A Time for Swords

by Matthew Harffy

  “Put up your weapon,” said Gwawrddur, his voice calm. “I do not wish to kill you.”

  “You will not kill me this day,” replied the stranger. His voice had an unfamiliar accent, somehow similar to both the lilt of the Welshman and Drosten’s burr. He jumped forward, slicing down at Gwawrddur’s head. The Welshman swatted the blade away easily and stepped to the left.

  “If you do not put aside your sword, you will leave me with no choice. I have seen you on the road behind us all this long afternoon and I would hear who you are and why it is you follow us. But perhaps first, you could tell us your name. Mine is Gwawrddur ap Mynyddog.”

  The stranger hesitated, then stepped back and lowered his blade.

  “I am Cormac mac Neill.”

  “You are a long way from home, Cormac mac Neill,” said Gwawrddur.

  “What do you know of my home?” snapped Cormac.

  Gwawrddur lowered his own blade and rested its tip on the ground. I noticed he did not sheathe it.

  “I meant nothing by my words,” he said. “I thought you must be from the island of Hibernia across the sea. Am I wrong?”

  Cormac shook his head.

  “No, you’re not wrong. But it has been many a month since I last saw the green grass of my homeland.”

  “And what is it that brings you to Northumbria? I do not mean you any offence, but it looks to me like you have been sleeping in ditches.”

  Cormac ran his left hand through his dark thatch of hair and sniffed.

  “Maybe I have,” he said. “I have not had much luck of late.”

  “Is that why you followed us?” asked Gwawrddur. “Did you mean to wait until we slept and then slit our throats and take our silver?”

  The Hibernian bridled.

  “I am no thief.”

  “Then why did you skulk after us and hide here in this copse? Such are not the habits of an honest man.”

  Cormac growled and raised his sword again.

  “I am no purse snatcher,” he said. “I am a good Christian man.”

  His words, echoing those of Beonna, made me start and I stepped from where I had been watching the exchange into the dappled light of the glade.

  “So, Cormac,” I said, “why were you following us, if you are not intent on robbery?”

  He spun around at the sound of my voice, bringing his sword to bear. I felt strangely calm.

  “I am unarmed,” I said, holding out both empty hands. A bead of sweat dripped from the hair at the nape of my neck and trickled down my back. I did not allow myself to shudder.

  “The monk,” he whispered and made the sign of the cross. “So it is true.”

  “What is true?” I asked.

  “That a monk is seeking fighting men to defend a minster.” He paused, frowning. “Against Norsemen from the sea,” he concluded.

  His words shocked me. Had word travelled so widely? Then I recalled that he had followed us from Eoforwic and must have heard of our search from the people we had approached in the festival.

  “Yes, that is so,” I said. “Are you such a fighting man? Do you wish to offer your services?”

  He raised up his sword as if I might not have noticed it.

  “I am a great warrior,” he said. “The men of Uí Blathmaic fear me.”

  “I do not know of these Uí Blathmaic,” I said, stumbling over the strange words. “The men we will face are savage killers. We are few. It will not be easy and all we can offer in return is food and shelter.”

  “That is all I ask,” he replied. His face clouded. “And a Norseman bleeds as easily as any other.” He slapped the flat of his sword blade. “If my sword, Moralltach here, can cut them, I can kill any enemy.”

  Gwawrddur shook his head and sheathed his sword, clearly unimpressed with the Hibernian’s boasting.

  “Come then,” he said, turning and walking back towards the hill and our camp. “Bring Moralltach and we’ll see what the others make of you. And, Hunlaf,” he said to me over his shoulder, “well run.”

  Twenty-Seven

  “Cormac mac Neill at your service.” Cormac bowed low.

  Hereward pushed himself up from where he was tending the leg of mutton roasting over the fire. Cormac’s eyes kept flicking to the sizzling meat and he licked his lips.

  “Can you fight?” Hereward asked.

  “I am a great swordsman,” Cormac replied. “The crows and foxes of my lands are fat from feeding off the corpses of my foes.”

  Hereward looked him up and down, grimacing as if he had smelt something rotten.

  “Gwawrddur,” he said, “what say you? You crossed blades with him. Is he skilled?”

  Gwawrddur sniffed.

  “He is strong and does not lack speed.” Cormac puffed out his chest at the praise. “But I have seen blind men more skilled with a sword. He gives away every move before he makes it and he is as clumsy as a drunk.”

  Cormac’s face flushed.

  “Why you Welsh—” he reached his hand for the hilt of his sword, but before he could unsheathe the blade, Gwawrddur had drawn his own and sprung forward. The sharp tip of his sword pressed against Cormac’s throat.

  The Hibernian did not move. He glowered at Gwawrddur.

  “And he is reckless and easy to goad it seems,” said the Welshman. He stared into Cormac’s eyes. “Do not seek to raise your sword against me another time, Hibernian,” he whispered. “I have killed men for less and I will not warn you again.” Cormac swallowed, but after a moment he dropped his gaze and removed his hand from his sword’s pommel.

  Gwawrddur turned his back on him and returned to his place against the aspen.

  Hereward stroked his bearded chin.

  “We need men and you are clearly foolhardy enough to fight against those who are likely to kill you. I think this will be a trait that will prove useful in the days ahead. What say you all?”

  Gwawrddur shrugged.

  “I am going to train Killer here.” He nodded in my direction. “I can train this one too, if he will listen.”

  Cormac’s eyes widened.

  “Thank you,” he said, and his voice sounded like that of an enthusiastic child. I wondered about his age then. It seemed the grime and the beard hid a youthfulness that was not immediately apparent. As if embarrassed by the sound of his own youth, Cormac replaced his grin with a scowl and growled.

  Drosten chuckled.

  “I like the boy,” he said. “Let him join us.”

  “If you give me your word to serve with us until after the fight,” said Hereward, “I am minded to accept you into our merry band of fools. Do I have your oath that you will obey me and give your sword and even your life to protect us and the people of Werceworthe?”

  Cormac grinned and was about to speak when Runolf’s deep voice boomed out from the shadows beneath the aspens.

  “No,” he said.

  We all turned to look at the Norse giant. Cormac’s hand fell to his sword again.

  “You disagree with me?” asked Hereward. He spoke slowly so that Runolf would understand him.

  “We not take this boy,” Runolf said, his heavily accented words clear to us all. He had not spoken since Cormac’s arrival and on hearing his voice the Hibernian bristled.

  “You have one of them in your midst?” he spat. “A Norse savage? Are you not planning on slaying Norsemen? You should start with this one here, it seems to me.”

  “Silence!” barked Hereward. “Speak no more, Cormac. Your betters are talking.”

  Cormac’s face was thunderous, but he clamped his mouth shut.

  “Runolf,” said Hereward, “why would you not take the Hibernian with us?”

  Runolf shook his head.

  “I not trust him,” he said.

  “You don’t trust me?” snarled Cormac. “You heathen bastard!”

  “I said ‘Silence’,” hissed Hereward. Cormac drew in a deep breath, but spoke no more.

  “Why don’t you trust him?” I asked Runolf.

 
“He creeps in the night like a fox,” he said. “A warrior would approach us and speak with his face to our faces, not skulk and hide in the forest. No, he means no good.”

  I pondered his words and then translated them.

  Cormac erupted with rage.

  “You would rather listen to a Norse heathen than to a Hibernian Christian?” he roared.

  “Runolf is no longer a heathen,” I said quietly, but neither Cormac nor Hereward paid me any heed. Cormac’s latest outburst seemed to have sparked Hereward’s own ire into searing heat. He stepped toward Cormac and slapped his hands together hard, making the Hibernian flinch.

  “I would listen to a man I have seen defend the weak,” Hereward said. “A man I have travelled with these last days. A man who has sworn an oath to my lord, Uhtric of Bebbanburg. Yes, I would listen to such a man over a filthy wanderer who sneaks after us like a weasel hoping to steal the eggs from a farmer’s hens.”

  “You would turn me away?” asked Cormac, aghast at how his prospects had changed so suddenly. “But you said it yourself, you need men.”

  “Aye, you have the right of it. We have need of men. Men who can fight, not boys who cannot hold their tongues or swords in check. Now, begone with you.”

  Cormac looked as though he were about to say something else. His eyes glittered in the encroaching darkness and he looked very young in spite of his beard. He swept his furious glower over all of us and lastly his gaze lingered on the bubbling and crisping mutton.

  He bit his lower lip to prevent himself from speaking further, or perhaps to stop from weeping. I could not but feel sympathy for him. He seemed so lonely. He had looked overjoyed to have been welcomed into the camp only to have his hopes dashed moments later. I wanted to say something, to call him back. But who was I to speak against Hereward and Runolf? I kept my mouth shut and watched silently as Cormac spun on his heel and strode off down the hill and into the night.

  Nobody spoke until he was swallowed in the gloom.

  “We will post guards tonight,” whispered Hereward, still staring after the Hibernian.

  Twenty-Eight

  Hereward was clearly concerned that Cormac might plan some mischief against us in the night. The Northumbrian had changed, less prone to jests and often scowling as he bit his lip. The pressure of leadership is no easy thing to bear, but Hereward took up his new responsibility without complaint. He was thoughtful and fair, and never expected any of us to do what he would not attempt himself. You can ask no more of a leader of men. Now, he urged us to take watches in pairs. I would stand guard with Runolf.

  I was awoken in the darkest part of the night by Hereward, who had been on sentry duty with the dour Drosten. This was probably as much to watch for Cormac as to keep an eye on the Pict, I thought. Hereward seemed to trust Gwawrddur implicitly, and so had told him to stand guard with Leofstan. I wondered about this. Why trust one man over another with so little to base an opinion? All I could think was that the prowess the Welshman had shown, coupled with his cool control in the face of adversity, had given him an aura of dependability.

  “There is not long till dawn now,” Hereward whispered as he shook me awake. “Rouse Runolf and keep your eyes and ears open.”

  Without another word, he placed a log on the embers of the fire, wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down amongst the other shadowy forms of the sleeping men. I was quickly alert. It was time for Matins, or would be very soon, and I smiled to myself in the darkness, imagining how the slumbering warriors would react if I began to sing and pray the first office of the day.

  Far away in the darkness an animal screeched. Rather, I hoped it was an animal, for who knew what creatures of the night roamed the forests and hills of Northumbria? I made the sign of the cross in the gloom and crept over to Runolf’s snoring bulk. Reaching out, I shook his shoulder gently. His huge hand lashed out with uncanny speed and grabbed my wrist, gripping it so tightly that it hurt. His other hand found my throat and I whimpered. I tried to pull away, but his strength was inexorable. He closed his grip and I could feel his thumb digging into my neck.

  “Runolf,” I gasped, barely able to make a sound. He did not respond. His hand continued to squeeze. Flames caught the log on the fire and in the sudden burst of flickering light, I saw his eyes were open, but unseeing. He yet slept, gripped by some devil-sent dream. I could not draw breath or make another sound. I slapped at his arm with my free hand, but he appeared not to notice. If I didn’t waken him soon, I would pass out and then, if he did not halt his attack, I would soon be dead.

  My rising panic gave me added strength and I balled my left hand into a fist and punched Runolf hard on the nose. Like a disturbed bear, he roared and surged to his feet, throwing me aside as if I had been nothing more than a child’s straw doll.

  He stood looking about him while I drew in a ragged breath.

  “Can you two keep it quiet?” murmured Hereward, his voice already thick with sleep.

  As I watched, Runolf shook his head, as if to free it of his nightmares. He noticed me, cowering at his feet and he dropped down beside me.

  “I am sorry, Hunlaf,” he said. “I was dreaming.”

  I could not speak. I rubbed my hand against my bruised neck. His eyes were wide with concern.

  “It is our turn to watch,” I croaked at last.

  He offered me his hand. I hesitated and then, warily, I grasped it. He pulled me to my feet.

  “Sorry,” he whispered. “Do not wake me like that again.”

  “I won’t,” I said, wishing he had given me that advice earlier.

  We moved away from the glow of the fire and sat, listening to the night.

  The creature screeched again, startling me.

  “Fox bitch,” Runolf said. “Do not fear.”

  I thought of his callused hand crushing the life from me and shivered. Far out in the darkness, I fancied I saw a tiny speck of light. I imagined Cormac sleeping alone beside it.

  “Dark memories are worse at night,” Runolf said, his deep voice like distant murmurs of thunder.

  “What memories?” I asked.

  For a long while he did not speak and I thought he would not reply. The vixen called again.

  “I will not speak of my memories,” he said at last.

  “Perhaps if you spoke of them, you would sleep lighter.”

  He chuckled without mirth.

  “I can never sleep light again. Not after the things I have seen. What I have done.”

  I pushed him to speak further, but he just said, “A man’s past is his alone,” and would say no more.

  Twenty-Nine

  Despite Hereward’s concerns, Cormac was not seen during the night and the dawn was welcomed with a chorus of birdsong from the trees above us. The sky was clear of clouds and it looked set to be another long, hot day of travel.

  Leofstan stirred together a paste of oats and water, placing dollops of the mixture on a flat stone he had left to heat in the embers of the fire. The smell of the oatcakes filled the chill early morning air while we readied the horses. Leofstan handed out the crisp, slightly charred biscuits, and I was not the only one who burnt their tongue on them.

  We were back in the saddle and riding north while the sun was still low in the east. There was nobody on the road and I looked over my shoulder as I rode, half-expecting to see a glimpse of Cormac. But I saw nobody.

  When we paused to rest at midday, I asked Gwawrddur whether he would begin to teach me. He chewed a piece of cold mutton, washing it down with some water before replying.

  “You ran quickly yesterday, Killer,” he said. “I did not think you would be able to best me.”

  I glowed with pride and could not hide my grin.

  “So yes, I will begin to teach you now,” he said.

  I looked longingly at the sword that hung from his belt, but he shook his head.

  “No, no,” he said. “You are not yet ready to wield a blade. You would be as likely to damage the weapon or yourself, as to lear
n anything useful.”

  Crestfallen, I sighed.

  Gwawrddur ignored me and walked away from the road towards several large ash trees. Scanning the ground, he stooped and picked up a sturdy-looking branch. With deft movements, using one of his hand axes, he quickly cleaned the limb of twigs and leaves. When he was satisfied, he tossed the staff to me. I caught it in my bandaged hand. Leofstan had rewrapped it that morning in a clean strip of linen. My wounds were scabbed over now, and showed no sign of infection. Leofstan had nodded his approval and said the bandage could be removed when we reached Werceworthe.

  “That stick is your sword until I say otherwise,” said Gwawrddur.

  I did not speak, not wishing to show my acute disappointment.

  “For now, I want you to hold it, like this.” He effortlessly fell into the warrior stance, both legs bent, right in front of the left, sword raised in his right hand. I emulated him as best I could. “Bend your leg. More. That’s right. Now, I want you to do this.” He quickly took three steps backward, shuffling and sliding his feet in the old leaves beneath the ash. Then, he immediately reversed his direction and moved three steps forward, finishing in a lunging, probing attack with his sword. He repeated this procedure three times, his movements lithe and athletic. He appeared to glide over the ground.

  “Now you,” he said, and I did my best to copy what he had done. He sheathed his sword and picked up another stick with which to poke and prod me whenever I did not move in accordance with his instructions. After a time, he was satisfied enough to return to his food.

  “Keep doing that, over and over, whenever you have a moment to spare,” he said.

  By the time we came to mount up again, I was out of breath and my thighs were burning from the constant crouching position. My hand was hurting and I was sure I had broken the scabs on my fingers again. I threw the stick to the ground with a sigh of relief and clambered up onto my horse’s back.