Was this truly the end? God had not intervened. He would allow me to die just like all the others at Lindisfarnae. Perhaps this was a punishment for our sins after all. In that moment, I hated God. I closed my eyes, not wishing to see the descent of the blade or the triumph on Skorri’s bearded face. I stopped praying, instead I shouted a curse at the Almighty. Was this how He treated his faithful? Allowing them to be brutalised and slain? Curse Him then, I thought, and readied myself for death.
I have often pondered what happened next. Was it God’s way of showing his forgiveness to me, that even when I had forsaken Him and railed against His divine plan, He should choose to save me? Or was it perchance God’s sense of the absurd that He should grant me salvation at the very moment when I had ceased to expect it, or even ask for it? I will never know, but before Skorri’s sword blade cut into me to take my life, a rumbling voice cut through the noises of fighting, my panting breath and the roaring of my blood.
“Brother!” screamed the voice. It spoke in the tongue of the Norse and I recognised the speaker.
Runolf.
I opened my eyes to see what fresh insanity that morning of madness had brought.
Fifty-Six
Skorri lifted his foot before shoving against my chest with the sole of his boot. Sprawling onto my back in the wet grass, I let out a stifled cry as my shoulder connected with the ground. The Norse jarl turned away from me, disdainful of the threat I posed.
He spun to face Runolf, who was striding towards him. In his wake, Runolf left dying and injured men. It appeared that with his spear-men and his own formidable prowess and bulk, the men of Werceworthe had shattered the Norse line. Runolf’s great axe dripped with gore and his face and beard were blood-spattered and begrimed. His eyes gleamed from the dark mask of blood and muck.
“You!” said Skorri. “I cannot believe you yet live.”
“No thanks to you,” spat Runolf. “Why did you leave me there? I have asked myself that these last months. My own brother…”
They were close now, each tense and ready for combat. They glowered at each other and now that I saw them together, the familial similarity was obvious. Both men were huge and muscled, though Skorri was perhaps slightly taller. Both had the same deep-set eyes, jutting jaw hidden behind a thatch of red beard. And each had a bloodied weapon in his hand. I shuddered at the sight of them there, bristling with ire, exuding power and danger.
“I would have killed you in an eye-blink,” Skorri said. “I had grown tired of your morose nature. We sons of Ragnar Olafsson are wolves, not sheep to bleat about our loss and sorrow.”
“Then why did you not do it?” shouted Runolf, in a sudden outburst of fury, like lightning from a darkening sky. “I would be free of the burden I carry.”
“Your burden?” Skorri sneered. “By Óðinn, man! We have all lost loved ones. Death is the stuff of life itself.”
For a moment, there was a tenderness between the two men. Skorri’s shoulders slumped and a sorrow entered Runolf’s eyes.
“I told Estrid it would be kinder to kill you,” said Skorri. He shook his head. “But she made me swear not to slay you.”
“Estrid?” said Runolf, his voice hollow and bleak.
“She is my woman now,” replied Skorri, a thin smile playing on his lips. “She was always too good for you. It was her destiny to be the wife of the jarl, not his brother.”
Runolf’s eyes glistened beneath his heavy brows.
“So the betrayal is complete,” he said.
“Estrid hates you,” said Skorri, his voice almost gentle. “You know this. But she is a soft woman. Soft of heart, like you. I can see why she loved you. Once.” The jarl glanced at me. I was yet prostrate on the ground, and for a fleeting moment I imagined he was going to come back to finish what he had left with a quick stroke of his blade. Just as he had slain Tidraed on Lindisfarnae. But his gaze did not linger on me. Instead he indicated me and Cormac with a nod of his shaggy head. The instant he looked away, I pushed myself to my feet with a grunt of pain. I would face what was to come on my feet. Like a warrior.
“I see you are still sending boys to fight in your stead.” Skorri sneered.
Runolf grew very still. His face darkened like a thunderhead before a storm. A breeze shivered the branches of the alders off to the west. The first fat drops of rain splattered from the grey sky and a chill fell over Werceworthe.
“And I see you still talk too much,” Runolf said, his words clipped and as sharp as shards of ice.
They stared at each other, neither moving. Such hatred flickered between them and something else, a sadness and disappointment that things should end this way, perhaps. I thought then of my brother and the frequent enmity that burnt between us. What would need to occur to drive us to seek the other’s death?
I shuddered and, as if my slightest of movements had shattered the moment of calm before the storm, the Norse brothers sprang at each other. Runolf’s axe clattered into Skorri’s shield with the sound of a clap of thunder. The tempest had begun and the huge warriors hammered blows, parrying and dodging with a nimbleness that belied their size.
My head spun at what I was seeing. I had lost a lot of blood. My kirtle was soaked and plastered to my skin. The rain fell more heavily and its cold touch kept my mind sharp, focused. I knew that I should turn and flee, taking advantage of the distraction. I knew not what was happening on the north side of the hall, but it seemed that here, on the south, the Norse had been subdued or slain. All except Skorri, and I did not doubt that Runolf would deal with him. I should go to Hereward’s aid at the bramble-filled trench. And yet I could not bring myself to leave. The strength and skill of the fighting men wove a spell over me, and I could not drag my gaze away. Each man was like a warrior of legend or a Norse god of battle; hugely muscled, tall and as fast as a cat. And each of them burnt with a loathing, the flames of which had been fanned over years of resentment.
A proud man such as Runolf would seek vengeance for what Skorri had done. Abandoning his brother and taking his wife for his own. But there was something else that fuelled their hatred, something more despicable, it seemed to me. Darker and deeper.
The rain seethed down, drenching the fighting men. Their feet churned the earth into a quagmire as they danced with death.
They fought on, clashing together like waves striking cliffs and then retreating. Steel flashed in the morning sunlight and I squinted at the bright flourishes. With a start I saw that the sun was yet low in the sky and it pierced beneath the clouds like a well-struck blade beneath a shield. A rainbow glowed in the sky and, unbidden, I thought of God. He had promised Noah that He would deliver his family from the great flood that He had sent. Surely this was the Almighty’s sign to me that He would grant us victory over these pagans.
My body ached and trembled with exhaustion. It felt as though most of a day might have passed and yet it was only a matter of moments since the sun had risen above the horizon. So much death and destruction in such a short amount of time. And there would be more before the end, of that I was certain. I stooped to retrieve my sword from where Skorri had kicked it into the grass. Its grip was wet and cold against my hot palm.
Pulling apart, the brothers circled, wary and breathing heavily.
“You are a nithing,” spat Runolf.
“A nithing with a warband,” replied Skorri. “What do you have here? Christ monks, old men and children?”
“I have my honour.”
Skorri laughed.
“Honour?” he said, turning his head this way and that to loosen the muscles in his neck. “You lost your honour when you lost your son. You have nothing now!”
Runolf’s scowl deepened.
“You are right that Osvif’s death will always weigh upon me. Perhaps neither of the sons of Ragnar have any honour. By Óðinn, we are both fools. And it seems there is little to separate us. We are both in a strange land, with no ships to carry us home.”
“Death will separate us soon en
ough,” snarled Skorri.
He flew at Runolf and I have seldom in all my years since witnessed two stronger warriors locked in combat. Their weapons sliced and hacked, parried and countered. Each man was drenched with sweat, mud, blood and rain. Their breath steamed in the rain-cooled air as they panted and grunted, lunging, blocking, twisting and swaying. They were both huge men, but they moved with the grace of dancers and I wondered how many times as they were growing up they had practised together. They appeared to know what the other would do before he acted and it seemed that neither of them would ever tire.
But such ferocity can never last, and no battle rages forever without a conclusion. Like many fights I have witnessed or fought in over the long decades since that early autumn day at Werceworthe, the epic duel between Runolf and Skorri was decided by luck. My Christian brethren would say there is no such thing as chance; that God’s hand intercedes, and perhaps they are right. But I have seen too many good men fall to believe God wanted all of them dead. And yet, who am I to question the way of the Lord? In His divine wisdom perhaps every blow and movement of warriors in a battle is preordained according to His design.
On that rain-sodden morning, the acrid tang of the smoke from the minster buildings in my throat, I watched as Runolf sprang forward to deliver what was surely a killing blow. Skorri was overstretched and off balance and his brother’s axe would crunch into his exposed shoulder, ending the fight with a victory for my Norse friend. The rainbow gleamed in the dark sky, a reminder of God’s promise of salvation. My heart swelled with pride in Runolf’s triumph and I rejoiced.
But Runolf did not deliver death to Skorri.
As he jumped towards his brother, Runolf stepped on Skorri’s great helm. The ornate helmet lay in the long grass where the jarl had discarded it, and now, unseen, it saved him from certain defeat. Runolf’s ankle turned and he stumbled awkwardly to the side. With uncanny agility and the speed I had marvelled at, Skorri seized his chance and surged up. He had almost fallen moments before, and he had only prevented himself from tumbling to the earth by holding himself up with his sword hand, his fist against the earth while his sword was still in his grip. So it was that he could not bring his sword to bear instantly. Instead, he pushed himself up and slammed into Runolf with his shield.
Already staggering, Runolf toppled to the ground. His axe flew from his grasp. Skorri was upon him in a heartbeat.
“Goodbye, Runolf,” he said, bringing his sword scything down. Runolf tried to roll away, but the blade struck him. However, instead of slicing deep into his neck, Skorri’s sword smashed into his brother’s shoulder. Runolf grunted from the force of the blow, which had surely broken bones. But the iron rings of his byrnie protected him from the worst of it.
“Time to die now, brother,” Skorri said, grinning. “I will tell Estrid you died at my feet, as it should be.”
He raised his sword for another strike. Runolf seemed resigned to his death now. He glowered up at his brother.
“You can tell that whore whatever you want, if you meet in the afterlife.” Runolf spat the words. “For you will never leave these shores.”
Skorri seemed about to reply, then he tightened his grip on his sword and plunged it down towards Runolf’s defenceless form.
Fifty-Seven
“No!” I screamed.
As if woken from a nightmare, I rushed forward, stumbling towards Skorri. The rain came down in sheets now and my feet threw up great splashes of muddy water.
Skorri’s sword flashed downward and I knew I would not reach him in time. But the jarl’s killing blow never landed. Skorri pulled up, his mouth and eyes gaping in shock. A white-fletched arrow quivered from his unarmoured thigh. He looked down at the projectile jutting from his flesh and growled. Raising his sword once more, he readied himself to kill his kin.
Directly beyond Skorri, I saw Wulfwaru draw back her bow again. The rain tumbled in a torrent from the leaden skies. Her bow string must have been wet, with much less power than if dry. And the rain and wind must have made the shot almost impossible from that distance. As I ran I realised that if her aim was not true, she was as likely to strike me as to hit Skorri. I did not hesitate. I trusted in her skill and, perhaps, I trusted in the promise in that rainbow too, though with a wrenching in my guts, I saw that the coloured arc was no longer visible in the sky.
I ran on, screaming defiance at Skorri, in an effort to distract him. He turned slightly at the sound of my voice as Wulfwaru let fly another arrow through the wet air. It found its mark, burying itself in the jarl’s neck. He arched his back, roaring at the sudden pain. Without thought, I sliced my sword down with all my strength. I barely felt resistance as my blade hacked cleanly through Skorri’s wrist. His sword fell, as useless to him now as his severed hand that flopped beside the weapon, fingers splayed out like one of the starfish I would find in the rock pools by the mouth of the Cocueda.
“I told you you talk too much,” said Runolf, heaving himself up with a groan. His left arm hung at his side and blood stained the links of his byrnie.
Skorri spat. He glared first at his brother and then at me. His eyes narrowed.
“Gods! Defeated by a boy.”
The second arrow twitched as he spoke. It was not a deep wound, the power of the arrow having been sapped by the rain and the damp bowstring.
“And a woman,” said Wulfwaru, who had approached us. She still held her bow and had a new arrow nocked, ready for whatever might come to pass.
Skorri spat again and then laughed.
“Women!” he said. “They are always the undoing of men.” His eyes flicked and roved, looking about him perhaps for a way to escape, for it is not in man’s nature to admit he has been defeated. Blood was pumping from the stump of his sword arm which he clutched to his chest. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the arrow wound in his neck and his breeches were stained red where the first arrow jutted from his thigh. His face was pale and I knew that death would claim him soon. His gaze settled once more on me and his eyes widened in recognition.
“You were there, weren’t you?” he asked, his voice weaker now than it had been only moments before. Absently, I noticed Runolf stoop to retrieve his great axe.
“Where?” I asked. My mouth was dry and my voice rasped.
“At the island of the Christ men,” he said, and my blood ran cold. He had seen me? Remembered me? “You wore the robes of a holy man. Your head was shaven, but I saw you.”
I said nothing. I could not speak.
“You tried to save the girl. Killed Sigfast. By Óðinn,” he chuckled and the sound filled me with horror, “I bet that didn’t go down well with the priests of the nailed god.” He groaned then, unable to hide the agony he was surely feeling. The flow of blood from his wrist was slower now, his face deathly pale. He fell to his knees, glowering up at us in his humiliation and defeat. “And so you became a warrior. For a woman.”
At last I found my voice. I wanted to say that I was a warrior of Christ. That it was I who had assembled the defenders to this place. That, by the grace of God, I had defeated him and his raiders. But I said none of those things.
“She was my kin,” I said. “Your men killed her.” I wanted to be as stoic and strong as Runolf and Skorri, but tears mingled with the rain on my cheeks and my voice cracked. “You destroyed so much… killed so many of my friends…” I could find no words to explain what had happened to me that day on Lindisfarnae, and what explanation did I owe this dying man? This Norse jarl who had turned my world upside down and changed the path of my life forever? I owed him nothing. I longed to spit into his face as I was sure he would have done if our positions had been reversed, and yet all I could feel now, as I looked down at his curds-white face, was pity.
“We did not kill that one,” he said with a sigh. “Aelfwyn.” He closed his eyes, perhaps remembering her face, or maybe allowing death to claim him.
I felt faint and my vision swam with tears and rain blurring my sight.
�
��Aelfwyn is alive?”
Skorri opened his eyes slowly, as if it was a great effort.
“Much too pretty to kill, that one,” he said with a weak smile. “Fetched me half a pound of silver.”
“Where is she now?” My voice was urgent. If Aelfwyn yet lived, I must rescue her. The thought of her, abused and used by pagan Norsemen in some far-off land of mountains and rivers, filled me with dread and a sudden, powerful renewed purpose.
Skorri’s eyes had closed again and he swayed on his knees.
“Where is she?” I shouted, reaching for his shoulder to shake him. He could not die yet. I must learn of her whereabouts. But before I was able to lay my hand on him, a figure crashed into Skorri, tumbling them both to the muddy, blood-churned earth.
Cormac, covered in gore, screamed as he landed atop the Norse jarl. His blade rose and fell, hacking into Skorri. Blood sprayed in the air and was quickly washed into the grass and mud by the driving rain.
Wulfwaru staggered back from the sudden violence. Runolf did not move. His face was grim, his mouth a thin line in his beard.
I looked on in dismay as Cormac slashed and hewed at Skorri’s already dead body until he finally collapsed atop it, panting and gasping for breath.
My mind roiled.
Cormac was not dead. I should have been overjoyed at seeing my friend alive, and yet my heart sank as I saw Skorri’s lifeblood soaking into the earth. Vanishing with it, I imagined, was my chance of learning where Aelfwyn had been taken. I wanted to scream at Cormac. I would never find out where my cousin was now, and it was all his fault.
A Time for Swords Page 41
