I did not wait for him to say more and followed Leofstan out into the dark. We had left the single candle burning in the abbot’s room and the night engulfed us as the door scraped closed behind us.
“A snow-white dove?” said Leofstan in a quiet voice. “Really?”
I did not reply, but my cheeks were hot in the gloom. We walked without speaking towards the cells where we monks slept. The night was cool and I shivered. But I knew it was not from the cold that I trembled, but from excitement. In the morning we would set out for Eoforwic and I would see the king.
Sixteen
We travelled south, riding faster and for longer than I had ever endured before. My thighs were agony and whenever we dismounted, I hobbled about like a cripple. The warriors laughed at my discomfort. At the end of the first day, when we stopped at the hall of one Gleadwine at a place called Corebricg, I practically crawled out of the stables. I moaned with each step, legs wide apart to avoid them chafing together.
“You look like you have been fucked by the Norseman,” Hereward called out. He was rewarded by guffaws from his companions. I was too tired and sore to think of a clever retort, though several came to me later that night and I berated myself for not being more quick-witted.
Runolf was riding unbound now. He dismounted, seemingly as agile and full of energy as when he had departed from Werceworthe shortly after dawn. He asked me what Hereward had said. I interpreted and had dark hopes of the Norseman taking umbrage at the slur on his manliness and beating Hereward with his massive fists. Instead, Runolf put his hands on his hips, threw his head back and roared with laughter.
“Yes,” he said, when he was finally able to breathe, “you do! Like you have been fucked right up the arse!”
I blushed and hurried into the hall as quickly as I could go on my aching limbs. The sounds of laughter followed me inside. I was grumpy and quiet that night and, not for the first time, I questioned my decision to offer to travel to Eoforwic.
But in the morning, the men seemed to take pity on me and one of them, a sallow-faced, thick-browed man named Grimcytel, gave me a small pot of rendered pig fat to rub into my inner thighs and buttocks. “It will make the riding easier,” he said with a smile.
I worried that this was some kind of joke at my expense, that after I performed the embarrassing task of wiping the foul-smelling unguent on my bare legs and arse, all of the warriors would laugh at what a gullible fool I was. Despite this fear, I was desperate for relief and so I followed his advice and smeared the fat liberally over the area that came into contact with the saddle. To my surprise, not only did none of the men make fun of me, but the treatment seemed to work. Perhaps coupled with growing more accustomed to the riding, but that night, after crossing the Tine and riding through the hot, cloudless day between fields of swaying green barley and scrubby patches of vetch, my body hurt much less than before and I was able to dismount and walk into the hall that we stopped at without too much groaning.
The world seemed new and different to me as we rode. On the first couple of days I could focus on nothing but my pain, but as I became more used to riding, and thanks to the fat I had rubbed into my skin, by the third and final day of the journey I was able to appreciate how strange everything felt. My horse was docile, following placidly the animal in front, so I held the reins loosely and looked about me, trying to understand what was causing this feeling. I probed my thoughts and memories of the violence at Lindisfarnae and my reaction to it, and whilst I could not deny that something had shifted fundamentally within me, this sensation I had was different.
We splashed through a shallow ford, sending up great sprays of water that hung in the air in a coruscation of rainbow colours. The day was hot and the few droplets that reached my face were soothing after the heat and dust of travel. Beside the stream huddled some huts, their moss-draped roofs crooked and dipping, as if with the weight of the years of their existence. At the sound of our passing, figures emerged from the gloom within. Women, wiping their hands on their aprons, with skinny children standing beside them, upturned faces full of awe at the sight of so many armed horsemen.
In the fields, far off, I could make out men running towards the houses. But they were distant and would not reach their families before we had passed by.
The women did not speak. One of the children, a boy with a mop of dark hair and a mischievous smirk, made to run off after us, perhaps meaning to race us, or to ask us for food. His mother angrily pulled him back, placing a protective hand on his shoulder. The boy struggled, but the woman said something that I could not hear and shook him. He pouted, but the mother held him firmly and watched us pass. I turned back in my saddle and her gaze met mine.
It was then that I understood what was different. It was there in the woman’s face. I was used to entering a settlement on foot, with a few of my brethren. At such times we were met with friendly acceptance, for the people knew we would work and we would help them to cure their ills, as well as administering to their souls. But what I saw now, as I rode surrounded by grim-faced warriors, byrnies, helms and spear-tips gleaming, was a different expression. There was no welcome for us. As we rode past without halting, the woman’s features shifted from one of awed fear to one of relief. Horsemen bearing weapons and armour were never harbingers of glad tidings. Such men only brought sorrow and bloodshed. Life was hard enough for these people. That year’s storms had wreaked their havoc and the harvest would be poor again. Hunger was etched into every line of their weather-beaten faces. But that hardship was one they knew how to deal with. They would toil throughout the long days and, with luck and God’s grace, they would survive.
The last thing they wanted was to have to contend with entitled noblemen and their rowdy hearth-warriors.
We rode away, the bouncing gait of the horse’s movement now strangely familiar and comforting to me. I stared back at the cluster of houses until we had ridden out of sight over the next rise. I watched as the men arrived from the village and had hurried conversations with their wives.
I could imagine their conversations.
“Are you well? Did the warriors halt here? Are you hurt?”
And then I understood what had been eluding me. The difference I felt came from the riding, but was not the soreness of my body, it stemmed from the change in my perspective. Where I normally looked people in the eye as I walked amongst them, now I looked down on everyone who crossed my path. And it was not merely my perspective that had altered, of course. People we passed no longer looked at me with warmth in their eyes, now they gazed up at me with a mixture of jealous longing and fear.
I pondered this as we rode towards Eoforwic. Uhtric and the warriors would be oblivious of the effect they had on the ceorls we passed.
I rode close to Leofstan and told him of my observation. Though I had never seen him ride before this journey, he sat astride his mount naturally and did not complain. I wondered then at his past. I knew nothing of where he came from or his family. Now, he nudged his horse nearer with effortless skill.
He nodded and said, “Even if they were aware of how others looked upon them, do you think they would care?”
I looked at the stern faces of the warriors and Uhtric’s straight back and haughty air from where he rode at the head of the column. There was a man utterly assured of his position.
“No,” I said. “I think they would consider it their right.”
For a time, Leofstan said nothing. The thrum of the hooves and the jangle of the horses’ harness were the only sounds.
At last, he turned in his saddle. I could not read his expression.
“I think you have the right of it,” he said. “They look down on everyone else because they always have and they have always ridden.” He gave me a sidelong look and raised an eyebrow. “And for how long do you think you would need to ride before you too began to consider yourself more than those who walked and worked in the dust beneath you?”
His words surprised me, and I wanted to blur
t out that I would never think of myself as more important than others merely because I had a horse. But Leofstan, with a skill I could only dream of, spurred his horse forward into a gallop and headed along the line to where Uhtric rode. Dust clouded the air behind him, mingling with that of the other horses.
Was his implication right? Would I, or anyone, feel superior in time, due to a perception of their standing in the world, their wealth and their power? But what power did I possess? I looked down at my bandaged hand. It hurt much less now and was healing well. But it was a vivid reminder of how I had taken a man’s life. I had plunged the seax into the Norseman and I had felt him die beneath me.
I rode on in silence, jostling atop my horse, lost in my thoughts.
The people did not fear these men because they were rich and rode horses. Their very real fear was that the warriors would harm them in some way. These men, the hearth-warriors of a lord, had the strength and weapons to kill. And they had the righteous belief in their own ability and worth.
As we rode, I remembered the rushing feeling of ecstatic joy as the Norseman’s hot blood had coated my hand and I wondered about Leofstan’s question. How long would I need to ride with these men to fully shed the habit of my old life and to become something new? Holy men were respected too, and I had never thought anything of it before. But now I wondered whether I wanted more than mere respect.
Perhaps, I thought, as my horse carried me ever closer to the great city of Eoforwic, I also wanted to be feared.
Seventeen
The sun was low in the sky when we finally saw Eoforwic in the distance. The land about was green, and lush; well-watered by the seasonal flooding of the rivers Usa and Fossa. The city itself appeared more vibrant and alive than the land we had ridden through. Colourful flags and pennants fluttered above the old Roman walls, and the gate we rode up to was thronged with a multitude of people and beasts. Ox-drawn carts and waggons harnessed to donkeys blocked the road, while drovers shouted at their lowing cattle that had spilled from the path. An old woman, presumably the owner of the small plot of land now being trampled by the errant cows was screaming and slapping at the animals with a hazel switch.
Half a dozen door wardens were trying their best to control the situation, but without much success it seemed to me.
We arrived at the rear of the press before the gates in a clatter of hooves and shouts from Uhtric and his warriors. Leofstan caught my eye as Uhtric barged his horse through the people, causing shouts and curses of protest. Men and women were shouldered away by the lord of Bebbanburg’s steed and more than one tumbled over and was in danger of being crushed by the horsemen or the gathered folk and animals.
Uhtric seemed oblivious to the distress he left in his wake and I could hear him shouting over the cries of anger caused by his passing.
“You, man,” he snapped. “I am Uhtric, lord of Bebbanburg, and I bring important tidings and a prisoner to our lord king, Æthelred.”
The guard at the gate looked confused and uncertain.
“Wait your own turn,” shouted someone from the crowd.
Uhtric ignored the yelling.
“Have your men order the crowd to move aside and allow us passage,” he said in a tone that demanded instant compliance.
The warden said something. I could not hear the words, but I could see from his posture that he was still unsure what he should do.
Uhtric leaned down from his saddle and hissed something only the man could hear. The guard paled, but shook his head, raising his hands as if to say there was nothing he could do. The colour rose in Uhtric’s cheeks and I thought he was about to strike the man. My horse shied as someone in the crowd roared and threw something. I listed in the saddle precariously and almost lost my seat. A dark shape flashed through the sunlight and smacked into Uhtric’s uncovered head. The object splattered wetly, leaving a damp stain on his hair and his tunic, where it slid away to be lost in the rabble pressing about his horse. It was a lump of manure. Uhtric, face suddenly grim with rage, surveyed the crowd, but he could not see who had thrown the turd.
“Men,” he bellowed. “Disperse this crowd.” He cast his gaze about the traders, farmers and ceorls, as if he expected the one who had assaulted him to step forward. “Now!”
My horse sidestepped again and I clung to the reins. All of Uhtric’s warriors slid from their saddles and with practised speed hefted shields that had been slung on their backs. Where the day had been hot and dusty, there was a sudden chill of death in the air. Hereward drew his sword and cracked it against the rim of his shield. The rest of the men did likewise and in moments, the dozen warriors, shields overlapping and rhythmically beating their blades against the linden boards, had formed a shieldwall and were stepping menacingly towards the crowd. I was shocked at how quickly the threat of violence had come to this place and again I understood why the ceorls were scared of lords and their warbands.
I saw defiance in the eyes of some of the local men, but then Hereward and the others crashed their blades against their shields again and took a deliberate step forward. With the approach of the warriors, naked steel glimmering in the late afternoon sun, the rabble seemed to deflate. First one, and then another retreated to make way for Uhtric and his retinue. In a few heartbeats, they had moved back sufficiently to grant us passage. Anger rolled off them like the stink from the manure underfoot, but they did not move as Hereward and the others, seemingly confident that the men and women of Eoforwic had been cowed, climbed back onto their mounts and rode slowly after their hlaford.
Suddenly fearful that I would be left behind, I heeled my horse and followed the others. Runolf nudged his own mount forward and slipped into step beside me. He seemed unperturbed by the crowd, but I detected a lopsided smile on his face as if he had enjoyed the crackling tension in the air. He saw me watching him and his smile broadened. The flash of his teeth was feral and his eyes seemed to glow in the golden afternoon sunlight.
I shivered, despite the warmth, and quickly rode past him. I could hear him chuckling as I passed.
We clattered through the gates and into Eoforwic. I had heard many tales of the city, of course, but I had never before visited the largest settlement in the north of Britain. The sounds and smells of so many people instantly assailed my senses and left me reeling. I knew not where to look and I soon felt giddy with trying to take in so many things at once.
There were traders with open-fronted shops displaying all manner of wares from plain earthenware pots to cunningly crafted colourful glass beads. There were butchers and fishmongers, leather workers and wood turners. All shouted for our attention and the sound was an assault on our senses after riding through the calm of the countryside. We rode now along streets thick with mud and refuse. The stench was terrible and I wondered how so many people could survive in such close proximity. Surely the stink would bring the pestilence. I made the sign of the cross and offered a silent prayer to protect us from the miasmas of the city.
The clanging of a smith at work made me twist in my saddle in time to see the soot-smeared man in his leather apron plunging something into a barrel of water with a hiss of steam. My horse snorted but plodded on, following the others.
Two men stumbled out of a darkened doorway, cursing and shouting something about cheating at dice. The first man staggered backwards, into Hereward’s horse. Hereward kicked him and the man swung around, raising his fists aggressively. Hereward placed his hand on his sword hilt and half drew the weapon from its scabbard. The man was not drunk enough to fight an armed warrior and so, shaking his head he turned away, only to receive a solid punch in the face from his original opponent. He fell to the quagmire of the street and soon the two men were gouging and punching, snarling like animals as they rolled in the muck.
We rode on.
Turning a corner past a dilapidated shed with mildewed walls and a great rent in its mouldering thatch, the smell of fish struck me. Grey and red guts slimed the ground, but all of the day’s catch must have al
ready been sold for I could see no fresh fish. A great rack of hanging smoked mackerel stood before one of the houses. The sight of it made me think of Aelfwyn and, unbidden, tears pricked my eyes. I cuffed them away, hoping that nobody had witnessed my weakness.
“It is quite something, is it not?” said Leofstan. “I am always surprised at the number of people who live here.”
Even Runolf, usually so calm and undaunted by anything, looked about him with a sense of wonder. There could be no doubt from his face that, like me, he had never seen the like of Eoforwic before.
Hereward had dropped back to ride near us and now he laughed at our expressions.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” We were passing a sizeable stone church which I assumed was the building originally erected by Bishop Paulinus centuries before. “But don’t let the church fool you,” Hereward went on. “You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.”
“Is it always like this?” I asked.
“Always busy, but this is the week leading up to Saint Peter’s day. People have journeyed from far and wide to take part in the feast day. It is a good time to come here. There are many entertainments to be enjoyed, if you understand my meaning.” He laughed at his own comment. “But before we can partake of the pleasures offered to us within the walls of the city, we must first follow my lord to the king’s hall. And then, perhaps we will be able to finish what we started back on the holy island.” He indicated Runolf with a nod and mimicked placing a noose around his neck and tugging on an invisible rope. He made a squawking sound and stuck his tongue out. Laughing, he kicked his mount forward, joining Uhtric once again at the head of the column.
A Time for Swords Page 13
