A Time for Swords

by Matthew Harffy

  “Skorri sent traders in a knarr here in the spring. They were men he trusted and they told him of what they had seen with their own eyes. Gold and silver ornaments in your stone building. Books bound with gems and precious metals. And many young men and women who could be sold as good slaves in the east and south.”

  My stomach churned at his words, thinking of the fate of those who had been taken away in the serpent-headed ships.

  “Tell me,” he said, “why do you not have warriors?” He sounded truly incredulous and interested in the answer. “Are you all mad?”

  “God protects us,” I answered. The words sounded hollow as they echoed up through the chamber and out into the night sky above us.

  The big man snorted with grim laughter.

  “He does not do a good job, your god.”

  I bit my lip. I did not like his tone or his words. His apparent humour at the murder of my people and the desecration of the holy island stirred the embers of my anger. Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I changed the path of the conversation.

  “Why did you fight your own?” I asked, my voice clipped and as sharp as the seax I had used to kill a man.

  Runolf drew in a long breath and took a swig of water from the skin. Perhaps he was less inclined to speak of himself than he was of his leader and the men and women they had slain. He pushed the stopper firmly into the neck of the flask.

  “I came for gold.” He hesitated. “I did not come for this.” He fell silent, and I could sense his own rage building, brooding in the gloom.

  “But you knew why you came. Why come here on Skorri’s ships if not to fight?”

  “I am Runolf Ragnarsson. You have seen me deal the slaughter to my foe-men. You think I do not wish to fight?”

  I thought of him looming in the doorway of the hut, the speed of his axe, the splash of hot blood as he hacked into his enemies with seeming ease.

  “Then why?” I pushed him for an answer.

  He sighed.

  “No battle-fame comes from fighting women and killing dress-wearing priest men. I did not come to wage war on children.”

  “Did you not think there would be womenfolk and children on the island?” I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. Of all the Norsemen I had witnessed, Runolf had seemed the most imposing, the deadliest. And I had seen the others committing atrocities that would live in my nightmares for the rest of my days.

  Runolf bridled and he let out a growl. I flattened my back against the wall, readying myself for the inevitable attack.

  “I will not slay children,” he said. His words caught in his throat, giving me pause. I chose not to press him further for his reasons.

  “You are a good man,” I said. “You saved those children.”

  He let out a barking laugh. It sounded like a sob.

  “I am not good,” he said.

  “Perhaps God sent you to us.”

  He snorted, but did not speak for some time. I pondered his words, allowing the silence to gather about us like a cloak.

  “Is it true?” he asked, his voice cracking before he coughed to clear it.

  I was startled and realised I had been close to sleep, dozing in the darkness. The thought of my recklessness filled me with dismay. I could not relax in the presence of this man. I would need to seek rest soon.

  “What?” I replied.

  “That there are many more such places? Holy places along the coast. All filled with gold and silver.”

  I was suddenly fully awake. I shivered as the meaning behind his question became clear to me. I imagined lying to him, but then smiled at my own foolishness. What did it matter what he knew? He was a captive, with no chance of escape. And tomorrow the reeve would come and surely seek to take the blood-price from him for what his companions had done here.

  “There are others,” I said, my voice unsteady and tentative.

  I thought of the brethren at Gyruum and Uuiremutha on their secluded, windswept locations overlooking river mouths and the cold expanse of the North Sea. Then I pictured the place I had called home these last months. Werceworthe stood far removed from any aid, on a tongue of land surrounded by the river Cocueda on three sides. Like all of the minsters it had been established away from distractions. Perfect for quiet prayer and contemplation. They were places of peace. None was as rich as Lindisfarnae, with its noble history, pilgrims and links to the royal house of Northumbria, but all of the minsters had reliquaries and valuable books. Gold and silver adorned the altars of all these places of worship. And all of them housed many healthy men and women. I shivered. Men and women who would sell for a good price in the slave markets of the south and the east.

  And none of the minsters had any form of defence.

  As if he could hear my thoughts, Runolf hoomed in the back of his throat.

  “Jarl Skorri is a greedy man. He loves gold as much as the dragon, Fáfnir. He would sleep on a mound of treasure, if he could.” For a time, Runolf was silent and I imagined Skorri, so full of lust for riches that he would sail across the North Sea to rip asunder the bones of saints, defile Christ’s most holy of houses, violate and murder. I wondered if he had been the man in the red cloak I had seen orchestrating the raiders as they’d poured from the beached ships. I recalled the knife blade plunging into Tidraed. And in my memories, I saw again the killer’s cold eyes. I shuddered.

  “Do you think he will return?” I asked. The thought filled me with foreboding.

  Runolf did not hesitate.

  “Yes, little priest man, Skorri will return, as sure as snow comes in winter. He will come back now that he has tasted the blood of your people and seen how weak you are.”

  I heard the truth in his words and shuddered.

  “And there are many more greedy jarls,” he said.

  I imagined more ships sailing out of the early morning sea fret that often cloaked the slate grey North Sea. I saw in my mind swarms of howling Norsemen and I could already hear the screams of the dying and the cries of anguish from the men and women they despoiled.

  And then recalled Leofstan’s words. The Lord truly was mysterious. Surely it had been the Almighty who had filled me with righteous anger. It was God who had brought me to this place and it was He who had seen to it that Runolf Ragnarsson, this giant of a Norseman, should be here in this prayer cell. It could be no whim of wyrd, no accident of fate that we should be here, in the open-topped chamber, with nothing between us and heaven.

  “Tomorrow, the reeve will come for you,” I said.

  “Reeve? What is this?”

  I did not know the Norse word, so replied, “The king’s man. He will come for you from Bebbanburg and he will bring spear-men. They will want to kill you.”

  Runolf said nothing.

  “Are you Skorri’s man?” I asked. “Does he have your oath? Your…” I searched in my memory for the right word. “Your eiðr?”

  “Skorri is nothing to me,” Runolf said with a vehemence that surprised me. He spat in the darkness.

  “When Skorri returns to these lands for treasure, his men will slay more of my people. Men, women.” I paused. “Children.”

  Runolf growled quietly.

  “I would not see you killed by the reeve,” I said.

  “Why? I am your foe.”

  “I believe Christ sent you to aid us.”

  “Aid you? Against Skorri?”

  “Yes,” I said, eagerness entering my tone. “You know the ways of the Norse. The way they fight. With your help, we can defeat them.”

  He was silent for a time, perhaps mulling over my words.

  “I am but one man,” he said at last.

  “But you are Runolf Ragnarsson,” I said, and he laughed mirthlessly at my attempt to flatter him.

  “We will not be able to defeat Skorri when he returns,” he said, his voice flat and low. Disappointment washed over me. “But perhaps,” he went on, “we could make him think twice about attacking you. He is no fool and a wolf will always seek out the weakest pre
y.”

  “Truly? You think he could be made to turn away?”

  “Anything is possible,” Runolf rumbled in the dark.

  I could feel hope and a new purpose welling within me. God was mysterious indeed.

  “Come then, Runolf,” I said, “tell me how we give ourselves teeth that will make this wolf think twice.”

  Seven

  The next day dawned wet and grey. Clouds had gathered in the latter part of the night and in the first dim light of day a constant drizzle washed the land.

  “It is as if God himself is weeping,” whispered Godwig in between prayers at Prime, his wispy grey hair floating about his ears like smoke. Usually, he would have been chastised for speaking during offices, but on this day neither Hygebald nor any of the other older monks seemed inclined to offer punishments or harsh words. Perhaps they agreed with Godwig. The destruction all about us was such that several of the monks murmured about prophecies and the end of days.

  Leofstan met my gaze on hearing Godwig’s doom-laden words. He did not speak or make any sign, but I believe we both pondered whether the book that had somehow come into Oslac’s possession might have been the cause of God’s wrath.

  Despite the battering my body had taken, I had barely slept. My sinews felt as taut as the sheep guts strung on a lyre and my mind was a tangle of thoughts and worries, each jostling and vying for my attention like a pack of hungry hounds after a hunt, yapping and snarling for a morsel of meat.

  The rain smudged and smeared the world and, when coupled with the sight of the blackened bones of buildings that had stood whole the previous morning, the day had the feeling of a bad dream. But the sour stink of burnt flesh hung in the damp air, and the sombre task of burying the dead was all too real. Most of the brethren were involved in the grim work as soon as we had finished our morning worship.

  Nobody spoke of what to do about those who had perished in the blazing barn and I noticed that everyone kept as far from the charred, steaming place as possible.

  The rain softened the earth, making it easier to dig with the wooden shovels that were normally used for turning the loam to cultivate the land. Leofstan told me to rest, but I stubbornly refused to sit in the church while others toiled under the louring sky. Each corpse had been cleaned and dressed and made to look as at peace and whole as possible. When they were ready, they were carried individually to the burial place and laid to rest in the earth alongside their loved ones. Hygebald led the prayers over the deceased. There were so many dead that I estimated that the number of stone markers jutting from the earth would double. My first attempts to dig had made me gasp as the bandaged wounds of my fingers screamed in agony. Fresh blood flowed and the clean wrap that Leofstan had bound about my hand that morning was soon soaked crimson.

  “Enough,” he said. “You cannot help like this. If you wish to be useful, make a note of where we are burying each person so that later we can properly mark their resting place.”

  This was a good idea. With so many burials, it would be easy to forget where each one would rest until called up to Christ’s side in heaven. I busied myself preparing small wooden stakes which I marked with a numeral. After each burial, I would place the stake in the freshly turned mound of earth and then write the name of the person who had been buried on a piece of vellum. This I left inside the church. It made for a lot of walking back and forth, but even though the drizzle stopped falling as the sun rose into the watery sky, I could not risk the vellum and the ink getting wet. Besides, those involved with the hard work of digging and transporting the corpses were doing much more arduous work than I. And walking between the chapel and the graves gave me time to think of the conversation with Runolf and my growing certitude that he had been sent by God to help us.

  The tide was lowering throughout the morning and with each trip I looked landward expectantly. The sun was almost at its zenith when the tide reached its lowest point, leaving the broad expanse of puddles and mud that allowed firm enough footing for people to cross without the aid of a vessel. I peered out, shielding my eyes against the glare and haze caused by the now warm sun reflecting on the slick surface of the mudflats and glistening from the pools and plashes like so much silver.

  Was that movement I saw, far off in the distance?

  I halted, staring westward. Sunlight glinted, possibly from a helm or a polished spear-tip. I watched until I was sure. Yes, some two dozen horsemen were riding slowly across the flat surface of the mud. They rode in single file, tentatively following the path that the brethren and pilgrims used. I remembered what Leofstan had told me about the clinging mud that could entrap the unwary who strayed from the path. Only a fool would tempt fate and head away from the markers. The reeve led his men from one staff to the next with purpose but without undue speed. He was clearly no fool. I offered up a silent prayer that he would be wise enough to listen to me about Runolf.

  Some of the other monks gathered around me to watch the approaching riders. Hygebald strode up to where we stared, his step firm and his shoulders resolute, despite his advanced years. That morning I had thought he looked old, bent-backed and feeble; face drawn, eyes haunted by what he had witnessed. I did not judge him harshly for it. The attack had been horrific and the men and women slain and captured had been in his care. Any man would feel the weight of such a thing. But with the arrival of the reeve from the mainland of Northumbria, Hygebald’s strength seemed to return.

  “It is not yet time to rest, brothers,” he said. His tone was soft, but all the monks knew not to disobey him. “Return to your work. There is yet much to do.”

  Without reply, the men obediently trudged back to the toil of digging the earth, preparing it to accept the mortal remains of their friends.

  Hygebald came and stood beside me. I fidgeted, tugging at a loose thread of my sleeve. I was nervous in Hygebald’s presence. Both of us stood in silence, watching as the horses’ hooves churned up the sodden sand. The lead rider wore a deep blue cloak and the sun shone from silver fittings on his horse’s harness. Behind him came over a score of armed men. Many bore spears and some of those at the head of the column also wore byrnies and had baldrics slung over their shoulders from which dangled swords.

  “So, Hunlaf,” Hygebald said without turning to face me. “Leofstan tells me you think the heathen should be spared from judgement.” I had not expected him to converse with me and the sound of his voice startled me. I could not recall the bishop addressing me directly before.

  I took a deep breath and swallowed my nervousness. If I could run towards savage heathen raiders armed with nothing but my faith, my rage and a seax, I could speak to my bishop. Still, my throat was dry and my voice rasped when I spoke.

  “Nobody should be spared the Lord’s judgement, your Excellency,” I said. “Indeed, we will all be judged by the Almighty when we stand before His throne.”

  Hygebald nodded slowly. I glanced at him. He seemed content with my answer.

  “But what of the judgement of man?” he asked. “You spoke to this Norseman for some time in the night. Do you believe he should be spared punishment?”

  “I think he is a good man.” I hesitated. “Or at least a man capable of being good.”

  “All men are capable of good and evil,” Hygebald replied.

  “Yes, but it is also true that all men are fallible. Perhaps Runolf set out with the rest of the pagans to despoil the sacred isle, to steal and to kill.” I could sense the bishop stiffening beside me at my words. I hurried on. “But I believe that God spoke to him when he was surrounded by the evil that descended upon us yesterday. Most men ignore Christ’s voice, but whether he knows it or not, I think Runolf listened. For if not, why fight against his own to protect the innocent children?”

  For a while, Hygebald said nothing. An afternoon breeze had picked up, tugging at our woollen habits. A flock of dunlin flapped in a coruscating white and grey cloud into the sky out of the path of the reeve and his band of horsemen. The riders would reach us soon
. Hygebald turned towards me and I found myself staring into his thoughtful hazel eyes.

  “Did you hear Christ yesterday, young Hunlaf?” he asked. “For I do not recall anywhere in His teachings where He says to snatch up a knife and fight those who oppress you.”

  He did not await a reply. Instead, he strode down the slight slope towards the horsemen. The reeve’s fine grey steed was cantering up the rise. It tossed its head, shaking its long white mane, evidently pleased to be free of the clinging mud. Its hooves and fetlocks were smeared with the stuff, giving the impression that its legs were wrapped in dark bindings of grime.

  The man astride the pale horse was stocky of build, with florid skin and quick, darting eyes. He swung a leg over his mount’s saddle and leapt to the ground. He threw his reins to the next man who had pulled up beside him. Strutting quickly to where Hygebald waited, his gaze swept across the remains of the settlement and the minster buildings.

  “Your Excellency,” he said, “these are grave times indeed. Please forgive me for taking so long to reach you, but by the time your man came to us, the tide had turned.” He spoke in quick spurts, every now and then jerking and pausing, as if tugging on the reins of wayward words. All the while his eyes shifted, his gaze roving ceaselessly, never settling in one spot for long, but missing nothing.

  It seemed strange to me that nobody had thought to come when they had seen the fires, for the smoke had risen high and black in the clear sky of the previous day, but I held my tongue and watched in silence.

  “There is nothing to forgive, Lord Uhtric,” said Hygebald with a dip of his head. I had believed they would send the reeve, instead, the lord of Bebbanburg had ridden to the island. “There would have been nothing more for you to do if you had come earlier. The dead are going nowhere and we are tending to their spiritual and bodily needs now.”

  Uhtric recoiled as if he had been slapped by the bishop. Frowning, he said, “I see that your man did not embellish his tale. I had hoped that he had allowed his youthful imagination to get the better of him.”