She lowered herself from the stallion, and hung her shield on the saddle. She saw that a boyish Hrald had marked the shield on its inside with the rune Sigel , victory, but that next to that was scrawled a Christian cross.
Then she drew her mantle about her, covering her lower limbs and cloaking her boldness. She went to join her uncle where he stood before the abbess and prioress. Sigewif was telling Asberg that Oundle had heard no word of war, but been wary since a watchmen Hrald had lately posted had ridden to tell them he would be at their western-most point. Oundle was well aware of its vulnerability, and more than grateful for the troop of warriors now ridden to secure it.
The eyes of the abbess went to her as she took her place at her uncle’s side. It was clear from Sigewif’s face that it took her a moment to recognise this young stranger for who she was. The war-cap on her head and the leggings peeking out from beneath the mantle did not disguise her long. Ashild lifted her hand to her cap, to remove it in respect, when she realised this would leave her with an uncovered head. Her hand froze. Sigewif’s eyes widened as she took Ashild in. The stern set of the abbess’ jaw tightened, then with a nod of her large head, relaxed.
“Ashild,” she acknowledged. Her eyes shifted to the girl’s uncle, who let his own eyes roll slightly up in his defence. His niece was not to be stopped; not easily, and the abbess knew it.
Ashild pulled off her cap and bowed her head. She let her mantle fall open, showing more fully her leggings-clad body.
For answer Sigewif lifted her hand and laid it upon that tousled mass of loosened hair, hair the colour of old and damp oak leaves.
“Your dear mother knows you ride here?” Sigewif asked, when Ashild had straightened up and stood before her, battle-cap in her hand.
There was no severity in her question, and the abbess touching her head as she had had lent her own blessing to the endeavour. Ashild nodded.
From amongst the folk of hall and work-yards Ashild now saw Bova, garbed in the dove-gray gown of a novice, and fidgeting like the sparrow she had once been named for. Bova was staring, looking in wonder at her. Then, over Bova’s shoulder, she saw her own grandmother, in her dark nun’s habit and white head-wrap. Sigewif gestured her forward, and in an instant Ashild was her arms. Given the threat of attack the daytime rule of silence had been suspended by the abbess, save for when she bid it, and Ashild was enfolded in the murmuring caresses of her oldest kinswoman.
Then the horses must be seen to, and Ashild herself went to lead her stallion to the paddock fence, and unsaddled him before passing him into the keeping of one of the barn’s stablemen. When they had finished, a hand-drawn wain had been pulled by a serving man into the forecourt of the woman’s hall. Bova and an old nun stood at it, dipping pottery cups into the first of two great ale crocks, and handing them to the riders. Ashild went up last to claim hers. Bova’s dark eyes again fastened on her, but she bowed and said, “Lady,” as she handed her a brimming cup.
“I thank you for coming, Lady,” she managed further, when Ashild had lowered her cup. Bova’s eyes flitted about the work-yard, moving from one heavily armed man to the next, never resting on any one. She was biting her lower lip, and her small brown hand, which had touched Ashild’s when she handed over the cup, was clammy, as if with fear.
“Warriors might come,” Bova told her, with quavering voice. “Warriors…they hurt me.”
“I know this, Bova,” Ashild told her. “They hurt my aunts, and grandmother, too. That is why we are here, to save Oundle’s treasure, and to help spare us all.”
Bova swallowed, and nodded her head. Ashild reached and took Bova’s cold hand in her own and gave it a squeeze. Then she went back to Sigewif and her uncle.
The men could sleep in the monk’s hall, and they had each ridden with provision for two days, so that the food stores of Oundle might remain for the moment relatively untouched. Many of the men had carried extra spears, and these were now being collected and placed in two empty barrels, one near the door of the monks’ hall, the second by that of the nuns’.
“What now,” Ashild heard Sigewif ask her uncle.
“Now we must wait,” Asberg answered.
The Sun had reached high above the trees when Sidroc and Runulv took horse. The road leading out of Saltfleet was a broad one, made so by the ox carts and waggons filled with stuffs being drawn to and from the landing ships. It was also one on which an army would travel North.
“There are side-tracks we will take,” Sidroc told his captain, leading him up a more coastal route. At times that afternoon they came in sight of the road, and made haste to reach the next thicket of sheltering brush or stand of trees. They were about to emerge once more into a meadow-land, when Runulv, riding behind Sidroc, gave a hiss. They both reined up, pulling their horses back behind the darkness of a clump of spiked hawthorns.
Up on the road, heading North from behind them, rode a triple rank of horsemen. They each numbered the files, three, six, nine, twelve, fourteen files of three riders each; two-and-forty men, armed with swords and shields, their spears laced onto their saddles. They carried no banner, nor trailed supply waggons, just cantered steadily ahead on their dust-caked horses.
“Danes,” muttered Sidroc.
He had never before wished to meet a troop of Saxon warriors, but he did now. If these had been men of Wessex on his lands they would have for once been his allies.
He and Runulv stood their horses, looking after them. The road would fork not far ahead, offering a choice: the broader way to Four Stones and points beyond; the narrower to the abbey of Oundle. Sidroc had not meant to stop at Oundle, but to ride as quickly as he could to Four Stones, camping overnight when it became too dark to ride.
“We will trail them,” he told Runulv.
They did so, moving not upon the road but from the scant safety of the tree-cover. At the fork they watched the Danes shun the larger road and head for Oundle.
The Sun was setting as they neared the final bend in the road. There was a small woods, into which the road cleaved and then emerged. Once out of the trees Oundle would stand plainly upon the land, fronted by its growing fields.
Sidroc and Runulv watched the Danes stop. They seemed to know where they were heading, and now made their preparation to spend the coming night amongst the trees.
Sidroc weighed his choices. They could either attempt to skirt the men unnoticed, ride to Oundle, and gain entry without alerting these Danes, or stay here, and on their tails. He shook his head, dismissing the first. Oundle’s watch-men used a loud-voiced brass gong to signal approach of any stranger. He dare not risk alerting all the Danes behind him by having his own arrival announced. They would stay with the Danes.
Within the walls of Oundle, Asberg had told Sigewif there was little to do but wait. Asberg dined with the abbess and Ashild in the women’s hall, then left to return to that of the monks. Oundle’s own watch was joined that night by men of Four Stones, and Asberg made command that though careful watch be made, no alarm be sounded if any untoward activity be detected; instead, he should be sent for in all haste, but silence otherwise be observed.
They need not wait long. Under cover of dawn the enemy began creeping in. Nuns and brothers both had risen in the dark for Lauds, and while in the stone church offering their first prayers of the new day, watch-men on the ramparts had detected movement across the fields.
Ashild, asleep in an alcove in the women’s hall, was roused first by the glare of an oil torch which pierced the parting of the woollen curtains screening her bed. She felt blear-eyed, uncertain of where she was. It was Mildgyth the prioress, who slept in her own small cell, but had been called from Lauds to fetch her.
“Lady,” she urged, “Asberg is up, the men are arming. The enemy gathers outside our walls.”
Ashild tumbled out of the alcove. She had slept in her tunic and leggings, and now pulled on her shoes. She took a moment to run the comb she had been lent through her hair,
then plaited it with fingers flying. Mildgyth was going from alcove to alcove, where still slept the lay-women of the place, and from each emerged a frightened, and even tearful, woman, who Mildgyth begged keep quiet.
Mildgyth had returned to Ashild, who was now pinning on her mantle. The torch in the prioress’ hand cast ghostly shadows upon the walls and curtains, and on the face of Mildgyth too. “I go now back to Abbess Sigewif,” she told Ashild, who followed her out.
Enough light was now in the East to see the yard filling with folk. The warriors of Four Stones were already mostly armed, and Ashild could see her uncle with his yellow hair struggling a moment as he pulled his ring-shirt on over his leathern tunic. Even with another man to help they were awkward to handle, and Asberg was shrugging his way into his alone. The door of the stone church was open, and women, both nuns and serving-women, were hurrying within. The score or more of monks stood outside the door, gesturing they move in haste. From around the back of the garden, where the single cells lay, Ashild saw two monks bear an aged nun on a litter, carrying her within the confines of the sanctuary.
Horses were being drawn from barn and paddock, and saddled and bridled. Ashild’s stallion was easy to pick out, and when she reached him found one of her own men, Byrgher, cinching up her saddle. She muttered her thanks and led the animal by his reins to where all those were gathering.
She found her uncle. He nodded ruefully at her, but otherwise treated her as any of the other warriors readying themselves for what was to come. She followed him to one of the ramparts-ladders. The abbess was at its base, one of her own watch-men speaking into her ear. Asberg would see for himself what he had been told, and Ashild was quick to follow him up the ladder, with Byrgher, and a few other men.
The Sun was lifting enough so that they dare not show their heads above the palisade and risk discovery. But there were many small lookout holes at that height, and they crouched down and peered through them.
Walking down the road towards their walls was a score of men, each burdened with something in their arms. At a distance were a number of horses, and more men. As the men neared they saw that some balanced small wooden casks on their shoulders, like unto those used for mead. Others had arms-full or backs bent under piles of wooden faggots and thick tufts of dried, strawy grasses.
It was all too clear what their intention was. Asberg looked again at the cask perched on one of the men’s shoulders, then breathed a single word, “Oil.”
They crept down the ladder, and stood before Sigewif.
“Is it true,” she asked, her voice as calm as it was firm.
Asberg nodded. “They think to burn us out, Lady.” He took his eyes from her, let them glide over the expanse of wooden wall which was their only barrier.
Bread was now being hastily passed amongst them, and Ashild found her uncle thrusting a loaf into her hands. “No one fights long on an empty belly,” Asberg urged, tearing into his own loaf.
After what she had seen from the ramparts and heard her uncle say it was hard to take something so dry as the crusted loaf into her mouth and swallow. She saw the hand-wain that had been pulled the day before, again with crocks of ale within, and joined those who went to drink. The older nun was there, but Bova’s place was taken by a serving man.
“Where is Bova,” Ashild asked the woman, barely able to form the words aright.
The old nun pushed a stray strand of hair back under her head-wrap. “Inside the church, poor child, and half-mad with fear.” Ashild’s eyes widened, and the woman went on. “She is like a beast, going to slaughter, dumb but full of terror.”
Ashild made a move to the church door, still open. If she could comfort the novice she would do so. But something within her stopped her from going. She was not sure she could face her own fear, and Bova’s too. Instead she looked back to the nun.
“Will you be with her? Stay with her?” she said, her words more demand than question.
“I will go to her,” the nun said.
Ashild nodded her thanks, took a gulp of the ale, and returned to her uncle. Mildgyth was now at Sigewif’s side, and the men of Four Stones stood in half-circle around Asberg and the two holy women.
“There are no more than two score of them,” Asberg was saying in a hoarse whisper. “They are near to our own numbers. Less than our numbers,” he added, though Ashild did not see how he had counted them so closely as this. “They do not want any losses. We look a ready target.”
Sigewif was an imposing woman in bodily form, and now straightened herself even taller, as if to object to the low estimation afforded her by those outside her gates.
Asberg went on, voice more urgent. “These are not many, who threaten us today. But are more on the way?” He scanned the faces looking at his before he gave answer. “We must rush them now, kill those we can, scatter the rest, show them we are no easy mark.”
Stifled grunts and nodding heads greeted his assertion, that and the sure sign of hands gripping the hilts of their swords.
But this place was Sigewif’s, and she must make decision. She did so by speaking not to Asberg, but to Mildgyth, her prioress, who now stood at her shoulder with the two priests of Oundle. “Holy Fathers, dear Prioress,” she murmured. “I give into your keeping all the women of Oundle. Lock yourselves into the church, along with any of the brothers who would join you, and wait on God’s will.”
The priests crossed themselves and turned to fulfill her order, but Mildgyth did not turn with them. “Allow me the privilege of standing by your side, Mother Abbess,” she asked.
But Sigewif shook her head, albeit gently. “You serve me best by leading those in the church, strengthening, and guiding them. We all of us have our single tasks to do, as we await God’s mercy.”
Tears were in the eyes of the prioress, but she took the hand that Sigewif offered, kissed it, and left.
“On your horses,” Asberg now said. Ashild had yet to place her battle-cap on her head, and as she lifted it found herself swept into Sigewif’s arm, and a kiss planted on her brow. The abbess held her by the shoulders and looked her full in the face.
“Will you not stay here, to help guard the women?” she tried.
“I cannot, “Ashild answered. “I come from Four Stones with my kin, to defend Oundle and its treasure. I must do what I came for; fight with our men.”
Sigewif released her, but her eyes latched more firmly, and more warmly onto Ashild’s.
“There were warrior-women amongst the noble race of Israelites,” she told her, “women who would in their courage sever the head of the greatest war-chief for the deliverance of their folk. Go, under the shield of God.”
She did not say more, and Ashild saw that the abbess’ own eyes were now glistening.
Sidroc and Runulv stood with their horses in the shadow of the burial ground’s yews. They had been there since before first light, working their way through the margin of forest, and then to the back of the burial place. From there they watched every movement of the invading Danes. What vexed Sidroc was the utter quiet of Oundle and its precincts. The few ward-men’s huts were empty; the fields, though untrampled, untended; and the ever-vigilant and raucous ramparts watch-men seemingly silenced. The place had seen no violence, and he could not believe that the entire community had sought shelter at Four Stones. Something was afoot, something he must wait to learn.
They had each had little sleep, and had made a meagre meal of the mess of cold browis and bits of roast pig his men at Saltfleet could offer them. They had filled their water-skins with good ale, though, and were able to water their horses at a trough within the burying place. Now, watching the Danes approach and begin to lay the makings of a fire at the base of Oundle’s walls, they once more checked their battle-kit. Sidroc had ring-shirt, seax, sword, helmet, white-and-black painted shield, and his two spears. Runulv had a leathern tunic, his long knife, two spears, and a steel war-axe, hung on his saddle. Three of the men at Saltfleet owned helm
ets, but knowing they were in danger themselves kept Sidroc from asking one for his captain. And he hoped they were there to watch, nothing more.
As if he read his thoughts Runulv now spoke, his eyes moving from the men shouldering piles of brush-wood to Sidroc.
“What…what will we do,” he muttered.
“What we can,” returned Sidroc. “We are two. They are two and forty.”
He pulled himself up on his horse, and Runulv did the same. They made final adjustment to their kit. Sidroc thought for one moment of dying here, fighting to defend a Christian settlement. His eyes rose to the pale sky, as if seeking answer there. And his hand lifted to his neck, touched for an instant the slender braid of bright hair tucked into his tunic. He looked again at the warriors across the field from him.
“But one man,” Sidroc went on, “can send a broad-beamed boat of four oars over. We will see if we can be that one, reckless man.”
“Byrgher, you will flank Ashild on her right,” Asberg said, helping her spring up into her saddle. She pulled the shield from the tie ring, and held it before her as she shortened the strap so that it would hold tight to her chest.
She looked about her. The door to the church was closing. Two score men, monks and serving folk alike, stood outside it as safe-guards. Ashild knew that amongst these monks were men who had once been warriors of Lindisse. A few of them, facing this new threat, proved their lineage. Some had taken up spears; others, forbidding themselves a true weapon, held wooden clubs, or hoes, as if they were staffs.
Sigewif’s eyes too swept over this, and then at the troop of warriors ready mounted before her. From over their heads one of the watch-men hissed down to them. “The enemy is just without; lays wood at the base of the wall,” he said.
Silver Hammer, Golden Cross Page 45
