by Tony Bradman
Even so, he still slept badly that night, dreaming of the hatred on the young Briton’s face. At last he rose from his sleeping place, intending to go for a walk to calm his mind. But he got no further than the hearth. Widsith was on his stool beside the fire, hunched over and wrapped in a thick fur cloak. ‘Sit with me, Oslaf,’ he said, and coughed. ‘My old bone-house aches and my chest hurts, and I have need of your company.’
Oslaf pulled up another stool beside him. The two of them sat for a while without talking, Widsith coughing from time to time. ‘I made my first kill today,’ Oslaf said eventually. He stared into the yellow and red flames crackling and flickering in the big hearth. ‘Tovi offered to spare a Briton’s life, yet he chose to die.’
‘Tovi is a wise man,’ said Widsith. ‘It is always useful to have a captive, someone we can exchange for any of our people who might be taken by our enemies. But it seems the Briton had courage. He was a true warrior and a worthy opponent.’
‘I suppose so. But he said something that stuck in my mind. He called us godless, and I don’t understand why. We have Woden, Thunor, Friga – plenty of gods.’
‘Ah, but the Britons don’t believe they are gods at all,’ said Widsith. ‘For them there is only one god, who died on a cross and came back to life. They call him the Christ, and themselves Christians. They worship their god in special buildings called churches, decorated inside with gold and silver and pictures – I have seen them myself. It is the same with all the lands once ruled by the Romans.’
‘Well, good luck to them,’ said Oslaf, sure Widsith was exaggerating again. ‘But I don’t see why they can’t accept that we are entitled to have our own gods.’
‘They hate everything about us, not just our gods. The Britons were part of something bigger once, and they cannot forget it. Rome ruled over a great Empire, but that has long since gone, and we came here to take what was theirs.’
‘So we are to them as the tribes from the east were to us…’ Oslaf thought of that first winter he had spent with the Alfgaringas, and the raiders who had attacked them. Now he felt he understood the hatred on the young Briton’s face. But then hadn’t Tovi also talked about the Alfgaringas being part of ‘something bigger’? Did that mean the Angles too would be great for a time, and then lose everything?
‘Such is the way of the world,’ said Widsith. ‘Only the strong survive. If your land is taken you must take another tribe’s, or die, or live as slaves.’ Suddenly he coughed and held his chest, his face pale. ‘I grow weary, Oslaf. Take me to my bed.’
Oslaf helped Widsith to his feet and led him to his sleeping place. The old man lay down and closed his eyes, but he coughed again, and this time he couldn’t seem to stop. Oslaf went to fetch Elfritha, who looked at Widsith and frowned.
‘I didn’t know things were so bad with you, Widsith,’ she said, her voice gentle and soothing. ‘Oslaf and I will stay by your side to take care of you…’
She turned to Oslaf, and his stomach almost turned inside out when he saw the worry in her eyes – she clearly thought Widsith might be very ill. It occurred to Oslaf that people often died of the coughing sickness, especially when they were as old as Widsith. Now Oslaf realised Widsith might have begun his spirit journey to the Land of the Dead. He gripped the old man’s hand tightly, as if to hold him back…
Elfritha did all that she could, giving Widsith special potions made with herbs that sometimes helped people with such a sickness. But the old man’s last breath came two days later, just as the sun was rising in the east. Oslaf wept until he felt empty, and stood dazed as Widsith was laid in his grave later that same day. He came to his senses long enough to ask for the scop’s harp before it was buried with him.
‘Take it,’ said Alfgar. ‘I’m sure Widsith will find another in the Land of the Dead, and he would want you to have this one. The old man loved you like a son.’
And I loved him like a second father, thought Oslaf.
But he didn’t say a word.
The raiding continued that summer, on both sides of the lands separating the Angles and the Britons. Oslaf quickly grew used to fighting off attacks at the settlement, and also to attacking the villages of the Britons. The days and nights were filled with fire and fury, the reek of smoke and blood, the crash of shields, the clang of blades, the screaming of men and horses. He killed again, and grew used to that too.
Alfgar’s war-band did well, of course, never losing a fight, and it soon became famous. Men came to ask Alfgar if they could serve him – Angles from other settlements and villages, Saxons, Jutes from the lands beyond the great river, which Oslaf now knew was called Tamesis. Alfgar accepted only the very best warriors among them, and turned the rest away. Even so, his war-band doubled in size.
Things quietened down after the harvest was in and the season changed, the hot weather giving way to a chilly autumn. Tovi said both sides needed time to lick their wounds and mourn for their dead. ‘It is far from finished between our peoples, though,’ he added. ‘This is like a fire in the forest that seems to die, but flares up all over again a day or two later and burns even more fiercely than ever.’
The war-band was riding back to the village, Alfgar and Wermund at the head of the column, Oslaf and Tovi behind him. Tovi’s words had made Oslaf think of the war between him and Alfgar’s son. They had not argued since they had become hearth-companions, but neither had they spoken. In fact, they both went out of their way not to speak to each other. So perhaps their war wasn’t finished either.
‘You are right, Tovi, as always, and Wuffa agrees with you,’ said Alfgar, looking over his shoulder. ‘He has called the chieftains in his lands to a great feast in his hall, but I have a feeling there will be more talking than eating and drinking…’
They only had a few days at home in the village before Wuffa’s feast. Oslaf missed Widsith, and whenever he went into the hall he still half expected to see the old man sitting on his stool by the hearth. But of course he wasn’t, and that filled Oslaf with sadness once more. One night he sat on Widsith’s stool himself, running his fingers across the strings of Widsith’s harp, thinking of the songs the scop had sung.
Suddenly he felt a presence behind him, and he turned round. Gunnhild was there, her eyes and golden hair gleaming in the firelight. He smiled, the sadness inside him fading but not disappearing, and she smiled at him, her eyes shining now too.
‘That sounds good,’ she said. ‘I would like to hear you tell a tale as well.’
‘I am a warrior, not a scop,’ he said, putting the harp aside. ‘And this is a time for fighting, not for singing or telling stories. Perhaps that will change one day…’
‘I hope so,’ she said. She held his gaze for a moment, then walked away.
Oslaf watched her go, and he knew she had taken his heart with her.
Alfgar took only a few of his hearth-companions with him to Wuffa’s village – Tovi, Ragni, Bebba, Wermund and, much to his amazement, Oslaf. He realised it was a great honour to be included, and he prayed to Woden, asking the god to make sure he brought no shame on himself or his lord. They set off on a cold autumn morning, the sky full of thick, dark clouds promising rain, and rode towards the east.
Three days later they arrived at Wuffa’s village and found it buzzing with people. The chieftains of the Angles had already arrived, those of the North Folk and the South Folk, and like Alfgar they had each brought a few men with them. Alfgar and Tovi knew many of them, so there was much slapping of backs and laughter. At last Wuffa called them all into the hall, where Aelfgifu had set out the feast. They ate and drank, and the same scop as before told tales just as badly. Oslaf smiled, thinking of Widsith and his waspish tongue, and missed the old man all over again.
At last Wuffa rose to his feet and banged his drinking horn three times on the high table. The hall fell silent, everyone waiting to hear Wuffa speak his mind.
‘I am a man of few words, and I have only one thing to ask you,’ he said, his voice echoing in the
hall. ‘Is it not time that we broke the power of the Britons?’
‘Yes, it is!’ somebody called out. ‘For too long we have suffered their raids!’
Others called out too, saying the same thing. Eventually Wuffa held up a hand and the hall fell silent again. ‘Well then,’ he said, smiling. ‘It seems we need a plan…’
Wuffa spent the next day in his private chamber, talking with the most important chieftains. Alfgar was one, and Oslaf asked Tovi who the others were. Tovi named the chieftains of the Angles, but it seemed the Saxons had been invited too.
‘I never thought I would see Wuffa in the same hall as Sledda of the East Saxons, let alone being friendly with him,’ said Tovi, shaking his head. ‘They were sworn enemies for years. Wuffa didn’t much like Aelle of the South Saxons either. But here they all are, coming together at last to take on the Britons. I suppose they must have realised we have to fight side by side or risk being driven back into the sea.’
‘Could the Britons do that?’ said Oslaf. ‘Surely they are not strong enough.’
‘Anything is possible,’ said Tovi. ‘There have been rumours that the Britons are coming together as well. The men of Lindsey and Elmet in the north have been talking to the Britons of the west, those of Powys and Gwynedd. Perhaps their most important chieftains are somewhere at this very moment, settling their differences so they can attack us with a war-host bigger than this island has ever seen…’
It was a worrying thought, and suddenly Oslaf felt fearful for his home and its people, for Alfgar and Elfritha – and Gunnhild. He said more prayers to Woden, and to Thunor as well, begging the gods to guide the chieftains in their talking.
His prayers seemed to work, although Tovi seemed to think that it had been the good sense of Wuffa and Alfgar that did the trick. At any rate, it was agreed that the Angles and Saxons would fight as one war-host, with Wuffa as their leader.
‘We will spend the winter preparing,’ said Wuffa when they were all gathered in the hall once more. ‘And we will strike in the spring. Death to our enemies!’
Oslaf cheered with the rest, and prayed to Thunor that they would win.
CHAPTER TEN
Red Dragon, White Dragon
That winter Oslaf often heard the sound of a hammer ringing on the blacksmith’s brand-new iron anvil. Old weapons were repaired, new blades forged for spear-heads and battle-axes, dents in helmets were beaten out. Men fixed holes in their chain-mail byrnies with new links, or sewed new metal plates on to their leather jerkins. They checked the straps of their shields and replaced any that were frayed or loose.
The weather turned bitterly cold after Yuletide, and then it snowed, so there was a thick blanket of white covering everything. Oslaf hated the long evenings in the hall without Widsith there to tell his stories, and he began to feel that the spring might never come. But finally the snow melted and the days grew longer. One morning a skein of geese returning from the south flew over the settlement, honking joyfully.
‘Not long to wait now, Oslaf,’ said Tovi. The warrior was standing beside him outside Alfgar’s hall, looking up at the birds. ‘The call will come soon…’
Wuffa arrived the next day with five hundred men. They made camp on the far side of the river and Alfgar welcomed Wuffa into his hall, as he did the other chieftains when they came in the days after. Soon the war-host’s camp was bigger than the whole settlement. A haze of blue smoke from their fires hung over it, and there was a constant buzz of noise – horses neighing, men calling out, laughing and singing.
Oslaf and Tovi stood looking at the camp from the settlement side of the river in the last rays of sunset. ‘How many men are there in the war-host?’ Oslaf asked.
‘Five thousand, maybe more,’ said Tovi. ‘Good warriors as well, most of them, anyway. I only hope it will be enough. The Britons will have many men too.’
That evening a messenger rode into the settlement, a tall warrior on a white horse. Oslaf was standing outside the hall when he arrived, and knew immediately that the man was a Briton. Their warriors still wore Roman-style armour, short chain-mail tunics and round helmets with tall crests. The Britons were horse-warriors, their weapons a lance with a narrow blade and the spatha, a kind of longsword.
‘I bring a message for Lord Wuffa,’ said the warrior. He spoke the tongue of the Angles and Saxons with the same accent as the young man Oslaf had killed.
‘You had better give it to me then,’ said a deep voice. Oslaf turned and saw that Wuffa had come out of the hall, along with Alfgar and Tovi and the other chieftains. Tovi stood in front of the Briton, watching him closely, hand on his sword-hilt.
‘The leaders of our war-host – Owain, High King of the West Britons, Maelgwn, Prince of Gwynedd, and Gwallog, Lord of Elmet – wish you to know that our god is the only true god, and that he will give us victory over you,’ said the messenger. ‘But we Britons have always been a merciful people. Leave our land now and we will let you go unharmed. We swear this in the name of Christ. What is your answer?’
‘Our answer will be a storm of blades,’ growled Wuffa. ‘And we have no fear of your god. Our gods will give us the strength to break you once and for all.’
‘So be it,’ said the Briton, and he turned his horse to leave. Oslaf saw Tovi glance at Alfgar. The chieftain nodded, and Tovi stepped back to let the Briton pass. He rode out of the settlement, splashed across the river, and galloped westwards…
Two days later, on a bright spring morning, the war-host of the Angles and Saxons followed him. Wuffa rode at the head of the column with Alfgar and the other chieftains. Their hearth-companions were behind them, then a line of men marching on foot. At the rear were two dozen ox-drawn wagons. They carried the spare weapons and food, and there was a strong guard of mounted men to protect them.
Everyone else in the settlement – the women, children and the old – gathered to watch them go. Gunnhild stood beside Elfritha. As he rode past, Oslaf looked into her eyes and she smiled, although he saw with a pang that she had been crying.
He wondered if he would ever see her again.
Oslaf was half expecting to ride straight into a battle with the war-host of the Britons, but things turned out rather differently. For a start, all the Britons who lived near the lands of the Angles and Saxons seemed to have fled. Their villages were deserted, and Oslaf couldn’t help thinking of the village he had seen on his way to ask Alfgar to take him in all those summers ago. Wuffa gave the order to burn the empty villages anyway.
They marched on, Wuffa sending out scouting parties, often led by Alfgar. He took Tovi, of course, along with a dozen of the hearth-companions, including Oslaf and Wermund. Several times they ran into small groups of mounted Britons and tried to make them fight. The Britons retreated as soon as they knew they had been seen, although they didn’t seem in any particular rush to make their escape.
Alfgar was in no hurry to chase them either, and Oslaf asked him why. ‘They are trying to tempt us into a trap, Oslaf,’ said Alfgar. ‘But we are not so foolish.’
At night they made camp, and moved on when the sun rose. On the third day they rode through a half-ruined Roman town. It was deserted, and Oslaf saw that the houses hadn’t been occupied for a while. But many were big, and some did look as if gods might have lived in them. Oslaf wished now that he hadn’t doubted Widsith and thought of what the old man had said about the wyrd of the Britons…
On the fifth morning they came to a grassy meadow with a hill beyond it. A dark forest stood to one side of the meadow, the undergrowth thick beneath the trees. The other side was bounded by a narrow river, its green water flowing swiftly between steep, rocky banks. It was a warm day, the sun shining in a blue sky and a soft breeze blowing from the south, ruffling the grass, rustling the leaves on the trees.
Wuffa held up a hand and the war-host halted. For a moment the only sounds were the snickering and snorting of the horses and the creaking of saddles. Then Oslaf heard the thunder of horses’ hooves, or rather he felt
it rising through the ground and his horse. He looked up in time to see the war-host of the Britons come galloping over the crest of the hill, their helmets and lance-points glinting in the sun.
‘At last,’ said Tovi, turning to Oslaf with a grin. His horse was eager for battle too, tossing its head and pawing the ground. ‘Today will be the day of reckoning.’
Oslaf felt his stomach start churning in the familiar way. He had fought many times now, but there was always fear before any encounter with its prospect of pain and death. Besides, this fight was going to be far bigger than any he had been in before. The war-host of the Britons looked larger than that of the Angles and Saxons. For some reason they had stopped, and they covered almost the entire hilltop.
Orders were shouted by Wuffa and Alfgar, and for a while it was all noise and movement as the war-host got into position. But soon they were ready, the men on foot forming the shield-wall, flanked on either side by mounted warriors. Alfgar and his hearth-companions were on the right, with the forest beyond them. Wuffa sat on his horse behind the centre so he would have a good view of the battle.
Both war-hosts began to yell curses and insults at their opponents. Oslaf silently studied the Britons as he sat on his horse, and found himself thinking they looked much the same as the men around him. He could see their leaders, three warriors on horses behind the line. The Britons waved banners on long poles, most bearing the cross, the symbol of their god, but the biggest bore the scarlet image of a beast.
‘It is a red dragon,’ said Wermund. Oslaf looked round and saw that Wermund had moved his horse up to be by his side in the front rank. Only Alfgar and Tovi were ahead of them. ‘My father once told me the Britons believe two giant dragons live in a great cave deep below a mountain in the west, one red and the other white. It is said that they fight day and night, and that their war will go on till one is dead.’