Dear God… he thought. Surely, this marks the end of creation.
Nothwulf did not really believe that. Still, upon seeing that sky, and the destruction wrought by the epic wind and driving rain, rather than just hearing from inside the hall, he did not entirely disbelieve it, either.
There have been enough unnatural acts these past weeks , he thought. It might well herald the end of times .
Of course, people had thought the same with the coming of the Northmen which had begun a generation ago—that they were God’s punishment on a wicked people. And, savage heathens that they were, they had seemed to be just that. But the men of Wessex had fought back, and driven the Northmen into the sea. His father had been foremost among them, as had the king, Æthelwulf. Nothwulf himself had played his part. The Northmen could not have been sent by God, he reasoned, since a punishment from God would not be defeated by mortal men.
Not defeated… Nothwulf thought. Driven off, but not defeated. They could return. He was not sure which was more frightening: the storm he was witnessing or the thought of heathen raiders overrunning the shire.
With some difficulty he pulled the door shut against the wind and made certain it was properly latched. The doorway had sheltered him somewhat, but still his clothes were pretty well soaked through as he turned and walked back to where he and Tilmund and Bryning had been at work.
Leofric and his men had retired to the apartments at the far end of the long hall, or to their own quarters in one of the smaller buildings within the palisade fence surrounding the manor. Leofric wished to give Nothwulf privacy to do as he wished, or so he said, and that was true enough. But Nothwulf was also sure that what he wished to do was not something Leofric cared to witness.
There was one other man in the room and his name was Wulgan and until the distraction of the storm he had commanded the others’ attention. He was seated on an oak chair, his head lolling forward on his chest. There was blood on his tunic where it had flowed from his mouth and his nose. His legs were splayed out haphazardly in front of him. At least three fingers were broken.
Wulgan had, as of that morning, been one of Nothwulf’s men, one of the hearth-guard who served under Siward. He had been a loyal servant, or so Nothwulf thought, right up until the moment he had drawn a sword against Nothwulf and his men. That had been a bad decision. Living through the ensuing battle, remaining whole enough to be questioned, had been worse.
Tilmund stood as Nothwulf approached. Nothwulf stopped in front of the slumped man and looked at him for a moment. He wasn’t sure if he was even conscious at that point. He kicked Wulgan’s leg and the man let out a little moan and shifted his head. Nothwulf had not kicked him hard. The moan, he guessed, was more in anticipation of further punishment from Tilmund and Bryning.
Nothwulf reached over and grabbed a fistfull of Wulgan’s hair and tilted his head back until they were face to face. From the nose down Wulgan’s face was covered in blood, his beard matted with it. He looked up at Nothwulf through half-closed eyes and it was not at all clear that he was still aware of what was happening. Nothwulf sighed and let go of Wulgan’s hair and the man’s head slumped down again.
“I think we’re done with him,” Nothwulf said and the other two grunted their agreement. Wulgan was the third man they had questioned, the last of the hearth-guard who had been taken prisoner and were still whole enough to talk. And he, like the others, had talked. They had talked even before the beatings had begun. The punishment was to make certain they were telling the truth. And it seemed that they were.
Of course, they had no reason to lie, Nothwulf soon came to understand, because they did not know anything. They had all said pretty much the same. Siward had gathered them together and told them of treachery in Sherborne, that he, Nothwulf, stood accused of his brother’s murder. Siward had said the king himself would come to Sherborne to see justice done, and that given the chance they were to kill Nothwulf’s hearth-guard and place Nothwulf under arrest.
Who had given Siward these instructions they did not know. Who had set fire to the long hall they did not know either, and no amount of punishment that Tilmund could dole out could get them to change their stories. And that made Nothwulf pretty sure they were telling the truth, useless as their knowledge was.
“Very well,” Nothwulf said. “Tie him up and toss him outside with the others. If any of them are still alive in the morning we’ll…I don’t know. We’ll think of something to do with them. And find one of Leofric’s servants to clean up this mess.”
Bryning and Tilmund set to work on Wulgan and Nothwulf left them to it, walking down the length of the long hall and through the door at the far end that led to the apartments and various sleeping chambers. Leofric had given him the largest of the rooms that was available, which was none too large, but tolerable and welcome. They had arrived fresh from the fighting the day before, and Leofric had ordered up a banquet, which even on such short notice was wonderfully done.
Nothwulf had always considered Leofric a friend, and something of a mentor, and he was proving to be those things once again. He trusted Leofric, and felt that the old man’s affection was genuine. What’s more, Nothwulf would likely soon be ealdorman of Dorsetshire, and that fact would do much to raise him in Leofric’s esteem. Still Leofric was wealthy and powerful enough already that he did not feel the need to curry favor.
He sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. A single candle set on the table was casting its weak light around the space. Nothwulf pulled his shoes off. He was exhausted. Tired as he had been the day before, sleep had come only grudgingly, hardly a surprise given the way his life had been turned on its head. He lay down and listened to the storm battering the thick walls of the long hall and closed his eyes.
A knocking woke him and he opened his eyes and saw nothing and was not entirely certain where he was.
“Lord Nothwulf?” a timid voice called out, muffled by a door, and he remembered. The candle on the table had gone out, leaving in its wake an impenetrable blackness.
“Yes?” Nothwulf called out.
“Lord Leofric’s compliments, lord, and he asks would you join him for supper in his chamber?”
Supper? Nothwulf had no idea how long he had been sleeping, but that gave him a clue.
“Yes, yes, I’ll be there directly,” Nothwulf called out, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “And fetch me a candle, do you hear?”
It was not long after that Nothwulf was welcomed into Leofric’s apartment, the outer room that he used when he took his meals alone, or with a few intimates. There was no question of Nothwulf’s dressing for supper: he had nothing in which to dress save for the clothes he wore. He was very aware of the splatters of mud and the various rents and tears in the fabric and the dark spots of blood that speckled his tunic.
“Ah, Lord Nothwulf, so happy you could join me!” Leofric said, standing as Nothwulf entered. There was nothing insincere in the greeting, no insinuation concerning Nothwulf’s appearance. “Please, sit. Some wine, with you. You look as if you could use some wine.”
Nothwulf sat. He accepted a cup with pleasure. Leofric was correct. He could use a cup of wine. More than a cup. Considerably more.
The servants brought cheese and soft, white bread and the two men tore pieces from the loaf and went at the cheese with their knives as if it were their mortal enemy. “I hope you don’t mind the lack of company, lord,” Leofric said, gesturing at the otherwise empty room. “I had a thought it might be best if we were to dine in private. Talk in private.”
“A good thought, indeed,” Nothwulf said. He had hardly been in the mood for the banquet the night before, was in no humor to make idle chat, particularly when it meant yelling over the raucous and mostly drunk crowd. But at the same time he could hardly refuse to appear at his host’s table. Now he welcomed the chance for a more civilized meal.
“I was going to say, we should send for your clothes,” Leofric said, “but then I remembered your hall was b
urned down, and you lost all you had there, I would imagine.”
“Nothing but a vast black patch of ground left,” Nothwulf said.
“Hmm,” Leofric said. “And did you learn anything today? From your…interviews?”
“No,” Nothwulf said. “Nothing. They said only that Siward told them I was to be arrested. They didn’t know why. Weren’t sure Siward did. Didn’t know who put my hall to the torch.”
“Hmm,” Leofric said again. The cheese and bread was removed and the bulk of the supper brought in: roast beef and summer greens, potatoes and, not surprising, an abundance of fish, Leofric’s lands encompassing the villages Swanage and sundry other villages that made their living from the sea.
They served themselves and for a short time ate in silence. Then Nothwulf said, “Each of the prisoners we spoke to, they all said that King Æthelwulf would be coming to Sherborne soon, to see for himself what’s going on.”
“Not coming, my boy,” Leofric said. “He’s already there.”
Nothwulf set his knife down and looked up at Leofric. “Already there? He was not expected for a fortnight.”
“Seems to have changed his plans. He arrived just as this storm was coming in. Trust me, I’m certain of it. I’m careful to know such things.”
Nothwulf looked off at the tapestry hanging on the wall, but his thoughts were back at Sherborne. This was bad news, very bad indeed. It had been his intention to be at Sherborne when the king arrived, or better yet, to meet his party on the road, before they reached the cathedral town. To make certain that his, Nothwulf’s, version of events was the first that Æthelwulf heard.
“He’s…he’s lodging at my brother’s home?” Nothwulf said.
“Oh, yes,” Leofric said. “They’ve set out quite a welcome for him. Fit for a king, as it were.”
Nothwulf could feel the emotions welling up like the storm blowing outside, an ugly stew of anger and fear and humiliation. He was thwarted in every direction he moved, and he did not know who was responsible. Oswin, perhaps, but did the shire reeve really have that much sway? Nothwulf had never thought so. One of the thegns? Few had power or wealth enough, save for Leofric.
“So, who is seeing to the king’s entertainment?” Nothwulf asked. “Who is giving him the welcome he would expect?” The question made him hopeful. Failure in that regard, by whomever was pulling strings, would make it clear to Æthelwulf that the shire needed Nothwulf’s hands on the reins.
“I understand Cynewise is seeing to all that,” Leofric said, and there was a note of hesitation in his voice.
“Cynewise? That simpering little fool? Please. She could hardly look me in the eyes, I don’t imagine she’s seeing to the entertainment of a king.”
“I don’t know,” Leofric said in a tone that suggested he did know, or at least knew more than he was saying. “I doubt I’ve said more than a dozen words to Cynewise. And she did always strike me as…reticent. But I know her father, Ceorle, quite well. There’s a clever and powerful man. You must know him, surely?”
“I do. Not well. I’ve been to his manor, and he’s visited my father and my brother.” Nothwulf felt a growing unease springing up from this line of talk, but he did not want Leofric to see it.
“Then I must go to Sherborne,” Nothwulf announced casually, as if he was suggesting a hunt or some such trifle. “If the king is there, it’s only fitting that I should be there. I am, after all, the rightful ealdorman.”
“Of course,” Leofric said and for the first time a patronizing hint crept into his voice. “But see here, I believe they tried to arrest you, last you were in Sherborne. And again just here at your manor, as well. Arrest you or worse.”
“Would they dare, with the king in residence there?” Nothwulf asked. He considered it a rhetorical question—with Æthelwulf in Sherborne, whoever was behind this would not dare commit such bloody murder—but Leofric frowned and raised his eyebrows to suggest it was not an impossibility.
“There is a great deal happening, my boy,” he said. “And even I do not understand very much.”
“Ah, but if you were with me,” Nothwulf said, his mind moving down a different track. “If we were to ride in together, my hearth-guard and yours, ride in with all the proper ceremony, then there would be naught anyone could do.” Nothwulf knew that was true. He was still well loved by the people, even if that love was mostly light reflecting off his father. Whoever was behind all this trouble, he would not dare make so public a move. There was a reason that Herelaf and his men had been sent to take him in the dead of night.
Nothwulf looked at Leofric and Leofric met and held his eyes. Well? Nothwulf thought. Will you stand with me? Risk your own neck? Or are you part of this thing?
Finally Leofric sighed. “I suppose I was a fool to think I could hide out here and not get involved in all this intrigue. Of course you’re the rightful ealdorman and of course I’ll ride into Sherborne with you.”
Nothwulf felt himself relax. He had been holding his shoulders tight and clenching his fingers and had not even realized it. “Thank you, my friend,” he said. “It’s a comfort to have at least one soul I can count on. One man I can trust.”
“Humph,” Leofric said. “I’m not sure I would trust myself. But in any event, I think this storm will blow itself out soon, and then we shall collect our men-at-arms and be off to give our respects to Æthelwulf. I look forward to seeing him again. I’m always pleased to be in the company of someone even older than myself.”
Nothwulf smiled. Leofric seemed never to worry much about anything. He wondered if that was his nature, or a function of the power he wielded in the shire, or his wealth or his age. Or some combination of the four.
By the following morning the storm had indeed blown itself out, but the men did not leave Wimborne. The destruction wrought by the manic wind and rain needed Leofric’s attention. It was more than Leofric could turn over to a subordinate. For all of that day, from first light until after the sun was well down, Leofric was in his saddle, touring his holdings, his manor, the town of Wimborne, all the places for which he was responsible and which had suffered greatly from the apocalyptic weather.
Nothwulf, for lack of anything better to do, accompanied him on his rounds. Later, exhausted, Leofric barely managed dinner with Nothwulf before excusing himself and stumbling off to bed. It was the first time Nothwulf had seen the man show his age, but Leofric still had energy enough to promise they would leave for Sherborne on the following morning.
When the sun rose the next day there was still much to do, but happily nothing that absolutely demanded Leofric’s attention. He passed the word for his hearth-guard to fit themselves out with their best mail and red capes clasped with broaches at the shoulder in preparation for making an impressive, showy, and very public entrance into the cathedral town.
Nothwulf called on Bryning to assemble the remainder of his men. Had they been in Sherborne, with their own gear close at hand, they would have made a considerably more regal display even than Leofric’s men did. But as it was, they looked like what they were—a handful of beaten fugitives, forced to flee their homes in the dark hours of night, forced to run and to fight. Men being blown about by events like the loose thatch in the storm.
But that would not do for Nothwulf. He could not ride into Sherborne looking as if he had been dragged behind his horse, as if he was already a defeated man. Leofric loaned him a fine shirt of mail and a clean tunic and leggings, a fur-trimmed cape and new-made shoes. He mounted Nothwulf on one of his finest horses, seated in a saddle worth more than the year’s pay for one of the hearth-guard.
Nothwulf was pleased to be dressed in fine clothes again, and grateful to Leofric. In order to secure Æthelwulf’s support for him as ealdorman, Nothwulf knew he had to look like an ealdorman, and a successful one at that.
By midmorning, two days after the last gasp of the storm had blown itself out, the combined hearth-guard of Nothwulf and Leofric were mounted and waiting. Nothwulf, standing by
his horse, was enjoying the warm sun spilling down on him. He imagined that this was how Noah felt when the waters had subsided and set the arc down on Mount Ararat. The weather brought hope with it.
The big door to the long hall swung open and Leofric stepped out of the gloomy interior and into the daylight, the sun glinting off his polished mail. With is white hair and short, gray beard he looked more like a wise and just ealdorman than Nothwulf did, Nothwulf had to admit as much.
Leofric looked over and smiled and said, “Good morrow, Lord Nothwulf. Shall we go see the king?”
Nothwulf smiled back. “Nothing would delight me more.”
The wide manor gate was open, ready for the men-at-arms to depart, but before Leofric and Nothwulf could mount, a man on the wall above the gate called down, “Lord Leofric, a rider’s coming, coming at a gallop!”
Leofric frowned. Riders did not generally gallop without good reason. “Just the one?” he called back.
“Aye, lord, just the one!”
“Well, I suppose one rider will not present any great threat,” Leofric said to no one in particular. “Leave the gate open!” he called to the men stationed there, who were looking over at him, awaiting orders. Leofric turned to Nothwulf. “I wonder what new horror this portends.”
Nothwulf had his guesses. The king dead, an army marching to arrest him and Leofric, war with Mercia, any number of possibilities ran through his head as he listened to the beating of the horse’s hooves grow louder.
The rider came in through the gate, still riding hard, and reined to a stop only when he was well into the courtyard. He swung down from the saddle and looked around. He spotted Leofric and hurried over, bowing as he did.
“Lord Leofric,” he said.
“Yes, what is it?” Leofric said.
“Lord, I just come from Swanage. Lord,” he said between gasps. “The Northmen have landed there, lord. A great army of them!”
Northmen? Nothwulf thought. Northmen?
A Vengeful Wind: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 8) Page 27
