A Time for Swords

by Matthew Harffy

  Again, Hereward shook his head.

  “Now that I have seen this island, I fear that any who lights a beacon would invite the wrath of the Norse. There is nowhere to hide. Anyone here will surely die.”

  Anstan sighed and then began coughing again. As the coughs abated, he held out his cup and I refilled it with mead.

  “That seems most likely,” he said after he’d had another sip. “Well then, it is settled. You will send over timber and build the beacon here, near my home, and I will stay and light it when the time comes.”

  “But Anstan,” I said, “you will die.”

  “I am dying anyway,” he said with a sad smile. “I would rather be of use to you all before I go to meet the Lord in heaven.”

  The old man’s casual bravery shamed me, contrasting so starkly with my own fear of the future. There was a firmness to his words, a determination. It felt to me as if this conversation had already been played out. It was as if we were all pieces in a game of tafl, and the Lord had placed us in our positions on the board already. Surely, this was all part of His plan.

  “What if I forbid it?” said Hereward. His voice was tight and filled with emotion. “What if I tell you that you must return with us?”

  Anstan chuckled to himself.

  “Then I will tell you to let an old man be.” He reached out and patted Hereward’s leg. “You may be in command of your warriors,” he said, “but you do not command me.”

  Hereward looked away. He blinked several times. After a long while, he sighed and turned back to Anstan.

  “If I allow this thing, old man,” he said, a hard edge to his tone now, “what is to say that you will not die before the Northmen come?”

  For a heartbeat nobody made a sound. I could scarcely believe that Hereward had voiced such a concern. How could he be so uncaring?

  But Anstan threw his head back and laughed long and loud. After a time, his cackling turned into his barking cough and I leaned forward to pat his back. When he had regained his breath, he hawked and spat into his rag.

  “Well, I cannot promise that the Lord will not take me before, for no man can see what will pass. But I do not believe that is His will. Do you?” He looked at me then. He must have felt it too, I thought, the sliding into place of the different pieces in this deadly game. “I think it is God’s will that I remain here,” he said with conviction. “I have prayed long and hard on this these past weeks and I am a stubborn old goat.”

  Hereward laughed at that.

  “I barely know you, but I already know that you do not lie when you say you are stubborn,” he said.

  “I was a warrior once too, you know?” Anstan went on. “I know what it is to rely on others. And I will not let you down.” He gripped Hereward’s arm in the warrior grip, his spidery fingers clasped around the tautly muscled forearm, and stared up at him with unblinking eyes. “I will live long enough to light the beacon. When the time comes, you can rely on me.”

  We were quiet and subdued as Runolf rowed us back towards the Cocueda. I stared out over the waves at the diving sea birds. Drosten was silent and Runolf was stony faced as he heaved on the oars and the boat sped over the water. As we drew closer to land, the waves became larger and cold surf sprayed up over the prow. I glanced back at Hereward in the stern. He was twisted around, looking back at the island and the small hut. When he looked away from our wake, I saw that his eyes were red and his cheeks wet.

  Thirty-Eight

  The sun was in the west when we reached Werceworthe. We had spoken little on the return journey. Hereward had brooded silently at the rear of the boat while Runolf rowed. Drosten seemed content to watch the land slide by as we travelled up the Cocueda. It was slower in this direction as we were heading against the flow of the river. When the keel of the boat grated against the small shingle beach, Runolf’s forehead was beaded with sweat. He climbed out to drag the boat from the water and I hurried to help him. The back and chest of his kirtle was dark and wet from his exertion.

  “You are mortal then?” I said, nodding at his sweat-drenched clothing. He looked confused, and so I added, “You sweat, like anyone else. I thought you never tired.”

  Giving the boat one last tug, taking it fully out of the water, Runolf gave me a strange look.

  “We are all mortal,” he said. His tone was sad.

  “You think we are wrong to leave Anstan there?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “There is no better thing for a man than to decide the manner of his death.”

  Hereward spat into the river and, clearly not wishing to be part of this conversation, pushed past us and headed towards the minster buildings. Drosten followed behind him.

  I had not stopped thinking about Anstan since we had left him snoozing in his bed. “I will keep watch outside once the beacon is built,” he said. “But there is no point in me losing sleep until then. Even if I saw the Norse, I could do nothing to alert you.”

  I marvelled at his courage.

  “Anstan is a truly brave man,” I said. I had always thought of him as a nuisance, a talkative old man whose stubborn desire to remain on the island had given me extra work to do. I saw now that I knew nothing of the man, or the life he had led before joining the brethren.

  “He is that,” said Runolf.

  “I do not know where he finds his strength.”

  “Is that not from your Christ god? I thought this is why you prayed to Him.”

  For Runolf to remind me of my faith filled me with shame.

  “Yes, you speak true. You are learning much of our ways,” I paused. “Your new ways,” I corrected myself. “Surely, as you say, Anstan must find courage from his faith, but I do not know how he can be so resolute in the face of certain death.”

  The thought of his frail form, alone on the windswept island saddened me. To decide the manner of your passing might be a good thing, but did any man truly wish to die alone, with no friend or kin beside him in the end?

  I became aware that Runolf was staring at me, his head cocked to one side, as if unsure of what he saw.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “You say you do not know how the old man can face death.”

  “Yes, but what of it?”

  “Is that not what you are doing here? What we are all doing?”

  Despite the warmth of the afternoon, a chill ran through me.

  “You think we cannot prevail?” I asked, my voice small. Was that what they all thought? Did they all believe we would die here?

  Runolf looked at the river for a time. A fish jumped with a silver gleam and a splash. The ripples faded quickly, leaving no trace of it.

  “Christ knows,” he said at last, using one of the terms Cormac was fond of. I might have smiled at the sound of it, if I had not been gripped with a cold anxiety. He turned and walked after the others. “Anything is possible.”

  I watched after him, unsure whether I wanted to laugh or cry.

  When I caught up with him, I saw he was heading away from the minster and the refectory. My heart sank. We had not eaten since shortly after dawn and my stomach was empty and grumbling. It looked as though I would not be getting fed any time soon. In the distance, Hereward and Drosten were striding towards a large gathering of villagers. I trotted to catch up with Runolf and fell into step with him.

  Some of the people turned to welcome us as we arrived. I knew them all, of course, and nodded greetings. I could not be sure, but it seemed to me as though they were looking upon me with less suspicion than the day before. Perhaps in time they would come to accept this new me with a sword on my belt. Not if we were all dead, whispered a small voice within me. I ignored it with difficulty and surveyed the activity.

  There were three distinct clumps of villagers in the open yard outside Aethelwig’s hut. As I watched, yet more came from the south, carrying a bundle of long branches of what looked like ash wood.

  A small smoky fire burnt and several people were placing long staves into the
flames, twisting the wood constantly, then pulling it out to inspect the tip. The smell of woodsmoke filled the hot air.

  I spotted Gwawrddur walking between the different groups, offering advice and encouragement.

  One of them was using knives and axes to clean the twigs and leaves from the branches, leaving straight shafts, longer than a man is tall. The next group was involved in cutting a point into one end of each haft. These sharpened staves were then handed to the final group, who plunged the sharp ends into the fire.

  “I see you have put the people to work,” said Hereward. He sounded pleased with what he saw. Gone was the sombre mood that had fallen over him since the meeting with Anstan. I thought about the sudden change and realised that this was the mark of a leader. It was his duty to these people to give them hope, not to burden them with his fears and woes.

  Cormac waved from where he was kneeling. He was with the group that was sharpening the wood. He held a wicked-looking knife in his hand. I noticed Wulfwaru beside him, her head bent over in concentration. Aethelwig walked over from the fire and offered her a cup of water he had filled from a bucket. She smiled her thanks and drank, before handing the cup to Cormac to finish.

  One of the older women shouted at some screaming boys, telling them to quieten down. The children were throwing the discarded twigs and branches at each other in a mock battle. They jeered and shouted even louder at the woman before sprinting off through the trees that led down to the river. There was a relaxed, convivial atmosphere about the place. These were simple folk with a purpose. The seasons did not cow them as they toiled to till and sow and harvest, and they were not daunted by the prospect of men coming to steal what they owned. I remembered the sleek, beast-headed prows of the Norse longships, the leering raiders, with their swords and axes and savagery. It was good that the villagers smiled and laughed as they worked. They would have time enough for fear.

  “Work has started on the hall and its buildings,” said Gwawrddur, “but I have left that to Brother Eoten to organise. He seems to know what he is about and has willing hands to help him.” He cast a glance about him at the gathered people all working on a common goal. “I thought it would be a good idea to start working on something the people could hold and understand quickly and easily.”

  Hereward smiled at what he saw.

  “You have done well,” he said. “Everyone should be armed with a spear at least. And we will need more sharpened stakes for what we have in mind.”

  “Tomorrow, I will begin to train them in their use.”

  Hereward walked over to the pile of completed spears. Each had a blackened, sharpened tip, but other than that, it was just a branch that had been cleaned of leaves and offshoots. Runolf, frowning, took the spear from the Northumbrian. It looked flimsy in his huge hands. He made a couple of thrusts with it, before inspecting the fire-hardened point.

  “This is no spear,” he said in Norse. “It is a twig.”

  Hereward looked at me questioningly. I interpreted the Norseman’s words.

  “We do not have enough iron or time to fashion blades for them,” said Gwawrddur. I translated and he continued. “But a thicket of these will hold an attacking force at bay.”

  Runolf looked sceptical. He thumbed the blackened tip, shaking his head.

  “If a spit can pierce a hog,” said Cormac, “one of these can skewer a heathen Norseman.”

  Runolf waited for me to translate the words, then he scoffed.

  “A twig would not kill me,” he said, his rumbling voice tinged with disdain.

  I was aware that the activity around us had ceased. Silence fell as the men and women observed the interplay between Runolf and Cormac. Sensing the morale-damaging shift in mood, Hereward stepped forward and clapped Runolf on the shoulder. He took the spear from him, gave it a nod of approval and tossed it back onto the heap of them that the villagers had prepared.

  “Luckily for us,” he said loudly, “these spears only need to kill heathen Norsemen, and you, my huge friend, are a good Christian man.”

  Thirty-Nine

  It was late when I entered the refectory, but I was certain that Hereward and Gwawrddur would still be awake. Despite the long days and the backbreaking labour, the two of them never seemed able to find sleep easily. Tonight was no different. I took off the woollen cloak I wore and shook out the worst of the rain at the entrance before making my way inside. The room was wrapped in shadows, the only light coming from the flickering flame of a rush lamp. I could see the mound of blankets where one of the others slept. I recognised Runolf’s loud snores and grimaced. As tired as I was, the sawing noise was bound to keep me awake, as it had so many nights before.

  Hereward looked up from where he sat on a bench. The lamp was between him and the Welshman, their features bright in the darkness, their eyes lambent.

  “Still raining then?” Hereward said.

  I nodded and moved to the bench beside him, lowering myself with a groan, down onto the wood and stretching my legs out before me. My lower back and arms ached from digging the deep ditch to the east of Werce’s Hall. We had been digging for days. Another task to add to the many other gruelling jobs we had performed in the previous weeks.

  As well as the ditch to the east, which we hoped would deter the Norse from that approach, we had constructed fences to help us channel the attackers and also dug deep pits in which to entrap them. It seemed as if the work would never be finished.

  “You think Drosten will stay awake tonight?” asked Gwawrddur, pouring me a small measure of mead and pushing the cup across the board towards me. I shrugged.

  “Well, he was alert and open-eyed when I left him.”

  “The Pict will not sleep again on duty,” said Hereward with finality.

  A week ago, Hereward had gone up the hill in the darkest part of the night. He had been unable to sleep. Drosten, it transpired, did not have the same problem. We knew that it was unlikely the Norse would come at night. When we had asked Runolf whether they might attack in darkness he had shrugged and infuriatingly said, “Anything is possible”. He had gone on to say that it was very unlikely, that it was too dangerous to sail without light, especially in waters they did not know well, but his first comment had sowed the seeds of doubt and so it was that Hereward had ordered one of us to be on watch in the hall on the hill at all times. When he had found Drosten sleeping, he had been furious, vowing that if he found him in dereliction of his duties again, he would send the Pict away.

  “I would rather have fewer blades wielded by men I can trust,” he’d said, “than by an untrustworthy Pictish cur.”

  Drosten had bridled at that, squaring his shoulders and jutting his chin out belligerently. He took two steps towards Hereward, the sinews of his neck and jaw bulging with his pent-up fury. Hereward did not move. “Think very carefully what you do now, Pict,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper but carrying with it the threat of a whetstone dragged along a finely honed blade.

  Drosten clenched his fists and I thought he might seek to strike Hereward. But with a great effort the tattooed warrior swallowed back his anger, bowed his head and stalked away.

  We had not seen him again until that evening when he’d walked into the refectory and approached Hereward.

  “I am sorry,” he said, and his emotion made his Pictish accent thicker than normal. “It will not happen again. You can trust me.”

  Hereward had held his gaze for a long time before finally nodding and handing him a mug of ale.

  “Your punishment,” said Hereward, “is to collect the brambles to fill the east ditch.”

  Drosten had let out a long breath, but nodded. We all hated the task of cutting brambles and carrying them to be piled in the trenches we were digging. We had placed sharpened stakes in the earth at the bottom of the ditch, but Gwawrddur had pointed out that the Norsemen would come on foot. Horses would be impeded by the stakes, but men would be able to climb past them easily enough. Wulfwaru had come up with the idea of fi
lling the depression with briars, which would slow a man and cause him great suffering if he were to force his way through. It was bloody, agonising work to hack down clumps of the thorn-laden plants and we all had scratches to remind us of the odious task.

  Over the next days Drosten did not once complain about his punishment, but by the time he had brought enough brambles to satisfy Hereward, his hands, arms and face were a welter of thin scratches, their red lines adding a bloody counterpoint to his woad tattoos.

  No more had been said of the incident and Hereward seemed content with Drosten’s apology.

  I sipped the strong mead that Gwawrddur had given me, enjoying the warming sensation as it trickled down my throat. None of us drank to excess. Hereward had forbidden it. But I thought that a few swallows of mead might help to dull my senses enough that I could sleep through the incessant snoring from Runolf’s corner of the room.

  “It would matter little whether he is awake or asleep, the weather as it is,” I said. “If Anstan is even able to light his beacon in this weather, something that I doubt, how we would manage to see it through this driving rain is beyond me.”

  “Have faith, young Hunlaf,” said Gwawrddur, with a thin smile. “Of all of us, that should be easiest for you.”

  Anstan too had told me to have faith when we were building the beacon on Cocwaedesae. My doubts as to his ability to carry out the task of lighting the fire must have been plainly written on my face as I looked at the frail hermit. It had taken us three days to chop and transport enough timber to the island. Hereward had given me the task of overseeing the construction of the beacon and whilst the toil had been exhausting, I had enjoyed the time spent with Runolf cutting down trees in the forest, splitting the logs and then piling as many as possible onto a raft that we could float behind the small skiff and rowing them out to Anstan’s island retreat.

  The laconic Norseman had relaxed noticeably away from the eyes of the villagers and he seemed to revel in the simple task of swinging his huge axe into the trunks of the trees. It was plain to me that he was as skilled a woodsman as he was a warrior, aiming his axe deftly and showing me how best to split the wood. He explained all manner of details about the timber he hewed, how wooden wedges were best for making straight planks and how the planks could be bent to any shape needed by steaming them in fire pits. His face lit up as he talked about working the wood. I wondered about his past life, but when I asked him of it, he grew sombre and withdrawn and I was sad to have dispelled the easy atmosphere between us.