an answer while I interpreted.
Uhtric frowned, but said nothing. It was obvious to us all that the ropes did not make Runolf a defenceless captive.
“Tell him,” Runolf said, “that whether I fail or succeed to rescue that poor babe, I will return to his custody immediately.”
I told Uhtric his words and for a long while he held Runolf’s gaze. Eventually, he nodded.
“Very well,” he said. “Get what he needs and hurry. We must finish this before dark.”
On hearing this, some of Uhtric’s men spoke out against the decision.
“This is madness, lord,” said Hereward. “The Norseman will as likely slay us all as do your bidding.”
Uhtric rounded on the man.
“Do you question my judgement, Hereward? I know you to be a brave man, which is why I yet tolerate you. But you would do well to remember who is your hlaford. There are a dozen of you here. Surely you do not fear one Norseman so much.”
Hereward grumbled, but said no more. I could feel his angry glare burning into me now as I shaved the last of the tonsure into Runolf’s hair. I set about shortening his long locks quickly, sawing away at his plaits. On top of Hereward’s glower, I could feel the pressure of the setting sun. Uhtric was right. If this was not resolved before darkness enveloped the land, I feared the worst for Aethelwulf. Of course, if the child should die, Framric had nothing more to bargain with. Then he would flee as quickly as he was able, or face certain death for his crimes.
From the tanner’s hut came yelling. A man was shouting angrily. He was answered by the calming tone of the abbot, whom Uhtric had convinced to go along with the plan. I could not make out the words from this distance, but I knew he would be promising the thief that someone would be bringing food for him soon. Beonna was a devout, holy man who would never knowingly lie and there was truth in his words. I wondered what the abbot thought would happen to the ceorl when the food was delivered. Perhaps he chose not to think that far ahead. Or maybe he had weighed up the value of an infant’s life against that of a starving ceorl who had been driven to thieving and threatening babes in arms.
I looked at Runolf appraisingly. The tonsure was clearly freshly cut, the skin white where it had never been touched by the sun’s rays and there were a couple of beads of bright blood where I had nicked his scalp in my hurry. Perhaps the gloaming of the twilight would help to cover the signs of Runolf’s rapid conversion. Looking westward I saw that the red orb of the sun now touched the tops of the alders in the distance. I had planned to shave Runolf’s cheeks and chin too, but there was no time. I gripped the braids that dangled from his thick thatch of beard and with one deft cut of the knife, I severed them. With a few quick cuts I shortened the beard, but it would be dark if I tarried long enough to shave his face. And, I thought, looking at the pallid, cut skin of his tonsure, perhaps it would only serve to make him stand out more.
“Up,” I said. “Let me take a look at you.”
He pushed himself to his feet and looked down at me. I smiled without humour. I was suddenly certain that this ploy would not work. Whatever I did, or didn’t do, to his hair, surely nobody would believe that Runolf was a monk, a man of God. The habit we had found him was owned by Brother Eoten, the tallest of the monks of Werceworthe, but still it hung about the Norseman’s calves, and the sleeves barely reached halfway down his massive forearms.
His beard was raggedly cut, his tonsure rushed, and his face still bore the bruises from his ill treatment at the hands of the warriors on Lindisfarnae. I shook my head.
“Is he ready?” asked Uhtric. “There is no more time.”
“As ready as he’ll ever be,” I said. “But I’m not sure this will work. Look at him.”
Hereward added his own voice to my concerns.
“It is true, lord,” he said. “He looks like a father dressed in his son’s clothes. We should think of another way.” He hesitated. “Perhaps I should go.”
“There is no time now,” snapped Uhtric. “Perhaps you should have offered your own head for shaving before the sun had set.”
Hereward fell silent.
Runolf opened his hands palms upward. He gave me a lopsided smile. From the far side of the smithy, Framric screamed again. The infant wailed. Abbot Beonna offered him quiet placatory words of solace.
Without speaking, Leofstan stepped forward, pulling the wooden cross he wore over his head. He held out the pendant in two hands towards Runolf, stretching the leather thong wide. The Norseman stared for a long moment at the crucifix that dangled between Leofstan’s outstretched hands. Frowning, Runolf at last dipped his head and allowed the monk to place the cross around his neck. The symbol of Christ was tiny against Runolf’s broad chest.
“Give him the food,” said Uhtric, snapping his fingers with impatience. One of his men scooped up the basket that the monks had brought down from the monastery. The smell of freshly-baked bread wafted from beneath the cloth that covered the contents. Inside there was also a hunk of ham and a triangle of goat’s cheese cut from one of the round wheels that Gewis made.
Runolf rolled his head around, working out the kinks in his neck from inactivity. He stretched both arms high above his head and then took the proffered basket.
None of us spoke now, and we followed him in silence as he walked back around the buildings to where the people were gathered before Aethelwig and Wulfwaru’s house. Abbot Beonna stood in the middle of the open ground. His shadow streamed out behind him, dark and solid on the packed earth. The individual threads of the wool of his cassock were picked out starkly by the last golden rays of the setting sun. The villagers hushed as they saw Runolf. Several of them crossed themselves and Uhtric hissed, “Do not give the riddle up. The thief must believe that this man is one of the brethren here. If he does not, all will be lost.”
They quietened and Uhtric indicated to his men to hang back out of sight. Runolf did not hesitate, but strode forward, the basket held in his left hand as if it weighed nothing. The wicker basket, so small in his meaty hand, made his manner of dress even more comical and I was again sure that Framric would see through the disguise in an instant. But since then I have learnt much about men and the nature of lies and belief. Most men will believe exactly what they want to believe, rather than what is evidenced by their own eyes and knowledge. They do not need much encouragement to make the improbable seem plausible, the ridiculous, sensible.
I walked ahead in Runolf’s shadow with Uhtric at my side. The lord of Bebbanburg seemed ready to draw his sword and rush into the open doorway in the shaded side of the hut. He twitched and looked this way and that, his hand clutching into a fist at one moment and then, a heartbeat later, resting on the pommel of his blade.
“Wish him luck,” he said without warning.
“He offers you luck,” I relayed to Runolf.
Runolf looked at Uhtric over his shoulder and his smile was cold now, unyielding.
“I am not the one who needs luck,” he said, and without another word, he walked past Beonna towards the tanner’s hut.
The abbot called out after him: “You see, Framric? I told you someone would bring you food. Here he comes now.”
“Don’t come any closer,” shrieked the voice from inside the building.
Runolf walked on, either not understanding, or ignoring the man. He hefted the basket before him, lifting the cloth to show the food inside.
“No closer!” screamed Framric, but still Runolf approached. “I will kill the baby!”
At last, close to the entrance, shaded now from the setting sun, Runolf halted.
The baby howled and I could see in the gloom of the hut momentarily, the figure of a man holding an infant swaddled in a pale blanket. Runolf stood very still, holding out the basket.
“Food,” he said, his tone soft and barely audible from where we watched. “I bring you food. Are not you hungry?” I winced as he stumbled over the Englisc words. We had practised what he would say. Now was the moment that Framric would see through the thin disguise.
I held my breath.
The infant squealed again.
“Food,” Runolf repeated, raising the basket and taking a step forward. Then, with the terrible speed I had witnessed as he had battled three men on Lindisfarnae, he sprang forward and disappeared through the darkened doorway. All of the villagers gasped as one. I squinted into the darkness, taking an involuntary step forward. Uhtric half drew his sword, also moving towards the hut.
The baby’s screams rose in pitch and then were cut off.
There was no sound and no movement in the settlement of Werceworthe then. It was as if even animals held their breath, waiting to see the outcome of events. The sparrows and finches that had been wittering in the alders were silent and the honey bees that constantly droned over the clovers and comfrey that grew in the hedgerow appeared to hush their buzzing.
My mouth was dry and my right hand stung where I had dug my nails into my bandaged palm.
Then, with a sudden explosion of movement, a figure flew out of the hut. It was a skinny, dirt-smeared man, not much more than a boy. His cheeks were as sharp as knives and his eyes were sunken and dark-rimmed with exhaustion and deprivation. He stared about him, seemingly unsure of where he was. Then I noticed the crimson bloom on his grubby kirtle. The stain spread quickly and the wound where the blood came from must have been terrible indeed, for within moments, his chest was dark and slick with his lifeblood. He fell to his knees and, already dead, he collapsed face-first into the hard earth.
Still nobody spoke. The shadowed entrance to the hut yawned dark and unnervingly silent. Was it possible that Runolf had somehow slain the ceorl, only to be killed himself? I could feel my mind spiralling into bleak fears. Mayhap the babe had been killed in the struggle and Runolf was slumped inside the building, cradling the tiny corpse in his huge hands. Or maybe…
Beside me, Uhtric seemed to awaken as if from a dream. He rushed forward.
“By God,” he shouted, “that Norseman must have run for it through the back of the hut.”
I sensed Uhtric’s warriors surging forward behind me.
Could it be true? Had Runolf broken through the wattle and daub wall of the tanner’s house and fled?
But even as the thought formed, so Runolf’s massive form stepped from the hut. The sky above him was blood red and his face was dark and shaded. A thin mewling cry filled the late afternoon air and as Runolf walked into the light, everybody could see that he was carrying a small bundle in one hand.
Uhtric pulled up short, allowing his sword to slide back into its scabbard. At the sight of her child, Wulfwaru let out a sobbing cry and sped towards Runolf. Tenderly, he handed Aethelwulf to her, gently prising his callused finger from the infant’s hungry mouth.
Grinning through his raggedly cut beard and rubbing his hand over his poorly shaved scalp, Runolf walked over to where I waited. I drew in a breath, suddenly aware I had not breathed for a long time.
Uhtric joined us and to my amazement, he slapped the Norseman on the back.
“See,” said Runolf, smiling broadly, “I told you I did not need luck.”
Fourteen
That evening, the minster refectory reverberated with sound. Gone was the usual hush.
The brethren often housed travellers on their journeys, and pilgrims would sometimes come to see the finger of Saint Edwin in its ivory cask in the church, and to petition the once powerful king of Northumbria to heal their illnesses. But it was certainly not common for so many grizzled warriors to be entertained by the monks. The monastery was usually a quiet place of reflection where speech was frowned upon, but Uhtric’s men, and even the monks who had witnessed Runolf’s rescue of the child, were abuzz with what they had seen.
When we had first sat to eat, the refectory had been hushed and subdued. Beonna prayed for those of our brethren who had fallen at Lindisfarnae and gave thanks for delivering Aethelwig and Wulfwaru’s son alive from his ordeal.
“The child’s redemption has been as a moment of light in the darkest of days,” he said. He chose not to mention Runolf, perhaps unsure how to speak of a heathen who had brought both life and death to Werceworthe. But he did go on to speak of Leofstan and me. “We must also offer up our sincerest thanks to the Almighty, His Holy Mother and the saints for the safe return of brothers Leofstan and Hunlaf.” I looked up at the mention of my name and found more than one of the monks staring at me. I wondered what they thought. Did they see something had changed within me? Did they think I believed myself somehow better than them? Did I? Perhaps so. How many of them knew I had killed a man? Did they pity me, thinking me lost and damned?
“And before we nourish our bodies with this fine food and drink,” the abbot went on, “let us not forget to commend the soul of Framric to the Lord. He was a sinner, as are we all. But his death came too soon for him to repent. Let us pray for his unshriven soul.”
It had taken some time for the mood in the hall to lift. The monks were naturally restrained, and the tidings from Lindisfarnae and the slaying of Framric had shocked them and left them reeling. But they were still but men, and soon, as they drank more ale than was habitually allowed, their voices too were raised to be heard over the hubbub. Now the room was awash with the raucous sound of voices retelling the story of Framric’s death and from time to time warriors would stand and make their way to where Runolf sat. They slapped him on the back and he grinned, looking strange and unnerving with his tonsured head and shaggy beard. His cup was kept filled and the huge man seemed to have no limit to how much ale he could consume.
I noticed that Uhtric had not ordered Runolf’s wrists to be bound again. Instead he had promoted the prisoner to the position of guest, allowing the Norseman to sit at the board alongside him and the abbot. Beonna picked at his food. He appeared distracted and annoyed by the noise and the presence of so many men of violence.
Hereward had glowered at Runolf for a time, clearly envious and angry at his elevation to sit beside his lord. But as the ale flowed, Hereward relaxed. Now, with an acclamation, he stood, swaying for balance atop the bench, and began to tell riddles of the most bawdy nature.
“I am a joy to women all!” he shouted. “I stand up high and steep over the bed; underneath I’m shaggy.”
“Your shrivelled cock!” one of the men shouted. Everyone knew the correct answer was ‘onion’, but they all cheered and jeered, guffawing with laughter as Hereward clutched his groin and thrust it towards his fellows before continuing.
“Sometimes a young and pretty wench, a maiden proud, lays a hold on me,” he said, leering and lascivious. “She seizes me, red, plunders my head, fixes on me fast, feels straightway what meeting me means. That eye is wet indeed.”
The men roared with laughter at his performance. At last he shouted out, “It is an onion, you filthy pigs! An onion.” More laughter.
I scanned the faces of the monks. Most were sombre and unsmiling. Old Hildulfr crossed himself and shook his head. Only Leofstan, it seemed, was comfortable with these rough men.
Hereward was telling another riddle now, and I could barely hear him over the noise of his audience.
“It is stiff and hard,” he said to more jeers. “When the young man lifts his tunic over his knee, he wishes to visit the familiar hole he has often filled with its equal length.”
“It is a key,” said Leofstan.
The men turned at the sound of the monk’s voice, silenced for an instant in shock, but then howling with renewed hilarity, rocking back and wiping their eyes.
“A key it is,” shouted Her
eward.
I was not sure how much Runolf could understand of what was being said, but he was laughing as loudly as the rest. As his laughter receded, he took a great gulp of ale. Beside him Uhtric seemed oblivious to the unseemly noise his men were making. He leaned in close to Beonna, who listened absently. But the abbot did not turn his full attention to him. Instead he was staring directly at me, a disconcerted frown on his face.
Unable to hold his gaze, I looked down at the food before me and ate in silence. The abbot had only spoken to Leofstan and I briefly in the village, but it was clear that events of the afternoon had shocked him to the core. When he asked us who the man who had killed Framric and rescued Aethelwulf was, we told him of what had occurred at Lindisfarnae. He had made the sign of the cross and paled. I had feared that he would swoon, but he had gathered strength from deep within himself, or perhaps from God, and had led us to the refectory where he had welcomed us all, dispensing with Vespers, given the special circumstances.
I took a mouthful of the thin vegetable pottage. It was simple fare, but there was plenty of bread and the food was welcome after the long day. I noted that none of the men complained at the lack of meat. The brethren brewed exceptional ale and that seemed to make up for any shortcomings of the provender in the eyes of the warriors. I chewed on a hunk of bread I had moistened in the thin stew and looked up again.
Beonna still stared at me, as though he were gazing into my very thoughts. Earlier, in the glow of the setting sun, I had spoken little. I did not wish to draw attention to myself or my involvement in the fighting on the holy island. But of course, the bruises on my face told some of the story for me and Beonna enquired after my health and asked how I had come to be so beaten. Under his scrutiny, I was suddenly embarrassed by what I had done, of the idea that I might become something other than a monk who had a steady writing hand and a keen mind. I mumbled something about being knocked senseless by one of the Norsemen in the raid. I was surprised, and dismayed, when Leofstan began to describe how I had taken up a weapon and defended some helpless children. I knew immediately that Beonna would judge my actions to be at best folly and at worst sin, probably both. He would most likely think me touched by the Devil.
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