What was new to Worr, and Ceric too, was who they faced. Worr had fought Danes at Godwin’s side throughout Wessex and at Kilton, and had killed not a few. Now he faced them in a friendly contest. Three-fingered Jari was the most interesting of them.
Hrald had sparred with the left-handed Jari many times. Ceric had never faced such a swordsman, but Jari was generous in his schooling. He had lost the first two gripping fingers of his right hand when he was but twenty, hacked off above the knuckles by a Saxon sword. With a larger grip inside his shield boss he could still hold his shield with his maimed hand, and the power in his right arm made the shield itself a weapon. He was by force become left handed, and had proven a most capable warrior that way.
“You do not expect to face a sword held in the left; it surprises you. That is my first advantage,” he told Ceric. At this point he spoke the tongue of Angle-land well, but still with the lilted tang of the Danes. “There are few of us and so I will disturb your thinking. I will spring for your right side before you know how to gauge me. If I miss you then we will be face to face, straight on, no offset to our shields such as you are used to.”
Ceric had seen this at once, that Jari moved in ways he did not expect. It was discomfiting. They traded blows to the other’s shield. Jari was big enough that Ceric must use his compact quickness as a way to gain ground.
After a few more slashes Ceric found his own sword almost resting above that of Jari, who with a sudden up-cut wrenched it from Ceric’s hand. The gold-covered hilt flashed in the Sun as it lifted overhead. Ceric took a deep breath and recovered it from where it lay in the grass. If it were battle he would likely be dead now, his opponent having knocked away his shield to make one final thrust through his body.
Jari lowered his shield and waited for Ceric to rejoin him. His grin was not unkind. “Many men will scramble to pick that up on the field,” he noted. He resumed his stance before Ceric.
“But your advantage, if you see it, is that the left hand is the heart hand. I must hold my shield away from my heart to strike. Your blow can pierce my heart, not just my chest.”
Ceric nodded, and after several more feints and parries both lowered their swords.
“Now if you face a Tyr-hand you will know what to do,” Jari ended, referring to the one-handed God. “Note that he is left-handed. Protect your right side. Go for his heart.”
Worr was standing by, watching Ceric’s bout, as were the others. Worr had already faced Jari, and thought their match a draw; Worr had fought left-handed men in the past. One such, who lived in memory, could fight with either hand. A Tyr-handed Dane had stunned him by dropping his broken shield to the ground and taking his sword in his right hand to attack with renewed vigour as he worked his way to the shield of a fallen man nearby. It had been at the Twelfth Night attack at Kilton, and if an arrow from a Kilton archer had not found its way to the Dane’s chest Worr’s surprise might have cost him his life. Jari was right about that.
The five thegns were now taking turns, pairing off with this or that Dane, sometimes fighting shield-to-shield, two or three to a side. Ceric and Hrald joined in, as did Gunnulf. Ceric and Hrald fought side by side, against Gunnulf and his friend Onund. Gunnulf would not engage Ceric, dodging his approaches, hair flying, teeth gleaming. It felt a slight to Ceric, and angered him.
Gunnulf now turned to where Worr had stepped in, and hacked at his raised shield. This angered Ceric the more, that Worr was worthy of engagement, but not him. Worr saw this, in Ceric’s hard eyes and gritted teeth. Amidst the grunts and laboured breathing there had been laughter too, and Worr did not want the mood to sour. Worr lunged at Gunnulf, whacked his shield up and away to his right, and with slightly more force than needed rapped the young Dane with the flat of his sword on the back of the left shoulder, pitching him forward and to the ground. Gunnulf rolled over with his shield, and leapt up to his feet.
The others, Danes and Saxons alike, met him with laughter, his older brother Jari most heartily. Ceric alone did not join in, knowing Worr’s act for what it was. He would have liked to have put Gunnulf in his place himself. Hrald and Onund and the rest made light of it, and Gunnulf, after a look at the smiling Worr standing before him with lowered shield and sword, had to laugh.
When all were winded they stopped in their sparring. Their linen tunics were soaked from sweat, and they pulled off the sleeveless leathern tunics they had worn over them. They had brought no small cask of ale with them to slake their thirst, and all the water-skins were empty, or nearly so. The men began to pick up their shields where they had dropped them in the grass, and make their way back to the hall for refreshment. Hrald and Ceric still lay sprawled on the ground, telling the others they would soon be along; the afternoon was far progressed, and the time to gather for the evening meal not far off.
“Worr is a good fighter,” Hrald praised, as he and Ceric looked after the retreating band. “As able as Jari.”
Ceric agreed. “We will be glad to have them at our sides.” The day might not be far off when more than sparring was required, and this they knew. “Jari is heavier, and has, as he showed me, an advantage in his sword-hand.”
“They have fought many men, and learnt something from each one,” Hrald added.
Ceric rolled from his back to his stomach. “Gunnulf learned not to fight with Worr,” he said, at which they both laughed.
A little time went by. Whirring insects rose and fell about them. Hrald had pulled a stem of grass from its green sheath and was nibbling on the sweet white tip of it. The grass and the ground it sprung from was warm in the afternoon Sun, but a freshening breeze, cooling to their heated brows, was setting in.
“I was thinking of what your father said.” Ceric’s voice was low.
Hrald turned his head to him, but Ceric’s face was looking straight ahead. The golden cross about his neck was hanging down, almost touching the grass he lay upon.
“About every man having their own style of fighting. About how when we are young we must try to use our speed, try to watch men and see how they fight, spot their weaknesses. Like what Jari just told me.”
Hrald did not think he had forgotten more than a word of what his father Sidroc had said while acquainting the boys to the warrior’s art. Now he knew Ceric had not, either.
Ceric got to his knees, stood up. Hrald rose too. They pulled their leathern tunics back on, and took up their discarded shields. Hrald’s was black and red, like his father’s, but with the black colour brushed on in two wedges, meeting at the central boss, on a red background. Ceric’s shield was half-yellow, half-blue. Their sword baldrics lay off where the rest of the men had laid theirs; with the leathern sleeves slipped over their sword blades, they could not sheath them until the thick sleeves had been removed. They stood facing each other, the protective guards still upon their swords.
They had fought side-by-side, shield-to-shield in their practice. Now Hrald lifted his sword and playfully gave a tap to that which his friend held. Ceric laughed, but nodded. He looked at Hrald, nearly a full hand’s length taller than he, as tall as Jari. No matter. He would have to fight men of all sizes, and one of the things he had always heard was that quickness could undercut size. Hrald’s father had said it too, and he was one of the tallest men Ceric had ever met.
They pulled their shields into position before their bodies, the round expanses covering the vital torso. Their eyes locked, and they nodded. Then they began.
Hrald’s heavy eyebrows almost touched as he focused his gaze on the movements of his opponent. Ceric struck first, a hit to the outside edge of Hrald’s shield, which Hrald quickly returned. Another blow followed by Ceric, an attempt to get inside Hrald’s briefly opened shield. It was rebuffed with a solid movement from Hrald’s strong shield arm, its large and pointed boss propelled directly at Ceric’s chest. Hrald used his friend’s momentary step back to rain blows upon his iron-rimmed round, trying to force it aside with uppercuts. But Ceric held his ground,
and even found himself forcing Hrald to turn with his own movements; he was now facing up the path towards the hall, which Hrald had been facing as they began.
They went on, at times snorting or calling, as they traded sword-thrusts. The swords, sheathed as they were, could not do more than dent the faces of their shields, marring them with shallow gashes, but the weapons still hit forcefully, with dull thuds. Going for the iron rim was more effective, trying to knock the shield away and open the torso to a touch.
Both were now soaked anew, and Hrald about to call a draw. He gave one more slice towards the rim of Ceric’s shield. It hit, knocking the shield to the left, continuing on into the top of Ceric’s upper arm.
He yelled.
Hrald watched Ceric drop his shield to the ground, and saw the golden-hilted sword fall too. His freed left hand rose to cover his right arm just below the shoulder. Ceric’s face was twisted in pain, and blood began to run from between the fingers clapped over his arm.
Hrald looked at his sword. The heavy leathern sheath still covered the blade, all except near the tip. There it had split, riven apart by the blows Hrald had delivered to Ceric’s iron shield rim. He had cut his friend, and badly.
The sword dropped from Hrald’s hand as if it had burnt him. He shook his left hand free of his own shield, and sprang to Ceric’s side.
They had been speaking of what his father had taught them of fighting. Now he remembered another, far earlier instruction, given to them both not far from where they stood. The Lord of Four Stones had taken them as small boys to witness a duel here. When it had been settled Sidroc had privately mocked the men for fighting. Then he had parted the beard on his face and shown the boys the scar he bore. Never draw your blades against each other, he had warned them. Yet they had done so, and not a rock’s throw from where the warning had been given.
Ceric’s hand was clenched over his bleeding arm, his dark tunic showing darker under his fingers, the cloth glistening with wetness. “It is nothing,” he told Hrald, though the blood was welling between his fingers.
“Let me see,” Hrald said. His shoulders had slumped, and despite the sweat on his brow he felt cold, even light-headed.
Ceric lifted his hand away from his rent tunic. The cut lay across the meatiest part of the muscle, a slice through the skin angling upwards. Hrald looked at it, then at his friend’s face, teeth gritted with pain. Ceric’s bloodied left hand rose to hold the wound again.
Hrald jerked off his leathern tunic, stripped off his linen one. Before Ceric could call out he had his knife in his left hand. He thrust the blade of it hard against the upper part of his bare right arm. He made his own stifled yell as the blade sliced through the muscle there.
He stepped before Ceric, facing him, bodies offset. Ceric dropped his hand away from his wound.
“Stand still,” Hrald said. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Ceric, pressing his bleeding arm against that of his friend.
They stood that way a long moment, leaning their shoulders together. Hrald pulled back, his own arm red and dripping.
“Now we are brothers through our blood,” he told Ceric.
Both their hands had returned to hold their wounded arms. Ceric nodded, a near-smile working at the corners of his mouth. He craned his neck to try to see the cut better.
“Will it need to be sewn?” he asked.
“I do not know,” Hrald could only answer.
“Yours, too,” Ceric added, looking to Hrald’s bloodied hand. “Can your mother do it?”
Hrald shook his head at the question. “I would rather ask Burginde; she is skilled in such things.” He struggled back into his linen tunic, and looked at his own arm. His white sleeve was rapidly turning red.
“Your tunic is dark. If we bind the wounds with that, the blood will show less,” he reasoned. They had to enter the kitchen yard and try to find Burginde without undue attention.
He helped Ceric pull off his leathern tunic, and then his linen one. This they sliced into lengths, and bound each other’s right arms. Ceric put his leathern tunic back on over his bare chest.
They rinsed their hands with what was left of their water, and picked up their shields and swords. The stinging pain in their arms had begun to change to a deeper, steady throbbing.
Both felt it, but Hrald felt sick as well. For a moment he had had to consider the response of his mother; Ceric had put him in mind of it when he asked if she could sew up their wounds. He could not think of that now, nor could he think of Worr or Jari and what they would say. All he knew was that he had sliced into the sword-arm of his best friend, a wound deep enough to drip blood upon the grass they walked over, a wound if it grew hot and green could kill Ceric. Wounding himself in no way made up for it.
They went straight to the edge of the kitchen yard, busy with folk making up the coming meal. One of Jari’s young daughters was near, and Hrald called her over, bidding her fetch Burginde. The girl’s eyes rounded at their bloodied sleeves, and she was off. Soon Burginde appeared from out the hall’s door, hustling towards them. They watched Ashild step out after, face untroubled, her arms full of linens. Her eyes were caught by Burginde’s haste, followed her progress, and then rose to where the friends waited. She dropped her linens on a nearby table and reached the two just after Burginde did.
They were standing side by side, their shields now at their feet, their swords in their left hands. The right arm of Hrald’s white tunic was red with his blood, seeping from under the dark linen tied round the arm near the shoulder. Ceric’s bare right arm was similarly wrapped, and blood ran down his arm and dripped from his elbow. It was clear his dark blue tunic had been used to bandage both wounds.
“What happened?” Ashild demanded.
Both began to answer, but Ceric spoke first, saying only, “We were sparring.”
“Ach,” Burginde answered, hand raising to her forehead in a solid smack. “Come, come,” she ordered, gesturing the friends into the kitchen yard. Hrald shook his head.
“Then here,” Ashild said, shoving open the door to the storage hut they stood near. Within were casks and chests to sit upon, and with the door open there would be enough light.
Burginde turned to Ashild. “The Simples chest – we will need it,” she told her.
“Woad?”
“Woad too,” agreed Burginde.
Ashild nodded and ran. Her mother kept a supply of healing herbs in the small Simples chest in her bower house, and fresh woad grew in her herb garden. She knew Ælfwyn was in the treasure room in the hall; she had just come from there; the bower house should be empty. Ashild took the box of Simples where it sat next to her mother’s clothes chest, snatched up her mother’s sharp shears, and ran back into the garden. There was the woad, a dye-stuff valued for staunching bleeding. She ripped a handful into her fist. Then she thought of her mother’s sewing goods; she had a few needles wrought of steel. She went back and ransacked the basket, plucking the needles and the linen they were stuck into from the neatly-ordered bone bobbins of thread. She tucked a few things into the Simples chest and with it under her arm made for the storage hut, stopping to pull a length of linen from the pile she had set down.
When she got inside she saw Burginde had gotten Hrald and Ceric each a cup of ale. They would need something stronger, she was sure; later she would try to get them mead. Right now their pale faces and dry lips said they needed drink of any sort.
They were seated side by side on the lid of a barley bin, the sweet and malty grain smell strong about them. Ashild was nearly stifled by it, and by the racing of her own heart, which felt too large for her chest. The storage hut was windowless and dim, save for the sharp shaft of light pouring through the doorway.
Now that the Simples were here, Burginde began unwrapping the linen around Hrald’s arm. Ashild did the same for Ceric. The bloodied tunic strips dropped to the wooden boards of the hut. Burginde was muttering oaths, and Ashild’s dismay was clear in her sharp releas
e of breath.
Burginde straightened up. “I will get water,” she said, and left.
Ashild looked at both bloody wounds. Ceric’s was bad, but Hrald’s deeper and broader.
“Yours is much the worse,” she told her brother. She turned to Ceric, her look no less than a glare. His lips parted, as if he would answer her, but then pressed closed again. He could say nothing.
She looked at Hrald. Tall as he was, he was her younger brother, and to see him in pain was almost to suffer it herself. “You cut yourselves this badly, sparring?”
Again Ceric spoke first. “Our blades broke through the leather guards on our swords.”
Her brow furrowed with disbelief.
“Both – at the same time?” Without waiting for their answer, she went to where her brother’s sword lay, resting on the top of a cask. The tightly fitted leather sheath was laced firmly up the flat face of the sword, over the shallow depression of the fuller, wrapping the edges of the sharp blade in thick, unbroken leather. But there at the top of the blade she saw it. Repeated blows had forced the steel through the hardened leather.
She picked up Ceric’s sword, laying next it. The leathern casing was intact. Her head lifted.
She looked at Hrald, reached for his side, and closed her hand over the dark grip of the knife hanging at his hip. It felt damp in her grasp, and she opened her hand. A small amount of blood lay there. Then she knew.
Her eyes went first to Ceric, next to Hrald. Their faces were glistening with sweat but pale beneath it. They stared back at her. All three were wordless.
She nodded her head the slightest bit. She drew Hrald’s knife out, and they watched as she used it to rip open the tip of the leathern casing on Ceric’s sword so their tale could be believed.
“Thank you,” her brother told her.
She knew why he had done it, hurt himself because he had hurt his friend, but it troubled her still. And Ceric had tried to cover for him, tried to take the blame himself. But Hrald was speaking again.
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