“Wait,” snapped Gwawrddur. “Would you throw away your sword so easily?” He hooked his toes under the ash staff that I had tossed aside and with a quick movement he flicked it into the air. Catching it, he spun it around in an intricate pattern, before throwing it in my direction. My horse shied and twisted away, so I failed to catch it.
“Dismount and collect your sword, Killer.”
The others laughed as I slid from the saddle and retrieved the wooden weapon. It took me a few moments to pull myself back up onto my steed without dropping the staff again.
“Do not lose your sword,” said Gwawrddur. “From now on, you must not let it leave your sight. If you truly wish to be a warrior, your life will depend on your sword.”
We rode on. As the sun passed its zenith wisps of cloud began to form in the west and the wind shifted into the north. That night we stayed in the hall of a sour-faced lord called Asser. He was surly and fed us only thin pottage. Uhtric had stayed there the day before with his warriors, and Asser grumbled about how much they had eaten and drunk. “My hospitality only goes so far,” he said before stomping off to his sleeping quarters, leaving us in the hall with one sullen servant and three sombre-looking ceorls who worked his lands.
As we sipped Asser’s watery stew I reflected that his hospitality didn’t go very far at all. Still, we were glad of the roof over our heads when rain began to fall in the night. And as there was no need to set up sentries, we all got a decent amount of sleep.
I took advantage of the time after we had eaten to practise with my “sword”. I went through the movements Gwawrddur had shown me until my arm was leaden and my legs trembled. The Welshman watched on, commenting from time to time. He offered little encouragement more than a nod every now and then. But when he finally decided I had worked hard enough and could rest, he said, “You know, Killer, I think you might make a swordsman yet.”
Leofstan offered to pray with me before we slept, but I said I was too tired and collapsed onto one of the thin pallets that had been laid out for us. I placed the ash staff at my side, within easy reach. I could sense Leofstan’s disapproval, but I shut my eyes and went over in my mind the moves Gwawrddur had taught me. His words of praise had filled me with warmth and I told myself that the next day I would further impress him with my hard work. As I lay there, I wondered how Cormac fared, out in the cold and wet of the night, but exhaustion brought sleep quickly and I dreamt of the weight of the ash branch in my hand and the constant burn of my muscles as I repeated lunges and sweeping cuts, and parried the blows from invisible attackers.
In the morning, the rain had eased, but a thin drizzle fell constantly and the high hills on the horizon were misted in low cloud. Perhaps, if Asser had been more generous with his board, we might have waited out the bad weather, for it was bound not to last more than a day or two, but he made it very clear that we had outstayed our welcome when he had his servants saddle our horses and bring them to the door of the hall.
We mounted up and rode through the mud of the yard and headed north once more. The day was miserable and progress slow. We were all soaked through and where we had talked and joked on previous days, nobody felt like talking as we trudged along Deira Stræt in the rain. For much of the morning, I rode at the rear of the group, behind Drosten and Gwawrddur. Frequently, I glanced back the way we had come, but I saw no sign of Cormac or anybody else. The Hibernian had probably returned to Eoforwic in search of other work. He was surely more likely to find someone to pay him in the city.
We rested in the lee of a stand of linden for a time at midday. I stretched my tight and tired muscles and practised some more. Leofstan watched me from where he sat. His intent gaze made me self-conscious and nervous, so after a while I threw down my wooden sword in disgust and sat with my back to him.
The wind picked up in the afternoon, rattling the oak and beech trees that grew tall beside the road. The rain ceased and the sun forced its way through the shredding clouds to warm the land. Our clothes and the horses’ coats steamed in the sun’s rays and our spirits were buoyed as we slowly dried out.
That evening, Hereward led us to the east of the road into a small wood where shiny-leafed holly grew amongst the larger beech and oak. The trees were old, gnarled and twisted, with dense canopies, and there were dry patches beneath their soaring branches. Hereward set about finding wood and lighting a fire. He sent me off to water the horses and fill the skins. Despite the rain, it had been some time since we had ridden past any streams or rivers, but on approaching this old wood, Hereward had pointed out where the lowering sun glittered on a river some way further to the west.
I sighed, resenting that I had somehow become the hostler for the group. But none of the others seemed inclined to help me and I didn’t much like the idea of being away from the campsite when night fell. So I quickly unsaddled all the horses except for mine and then used a length of rope to tie their halters together so that I could lead them all. I nearly forgot to pick up my wooden practice sword, but at the last moment, I snatched it up and, holding it and the end of the lead rope in my left hand, I awkwardly pulled myself up into the saddle. I knew that Gwawrddur was watching me, but I ignored him, merely gladdened that I had not given him the opportunity to rebuke me.
The shadows were long already and while not far, to reach the river I would need to ride past the trees and down a slope of gorse. I kicked my horse forward, urging it to hurry so that I would not need to return after dark. The murmur of the men’s voices was soon lost, hidden by the sighing of the trees and the clump of the horses’ hooves on the leaf mould. I left the cover of the woodland and trotted out into the warm light of the setting sun. The river curled off in the distance. Trees crowded its banks, but every now and then, I caught a glimpse of the silvered reflection of the sky on the water that flowed along the valley floor. Tugging on the lead rope, I kicked my mount into a trot.
After only a few paces, a shadow to my left caught my attention. There was a tangle of elderberries running along what appeared to be a narrow furrow in the land. I followed its path with my gaze and saw that it led directly to the river. It must be a stream and was much closer than the tree-lined river. If I could get the horses down to it, it would save me some time. I hesitated, weighing up the chances that the gully would be too clogged with vegetation to be of any use to me. A warrior does not worry about such things, I thought with a smile. Swinging my horse’s head to the north, I headed towards what I hoped would be a deep stream with shallow banks. The three horses trailed behind me placidly.
As we drew close, the animals snorted and tossed their manes as if they could sense the water. At first, I could see no way past the thick thatch of brambles and elderberries, so, cursing silently, I turned east again towards the river. Moments later, there was a break in the dense foliage and I could hear the trickle of flowing water. A muddy bank led down to a shadowed pool. An old willow had fallen, probably in the storms that spring. It had toppled across the stream, partially damming it and also clearing a path through the undergrowth. I offered up a prayer of thanks and dismounted to lead the horses down to the water’s edge.
The water here was as wide as a beaver’s pond, but I could see no gnawed trunks that would have signalled the creatures’ presence. The water barely rippled. It was still and quiet here, apart from the burbling of the stream where it found its way past the damming bole of the fallen willow. At first my horse did not wish to go down into the shadows to drink. It shied away and rolled its eyes. I pulled hard on its reins and eventually, with a snort, it stepped down carefully and dipped its snout into the cool water. Its ears were back and its skin quivered. The other horses nudged and jostled each other until they too could reach the water and drink.
I looped the lead rope over a jutting root of the splintered willow. Looking about for somewhere to tether my horse’s reins, I could see none so, sighing, I rammed my ash practice sword into the soft earth of the river bank. To this, I tied the leather reins. I smiled to th
ink what Gwawrddur would say if he could see me. He would surely tell me that was no way to treat a sword. But he was back at the camp watching Hereward cook the evening meal and I was here with the horses, bringing water for everyone else. I could do with my “sword” whatever I wished.
I took the water skins from my saddle bags and knelt to fill them. I had just stoppered the first one and was plunging the second skin into the water when I heard a crack and swish of wood, as if something had snagged a twig and then it had snapped back. I listened, but all was silence again. I would have thought I had imagined it, but my horse raised its head and its ears twisted about as it too listened for danger. I stood, placing my hand on the animal’s flank, as much to calm myself as the beast. There was no sound now as I strained to hear. Runolf’s mare snorted, making me jolt as if slapped. Then I heard more leaves and twigs being brushed aside. There was no stealth in the sounds and I let out a sigh of relief. It must be one of the others who had followed me for some reason. I waited to see who it was. Perhaps it was Gwawrddur, come to teach me new moves to practice, or to make me run back to camp while he rode. I dropped the skins at my feet and hurriedly pulled the ash practice blade from the mud. With my left hand I gripped my horse’s bridle.
The sounds of someone approaching were growing louder and I peered into the foliage that thronged the bank of the stream, but could see nobody. A finger of unease traced a line down my spine and I shivered.
“Who is there?” I called out and was angered to hear that my voice quavered. It was the voice of a timid child, not a brave warrior.
The elderberries and briars shook, and a heartbeat later, two men stepped onto the path that I had followed down to the water. I had never seen either of them before.
The first was tall and wiry, perhaps thirty years of age. His neck looked too long and his eyes jutted from his angular face. He wore a tan-coloured cloak over a dark green tunic and breeches. In his hand, he held a sword. It did not look as fine as Gwawrddur’s. Its hilt and pommel were iron, its handle wooden, but it looked deadly enough and I shivered when I looked at the man’s eyes. They were expressionless and blank, like the eyes of a snake.
The other man was shorter and broader. His mousy hair was cropped short and his features were blunt and brutal. In his left hand he held a wicked-looking seax. It was almost as long as a sword. Though younger and seemingly stronger, the second man appeared somehow less dangerous than the first, though I could not say why.
“Who are you?” I said, squaring my shoulders in an effort to appear brave. “What do you want?” My voice sounded small and terrified.
The thin man did not answer, he just smiled. There were gaps between his yellow teeth and his grin made me want to turn and run. But behind me there was no escape, only water.
“I told you there was but the one of them,” said the shorter of the two.
“Others must be camped close by,” hissed the swordsman. “Why else would he have four horses and all those water skins?” From his tone, and the way the shorter man nodded at his words, the swordsman was the leader here. He took a step closer and the horses stamped and snorted. “How many are there?” he asked, pointing his sword at me. “And where are they?”
It was my turn to give no answer, and with that small act of defiance, I began to feel the cold rage I had begun to recognise as the hidden fighter within me.
His eyes narrowed.
“No matter,” he said. “Let’s kill him fast and be gone from here. We can ride. And those horses will fetch us enough silver to last till midwinter.”
My mouth had grown dry, but my fear had vanished, smothered by the rage that filled me. The hand that clutched the horse’s bridle trembled, but not with fear now, with pent-up fury.
“If you want these horses, you will have to kill me to take them,” I said. The tall man’s eyes widened and for a moment, he did not move. I wondered who was more shocked at my words for I had not known I was going to speak until my mouth opened.
“Very well, monk,” he said, taking a step forward and raising his sword. The shorter man did not move, but watched intently. He seemed to think he would not be needed in this one-sided fight.
“Come on then,” I said, and letting go of my horse’s harness, I dropped into the crouch of the warrior stance. In my right hand I lifted the ash branch as if it were a sword.
“By Christ’s bones,” laughed the thin man, “what have we here? A fighting monk?” He glanced back at his friend, who chuckled at what he was seeing. “It is a pity we do not have more time,” the swordsman said. “I would like to know where this mad monk has come from.”
“No time for that,” said the stockier of the two. “If his friends are near, they might hear us and come to help him. Kill him and let’s be done.”
His words cut through the fog of my ire. I was a fool. Taking a deep breath, I screamed as loud as I could.
“Help me! I am under attack!”
The sound of my shout made the horses whinny and shake their heads. My mount jumped away from me and the thin swordsman snapped into action. With a growl of anger, he leapt forward.
An unusual clarity and calm descended on me. I watched as his blade flickered towards me and, as I had done countless times in the previous days, I parried. Only this time I was not defending against an imaginary foe. The wooden staff was stout and strong and it easily deflected the sword away from my face. In the next moment, as part of the same practised movement, I took a step forward and lunged.
I’d like to say that my blow was directed by skill, but the truth of it is that I was barely thinking. And yet perhaps that is what separates a true warrior from normal men. That when it matters, luck is on their side. I am sure there are those who would say that there is no such thing as luck, that my hand was directed by God, and maybe that is so, but I have ever been a proud man and I say it was my hand, not Christ’s, that held that ash branch when its tip gouged into the brigand’s left eye. I had continued to shout for help even as I clashed with the swordsman and now his screams of agony were added to my cries for aid. He staggered back, clutching at his face.
“Kill him! Kill him!” he raged, and his stocky friend surged forward, ready to put an end to me.
The wooden sword had not broken and I still held it before me in the defensive pose that Gwawrddur had drilled into me. He would be proud I thought and then realised the stupidity of such an idea. He might be pleased that I had managed to injure one of the two attackers, but I would be dead soon enough. Gwawrddur’s pride would do me no good.
The stocky man rushed at me. His movements had none of the elegance of the swordsman and he seemed to use the seax like a cudgel, swinging it before him with furious abandon. A skilled warrior would have seen his weakness and, even armed with nothing but an ash stick, would have been able to cripple him before he reached me. But I was not a skilled warrior. I was but a young monk with dreams of another life and a stick in my hand that suddenly felt puny and insignificant when facing the burly bulk of this brigand. By reflex, I raised my wooden staff to parry his first wild swing. Splinters flew with a terrible cracking sound. The force of the blow rattled the stick and it vibrated down into my hand.
I stumbled backwards, splashing into the water. My horse, terrified now, reared up, pawing the air with its hooves. It was trying to turn in the small space of the muddy clearing, but the foliage blocked it on the one side, the seax-wielding man on the other. One of its hooves glanced from the man’s shoulder and he grunted. Halting his attack on me, he leapt away, out of the reach of the animal’s crazed flailing hooves, and closer to where the tethered horses stamped and strained at their bonds.
The swordsman was still cursing and screaming, but despite his face being smeared with blood, I could see that he was not mortally wounded. He would soon return to the fray and whatever slim chance of survival I had would vanish. My horse was finally able to spin about and, with a splattering of mud and a great crashing of branches, he galloped away from the strea
m, up the slope, past the wounded man and back into the light.
“Now you die, little monk,” said the man before me with a vicious grin. He seemed to be enjoying himself as he stepped forward, hefting his heavy-bladed seax again. I could not drag my gaze from the wicked steel blade in his meaty hand. The cold water lapped about my ankles. I remembered the monks at Lindisfarnae, how they had been forced into the sea and drowned. My enemy was broad-shouldered and heavily-muscled. If he did not kill me with the seax, he would easily overpower me and force my face beneath the dark waters of the pool. The thought filled me with horror. I could not allow that to happen. I might not hold a sword in my hand, but I was not unarmed and I could still fight.
He took another step forward, still out of the range of his short arm and the cleaver-like seax. I feared that heavy blade, but I could not let that fear overcome me. With a roar of anger and terror, I sprang forward, aiming my wooden staff at his face. Looking back now, with the eyes of an old man, I can only try to remember what it was like to be so young and so foolhardy. I think I imagined myself to be blessed somehow, that I would repeat the lucky strike that had sent his comrade reeling. But even a truly blessed warrior cannot always rely on luck and must trust to his own abilities.
I sent the probing lunge at the stocky warrior and he swayed back, faster and more skilled than I had given him credit for. In the same instant, he swung his seax and hacked into the ash wood of my weapon. It splintered and snapped under the force of the blow and it was all I could do not to drop the half that remained in my hand.
Laughing at how easily he had brushed aside my attack, he raised his seax. But before he could strike, there was a tumultuous crash and a howling, wailing scream echoed around the clearing. Behind my opponent, a figure had leapt from the foliage and flung itself on the wounded swordsman. The two of them crumpled to the mud in a thrashing jumble of limbs and flashing of blades.
A Time for Swords Page 22
