Cormac bridled now.
“And where did you hope they would go to?” he spat. “To Gyruum or Uuiremutha south of here?” Hereward shrugged. “What?” continued Cormac, incredulous at Hereward’s disinterest as to where the raiders might go. “You would be content for them to kill the unsuspecting nuns and monks there? Where is the honour in that?”
Hereward’s jaw clenched and he spoke through his teeth.
“There is no honour in any of this,” he said, stabbing the noisome air of the hall with his finger to accentuate his words. “Just survival. It is not the shepherd’s task to see to the safety of the sheep from other farms, just his own. Where the Norse go from here, I care not. I am trying to save these people.” He swept his arm about the place. Men and women were rising now. The monks were huddled in prayer at the far end of the hall. Children still cried in the gloom.
“There is honour in killing those heathen whoresons,” snarled Cormac. “We must slay every last one of them. They are vermin. Violators of women and children, defilers, killers, animals!” His voice cracked with the strength of his emotions. I was glad that Runolf was on watch. Although he had sworn his oath to Æthelred, such words about his countrymen would be hard for him to stomach.
Gwawrddur stepped forward, raising his hands in a gesture aimed at placating both men.
“What is done is done,” he said. “We cannot change the past and truly this day is no different than it would have been without Cormac’s actions.”
Hereward rounded on the Welshman. He was furious with Cormac, but the burning anger he directed at Gwawrddur seared as hot as a forge.
“None of this would have happened without your rash action, Gwawrddur,” he said. “I thought you were a man to be trusted. A true shield-brother who knew when to attack and when to stand strong with his comrades.”
“I am your shield-brother,” replied Gwawrddur, his face and tone serious and calm, “and I will stand with you when the time comes. Have no doubt of that. I am no coward. You know this.”
“It is not your bravery I am concerned with,” spat Hereward. “It is your sanity. To lead these two,” he indicated Cormac and me, “into the night and to strike the Norse at their camp was beyond folly. I fear your quest to test yourself has made you rash and foolhardy.”
“We obtained useful information,” replied Gwawrddur, keeping his voice cool, despite Hereward’s insults. “We took more weapons we can use in the defence of the hall, and we killed four of their number.”
“Six,” said Cormac. They both turned to him. He shrugged. “I killed two more when I fired their ships.” He had not told us this. How he had managed to burn both the ships was still unclear. With a flask of oil he had found and God’s grace, he had said to me. I think he had set a fire in one of the vessels, only for the other one to catch light from the sparks and flames of the first. With the rain falling as it had, perhaps it was God’s grace after all that had burnt the ships. I longed to make the sign of the cross then, but I held my arms at my sides. I was a warrior now. I had the wounds to prove it, and my wrist and forearm were yet sticky with the blood of the Norseman I had killed, despite having washed my hands in the river’s cold water.
“So, we killed six of them,” said Gwawrddur. “This is a good thing for us.”
Hereward glared at him, apparently unable to think of words to refute Gwawrddur’s statement.
At last he said, “You say that this day has not changed. How can you think that is so? Surely you can see how burning their ships has shifted things.”
Gwawrddur scratched at his beard and shook his head.
“Come, let us speak outside.” He beckoned to Hereward, Cormac and me, and began walking towards the door of the hall. With a scowl, Hereward followed and Cormac and I fell into step behind.
Outside it was still dark, but the eastern horizon was the dull grey of a sword blade. The rain had stopped momentarily, but the air was cold and damp. The sentry, grey-haired Gewis, was standing in the wind-shadow of the hall. He nodded as we stepped into the cool pre-dawn and he moved some distance away, sensing that we wished to speak without being overheard.
“So, Gwawrddur?” asked Hereward, keeping his voice low. “Tell me how this day has not changed.” Gone was the anger in his voice, replaced by tired resignation.
Gwawrddur stepped in close and we huddled together so that we could speak in whispered tones. The Welshman’s breath steamed in the air between us.
“The Norse were already going to attack today,” he said, “and all we needed to do was to hold them off until Gleadwine’s men arrive.”
“They might have sailed away before then, if we bleed them enough,” said Hereward.
“True enough, I suppose,” answered Gwawrddur, “but it seems unlikely. This Skorri does not seem to be the kind of man to run from a fight.” He shook his head and gazed out over the iron grey sky to the east. “No. We need to fight the Norse until the warriors arrive from Corebricg. With those extra men and by the grace of God,” he flicked a glance at me, “we will be able to finish this once and for all.”
“Today is going to get bloody,” Hereward whispered. “Hunlaf, you had best ask the holy men to pray that Ingild is bringing reinforcements back with him and that they arrive soon. It seems that is now our only hope.”
A light drew my attention. Down in the settlement below, a flower of flame blossomed. As I watched, it bloomed and grew, rising up into the dawn sky and reflecting on the broad river beyond. It was the church. Around it, the tiny shadow figures of distant men prowled about the settlement. They bore torches and soon more buildings were aflame. Sheets of fire shot up from the thatch of the refectory and then the scriptorium, and I remembered the horror of Lindisfarnae.
I became dimly aware of the people of Werceworthe amassing around us. Soon, everyone was there. Some of the women and children sobbed, but most of the villagers were silent, stunned by what they were witnessing. They gazed down at the destruction of their homes and the flame light lit their tear-streaked faces with its ruddy glow.
The Norse had returned and they would make us pay for burning their ships.
Hereward raised his voice so that all there could hear him.
“We can rebuild what is burnt,” he said. Some of those gathered turned to look at him. Many could not pull their gaze away from the destruction taking place. “And as you saw yesterday, when we stand together, we can prevail against these heathens. God is on our side and all we must do is to follow the plans we have made. We are strong here. You know we have prepared for this.” He scanned the faces of the men and women. “Do not lose heart. You know what you must do. Every one of you has a role to play. You have trained hard these last weeks and if you do what we have practised, we will be victorious.”
“We cannot hope to defeat them all,” said Garulf, the smith. “There are too many and we are not warriors.”
“You are warriors,” replied Hereward with force. “You are strong together. A single stick is easy to snap. If we stand together, like a faggot of twigs bound together, we will not break. And,” he said, sweeping them all with his gaze, “we do not need to defeat them all. All we need to do is to hold them and by this afternoon, Gleadwine will come with his warriors. There is no way those Norse raiders can withstand the combined strength of us and his warband.”
Gone was the defeatist and angry tone of moments before. This was the Hereward that Uhtric had sent to defend the settlement. I marvelled at the change in him, but looking at the flame-licked faces of the onlookers, I could see the strength they took from his words and his confidence. This was the true worth of a leader. To inspire those who followed to greater feats than they believed possible, to turn their fears of defeat and weakness into pride and power.
The thin wailing of a hunting horn echoed eerily in the dawn, making us all pause, listening to the sound. I thought it must have come from the Norse in the burning settlement. Then the horn sounded again and I realised it came from the other side
of the hall.
“That is Eowils,” said Hereward. “He is watching the south.”
Eowils was Gewis’ son, and the grey-haired man turned from the burning buildings and looked to the south. His face was pale and drawn.
For a third time, the horn blew its plaintive note in the chill morning air.
“Go, Gwawrddur,” Hereward said, knowing that a lack of decision now would see the new resolve of the villagers unravel in moments. “Take Cormac and Hunlaf and five of the spear-men. It seems those fires are a distraction and Skorri has decided to send his men in from more than one direction.”
Without hesitation, Gwawrddur began barking orders. Men obeyed, jostling to fall into line.
“Hunlaf,” he snapped. “Cormac.” We both turned to him, eager and anxious. “Take a byrnie each.” He nodded towards the hall where the iron-knit shirts that had been stripped from the dead Norse were heaped by the door. “Get it over your heads and tighten your belt to take some of the weight.” We hesitated. “Do it now!”
We hurried to obey, each helping the other to wriggle into the heavy shirts of iron. The weight pulled on my shoulders, making me wince at where it pressed against the stitched wound. But to wear the byrnie brought on another distinct change in me. As soon as the metal links enveloped my body, I felt bolder, as if only then did I wear the true skin of a warrior.
“Come on,” shouted Gwawrddur.
Moments later I was running along with seven other men, including Gewis who had snatched up his spear and joined us. We ran through the wet grass towards the oak where Eowils was posted. The heft of the byrnie pushed down on my shoulders and soon the muscles in my legs burnt at the extra weight. I glanced over my shoulder and looked back at the hulking silhouette of Werce’s Hall. The sky behind it was the colour of bronze, lit by the flying flames that consumed the minster and settlement that had been my home these past years. I could smell the smoke of its dying on the breeze.
We ran in silence and for a time the only sounds were those of the panting men around me and the thud of our feet on the damp earth. The horn’s ululating note pierced the air once more and my mind was filled with the faces of the Norsemen we had fought and killed in the forest. So far we had slain them when they had been tricked or taken by surprise, but there was no doubt that these men of the north, with their plaited beards and deadly axes, were trained killers. How would we fare, fire-hardened spears against steel, when we needed to face them shield to shield?
We ran on as the sun crested the eastern horizon, its bright red fire lighting our way and turning the drops of rain on the blades of grass into jewels the colour of garnets. Or blood.
My shoulder throbbed from the axe wound and where the stitches had pulled free, and as we sprinted towards the towering oak, I wondered which of us would live to see the sunset.
Fifty-Two
We arrived at the oak with a clatter of weapons and the rasp of ragged breathing. Our breath steamed about us as if we were winded horses. Like animals, we were skittish too, eyes roving in search of enemies, sure that death awaited us on the shallow slope that fell away to the south. The Norse must have sent out men during the darkest part of the night to have been able to circle around and reach this point by dawn. Perhaps they had sent them even before sailing down the Cocueda to their riverside encampment.
We slowed as we approached the oak that dominated the skyline to the south of the hall. Gwawrddur held up his hand and we halted, listening for sounds of battle. The horn had not sounded again and now, apart from our laboured breathing, the land was eerily quiet. A golden plover burst forth from the grass in a welter of beating wings and angry chirping at being disturbed. I followed the bird’s path with my gaze. It flew northward, towards the fire-glow of the burning settlement. Dark plumes of smoke roiled into the sky there, making me think of the funeral pyres of warriors of legend. The scops tell of how our forebears believed the smoke would carry the fallen to the hall of the gods. I wondered how many souls that black smoke would send on their way to the afterlife that day.
Gwawrddur beckoned for us to move forward slowly. He held his sword at his side and we followed him cautiously towards the oak. Eowils must have been slain, I thought, and shuddered, my heart twisting. I glanced at the boy’s father. His face was the colour of ash. If the poor boy had been killed, where were the Norse? Were they lying in wait for us just beyond the tree where the land dropped away?
We took a few more tentative steps. Despite the cool of the morning, sweat trickled into my left eye and I blinked at its sting. We shuffled on and I was certain that at any moment, the trap would be sprung and the Norse would rise up from their hiding place with a bellowing battle cry.
Without warning, a figure stepped from behind the broad trunk of the oak. Cormac gasped and stiffened beside me. One of the spear-bearing villagers, Gewis, I think, let out a small cry of alarm. I clutched my sword’s grip so tightly that my knuckles popped and cracked, but I was pleased that I did not show the fear I felt.
But this was no Norseman. By the light of the rising sun I recognised the slender form.
“Eowils,” called out Gewis, his tone full of relief.
“You sounded your horn,” said Gwawrddur cautiously, as if he expected a trap of some kind. Perhaps the Norse were yet huddled behind the tree and sought to use Eowils to lure us closer.
“I did not know what else to do,” stammered Eowils, looking from his father to Gwawrddur. He was clearly nervous. His gaze flickered to the smoke-smeared northern horizon. “Have they attacked?”
“They have set the buildings afire,” replied Gwawrddur. “But never mind that now. Hereward has that in hand. What caused you to call us here?”
As if in answer, another figure stepped from the shadow of the tree. We tensed. We all knew that Eowils had been posted here alone. He was too young and small to fight, but he had keen eyes and was nimble and fast. From the limbs of the tree, he could warn of the enemies’ approach and then flee to safety.
The newcomer moved close to Eowils and for an instant I assumed he was threatening him, perhaps placing a blade against the boy’s ribs. Gewis tensed and took a step forward. But then I saw that the figure staggered as if unwell, and he leaned on the boy for support.
“Ingild,” hissed Gwawrddur, recognising the man at last. “You have returned so soon? Praise be to God. With Gleadwine’s warriors we will soon send those Norse bastards to hell.”
No wonder that the messenger was tired, he must have had precious little sleep to have ridden to Corebricg, mustered Gleadwine’s warriors and then led them back here so soon. The Welshman stepped closer and we followed. We were still anxious, aware that the raiders were even then destroying our homes and might already be turning their attentions to the hall on the hill. Hereward would be hard-pressed to defend it with the few fighters available to him. The sight of Ingild did not dispel our trepidation, but it did lift our spirits to know that reinforcements had come so soon.
Our hopes of salvation were quickly dashed.
Gwawrddur cast about for signs of the warriors Ingild had brought with him. It was then that I noticed the pallor of the man’s skin. He was the colour of curds and his face was sheened with sweat, his hair plastered to his scalp. His eyes were dark-rimmed with tiredness and something else: pain. Eowils shifted his position, causing Ingild to wince and groan. I noted the way his right arm dangled at his side, his shoulder dipped at an odd angle.
“Where are Gleadwine’s men?” asked Gwawrddur.
Ingild attempted a shrug, moaned at the effort and thought better of it.
“In Corebricg, I would wager.” Ingild was sombre and obviously suffering and yet a ghost of a smile played on his lips.
Gwawrddur’s face clouded. He looked Ingild up and down and I could see the realisation of his injuries dawning on the Welshman.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
Ingild sighed.
“My mount fell,” he said, his
voice catching in his throat, “put its hoof in a badger sett, I think.” He shook his head and frowned. “My fault. I should not have pushed her so hard in the rain. I could barely see where we were going, but I knew it was important that I reach Corebricg as soon as possible…” His voice trailed off. “Poor thing snapped its foreleg, just like a twig for kindling.” He wiped sweat, or maybe tears, from his cheeks. “She did cry so,” he said, taking a breath and letting it out in a juddering sigh. “It was the animal’s screams that woke me. I’d been thrown from the path and hit a tree or a rock hard enough to do this.” He indicated with his chin his right shoulder and arm. “I think the collar bone is snapped.” He reached up to touch his chest on the right side and hissed through his teeth, almost seeming to laugh, as men do when they are gripped by agony. “A couple of ribs too, I’d say.”
“What did you do?” Gwawrddur asked, though the answer was evident. Ingild was standing before us, so what he had done was clear.
“I put the poor mare out of her misery.” His face darkened at the memory. “The pain was too much for me then and I must have hit my head during the fall, for I swooned. When I awoke, I knew I would not make it to Corebricg on foot, not like this. And so I made my way home.” He glanced at the smoke billowing in the northern sky. “I am sorry.”
Nobody spoke for a time. I could feel the disappointment in the men around me. I felt it myself. Moments before we had believed that help was at hand, armed warriors were coming to bolster our numbers and to turn the tide of the fight that might already be underway at Werce’s Hall. Now we knew that we were as alone as ever. I looked at Cormac. His face was as pallid as Ingild’s. Perhaps the gravity of what he had done in the night was finally hitting home. There would be no reinforcements and we were doomed to stand against the Norsemen until we had slain all of them, or had died in defence of the minster and settlement.
A Time for Swords Page 38
