“Enough of this,” said Hereward, stepping forward. “Now is not the time for more talk. Cormac, apologise to Aethelwig and Wulfwaru.”
Cormac glared at Hereward. The Hibernian’s hair was soaked and plastered to his face, giving him a wild look.
“Apologise,” Hereward repeated, “and return to the refectory. We will speak of this in the morning.”
After a moment of hesitation, Cormac mumbled, “I am sorry.” And then, without waiting for a response, he turned and was lost in the night. The excitement over, and rain once again beginning to fall heavily, the other villagers dispersed, hurrying back to the warmth and shelter of their homes.
“I do not want that Hibernian anywhere near my wife,” growled Aethelwig. “It is bad enough that she spends all her days practising with that thing,” he nodded towards the bow in her hands, “and neglecting her duties. Now I have to worry about you warriors turning her head.”
Wulfwaru pushed the bow and arrow into her husband’s hands. He already held the big knife, so took them awkwardly. With a nod of thanks, she retrieved her son from Mildrith. Cuddling him to her breast, she patted the baby’s back and he began to quieten.
“The only thing you have to worry about is whether we will survive when the Norsemen come.” She shook her head. “If you cannot see that, then you are a fool, Aethelwig.” She strode back into their hut and slammed the door behind her, leaving us all in the dark.
For a time, the only sound was the rain. And then came the voice of Aethelwig in the gloom.
“By Christ’s blood,” he said, “if I live to see a hundred summers, I will never understand womenfolk.”
*
“I knew she would be trouble,” shouted Hereward, as he came through the door and slung his wet cloak across the room.
We had not spoken much as we awaited his return. He had said he would go up to Werce’s Hall and let Drosten know what the commotion was about. I hoped that the Pict was alert, for God alone knew what Hereward would do to him if he found him asleep.
Gwawrddur had poured us each a cup of mead and we had sat in the light of the flickering flame of the single rushlight, each pondering what had happened. I could make little sense of it, but I liked Cormac and hoped that some of Hereward’s ire would have washed away in the rain as he walked in the night.
I was disappointed. If anything, his anger seemed to have grown more intense. He took the cup Gwawrddur offered him, drained it and slammed it onto the board with a crash.
Cormac started as if slapped.
“It was not of her doing,” he said. “I am a fool.”
Hereward barked out a humourless laugh.
“There is no doubt of that!” he said. “One sniff of a cunny and you have lost what little sense you ever had.”
I blushed at Hereward’s words.
Cormac bristled.
“It is not like that,” he said.
“No? Then tell me how it is, Cormac mac Neill.” Hereward’s tone was scathing. “What were you thinking of? Did you think she would welcome you into her home while her husband slept?”
“I just thought—”
“What did you think?” Hereward interrupted him. “You thought nothing apart from wetting your cock!”
“Do not speak thus,” Cormac shouted, springing up from the bench to stand, fists clenched before Hereward.
Hereward stared at him impassively.
“Why?” he asked. “Is it not true that you desire her? That much I can understand. She is a comely enough wench. By God’s bones, that is why I should never have allowed her to stand with us. But what did you think would happen?”
“The other day,” Cormac said, his voice not much more than a whisper, “she told me she could not sleep at night. That she lay there awake and worrying of what might come.”
“So Aethelwig was right! You thought you would go to her, is that it? To put her at ease.”
“No!” He looked down at his feet. “Yes… I don’t know. I thought perhaps…” He hesitated as if he knew how his words sounded. “I thought we could make arrows together. It would calm both our nerves to be doing something useful.”
“Good God,” spat Hereward, “it is a pity that Aethelwig did not kill you.”
“What does Cormac say?” asked Runolf.
“He says he went to Wulfwaru’s home to make arrows with her.”
Runolf guffawed.
“To make arrows! I have never heard it called that before.”
Cormac spun around, his face dark with anger.
“You shut your mouth, you Norse bastard!” he raged.
Hereward shook his head in disbelief.
“Aethelwig will not need to worry any longer, if you choose to fight Runolf,” he said. “You have gained some skill with the sword, thanks to Gwawrddur here, but the Norseman would snap you in two.”
Cormac glowered at Runolf, who had not stopped chuckling. I wondered if Cormac would attack him, but then, he let out a shaky breath, turned and went to the furthest corner of the room. There he shook out his blankets and threw himself down on the ground with his back to us. I took a step after him, but Gwawrddur caught my shoulder and shook his head.
“Leave him be,” he said. “There is no point talking to him now. It would be like trying to bathe a wild cat.”
Forty-One
The rain blew over in the night and the next few days were dry, but overcast. Dark, gravid clouds loomed in the north and west, a constant threat of more rain to come. The final ditches had been completed and the defences were ready. But we were anxious and on edge. After the night-time madness that had gripped Cormac, the atmosphere in the settlement was strained and it was with a sense of relief from Beonna that we moved our scant belongings up to Werce’s Hall, where we would reside from then on.
In the years since that late summer at Werceworthe, I have learnt that it is the waiting for battle that is the hardest to endure. Your mind picks over the possibilities of what might occur and whilst the grim reality of combat is never pleasant, the constant brooding terror of anticipation is worse. When battle is joined, the world is filled with the screams of the injured and dying, the clash of blades, the savage roars of rage and the searing pain of wounds. Fear is banished, pushed aside in that moment, as all you can do is look to victory and survival. It is the time before and after a fight when the claws of fear gouge at your self-worth and certainty. In the long days before a confrontation, you question your ability, the decisions you have taken to reach that point and whether you have done all in your power to grant you victory.
In the aftermath of battle, the wounds of your soul ache more than those of your body. If friends have died, could you have saved them? If the battle was lost, was it your fault? Did the men you slew deserve death? I have known many warriors in my time and there are those who will tell you they care nothing for these concerns that seem to plague me. Maybe they speak the truth, and they walk away from the carnage of battle without a care, but it is my belief that all men, no matter how hard and callous they appear in the face of killing, feel more than just the physical blows they receive from their enemies. A warrior’s scars are many, and not all of them leave their mark on the flesh.
We maintained a constant vigil from our new accommodation, with one of us looking east at all times for a sign of the Norsemen’s arrival. At night we peered into the darkness for the glint of a far-off fire, and during the dull, hazy days, we scanned the horizon for the great billowing of smoke that would pour from the beacons we had constructed. We might well be able to see the smoke from Anstan’s fire on Cocwaedesae, but if not, we were sure we would see the flames or smoke from the beacon we had placed on the coast. It was constantly manned by one of the younger monks or men from the village and they had been given instructions to light the fire when they saw Anstan’s beacon afire, or the Norse approaching, and then to flee for safety. The young men of Werceworthe knew the land, and it was unlikely that the raiders would wish to tarry long enough to se
arch for the one to light the fire on the beach. The longer the Norse remained on Northumbrian land, the more chance they would have of being pinned down by King Æthelred’s forces. They would wish to attack, steal what they could load aboard their ships, and head back out to sea, where there was no chance that they would be caught.
Runolf looked at the clouds on the horizon and scratched at his thatch of a beard. A great murmuration of starlings swarmed through the sky, diving and wheeling about as if of one mind, unaffected by the strengthening wind that had picked up that afternoon. The lowering sun gleamed from beneath the banks of clouds.
I wiped sweat from my forehead as I joined the huge Norseman to stare into the distance. I had been training with Cormac under the watchful eye of Gwawrddur and, even though I was winded and sweating from the exertion, I would have happily continued. It kept my mind from dwelling on the future. But Hereward had attracted the Welshman’s attention with a whistle. Gwawrddur had understood the signal, nodded and told Cormac to go and check that all the defences were intact before it got dark.
“I would rather continue practising with Moralltach,” he said, swishing his blade in a flourish.
“I did not ask your opinion on the matter, boy,” said Gwawrddur. “Do what I say.”
“But—”
“I want to hear no further dissent from you,” Gwawrddur’s voice was flat and unyielding. “You gave us your oath that you would obey, so obey. Go now.”
Cormac looked as though he might argue, but ever since the incident outside Aethelwig’s house, his often ebullient character had become more subdued. Hereward was still furious with him and Cormac knew that he was on unsteady footing with our leader and so, after the briefest of hesitations, he angrily slid his sword into its scabbard and headed off down the shallow southern incline.
As I reached Runolf’s side, I saw what had prompted Hereward to send Cormac away. Wulfwaru was trudging up the steep slope towards the hall. We all turned to watch her as she approached. Her face was stern. She carried her bow in her left hand and a bag of arrows hung from her belt.
“I am sorry for what happened in the night,” she said to Hereward, ignoring the rest of us.
“It was not of your doing,” Hereward said, his tone gruff. “I will keep Cormac at a distance from now on.”
Her features softened, as if with sadness, but she nodded.
“It is for the best,” she said. “My husband is a good man.”
“I do not doubt it,” said Hereward. “Cormac is a fool.”
She smiled.
“Most probably. But he is young and a good man too, I think.”
An awkward silence fell over us then. Eventually, Hereward cleared his throat.
“There was something else?”
“Yes,” she replied, shaking her head at her own forgetfulness. “Everything is ready. My archers are prepared and if things go as we have planned, we will give the raiders a welcome they will not forget in a hurry.”
Hereward nodded.
“You have done well.” He gave the praise grudgingly and she smiled at his reticence.
“Thank you,” she said. “Let us hope all of our plans are enough.”
“They will have to be,” said Hereward. “If we are resolute and keep to what we have decided, I believe we will succeed in sending the Norsemen away. It will not be easy, but God is on our side.”
Wulfwaru nodded and I wondered if she was convinced by the words. I was not, and I asked myself whether my doubts were sent by the Devil.
“I was also going to ask whether you men would wish to help with the harvest tomorrow. It looks as though the rain will stay away and if we do not bring in that barley, there will be no reason to save the people from the raiders. We will starve over the winter without food.”
“It will do us good to keep busy in the fields,” Hereward said. “And we should show the people that we are good for more than fighting and digging ditches too.” He glanced over to where I was standing beside Runolf. “What say you, Runolf? You think we have time to help with the harvest?”
Runolf shrugged his massive shoulders.
“Anything is possible,” he said. Drosten groaned. This was how the Norseman answered most questions. Runolf offered the Pict a twisted smile. “But I think my people will also be needing to bring in their harvest. If they have not come already, they will come after. And if we keep our weapons to hand, and a man to watch from here, we will have warning when they come.” He peered out at the horizon and the distant hills to the north. He stuck his forefinger in his mouth and then held the wet digit up in the air. After a moment, he nodded. “But they will be coming soon. I am sure of it.”
I had not needed to interpret his words. His Englisc was much improved and apart from his thick accent and some missing words, it was easy to understand Runolf now.
Wulfwaru clearly had no trouble comprehending him.
“What will it be like?” she asked, her voice fragile and timid.
Runolf glanced down at her.
“What?” he asked.
“When they come?”
The wind rustled the alders that lined the river’s edge and I shuddered. Sometimes, when I closed my eyes at night, I could see the terrified faces of the men and women of Lindisfarnae on that fell morning when the heathens had landed in the harbour. I could hear the screams of the violated, and smell the acrid stink of spilt bowels. I recalled the vivid crimson and heat of the Norseman’s blood as it had gushed over my hand. I shook my head to clear it of such visions.
Wulfwaru was waiting for an answer, but I sensed that none of us was inclined to tell her truly what to expect. At last, Runolf sighed and turned his attention to the young woman.
“They will come seeking death,” he said. “There is nothing more to know. We must stand and fight, and with Óðinn’s favour, we will live and they will die.”
Nobody spoke, but the finality of Runolf’s words landed like axe blows, each cutting deeply into Wulfwaru’s resolve. Nobody said anything about his use of the name of the father of the old gods his people worshipped. Wulfwaru’s face grew pale. She bit her upper lip. I wanted to say something, anything to take away the sting of Runolf’s pronouncement, but my mind was thronged with darkness and I could think of nothing good.
“They will leap from their ships like devils,” said a new voice with a familiar Hibernian lilt. We all turned to see that Cormac had returned.
“I told you to check the defences,” growled Gwawrddur.
Cormac ignored him. He stared at Wulfwaru, as he stepped forward.
“They will scream in their heathen tongue as they burn your homes. Your father and brothers will rush out to defend your land, but they will be hacked down, turning the stream red with their blood.” He walked toward Wulfwaru, his eyes brimming with tears.
Gwawrddur reached a hand out to stop him, but Cormac shrugged it off.
“One of the bastards,” he went on, “a huge man with a great helm that covers his face, and only leaves his great red beard showing, will watch as your mother is raped and then, when you try to stop them taking your infant sister, the brute will rip her from your grasp and then…” His voice cracked and he let out a shuddering sob. “And then…”
“Cormac,” said Runolf, his voice gentle, as if talking to a child.
Cormac’s face twisted into a sudden fury.
“Do not speak to me, you red-bearded savage!” he screamed. Tears streaked his cheeks. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.
“Cormac!” bellowed Hereward. “Enough!”
Cormac’s hand tightened on the grip of his sword, but he did not draw it from the scabbard. He flicked his gaze from Wulfwaru’s delicate face to Runolf’s craggy features and fire-red beard. Nobody moved but I could sense Gwawrddur readying himself for action. I held my breath. If Cormac pulled his blade and attacked Runolf, I would have no time to think, I would need to act. I was just coming to the conclusion that I would defend the Norseman should it come
to that, when Cormac let out a ragged breath. Swiping the tears from his cheeks, he turned on his heel and ran from the hill.
I started to head after him. He was my friend and it saddened me to see him thus.
Gwawrddur pulled me back.
“Let him go,” he said. He looked after the young man and sighed. “Sometimes a man needs to be alone with his ghosts.”
Forty-Two
In the days that followed we worked as hard as any of the ceorls in the fields. We grumbled at having to labour in the fields, harvesting flax and carrying the sheaves to the steeping pools; hoeing and weeding, scything the hay, reaping the barley. Our backs ached from stooping, and by the end of each day, as dusk was swallowed by darkness noticeably faster than at the height of summer when the days had seemed almost endless, we staggered back up to Werce’s Hall. We ate and we slept, but we had little time to fret over what would come, for there is always work to do during the sunny days when preparing for harvest and the dark winter that follows.
The worst moments were when all the others slept. I often found myself startled from slumber by some sound that I could not make out on waking. I would lie there, listening to the sounds of the night. Runolf’s snoring, the pop and crackle of an ember on the hearth, the creak and groan of the timbers as the building settled and cooled. At such times, I would try to think of anything to avoid facing what we were all certain would come. I prayed for forgiveness for my sins and asked God to grant us victory when the Norse came. Sometimes, I would manage to focus on my prayers for long enough that sleep would come again, but more often, I would decide that I would not find more rest that night. At such times, I would rise and go outside, to stand watch with whichever one of our number was on duty.
On the first night this happened, I found Cormac leaning against the wall of the hall, his face a shadow in the dim moonlight that filtered through the clouds. It had drizzled for a short while during the afternoon, and the villagers had looked to the heavens with furrowed brows. If it should rain heavily, much of the barley would go to ruin. It would rot if they were not able to bring it in dry. One wizened man, who looked old enough to be Beonna’s grandfather, had gazed up at the clouds and the smirr of rain and pronounced that it would be dry on the morrow.
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