The Warrior with the Pierced Heart

by Chris Bishop

  ‘Even when Trounhere offered a heavy purse of silver to any man who would answer Grendon’s challenge, none of his men seemed prepared to go up against such a fearsome warrior, knowing that to do so would mean certain death.

  ‘“Someone has to fight him,” insisted the Ealdorman. “We need to buy enough time for help to get here.”

  ‘Still there was utter silence until a small voice at the back spoke up. “I’ll fight him,” said Hereric.

  ‘At first everyone laughed but Trounhere quickly realised that he didn’t seem to have any other choice. “Very well,” he agreed. “The only trouble is I don’t think we have any war gear small enough to fit you.”

  ‘“I don’t need a mail vest or a helmet,” said Hereric. “Just my trusty spear and a seax. That way I can move about more freely.”

  ‘The Ealdorman looked surprised. “You do realise he’ll kill you if he catches you?” he said to Hereric, stating the obvious.

  ‘The little warrior nodded. “Yes my Lord, but at least I’ll die doing something useful for a change rather than standing around waving the banner in the air. And I’ll do my best to last as long as I can,” he promised.

  ‘The Ealdorman returned to the Viking warlord. ‘‘My champion will meet with yours at dawn tomorrow,” he yelled. “But on one condition.”

  ‘“What is it?” demanded the Viking.

  ‘“If my champion slays yours you will depart this Shire and swear never to return.”

  ‘“First let me see your champion,” demanded the warlord wondering who could possibly be brave or foolish enough to take on Grendon.

  ‘With that, Hereric scrambled up on to the top of the palisade to show himself but had to stand on tiptoes just so the raiders could actually see him.

  ‘The warlord laughed so much when he saw him that he almost fell off his horse. Still laughing, he agreed at once, knowing that Grendon had never been beaten by anyone and wasn’t likely to fall to such a puny little maggot.

  ‘That night Hereric was treated like a hero. He sat beside Trounhere at supper and everyone came to shake his hand knowing they’d probably never see him again and regretting having been so unkind to him over the years. “Hereric has more guts than the rest of you put together,” declared the Ealdorman. “It’s such a pity that he’ll die, but we are all very grateful to him.”

  ‘At dawn the next day the Ealdorman ordered the gates to be opened. As Hereric prepared to meet his doom he turned and gave one last wave to his new friends, then stepped forward bravely to meet his fate.

  ‘“What’s this?” roared Grendon, who was resplendent in all his war gear. “He’s so small and puny I can barely see him!”

  ‘Hereric stood up as tall as he could, which wasn’t really very tall, but he was seemingly unafraid. “And you’re so big and clumsy that I’m worried you’ll trip and fall directly on to my spear,” he shouted in reply. His friends were delighted with his response and all cheered loudly.

  ‘“I don’t need a weapon to kill the likes of you,” said Grendon. “I’ll simply squash you with my foot.” With that he raised his huge axe and brought it down on Hereric with so much force that the poor little man barely had time to step aside. As he did so, the axe hit the ground so hard that the earth seemed to shudder under the weight of it. But Hereric didn’t hesitate even for a moment. Instead, as Grendon struggled to recover his heavy axe, he ran straight past him so that he was then standing behind the giant.

  ‘Having shouldered the axe once more, Grendon wasn’t quite sure where Hereric had gone. Then he looked around and, seeing him, turned and struck again. Once more Hereric dodged the blow and ran past the giant. This went on for some time until Grendon realised what Hereric was trying to do – and what’s more, it was working! Having to keep wielding such a heavy axe whilst wearing all that war gear was making the giant very weary indeed, so much so that he realised he had to end the fight before he became too tired to carry on. He decided that to do this he needed to catch Hereric out and finish him off either by flattening him with the axe or, better still, using it to slice him in two. Thus the next time he only pretended to strike but, before letting the axe fall, he turned to face the other way where he was sure Hereric would soon appear. That was his big mistake! Hereric was ready for him and instead of running past him, stayed exactly where he was. Realising he’d been tricked, Grendon tried to turn again but Hereric was much too quick for him. Whilst the giant’s back was still turned, he drove his spear home, thrusting it hard and deep into Grendon’s thigh, which was the only part of the giant which was exposed and which he could reach with ease.

  ‘At first it was as though Grendon didn’t know what had happened. Groaning with the pain, he managed to keep to his feet but then gradually started to sway before dropping his axe and sinking to his knees, quite unable to stand any longer as blood pulsed from his wound.

  ‘Hereric went up to him and, for the first time, was able to almost look the giant straight in the eyes – but he didn’t waste much time on that. Instead, he walked around to stand behind Grendon then, whilst the giant was still on his knees and quite unable to move, reached up and swiftly cut his throat with the seax.

  ‘Grendon fell forward and lay face down on the ground and Hereric stood with one foot on his back and held his bloody weapon aloft. “I claim victory,” he shouted and all the Saxons cheered and cheered.

  ‘“There,” said Trounhere, “your champion cannot defeat even our smallest warrior. If I were you I’d honour your pledge and go to pillage elsewhere. If you don’t I’ll send my other warriors to fight you and you can guess what will happen then!”

  ‘Being more than a little troubled by the way things had turned out, the warlord simply rode away, shaking his head and looking very bemused. Needless to say, after that although Hereric was still too small to serve in the shield wall he was always given a very special place to stand in any battle, right next to the Ealdorman as his personal bodyguard. With such an important role, from that day onwards the little man in the land of giants stood very tall indeed.’

  ‘That’s a meaningless story,’ said Brother Benedict, who by that time was also wide awake. ‘It’s just like the story of David and Goliath from the Bible.’

  ‘It’s not,’ said Aelred, a little disappointed. ‘It serves to show that even small warriors can play an important part in a battle. You just have to use their skills as best you can.’

  It was usual for we Saxons to debate the meaning of any story for a long time after it had been told, teasing out whatever lessons could be derived from it. On that occasion I was much too tired to argue the point. ‘Well next time you can tell us one of your stories,’ I said to Brother Benedict. ‘Then we can discuss them both. But for now, can we please get some sleep?’

  Chapter Seven

  We remained in the glade for several weeks during which time I came to realise just how different my two companions were, not only from me but also from each other.

  For example, Brother Benedict seemed not of our world. Like the monks I’d known at the Abbey, he spent much of each day at his devotions. He seemed to care little for his own earthly needs beyond that of food and sleep, instead concentrating on his due in the next world. That said, he was a good cook so took it upon himself to gather roots and herbs from the forest with which to flavour our meals. He also persuaded me to join him for a few moments of quiet contemplation each day, saying that it would serve to soothe my troubled soul and thereby help me to make my peace with God.

  At first I resisted, saying that I didn’t deserve forgiveness.

  ‘Is that because you fear that God has forsaken you?’ asked the goodly Brother.

  I said I thought not. Rather that I was being justly punished for my many sins. ‘I should have perished with the rest of my men,’ I explained. ‘Therefore I must now endure whatever hardships he sends my way.’

  Brother Benedict assured me that was not the way of it. ‘God does not punish,’ he said. ‘It’s you w
ho are punishing yourself for something which could not be helped. It’s good that you should feel remorse but it’s hardly your fault that you survived when others didn’t.’

  What he said was of some comfort and, as the days passed, I did begin to feel better. I also felt stronger and less troubled by my wound given that I was allowed to rest and required to do nothing more than light tasks such as gathering firewood or tending to the fire itself.

  It was therefore left to Aelred to provide everything else we needed and though that seemed unfair, he offered no complaint. He was clearly an accomplished woodsman, not only building the makeshift hut in which we sheltered but also providing food for our bellies by employing all the skills of a poacher. It was not surprising that he hadn’t mentioned this before as the punishment for poaching fish and game, particularly on lands belonging to an Ealdorman or the King, was severe.

  In truth, Aelred was not a hunter in the way that Rufus had been during those dark days at Athelney. He lacked any natural skills and, in any event, he had no bow. Even so, he more than managed to provide for us all. In fact he seldom came back empty handed, catching fowls such as wood pigeons and even song birds by setting an ingenious trap. Basically, he would tempt the birds down to feed by scattering some crumbs of stale bread on the ground, usually beside a bush or at the base of a tree. He then pulled a thin length of twisted wool from his tunic, unwound it and then threaded it through some more crumbs to form a sort of necklace. This he placed among the other crumbs and then simply waited. The birds found the food quickly enough and sooner or later one of them pecked at a crumb which was attached to the thread. Unable to spit it out, the greedy bird simply swallowed it and, because of the thread, had no choice but to swallow the next crumb as well. Once started, the poor thing could not help but keep swallowing crumbs until its crop was so full that it choked.

  He also fashioned a long thin basket which he wove from some pliable twigs taken from a willow that grew close beside the stream. It had two chambers joined by a narrow neck and, once baited with dead fish, he placed it in the stream to catch eels. Its design was such that once inside the trap the eels found it difficult to get out so could be simply lifted from the water – though then killing them was easier said than done as they seemed to keep slithering and writhing even once their heads had been cut off! Even more difficult than killing them was skinning them. It involved removing the skin in a single piece, pulling it off like a sleeve whilst the rest was securely pinned to a tree. The eels then needed to be hung up to ensure that all the blood drained out of them as Aelred said it was like a poisonous bile that, if swallowed, would rot the gut.

  All this was very effective, but it was his manner of catching small trout which impressed me most. He would lay on the bank alongside the stream and watch until a fish came into view. As was their way, a trout would spend a short time catching insects and the like which were carried to it on the flow, then dart back to its lie under the bank for some brief respite from the current. Aelred would simply watch and, when the time was right, slip his hand into the water beside the bank and wait for the trout to return, keeping so still you might have thought him dead. In fact he seemed to go into a sort of trance as he waited, often for some considerable time. But the wait was always worth it as, when the trout returned, he was ready. Slowly and carefully he would work his hand towards the fish, taking great care not to alarm it. His touch was then like silk, so smooth that the fish seemed hardly to notice as he began very gently stroking its belly. Gradually, Aelred would work his way along the underside of the fish, soothing and brushing it with just the very tip of his finger. Either the fish found this movement comforting or perhaps mistook it for the current gently flowing past it but, either way, it seldom made any attempt to swim off. Then, when he judged the moment to be right, Aelred would hook the fish up and out of the river to land somewhere on the bank. He never tried to grasp it; he simply pushed it up and out of the water. So accomplished was he that we dined regularly on fresh trout. They were not large fish but when smoked over the fire they tasted as good as any I’d ever eaten.

  Thus all in all we fared well enough and I have to say that I look back on those few weeks in the forest as the happiest of my life. Not only was it one of the few times that I felt safe and rested, I had also come to enjoy the company of both men, even regarding them as friends. That said, I was still anxious to return to Chippenham as soon as I could, not only to seek counsel from my old abbot but also to resume my position as one of Alfred’s advisers and, with his blessing, to wed Emelda. Thus as soon as I felt able to travel I announced that it was time for us to move on.

  ‘Are you sure you’re yet well enough?’ asked Brother Benedict one night as we sat around the fire having eaten our fill.

  I said that I was though, in truth, that was not the case – I had simply persuaded myself that I would have the chance to rest along the way or, better still, once we reached Chippenham. In particular, I was struggling to sleep well at that time being troubled by a frequent dream in which I saw my men being butchered and young Edmund running straight into the hands of the Vikings with his sword held high – images which troubled me greatly. Even more worrying was that I still felt an occasional pain deep within my chest if I exerted myself. It was enough to cause me to sit down and rest for a while, though seemed to pass quickly enough. Anxious not to let them press me too hard on this, I reminded Brother Benedict that he’d also promised to tell us a story.

  ‘Please, not one of your pious tales about saints and martyrs,’ pleaded Aelred teasingly.

  Brother Benedict took the jibe in good part. ‘I was going to tell you about St Kevin,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Aelred.

  I laughed as I knew the story well enough. ‘St Kevin was a hermit,’ I explained. ‘He was also a monk and a very devout man who loved all things God created.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Aelred. ‘Then he and I have something in common because I love all the things that God created as well, particularly women!’

  ‘I think Matthew was referring to St Kevin’s love of animals and birds,’ suggested Brother Benedict.

  ‘Well, I like animals and birds,’ teased Aelred light-heartedly. ‘Particularly the ones I can eat.’

  Brother Benedict shook his head in dismay. ‘Do you want to hear about St Kevin or not?’ he asked.

  Aelred shrugged. ‘Not really. But I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.’

  ‘Well, St Kevin was a very pious monk who liked to pray with his arms outstretched on either side of him, thereby opening up his heart to God. One day, whilst praying thus, a blackbird settled on the open palm of his hand. Kevin was so deep in his devotions that he didn’t notice it was there and spent so long at prayer that by the time he did the bird had built its nest. Kevin didn’t want to disturb the bird so kept his hand stretched out and even allowed the bird to lay its eggs in the nest and then for the young birds to hatch and finally fledge.’

  ‘Then what happened?’ asked Aelred.

  ‘Well, when people realised how much Kevin truly loved and cared for all God’s creations it was said that his way with them was like a mirror reflecting all the glories of heaven, so they made him a saint.’

  ‘What, just for not killing a blackbird?’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ I said. ‘The story urges us to value all living things.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Brother Benedict. ‘And it reminds us to respect everything the good Lord has created.’

  Aelred seemed unimpressed. ‘Well I’ve never knowingly killed a blackbird, except the ones I wanted to eat. So perhaps they’ll make me a saint as well.’

  I laughed. ‘I think you’ll find you have to do a bit more than that. For one thing you’d need to cleanse your soul and, in your case, I fear it would take a priest so long just to hear your confession that even one as patient as St Kevin would give up long before you were done!’

  Although we were all in such g
ood spirits and getting along surprisingly well, the other two were also anxious to return to their respective lives. Therefore, having seen no sign of any merchants travelling along the track, I resolved that I’d rested long enough and that we should go in search of a settlement where we might seek assistance.

  ‘They’ll be obliged to help us,’ I explained. ‘As I said, I’m of noble blood so they can’t refuse to lend what aid they can.’

  ‘That’s if they believe you are who you say,’ cautioned Aelred. ‘You look more like some wretched beggar than a person of “noble worth”.’

  It was a point well made. After all I’d endured there was little that might suggest my true identity as everything of value had been stolen, including my birth ring and my father’s sword, both of which would have counted for something. ‘All we can do is try,’ I said. ‘Worst way we’ll have to settle for directions and then find our own way back to Chippenham or, at least, to somewhere where I’m known or can be recognised.’

  We packed our few belongings onto the mule the next day then cleared away all we’d constructed within the glade so as to leave no trace of our having been there. Aelred was keen we should do that as we’d partaken freely of all the forest had to offer. As he reminded us, that was, in itself, a serious crime for which we could well be called to account.

  That done, we set off without further delay, following the track which had led us there but continuing northwards until it left the forest. I was confident that we would quickly come across a settlement where I could expect to be welcomed and restored. Certainly I had no inkling of all the troubles which lay in store for us, but then I should have known that it’s from ignorance and undue confidence that there comes the quickest fall.