No interpretation was needed from me for Runolf to understand Hereward’s meaning.
“You think they plan to hang me?” he asked, his tone seemingly unconcerned.
“I will not lie,” I replied. “Your future is uncertain.”
He nodded, but said nothing. Leofstan was also silent. I could feel the weight of both men’s gaze on me; their expectation like a great stone upon my shoulders.
“But I truly believe that the good Lord brought you here for a reason.”
“I know nothing of your god,” Runolf said. “Just that his worshippers trust him perhaps too much.” He hawked and spat a gobbet of phlegm into the mire of the street.
I could think of nothing to say to that. Runolf had come to Lindisfarnae and found riches and treasure unguarded, supposedly safe because men feared God’s damnation. Without that fear, what power did God truly have?
I shuddered at the direction my thoughts were taking me. Christ was loving and forgiving. Did that make him weak? In the face of heathen ferocity love would do nothing to protect the faithful. Surely even a shepherd had a dog to protect his flock from wolves.
We rode on in silence, my disquiet building as we finally approached our destination.
The open ground before the church was a jumble of tents and awnings. The sound of pipes and a lyre danced briefly over the noises of laughter and shouts from where two men were battling each other, surrounded by a dense mass of people. From my vantage point atop my horse, I could see over the heads of the baying spectators watching the men who were stripped to the waist. As I looked, the taller of the two, a brute of a man with fists like hams, grabbed his opponent behind the neck with his left hand and proceeded to pummel his right fist repeatedly into the man’s face. Blood splattered. The onlookers cheered. The smaller man went limp and slumped to the churned earth. A great roar went up from the crowd. I turned away, wondering what kind of man would stand and fight like that, toe to toe, blow for blow, blood-spattered and yet still grinning. And then I glanced at Runolf, taking in his massive shoulders and shovel-like hands and I knew the answer. His eyes glimmered with excitement at what he had witnessed and he craned his neck to see more as we left the expanse of ground with its chaos of festivities behind us.
Eighteen
“You have brought these tidings from your fortress in the north very slowly it seems to me, Uhtric.” Æthelred glowered at the lord of Bebbanburg. The king was not an old man, but grey frosted his hair and moustache and his eyes were pinched and shadowed. I had never seen him before, but I knew of the intrigues, plots and rumours that surrounded him. Watching Æthelred now, I could sense the suspicion in him. Here was a man who trusted nobody. Such a life, constantly in fear of an assassin’s blade or poison in your food, must be a poor one indeed, no matter how filled with power and riches it might be.
Uhtric shifted uncomfortably under the king’s stern gaze.
“I apologise, my lord king,” he said, and I could hear how much he hated the taste of the words in his mouth. But the king’s suspicion often led to violence and many of his closest retinue had been slain over the last few years since his return from exile. I did not blame Uhtric for treading with care. “The tides kept us from reaching the island for a day, but we have ridden with all haste.”
“Indeed? Your messenger said you had halted at Werceworthe. Why waste time there?” The king’s eyes narrowed and he sniffed, as if he could detect a lie.
“We only stayed for the night. I thought to inform the abbot there of what had occurred to his brethren.”
“And he sent these two with you?” Æthelred indicated Leofstan and me. We stood a few paces behind Uhtric and I squirmed to feel the eyes of the king and his nobles on me. The hall was grander even than the great hall of Bebbanburg, taller, longer and with more ornate carvings on the timber pillars. The walls were hung with tapestries which glistened with gold and silver threads. Ornaments and fine weapons were displayed from the beams, columns and every spare piece of wall. No space was wasted, instead each area was used to show the power of the owner of this hall. Æthelred, plagued by doubts and suspicions, was still one of the most powerful men on the island of Britain, second only perhaps to Offa of Mercia, and he did not want his guests forgetting it.
When we had reached the royal grounds, leaving the festival atmosphere of the city behind us, we had not been required to wait long for an audience with the king. Our horses had been led away by servants and, moments later, we were ushered into the hall. It was laid out for a feast, with benches and boards lining the length of the building, but only the king and his most trusted advisors were present at the high table. Uhtric had left his men outside guarding Runolf, but had told Leofstan and me to accompany him before the king. It was warm in the hall and sweat trickled down the back of my neck as all eyes turned to us. I had no right to be here. I was nobody. I wished then that I had stayed back at Werceworthe. The monks would be preparing for Vespers now. Why had I been so keen to come to Eoforwic?
“Not exactly, lord king,” said Uhtric in reply to Æthelred’s question. “These monks were present at Lindisfarnae when the attack took place.”
This seemed to awaken the king’s interest and he leaned forward, placing his hands on the board before him.
“Indeed? So perhaps they can tell me more than the vague tales I have heard.”
The only instruction Uhtric had hissed at us on entering the king’s presence was not to speak unless asked a direct question. And yet now, I found myself suddenly speaking, though I had not been addressed.
“We saw what happened on that fateful sixth day before the ides of June, my lord king,” I said.
Uhtric gave me a hard stare, as if willing me to be silent. But if the king took issue with my lack of protocol, he did not let it show.
“And your name is?” he asked.
“Hunlaf, lord.” I indicated Leofstan. “This is Brother Leofstan.”
“So, Hunlaf of Lindisfarnae,” said Æthelred, “what did you see on that terrible day?”
“Werceworthe, lord.”
“What?” the king asked, confused.
“We do not dwell on the holy island. We were visiting from Werceworthe.”
“Oh.” The king frowned and I wished I had not corrected him on what was an unimportant distinction. “And what did you see, Hunlaf of Werceworthe?” He emphasised the last word, twisting it with sarcasm and I swallowed against the lump in my throat. My mouth was suddenly dry. I cursed inwardly my foolishness in pointing out the king’s error.
“They came with the tide just after sunrise,” I said. My voice came out as a croak and I coughed to clear my throat. “There were three of them.”
“Only three?”
“Three huge longships, lord. With prows like serpents and great banks of oars like the wings of a giant bird. I do not know how many men there were, but they knew what they were about. They were well armed and came with a purpose.”
“To destroy that most Christian of sites.” His voice was reverent and he hesitated, as if lost in thought, before taking a sip from a silver cup.
I did not wish to contradict the king again, but I shook my head.
“No?” He raised his eyebrows and placed the cup back on the board before him. “Did the heathens not put the place to flame then? That is what I had heard.”
“Yes, lord king,” I said, lowering my gaze and wincing. If half of what I had heard about Æthelred were true, to appear in defiance of the king might be more dangerous than facing armed Norsemen. “They burnt several of the minster buildings and some of the settlement of the lay people too.”
“But you think their goal was other than destruction? Do you not believe these pagans to be sent by God to punish us for our sins?”
I swallowed against the parched dryness of my throat. Æthelred stared at me and would not let me go from the grip of his glare. There were many in the land who believed the king’s actions – the betrayals and murders of opponents and erstwhile friends alike –
to have led to the portents that had been seen in the sky that year. People muttered that it was the king’s sins that had seen God send the terrible storms to flatten the crops and usher in famine. The brutal attack from the sea could easily be seen as another of God’s chastisements for the transgressions of the king and the people of Northumbria, just as Eadgar and Godwig had said.
“I cannot know the way of the Almighty,” I said at last. “But the men who attacked Lindisfarnae caused untold devastation. They slew many, and razed the great scriptorium, where priceless works of learning were consumed by the flames and turned to ash. And yet, they were careful enough to take gold and silver from the church. And they carried away many thralls.”
Æthelred stroked his moustache.
“So, more than a holy punishment, you think this was akin to a cattle raid.”
I recalled the huge Norse leader ramming his knife blade into Tidraed’s eye with as little remorse as a farmer slaughtering a lamb. With a shudder I remembered vividly the infant’s wailing cries cut off as its head was smashed against a door post. My pulse quickened and my bandaged hand throbbed as I clenched it. Closing my eyes, I willed myself to breathe deeply, to calm my nerves, but more images flashed in the darkness of my mind’s eye. Brothers in Christ, faces tear-streaked and pale, rounded up and led towards the waiting ships. Bearded Norsemen, arms filled with loot, silver coins spilling from a chest that proved too cumbersome to carry, shouting and jeering as another warrior pleasured himself with a helpless monk he had bent over a small hand cart. I opened my eyes to escape the nightmare scenes that somehow I had no recollection of until my memory conjured them up now like malevolent spirits.
I met Æthelred’s brooding gaze. Had it been like a cattle raid for the Norsemen? Was that all the brethren had been to them? Nothing more than beasts, to be driven before them, exploited and sold?
“Well?” he asked, clearly impatient for my answer.
“The Norsemen came for plunder; for treasure and loot,” I said. “They destroyed what they did not want or could not easily bear with them. Many of the holy men were slain.” I swallowed down the bile that burnt the back of my throat as the horrific memories fought once again to resurface. “The raiders seemed to revel in the slaughter. But they came for the riches they knew the brethren possessed. It is no secret that the minster is unguarded.”
As he’d heard of the devastation and the atrocities perpetrated on the brethren, the king’s face had darkened.
“Which kingdom did they come from, these Norsemen?” he said, tugging at his moustache. “Were they sent by a rival king?”
“They came from a land of islands and mountains called Rygjafylki,” I replied. “It is far across the North Sea.”
Æthelred raised his eyebrows at this. He had been voicing the question for himself and had clearly not expected an answer.
“How can you know that for certain?” he asked.
I realised then that he had not been informed of Runolf’s presence with us. As the huge Norseman was no longer bound, there was nothing to make him stand out from the other warriors in Uhtric’s band, apart from his lack of weapons.
“One of them told me,” I said. The king looked at me dubiously. “I questioned him,” I added, by way of explanation.
“You spoke to one of these heathens?” Æthelred’s incredulity was obvious.
“I did, lord.” I hesitated, unsure how to proceed. “I have.”
“Explain,” he snapped. There was a sharp edge in his tone now.
I took a steadying breath, wishing I had never travelled to Eoforwic, never entered this hall.
“One of their number turned on the heathens and fought in defence of two children.”
Æthelred’s eyes widened in surprise.
“He fought against his own?”
“He did, lord,” I replied. I chose to omit my own part in the fight. “He slew several of the Norsemen.”
“Astonishing! And the children lived?”
“Yes. They are both hale.”
Æthelred shook his head, obviously amazed at the tale he was hearing.
“Can this be true?” he said.
Before I could answer, Uhtric took a step forward and said, “It is all as Hunlaf says, lord king.”
“And you say you spoke to this heathen?” Æthelred said, ignoring Uhtric.
“Yes, lord,” I said. “After the Norsemen had sailed away.”
“He was left behind when they sailed?” Æthelred asked.
“Yes, lord,” I repeated.
“And you speak the Norse tongue?”
“A little. Enough to communicate.”
The king nodded and pulled at his moustache.
“And where is this Norseman now?”
He turned to Uhtric, who twitched as the king fixed him with a questioning look.
“He is outside, lord king,” Uhtric said. “With my men.”
“He is here?” Æthelred said, clearly amazed at this news. “Bring him in. I would see him.”
Uhtric hurried to the hall’s doors to do as he was bidden. Æthelred turned back to me.
“You can interpret his words for me? And mine for him to understand?”
“I can, lord,” I replied. “There will be no confusion.”
“Good.” His eyes flicked towards a movement behind me. I turned and watched as Uhtric, along with Hereward and two other warriors, led Runolf down the length of the hall.
The tall Norseman’s gaze roved hungrily about the treasures on display. I suddenly wondered whether I had been wrong about this man all along. Was it possible to train a wolf to protect the shepherd’s flock?
The men halted near me and Runolf gave me a small nod by way of greeting.
“Tell him who I am,” said Æthelred.
I nodded.
“This is Æthelred, son of Æthelwald Moll, lord and king of Northumbria.”
Runolf inclined his head.
“My lord king,” I said, “this is Runolf Ragnarsson.”
For several heartbeats the two men stared at each other. I could not comprehend the communication that passed between them, but after a time Æthelred, seeming to have taken measure of the prisoner, began to ask questions. These I translated. Runolf replied, truthfully, as far as I could tell, and I passed on his meaning to the king. This went on for some time. There were no surprises for me, as Æthelred raised most of the same questions I had already asked.
When he questioned the Norsemen’s motivation and was met with Runolf’s customary dismissive response about treasure and slaves and the weakness of the monks, there was a distinct shift in the atmosphere of the hall. It felt the same as when a cloud flitted before the sun, or the way the day cools and coils in anticipation before lightning strikes and the heavens open.
“And so,” Æthelred said, his tone now as sharp as an unsheathed blade, “you admit that you prey on the weak and helpless?”
I interpreted.
Runolf seemed puzzled. He spoke in his rumbling voice. I hesitated, knowing that his words would stir up anger. The king stared at me impatiently so with a sigh I translated the words for Æthelred and the other listeners.
“Would a fox not take a hen? Does a wolf not kill the lambs in the field? If the farmer does not protect his livestock, the cunning and strong beasts will fill their bellies with their flesh.”
At these words, Æthelred’s face clouded with rage. For the first time, one of the other men at the high table spoke. A slender man, garbed in the dark robes of a priest, stood up quickly. On his chest hung an ornate crucifix of gold.
“This is an outrage!” he spluttered. “The heathen has admitted his crimes and must pay the penalty. Death is the only punishment for his evil.”
The king held up a hand for peace and let out a long breath. He did not turn to look at the priest.
“Be seated, Daegmund,” Æthelred said. “I hear your ire at what this man and his people have done and I am mindful of your words. But a king should never
be hasty. I must glean as much as possible from this fruit before casting aside its husk.”
I chose not to translate these words for Runolf. I wondered how much he understood of what was said. His grasp of Englisc was improving daily.
The priest sat down, making the sign of the cross as he did so. His face was twisted and thunderous and he muttered under his breath.
The king took a steadying sip from the silver cup and stared at Runolf.
“So you accuse me of being responsible for the deaths of these monks?”
Æthelred paused and nodded at me to speak the words in the Norse tongue.
Runolf listened and then replied with a shrug.
“As the master of these lands, it is your duty to protect your people.”
For several heartbeats nobody spoke. The king glowered at Runolf and the Norseman, seemingly undaunted, stared back.
“My lord king,” stammered Uhtric at last, unable to bear the weight of the silence any longer, “what would you have me do with the prisoner? What is your will?”
“It is not a matter of what I would like to do, or my will,” said Æthelred. “If it were, I would be minded to have the skin flayed from him until he begged for mercy.” His gaze had not moved from the Norseman as he spoke. “And then, if it were up to me, I would deny him that mercy, as his kind denied clemency to those they violated and murdered on the holy isle of Lindisfarnae!” With these last words, he raised his voice to a shout and slammed his fist into the board before him. The silver cup wobbled and he quickly reached out a hand to stop it from toppling over. He stared at it for a moment and then sighed.
“But a king cannot always do what he wishes. He must do that which is right for his people.” He lifted the goblet and took a gulp of its contents. “He says there will be more attacks?”
It was unclear to whom the king was addressing the question and so, after a brief hesitation, I responded.
“He does, lord king. He told me that there are plans to attack the other minsters that are situated along the coast. He says the next attack will probably be at Werceworthe.”
Æthelred nodded.
A Time for Swords Page 14