A Time for Swords

by Matthew Harffy

  Later we sat on the beach looking out to the darkening sky and listening to the constant growl and hiss of the waves washing up and down the sand. A melancholy had come upon Runolf and I did not wish to press him further about the life he had left behind. So, although I wished to learn more about his past, I told him of mine. I spoke of my father and my almost-forgotten mother, of how my older brother had always seemed to please my father, where I had only disappointed.

  “Beornnoth lives in Berewic now,” I said, watching a puffin streak low across the water, its wings beating furiously as it headed north towards the Farne Islands no doubt. And beyond them Lindisfarnae and then, at the mouth of the Tuede, Berewic, where my brother lived. “He serves Lord Cerdic there as a warrior and he has done well for himself, by all accounts.” I picked up a pebble and flung it out into the surf. “But Father could only afford the heregeat for one of us, or so he said, and so I was sent to Magilros to become a monk.”

  “‘Heregeat’?” enquired Runolf. “What is this?”

  “A warrior’s gear. Sword, byrnie, horse and saddle.”

  I sat in silence for a time and wondered at the twists and turns of fate. It was all God’s plan, I supposed. Despite being envious of my brother, I had been happy at Werceworthe. I looked sidelong at Runolf and thought how our lives had become as inextricably linked as wool woven into a cloak. What did I truly know of this massive man I asked myself. He had come into my life on a wave of blood and violence. Had my actions on that day signalled the end of my happiness as a member of the brethren? I had lusted for vengeance and blood. I had killed. My sins were plain for all to see.

  Or was it when Oslac had shown us The Treasure of Life that my fate had been sealed? For from that moment I had been consumed with the desire to know more of the secrets that lay within the heretical text. Where there was one such marvellous book hidden deep within a scriptorium, there must be more. But even if the book had survived, if the Norse had not come, would I have been content to return to Werceworthe, to resume my duties and live a simple life of contemplation and learning under Leofstan and the abbot? Would the study of books have proven sufficient for me?

  Perhaps.

  I would never know. For suddenly, on that terrible day of slaughter and horror, everything had changed forever.

  “All fathers have a favourite child,” said Runolf, taking a swig from the costrel of ale we had brought from Werceworthe. “Good fathers try to hide it from their sons. They ensure they do not favour one over the other, but they cannot conceal the truth from their heart.” I glanced at him, wondering at his words, but he was staring out at the Whale Road, lost in his own thoughts. I wanted to ask him if he had children, but I remembered his reaction when questioned that afternoon and I surmised it would not be wise to broach the subject with him.

  The following day we had completed the beacon. Runolf had directed me, telling me where to lay the planks and logs, building up a great mound of wood, with enough gaps in between the pieces to allow air to flow and feed the flames. When we had finished we took a final drink with Anstan and I handed him an earthenware jar that was sealed with wax.

  “This is fish oil,” I said. “It will help feed the fire, if it is wet.”

  “Yes, yes, young Hunlaf,” the old man said. He hawked and spat a gobbet of bloody phlegm into the grass. “I am no child that you need to teach me how best to strike a light. I will manage to set this bonfire aflame when the time comes, never you fear.”

  In spite of his frailty, and the sickness that had a hold of him, I believed his words. Over the course of the days in which we had constructed the beacon, Anstan had seemed to grow stronger with each passing moment. I had commented as much to Runolf the day before.

  “A man needs to know what his purpose is,” he said. “A man with no purpose, is merely awaiting death.”

  I did not care to mention that Anstan too was surely awaiting death, but rather than one caused by the illness that consumed him, a bloody and violent end at the hands of Runolf’s countrymen.

  I looked over now at Runolf’s sleeping form and again wondered at the friendship between us. As the days had passed, the bond between us had grown stronger. And not only between me and the Norseman, but with all of the warriors in this strange band to which I now belonged. At times I still felt an unusual disquiet to be surrounded by the brethren of the minster and yet to no longer be one of them, but I had left one brotherhood for another. I had worked hard alongside these men, and Gwawrddur had continued to train me and Cormac. We had both improved, building up our strength and our skill. I still often felt like an impostor amongst these strong men of war, but every now and then, in an unguarded moment, I would forget that I had once been a monk. I could best Cormac more often than not with a blade now. The sword felt natural at my side now, and my hand often dropped without thinking to the hilt to prevent the scabbard from snagging on things as I moved about. How rapidly what had once seemed strange had become familiar.

  “How does the roof fare?” Hereward asked, his voice bringing me back from my thoughts. The day before, the tall monk, Eoten, had finished laying fresh thatch on the timber frame, parts of which had been replaced with freshly hewn beams. The constant rain since had been a test of his skill.

  “The hall is dry,” I said. “Eoten has done a good job.”

  “Good,” he said. “Tomorrow we will bring the treasure up to Werce’s Hall. After that, we will all sleep there too.”

  “It will please the abbot to have us out of the minster,” Gwawrddur said.

  “It will,” I replied. “You think the Norse will come soon?”

  Runolf’s snoring was suddenly interrupted with a choking cough. We all turned to look at the sleeping giant. A moment later, his constant snoring resumed. Hereward frowned.

  “Runolf says they will come in the next fortnight. Do not ask me how he knows, something to do with the winds and the weather, but he seems sure of it, and I see no reason not to believe him.” He drank sparingly of his mead. “Yes,” he continued, his voice grim, “I think they will come soon.”

  “Are we ready?” I said. This was the question that preyed on everyone’s minds.

  “No plan survives the first meeting with the enemy,” Gwawrddur said, “but we are as ready as we can be. The hall is prepared. We will take the gold and silver up there tomorrow. We have already carried the bell up there.” Garulf’s iron bell had been installed outside Werce’s Hall, and it was no longer used to call the faithful to mass on Sundays. The inhabitants of Werceworthe had all been drilled in what to do when the bell rang out the next time. The monks, most of the women, children and the elderly, would come rushing from their homes to the protection of the hall. Others had more dangerous tasks assigned to them. We had all run through the plans many times over. There were so many things that could go wrong, and all we could do was trust in our preparations, God, and the men and women around us.

  “How many archers has Wulfwaru trained in the end?” asked Hereward.

  Over the weeks he had come to grudgingly respect her. She was hard working, with a keen mind, and I had noticed recently how he had turned to her on more than one occasion to seek her advice. We had all seen her skill with a bow, but she had also taken it upon herself to make more of the weapons and train other women in their use.

  “I believe there are five now who are passable shots,” Gwawrddur said. “None of them are anywhere near a match for Wulfwaru, but if the Norse stand still for long enough, they might be able to injure a few of them.” He smiled and Hereward chuckled, but I sensed no mirth in his laughter. Gone was the man so quick to jest whom I had met all those weeks before on the windswept island of Lindisfarnae. “But it matters little,” Gwawrddur went on, “as their arrows will be spent soon enough, I think.”

  Whenever Wulfwaru had a moment spare, which was not often, what with tending for her child and her husband, and helping with the defences, she could be found making simple, but effective arrows. She had a small colle
ction of iron-headed hunting arrows, and Garulf had made her several more. Wulfwaru had convinced a couple of the other women to help her make the arrows, cutting the feathers, gluing them to the wooden shaft using birch tar and then binding with sinew.

  “When the last of the ditches is finished, perhaps we can help her to make more arrows,” Hereward said. “If nothing else, it will keep us occupied as we wait.” Cormac and I had already made a few arrows under Wulfwaru’s expert supervision. I had enjoyed the painstaking concentrated effort, inserting the tang into the wood and then slowly winding the sinew twine tight at the connection of the shaft to the head. I missed the exacting work of putting quill to paper and Hereward’s words pleased me. It would be good to have something to do with my hands in the days ahead. Days that would all too soon bring chaos and death. I pushed my dark thoughts aside and stood, stifling a yawn.

  “I will try to sleep, I think,” I said.

  As if in answer, Runolf let out a rumbling fart to rival the noise of his stertorous snores. Hereward chuckled.

  “By God,” he said, “perhaps his wind will blow out the candle to help you find rest.”

  “I am scared that his noxious stench might kill me long before the raiders have a chance.”

  They laughed at my dark humour. Leofstan would have been appalled by my words, but I had learnt that this kind of jest was appreciated by men who chose to live and die by the blade.

  I was casting about in the shadows for where my blanket lay, when a crash came from outside. This was followed by the screaming yells of a distraught woman, the bellowing roar of a man’s deep anger and, above it all, the piercing, howling wail of an infant.

  The sounds, cutting through the night-time stillness like a seax blade through warm tallow, shocked me into immobility. Had the raiders come unannounced and unnoticed? Had Anstan lit his beacon only to have it unseen in the sheeting rain? Or had it been seen by the monks who waited on the coast and then they had struggled to light their own bonfire? Had I missed the sign of the light in the darkness to the east? Was Drosten asleep again at his post?

  All these thoughts swarmed in my head like crows, battering my senses with their confusing wings. I was yet standing there, unmoving and seemingly frozen to the spot, when Runolf leapt up from where he had been sleeping. His great axe was already in his hand and he shook his head as if to free it of sleep as a hound shakes off water. The sounds from outside were growing louder, closer perhaps, and I glanced from the massive Norseman to the door, as a blast of the wet cool air of the night blew inside.

  Hereward and Gwawrddur, with none of my confusion or temerity, had moved without hesitation and rushed out into the darkness. Runolf cocked his head, listening to the night. There were voices there, behind the hiss of the rain. Angry voices, scared voices. And still that baby wailed.

  “Come, boy,” roared Runolf, bounding towards the door. And then, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking, he turned and said, “No time to worry now,” and ran out into the gloom of the rain-slick night.

  I took a deep breath, pulled my sword from its scabbard and, feeling some comfort from its heft, hurried after him.

  Forty

  I sprinted after Runolf, splashing through puddles and sliding through the mire of the path. There was light ahead, not within the minster, but amongst the buildings of the lay people. I stumbled as I jumped over the shallow ditch of the vallum that surrounded the monastery. I could just make out the shapes of Gwawrddur, Hereward and Runolf before me and it was all I could do to keep up and avoid slipping in the mud.

  How had the Norsemen reached the village without coming to the minster first? Had they passed unseen and landed on the western edge of the settlement? Had all our plans been for nought? And why was Drosten not hammering on the metal that hung outside Werce’s Hall?

  I skidded and slid into the clearing before Aethelwig’s house. There were people there and the baby was still crying, its voice pitiful and full of rage and fear. At first, I could not make out the details of what I saw. Hereward, Gwawrddur and Runolf had their backs to me and there were a few others standing in the mud as the rain fell relentlessly from the dark sky. There were not as many attackers as I would have expected.

  I spun about quickly, suddenly convinced that there was a horde of warriors creeping up behind us, but the night was empty, dark and still except for the constant murmur of the rain that was easing now.

  Returning my gaze to the huts and the gathered people, I tried to make sense of what I saw there. The illumination was spilling from the open door of Aethelwig’s hut. Figures were circling each other on the open ground before the building. The dim light from a rush flame or lantern caught the wet, deadly blade of a sword. At the same moment the light limned the features of the bladesman and I recognised him; Hereward’s voice, loud and hard, cut through the noise.

  “Cormac!” he snapped. “Put up your sword.”

  The Hibernian ignored him, holding his blade aloft and stepping slowly around so that his adversary would be lit by the light from the open doorway. He was stronger now than when we had found him, weeks of good food and hard work had broadened his shoulders and added bulk to his arms and legs. But his step was lighter, his movements more thoughtful and controlled. Gwawrddur was a good teacher and even though I was able to best Cormac frequently now, he was a formidable opponent, especially if the one who faced him was not trained in the use of a blade.

  Light spilled onto his enemy’s features and I knew there would be no good outcome to this fight. It was Aethelwig who stood before him. The tanner was a burly, round-faced man, as strong as an ox, but slow. He was not a fighter. Not a killer of men. But his face was twisted with ire and in his hand he held a long knife.

  “Cormac!” shouted Hereward again. “Do not forget your oath.”

  Cormac hesitated, but did not lower his weapon or remove his gaze from Aethelwig.

  “The man is mad,” Cormac said. “I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Then why do you come to my house in the dead of night, creeping like a thief?” shouted Aethelwig, his voice trembling with rage.

  “I did not wish to wake Aethelwulf,” Cormac said.

  The baby was still crying loudly. I noticed that it was not Wulfwaru who held his swaddled form, but Mildrith, her friend, who had two children of her own.

  “Well, Aethelwulf is awake now,” bellowed Aethelwig, “and so am I, and I will gut you like the Hibernian pig you are.”

  I saw Cormac’s shoulders bunch and I knew he was going to lunge. This was his weakness and the manner in which I could often beat him. It was possible to goad him to make the first move, from which a skilled swordsman could parry and counterattack. I was fast and found that a well-timed insult would provoke a response from which I could win a practice bout. Aethelwig, though, was not a skilled warrior and I could already picture how Cormac would bury his long blade in the tanner’s body.

  Hereward and Gwawrddur both sensed what would occur at the same moment and, as one, they shouted out, “No!”

  Perhaps their voices would have halted him, but in the same instant Wulfwaru slid between the two fighting men. Her back was to her husband and in her hands she held a fully drawn bow. The iron tip of the arrow looked dull and dark in the night, but her aim was unwavering. The arrow was pointed at Cormac’s chest.

  “Nobody will gut anybody here tonight,” she said, her voice tight with anger.

  “You would defend him over me?” said Aethelwig. “He is your lover, I knew it! I demand a husband’s justice.”

  She did not turn to face him. Her arms did not tremble as she held the arrow aimed at Cormac.

  “Husband,” she said, her tone softer now, “you must trust me when I tell you there is nothing between Cormac and me.”

  “And yet you defend him!”

  “My arrow is aimed at his heart, not yours,” she replied. And then, in a soothing, sad tone, “And my heart is yours and not his.”

  “But… Why… Why did h
e come here in the depth of the night?”

  “I cannot speak for another,” she said. “Cormac, explain yourself. My arm is growing weary.”

  Cormac seemed to finally grasp the situation he was in. Slowly, he lowered his sword, then sheathed it. For the first time he looked about him at the people who had gathered there, pulled from their beds into the wet night by the sound of his confrontation with the tanner. Wulfwaru still held her bow high, the string pulled taut. Cormac swallowed.

  “I meant no harm,” he said. “I could not sleep.”

  “And you thought to visit my wife, that she could help you find rest,” said Aethelwig, spitting each word furiously. “Is that it?”

  “Hush, husband,” said Wulfwaru softly. Carefully, she unbent the bow, lowering the arrow until it pointed at the mud. “Why did you come here?” she snapped at Cormac. “What could you want here? It is dark and we were sleeping.” Wulfwaru seemed even more enraged than her husband, but also more deadly: Aethelwig had shouted and yelled and swung his knife about in anger, but we could all see that the Hibernian would have defeated him if it had come to blows. Wulfwaru was quieter and more controlled and it was clear that she would not hesitate to slay Cormac, if he attacked.

  “I…” Cormac’s voice trailed off, and he looked again about him. He bit his lip. “I thought I could perhaps help you to make some arrows…”

  Her eyes widened.

  “In the dead of night? Are you mad?”

  Cormac did not seem to know how to respond. He opened his mouth, but no words came.