There! A footfall, then another. A sudden gust of wind shook the trees and I was sure I heard my quarry take several fast steps, perhaps hoping to mask the sound of their passage with the rustle of the boughs. I moved quickly, certain now of the position and direction of my quarry.
Far off in the distance, the owl called again.
The footsteps were coming closer, more quickly now, seemingly with no effort to hide their crunch in the undergrowth. I spun around, looking behind me, suddenly certain that the Norse had somehow encircled me and were about to plunge their blades into my back. There was nobody there.
The sounds of approach grew louder. I frowned. I could only make out one or perhaps two people. Where were the rest of them? I offered up a prayer that they had not separated to come at Werceworthe from different directions. I had positioned myself in the path of the oncoming Norse and there was no time now to change the plan. A twig snapped very close, its report as loud as a slap in the almost absolute darkness beneath the trees.
Taking a deep breath, I raised the spear above my head, preparing to throw it as hard as I was able, and stepped out from behind the broad trunk of a tree.
Forty-Four
My muscles thrummed, as taut as a bowstring at full draw. I pulled my arm back, ready to let fly the spear. All of my pent-up fear from the long night-time solitary vigil would be unleashed in that throw and I knew, if the iron spear point struck its mark, it would pierce the links of any byrnie. If the man it hit was not wearing an iron-knit shirt, it would plunge easily into flesh, severing arteries and smashing bone.
If my throw was true.
I drew in a breath of the damp, loam-redolent air of the wood, scanning the gloom for my target. There! A shadowy shape of a man. There was only one of them! My heart thundered against my ribs. No time to ponder this mystery now. I knew what I was about.
I began to snap my arm forward. I was sure of my strength and my aim. The spear would fly true and its blade would find its target.
“Hold, Hunlaf,” hissed a voice.
What? Who was this enemy that knew my name?
Without conscious thought, perhaps by the power of the Lord Himself, I did not release the spear. And thus, I was prevented from murdering one of my oldest friends.
“Osfrith?” I whispered.
Horror washed through me as I realised how close I had come to killing him, spitting him on the point of my spear like a boar cornered in a thicket. With trembling hands, I lowered my weapon, but I did not lower my guard. Scanning the darkness behind him, I fancied I could see enemies lurking there in the gloom.
“Where are the Norsemen?” I asked, my voice sibilant and harsh in the still of the night.
“I know not,” he replied, stepping closer. His breath was ragged and I detected the sheen of sweat on his brow, his hair wet and slick against his forehead and the nape of his neck. “You saw the beacon then?”
“We did,” I said. “We have been ready for the attack all night. I thought you were a Norseman.” I blew out a breath. It steamed briefly around us. “I almost killed you.”
I sensed as much as saw him make the sign of the cross.
“Well, thank the Lord you did not.” I could hear the smile in his voice. There was always a levity between us when we were alone. We were both devout enough, but we were young and enjoyed escaping from our chores and prayers when we were able. Together we had roamed all over the area surrounding the minster. But we had never been out in the dead of night before. The owl shrieked again and Osfrith tensed.
“Only a bird, I think,” I said.
“You think?”
“Well, I thought you were a Norseman, so anything is possible.” I smiled in the darkness despite myself, at my use of Runolf’s favourite phrase. “I am glad I did not kill you too,” I added.
Osfrith snorted.
“What happened?” I asked.
For a few heartbeats he was silent and I could imagine him reliving the horrors he had witnessed. The visions of Lindisfarnae threatened to loom up in my own mind’s eye and I pushed them back with an effort.
“The Norse came at dusk,” Osfrith said. “They were just as you said they would be. In three massive ships, with the beast prows and those huge square sails. Sleek and fast are those ships.” His voice was filled with awe. He loved the sea and boats and we had often enjoyed rowing out to the island of Cocwaedesae together, he entranced by the waves and me with the birds.
“Enough about their ships,” I snapped, my anxiety lending a sharp edge to my words. “What happened?”
For a moment, he did not reply and I imagined him pouting at my tone. We would often fight and disagree on our adventures around Werceworthe. We bickered and sometimes even came to blows, but we would always shrug off our differences in time. Osfrith must have decided there was no time for us to play that game, as, after only a brief hesitation, he answered me.
“Anstan lit the beacon. They must have seen it, for they hove around and landed on Cocwaedesae,” he said. “I watched them from the beach. I was terrified. I knew I should light my beacon, but if I did, I was sure they would come for me and so I held back and did nothing for a time.” His voice cracked and I placed my hand on his shoulder.
I said nothing, waiting for him to finish his tale.
“They slew Anstan. They hacked at him… I think I could hear his screams.” He sobbed then, as the images flooded his mind again. I doubted that he could have heard anything over the waves. Perhaps he had heard gulls. But I said nothing. “And then they threw him onto the beacon.” Could he truly have seen such details from the beach by the mouth of the river?
I have learnt over the years that after battles or moments of strife, men often believe they have seen things which do not stand up to scrutiny in the calm light of a peaceful day. But it is a fruitless task to debate such things. I doubted that Osfrith could truly have seen what he claimed to have witnessed, but even then, young and impetuous as I was, I knew better than to question him further.
“What did you do then?” I asked, keeping my voice soft.
“I lit the beacon.”
“You did well. We saw it. And you did well to hurry back here without being captured.”
“I did not come hither directly.”
“Did you have to head away from the river to be safe?”
“No,” he replied, “when I set off for Werceworthe, I came by the most direct path I could. If I had not got lost in the dark and missed the place, I would not have reached you. I would have turned off sooner and crossed the fields and headed directly for the hall on the hill.”
I nodded. He must have been following the river and in the dark not have realised he had reached the loop in its course which should have seen him turn left and away from the water.
“Is that what you meant when you said you did not come here directly?”
“No,” he replied. “I mean I stayed beside the beacon for a time. The flames raged high into the darkening sky and I am sure they saw the fire and me, lit as I was by the flames. And yet, I stood there and stared out at the island with their ships pulled up on the sands of the beach.”
“But you came at last,” I said.
“The fire was burning down and it was dark. There was not enough of a moon to show me anything.”
“Anything of what?” I asked, confused.
“Before it became too dark to see, I watched them. I had thought they would put to sea and come to me. I was filled with a righteous anger at what they had done to Anstan and I think I might have remained there, if they had come.”
I could scarcely believe what I was hearing.
“But they did not come,” I said.
“No,” he replied, his voice sounding small and lost. “They remained on the island and I fled as the beacon turned to embers.”
“What do you think they will do?” I asked.
“I know not,” Osfrith replied. “But I have thought much on this as I walked the dark paths of the night.”
“And what did you come to think on the matter?”
“That we must remain vigilant,” he whispered in the gloom. I noticed that I could make out his features now. The wolf-light of dawn was tinging the sky. “The Norsemen have come with one purpose and they will not tarry long on Cocwaedesae.”
I nodded, but said nothing.
“The beacons have done their task and forewarned us,” he said. “This has given the northern raiders pause, but the fires have done something else.”
“What?” I asked.
“They have told the heathens that we know of their coming.”
Forty-Five
I have oftentimes had to endure long waits. Once, Al-Hakam Ibn Hisham Ibn Abd-ar-Rahman, the blood-thirsty Emir of Cordova, made me linger in his palace for three whole days before he would deign to honour me with an audience. But I have never known a more interminable day than the one of exhausted tension that followed that long night.
As the dawn lightened the sky to a dull, cold iron grey, I sent Osfrith on to the hall to inform Hereward of what had occurred at Cocwaedesae. I dared not leave my post and so I remained there, stiff, cold and hungry and above all else, tired. The previous day we had toiled hard in the fields and afterwards eaten our fill and drunk more ale than was good for us, and then, just as we had longed for sleep, we had seen the flare of the beacons and set about putting our plans into motion and moving to our positions. I had not slept, but after so long expecting action and battle, despite the prospect of the Norsemen looming out of the morning mists, with their savage smiles and sharp blades, I found my eyelids drooping. I shook my head and forced myself onto my feet.
The woodland awoke around me and the familiar chirrups of siskins and finches, and the distant thrum of a woodpecker, made me even more drowsy. I leaned against the trunk of a willow and closed my eyes. I must have only dozed like that for a short while, for the day was still young when I was startled awake by the sounds of someone coming from the settlement. My face reddened with shame. What if the Norse had attacked while I slept? I would be dead and they would even now be stalking into Werceworthe unannounced.
Turning, I saw Cormac walking towards me in the early morning shadows. He carried a basket, which he placed on the ground beside the willow.
“Christ’s teeth,” he said, “you look done in.” He gestured at the basket. “There is some food and drink in there.”
I took the hard bread and piece of smoked cheese from the basket and ate.
“I am so tired,” I said, through a mouthful of bread and cheese. “I think I could sleep standing up.”
“I think you were doing just that when I arrived.”
I gave him a sidelong glance, but saw no malice in his comment. I offered him a rueful smile. He winked and said, “Lie down and rest a while. I will watch for the Norse.”
Nodding my thanks, I sat and propped my back against the willow. Pulling out the leather flask from the basket, I unstoppered it. I sniffed the contents. There was a faint memory of the odour of mead, but the vessel was filled with refreshing water. I drank deeply, only then realising how thirsty I had been.
“Hereward thinks it is unlikely they will attack during the day,” Cormac said.
I was unsure how I felt about that. My neck and shoulders ached from tension and I did not relish the thought of another long day and perhaps night waiting for something to happen.
“When does he think they will strike?” I asked, stifling a yawn.
Cormac shrugged.
“Hereward talked to Gwawrddur and Runolf about it for a long while. Beonna thought that perhaps the beacons and the threat of a ready defence might have scared them off. Runolf laughed at him.”
In my memory I saw the savage men who had descended upon the holy island, picking it clean of treasure and slaughtering all those that did not serve their purpose. I could not imagine them retreating at the possibility of a fight.
“Runolf is certain they will attack,” Cormac went on. “But he said they are not foolish and will not wish to wait too long. They are not afraid to fight, he said, but they do want to live to return to their homes. The longer they wait, the more chance that the king will send warriors to fight them. He thinks they will wait until nightfall. But no longer.”
I tried to picture sprinting through the darkness, leading the Norse after me without tripping or slipping on some unseen obstacle. My stomach twisted. I did not want the Norse to come at all, but I certainly did not want them to strike at night when I could not see where I placed my feet and every sound in the looming shadows of the woods filled me with fear.
I closed my eyes and listened to the birds chitter and chirp in the boughs all around me. It was hard to imagine the terror that had gripped me in the night, or the threat of the Norse, who were sure to attack all too soon.
I thought again of the plan we had put in place. The ditches, pits and fences to corral the Norsemen. I could barely believe that I had talked passionately in favour of me being the one to lure the attackers to the killing ground we had created in the village. Hereward had been against it, saying it was too risky and too prone to something going wrong. Cormac of course had agreed with me, saying it was a good plan, and when asked for his opinion as to whether it would work, Runolf had shrugged and said, “Anything is possible.” Drosten had frowned and said the plan had its merits, but he was noncommittal. Wulfwaru was an unexpected champion of the idea. She said it gave us the best chance of allowing our archers to have some unmoving targets.
“Whatever helps us to kill more of the bastards,” she’d said, making me blush at her language.
But it was Gwawrddur who swayed Hereward’s mind.
“The boy is fast and brave,” he’d said. “It might just work. If it doesn’t, we will be no worse off, unless he gets himself killed, of course.”
He’d winked and I had returned his smile, pleased with his praise and belief in me. But now, faced with the reality of being alone in the woods with the Norse baying at my heels, I wished I had not managed to persuade him that this was a good idea. There would be danger ahead for all of us, but this was madness. I offered up a silent prayer that Abbot Beonna was right and the Norse had fled after seeing the beacons.
I sighed, knowing that was a vain hope.
I awoke to Cormac kicking my foot.
Rubbing my eyes, I sat up, confused momentarily by my surroundings. The sun was high in the sky, but its light was muted and watery as it fought to shine through the thick clouds that blanketed the sky above us.
“How long have I slept?” I asked, ashamed that I had succumbed to sleep so readily.
“Long enough,” Cormac said with a grin. “Gwawrddur will be furious with me, I am sure. But better that you are awake when the Norse come, eh?”
I pushed myself to my feet and thanked him.
“Not long now,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder before trotting off back towards the settlement.
I waved and nodded, fixing a smile that felt like a lie on my face. With Cormac’s parting words still swirling in my mind, I set about resuming my vigil and remaining alert and ready for what I was sure would come.
I walked down to the river’s edge and splashed some of the cold water on my face. I stretched and performed some exercises with my spear and seax. I had left my sword back with the others. I had wanted to wear it scabbarded at my belt, but Gwawrddur had convinced me that it would only slow me down.
“If you need to turn and fight with a blade,” he said, his expression dour and stern, “you will be lost. You must be as fast as the wind through the trees. Faster than any Norseman wearing an iron-knit shirt or carrying a sword.” His words had seemed to sit in the pit of my stomach like two boulders. The weight of them would surely hold me back, slowing me more than any sword. But I had left the blade behind. The Welshman was right, I knew. I would be faster without the scabbarded sword slapping at my legs and threatening to trip me. But I had grown used to its solidity, the heft of it r
esting on my hip and thigh, and now, preparing to face three ships’ crews of marauding Norsemen without even the comfort of my sword, I felt naked.
After a few lunges with the spear, I twisted my waist and stretched my legs. I felt more awake now and returned to my position beside the thick trunk of the old willow. A light drizzle began to fall and the woodland hushed as birds returned to their roosts. I pulled my damp cloak about me and hunkered in the thin shelter of the tree.
The day wore on, the slowly drenching drizzle soaking through my clothes and making me shiver. There was no movement from the river and I began to wonder if perhaps the Norse had in fact decided to leave in search of easier prey. I knew such thoughts were folly, and my spirits swung and flapped about from hope to abject misery like a flag caught in a strong breeze. One moment I was hopeful that the Norse would avoid Werceworthe altogether, leaving us in peace, the next, I was languishing in the deepest abyss of doom, certain that not only would they come, but all of our carefully laid plans would serve us for nothing and we would be slaughtered like so many cattle when the long nights of wintertime draw in.
I watched as the rain dripped from the leaves above me and puddled in ruts and depressions on the path. I had visions of our blood swilling down the muddy lanes of Werceworthe, turning the earth into a gory quagmire.
Wulfwaru came to me when I had fallen into the deepest despondency. I still had my wits about me enough to turn at her approach, but the expression on my face must have told her all she needed to know.
“You have been alone here all day?” she asked.
“Cormac brought me some food just after dawn.”
She looked up at the slate grey sky through the canopy of the trees.
“It is almost dusk now,” she said. “The waiting has been bad for us all, but for you, here alone, it must have been terrible.”
“It is not that bad,” I lied. No man likes to admit weakness before a woman, particularly not a pretty one, and especially not a pretty one with the tough spirit of a fighter, like Wulfwaru.
A Time for Swords Page 33
