A Time for Swords

by Matthew Harffy

  “I will not lie to you, Hunlaf. Such thoughts have crossed my mind.” He drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “But I cannot believe that the Almighty would smite so many of his faithful for the sins of a few.”

  “Did He not send a great flood that swept away all but Noah and his kin?”

  “But it was God’s covenant to us that He would never again call down such a flood on the earth.”

  I spat into the darkness.

  “Was it also His promise not to send Norsemen?”

  Leofstan was silent. He turned away from me, shoulders slumped, and stared out into the darkness. Gone was the man of that dawn, full of energy and the excitement of discovery.

  I sucked in a deep breath of the cool, smoke- and salt-tinged air and finally turned the conversation away from the book and in the direction I had been dreading since I had awoken.

  “How is it that I survived?”

  “I do not rightly know,” replied Leofstan. “I had hoped you would be able to tell me something of how you came to be found in a heap of dead Norsemen.” He hesitated, perhaps thinking carefully of his words. “I know you as a studious, inquisitive boy, quick to learn and always questioning. I would not have thought you capable of such violence.”

  “It was not I who brought violence to the holy island,” I snapped, bridling at the accusation in his words.

  He placed his hand upon my shoulder.

  “Forgive me, Hunlaf. I know your heart is true. You are a man of peace. Nobody can know how they will react in such a situation.” His words echoed my thoughts, but I was not so sure of my peaceful nature. I had not brought the violence, it was true, but I had embraced it with relish.

  “I did not think about whether what I did was right or wrong,” I said, my tone flat and hushed. “I saw what was happening and I was so full of rage.” The sensation of running after the Northmen, the rushing excitement I felt when plunging the knife into the man’s throat, the warm blood splattering my face. I should have been horrified, but I had revelled in the joy of it, as though I had been waiting for release all my life.

  “The Lord moves in mysterious ways,” Leofstan said, and I could hear the uncertainty in his voice. “You were trying to defend your brethren and our flock.” He hesitated again. “Why were you in the village? When those Norse devils left, I first looked for you on the beach and then the minster. When I did not find you, I thought they had taken you with them, or that you had been pushed into the sea and drowned, like so many others…” His voice trailed off as he relived the horrors he had seen.

  “Why did they leave?” I asked, choosing to ignore his question. “They seemed intent on killing everyone and destroying everything, but they did not complete their task.”

  “I do not know, but I suspect they had not expected to face any resistance. When they had lost a few of their number, they seemed to lose interest. They rounded up the last of the villagers they could find, those who had not fled, and they forced them into the barn.” His voice cracked and a sudden scratching dread ran down my spine.

  “What did they do then?” I asked, but I did not wish to hear the answer.

  He sighed and I sensed that he made the sign of the cross over himself in the darkness.

  “They barred the doors,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “And then torched it.”

  I did not speak for a long while. The night air stank of smoke. Was that the sweet scent of cooked meat? My stomach recoiled.

  “Did any…” I choked on the words. “Did any survive?”

  “Of those who did not flee, only two.”

  My heart skipped. Perhaps Aelfwyn was one of the lucky ones.

  “But none of those in the barn,” Leofstan went on, his voice as desolate as the star-strewn sky above us. “Just the two children you were protecting.”

  My mind span. I did not understand.

  “Children?”

  “Yes,” Leofstan said, his voice gentle. “A little boy and girl. Poor things. Both of their parents were slain and the Lord alone knows what horrors they witnessed. But you must tell me how it is that you came to be helping them and how you convinced that giant heathen to aid you?”

  I frowned.

  “I helped them, because I could not turn away and see them hurt. And the Norse giant did not aid me. I helped him. He was already fighting his companions.”

  “Of all the things that happened this day, this is one of the strangest,” said Leofstan.

  “So, you see it must have been the huge warrior who slew the men around me,” I said. “I tried to protect the innocent, but as you said, I am a scholar not a warrior.” My failure to save Aelfwyn or the children stabbed me like a seax in my guts. But something Leofstan had said made me turn towards him suddenly. His face was a pale smudge in the faint moonlight.

  “How did you know of the Norse warrior who fought to save the children?” I asked.

  “As I said, this is the strangest thing of all. And the Almighty must surely have a plan of His own that we cannot fathom.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “After the raiders had returned to their ships and set sail, we watched until they were a long way to the horizon. We were frightened that they might come back to finish what they’d started. But once they were small in the distance, we were sure they had truly left and it was then that we made our way down to the village. The barn still burnt and the smell…” His words choked him and he hesitated, taking a long steadying breath before continuing. “There were several slain in the alleys, left where they had fallen. We found the first dead raiders there, killed by Eadwine it seems. A young man of the villagers, as he was there too. Then we discovered you, with a mound of the dead around you, like a great warrior in the tales of our forefathers. You were so covered in blood I believed you to be dead too, but that giant Norseman pointed to you and made it clear you yet lived.”

  “That warrior did not leave with the ships?” I could scarcely believe what I was hearing.

  “No. We found him sitting with the two children. He cradled them in his huge arms and they seemed content to be with him. The few villagers who had fled wanted to kill the man and I thought they would rip him asunder like so many mad dogs.”

  I imagined the giant warrior surrounded by angry villagers. He would have been able to overcome a dozen such men with his bulk, speed and obvious battle-skill.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Well, nothing really. Hygebald spoke to the people, reminding them of Christ’s words. The warrior pushed the children towards us and held up his hands to show they were empty and he meant no harm to us. The bishop’s words and the man’s actions calmed the people somewhat. It was then that he pointed to the heap of corpses and we found you.”

  “So where is he now?”

  “He is locked inside one of the prayer cells.”

  “He is still on the island?” The idea of the massive Norse warrior being close filled me with dread. I had seen him fight. Should he decide he did not wish to remain captive, we would be no match for him.

  “Yes. We sent a messenger to Bebbanburg at low tide and tomorrow the king’s reeve should come. He should know what to do with the Norseman.”

  I remembered the silent communication that had passed between us in the instant before I threw myself into the fight. My hand throbbed and my face ached. I could not wait for the next turn of the tide for the reeve to arrive.

  “Take me to him,” I said.

  Six

  The room was unlit and shadowed. The thick timber door, studded with trenails, closed behind me with a grating crunch. I couldn’t make out any form or movement within the cell, but my nostrils were filled with the sharp scent of sour sweat, cured leather and a lingering hint of sweetness that I could not place. It was silent and no hint of a breeze reached the floor of the room. I forced myself not to shiver as the cool darkness swallowed me.

  Looking up, I stared at the spray of stars that covered the night sky.
Where beams and thatch or shingles would normally protect a hut from the elements this prayer cell had no roof. Instead, it was open to the sky, and its walls had no windows. Its inhabitant would face no distractions from the earthly realm and would be able to focus all of their prayers to the heavens. It was one of a handful of such cells built in the style originally created by Saint Cuthbert. They usually housed the most pious and devout followers of Christ. On this night the cell was home to a huge heathen. And he was now accompanied by a young monk who, after the bloody events of the day, was already beginning to question everything he had ever known about God and piety.

  This was hardly what Cuthbert had envisaged when he had designed these cells, but as Leofstan said, the Lord truly was mysterious.

  I peered into the darkness, willing my eyes to penetrate the gloom, yet still I could see nothing. I cursed myself inwardly for asking to come here. What did I hope to achieve?

  Leofstan had refused to allow me entrance at first, but I had told him that I spoke some words of the Norse tongue and I might be able to learn something useful. The older monk had argued against me and where I might have pleaded with him only days earlier, now I merely stood my ground and repeated my reasoning calmly and resolutely, adding that God had spoken to me. Who were we to ignore the Lord’s word? As he looked at my bruised and battered face I could see from the way he stared at me that I was not the only one to have been changed that day. I doubted he truly believed my tale of hearing the voice of God, but my relationship with Leofstan had shifted somehow and after only a short discussion, he had acquiesced to my visit.

  “This is madness,” he had muttered, as we approached the prayer cell where the Norseman was being held.

  I did not refute Leofstan’s summation of the situation. My throat was tight and it was all I could do not to pant with anxiety. And yet I could not turn away. I had to speak to the prisoner. Perhaps if I could get him to talk, I could find some answers to make sense of my world again.

  “He’s a beast,” said one of the men guarding the door. He was old, perhaps forty, with thinning hair and a full beard. But he was broad-shouldered and had a pugnacious face. He looked like a man who had seen his share of fights and could like as not hold his own in a brawl. I wondered with a flash of anger where he had been when the raiders had struck. If more men had stood against them, maybe things would have ended differently.

  Maybe Aelfwyn would yet live.

  “You’ll not be wanting to go in there,” he said, oblivious of my sudden rage. “Wait for the reeve. He’ll bring spear-men tomorrow. Let them deal with the Norse brute.”

  “I would speak with him now,” I said, surprised at the steadiness and strength of my voice. The slightly nasal quality of my tone, caused by my broken nose, made my words deeper and more commanding.

  The two men stared at me. Leofstan nodded and the man who had spoken turned to the door. I could see where somebody had fashioned a crude locking bracket to the door and the frame for the purpose of securing the captive. Before lifting the bar, he hesitated.

  “He’s been quiet ever since we put him in there, but he could snap you like a twig, boy.” He turned to Leofstan. “Brother, you should not allow this. It is folly.”

  Leofstan nodded and I wondered if he would agree with the guard. But then he sighed and shook his head.

  “You are not wrong,” he said. “I have told Hunlaf as much, but, rightly or wrongly, he believes the Lord has called him to speak with the prisoner. And, as he pointed out, if the stranger had wished to kill him, he had ample chance to do so while he waited with the children for us to arrive. Go on, open the door.”

  “Wait,” I said, suddenly fearful that when they slid back the bar from the door, the massive man inside might rush out and slay us.

  The guard halted, looking at me askance.

  “Ready your spear,” I said to the second guard; a shorter man who held a hunting spear loosely in his left hand. He looked at me quizzically, his eyes glimmering in the moonlight.

  “He did not kill me when he had the chance,” I said, “but some time in captivity might have changed his mind.”

  The man lowered his spear, pointing it at the closed door.

  “Now wait a moment,” said the first guard.

  “Just open the door,” I repeated, my voice sounding calm to my own ears. “I will enter quickly and you can bar it behind me.”

  “Too right I’ll lock it behind you,” he grumbled. He fixed me with a dark stare and let out a pent-up breath. “Ready?”

  I nodded, then, realising he might not see the movement, I said, “Yes.”

  He slid back the locking bar and I sensed the other man bracing his spear for a rushing attack from within the cell. None came. The door swung open. I took a deep breath and slipped inside.

  I was plunged into darkness and the still hush was nearly absolute after the wind-whisper and the sigh of the waves. I heard the guards speaking outside and I strained to hear their words, but the thick door and the wall made it impossible to even be sure I could hear them, let alone make out what they said.

  The loud sound of a man clearing his throat made me gasp. I cursed my fear and my own stupidity. I had not thought to bring a light and so here I was, locked into a chamber with a giant killer, and I could see nothing.

  A rumbling voice spoke from the darkness. It took me a few moments to understand the words. I was unused to the tongue of the Norse, but quickly I remembered the words I knew and the meaning of others was often evident from how they were used and sometimes by the similar shape of sound to the words in my native Englisc.

  As well as I could tell, the voice said, “Well, little priest man. Why come you here to wake me?”

  It was a simple question, but I had no good answer for him. My mind spun with all that had occurred since the previous dawn. My body ached and screamed at me for rest. My skin prickled with cold and fear. The guard had been right, I was a fool for entering here.

  “I…” I said, struggling to form words the man might understand. “I am not a priest. I am a…” But then I realised I did not know the word for monk. “I am Hunlaf,” I said.

  He did not reply. But now that I had heard him speak and my eyes had become accustomed to the shadowed cell, I could just make out his bulky form, dimly silvered by the moon and stars that looked down into the roofless chamber. He was sitting with his back to the wall, long legs outstretched before him.

  “You are?” I enquired, hoping that my words were well formed and that he would understand me.

  “I am Runolf Ragnarsson,” he said.

  I shuffled forward, careful not to trip. I did not know how well he could see me, but I held a small sack of hemp cloth, offering it to him. He did not move. I took another step closer. Still, he remained unmoving.

  “Here,” I said. “Take it.”

  Before I was aware he was moving he had reached out a meaty hand and snatched the bag from my grasp. I staggered back, certain that he would leap up and lunge at me. But he did not rise.

  I moved away until I touched the wall farthest from him. I lowered myself down until I was sitting with my back to the cold wall, a feeble mirror image of the Norseman’s muscular frame. He sniffed at the contents of the bag.

  “Food,” I said. Thinking of the words and translating them into his tongue one by one, I continued: “Bread. Cheese. Water.” I had collected small quantities of the scant provisions before we had come to the cell. Leofstan had protested, but without much conviction.

  “We should save the provender for God’s faithful,” he’d said.

  “Would Christ refuse to feed a hungry man?” I had asked. “Surely even our enemies are God’s children.”

  Leofstan always liked to quote the Gospels to the younger monks whenever they were in danger of behaving in a way he saw as less than Christian. It was my turn to chastise him.

  “Did not Jesu tell us ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself’?”

  Again, I’d felt the shif
t in our relationship. Just days before, I would never have dared to answer him in this way, and he would never have responded as he did, with a sigh and a small nod of the head.

  Runolf pulled out the contents of the bag and I heard sounds of him chewing and swallowing. When the food was gone, he lifted the leather flask I had brought and drank several mouthfuls of water. I did not speak until he had finished. He stoppered the skin and settled back, seemingly content to sit in silence.

  “Why did you come here?” I asked. I’d had plenty of time to think of the correct words, and my voice was loud and clear in the stillness.

  “Why think you?” he replied, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. “For gold. Silver. Slaves.” He spoke with the tone he might use for a stupid child.

  “But why here? There are many places with treasure. Why Lindisfarnae?” I did not know how to fully convey the outrage I felt that such violence had come to this peaceful place of worship and contemplation. “It is a sacred place,” I said at last, not fully pleased with my words, unsure he would understand.

  He sniffed.

  “Sacred?” he asked.

  I wrestled with the words I knew of his tongue. Eventually, I said, “It is a holy place, a heilagr place. Helgistaðr.”

  “You worship Óðinn?” he said. “Þórr? Frigg?”

  “No, we worship Christ, the one true God.” I tried to keep my voice steady.

  “This place is not heilagr to us. You are weak and your god is weak.”

  I thought of the Norsemen hacking down the brethren with impunity. Tidraed’s pleading pock-marked face as the laughing bearded warriors forced themselves on him and then the horror as their leader slew him with the ease of a butcher. I shuddered in the dark. I could not argue against his claims of weakness.

  As if feeling sorry for me, he softened his tone.

  “Jarl Skorri had heard tell of your island and its riches. He could not believe there were no spear-men or sword-men to protect such wealth, so he sent men to check.” My memory of the Norse tongue was coming back to me now, and I was finding it increasingly easy to make out the meaning of Runolf’s words. He seemed happy to continue speaking and I did not interrupt.