I stepped into the sunlight, unsure of where to go next. Should I run and join the villagers that had vanished into the island’s broad expanse of moorland and shrubs? But what if Aelfwyn were yet in danger?
A shrill scream cut through my thoughts. I turned towards the sound and saw three of the seamen stepping from one of the smaller huts. They had their backs to me and were all focused on a fourth man, one of their own, who stepped through the doorway and faced them. He was a giant of a man, his shoulders broad enough to touch the door beams and so tall that his red-tinged fair, braided hair would snag in splinters from the lintel if he did not stoop. He wore an iron-knit shirt and in his hand he held a massive axe as if it weighed no more than an eating knife.
The three men shouted at him. They were too far away for me to hear clearly, but I made out the Norse word for “children”. The man did not reply, but shook his head. He half-turned and gestured in a shockingly gentle manner to someone behind him, holding his huge hand out to signal not to move.
In the gloom of the hut’s interior I could just make out two small figures.
Again one of the three warriors shouted something, his anger clear. Once more, the giant shook his head and this time said something quietly, his tone too soft for me to pick out the sounds. He waved his axe, as if shooing sheep away and spoke more forcefully. The men before him growled, clearly unhappy with his words.
I did not know what to make of this. It was obvious that the huge warrior was telling the others to leave these children alone. I could not make out his words, but when he next spoke, from his tone and stance, I could imagine he was saying, “There are plenty of others you can take as slaves. Leave these two.”
What was the meaning of this? Surrounded by so much killing, for this man to defend these children made no sense. And yet that is exactly what he appeared to be doing.
Before I had time to try and decipher any of their words or to fully comprehend what was happening, the three men leapt forward as one, their blades glinting in the rising sun’s rays.
The speed of the big man amazed me. Without seeming to move, he swayed to the side, parried one swinging sword and hacked his axe into the wielder’s bicep. Before the other two could press their attack, he shoved the injured man into their path and moved back to block the darkened doorway. The wounded man let out a roar of pain and rage and stumbled back from the fight, clutching his ruined arm.
Without even being aware of it, I had begun running towards the fray. I don’t know what compelled me to react in that way. I later told myself it was because one man was defending the children and needed help, but the reality of it is that, for all I knew, he might well have been saying to the others that he wanted them for himself. But in that moment, my body took the decision for me and my feet carried me towards the backs of the two remaining warriors. As I ran, the giant saw me, his pale gaze piercing mine. No words were spoken, but in that instant, some form of communication passed between us. We had decided to become allies in this fight. He made no acknowledgement of me and so his attackers were oblivious of my presence until I attacked.
I was brave and I was foolhardy. The calm of battle had wrapped its cool cloak about me and I seemed impervious to fear. But back then, I was still just a monk. I was not trained in the art of weapon-play. Still, I made up for my lack of skill and experience with determination and foolishness. Some might call it courage, but it was stupidity. And it almost got me killed.
I clattered into the rearmost warrior from an angle that took him out of the fight and knocked him into the injured man. I had thought to stab him with the heavy seax in my hand, but the knife blade was turned by the iron links of his armour and all I managed to do was to cut my own fingers badly as my fist slipped down the handle and slid along the cutting edge. To this day, the fingers on my right hand ache when the weather turns and the scarred skin pulls when I stretch my fingers.
I was not as bulky as my enemy, but I hit him at a run and he was taken by surprise. Despite not injuring him, he stumbled into his wounded comrade and tripped. We both collapsed heavily onto the hard rutted earth. He grunted as we hit the ground, winded, I hoped. The relative ease with which I had slain my first enemy had bolstered my belief in my abilities. I imagined I would take another swing with the knife and finish him readily enough. But no man will allow himself to be killed easily and to underestimate an opponent spells almost certain defeat. The man was as lithe as he was strong and in an instant, he had flipped me off of him and was already on his feet. Above us, I saw the great axe of the giant swipe down and blood fountained in the morning air, dousing us in a hot crimson rain as he slew one of the men facing him.
My assailant had dropped his shield, and his sword had been knocked from his hand in the collision and fall. But it seemed he needed no weapon to best me in combat. He clutched my habit in his fists and hauled me up. I flailed ineffectually at his arms, certain that I would soon be meeting my maker.
The warrior’s eyes blazed at me from the eye sockets of his iron helm and he spat insults at me. His breath was strangely sweet and I noticed with a vivid clarity that his teeth were white and clean. And then he smashed his armoured forehead into my face.
I was dimly aware of the crunching sound of my nose breaking, loud and echoing inside my skull. Warm blood flowed into my mouth and down my chin and then, mercifully, the day darkened about me and I felt nothing more.
Five
When I awoke I was not sure where I was. My thoughts were a buzzing confusion in a head that felt as if it were twice its natural size. I opened my swollen eyes with difficulty and moved my head to look towards the sounds of whispered conversation I could hear. Gasping at the pain that shot through my neck and head, I found my nose to be blocked. The metallic taste of blood was thick in my throat.
The flicker of rush lights and candles lit the darkened room. My vision swam and blurred and for a time I could not make out where I was, but then I noted the stone wall near my head. Looking up, I saw an arched window and through it the dark night sky, clear and pricked with the cold light of stars. I shivered. Beneath me lay the unyielding slabs of a flagstone floor. I was inside the church building. A blanket had been placed over me and someone had rested my head on a folded cloak.
I groaned as the memories of the morning flooded back to me. How did I yet live? How long had I been insensate?
Hearing me, a figure peeled away from a group who were huddled together in deep hushed conversation. The kindly face looked down at me, the shaved tonsure from his thinning grey hair marking him out as a monk. He carried a candle and the dancing light from its flame picked out his sharp features and narrow nose as he gazed at me with a concerned expression.
It was Leofstan. Such relief washed through me that my sight once again blurred as tears filled my eyes.
“Hunlaf, my boy,” the older man said, patting my shoulder. “Praise be to God. I have been praying for you.”
I pushed myself up onto my elbow. Leofstan held me still with a firm hand.
“Easy now. Do not rise. You have been badly beaten.”
My face ached and my head throbbed, but I could not remain lying on the cold floor of the church while my mind swarmed with the events of the attack on the minster.
Pushing his restraining hand away, I sat. I noticed that my hand had been bound with a strip of linen. My fingers pulsed with pain and I recalled with a shiver of dread how I had stabbed the man and ended up gripping the sharp blade of the seax.
“You need rest,” he said.
The thought of inaction terrified me. It was as if, by fighting against the raiders, I had unleashed a beast that now paced and snarled within me. It longed to lash out again, to fight. To kill. I shuddered and held out my left hand for Leofstan to hold.
He hesitated, frowning.
“I cannot lie here thinking of what happened,” I croaked.
He nodded, gripped my proffered hand, and pulled me to my feet. I grimaced at the lancing pain in my head
and staggered dizzily. Leofstan put a steadying hand on my shoulder.
“You must not overexert yourself,” he said. “We have lost many good men this day. I do not want you adding yourself to their number with your stubbornness.” His words stung as if he had slapped me. They felt like a reproach, as if he held me somehow responsible for the deaths. Perhaps seeing my expression, he squeezed my shoulder and said, “Come, eat and drink something. Your body needs nourishment to heal itself. Just as your soul needs the love of Christ.”
I thought of the screams of the dying, the Norse leader ramming his knife into Tidraed’s eye, the babe’s brains splattering the ground before its mother’s horrified eyes, the woman’s wails as she was pushed into the darkness from which she never returned.
Where had the love of Christ been then? Where was God when His flock had been violated and murdered?
I allowed Leofstan to lead me towards the end of the church. I was unsteady on my feet and clung to him for support. All about the small church lay men and women. Some slept, but many were awake, their pale faces tight with remembered terror. Their eyes glimmered in the candlelight as we passed. Many of the people had the tonsured pates of monks, but there were several faces I had not seen before. Villagers, I assumed. I scanned the features of all of them, but there was no sign of Aelfwyn.
Upon the small altar was some bread and a meagre amount of hard cheese. There was also a large earthenware jug from which Leofstan poured ale into a mug.
I took a long draught and sighed with the sensation of the liquid soothing my dry throat. Leofstan cut off a piece of the loaf and handed it to me with a thin slice of cheese.
“I saved you some. The devils took much of the food from the stores.”
It had been a bad summer so far, with terrible storms that had battered the crops. The loss of stored provisions would be a terrible blow.
“That is not the worst of what they took from us,” I said, around the bread I chewed.
Leofstan’s face clouded.
“No. They killed many and destroyed much.”
I gestured about me at the shadowed people within the church.
“Is this everyone that remains?” I asked in a whisper. I did not want to believe it, and yet I had seen the numerous corpses that had littered the earth in the morning light.
With sorrow etching deep lines in his brow, Leofstan nodded.
“How did this come to pass?” I asked, the anger inside me kindling once more at the horror of what I had witnessed. “Why would God allow this to happen?”
Leofstan sighed.
“I cannot answer that,” he whispered. “The Lord alone knows the reason for our tribulations on this earth. He sends them to try us. We must learn from them and become better servants of His word.”
I chewed the bread and cheese, but it had become a hard ball in my throat, as difficult to swallow as the idea that God had wished this upon His faithful. A darker thought surfaced from the pool of my despair: was this God’s way of destroying that which Leofstan and Oslac had sought to protect and to study?
“What I saw today looked more like a punishment than a test of our faith,” I said, looking at him pointedly. “What good can come of slaying the holiest men in Northumbria? How can allowing the violation and murder of the best scribes in Christendom be anything but evil?” My voice grew louder as my anger increased.
Leofstan placed a hand upon my arm.
“Hush, Hunlaf,” he said. “You will upset those who seek peace after this terrible day.”
I drew in a long shuddering breath and finished my food in silence. Despite the fury that smouldered within me, I could feel the strength returning to my body.
“You are not the only one to believe this is a punishment from God. Brothers Eadgar and Godwig have said the same today; that the Almighty sent the heathen raiders to show His displeasure. They say that this is the outcome of the sins of those who live here. That it has not happened by chance, but is the sign of a great guilt.”
“What guilt?” I asked. “Do they know of the book?”
Leofstan looked about furtively to see if I had been overheard. He pulled me close.
“No,” he hissed, his voice a sibilant whisper. “And you must not speak of it.” He scanned the shadowed church again, but nobody seemed interested in us. “There was much consternation at Bishop Hygebald for permitting the burial here, at this holiest of places, of Lord Sicga, after what he had done.”
Some years before, Sicga had led a plot against King Ælfwald, which led to his murder. I recalled the gossip that had reached us at Werceworthe in the cold of winter. It was said that Lord Sicga had taken his own life, but there was much speculation as to whether one of Ælfwald’s followers had finally managed to exact vengeance. However he had died, many had been outraged when the bishop of Lindisfarnae had allowed Sicga’s body to be carried to the holy island and interred there with the kind of ceremony saved for the most pious of benefactors. But Sicga had been a wealthy man, and men whispered that gold could buy forgiveness for any sin.
“What do you think?” I asked, my voice harsh. I had grown to respect Leofstan’s opinion above any other and I hoped he would provide me with an answer, a piece of flotsam to cling to in the raging seas of my own uncertainty and doubt. Something to allay my fears that the raid had been God’s punishment on a brethren who housed heretical books. Leofstan shook his head and lowered his gaze. His eyes were shadowed, but the guttering flames glimmered in the tears that welled there. I knew in that moment that he had the same doubts and was no more certain of what had occurred than I. The thought filled me with despair.
“If you wish to talk,” he said, “let us step outside and leave these good people to rest in peace.”
“Is it safe?” I asked and immediately felt foolish. If I had learnt anything it was that safety was an illusion.
“The raiders have long gone,” replied Leofstan, his tone sombre. “I do not think they will return.”
Not soon, perhaps, I thought. But like the fox that kills hens in a coop, now that they have tasted blood, they would be back. But I said nothing of my fears and merely nodded and followed him from the church and out into the dark.
Leofstan inclined his head to one of the other monks as we passed, and I realised with a start that it was Oslac. The old monk’s lined face was soot-stained and his tonsured head was blistered and red. I wanted to stop and speak to the old monk, but Leofstan ushered me through the door. The sound of a woman’s quiet sobbing followed us into the night.
Outside there was no light save from the stars and the moon. We walked away from the church and, glancing back, the dim flickering flame light that shone from its arched windows and doorway gave the building the aspect of some monstrous night creature’s face. I shuddered. There was a chill in the breeze that blew in from the sea.
The night was redolent of smoke and ashes and I was glad of the darkness that cloaked the extent of the destruction. I recalled the smoke and sparks flying up from the collapsed roof of the scriptorium and my breath caught in my throat. The loss of so many books pained me almost as much as the dead. The moment the thought crossed my mind, I regretted it. Books were mere objects, not children of God. My thoughts threatened to turn to those I had seen slain and I shied away from those memories, as a man would run away from a wolf in a dark forest. But before I could flee from my thoughts, the image of Aelfwyn, pale and terrified, filled my mind’s eye. Unbidden, tears trickled down my cheeks.
I cuffed at them. The brush of my hand brought a flash of acute agony. I gasped with the pain.
Leofstan halted and turned to me in dismay.
“Should we return? You need to rest.”
I shook my head in the darkness.
“No. I just made the mistake of touching my nose.” I hawked and spat out some of the dried blood that caked my throat. “How bad is it?”
He paused, as if contemplating his answer.
“It is broken and badly swollen,” he said
at last. “I doubt you will ever be handsome now.”
Despite myself, I smiled at his attempt at humour.
“Perhaps it will improve my looks,” I replied.
He snorted, but said nothing more. For a time we stood there in the dark, staring out into the night, lost in our thoughts. The sigh of the waves washing the harbour beach reached me and I knew it must be high tide.
“Oslac went into the burning scriptorium, you know?” said Leofstan, breaking the silence that had descended between us. “He went back more than once, saving as many of the works there as he could.”
Perhaps I was not the only monk who was somewhere in between foolhardy and brave.
“How many did he rescue?” I asked.
“Not many.”
“The Treasure of Life?”
Leofstan sighed.
“No. That book is lost, along with so many others. Oslac is old and not the strongest of men. But he did manage to carry to safety the Ceolfrith pandect, Jerome’s Martyrology and the most beautifully illuminated copy of Primasius’s Commentarius in Apocalypsin.”
“Praise be to the Lord,” I said, but I was thinking how it had been futile for one man to attempt to save all the books in the building. I smiled without humour. Hadn’t I thrown myself into combat against battle-hardened Norsemen? I’d had no real hope of succeeding to save anyone, and yet I could no more have turned away from that fight than I could have pulled the moon from the sky. Mayhap Oslac felt the same way about the books he had worked on for the best part of his long life. It is true what people say about moments of crisis. I have seen it many times. You truly never know how any man or woman will react when faced with an impossible decision. Some freeze. Others run. But a few find themselves grasping the painful nettle and confronting the danger head on. It seemed that Oslac and I had that in common. Not that it had done either of us much good.
“Do you think God sent the Norsemen to destroy the book?” I could not shake the feeling that we were to blame for the bloodshed and chaos that had descended upon the island.
A Time for Swords Page 5