She nodded, pretending to believe me.
“I have brought you some food,” she said, handing me a linen-wrapped bundle. My stomach groaned with hunger as I uncovered the piece of bread, an apple and a slice of meat from the roast pig inside the parcel. “The bread is stale,” she said. “Sorry. We have not baked today. We should have though, I feel. Runolf said they would not come till nightfall, but Hereward would not allow us to take the risk of going down to the ovens.”
I chewed the food, feeling my mood lift.
“Thank you for this,” I said, careful not to spit crumbs as I talked.
For a time she was silent, watching the river and listening to the murmur of the light rain through the trees, while I ate.
“You are a good man, Hunlaf,” she said, interrupting the quiet. I almost choked, but managed to swallow the food that was in my mouth.
“I do not feel good,” I said, frowning and choosing not to utter the thought that I also felt more like a boy than a man.
“It is a good thing you have done,” she went on, “bringing these men here to protect us. You have given up much. Risked your life even. For us.”
“So have you,” I muttered. My cheeks burnt. I was uncomfortable with the woman’s praise. It seemed unwarranted and I felt unworthy.
“Cormac didn’t mean to cause you upset,” I said, wishing to change the subject. “The other night. It was foolish, but you remind him of his older sister.”
She smiled sadly.
“That is not foolish,” she said. “Coming to my home in the dead of night was folly though, of that there can be no doubt.” The rain began to fall more heavily, whispering through the woods all about us, rippling the river’s surface. “Aethelwig could have killed him.”
I nodded, thinking it much more likely that Cormac would have killed the tanner, if she had not intervened.
“Cormac is sorry for what he did,” I said.
“He is a good man too, I think,” she said, “though he masks it better than you.”
I blushed again.
“Perhaps when this is all over, you can tell him as much.”
“Perhaps,” she said.
Something drew her attention and she stared open-mouthed over my shoulder. Her eyes widened. I spun about, knowing what I would see before I did.
Through the grey boles of the trees, sliding silently through the dark, rain-rippled waters of the Cocueda, came the three high-prowed ships of the Norsemen. Their sails were furled and the rows of long oars rose and fell, dipping silently into the water, just as I had imagined them. As silent as death came the Norse raiders. There were so many of them. Dozens of hardened men, with plaited beards, pagan amulets about their necks and warrior rings on their muscled arms. At the prow of the foremost ship stood the massive man I had seen take Tidraed’s life on Lindisfarnae. The same blood-red cloak hung lank about his broad shoulders.
Skorri.
The jarl raised his hand, indicating for his helmsman to turn the ship and, a heartbeat later, the sleek vessel began to swing into the sandy shore. My mouth dropped open, amazed that this first part of the plan had worked. We had spent a long afternoon clearing the beach of debris and jetsam, hoping to make it an enticing landing point for the Norse when they came. As the ship swung toward the land, the tall jarl scanned the forested banks. His grey gaze roved for signs of an ambush perhaps. Or more likely, given the wolfish look of the man and the ranks of raiders behind him, he was looking for prey.
Watching him from the shadows beneath the trees, I knew what it was like for the vole to stare at the owl, or for the hare to look into the eyes of the oncoming wolf. I could not move. I had a terrible urge to piss and I worried fleetingly that my bladder would loosen.
The Norse leader turned and called out quietly to his men. I could not make out the words, but they laughed, a hard, jangling sound in the still of the late afternoon. With that sound, the spell was broken and I turned to Wulfwaru. I pushed her away, so hard that she stumbled and almost fell.
“Run!” I hissed. “Now, quickly, before they land!”
She didn’t move. Her eyes flicked from me to the ships and their cargo of murderous heathens.
“Run now or Aethelwulf will lose his mother, and all our planning will be for nothing.” I took hold of her shoulders and shook her. “Go, now!”
At last, she turned and without a word, she sped off towards the settlement of Werceworthe.
Suddenly calm now, I turned to watch as the first of the ships landed on the beach. I could see every detail as the hull crunched into the shingle. The grain of the oak strakes, the pine resin oozing from the caulking between the planks, the iron rivets stained with specks of rust, the droplets of water that dripped from the uplifted oars, the leering, lupine grin on Skorri’s face. The moment seemed to draw out, as if time itself had slowed. This strange battle-focus is something I have come to accept in the years since, but then, as the Norse warriors leapt over the side of their ships, splashing into the river and wading towards me, hefting axes and swords, donning helms and pulling shields from where they had rested within the bellies of their wave-steeds, this feeling was new to me. I wondered absently whether it meant that my fear had unmanned me and I would swoon, but I was not dizzy. And, I realised with detached bemusement, I was no longer frightened.
Gone was the fear of waiting. This is what we had planned for. I knew what I must do and I understood then, as the cool calm washed through me like the rain that fell from the sky with ever-increasing force, why Gwawrddur had chosen me over Cormac.
I glanced over my shoulder. Wulfwaru was running fast. I would give her as much time as I could. I watched as more Norsemen piled from their ships and amassed on the small beach by the river’s edge.
I leaned my back against the gnarled trunk of the willow and offered up a prayer that my strength and speed would not desert me. The air was thick with the moist green smell of moss, rotting leaves and loam. The peace of the wood was gone. Despite their attempts at stealth, the Norsemen were loud. They spoke in hushed tones. Someone grunted. There was a rasping grinding as the ships were heaved onto the beach.
I stared through the trees towards Werceworthe. I could still see Wulfwaru. She had lifted her skirts to run faster and, though distant now, the pale skin of her legs flashed bright as she ran out from the gloom beneath the trees and into the dull afternoon light.
A shout from one of the Norsemen by the river. I understood the words he called to his companions: “Look there. A woman!” The moment had come when I must act.
I drew in a deep breath of the damp air. A murmur of chatter went through the men. The sound of excitement; the growl of a pack of wolves on scenting a fawn in the forest. I heard their footfalls leave the shingle and move onto the soft earth beneath the trees. They did not come at a run, nor at the shuffling pace of men expecting imminent danger. Someone said something I could not make out. Several of the others laughed. These were not men in fear for their lives. They had seen the beacons and still came upon us, convinced that they would stride onto our land and take whatever they wished.
A grim rage began to burn within me. They would know fear soon, I told myself, gripping the spear haft tightly and listening to their approach. This part of the plan relied on disorder and chaos. I allowed my anger to build, stoking the flames with thoughts of all of those who had been slaughtered on Lindisfarnae, the plumes of smoke from the scriptorium, the screams of the abused echoing in the early morning air. I thought of Aelfwyn, as I had last seen her. Her face a mask of terror and anguish.
I had not been able to save her and my heart ached for that loss. But I was no longer the boy I had been then. No longer a monk. My body was stronger and I knew what it was to take a life. God had made me his weapon and I welcomed the rushing fury that gripped me as I stepped out into the path of the Norsemen.
Forty-Six
I was just one man and there were dozens of Norse. They were killers, warriors all, bearers of iron and death
and I was but a monk playing at being a fighter. And yet they were not holding their round shields aloft, their swords still rested in their scabbards. Eyes widened at my appearance from behind the willow. I grinned.
I fixed my gaze on a young man in the front rank. He walked close to Skorri, but a few steps before him, as if more eager than the older jarl to reach their destination and the target of their lust and avarice. The young man wore a fine, polished byrnie. His beard was thick and fair, like the gold they had stolen from the church on Lindisfarnae. He was half-turned, speaking over his shoulder to the men behind him. On noting my movement, he began to turn towards me.
Too late, he started to lift his shield.
God guide my hand, I prayed and, with a scream that unleashed some of the fury that threatened to rip from me, I flung my spear with all my strength.
My target was not far from me, no more than a few paces and the Lord answered my prayer. The spear shot forward and for the briefest of instants, I lost sight of it in the gloom. And then the young man was staggering back into his friends. He was still in the process of raising his shield when the spear struck him, and the iron rim of the board cracked into the haft that now protruded from his throat. For a heartbeat I stood still, watching the mayhem that I had caused. Disorder and chaos was what was needed and my spear had certainly created that. The spear point had punched through the man’s throat and jutted out the nape of his neck. Blood blossomed a brilliant red to match the colour of Skorri’s cloak. The dying man flailed at the ash haft of the spear and collapsed to the loamy soil, taking a couple of his comrades with him as he slumped into their arms and they were unable to hold him upright.
Briefly, the man’s eyes met mine. They were full of disbelief and shock, no time for anger or fear. He blinked and looked up at the men around him. I could see the life already ebbing from his gaze. He would be dead soon and I felt a tremor of pleasure that it was I who had struck the first blow against our foe.
But my satisfaction was short-lived. In the heat of the moment, I had forgotten myself. I stood rooted like a tree before the Norsemen, and now they were already recovering from their surprise at my attack. One of the warriors closest to the man I had slain, tugged a short axe from his belt and without hesitation, flung it at me.
I threw myself to one side and felt the rush of wind as the weapon spun past my face.
The man’s throw seemed to have awakened the rest of them, and as one, several of them surged forward with a roar.
I needed no further reminder of what my role here was. I was not positioned close to the beach to stand and fight, I was here to sow dissent and confusion and then to run.
“You cowardly, raven-starving mares!” I screamed in the Norse tongue. Runolf had told me those words would enrage his people. I did not wait to see what reaction they caused. Spinning on my heels, I fled towards Werceworthe.
My feet pounded the mud of the track. Shouts of anger rose behind me; very close behind me. I pushed myself to run even faster, certain that at any moment I would feel the bite of steel in my spine. I chanced a glance over my shoulder and saw that only four men were chasing me. Better than nothing, I thought grimly. Hereward had been sure this part of the plan would fail, but if I could keep these four on my heels, then I felt it would be deemed a success. Further in the distance, the larger group, led by the red-cloaked Skorri were jogging forward.
Skorri was shouting for his men to return to him and, as I watched, the four who were following me, faltered, turning back at the sound of their jarl’s command.
I had to do something. Cursing, I pretended to stumble, missing my footing and sprawling headlong into the mud. No sooner had I hit the ground than I leapt up and was sprinting again, low hanging branches and leaves whipping at me.
On seeing me fall, my pursuers cheered and pressed on after me. Grinning to myself, I ran on. I slowed slightly, not wishing them to believe there was no chance of catching me.
Something hit my left shoulder, knocking me off my stride momentarily. I staggered, regained my footing and continued on towards the houses of Werceworthe. As I ran, my shoulder throbbed. I reached up and winced as my fingers found a gash in the woollen fabric and a deep cut beneath. I looked down. My hand was slick with my blood. I was no longer grinning.
Flicking a look over my shoulder I saw that the four men were closer now, as if landing the blow to me had given them a spurt of speed. Gritting my teeth against the sting of the wound, I ran as fast as I was able for a time.
“Come back here,” one of the Norse shouted. “We only want to hurt you.”
The others laughed.
“We’ll make you pay for what you did to Kætil,” another called.
“You’ll be his thrall in Valhöll soon,” said the third warrior.
I didn’t know if they believed I could understand their words, but I ignored them and pressed on. My breath was rasping in my throat now and my shoulder burnt with the agony of the movement pulling at the edges of the cut. The rain had already soaked my cloak and kirtle, but now my left side and arm were warm with my spilt blood. Hereward had been right, this was a foolish plan.
Something alerted me to a new attack, and without conscious thought I changed my direction, sidestepping to the right. God must have been watching over me, for a throwing axe whistled through the air where I would have been. It spun onward and plunged into the mud. I stooped as I ran and snatched it up. One less thing for them to throw at me.
A glance showed me they had lost ground. Perhaps they were tiring, encumbered as they were with armour and weapons, or maybe they had decided to allow me to escape and to await the arrival of their jarl and the others of the raiding party. Whatever the reason, we were too close now. I would not fail. I feigned another misstep. I skidded in the mud and rolled over, splashing through a puddle and then back onto my feet again in a spray of muddy water. My shoulder screamed in pain. The effect must have been convincing for my pursuers laughed and came on at a sprint.
I was at the first of the buildings now. A long barn. If I could just get them to follow me past that, my risk would not have been wasted. I slowed and looked back. The four Norsemen were mud-splattered from their run. Their eyes blazed and their mouths were agape, panting like hunting hounds. I allowed myself to let out a squeal of terror, hoping that this would lure them onward. It was not difficult to summon fear. I could see death in those grim faces and I knew that if they caught me, they would make me suffer for killing their friend.
I could not wait to see if they would follow. They were almost upon me and so I turned my back on them and dashed around the barn and onto the expanse of muddy earth between the buildings of the settlement. I heard their footfalls, the jangle of their buckles and belts, the panting gasps of their ragged breath and I knew they were still in pursuit.
There was nobody in sight. None of the usual activity you would expect in a thriving community such as Werceworthe. There were no animals in pens, no children shouting and no adults going about their business. Surely this was the moment when my pursuers would sense that something was amiss. Where was the sound of the inhabitants? Perhaps they were all huddled inside around their hearth fires against the rain. But where then was the haze of smoke that should hang over the village like a mist? Where there is fire there is smoke, and yet here the air was clear and silent, save for the squelching of my feet in the mud and the sounds of the Norse warriors only paces behind me.
Maybe their proximity to me, the target of the long chase, blinded them to the signs all about. Mayhap they did not notice the high wattle fences that had been erected between the buildings. Maybe they were simply young and headstrong, and sure of their own superiority. Or perhaps God again answered my prayers. However it came to pass, the Norsemen chased after me, seemingly oblivious or uncaring of possible danger.
I had a sudden moment of panic when I saw the place where I had to run. I had marked the spot with a small scattering of light-coloured flint pebbles, so I was certain I
would not miss, but I was suddenly sure that one of my hunters would strike me down in plain sight of my destination. I changed my direction, stepping first to the left and then to the right, but this time, no weapon flew past or struck me. I still held the axe I had retrieved in my right hand and I thought about flinging it back at them, but I knew that would slow me enough for them to reach me. And then all would be lost.
I offered up a silent prayer to the Almighty, who, despite my abandoning of the Regula of the brethren, had not forsaken me. Springing forward with a last surge of energy, I rushed towards the scattered pebbles.
My feet hit the hidden boards with a hollow thump and the wood buckled and bounced as I passed. Surely now my attackers would halt. They would have seen or heard that the ground I trod upon was not firm and they would retreat to safety.
When we had prepared the trap, Hereward had scoffed. “It cannot work,” he said. “No man is such a fool.”
Runolf had smiled.
“Anything is possible,” he had said. “Men see what they want to see.”
I ran on and, as I heard the cracking and splintering behind me, followed by the first screams of shock and pain, the savage grin returned to my face.
Slowing, I turned, panting and gasping for breath, to see the mayhem I had left in my wake.
Forty-Seven
The first two unsuspecting Norsemen had run onto the insubstantial lattice of twigs and straw that was covered in a layer of mud and sand. The fragile covering gave way beneath them, snapping and splintering and sending them tumbling into the deep pit. At least one of them must have landed on a sharpened stake of wood that jutted at the foot of the hole, as pitiful screams of agony emanated from the depths. The long, exhausting days of digging suddenly seemed worth it, but I cannot deny that my guts clenched at the sounds of helpless torment of the men who had fallen and had surely been impaled on the spikes I had helped to place there. It is something to stand and fight with your enemies. There is honour in it, man against man, blade against blade. In an even fight you win by dint of skill and strength. All men know this, and it is understood and accepted. But when you fight a far superior foe, guile and trickery become an important factor in deciding the victor. I had felt clever when we had toiled in the heat of the late summer, digging the pit and preparing the other defences, but now, as the howling wails of pain echoed up from the pit, I felt nothing but an empty sadness. There was no honour in such killing.
A Time for Swords Page 34
