A Time for Swords

by Matthew Harffy

  Grumbling, his men went about doing their lord’s bidding.

  I stepped towards Uhtric. He turned, a disdainful sneer on his features. My blood pounded in my ears. My throat was dry, but I forced myself to speak. I was surprised at how steady my voice was.

  “Lord Uhtric,” I said, “with his Excellency’s leave, I would accompany you to Eoforwic.”

  Nine

  I looked about me, trying to take in everything within the hall at once. I could scarcely believe where I stood. This was the great hall of Bebbanburg, the impregnable fortress that loomed over the North Sea on its huge fist of rock. I had gazed up at its palisades and buildings before when travelling past. On clear days, you could see the citadel in the distance from the minster on Lindisfarnae. But I had never set foot inside the fabled fortress before. I must have looked foolish, mouth agog, as I stared at the sumptuous wall hangings with their golden threads. Weapons and shields from past foes or fallen heroes adorned the walls and stout columns. And all of the exposed timber I could see was finely carved with interlacing animals and figures from legend. I wondered whether Beowulf, the slayer of Grendel, was depicted on one of the lintels or pillars. There was so much detail and colour, I could not make sense of all that I saw. My head swam with the assault of sights and sounds of the massive building.

  I had heard tell of Bebbanburg all my life in tales of sieges and battles. As we had entered through the palisade’s great gate, the door wardens staring grimly down at us from their platforms, I could picture in my mind’s eye the famous battle before the gates where the great hero, Beobrand, and his black-shielded warband had rushed through the flames and sparks to defeat Penda of Mercia. My father would tell tales of Beobrand when I was a boy, claiming he was a distant forebear of ours. I never truly believed him, or the tales he told. Who knew if the stories of Bebbanburg and its battles were true, or merely fantasies spun by scops? I am sure now, as an old man, that all such yarns have been embellished, for is that not the way of the storyteller, to make the tale more exciting than the simple truth? But as a child, I had revelled in the sagas of shieldwalls, of warriors soaking the earth with slaughter-sweat and feeding the crows with the bloody harvest of scything blades.

  And now, here I was in the hall of the greatest, most famous fortress in my small world. At that time I had yet to travel beyond our shores. I had not then stood in the shadow of the great walls of Byzantion or walked amongst the columned majesty of the soaring buildings of Roma, and the huge hall of Bebbanburg, with its colourful decorations, carved and painted pillars, blazing hearth fire and the cacophony of sound from the gathered warriors and nobles, was the most magnificent thing I had ever witnessed. My breath caught in my throat as we walked to the bench at the side of the room where we were to sit for the meal.

  “You look like a child who has been given a whole pot of honey,” said Leofstan, shaking his head. “I cannot believe you are enjoying this.”

  I swallowed back the laughter that had been bubbling up within me. It was true. I felt gleeful at seeing this place that I had often dreamt of as a boy. And I could not deny that I was exhilarated by the outcome of my actions on the holy island. My nose was blocked and painful, my face bruised. And my bandaged hand stung when I forgot about my wound and tried to grip something, but those things seemed unimportant. When I thought of all those who had been killed just the day before I felt a wave of sorrow. And yet, even the atrocities I had witnessed seemed distant, less raw than they should rightly be. I’d wondered at my seeming inability to feel sorrow, as we had walked across the sands from Lindisfarnae. If it was indeed true that it was God who had given me the rage to fight, and it was He who had sent Runolf to help us in our time of need, then surely it must also be the Lord who made me this way. I would be no use to anyone if I was weeping like a child. I mused that if I felt the destruction and killings of my brethren as keenly as others, I would be unable to function, and so I embraced what seemed to be a God-given ability to push my sadness aside.

  And yet I saw the expression on Leofstan’s face as he looked at me in the heat of the hall. His was not the look of a teacher who sees his pupil growing in ability and independence. No, his expression was one of confusion. And something else: disappointment.

  I reached for a cup that had been filled by a young serving maid. Her hair reminded me of Aelfwyn. I imagined her then, her terrible last moments in the searing heat of the burning barn and my throat thickened. Tears stung my eyes. I forced those dark thoughts away and nodded my thanks to the servant.

  My hands shook as I drank deeply. It was cool, fresh ale and it began to refresh me.

  “I am pleased to see this place,” I said to Leofstan. “I have oft wondered what it would be like to dine in this great hall.” Leofstan frowned and I continued quickly. “But I would rather we had come here under better circumstances.”

  The older monk nodded, seemingly mollified by my words.

  “When we have eaten,” he said, “we will go to the church of Saint Peter, see the relics there and pray for the souls of the fallen.” He paused. “We can pray for your cousin too.”

  I focused on the food on the board, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall. I had told him of my chance meeting with Aelfwyn as we had followed Uhtric and his men over the pilgrims’ path. I took up a piece of bread and bit off a chunk. The loss of Aelfwyn and the brethren had left me feeling empty. I could not fill the yawning hollow left by so much death, but my body still needed fuel and the ale had opened up my appetite. It was only in that moment that I realised how hungry I was. We had not eaten since the morning. There had been no time to tarry after Uhtric had made his decision to allow us to accompany him.

  At first he had been sceptical.

  “Why would you come with us to Eoforwic?” he asked.

  “You will need someone to interpret the prisoner’s words,” I said, keeping my expression neutral. “There might be others there who can speak his tongue, and the king is surely clever enough to make himself understood,” I acknowledged, “but would you risk confusion? The king will surely be pleased of your forethought in bringing someone who can help him communicate with the Norseman.”

  Uhtric stroked his moustache and surveyed me for a while before nodding.

  “Come then,” he said, his mind made up. “We leave right away to avoid missing the tide. I will find you a mount at Bebbanburg, but till then, you will have to walk.”

  Leofstan had not been pleased when he heard the news that I was leaving. But Bishop Hygebald had given his consent, so there was not much he could do apart from nod. Hygebald, perhaps sensing his discomfort, told him he must accompany me. I was pleased to have Leofstan’s company and guidance. The thought of travelling with Uhtric and his warriors filled me with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. And I was all too aware that I had been partly responsible for Uhtric’s decision not to execute Runolf and then to take him to Eoforwic to see the king. If things got difficult, I feared I would be blamed. If such came to pass, I would be glad of Leofstan’s calming presence.

  And so it was that we trudged across the wet sand, following the pilgrims’ path behind the mounted warriors. Runolf, noose tight about his neck and hands yet tied at his back, stumbled along in the wake of the riders. The noose rope was looped about the high saddle pommel and on more than one occasion Runolf fell and was dragged, choking and gagging through the dark muck. When this happened, I called out, halting the rider for long enough to allow me to heave Runolf to his feet.

  As we crossed the sand and then walked along the shore southward the short distance to Bebbanburg, Uhtric’s mood soured. I saw him looking back at the three of us walking at the rear of the column. The disapproval was clear on his face and I could imagine what he was thinking. He was questioning his decision to take Runolf south to Eoforwic. And he wondered whether he should have rejected my request to join him on the journey. But just as soon as these thoughts came to him, so they were dispelled. He had told his Excelle
ncy the Bishop of Lindisfarnae that he would take us, and the idea to transport the huge Norseman had come from Hygebald himself. Uhtric balanced up the value of his prisoner to the king and also the benefit to be had from pleasing one of the most powerful holy men of the land. The balance must have come out in his favour, for by the time we reached the slope leading up to the fortress gates, he was at peace once more with his decisions. As we crossed the threshold between the stout oaken doors he even smiled, perhaps gladdened to be safe within his rocky domain once more.

  “Welcome to my humble home,” he said. “Within the church yonder rests the uncorrupted arm of Saint Oswald and you are welcome to see it and pray within the chapel, of course. My steward will find you somewhere to sleep and in the morning my hostler will provide you with horses. Tomorrow we will ride south, but tonight you will dine as my guests in the great hall. The hall where kings and queens have feasted for centuries.”

  Runolf, begrimed and staggering, gazed about him. His eyes gleamed as he took in the expanse of open ground surrounded by the high palisade and the thatched barns, stables, guard houses and halls that made up the citadel of Bebbanburg. Uhtric noticed the Norseman’s hungry look and frowned, his good humour gone in an instant like so much smoke on the wind.

  “Take that heathen bastard and see that he is locked in a room with no window,” he said to one of his warriors. “One of the storerooms should do.”

  Runolf had been dragged away and I had thought little of him until I had sated my thirst on Uhtric’s fine ale and filled my belly with roast venison and a thick vegetable pottage. There was smoked herring too, but the sight of the shiny yellow flesh conjured memories of Aelfwyn and my eyes brimmed with tears. I pushed away the proffered platter.

  Only when I was replete did I wonder if Runolf had been given any sustenance. I cut a thick hunk of the gritty bread and on top of it I scooped a piece of meat, and a sliver of herring. I filled a cup with ale and stood.

  “Do you plan to eat another meal in the church?” asked Leofstan, and I was pleased to hear the familiar tinge of humour in his tone. It seemed the food and drink had done much to restore both of us.

  “Let us take this to Runolf first,” I said. “Then we can go and pray.”

  We walked along the edge of the hall, swerving to avoid the servants who hurried by with large pitchers of wine, ale and mead. The noise now was deafening. Most of the diners had drunk too much already and the feast seemed to have no end in sight. Close to our host at the high table, a dwarf capered and gambolled and a slender man, who was stripped bare apart from a loin cloth, bent himself into all manner of seemingly impossible knots. His bones looked set to pop out of his skin and the sight of him turned my stomach. The onlookers cheered and yelled encouragement. Neither I nor Leofstan spoke until we had left the building as we knew our voices would be drowned by the debauchery.

  Stepping into the cool darkness outside, I felt a sudden pang of desperate sadness. The sounds from the hall subsided as we walked into the night and I let out a long breath. All my earlier joy at seeing the location of so many childhood tales had evaporated like mead spilt onto a hearthstone.

  Beside me, Leofstan sighed too.

  “I am glad of the food,” he said, “but I miss the simple ways of the minster.”

  “How can they laugh and gorge themselves as if at a Crístesmæsse feast?” I asked. “Not two days ago dozens of Christian men and women, innocent people all, were abused, murdered and enthralled, not even a day’s walk away.”

  “To be able to ignore that which is right before them, is both a strength and a weakness of mankind,” Leofstan said. “If we allowed all the horrors of the world to assail us without respite, we would surely be consumed with grief, unable to do anything save cry and pray to the Almighty for salvation.”

  We walked in silence for a time towards the storerooms where Runolf had been taken. A light drizzle began to fall. It was cooling after the sweltering heat of the hall.

  “You say it is a weakness too?” I said.

  “Men who commit the worst sins are often those who are able to push away their emotions completely. If a man feels no sorrow for others’ suffering, there is nothing to stop him inflicting pain with abandon.”

  My hands were full with the food, but I felt an almost overwhelming urge to cross myself and pray. Was my own ability to suppress my woe and sadness a blessing or a curse?

  “What if a man is able to lie about a forbidden book?” I said, my tone sharp. I hated being made to confront my actions, and so I forced Leofstan to face his own.

  He sighed.

  “No man is without sin, it is true, Hunlaf,” he said. “But a man’s sin is between him and the Lord. I spoke to the bishop about the book. I tried my best to do what was right. But whatever the correct course of action, it matters not now. The book is destroyed. And you cannot believe that the loss of such knowledge, perhaps the last copy in existence of the works of a great mind, should have been burnt.”

  “I know not what I think anymore,” I replied. But in truth, the thought of The Treasure of Life, with its elaborate decorations and perfectly executed words and diagrams being turned to ash filled me with sorrow.

  I glanced over at Leofstan and he smiled at me sadly. He knew my mind well enough. I loved learning as much as he did.

  We spoke no further until we reached the building where Runolf was being held. Two men lounged outside the door, their faces lit from below by the dancing flames of a brazier. As we approached, one murmured something I could not hear and the two of them laughed. The red fire-glow gave their faces a demonic air.

  “Have you fed the prisoner?” I snapped, suddenly angry. The two guards jerked upright at the harsh sound of my voice, undoubtedly surprised to hear the tone from a young man bearing the tonsure.

  I struggled to keep my ire in check. Leofstan placed a hand on my shoulder.

  “We have brought some food and drink for him,” he said in a calming tone.

  “Well,” said the shorter of the two, “leave it with us and we will see that he gets it.” He leaned forward so that his broad face caught the light of the flames. His eyes were deep set and close together. I had an urge to strike him and had to whisper the paternoster under my breath to control myself.

  “Hunlaf, give the man the provender,” said Leofstan quietly.

  I glared at the guard and he returned my gaze, seemingly amused at my obvious anger. With an effort, I let out my breath and handed him the cup of ale and the bread topped with fish and meat.

  “This looks tasty indeed,” the man said, with a sidelong glance at his companion.

  “Very tasty,” the other man replied, smacking his lips. The two men chuckled and I bunched my hands into fists at my side. My right hand throbbed terribly where I’d once again split the scab on the wounds across my fingers.

  “You will give the food and ale to the prisoner?” asked Leofstan, his voice still soft and soothing, despite the crackle of confrontation between the men and me.

  “Of course, brother,” replied the short warrior, offering an ingratiating grin. The other guard giggled.

  “Good,” said Leofstan. “I will tell Uhtric that you have followed his orders faithfully. I pray that the rest of your evening is without incident.”

  The guard frowned at the mention of the lord of Bebbanburg, but Leofstan did not wait for his reply. Turning me with his grip on my shoulder, he pushed me away. I could barely breathe, such was my anger, and the force of it frightened me.

  When we had walked some distance from the storeroom and the guards, Leofstan spoke again in his gentle tone.

  “You must learn to control that anger of yours. Ire and violence are seldom the best way to get the outcome you desire in life.”

  I nodded glumly, scared of what had been unleashed within me by the events on Lindisfarnae.

  “Let us go now to Saint Peter’s,” Leofstan said. “I would see the remains of the arm of the saintly Oswald, and I believe we are bot
h in need of prayer and guidance from the Almighty.”

  Ten

  We rode south the next day with a column of a dozen of Uhtric’s hearth-warriors. He sent messengers on ahead with news of our coming so that halls along the way could prepare to house us for each night of our journey. As we travelled, we left the clouds and drizzle behind us in the north, a memory like the terrible storms that had ravaged the land in the spring and early summer. Stores had been ruined by rot and flooding, and the winter crops of wheat and rye had been crushed and destroyed in the dreadful winds and torrential rains. Either side of the crumbling, rutted Roman road were signs of the famine that yet gripped the land. Dirty, emaciated children followed us whenever we passed a dwelling. They trotted alongside the horses for as long as they were able, holding out their hands and pleading for food. I wanted to halt, to see whether there was anything we could do to alleviate their struggle, but Uhtric would not countenance the idea.

  “You convinced me that taking this man south to the king was important,” he said, gesturing with his chin towards Runolf, who now sat astride a mule that was led by one of Uhtric’s men. “You cannot now tell me that it is important to pause at every sign of a hungry mouth. The whole land is hungry, as well you know. All we can do is pray for a good harvest and that God will spare us from any pestilence this year.”

  I made the sign of the cross, feeling an impotent anger growing within me, twisted and strangling, like the weeds in the fields. What did Uhtric know of hunger and hardship? His belly was not shrivelled with starvation, his muscles would not wither on his frame from lack of nourishment.