“Þórr is not your god any longer,” I replied, my tone made harsh by fear. And, if I am honest, with a tinge of excitement.
“He would not listen anyway,” he said. “Not without a blood sacrifice.”
I shuddered, and again made the sign of the rood over my chest. I looked up at him for a signal that he spoke in jest in an attempt to unnerve me. His bearded face was ruddy and hard in the warm light of the sunset. There was no hint of a smile on his lips.
“Will my new god answer us if we ask for a storm?” Runolf asked.
I thought of all the times I had petitioned the lord with prayer. How many times had He responded?
“I do not know,” I replied, my voice small next to Runolf’s booming echoing tone. “He might.”
“Perhaps you ask Him then,” he said. “But I think we should not tarry here any longer.”
“But we need more men,” I said. “We cannot hope to defeat three shiploads of Norsemen as we are.”
He stared down at me with a grin.
“You speak of ‘we’ as if you plan to fight.”
“Perhaps I do,” I said.
“That is good,” he said and turned away from me so that I could not see his face. “A man should defend his land. And his family.”
“But we will not be able to defend the minster with the men we have.”
“We have two more men now,” Runolf said. “And there is no need to protect corpses. If we are not there when Skorri comes, all of this will be for nothing.”
I reached a trembling hand out for the wooden cup. Runolf handed it to me.
“We can build defences and train the men of Werceworthe to fight,” he said. “We can train you, eh?”
He slapped me on the back. A sudden peal of laughter from the great hall made me start and for an instant it was as if I was back on Lindisfarnae, surrounded by death, fire and blood. How could I wish to witness such a thing again? What madness was this? But I could not ignore the excitement that rippled through me. I drained the contents of the cup and grimaced at the bitter taste of the ale.
Two servants were crossing the ground from the great hall, bearing large platters. One plate was filled with what looked like steaming whole roach, the fishes’ silver scales glistening like treasure. The other tray was piled high with fresh bread.
“Ah,” said Runolf with a broad grin. “Perhaps our God listens after all, Hunlaf. For I have been praying for food for a long time.”
He laughed and followed the servants into the hall where the rest of the men let out a cheer at the sight of provender.
Twenty-Five
That night I explained Runolf’s concerns to Hereward, and, after some thought and deliberation, the Northumbrian warrior was in agreement. So, as the morning dawned still and dry once more, we set off through the streets of Eoforwic to retrace our steps northward.
“It is just as well we decided to leave now,” grumbled Hereward, as we walked past the open ground near the church that was yet cluttered with tents. “It will take close to a sennight to reach Werceworthe.” He leaned from his saddle and spat into the tangle of nettles that grew on the verge of the path.
He had gone to Uhtric that morning with a request for mounts, or the silver to buy them. Uhtric denied him both animals and coin. We had the steeds we rode south on, but Drosten and Gwawrddur would have to walk. All Hereward had returned with was Runolf’s great axe. He’d handed it to the Norseman with a warning not to make him regret returning it to him. Runolf nodded and grunted, and a grin played on his features as he held the axe once more in his massive hands.
The festival was still ongoing and there would yet be much debauchery, gambling and games of chance in the coming days. Both Drosten and Gwawrddur were ever vigilant as we travelled through the streets that were mired with the waste and detritus of the city dwellers and the numerous people who had flocked to Eoforwic to celebrate the festival of Saint Peter.
The tense watchfulness of the two newcomers to our small band made us nervous. As we progressed towards the gate, I expected an angry mob to descend upon us at every turn. When a goodwife screeched at someone out of sight, we all tensed. I clenched my hands and again wished for a weapon and the knowledge and skill to use one. To my surprise, and to the evident relief of the others, we reached the city gate without incident.
The day was warming already and people were beginning to congregate around the entrance to the city, but the door wards waved us through. Beyond the confines of the walls the early morning sun gleamed from the waters of the Fossa and Usa. I had thought about walking with Gwawrddur and Drosten, but in the end I had decided to ride. If I truly wished to bear a blade and to be thought of as a warrior, I must learn to ride naturally, as if it were my right. Before leaving, I had covered my thighs and arse in the greasy unguent Grimcytel had given me. The thought of the suffering I had endured on the journey south filled me with more dread than the coming of the Norsemen.
I shifted in the saddle, in an effort to get comfortable. Further northward, hills rose and beech and oak skirted the road. The day would be hot and we would be glad of the shade of the woodland by the time we reached the wooded slopes.
It was midday when we finally entered the shadows beneath the towering trees. All of us were hot and tired and I almost moaned with pleasure when Hereward called a halt beside a small stream that burbled near the road. I dismounted and was pleased to find that the greasy concoction had worked, or perhaps I was now an accomplished rider. Whatever the reason, my nether parts no longer smarted and ached as they had only a week or so previously. I watched as Drosten and Gwawrddur caught up with us. Neither man complained at having to walk, but I felt a pang of guilt that I had not offered my mount to either of them. Turning to retrieve bread and ham from my saddle bags, I frowned at my own weakness. What sort of warrior would I be, if I could not even ride a horse without feeling remorse while others walked?
I nibbled at the food and approached Gwawrddur. He looked up from where he sat on a moss-covered rock.
“Yes, monk?” he said.
“Hunlaf,” I said, and squared my shoulders. Gwawrddur waited patiently for me to say something else. I could sense the others looking at me and my face felt flushed as the Welshman said nothing. “Would you teach me?” I blurted out.
“Teach you what?” he asked.
“How to fight,” I said.
He sighed.
“I cannot teach you that,” he said.
My shoulders sagged and I felt my cheeks redden with embarrassment. Everybody was watching the exchange. I turned to leave, feeling deflated and foolish.
“It is impossible to teach any man how to fight,” he said. “But I can teach you how to use a blade. The skill to parry and attack can be taught to any with the use of their limbs and a head on their shoulders. I see you have your arms and legs. Do you have any sense in there?” He tapped his forehead.
“Yes. I am no fool,” I said, feeling more foolish than ever before beneath his calculating gaze.
He stared at me for a few heartbeats before turning to Leofstan who sat scowling in our direction.
“What say you, Brother Leofstan?” Gwawrddur asked. “Is Hunlaf here a fool?”
For a moment Leofstan said nothing.
“He may be,” he said at last. Gwawrddur and everyone else laughed. A sudden anger borne of shame boiled within me. Sensing my ire at his reply, Leofstan smiled. “But no more a fool than any other young man,” he said with a shake of his tonsured head. “He is strong and clever, and keen to learn. He will be a good student to you, as he always has been to me.” I now felt a rush of warm affection and fresh shame at my doubt of the older monk. He was troubled by the change in me, I knew. He must have been dismayed at my desire to learn the ways of the warrior, but to his credit, he did not confront me or seek to alter my course. He did what he always advised me to do and placed his faith in God.
“Very well,” said Gwawrddur, appraising me. “You look strong enough. Lean, l
ike me, but there are more ways to best an opponent than with brutish force. Those of us who are not born with a body the size of a bear,” he looked pointedly at Runolf, “must learn to be fast and skilful. When we camp tonight I will give you your first lesson. Only time will tell if you can fight and kill.”
“I have already killed,” I said, wishing to prove myself worthy in the Welshman’s grey eyes.
Gwawrddur raised his eyebrows.
“Well then,” he said with a sardonic smirk, “I will be careful.”
When we prepared to continue our journey I offered Gwawrddur my horse. He smiled, but declined.
“You will need all your strength later,” he said. “You ride.”
So I clambered up into the saddle and we headed northward once more as we had in the morning, with Gwawrddur and Drosten following on foot.
The afternoon passed slowly and without excitement. I wanted to ride back to where Gwawrddur walked, but I sensed that to do so would make me look foolish, too eager, like a child who wished to play at being a warrior. Was that how I looked to these hard men? Probably. I was not much more than a boy, and a monk no less. They must think me ridiculous.
“So, you want the thin one to teach you to fight,” said Runolf, who had moved his mount close to mine. “I am not good enough?” He spoke in Norse, but he understood more Englisc daily and conversed haltingly with the others directly now, only turning to me for help when he could not comprehend a particular phrase or when he failed to make himself understood.
“He says he cannot teach a man to fight, only how to wield weapons,” I replied.
Runolf grunted.
“He is right,” he said. “A man cannot make a fighter of someone. That is something that comes from within.” We rode on in silence for a time, the only sound the thud of the horses’ hooves on the cracked stones of the road. “Gwawrddur is skilled,” he said at last. “He will train you well, I think. But I have seen you fight, Hunlaf. I alone of all these men have seen the warrior inside you. When you are done with Gwawrddur’s lessons, come to me and I will show you the Norse ways of killing.”
He patted the huge axe that was strapped to his saddle and grinned.
The long summer day dragged on. It was hot, with little shade after we passed out of the woodland. I could feel my tonsured head burning red in the sun and wished for a hat. I willed Hereward to call a halt for the evening camp, but he wanted to cover as much distance as possible and so we trudged on until the sun was dipping low in the sky to the west.
Finally, Hereward pointed to a copse of aspens, shimmering in the breeze on a rise overlooking the road.
“We will camp there tonight,” he said.
I cantered my horse up the slope and dismounted quickly. I was pleased to note that, although my limbs were stiff from the riding, I was not in pain. Unbuckling the horse’s girth, I heaved the saddle from the beast and set it beside the bole of a tree. Then I pulled up a great handful of long grass and proceeded to rub the sweat and grime from the animal’s back and flanks. It had been a long day, but I was full of nervous energy. Gwawrddur was still in the distance and I wanted the camp to be ready when he arrived. I clenched and unclenched my bandaged hand. It did not really hurt now and I would be able to hold a weapon well enough.
Hereward, Leofstan and Runolf arrived at the stand of trees, having approached at a more leisurely pace.
“If you are so eager to work,” said Hereward, sliding down from the saddle, “you can tend to all the horses.” He tossed me his reins. “I’ll get a fire lit.”
I thought about complaining, but that would only waste time, so I went about unsaddling the horses, currying them, and then leading them down the other side of the hill to where a small brook flowed. There was not much water in the stream, but enough trickled down from the hills to the north-west, that in places the burn opened out into small pools. I tethered the mounts to a stunted bush and then dipped our leather skins into the murky water, holding the hem of my habit over the mouth of each vessel to keep out insects and other items that might be floating in the pond. Once the last flask was full, I let the horses drink.
I made my way back up towards the aspens. The trees were brightly lit by the setting sun, their leaves glimmering like jewels. The comforting smell of woodsmoke welcomed me. I threw down the water skins and secured the horses. There was ample fodder on the hill for them to forage and they dropped their muzzles and began to contentedly rip up and chew the grass, clover and fīcwyrt that grew there.
Hereward was feeding twigs to the first flames of the fire. It would be some time yet before it burnt hot enough for him to be able to cook the mutton he had brought from Æthelred’s hall. He would wait for glowing embers before placing the meat on a spit, to avoid charring it.
Gwawrddur was lounging near the saddles, his back to a tree, gazing down at the road, the way we had come. The low sun picked out every fold and ripple in the land, striping it with shadows. Beside the road grew several ash trees. Their canopy was dense and it was already dark beneath their branches.
“You wish to begin your training,” he said without looking at me. It was not a question.
“Yes,” I said. Beside him lay his two axes and he had unbuckled his sword belt, leaning the blade up against the trunk of an aspen. I wondered which of his weapons we would train with first. I assumed it would be the axes, but I longed to hold the finely crafted sword. That was the weapon of a true warrior.
Without warning he sprang to his feet, making me start and take a step backward.
“Very well, Killer,” he said, “we will begin.”
I said nothing, ignoring the name he had given me and awaiting his instruction. Leofstan had taught me how to be a good student, but I remembered the many times he had rebuked me for interrupting when he was teaching me about the Scriptures. I vowed I would not make that mistake with Gwawrddur. He did not look like the sort of man to forgive as readily as Leofstan.
Turning, he picked up his sword. I moved closer, expecting him to hand it to me, but instead, he slung the belt over his shoulder.
“The first weapons any warrior has are his speed and his resilience. So you can stop eyeing up my sword. You will not be touching that today.” I could not hide my disappointment and he chuckled at my frown. “The time for swords will come soon enough, but before that, you must prove yourself to be fast.”
“And how do I do that?” I asked, cringing inwardly at how petulant my voice sounded.
“You see that stand of trees there?” Gwawrddur pointed to the copse of ash near the road.
I nodded.
“Beat me to them,” he said, and without a pause, he sprinted off down the hill. His sword slapped against his back as his legs pumped and his feet pounded the earth. He followed the track through the long grass and flowers that we had trodden and crushed as we’d come up to the campsite. He was easily ten years my senior, but he was quick. Watching him run, it appeared impossible to catch him, but one thing was for certain: if I stood there I would never prove my speed and fitness to him and would never move on to learn the ways of the sword. Hitching up my habit, I ran as fast as I was able after him.
“Come on, Hunlaf,” bellowed Runolf. Hereward laughed and I could imagine the two of them placing wagers on who would win the contest. The thought of losing a race against a much older man spurred me on and I bounded down the slope. Gwawrddur was tall and slender and fast. But I was perhaps a hand’s breadth taller and I had youth on my side. I had always been a fast runner and now I ran as fast as I ever had before. Throwing aside all caution I almost flew down the incline. One misstep now, placing my foot in a depression hidden beneath the lush covering of grass and wild flowers perhaps, and I would tumble over. I might even break my ankle, if I was unlucky. But I was gaining on him and I told myself that a warrior does not fret about such things. I wished I was wearing breeches instead of my habit. The hem of the robe whipped and caught against my legs and snagged on thistles as I passed. And yet, des
pite this, I was still creeping closer to Gwawrddur.
As the ground flattened out, I roared and pushed myself to even greater speed. For a few paces I was running cheek by jowl with Gwawrddur. Then, I was past him and into the gloom beneath the ash trees an eye-blink before the Welshman.
I had done it! I’d beaten Gwawrddur and now he would have to show me the secrets of the sword. Shouting out a gleeful exclamation at my victory, I leaned against the rough bark of a tree. Bending over, I drew in great lungfuls of heavy, loamy air.
Gwawrddur crashed into the undergrowth and I waited for him to regain his breath enough to congratulate me on my speed. But to my surprise, he did not halt. Instead, he rushed past me and disappeared from sight.
I panted and gasped. I was almost overcome with giddiness and thought I might faint. I had pushed myself to my limits and was unable to speak for a time. My vision blurred and sweat drenched my hair and face.
I heard Gwawrddur crashing further into the small wood. What was he doing? And then a new sound shattered the peace of the late afternoon. A sound that brought me back to full focus like a slap to the face.
From the shadows beneath the trees, in the direction that Gwawrddur had run, came the unmistakable clash of blades.
Twenty-Six
Forgotten was my exhaustion of moments before. Without hesitation I sprang forward and ran towards the sounds of fighting. A sudden ringing of metal on metal was followed by silence. Another clang of blades and I reached a small clearing. The light from the setting sun filtered through the trees, lancing into the dust thrown up from the leaf mould by the two men fighting there.
Gwawrddur, seemingly still fresh after the long run down the hill, was circling a shorter, stockier man. The Welshman held his sword high. The tip of the blade glinted as it twitched, following his opponent’s movements.
The other man was dirt-smeared and dishevelled. His shaggy dark hair looked as though it had never been cut or combed and his tatty kirtle was so stained with dried mud it was hard to discern what colour it had originally been. Perhaps dark green. In his right hand, the stranger held a long sword. Its blade was dull in the shadows, but as I watched, he swung it in a wild arc at Gwawrddur and it gleamed like silver as it sliced through the shafts of mote-dancing light. Gwawrddur stepped back quickly and apparently without effort. The newcomer’s sword sliced only the warm air.
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