Twenty-One
“I can’t see what is happening,” I moaned.
The crowd before me swayed like an ocean. A great roaring cheer went up as one of the combatants landed a blow. We had left the cool quiet of the church of Saint Peter and headed towards the heated excitement of the fight, but by the time we arrived, the wagers had been placed and the brutal combat with fists had commenced. The two fighters were standing on an area of grass the size of a laid-out cloak and even if either should wish to run from his opponent, they were surrounded by such a dense pack of baying onlookers, that flight would have been impossible.
Just as it was impossible for me to see anything of the action taking place just a few paces away. Even Runolf with his extra height could make out little. He stood up on his toes and peered over the heads of the crowd.
Another cry from the audience spoke of excitement in the contest, but all I could see were people’s backs. The sun was warm on my tonsured head but my legs were cold. My habit was still soaked and it had flapped like a chill hand against my calves as we had walked. Unable to see anything of interest, I looked up and saw there was not a cloud in the sky. The day would be hot and my robe would dry soon enough.
The crowd gasped at some unseen event and I sighed.
“I cannot see a thing,” I said again. Leofstan shook his head. I knew he disapproved of such violent activities, but I longed to watch the two fighters trading blows. Besides, I told myself, perhaps one of them, or even both, might join our band. Men who would allow themselves to be beaten in such a manner must be desperate indeed.
With a sudden growl, Runolf began pushing people aside with his huge bulk.
“Follow me,” he said.
After an instant of hesitation, I moved in close behind him and allowed him to lead me through the tightly packed throng. Hereward and Leofstan fell in behind me and the four of us made our way through the surging sea of people like Moses traversing the Red Sea. But instead of God’s power parting the waves, Runolf used brute strength and his size. Men yelled abuse at him as he barged them out of the way. A few turned, ready to fight, until they saw the giant of a Norseman, bristling beard jutting from a square jaw, arms knotted with muscles and legs like tree trunks. When they saw him, they backed away, allowing him free passage through the crowd. I knew it was not only his strength and size that made men change their mind. There was a coldness to Runolf’s eyes that spoke of a past of bloodletting and death. And few men want to become part of the future of a man with such a dark history behind him. Fewer still are brave enough to confront him.
As we reached the edge of the mass of humanity, Runolf grasped my shoulder in one of his huge hands and shoved me in front of him. I felt like a child whose father helps him to better see the entertainment. My cheeks flushed in embarrassment, but the truth was, I was pleased to be able to see and happy that Runolf had brought me to the front.
I shifted my attention from the Norseman and the crowd, to the two figures in the small rectangle of space before us. The smaller of them grunted and staggered as the other landed a crunching punch to his jaw. His head snapped back and blood fountained from his mouth and splattered across my face like a slap. I gasped and tasted the metallic warm liquid on my tongue. The audience jeered and screamed, the noise terrible now that we were at its centre.
I spat and wiped my hand across my face. The back of my bandage came away red.
I stared at the combatants and my world narrowed, so that all I could see were the two men, fists up, stripped bare to the waist. Each wore plain breeches and I noted that neither man had shoes on his feet.
They were both clearly skilled in the art of fist fighting, for the two of them were smeared in blood, but they still moved quickly, alert and ready to attack or defend.
One of them was a massive monster of a man. His shoulders and neck were clumped with slabs of muscle and sinew and I was instantly reminded of a bull. He was bald and his features were pudgy and swollen, his ears great lumps of meat as if not a day went by without someone battering him about the head and face. His knuckles were covered in blood, and I could not be sure if from his own wounds or his opponents. Then I noted that both men’s fists were bound in rags, presumably to stop their skin from splitting.
As I watched, he threw out a jab. His arms were very long and his reach almost caught his opponent off guard. But the smaller of the two was fast and he rolled his head to one side, allowing the giant’s fist to glance harmlessly off his shoulder.
The crowd screamed and shouted. They wanted more blood. I could feel myself pulled in by the energy of the fight, like jetsam dragged along on a swelling sea.
The smaller fighter was a full head shorter than his adversary and I could not imagine how he could hope to stand against such a mighty foe. This second fighter was like nobody I had ever seen before. His hair was dark, oiled and tied in a plait down his back. His torso, arms and face were painted in whorls and swirls of dark blue. I had heard of such men. They lived far away in the north, in the lands of Causantín mac Fergusa, beyond the realms of King Æthelred. The tattooed fighter was one of the painted men; a Pict. I was fascinated by the patterns on his skin, but it was difficult to make sense of them for he never stopped moving. His feet danced in the muddy grass and his fists flew almost too quickly to see. The massive bald warrior was struggling to make contact with the nimble Pictish fighter until, with a feint followed up with an uppercut to his midriff, he connected one of his boulder-like fists with the Pict’s lean, tattooed body. The Pict was lifted from his feet and fell to one knee, panting. I expected the huge warrior to finish him. But he stepped back, raising his hands to the crowd and accepting their cheer of approval for letting the fight run on. On his knee, the Pict stared up at him, struggling to regain his breath. I thought of Runolf towering over me. Like me, the smaller man looked like a child when compared to the hulking bald warrior before him. But there was no denying he was brave and well-skilled.
“The big man is a fool,” Hereward said and I glanced at him incredulously.
“Why?”
“He should have finished the Pict while he had the chance. He was lucky to hit him then. But such is the way with some men, they seek glory from the crowd more than success. Never lose sight of the prize, Hunlaf.”
“What is he saying?” rumbled Runolf. I told him and he nodded. The Pict was now pushing himself up and standing unsteadily before the massive bald fighter.
“He has the truth of it,” Runolf said. I frowned. Were they watching the same fight? “Watch,” he said, perhaps sensing my disbelief.
Beside me, Hereward was speaking to someone, shouting over the noise to place a wager on the Pictish warrior winning. I could scarcely believe it. Hereward must be mad, I thought. But of course, then, like most men, I was no warrior. I had not stood in a shieldwall. I had not seen countless men meet their deaths at the hands of those faster, stronger or luckier than them. And having done none of those things, I could not see beyond the obvious. I saw a stronger man, with a longer reach. He had skill and power and a seemingly endless amount of confidence. Runolf and Hereward measured the two fighters with the eyes of seasoned warriors. They noted the scars beneath the tattoos, denoting where the Pict had survived injury in battle. There were no scars on his back, only on his arms and chest. They took in the fleetness of his feet and the speed of his fists. They recognised a man who will not allow himself to be beaten. Someone who will kill or be killed in the attempt.
They saw one of their own kind.
The crowd quietened somewhat as the two men circled each other. They exchanged a few punches, but nothing decisive. There was a flurry of blows and then the men parted. The Pict lowered his head, seemingly exhausted.
“Kill the fucking Pictish bastard,” came a shout over the general hubbub.
The bald giant turned towards the shout with a grin. And without warning the tattooed Pict flew into action. He leapt forward and the onlookers let out a collective gasp as his right fist smashed into t
he giant’s nose. The Pict was smaller than the bald fighter, but he was not a small man and his blows carried a warrior’s strength. Anticipating the larger man’s response to the crunching right hook that broke his nose and sent blood streaming over his chin and chest, the Pict danced back, easily avoiding the wild swings. The giant roared and surged forward, but the Pict ducked and weaved before him, dodging and deflecting his attacks. Gone was his apparent tiredness of moments before, replaced with a vibrant energy and savage ruthlessness.
The hugely muscled fighter stumbled forward, bloodied and raging. The Pict skipped out of his reach and then, the instant he saw an opening, he sprang forward, driving a jab into his opponent’s ear, which sent him reeling. The Pict followed this up with a solid punch to the man’s exposed throat. Gurgling and gasping for air, the huge fighter staggered backwards, clutching at his neck, but the Pict did not stop raining blows on his enemy. Again and again the bald man’s head was snapped back as the Pict hammered his fists into the bleeding face. In moments, the giant was a bloody mess and he soon fell to the earth, insensate.
There was so much blood smearing the big man’s face that he looked like a slab of butchered meat. My mind spun at the speed of the change in his fortune. There was a pause, as if the crowd held its breath, and then everybody was talking and shouting at once. Those who had backed the Pict were overjoyed, but the majority had placed their bets on the giant and many of the shouts were filled with anger. Men rushed to the fallen form of the fighter and I wondered whether he would live.
“You see?” said Runolf. “There is more to fighting than strength.” He grinned, clearly having enjoyed the spectacle. “Though that helps too.”
The crowd was thinning already as the people went to find other forms of entertainment. That was another lesson I learnt that day. There are few who care for the warriors once a fight is over.
Leofstan was pale next to me. I wondered if I looked as shocked. I thought not. I felt exhilarated and breathless; stunned at the violence, but excited by the skill and power I had witnessed. Leofstan reached out as if to touch my face, then snatched back his hand.
“There is blood,” he said.
I wiped at my cheek with my bandaged hand, but could not be sure if I had removed all of the offending fluid.
“I told you,” said Hereward, returning from collecting his winnings. “I wish I had wagered more now. Perhaps then we would have had enough silver to pay for men.”
“Perhaps,” said Leofstan, “a man willing to withstand having his face battered for the chance of making enough to live, might also be interested in joining us.”
“Perhaps,” said Hereward with a broad smile. “There’s only one way to find out.”
We walked through the dispersing crowd to where the Pict sat with another couple of men beside a cart. One of the men held a wooden bucket and the other was using a cloth to wipe the blood from the Pict’s wounds. The tattooed man was unwrapping the blood-soaked rags that had protected his knuckles. Beneath the dirty bandages, his hands were red and swollen. He plunged them into the cold water of the bucket and held them there.
Looking up from where he sat on a chest, the Pict said, “If you lost money on the fight, do not blame me.” His accent was thick and strange, but the words were clear enough.
He took our small group in with a glance, lingering a heartbeat longer on Runolf.
“No, no, it is nothing like that,” said Hereward. “I could see you were the better fighter from the first blow I witnessed.” The Pict said nothing. “I bet on you.” The Pict nodded.
The older of the two men with him, the one cleaning his cuts, turned to Hereward.
“We thank you for your praise and hope you enjoyed the fight, but now, Drosten must rest.”
“We have a proposition for you,” Hereward said.
“What kind of proposition,” asked the old man, narrowing his eyes appraisingly.
“Not for you, old man,” replied Hereward, dismissing the man and fixing the Pict with a cold stare. “This is an offer for you, Drosten,” he stumbled over the name slightly, but it sounded close enough to my ears.
“What offer?” asked Drosten.
Hereward told him that we were looking for warriors to fight against Norsemen.
“And I would be paid only in food?” Drosten asked, shaking his head in disbelief.
“And a roof over your head,” added Hereward.
“And the blessing of the Abbot of Werceworthe and the Bishop of Lindisfarnae,” said Leofstan. Judging from the frown on his face, the offered rewards for his service were not doing much to convince Drosten.
“So what say you?” Hereward asked. “Will you join us?”
Drosten stared at each of us in turn as if we were all mad. Pulling his hands from the bucket, he held them out for the old man to dry.
“No,” he said, shaking his head.
Twenty-Two
We walked despondently through the jumble of stalls and tents that were set up all over the open ground before the church.
Hereward nudged me to get my attention and handed me one of the four small pies he had bought with his winnings.
“Here. Eat this. It will take your mind off the fact that we are doomed to die at the hands of marauding Norsemen.” He gave me a lopsided smile, but I could not be sure if he was jesting or not. I had been there on Lindisfarnae and I could find no humour in his words. “You didn’t truly believe men would offer their services for a crust of bread and a roof over their heads, did you?” he asked.
I looked at my hands and my stomach grumbled. The pastry was warm and the rich scent of meat and vegetables that oozed from within was delectable. I did not know how to respond to Hereward’s words so I took a bite of the pie, regretting it instantly as hot juices ran over my chin and scalded my fingers. I breathed quickly through my mouth in an effort to avoid burning my tongue.
Hereward snorted at my predicament and shook his head. He nibbled on the crust of his own pie. He spoke lightly, but I could see the tension in his eyes and the set of his shoulders.
We walked on. Runolf alone amongst us seemed relaxed and unfrightened by what would happen when we returned to the minster. He gazed about him at the hawkers, jugglers, livestock, acrobats and scops with a broad grin on his face.
“You do not worry?” I asked him in Norse.
“Worry? About what?”
“The future.”
He laughed, without much mirth it seemed to me. He looked about him with wide eyes.
“Days ago I was hanging from my neck. A few more heartbeats and I would be dead. Everything since then is a gift, Hunlaf.” He bit into his pie, licked his lips and closed his eyes, relishing the flavour. The pies were delicious, but my mouth was now burnt and painful, making it difficult for me to enjoy mine. “Look about you,” Runolf said. “The day is warm, and for now, we are safe. There are things to see and food to eat. There is little else in this life of value.”
I thought of the Scriptures I had copied onto vellum, of the word of God I had learnt and the offices that Leofstan and I had missed since leaving the monastery. Surely hard work and a devotion to God were important. Surely such things had worth.
“You want nothing more then?” I asked.
He turned to me and his face clouded.
“I have had more,” he said, then looked away as a boy ran past whooping with glee as a younger girl chased him, screaming and laughing. Runolf watched them as they dashed between two stalls and were lost to view. “Nothing lasts. This is all there is.” He swallowed the rest of his pie and walked on.
“Why would a warrior join us?” said Hereward, bringing me back to the problem we faced. “He would be offering to die for strangers, and for what?”
I shook my head. I had been certain that this was God’s plan for me; that He had brought me and the others here so that we could take warriors back to Werceworthe. And yet the more time that passed, the more futile my idea seemed and the less sure I was that it was
the Lord who spoke to me and not my own wishful imaginings.
I wanted to say to Hereward that God would provide us with men, but Drosten’s terse rejection was still fresh in our minds. After speaking to the Pict, we had sought out his defeated opponent. Despite the battering he had sustained, the huge man had been sitting up and drinking ale when we’d found him. He had cleaned some of the blood from his face, but there was still enough on him to make him look like an animal who had escaped the butcher’s blade halfway through being slaughtered.
Hereward had bought him a cup of ale and praised him on his fighting, his strength and his bravery. The bald man had seemed accustomed to such sentiments being expressed after a bout and he only really appeared to listen when the Northumbrian warrior explained our offer.
The giant listened patiently, then guffawed with laughter, showing off his blood-stained teeth. I noticed that two of his front teeth were missing, whether lost in the most recent fight or from a previous brawl, I could not tell.
When he had his laughter under control, he said, “I do not make a lot of silver in these fights, but I make enough to get by. And when I lose, I get to pick myself up and have a drink, like now.” He raised his cup to his swollen lips and took a long draught to illustrate his point. “I will fight again later, or tomorrow. If this had been with blades, I would be feeding the crows now. So no. I am a fighter with these,” he held up his massive, gnarled and scabbed fists, “not with an axe or a sword. May God grant you victory over these Norsemen you speak of, but I will not be joining you.”
I don’t know what I had expected, but I hadn’t thought we would be dismissed so quickly by the warriors we were drawn to.
Leofstan placed a hand on my shoulder.
“God spoke to you, didn’t He?” he asked.
“I thought so,” I replied. I had been so certain, but Hereward was right, this was folly.
“Then have faith,” said Leofstan. “Put your trust in Christ.”
I frowned. I was not sure that faith would be enough. Who was I to think that God would work through me? But before I could reply, a loud shout drew my attention.
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