A Time for Swords

by Matthew Harffy

  “Alas,” said Hygebald, “if yesterday had been any worse, you would find only corpses here.”

  In the distance a small group of monks pushed a handcart towards the burial ground. In the bed of the cart lay a linen-wrapped shape that could have been a small woman or a child.

  “What in the name of all that is holy happened here?” Uhtric’s voice trembled as he began to take in the scale of the destruction.

  “Come,” said Hygebald with a sigh, “I will show you.”

  Uhtric ordered a few of his men to tend to the horses. I noticed that these men wore no armour. Their clothes were simple kirtles and breeches and while they carried shields and spears, they bore no other symbols of wealth or battle. Surely, these were men called from the nearby villages to bolster the number of Uhtric’s guard, I thought.

  The rest of the men were dour-faced, with long moustaches and the swaggering gait of warriors. The leather scabbards at their belts were tooled with patterns and symbols; the hilts of their swords gleamed with gold and garnets. These were Lord Uhtric’s personal hearth-warriors and they fell into step behind him as he walked alongside the grey-haired bishop. As nobody had objected to my presence, I followed along in their wake.

  Hygebald led them first past the remains of the settlement where Aelfwyn had lived. Uhtric shook his head. He asked questions about what time of day the raiders had landed their ships, how many vessels there had been and how many men. Hygebald answered his queries in his calm, quiet voice.

  When we neared the shattered, blackened husk of the barn, Uhtric enquired why the Norsemen had burnt such a large building, leaving some other, smaller huts within the settlement, untouched. Hygebald paused. Sighing, he told the tale of the last of the villagers and how they had been rounded up and burnt alive.

  Uhtric and several of his warband crossed themselves. Their faces were pale, their mouths down-turned in scowls as we trudged past the building where I had found Runolf. I could feel their mood souring with each passing moment. The wall near the doorway was smeared with a dark brown smudge. Uhtric’s ever-moving eyes fixed on the stain.

  “And this is where the captured man fought?” he asked. “And you say he saved two children from the slaughter?”

  “Yes,” replied Hygebald, “with the help of Brother Hunlaf here.” He gestured in my direction. I felt my face grow hot beneath the bruises as all of the men turned to look at me with expressions of incredulity.

  “Indeed?” said Uhtric, his tone making it clear he thought that the bishop must be mistaken. “And how did you help save the children?” he asked me.

  “It looks like he put his face in the way,” retorted one of the men. A few of the others began to laugh, pleased that somebody had broken the darkening sombre mood. Uhtric rounded on the man who had spoken.

  “This is not a thing to make light of,” he barked. The men fell silent once more. Turning back to me, he said, “Well?”

  I swallowed against the lump that had formed in my throat.

  “I don’t rightly know, lord,” I said at last, my voice quiet and crackling from dryness. I coughed. The lord stared at me, clearly expecting more, so I added: “I just saw the children and the big man defending them, and I could not turn away.” I hesitated, unsure what more to say.

  “What else?” he prompted me to continue.

  “I—” I stammered. I didn’t want to speak about it, but there was something in Uhtric’s eyes that would not allow me to remain silent. “I almost felt as though the hand of God was pushing me forward,” I blurted out in a rush.

  Uhtric stared at me for several heartbeats.

  “And did you fight? Did you slay any of these heathen bastards?”

  I shook my head.

  “Not any of those here,” I said. “I attacked one, but his armour turned my blade. The last thing I remember he was doing this to my face.” I raised a hand and waved it before my features.

  “Not any of these, you say. But you did kill then?” asked Uhtric, his eyes narrowing.

  I had told nobody of how I had buried the seax into the throat of the Norseman, but standing there before the piercing gaze of Uhtric, with Bishop Hygebald looking on, I knew I could not lie. And so I merely nodded.

  I don’t know what I had been expecting, but I was startled when Uhtric grinned and slapped me on the shoulder.

  “Good man,” he said. “We might have to take this one from your side, bishop. I am always in need of men who don’t shy away from danger in a fight.”

  Hygebald said nothing, but he looked at me with an unreadable expression. I knew that the lord was jesting, but I could not help myself feeling a thin rush of pride at his words.

  We continued to survey the damage and soon we were walking towards the chapel and the burnt-out shell of the scriptorium. After the brief exchange at the hut, Uhtric had ignored me. As the men from the mainland took in each new affront to the island, their mood darkened, like clouds gathering over the North Sea before a storm struck.

  A solitary birch, twisted and bent from the prevailing winds on the island, rose from the flat land at the edge of the minster. The wind whispered through its leafy boughs and it swayed gently, creaking in the stiffening breeze. The tree seemed to catch Uhtric’s attention.

  “That looks as good a spot as any,” he said to one of his warband. “Don’t you think, Hereward?”

  “Aye, lord,” the man replied, sizing up the tree. “High enough. And stout branches to survive in the wind that comes in from the sea here.”

  I was confused. Hygebald seemed at a loss too, for he said, “Of what do you speak? That birch is one of the few things to have survived yesterday’s attack without damage.”

  “Little enough worth stealing from a tree, eh?” said Uhtric, with a mirthless smile.

  “Indeed,” replied Hygebald, clearly still confused as to his reason for mentioning the tree.

  “We have seen and heard enough of what these foul heathens did here,” said Uhtric, his tone brisk and matter of fact. “We shall have to see what our lord king, Æthelred, decides to do about the attack. Perhaps, he will send men to raid the kingdom from whence these Norsemen came.”

  Hygebald crossed himself, perhaps imagining such bloodshed perpetrated in the name of retribution. The bishop composed himself, smoothing his robes over his thighs with his slender hands. He was a thoughtful man, learned and wise, and he rarely spoke without considering his words at length.

  But Uhtric was clearly a man of action and he did not wait for Hygebald to order his thoughts.

  “But those are matters for the king to ponder with the Witan,” Uhtric said. “For now, I have my own work to do, and I think this birch will do nicely.”

  Hygebald frowned, still unsure of Uhtric’s meaning. I caught the hard glint in the lord of Bebbanburg’s eye, and with a sinking feeling, I knew exactly what use he had planned for the tree.

  “As you said, your Excellency,” said Uhtric, “there is little we can do here now, except to mourn and bury the dead, and to pray for their souls. That is not work for me or my warriors. In time, I will send some of my men to help you with the rebuilding. But for now, the only thing I can do is mete out justice to the one heathen killer we have within reach. Let us bring out this Norseman you have in custody. This tree is perfect for a hanging.”

  Eight

  A raven croaked angrily and flapped into the grey sky as one of Uhtric’s men threw a length of hemp rope over the thick trunk of the birch where it leaned to one side, bent by years of winds from the sea.

  Runolf looked up at the sound of the bird and his face paled. He had not spoken since he had been led from the cell by four of Uhtric’s hearth-men. They had taken the precaution of binding his hands behind his back and they had clearly already exacted some small vengeance upon him while doing so. His cheek was bruised and swollen, and blood trickled from his split lip, soaking into his beard. I winced at the sight of the huge Norseman’s face when he arrived in the shadow of the towering tree. H
e had met my gaze and offered me a small nod. He had seemed unfrightened by the fate that awaited him until he had seen the black-winged raven.

  While the warrior secured the rope and tied a noose, Uhtric addressed Runolf.

  “Who led you here and why did you come?” he asked.

  Runolf tracked the raven’s flight until it vanished into the distance. Then, turning to Uhtric, he shook his head.

  “Is the man stupid?” Uhtric asked. “Moon-touched?”

  “No, lord,” I said. “He does not speak our tongue.”

  “But you can speak with him?”

  “Yes, I know some of his words. Norse traders used to come to my home on the Tuede, and—”

  “Very well,” he interrupted me. “Ask him my questions. I would take what knowledge I can from him before he swings.”

  I nodded and asked Runolf about his leader and why they had come to Lindisfarnae.

  “You know this,” he growled.

  I nodded.

  “But he is a lord. You must answer him.”

  Runolf spat a gobbet of bloody spittle into the grass. He glowered at Uhtric from beneath his heavy brows and for a time I thought he would not respond to the questions.

  “Jarl Skorri led the raiding party,” he said at last, his voice deep and flat. “We sailed west for silver, gold and thralls.”

  I patiently translated Runolf’s taciturn, terse answers.

  Uhtric stared out to sea without acknowledging Runolf’s reply.

  The warrior with the rope finished tying the noose and signalled to Uhtric, who seemed already bored of the interrogation. The noose was well-fashioned. Uhtric’s man was clearly experienced in executions. The lord let out a long breath, as if what he was about to do pained him. He gestured to his man, who looped the noose about Runolf’s neck.

  “Tell him this,” Uhtric said. “With the power vested in me as the lord of this shire by his majesty the king, Æthelred of Northumbria, I sentence him to death for the wilful murder and defilement of the king’s subjects. May God have mercy on his heathen soul.”

  “But lord,” I said, “perhaps this is not the best way…”

  Surely I had not been so wrong. God must have brought Runolf here for a reason.

  Uhtric glared at me.

  I had become convinced that God had sent Runolf to me. He could not be there simply to be dangled at the end of a rope.

  “Tell him,” Uhtric said, “or he will face his maker without hearing my sentence. It makes no difference to me. He clearly knows the wrong he has done.” He nodded to his man, who took up the slack on the rope. Two other warriors joined him and picked up the coils of hemp, ready to hoist Runolf off the ground. He would strangle slowly then, slain by his own weight pulling against his throat.

  “Wait,” I said, unsure what to say to convince Uhtric. “He is more valuable to you alive than dead.”

  Uhtric held up his hand. His eyes flickered towards Runolf, who stood still, patiently awaiting his demise, then back to me.

  “Explain,” he said.

  “If you kill him, what he knows dies with him,” I said, struggling to make him understand.

  “I care nothing for what this man knows,” sniffed Uhtric. “I would rather see him hanged and know that I have meted out some justice for those slain here, than to keep him alive and maybe hear some morsel of information from him. And to what end anyway? He is a brute of a man. Such is plain to see. He knows nothing of import. He is no leader of men, no lord or reeve. No. He dies now, and we shall see what Æthelred King wishes to do about a possible retaliation for what has occurred here.”

  He waved a hand at his men, and they tugged on the rope, pulling Runolf first onto his toes and then clear of the ground. They grunted with the effort and as the rope tightened about his neck Runolf began to gag and thrash at the bonds that held him. His body flapped and swung like a fish on a hook. His eyes grew wide with the terror of impending death and his tongue protruded from his mouth.

  I dashed forwards, but had no hope of stopping the burly warriors from carrying out the punishment Uhtric had decreed.

  “No!” I shouted, but they all ignored me. I could feel tears stinging my eyes. This could not be what God intended. Surely there was some hidden method in Runolf’s presence. There had to be, for the alternative was unthinkable. “No,” I repeated, despair in my voice. Nobody paid me heed. Runolf’s gaze met mine and I felt an immense emptiness. I was powerless and of no import to these armed men.

  Runolf would die now. Just one more corpse to bury in the sandy soil. Another meaningless death.

  And then a new voice joined my protests.

  “Wait,” said Hygebald, his tone quieter than mine, but carrying with it the heft of authority. “Lower him down.” The bishop’s intervention surprised me as much as it did Uhtric and his men. But the sight of the old man’s set jaw and his unwavering stare, filled me with a sudden respect and love for him. I thought of our brief conversation while waiting for Uhtric and his men. It seemed he had listened to my words.

  The three warriors who were straining on the rope, looked from the bishop to their leader. For the first time, Uhtric seemed uncertain.

  “Let him live a moment longer,” Hygebald said. “Hear me out, and then decide. But if the man is already dead, you will lose possible favour with the king.”

  For an agonisingly long time the only movements came from Runolf’s struggles, his feet kicking, body jerking. The only sounds were his gurgling cries, the sough of the wind through the birch’s branches and the distant sigh of the waves in the harbour.

  At last, Uhtric nodded and made a cutting motion with his hand.

  “Let him down,” he said. His warriors released the rope and Runolf fell to the earth. His legs buckled beneath him and he collapsed in a sprawling heap, gasping, coughing and retching.

  Uhtric turned to Hygebald, ignoring the rest of us. His gaze did not rove now, but was fixed on the eyes of the bishop.

  “Why should I not have this man killed, your Excellency?” he asked, his voice clipped with suppressed anger at having been made to look weak before his men.

  “The reasons are many,” replied Hygebald, his tone calm and confident. “Firstly, I believe that every man has the right to seek forgiveness for his sins.”

  “He can ask God for forgiveness when he sees Him,” Uhtric growled. “I am no man of God and I will not stay my hand so that you can present the other cheek for him to slap.”

  “It is true, that you are no man of God,” replied Hygebald, and the reproach was clear. “But you understand that all men can be led astray by others, do you not?”

  “Of course,” Uhtric sputtered. “But that is no excuse for a man’s actions. His deeds are his own.”

  “Ah, yes. And a man should try to fight against his own wickedness and his mistakes, is that not so?”

  Uhtric nodded slowly, grudgingly.

  “And you have heard how this man did just that,” the bishop went on. “He fought against his own companions to save two helpless children. If he had not done so, those orphans would now be dead or carried away, and he could have fled with the rest of his people aboard their dragon ships.”

  Uhtric frowned.

  “Those children’s parents were only killed because this man and his kind came here in their ships and murdered them!”

  Hygebald nodded sadly.

  “This is true, but as the good Lord said, ‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone’. I see in this man’s actions that he heard the word of God and turned against his own to protect the innocent. If he had not been here, and if he had not heeded the whispered word of Christ, those children would no longer be with us.”

  Uhtric pursed his lips and shook his head as if to clear it of confusion.

  “I care nought for the man’s immortal soul. I do not know if you truly believe that this brute heard the word of God,” he crossed himself, clearly uncomfortable with the path the conversation was treading, �
��but you spoke of favour at court?”

  “Indeed,” said Hygebald, rubbing his thin fingers over his chin. “Indeed, I did. Have you not considered that the king himself might like the opportunity to question the only captive from this terrible attack on his lands?”

  A loud squawk from high above made us all pause and look up. The raven, all sleek blackness and sharp beak had returned to settle in one of the highest boughs. It peered down with its beady eyes and I felt a sliver of unease scratch a finger down my spine. I shivered and made the sign of the cross. Hygebald did likewise and a few of the warriors copied us.

  Uhtric bristled, seemingly oblivious of the effect the dire bird had on the rest of us.

  “I have questioned the Norseman already,” he said.

  “Yes, that is so,” replied Hygebald, his tone placatory and soothing. “But do you presume you can have anticipated all of the king’s questions?”

  Uhtric knitted his brows.

  “What else could our king wish to ask him?”

  “Who can tell what the king might wish to know?” said Hygebald. “Would you second guess him? A wise man such as yourself would provide his king with the ability to fully interrogate such an important prisoner and give him the option of deciding the man’s fate. Would you deny your king these things? Would it not profit you more to take the whole cow to him rather than a few drops of its milk in the hope that is enough to slake his thirst?”

  Uhtric pondered for a time, looking first at Hygebald and then Runolf, who had pushed himself up onto his knees. The Norseman glared back at the lord of Bebbanburg. There was no hint of fear in his eyes, merely a glowering defiance.

  With a sigh, Uhtric finally nodded. From its high perch in the tree, the raven croaked once more.

  “Very well,” Uhtric said. “I will not go against the will of one as holy and wise as yourself, your Excellency. I will take the Norseman to Eoforwic where the king can question him and decide his wyrd.” One of the warriors spat at hearing these words and a few others murmured their disapproval. But Uhtric had made up his mind and his men’s disappointment at being cheated out of a hanging was nothing to him. “Remove the rope,” he snapped, “and get him up on a horse. We will leave immediately. I do not wish to miss the tide and be stuck here on the island.”