A Time for Swords

by Matthew Harffy

  “More hens and sheep for the foxes and wolves,” he said. He shook his head slowly. “Do you believe him?”

  Surprised by the question, I faltered.

  “Yes, lord king, I do,” I said at last. I flicked a glance at the massive warrior beside me and realised it was true. “Runolf came to these shores with murder in his heart,” I continued, “following this Jarl Skorri. But since I first saw him, he has done nothing to make me doubt his word and he has risked his life to save three children from death.”

  “Three, you say?” replied the king. “I thought you said there were two.”

  I told him of how he had saved the child and slain Framric at Werceworthe.

  “He is a curious man indeed,” Æthelred said. “And now I understand the strange cut of his hair. I had thought it unusual that a murderous Norseman should wear the tonsure.”

  “Perhaps the hair is not so strange,” I said.

  The king raised his eyebrows.

  “You think he is become a monk?” he asked with a frown. One of the men at the table sniggered.

  “No. He is yet no Christian. But I believe that he has been touched by God.”

  “Truly? Why do you think this?”

  I looked at the expectant faces of the men of worth gathered along the length of the high table. I could feel the tension in Leofstan from where he stood close to me. My mouth was as dry as dust. What was I thinking? I was talking to the king. He did not wish to hear the opinions of the likes of me. And yet he was waiting patiently for an answer to his question. Surely, if God had truly chosen Runolf to help defend His brethren from the scourge of Norse attacks, as I believed, then it was also He who had given me the courage and rage to fight on Lindisfarnae. And it must also be the Almighty’s plan to have brought me here before the king of Northumbria.

  “I—” My voice cracked. I started again. “I believe God has brought Runolf to us, so that he might help us fight against the heathens who will surely come from the sea once more.”

  “This is ridiculous,” said Daegmund, the priest, raising his voice and half-standing in his anger. “This boy is speaking nonsense. Sentence the heathen to death and then dispatch some of your warhost to protect the minsters at Hereteu, Streanæshealh, Gyruum and Werceworthe.”

  Æthelred held up his hand once more for quiet and turned slowly to face the priest. Daegmund withered beneath the monarch’s stare.

  “Do not presume to tell me how to run my kingdom, priest. And I will not tell you how to pray.” The king scowled at Daegmund. When he was finally sure the priest would speak no more, he continued. “Ever since Uhtric’s messenger arrived with the grave tidings of the attack on Lindisfarnae, I have pondered what I should do. If the Norsemen plan to attack again, surely it is my duty as king to send warriors to guard the monasteries. And yet I do not even have the men to defend all of my borders. The Welsh of Powys and the Mercians are threatening the south and west. I cannot send men to stand idle for weeks or months just in case the Norse should come once more. There are real battles I will need to fight this year, I cannot spare the men to protect against raids that may never take place. Besides, you do not need a host to fight against pirates and brigands.”

  “But lord,” said Daegmund, “you would leave the minsters unprotected. If the Norse return, the men and women will be slaughtered.”

  Æthelred closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I had thought, Daegmund, that men of God would pray for their protection. Will not the Lord protect His own?”

  Daegmund, clearly enraged, began to respond, but I cut off his surly reply.

  “A wise man once told me,” I said, “that God leads us down mysterious paths. You do not have the warriors available to protect the minsters, but the Lord has sent us one who knows the ways of the Norsemen. One who can fight and help us to defend ourselves.”

  Æthelred frowned.

  “Surely you cannot be suggesting that I send this heathen back with you to Werceworthe.”

  “Lord, I—” blurted out Daegmund, but the king silenced him with a cutting gesture of his hand.

  “I am speaking, Daegmund,” he said.

  “But—” replied the priest.

  “Silence.” Again Æthelred sliced the air with his hand and this time Daegmund ceased talking. “I am speaking to Hunlaf of Werceworthe. Well,” he asked, staring into my eyes, “is that what you are proposing?”

  I could not breathe, but I managed to answer.

  “It is, lord king.”

  For a long while, Æthelred was silent. He stared at me, as if weighing up my worth. I wanted to flee, but I stood my ground and met his gaze.

  “No,” he said at last. “This thing you ask for cannot be. Look at him. He said it himself. It would be like the fox sent to guard the chickens.”

  I sighed. Of course I had known that the king would reject the idea. What had I been thinking? I would return to Werceworthe and await the imminent attack from the Norsemen myself. Perhaps I could convince Beonna to move the brethren, or we could build defences.

  “If I may, my lord.” Uhtric’s voice broke me out of my dejection. The king nodded to the lord of Bebbanburg, giving his consent for the man to talk.

  “I know this is unusual,” Uhtric said, “but I agree with the monk. When first I laid eyes on this man,” he nodded towards Runolf, who stood in rigid silence, “I wished to see him dead for his sins and those of the men he had travelled with. We even had a rope about his neck and had lifted him from the ground. But it was the bishop of Lindisfarnae who bade us cut him down.” He shook his head as if he could scarcely believe his own words. “And since then, I have seen a man who would put his life at risk to rescue a child from a crazed thief. He has made no attempt to escape, despite knowing we were taking him to what was probably certain death. He gave me his word that he would not flee and I believed him. And so it was. And here he is before you, at your mercy. And I cannot believe that the Lord has seen fit for him to come here only to be killed. There must be more purpose in his being here than that.”

  I was amazed that Uhtric was speaking out for my idea and for Runolf. It must be the workings of the Almighty for his mind to have changed so drastically.

  “Mayhap the Good Lord spared him on Lindisfarnae so that he could save the child in Werceworthe,” mused the king. “Perhaps there is nothing more for him to do.”

  “Maybe,” replied Uhtric. “But I think the monk has read the signs correctly.”

  “It is true, lord king.” The new voice startled me. It was Leofstan, who had until this moment remained silent.

  The king raised one eyebrow.

  “Speak, brother monk,” he said.

  “Not only has Christ spared the life of Runolf and brought him here to us with knowledge and ability to fight against the heathens, but the Lord also sent Hunlaf a vision.”

  “A vision?” asked the king, leaning forward.

  “Yes, on the night after the events at Werceworthe. The Holy Spirit came upon him and he was filled with the certainty that Runolf was sent to aid us.”

  “What did you see, Hunlaf?” Æthelred asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “I saw Runolf fighting against the heathens. They fell before him like wheat under a scythe. And above his head there fluttered a white dove.”

  The king made the sign of the cross and glanced over at Daegmund.

  “This changes everything,” he said, and there was awe in his voice. I felt a twinge of guilt at my embellishment of the truth.

  Leofstan inclined his head to me in acknowledgement. If he knew I had lied, he showed no sign.

  “But the man is a pagan,” said Daegmund, his voice dripping with disdain. “He cannot be trusted.”

  “The vision shows that Christ has chosen him,” said the king. “And so he must be baptised. Can you do that without delay?”

  “Well,” the priest said, “that would be most irregular. He should learn the catechism, and then—”

  Æ
thelred interrupted him.

  “Can it be done today?”

  Daegmund’s face grew red, but he bit his lip and said, “Tomorrow morning would be possible, my lord king.”

  “Good.” Æthelred clapped his hands and grinned. He seemed pleased to have made up his mind. “Tell him.” He looked at me, and I explained to Runolf as best I could, what had been decided. I did not know the word for baptism, so I described the process to him.

  “I am to be washed?” he growled, confusion furrowing his brow. “Not killed?”

  “Washed clean of your sins,” I said.

  “And then what? Will I have to shave my head like this forever?” He rasped one of his massive hands over the stubble on the crown of his head. “If I have to do that, I would rather they hang me and be done with it.”

  I chuckled, relief washing through me.

  “No, only monks wear the tonsure.”

  He grinned.

  “That is good then. I like my hair long, but I do not mind a bath. I am stinking like a pig anyway!”

  Runolf’s smile was infectious and the mood in the hall lifted.

  “So it is settled then,” said Æthelred. “The Norseman will be baptised on the morrow.”

  One of the nobles, a portly man with quivering jowls and a bulbous nose, coughed and whispered something that I was unable to hear.

  Æthelred looked sombre once more.

  “Is the Norseman oath-sworn?” he asked. “Does a lord have his oath?”

  I posed the question to Runolf and he replied with a gruff shake of his head and a few terse words.

  “He says he is sworn to no man.”

  The king stroked his long moustache.

  “A lordless man is dangerous. If I am to allow him to keep his life and to remain within my kingdom, he must prove his fealty. Uhtric, you have vouched for this man, so you will hear his oath. Tomorrow he will be baptised into the one faith and he will swear loyalty to you. He will be your man, and your responsibility.”

  Uhtric paled at these words, but there was no way for him to back out now.

  “Now go and prepare yourself for the feast, man,” Æthelred said. “You must find yourself some clean clothes, for you will sit at the high table and I would hear more of what has occurred in the north under your watch.”

  Æthelred’s dismissal was clear.

  Uhtric bowed and we made to leave the hall. As we turned, the king spoke again.

  “And Uhtric.” We halted and faced the king once more.

  “My lord king?” Uhtric said, keeping his voice low and devoid of emotion.

  “You will see to it that this new man of yours, Runolf Ragnarsson, ensures that the minster at Werceworthe is safe from the heathen pirates. The monk’s vision was of the Norseman protecting the brethren. He is your man now, so it is on your shoulders to see that he delivers on the promise of the lad’s dream.”

  Nineteen

  When we left the hall, the enormity of what had transpired within seemed to hit us all at once, as if we had been plunged from the dry deck of a ship into the freezing waters of the North Sea, and we were left breathless and struggling.

  Uhtric was furious and would not speak to anyone as a bondsman led us across the courtyard to another building that was considerably smaller than the great hall, but still a large structure with a freshly thatched roof and recently painted walls. The sun was setting and the promise of darkness hung over the land and in the shadows around the hall where we would spend the night.

  Behind us, guests were arriving at the king’s hall and the sounds of merriment drifted from the open doors. As we had left, servants and thralls were hurrying to light all the candles and lamps needed to illuminate such a majestic building.

  The servant opened the door to the small hall that had been appointed as our lodging and Uhtric strutted inside, dismissing the man with a click of his fingers. We followed the lord in silence. The doorway was carved with interlocking creatures and patterns in much the same way as the columns of the great hall, and I marvelled at the skill of the craftsman who had fashioned such ornate figures in the timber. The interior of the hall was gloomy, but one rush light had been lit, allowing a couple of Uhtric’s men to use the flame to light the others. Soon the smell of burning tallow pervaded the place and the flickering lights filled the dwelling with a ruddy glow.

  “What has happened?” murmured Runolf. Uhtric’s displeasure was clear, but of course, the Norseman had missed most of the words spoken in the great hall before we left.

  I whispered an explanation of the king’s final commands and Runolf’s face darkened.

  “I do not wish to swear an oath to Uhtric or to any man,” he grumbled. “An eiðr is not something given lightly.”

  As if he could understand Runolf’s words, Uhtric rounded on him.

  “Tell him I would rather not accept the oath of a heathen. But I cannot defy my king.”

  “Well, lord,” said Hereward with a twisted grin, “by midday he will be baptised and no longer a heathen.”

  Uhtric glowered at him before tugging off his travel-stained kirtle and flinging it onto one of the pallets that had been set up for us.

  “Fetch me clean clothes, Hereward,” he snapped. “And if you know what is good for you, you will keep your idea of wit to yourself.”

  Hereward, seeming to realise he had overstepped his mark, nodded and silently began to rummage through the saddle bags that servants had carried in from the stabled horses.

  “What if I do not swear?” asked Runolf.

  Uhtric had picked up the dirty kirtle once more and, having dipped it into a pail of water, was rubbing it over first his face and then his torso, wiping away the sweat and grime from the journey.

  “What is he saying?” he growled.

  I told him.

  “Well, Runolf,” Uhtric said, taking a clean blue kirtle from Hereward and pulling it over his head, “if you do not swear your oath to me on the morrow, I will be in disfavour with Æthelred. That is something I truly do not want.” He sat and used the damp kirtle to wipe the dust of the journey from his shoes. “If that happens, I will finish what I started at that tree on Lindisfarnae.” He glanced up at Runolf. “And that, I imagine, is something that you do not want.”

  He spoke in a deadly earnest tone. I relayed his words to Runolf, who sat silent for a long while, watching as Uhtric rose and replaced his belt that Hereward had cleaned without being asked.

  “And what is the price for me being washed by the priest and giving my oath to you?” Runolf asked.

  Uhtric listened to my translation.

  “Apart from keeping your life?” he said.

  Clearly understanding the words or the meaning, Runolf nodded.

  “Yes,” he said in his heavily accented Englisc. “More than that.”

  “Well, you will be my oath-sworn man, so you will obey me. And first of all, you will go to Werceworthe and prepare its defence against your friends.”

  On hearing this Hereward could keep silent no longer.

  “But, lord,” he said. “Surely you cannot be saying you will allow the heathen to lead the defence of the monastery!”

  Uhtric smiled, but there was no mirth in the expression.

  “But, Hereward,” he said, mocking the warrior’s tone, “after midday tomorrow he will be a heathen no longer.” Some of the other men laughed as Hereward blustered at having his own jest flung back into his face. “Besides,” continued the lord of Bebbanburg, “I do not wish for Runolf to lead the defence. The king has made me responsible for the minster, so I will need someone I can trust. A good Christian Northumbrian man, not a Norseman still wet from his baptism.”

  Hereward frowned, his lord’s meaning becoming clear.

  “But, lord—” he began, but Uhtric held up his hand for quiet.

  “Yes, Hereward,” he said, his grin broadening. “You are to return to Werceworthe and you will organise the defence. Make good use of Runolf’s knowledge and his battle-skill, b
ut you will lead.”

  “But—”

  “Enough!” snapped Uhtric. “My decision is made. You will lead the defence and speak with my voice. And I will be glad of the peace from your chatter and complaining.” Again the other warriors laughed. Hereward scowled. “You are a brave warrior,” Uhtric said, taking his cloak from one of the men who had been brushing it, “but you do harp on like a fisher woman.”

  The use of the term made me think of Aelfwyn and the joy I had felt at the turn of events was dampened.

  Uhtric swung the cloak about his shoulders. Fixing the fine golden brooch at his neck, he stepped towards the door.

  “I will see that food and drink are sent to you,” he said. At the doorway, he turned. “So, Runolf,” he fixed the great Norseman with his gaze, “what say you? Will you give me your oath tomorrow? Or shall I have your neck stretched.”

  Runolf loured back at him for several heartbeats. Nobody made a sound.

  “Oath,” Runolf rumbled at last.

  Uhtric nodded.

  “Very well,” he said. “Till the morn then.”

  Just as he was about to leave the hall, Hereward called after him.

  “Lord, how many men may I lead to Werceworthe?”

  Uhtric leaned against the carved door jamb. I noticed that where he had placed his hand gave the impression that a carven image of a raven rested on his fingers.

  “You heard the king,” he said. “It is madness to garrison a monastery and just wait for an attack that may never occur.”

  “Lord?” Hereward’s voice had lost its bluster now. It sounded small and uncertain.

  “I am not sending any men with you. You will have to fend for yourselves. Or maybe,” he said, with an unkind gleam in his eye, “you and the Norseman can teach the monks and ceorls to fight.”

  He did not wait for a reply from Hereward, but swept out and into the night. From across the courtyard came the sound of revelry and laughter from the feast.

  As I stood there in the dimly lit hall staring after the form of the lord of Bebbanburg, I couldn’t help but wonder if the guests in the great hall were laughing at me.

  Twenty