Walking past the trampled earth where Rilberht had fallen, I saw that blood had stained the grass.
A large hand on my shoulder made me start. I turned and looked up into the bearded face of Runolf.
“You see?” he said, pointing with his chin at the blood-soaked earth. “Savour every moment. There is nothing to be gained from worrying about tomorrow.”
Twenty-Three
We returned to the hall shortly after midday. It seemed unlikely we would find any more men to join our small band and Gwawrddur wished to leave before Rilberht’s friends drank so much ale that their bravery would be bolstered enough for them to confront him. As we walked away from the tents and flags, the cacophony of noises and the wafting scents of food, I watched the slender Welshman. He walked with the grace of a dancer, seemingly without haste. The only thing that spoke of his disquiet were his eyes. He never stopped scanning the crowds for threats.
“Well,” said Hereward, “at least we have one more fighting man to aid us, even if he is Welsh.” This last comment he said in a hushed tone. He smirked at me, but I did not return his smile.
He frowned.
“I thought you would be pleased. It is no easy thing to find one with such skill who has no lord and is happy to offer his services for nothing.”
“Skill is not everything,” I said.
He looked at me askance.
“Skill will make the difference between life and death,” he said. “If the Norsemen return, we will not only need men to carry spears, but skilled warriors to train them. And in a battle, a true warrior is worth a dozen untrained peasants with sticks.”
Hereward was silent, and I wondered if he was picturing the fight that would come. After a moment, he whistled softly.
“I do not believe I have ever seen a faster man than Gwawrddur,” he said. “And those throws! Now that is skill that might truly help win a battle.”
“But for that, there needs to be a battle,” I said. A slow anger twisted in my gut and I was filled with resentment. I had not truly admitted it to myself, but I had expected us to attract men easily to our cause.
“No man should ever want there to be a battle, Hunlaf,” Hereward said, his eyes narrowing at my pained expression. “If God smiles on us, there will be no fighting and everyone will live.”
We walked on for a way. My habit had dried, but the summer warmth did not lift my mood. Could it be possible that the Norsemen might not return to the coast? What if they sailed by? Perhaps it would be as Hereward said and there would be no fighting. Surely that would be the best outcome of all. But I could not dispel my sense of disappointment at the prospect. It was madness, I knew, but part of me longed for the return of the sea wolves in their dragon ships. Was it revenge I sought? Perhaps. Or did I simply wish to feel that swelling rage and freedom that had engulfed me on Lindisfarnae?
What a fool I was. But I was young and death seemed like a distant thing, something that would surely never happen to me.
“Is that what we seek then?” I asked. “That there might be no battle?”
Hereward rubbed his chin.
“I believe it is what a good lord or king seeks,” he said at last. “We all know there are times that war cannot be avoided, but surely peace is better than fighting.” He glanced at Gwawrddur. “Better to turn away from a fight if you can do so without putting your own at risk or losing face.”
“But is that not the mark of a craven?” I asked, lowering my voice. I had seen what had happened to the last man who had insulted Gwawrddur. “Was it not cowardly to run away from Rilberht’s friends?”
Hereward stared at me, frowning in consternation.
I held up my hands and said, “I understand that it would have been foolish to stand and fight against them. He is but one man and they were many. But I would have expected a true warrior to fight. If he cannot fight a group of drunks, how will he fare against Norsemen?”
Hereward let out a barking laugh.
“You have twisted things around in your mind, young Hunlaf,” he said, still chuckling. “You have seen things with the eyes of a monk and not of a warrior.”
I bridled at his tone. Of course he was right, but even then, I already longed for him and the other fighting men to think of me as one of them.
“I saw things clearly enough,” I replied.
“Did you not see how quick Gwawrddur is? How he was able to slay Rilberht from a distance of several paces with barely a movement, and snatch his enemy’s axe out of the air while doing so?”
“I have eyes,” I said, unable to hide my anger.
Hereward smiled.
“Yes, but you must learn to use them better. Gwawrddur was not frightened that Rilberht’s friends would kill him. He was worried that they would become emboldened enough with drink to attack him. And then he would be forced to kill more of them.”
I watched Gwawrddur’s lithe movements. As well as the two axes that he had used to such devastating effect, a long-bladed sword hung from a baldric he had slung over his shoulder. Was Hereward right? Had the Welshman sought to avoid killing men whose actions did not truly warrant death? Did any man deserve death? I thought of the grim-faced killers who had slain my brothers and sisters in Christ on Lindisfarnae. Did those savage Norsemen deserve death in revenge for what they had done? I could not shake from my mind the feeling of carrying the heavy seax in my hand and the elation that had filled me as I’d taken the life of the raider. Part of me, a dark secret part, hoped that I would have the chance to face the Norsemen again and, when I did, that I would be able to make them pay for what they had done. Perhaps all of this was not God speaking to me after all, but the work of the Devil. I shuddered and spoke no more, brooding on the events of the morning and wondering at the change within me.
We passed through the bustling streets, leaving the buzz of the festival behind us. The smells of meat and oatcakes cooking were replaced by the acrid stench of nightsoil that had been tossed into the gaps between buildings. We were careful to watch our step. As we approached the entrance to the grounds of the king’s enclosure, the sound of running footsteps made us turn. Gwawrddur spun around and I noted both his axes had somehow found themselves in his hands. My heart hammered and I could hear the rushing of my blood. If those friends of Rilberht had come for vengeance, they would regret it. Would Gwawrddur need to use his sword or would the axes suffice to kill his enemies, I wondered? Would Hereward and Runolf help the Welshman, if it came to a fight?
What would I do? I suddenly wished I was not wearing the woollen habit. I clenched my bandaged hand and longed for a weapon to hold. I could not bear the thought of standing by defenceless while others fought.
But there was no fight. The figure sprinting towards us was alone and did not appear intent on mischief. The man splashed through a filthy puddle, past the shadow of a large house and then into the bright sunshine beyond. He was only some twenty paces from us when I saw the flash of blue tattoos on his face.
Drosten, the Pictish brawler.
His chest was now covered in a plain kirtle and on his feet he wore simple leather shoes. A sack was slung over one shoulder. From his belt hung a large knife and in his left hand he carried a stout spear. He showed no sign of slowing and Gwawrddur tensed.
“Easy, Welshman,” said Hereward. “We know this man. I do not think he means us harm.”
Gwawrddur appeared to relax, but his axes still hung in his hands loosely by his sides, ready for action.
Drosten slid to a halt before us. He appraised Gwawrddur and nodded. Gwawrddur responded with a nod of his own.
Turning his attention to Hereward, the Pict said, “You still seek men?”
“We do,” replied Hereward. “My offer remains open to you.”
The Pict’s eyes glittered above his painted cheeks.
“I will come with you,” Drosten said.
“Indeed?” said Hereward. “Why the change of heart?”
Drosten’s face clouded.
“The men I was with. They took my money.”
Hereward’s hand fell to his pouch, checking that his coins were safe.
“The ones helping to tend your wounds?”
Drosten nodded and spat into the mud of the street.
“We saw you fight,” said Hereward, “and we saw those two. I do not think they’d pose you much of a problem, if you want your money back.”
Drosten sighed. It sounded more like a growl.
“Not just my money. They took it all. All the wagers too. And they have spread the lie that it was I who stole it. There are many men here who have placed bets. Some powerful men. I cannot fight them all.”
“And you did not take the money?”
Drosten squared his shoulders.
“I am no thief,” he said. His eyes blazed with barely contained fury.
“Then why not tell the truth to the men who have lost bets?”
The Pict scowled.
“I can settle disputes with my fists or a blade, but look at me.” He raised his tattooed face defiantly. “My word will not be believed when pitted against a Northumbrian’s.”
Hereward stared at him for a time, clearly considering Drosten’s story.
“Well, this Northumbrian believes you,” he said at last. “You are welcome to join us. But if you do, the terms are as I said before.”
“Food and shelter in exchange for my spear and knife and my fists?”
“Yes. And nothing more. If the Norsemen come, it will be dangerous.”
“Life is dangerous,” said Drosten. “I am done with Eoforwic. I like the idea of travelling northward once more.”
“If you come with us now, you will come to Werceworthe. I have your word?”
“You have my word.”
Hereward squinted at him.
“But can I trust the word of a heathen?”
Drosten stepped back and slammed the haft of his spear into the ground.
“I am no heathen,” he said. His cheeks were flushed beneath the swirling lines of his tattoos. “I worship Jesu Christ. My people have followed the teachings of Christ since before the Englisc ever did. It was the great Saint Colm Cille who brought the true faith to the Pictish lands and we have praised the Lord ever since.”
“So you are a good Christian then?” enquired Hereward.
“Yes,” Drosten replied, angry at the question, “like my father and my father’s father.”
“Good,” replied Hereward with a grin, “for the Abbot of Werceworthe said we could only return with good Christian men.”
He winked at me and I swallowed, thinking about my dark desires for more bloodshed. Perhaps I was the one who the abbot should be concerned about.
Twenty-Four
That evening there was another feast in the king’s hall, but once again, we were not invited. Resting in the small hall during the day had improved Uhtric’s mood somewhat, and he had been grudgingly impressed with the two men we had recruited.
“Hardly a warhost,” he said, “but better than I had expected.”
“Thank you for your confidence in me,” Hereward replied, with a twisted smile. “Remember, lord, that you ride on the morrow.”
Uhtric had glowered at him as he prepared to head for the great hall. A heartbeat later his expression softened and he shrugged.
“You are right,” he said. “I should be cautious with the king’s hospitality tonight. I cannot imagine riding if my head feels like it did today. You will head back to Werceworthe tomorrow too?”
“Perhaps,” Hereward said. “We might look for more men to join us first. We’ll have a warband soon enough.”
Uhtric nodded and left the hall to us. Servants had already brought us a barrel of ale. They had assured us that food would follow.
Runolf asked me what Uhtric and Hereward had been speaking of. He sipped his ale and I noted that he was drinking more sparingly than I had seen on earlier occasions. I translated the conversation and Runolf stroked his beard absently, lost in thought. Picking up his cup of ale, he refilled it from the barrel and then stepped outside. After a moment’s hesitation, I followed him.
The sun was setting and the sky was tinged with the hue of hot iron. Runolf was staring up at the dusting of clouds on the horizon. The pale orb of the moon hung in the sky above us, somehow unnerving in the bright sky.
Neither of us spoke for a long time. My mind turned inward, prodding and probing my thoughts the way someone will scratch at a scab until it bleeds. When we had returned to the hall I had sat by myself and prayed for guidance, but no matter how much I prayed to the Lord, my mind was no less clouded. I fretted over my motivations. I had said this was the will of God, and perhaps I believed that myself. But had I not pushed for this outcome? Was I driven to do so by the Holy Ghost or was there some other dark force propelling me to seek out violence and blood? Was I still a monk worthy of the brethren to whom I belonged?
And then, the most frightening thought of all; so shocking that I barely dared to contemplate it. But like a distant whisper in darkness, I could still hear the question hissing in my mind. Did I truly still wish to be one of that brethren?
Leofstan had sensed my unease and asked if he could pray with me. I’d welcomed his support and we had gone through Vespers together, taking comfort in the familiarity, despite the strangeness of our situation. But despite the sense of wellbeing at the repetitive liturgy that I knew so well, my soul remained restless.
Runolf still gazed up into the heavens and I felt a stab of guilt. I was not the only one to have been through upheavals. This huge man was surrounded by strangers, abandoned by his erstwhile friends. He had nearly been hanged and now he had taken a solemn oath to serve a lord whom he did not know and who surely despised him. And beyond all of that, he had accepted Christ as his saviour when he had been baptised that morning.
“It has been a day of much excitement,” I said. “Many changes.”
He grunted.
“Are you well?” I asked.
“The ale is good,” he replied absently. “But I am hungry.”
A gust of wind whispered through the lindens that grew on the southern side of the royal vill Runolf turned to stare at the swaying trees. He seemed lost in thought.
“Do you wish to talk?” I said.
“Hmmm?” he looked confused and gazed down at me.
“We are talking,” he said.
I tried again.
“I mean, do you wish to unburden your…” I could not think of the Norse for “soul”, and so, I tapped my chest and said, “Your inside.”
Runolf raised his eyebrows.
“I had a shit just now,” he said.
“No, no!” I held up my hands. “You do not understand me.”
He smiled.
“That is true. You are a strange one. Are you ill?”
“No, I am not unwell,” I said. “But I am worried.”
“So am I,” Runolf replied. I was pleased that my words had reached him.
“Would you like to pray with me?” I asked, hopeful now that he had opened to me about his uncertainty.
He furrowed his brow.
“Pray?”
“To speak to God,” I said.
“Why would I want to do that?”
“To ask for His guidance.”
He shook his head.
“No. I do not much like speaking to most men, and at least I can see their faces when I do. The gods do not listen to the likes of me. You, perhaps.” He raised his cup in mock salute and took a sip. “You are a holy man, but not me.”
“You are baptised now,” I said, persevering. “The Lord will listen to you.”
“But will He answer me?”
“If you listen in return,” I countered, “He will.”
Runolf reached up to his neck and I thought the bruising there troubled him. But to my horror, he pulled out a small amulet in the shape of a hammer.
“It is Þórr I need to listen to me now,” he said.
I
made the sign of the cross.
“Do not say such things,” I said. “You are a Christian now.”
“But if we are to have time to ready ourselves, we need Þórr to send a storm. To smite the sky with Mjo˛llnir,” he lifted the amulet up, shaking it to emphasise his words. “To ride across the heavens in his great chariot.”
As if in answer to Runolf’s words, the lindens shook and rattled in a stiffening breeze. I shivered.
“The one true God controls all things,” I said. “He commands the wind and the storms.” Runolf seemed unconvinced. I was about to continue, explaining how God is all powerful, how every earthly thing bows to his word, but instead, I hesitated. Something Runolf had said snagged at my mind.
“What worries you?” I asked. “And why do you want there to be a storm?”
He looked up at the reddening sky again.
“The weather has been fine these past days,” he said.
I said nothing, unsure where he was leading the conversation.
Sighing at my clear lack of comprehension, he continued.
“Good sailing weather.”
At last I grasped his meaning.
“You mean…”
“Yes,” he nodded. “Jarl Skorri will have reached home by now. He will be feasting and boasting, much as Uhtric and your king.” He pointed with the hand holding the cup of ale at the great hall. Its timbers were picked out in the golden light of sunset, its shadows stark and crisp. The sounds of merriment within reached us clearly on the warm breeze.
“Your king too now,” I corrected.
Runolf snorted.
“Yes, my king.” He shrugged. “Soon Skorri will have had his fill of mead and slave girls and he will get to thinking about all of the riches he has taken from your island minster. And he will look at the sky and see that the weather is ripe for sailing.”
“You think he will return before the harvest?”
“Who can say? Perhaps you can ask your God?”
“Your God,” I murmured and he chuckled.
“But I think he will surely plan another raid before the autumn storms. I can think of nothing that would keep him on land apart from seas that are too rough for the crossing. This is why we need to ask Þórr for his help.”
A Time for Swords Page 19
