by Tony Bradman
Beornath told him to start by chopping some firewood, a job Oslaf had always enjoyed. There was something satisfying about swinging the axe down and the thunk it made when it hit the wood, which split cleanly if you did it right. His father had also taught him how to stack a woodpile so the logs stayed dry and were easy to get at. It was a bright day with a chill in the air, and the work kept him warm.
Next Beornath got him to clean out one of the pigpens, which meant persuading a large, grumpy old sow to move to another. That was easy enough – Oslaf knew he just had to show her who was master. And finally Beornath took him to a small field outside the stockade to help a group of men and women sowing winter wheat, casting the seeds into the ploughed furrows. Oslaf had no trouble doing that, either.
‘I suppose you’ll do,’ said a smiling Beornath when the work was done. ‘Go to the hall and get yourself something to eat. I’ll have more tasks for you later.’
Oslaf nodded and headed back into the village, pleased that he seemed to have made a good start in his new life. For a few moments while he had been working he had almost forgotten that he had buried his mother only a few days before and was a stranger in this village. Now he prayed in his heart to Woden, asking the god to watch over him, to make sure he chose the right path in the days to come.
‘Hey, where do you think you’re going?’ somebody said behind him.
Oslaf had reached the hall and was about to pass through the doors. He turned round to find out who had spoken and saw Wermund looking at him. Alfgar’s son was wearing a fine green tunic and black trousers tucked into good boots. A blade in a leather scabbard hung on his belt. It was a seax, the long knife favoured by the Angles, and a good one too, with an ivory handle and a silver pommel.
There were half a dozen boys with him, and Oslaf realised immediately they looked to Wermund as their leader. A couple were as young as Oslaf, but the others were much the same age as Wermund or even a little older. Now Wermund walked up to Oslaf and stood in front of him, hands on hips, his eyes narrowed. Oslaf had to look up to meet Wermund’s gaze – the older boy was half a head taller.
‘Er… Beornath told me to come to the hall for something to eat,’ said Oslaf.
‘Did he, now?’ Wermund said, nodding. ‘Well, you clearly haven’t learned your place here yet. Oh, I know your mother was my mother’s friend, but that counts for nothing with me. I’m guessing you have no other kin, or you wouldn’t be here. So that means you’re not worthy to enter my father’s hall through the main doors. There is another door at the rear for people like you, the servants and slaves.’
‘I am freeborn,’ Oslaf said quietly. ‘I have the right to go where I want.’
‘Not if I say you can’t.’ Wermund poked a finger into Oslaf’s chest. ‘I am the firstborn son of Alfgar, lord of this hall, and I will decide what you can do.’
Oslaf felt a hot wave of anger flood through him. Why was Wermund treating him this way? He had simply asked for shelter and Wermund seemed to hate him for it. Now Oslaf clenched his fists… but then the voice of Woden seemed to speak inside his head. This is not the time, the god said. The odds are stacked against you… wait until things are more in your favour. Oslaf knew it was good advice, so he silently thanked Woden – and stood aside.
‘Fair enough,’ he said with a shrug, his eyes fixed on Wermund’s.
‘I’m glad you think so,’ said Wermund, holding his gaze. Then he smiled and went into the hall, the other boys ignoring Oslaf as they followed their leader.
Oslaf turned and walked away, still angry, wishing now that he had never come to Alfgar’s village. He hated the way Wermund had humiliated him in front of his followers. Perhaps he should tell Elfritha how her son had just behaved… though that would probably make things worse. Elfritha had been very good to him, but Wermund was her son, so she was bound to take his side against a stranger.
Oslaf didn’t think about where he was going. He walked past houses and people, taking no notice of anything or anybody. After a while, he realised he had come to the village gates. They were open and he went through them. Widsith was outside, sitting on a small stool in front of the stockade, his lined face lifted to the warmth of the autumn sun. He heard Oslaf’s footsteps and turned towards the sound.
‘Leaving us already, boy?’ Widsith said, smiling. ‘You didn’t last long.’
How did the old man know it was him? Oslaf was less surprised this time, but it still felt strange, even a little magical. Perhaps Widsith was a sorcerer as well as a poet, Oslaf thought, and shivered as if someone had just walked over his grave.
‘Believe me, I would if I could,’ he said. ‘But I have nowhere else to go.’
‘Well, that’s as good a reason to stay as any,’ said Widsith. Suddenly he tilted his head to one side, like a hound who has heard something. ‘Ah, here they come.’
‘Who?’ Oslaf peered up the track out of the valley. ‘I don’t see anybody.’
‘You will soon,’ said Widsith. ‘Alfgar sent out half a dozen of his warriors three days ago to scout towards the east. And now they return. Let us hope the news they bring is good.’
Then Oslaf could hear it too, the soft thudding of hooves and the jingle of harnesses. At last a group of helmeted men on horses came riding down the track. So these were warriors, thought Oslaf. There had been many descriptions of such men in his father’s tales, but Oslaf had never actually seen a real one. Some wore leather jerkins covered in metal plates, while others were in chain mail. Each man had a seax on his belt and was carrying a spear. Their round wooden shields – all of them painted in strong colours: red and blue, yellow and green – were slung over their backs.
‘Bright and burnished were their weapons, brave the men,’ Widsith chanted as they rode into the village, his voice taking on a strange, haunting quality. ‘A lord always needs plenty of good warriors to serve him,’ he added in his normal voice, smiling once more. ‘As well as a great scop to sing his praises, of course.’
Oslaf stopped listening, unable to take his eyes off the warriors, watching them till the last horse’s tail vanished with a flick inside the village gates. It was almost as if Woden was speaking to him again, or perhaps it was Thunor, god of thunder. Whoever it was seemed to be saying: you have just seen the answer…
It was clear to Oslaf now – he would become a warrior.
He smiled, and hurried back in through the gates.
CHAPTER THREE
First to Draw Blood
The more he thought about it over the next few days, the more sense it made. Oslaf looked around him to see what people actually did in the village, and he quickly realised that everyone helped out with the farm work. Many were possibly better at some things than others, but they could all – men, women, even the children – turn their hands to most tasks. Being a warrior, however, was very different.
They had a special name, for a start, one Oslaf had heard before. In his father’s tales, a lord’s warriors, his war-band and personal bodyguard, were called his hearth-companions. According to Widsith, Alfgar had fifty such men. Each had taken an oath, swearing to be faithful to his chieftain and to fight to the death for him and his shield-brothers, the other hearth-companions. Of course, they were also members of the tribe – which was known as the Alfgaringas, after the chieftain – so they were sons and husbands and fathers too. But loyalty to their lord always came first.
‘Their lord has a duty to them as well,’ said Widsith one evening. Oslaf was sitting beside him in the hall. It was something he had taken to doing – he enjoyed listening to Widsith, and he got the feeling that Widsith liked having him around. ‘He swears to be a good leader and a ring-giver, a lord who fights in the front rank in battle and brings them honour and glory and treasure. Weak lords lose their warriors, strong lords draw good men to them. Alfgar is a worthy lord. His hearth-companions would walk barefoot through fire if he ordered it.’
And that same evening Oslaf finally heard Widsith sing. The whole vi
llage had gathered in the hall for a feast and to hear a tale or two from him. Everyone came in their best clothes and sat at long tables, eating and drinking and laughing – Oslaf had never heard such a noise. He sat where Elfritha said he should, at the high table with her and Alfgar and their children. Wermund had a sister called Gunnhild, who appeared to be much the same age as Oslaf. She was fair like her father, but had her mother’s dark eyes.
Gunnhild smiled at Oslaf as he sat down, but Wermund scowled. ‘Why is he sitting with us, Father?’ Wermund said, nodding crossly in Oslaf’s direction. Oslaf stayed silent, yet kept his head up and tried to look as if Wermund’s words meant nothing to him. Alfgar sighed and turned to answer his son, but it was Elfritha who spoke.
‘Be quiet, Wermund,’ she said. ‘Widsith is about to start singing.’
Wermund puffed out his cheeks, but said no more. The hall fell silent, everyone gazing at Widsith. The old scop was sitting on his stool by the hearth-fire, but he had swapped his usual tunic for a long robe of fine white wool. He held a small harp on his lap, the strings glinting in the light from the fire and the oil lamps hanging from the roof beams. He waited for a moment, then struck an opening chord.
‘Hear me as I unlock my word-hoard!’ he said, and his voice rang out clearly around the hall. ‘I sing of a bold hero, blades clashing, blood and gold…’
It was a thrilling tale, the story of a young warrior fighting for a chieftain in a faraway land, and Widsith told it brilliantly. Just like everyone else in the hall, Oslaf was entranced, gripped by the twists and turns of what happened, worried for the hero when he was threatened, relieved when he got out of trouble, cheering along with the people on the benches around him when he killed his deadliest enemy after a long, bitter duel.
By the time Widsith struck the last chord, Oslaf wanted more than ever to be like the hero. It was clear a great warrior would always find a home in the hall of a worthy lord. Although how did he go about becoming a warrior here? He prayed to Woden once more, and to Thunor, asking them to show him the path that would lead from what he was now – a kinless boy who had been taken in, but who had no certain place – to becoming one of Alfgar’s trusted men, a hearth-companion.
To his surprise, the gods answered his prayer the very next day.
It was late in the morning when Beornath sent Oslaf to help with the stacking of the hay, which was being stored for winter feed, in one of Alfgar’s barns. The village was a little slow getting started that day – it seemed a lot of people had drunk too much mead the night before and had woken with sore heads. Oslaf felt fine, although he had found it quite hard to sleep, his own head full of the scenes conjured up by Widsith’s tale.
There was a large open space beside the barn, and Oslaf saw it was occupied by a crowd of boys armed with shields and short spears. They were fighting in pairs, jabbing the spears at each other, the blades clunking on the shields. Three of Alfgar’s hearth-companions looked on, calling out instructions and comments. Oslaf walked over and stood beside the men, trying to summon up the courage to speak.
‘Please… can I ask what they are doing?’ he managed to say eventually.
‘They are learning to be warriors,’ said one of the men without taking his eyes off the boys. He was tall, dark and broad-shouldered, and had a jagged white scar that ran down the side of his neck. Oslaf knew he was called Tovi, and that he was Alfgar’s second in command. ‘At least that’s what they’re supposed to be doing,’ Tovi said, and sighed. ‘In Thunor’s name, Ottar, keep your shield up…’
‘Can I join in?’ asked Oslaf nervously. ‘I want to learn how to be a warrior.’
Tovi turned to look at him. ‘You’re the boy Alfgar has just taken in, aren’t you?’ he said. Oslaf nodded and held the man’s gaze. Tovi smiled at last. ‘Well, I don’t see why not,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Find the lad a shield and a spear, Ragni.’
One of the other two men gave Oslaf a shield and a spear from a few that were stacked against the wall of the barn. The third man – whose name was Bebba – showed Oslaf how to slip his left arm through the leather straps on the back of the shield. It was heavy, but felt good, which was strange. Oslaf had gone hunting many times with his father, so he had often handled a spear. Yet he had never carried a shield before, not unless he counted the toy his father had made for him.
‘I don’t believe it!’ somebody yelled suddenly. ‘What are you doing here?’
It was Wermund. He angrily pushed his way out of the crowd of boys, holding his shield and spear as if he were about to go into battle. ‘You can’t train with us,’ he added, practically spitting the words at Oslaf. ‘I won’t allow it, do you hear?’
‘But I will,’ Tovi said. ‘Unless you can give me a reason, Wermund.’
‘A reason?’ said Wermund. Tovi stared at him. ‘I just don’t think it’s right,’ he said, his cheeks turning red. Oslaf could see he didn’t like having to explain himself. ‘He’s… well, he’s not one of us…’
‘Really?’ said Tovi. ‘But your father has willingly taken him in. And now he is warmed by the same hearth-fire as you, and eats the same food and sleeps beneath the same roof.’
‘That may be so, but…’ Wermund began, looking round for support. None of the boys spoke up for him, however – it was clear they were scared of Tovi, and Oslaf could see why. The warrior seemed friendly enough, but there was a powerful sense of menace about him as well. ‘What I mean is that we don’t need somebody like him to fight for us, somebody without any kin…’ Wermund finished lamely.
‘You’re wrong about that, Wermund,’ said another voice. Everyone looked round and saw Alfgar striding towards them. ‘In times like these we would be fools if we turned away anybody willing to help us fight our enemies, even those without kin. There are always new tribes, new peoples coming from the east to take what is ours. The only question to ask is: does this boy have the courage to face the storm of battle?’
‘I do, Lord,’ said Oslaf. ‘Please, give me a chance to show you.’
‘That’s easily done,’ Wermund snapped. ‘Let me fight him, Father.’
Alfgar stared at his son with narrowed eyes, then slowly shifted his gaze to Oslaf. The tense hush of before deepened now. It seemed to Oslaf that everyone was holding their breath while they waited to hear Alfgar’s reply. The chieftain turned at last to Tovi, who looked at him and shrugged once more, as if to say – why not?
‘Very well,’ said Alfgar. ‘At least that way we’ll find out if the lad has any courage. And if it keeps my son quiet, then so much the better. You had better explain the rules, Tovi.’
‘Can’t we just get on with it?’ said Wermund. ‘I know the rules.’
‘Be patient, Wermund, your opponent might not,’ said Tovi. ‘Both of you will strip to the waist and fight inside the marked square. If you are pushed out of the square, you lose. If you deliberately step out of the square to gain an advantage over your opponent, you lose. If you drop your spear, you lose. The winner will be the first to draw blood. And try not to kill each other, lads. This is not a duel to the death.’
The rest of the boys had instantly become excited, a buzz of anticipation running through them. Wermund was quickly surrounded by his friends. They helped him to pull off his tunic and checked his spear and his shield, making sure the straps weren’t too loose or too tight. Others marked out the fighting square, twenty paces on each side, scoring straight lines in the soil with the tips of their spear-blades.
Oslaf felt sick. His stomach churned and his heart pounded as if it were about to burst out of his chest. He felt terribly alone too – but then Tovi came over to him.
‘Give me your shield and spear,’ Tovi said. Oslaf did as he was told, shivering as he felt the chill air touch his skin. Tovi helped him take off his tunic, then gave him back his spear and shield, leaning in close to adjust the straps. ‘He will come hard at you, and try to knock you out of the square,’ Tovi whispered. ‘Make sure you stay in the middle, keep your shield
up – and watch his eyes, not his spear.’
Oslaf glanced at the man. Tovi winked, gave him back his spear, then led him over to the nearest side of the square. Wermund was waiting on the other side. Boys jostled with each other, struggling to be at the front. They laughed and cheered and called out, making bets on how swiftly Wermund would win. Oslaf forced himself to take no notice, concentrating instead on looking into Wermund’s eyes.
‘May Thunor give victory to the best man,’ Tovi roared. ‘Let the fight begin!’
Oslaf said a silent prayer to Woden and stepped into the square. Wermund sprang forward and smashed his shield into Oslaf’s, trying to force him out of the square before the fight had properly begun. Oslaf, however, remembered Tovi’s words and dug his heels in, holding to the middle. Wermund scowled and stepped back.
‘Come on, Wermund!’ somebody yelled. ‘You should have won by now.’
Wermund hunched behind his shield, his eyes only just visible above the rim. He crouched a little, holding his spear high and pointing the blade downwards, and Oslaf did the same. The next attack came soon enough, Wermund moving quickly, his spear-blade flicking at Oslaf like the tongue of a snake. Oslaf kept his shield up and dared a thrust of his own, aiming at Wermund’s right shoulder and just missing.
Wermund looked startled, and the crowd cheered again. The two boys moved around the square, jabbing with their spears, Wermund pushing and probing, Oslaf sticking to Tovi’s advice and gaining confidence. But soon Oslaf’s shoulder ached terribly, and he lowered his shield – which left his face exposed.
Wermund took his chance, his spear-blade flicking forward and slicing into Oslaf’s cheek. Oslaf reeled back, hot blood springing from the wound and dripping off his jaw. He glanced at his opponent, their eyes meeting, and for the briefest of instants he thought Wermund seemed shocked, perhaps even guilty at what he had done.