A man was bellowing in anger, or perhaps pain. We all heard it and Runolf turned in the direction of the commotion, following several others who were moving towards the sound to find out the cause. The source of the shouting soon became apparent.
A burly man with a full beard and ruddy, sweaty cheeks stood before a younger, slender man. The slim man was unmoving, despite the tirade of abuse and invective that the bearded man was spouting at him. The older man leaned in close so that his spittle flecked the other’s face. The slim man blinked.
“You did not win, I say!” screamed the stocky, bearded man, swaying slightly with the force of his anger and with just enough drunkenness to make him brave and foolish.
“Come on, Rilberht,” called an onlooker. “Leave it now. Let’s go and get another ale. It is too hot to be standing here arguing over a couple of peningas.”
The angry man spun around and almost lost his balance.
“You go then,” he slurred. “I will beat this Welsh bastard first.”
“He was better than you,” said the man in the crowd. “We all saw it. Come now, you lost, but we’ll still buy you that drink.” Several other men nodded, clearly wishing to dampen the flames of the man’s ire.
“Maybe we can come back later,” said one, with a placatory smile. “You can try again then.”
“No!” bellowed Rilberht. “I will show him,” he jabbed a finger towards the slim man, who calmly took a step back, “and you all!”
For the first time, the thin man spoke. His voice was cool and clear, but with the musical lilt of the inhabitants of the western kingdoms, from Powys or Gwynedd; the men known as the Welsh.
“I have beaten you once. I can do so again, if that will make you accept defeat.”
“Defeat, is it?” spluttered Rilberht. “You did not defeat me before and you will not do so now.”
The Welshman shook his head and sighed.
“If I win this time, you will pay me the two peningas we agreed?”
“I will not have to pay you anything because I will win.”
One of the drunk man’s friends called out, “We’ll see he pays you what he owes.”
“I’ll show you,” said the drunk. “I’ll show all of you.” His eyes narrowed. “But I do not trust your thrower. You are in league with him.”
“The man who threw the wood was not known to me,” replied the Welshman with a shake of the head. “Choose another. I care not.”
The drunk scanned the crowd until his gaze settled on me.
“You,” he said. “Monk, come here. A monk won’t cheat.” I thought of Leofstan’s words. Was this God’s plan? I should have faith in Him. I turned to the older monk and he shrugged.
“Be careful,” he whispered.
“What is it you would have me do?” I asked, stepping forward.
The Welshman picked up a round slice of timber, a cross section of elm, by the look of it. He handed it to me and I noted that it was scored and pitted, as if gouged by knives or a butcher’s cleaver.
“Stand there,” he said, pointing to a spot a few paces away. “When we are ready, toss it up and away from you as high as you are able.” He picked up another slab of wood and mimed swinging it underarm. “Understand?” I nodded.
“And what will you be doing?” I asked, suddenly nervous for my own safety. “Throwing knives?”
“Not knives,” he replied, with a thin smile. “These.”
He turned and scooped up two short handled axes. The heads were sharp and shone in the sun.
“The same as before,” said the Welshman, addressing the crowd as much as the surly man who had been shouting at him and who had picked me out of the audience. “We will each have two axes to throw. The most axes that stick win. If there is a draw, we will repeat until there is a winner.”
“Throw it high and be careful of his axes,” the Welshman whispered to me. He nodded for me to go to the place he had indicated. The crowd grew quiet and people moved away from where the axes would land if they missed. I could feel everybody watching me and I wished I had not stepped forward and accepted the timber target.
The Welshman held out his axes to his opponent. The angry man snatched them from him.
“Get on with it,” he shouted at me. “I would be done with this.”
I looked back, weighing the piece of wood in my hand. It was not heavy, but the scabs on my bandaged fingers stung, so I changed to my left hand.
“Ready?” I called out.
“Throw it,” growled the man.
I looked up at the pale blue of the sky. There was no breeze and the air was warm. A hush fell on the crowd as I started to swing the piece of wood with my arm straight. I swung it once, twice, three times and on the fourth swing, I shouted out, “Now!” and let the circle of wood soar into the sky, upwards and away from me. As it left my hand, I turned to watch the burly man, mindful of the Welshman’s warning. I needn’t have worried. Despite obviously suffering from the effects of too much drink, the man could throw. He stepped forward and let fly both axes, one from each hand. They glinted and glittered as they spun through the air. I was amazed at the skill to even attempt such a throw, and was astounded when one axe clattered into the spinning wood. The other missed it by less than a hand’s breadth.
The wood fell to the ground, along with both blades, but neither axe had bitten into the timber.
The man cursed loudly.
The Welshman said nothing, but walked slowly to retrieve the weapons. I followed him to pick up the wooden target.
“That throw was perfect,” he said in a quiet voice as he stooped to pick up the axes from the grass. “Just like that again, please.”
“What are you two whispering about?” shouted Rilberht.
The Welshman ignored him, returning to his side.
“Ready?” I asked when he had reached his original spot and had turned towards me. He nodded.
Again I swung my arm, building up momentum and letting fly with a shout of “Now!” on the fourth swing.
If I had been impressed with the drunk man’s throws, the Welshman’s skill was almost beyond belief. The axes flicked from his hands with a flash of reflected sunlight. They spun through the warm air and both of them hit the disc of wood blade-first. The timber flipped over from the impact and dropped to the grass. As it hit the earth, one of the axes was dislodged, leaving one sticking out of the scored flat side of the target and the other lying atop it.
The crowd gasped at the skill and then erupted in applause and shouts of praise.
Marvelling at what I had witnessed, I walked slowly back to where Hereward, Runolf and Leofstan watched. As I passed Rilberht, he grabbed at my habit. I pulled away, and felt a spark of the rage that had filled me on Lindisfarnae.
“Do not touch me,” I hissed.
The Welshman stepped forward in my defence, placing a hand on the sweaty man’s arm.
“I do not know this monk,” he said in his musical voice. “Leave him be.”
Rilberht, seeming to forget about me, spun about to face his adversary. He staggered briefly before regaining his balance and snarled, “You would say that, wouldn’t you? You are all in this together. You are a cheat and a braggart.”
The crowd had grown hushed now, watching the confrontation. This was an entertainment in its own right.
“Be careful of your tongue,” said the Welshman quietly. He was still calm, but a sudden chill had entered his voice, as if we had stepped out of the sunshine and into shade. “You are drunk, so I will ignore your insults, but I am running out of patience.” He fixed Rilberht in an unflinching gaze. “Now, pay me what you owe and begone.”
“I will pay you nothing!” spluttered Rilberht.
His friends stepped forward from the mass of onlookers. One held out a small pouch from which he produced a couple of thin silver coins.
“Here,” he said, offering them to the Welshman.
Another of his friends made to pull Rilberht away, but he shrugged him
off and lunged, knocking the coins from the other’s hand before the Welshman could take them.
“You will not have my money. You won by deception.”
The Welshman shook his head.
“I won by dint of skill,” he said. “Perhaps if you had not partaken of so much ale you would have bested me. You have skill.” This was gracious when all he had received were insults and abuse, but rather than mollifying Rilberht, his words seemed to have the opposite effect.
“Skill, is it?” he growled. “I have more skill in one hand than any Welshman has in his whole body.” He rushed forward and shoved the slim man hard in the chest, sending him backward a couple of paces. “If we had an axe each, I’d show you. I would best you in a duel.”
The Welshman steadied himself.
“I do not wish to duel with you,” he said.
“No,” sneered Rilberht, “of course you don’t. Because you know I would slay you in a fight.”
“I do not wish to fight you, friend.” The Welshman’s tone was soft and soothing, like one talking to an angry child or a wild animal.
“You’re not my friend, you Welsh cunt,” roared Rilberht. “You are a cheating, lying, sheep-swiving pig!”
“Come on, Rilberht,” implored one of his friends. He bent to retrieve the coins. “It’s not worth it.”
“I will say if it is worth it,” he said. “I will fight this Welsh weasel and you’ll all see who has more skill.” He raged at his friends to let him go and reluctantly, they stepped back.
The crowd watched on in hushed anticipation. Where there had been the promise of seeing skilled men throwing axes into wooden targets, now there was the prospect of blood and death. Forgotten now by both men, I backed away.
The Welshman sighed. He walked over to where the target and axes lay on the grass. Without taking his eyes off of Rilberht, he bent and picked up the axes. As if to taunt the drunk, the wooden target came up with one of the weapons and it took some effort to pry the blade free. The Welshman let the wooden disc fall back and walked towards Rilberht.
“My name is Gwawrddur ap Mynyddog,” he said, his voice now as cold and sharp as the axes in his hands. “I will let no man speak to me as you have. I have given you chance enough to walk away, but it seems you are determined to fight.”
Gwawrddur turned to the onlookers.
“Do you bear witness that I have not sought this? That this man is provoking me to fight?”
A rumble of agreement from the crowd.
“I do not wish to be hauled before the reeve for murder when I kill him,” Gwawrddur said to Rilberht’s friends. They shook their heads, holding up their hands.
“It is a duel of his making,” one said.
“Stop your talking,” slurred Rilberht. “Give me one of those axes and it will be you who dies.”
Gwawrddur smiled sadly and tossed one of the weapons to Rilberht, haft-first. Rilberht fumbled the catch and dropped the weapon. Someone in the crowd sniggered and Rilberht glared in the direction of the sound. Snatching up the weapon, he stood, legs apart, and faced Gwawrddur.
The Welshman walked back to where I had stood when throwing the targets. Rilberht swivelled to follow him, turning his back to us. The crowd shuffled backwards, suddenly fearful of an errant blade hurtling towards them. I too followed their example and stepped to one side.
“We have nothing to worry about,” muttered Hereward. “That Welsh bastard is not going to miss. I’d place silver on it.”
But there was no time for wagers now. The two men stared at each other, Rilberht swaying slightly, holding his axe in his right hand by his side. Gwawrddur also held his axe at his right side, but I noted that he held it with the blade pointed forward.
Sounds of music and laughter drifted from other parts of the festival where people were celebrating in the warm summer’s day. But here, in this cleared piece of grass, there was no cheer, only imminent violence. Nobody spoke as the two men faced each other.
For a long time, it seemed that neither would move. And then, with a speed that belied his drunkenness, Rilberht stepped forward, lifted his axe above his head and threw it unerringly towards Gwawrddur. In the same instant, the Welshman seemed to flinch, stepping forward and letting fly his own axe while also raising his left hand. I could not make sense of what I had seen at first, but then Rilberht grunted, falling to his knees. With a shudder, he slumped onto his back, his legs bent awkwardly beneath him. Gwawrddur’s axe was buried deep in his face, blade sunk between his bushy eyebrows, the haft sticking upward.
And then I understood. The Welshman had thrown underarm, giving him the edge when it came to speed.
My gaze shifted to where Gwawrddur stood some distance away. As I watched, he rose up to stand straight and lowered his left hand. The hot sun glittered off the axe he held there. He had caught Rilberht’s axe!
The crowd did not seem to know how to react to what it had seen. There was no cheer of excitement and no applause. It was something to watch a man beaten in a fight, it was something quite different to see a man’s life taken from him in an eye-blink.
Rilberht’s friends stumbled forward and dropped beside the dead man. I noticed that his hands were twitching as though searching for something in the grass, but there could surely be no way that he could survive such an injury.
Gwawrddur walked over and pulled his axe unceremoniously from Rilberht’s skull. He needed to tug a couple of times to free it from the grip of bone and flesh. Blood pumped slowly from the gash, pooling in Rilberht’s staring eyes.
One of his friends, the one who had offered the peningas surged to his feet.
“You didn’t need to kill him, you Welsh bastard,” he yelled. His face was red and his eyes filled with tears.
“Take him away,” Gwawrddur said. “He only found what he was looking for.”
The other men pulled back their weeping friend and together they lifted Rilberht and carried his corpse away.
Gwawrddur watched them leave. Then he bent and picked up something from the ground. He blew on the two coins and secreted them in a small leather pouch he wore on his belt. He shook his head and then walked quickly to retrieve his wooden targets.
We followed him.
Sensing our approach, he spun about, an axe in each hand.
“Easy, friend,” said Hereward. “We mean you no harm.”
Gwawrddur narrowed his eyes, looking beyond us, scanning the thinning crowd.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Men who know how to fight.”
Gwawrddur turned his gaze to Hereward, sizing him up.
“Who are you fighting?”
Hereward drew in a deep breath. I could sense he was concerned about how his offer would be received.
“Norsemen,” he said. “They’ve attacked once. At Lindisfarnae.” He seemed intent on getting the words out as quickly as possible and rushed on, perhaps not wanting to give the Welshman a chance to stop him. “They are going to strike again,” he went on. “Another minster. South of the holy island, but north of here. Werceworthe.”
“Never heard of it,” Gwawrddur said, placing his targets into a sack and swinging it over his shoulder. “What is at Werceworthe?”
“Monks.” Hereward shrugged. “Lay people.”
“And books,” I added. “And the sacred finger of Saint Edwin.”
Gwawrddur glanced at me.
“How many Norse are you expecting?” he asked, with a shake of his head as if he could not quite believe he was still engaged in this conversation.
Hereward hesitated for a heartbeat before answering.
“Three shiploads.”
Gwawrddur looked at him sidelong with a raised eyebrow.
“How many warriors have you recruited to your cause?”
Hereward held out his hands.
“We are hoping for more than we currently have.”
The Welshman looked at each of us in turn. His gaze lingered on Runolf. He shook his head again when he
took in mine and Leofstan’s habits.
“So you want me to fight against a much larger force of Norsemen to save a monastery and some ceorls?” He turned to me. “And some books and a saint’s finger.”
I felt my cheeks grow hot.
Hereward nodded.
“That’s about the sum of it,” he said.
“And what will you pay for my services in such a foolhardy endeavour?”
Hereward sighed.
“Food and shelter,” he said. “We can offer no more, apart from our gratitude and that of the brethren of Werceworthe.”
Gwawrddur thought for a moment, his gaze still roving over the crowd.
“Very well,” he said. “I like a challenge.”
Hereward laughed and clapped him on the back. I could scarcely believe it.
“And this would have nothing to do with wanting our company in case that drunken fool’s friends come seeking vengeance?”
“They will drink more now,” Gwawrddur said. “And drunk men are brave, especially when surrounded by their friends. Hopefully, if I travel with you, they will be less likely to summon up enough courage to attack. There needn’t be more blood spilt.”
Hereward nodded.
“But if you join us now, you are giving your word to come with us to the minster?”
“I give you my word,” said the Welshman, “and that is not something I give lightly.”
Hereward held his gaze and they grasped each other’s forearms in the warrior grip.
“Come then, Gwawrddur ap Mynyddog,” said Hereward, “let us leave here.”
And so our number had grown by one.
“Do you believe me now that this is God’s plan?” I asked Leofstan.
He made the sign of the cross and sighed.
“Who can say? A man has died here today. Was that what the Lord wants? Christ says that God is love.” He bit his lip, clearly torn and unable to express how he felt.
“Do not doubt His plan,” I said, thinking of Gwawrddur’s uncanny speed. I remembered Leofstan’s words to me only a short while before. “You see what happens when we have faith?”
He shuddered and walked away.
A Time for Swords Page 18
