A Time for Swords

by Matthew Harffy

  I slept poorly despite the tiredness of my body from the long days of riding. My head was a-swirl with worries and fears like a flock of sparrows flitting about a hedgerow, never settling, always in flight, impossible to grasp.

  Runolf appeared unconcerned by his decisions and when I tried to speak to him of what it meant to be baptised, he waved me away.

  “Unlike you Northumbrians, I have been washed before, Hunlaf,” he said with a grin.

  I told Leofstan what he’d said and the monk simply smiled.

  “You cannot control everything,” he said. “Allow the Lord to lead Runolf where He will.”

  “You believe this is all part of God’s plan?” I asked.

  “Do you believe it is not? I thought that was why we had come here.”

  I had no answer to that and so I wrapped myself in a blanket and flopped onto the pallet farthest from the door. I closed my eyes but sleep was a long time coming.

  The next day, servants arrived when the sun was yet low in the sky to lead us to the church of Saint Peter where Daegmund was awaiting us. The air was still cool and the dew-encrusted shadows were long on the ground.

  Accustomed as I was to rising for the different offices, I came awake quickly. Uhtric’s warriors grumbled and groaned at being asked to rise so early, but they were well trained and drilled to be ready for combat whenever called upon and so, soon enough, we were all up and following the servants through the awakening streets of the city towards the church.

  Lord Uhtric had been the last to climb from his pallet. He had clearly imbibed copious amounts of the king’s ale and wine and was now feeling the after-effects. He staggered blinking into the bright morning, holding his head and shouting for water.

  Eoforwic was already awake and by the time we reached the stone edifice of the church, the streets were beginning to grow crowded. We fell into step behind clusters of people heading to the festival ground before Saint Peter’s.

  Smoke and the scent of cooking meat hung over the tents and shelters in the early morning air. There was no wind and the banners, flags and pennants hung limp, dew-dampened and flaccid in the still air. But already the mood of the place was ebullient. Like a pot set on a smouldering fire, I had the sense that like the day before, as the day warmed, so would the festival and soon the place would be a cacophony of music and merriment. Men and women would hawk their wares and others would scream and bet on their favourites to win contests of chance and skill.

  Stepping out of the bright morning sunshine into the church of Saint Peter, I was struck by how dark and chill it was inside. I shivered. At the far end of the building stood Daegmund, waiting impatiently for our arrival. His reception was as cool and gloomy as the church’s interior.

  “We have been waiting,” he said, his acerbic tone scratching at my nerves. “The baptismal font was not ready and we had to be awake at dawn in order to fill it. There is already so much to do with the Feast of Saint Peter approaching.” He looked about him as if seeking something else to complain about.

  “I am sure God will be pleased that you have laboured and risen early to bring a new soul to the fold,” said Uhtric. Daegmund glowered at him. I expected him to respond to the obvious jibe, but something in Uhtric’s demeanour checked him.

  “Quite,” he said at last. “Is the Norseman ready?”

  “He is,” said Uhtric. “Runolf,” he clicked his fingers and the sound echoed within the stone chamber, “it is time.”

  Before the altar there was a large recess hewn into the ground. It was stone-lined and shaped like a cross. Water lapped over the steps that led down into the font. To one side, resting against the southern wall was the timber framework that would cover the font when not in use.

  I had never seen such a baptismal pool before and all the while we had walked towards the church I had wondered how they meant to baptise Runolf within the building. I had thought that perhaps they would pour the water over his head rather than submerge him three times as was the traditional way. But the sacrament of the baptism could only be given in this way if someone was unable to enter the water fully. And, while Runolf’s great height might make it difficult for him to fully submerge, there was no real impediment to him wading into a river, which is where I had expected the baptism to take place. I stared at the close-fitting stones and wondered how the water did not seep away. The water was dark, as if it were very deep and I leaned forward to get a closer look. Then I understood. The apparent darkness was not from the shadows of a deep well, it was from the grey-coloured lining of lead that covered the bottom of the font.

  A movement caught my attention and I turned at the same moment that Daegmund let out a cry of dismay.

  “What in all that is holy is he doing?” he squawked.

  For a heartbeat, I could not make out what had so upset the priest. Runolf bent down and stood and I gasped to see his pale, muscled body. He was completely naked, having removed all of his clothing and left it in a pile on the flagstones. There were scars and bruises on his pallid flesh. His physical presence was overpowering in the gloom of the church as he stared at the priest with a quizzical expression.

  Hereward laughed, a loud, harsh sound that reverberated from the stone walls.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed.

  “I am not going to walk around all day in wet clothes,” he replied in a tone that implied I was simple to ask such a question.

  I stood silent, mouth agape and unsure how to answer.

  “There is a robe for him and a place to change behind the screen,” said Daegmund, his voice rasping like fingernails being scratched across slate.

  He studiously ignored Runolf’s naked form and I glanced to where he was looking. I realised then that the font’s wooden cover was propped up in such a way as to provide space behind it.

  “You are meant to disrobe behind that,” I said, pointing at the wooden partition. “There is a robe for you there.”

  “I have no need of a robe,” replied Runolf. “It is cold in here. Let’s get this over with.”

  Without waiting for a response, the huge Norseman strode past the spluttering Daegmund and splashed into the font.

  “By Óðinn’s cock,” Runolf said, “this water is chill enough to freeze a man.” I chose not to translate his words. His pale skin prickled with the cold like that of a plucked goose. He took a deep breath and stepped down further into the font until the water reached his waist. “Come on, man,” he said in Englisc to Daegmund.

  For a moment, the priest merely looked down at Runolf. His mouth worked as if chewing over words he wished to say. In the end, he apparently found none suitable, for he hitched up his robe and stepped into the cold water with a sharp intake of breath. Standing shivering beside Runolf, Daegmund turned to us.

  “Which of you is to be this man’s Godfather?”

  Uhtric grunted.

  “If I am to take his oath, I might as well be his sponsor in this too,” he said.

  Daegmund nodded.

  “Very well. Step into the water and place your hand upon his shoulder.”

  Uhtric recoiled at the suggestion.

  “By Christ’s bones, no!” he said.

  Unbidden, I found myself making the sign of the cross at Uhtric’s blasphemy, along with Daegmund, Leofstan and the other clergy who stood observing in the shadowed church.

  “Someone must be the man’s Godfather as he accepts the true faith.”

  Nobody spoke, but Uhtric shook his head vigorously. Slowly, all eyes turned to me. I looked at the cold water, imagining its icy embrace.

  “Well, boy? What are you waiting for?” snapped Daegmund. “Do not tarry. There is much to do today.”

  It was clear that nobody else was going to offer themselves for the role and so, with a sigh, I began to quickly untie my shoes. The stone floor of the church was cold.

  “Hurry, boy,” said Daegmund.

  “Come on, Hunlaf,” rumbled Runolf. “My balls are shrivelled with the cold.”
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br />   I had the sudden urge to piss and bit my lip not to giggle at the thought of emptying my bladder into the font. Tentatively, I stepped down into the water and joined the two men. To be someone’s sponsor was not something to be taken lightly, but the water was icy and I could think of little else save for getting out. I placed my hand on Runolf’s shoulder to symbolise that I was offering him support and guidance as he accepted Christ as his saviour. At first I cared little for the words that Daegmund uttered. He was clearly unhappy to be performing this rite, wanting nothing more than to be done with it and able to go about the day he had planned. But as he posed the questions to Runolf about faith and everlasting life, and I interpreted for him, telling him how to reply, I felt an unlikely serenity. I was unsure whether anyone else felt it, but I was suddenly gripped once more by the certainty that this was all part of God’s plan.

  When he had to repudiate and reject all other gods, Runolf hesitated, a distant look in his eye. The silence drew on uncomfortably. The water leached the warmth from my body and I shivered. Eventually, I repeated the words that Daegmund had spoken and told Runolf once again what he must say in reply.

  As if brought out of a dream, Runolf’s eyes snapped back to the present. There were tears there and a terrible sorrow pulled his face into a scowl.

  “I reject them all,” he growled and I was surprised at the anger in his voice.

  At the culmination of the Holy sacrament, Runolf’s eyes seemed to glow in the gloom and he did not resist as Daegmund and I lowered him into the water. The moment he was completely submerged, we pulled him out, and then, after he had taken a breath, we pushed him under again. One final time, he was submerged; the three soakings a reminder of the Holy Trinity.

  As soon as he came up the third time, Daegmund, his work done, stepped from the font. A servant waited for him with a cloth to dry himself. The servant also held out cloths for Runolf and me.

  “I feel no different,” murmured Runolf, as he passed a hand over his eyes and then proceeded to squeeze moisture from his thick beard.

  My habit was wet to the waist and clung clammily to my legs. I sat on the cold flagstones and wiped my feet and calves as dry as possible.

  “What did you expect?” I asked.

  He shrugged, rubbing the linen cloth against his scarred, pale body.

  “Tell him to go behind the screen,” said Daegmund. “I have seen quite enough of his nakedness.”

  I told Runolf, and with another shrug of his massive shoulders, he scooped up his kirtle and breeches and slipped behind the upright font cover.

  I pulled on my shoes, tying the leather laces. Standing, I shuddered at the cold touch of my sodden robe against my calves.

  “Now, if there is nothing else,” said Daegmund, “I must change and attend to the rest of my flock on this busy day.”

  “There is one more thing,” said Uhtric as the priest turned to leave.

  Daegmund halted.

  “Yes?” he asked, his tone wary.

  “I would have you witness Runolf’s oath to me.”

  “God is your witness,” Daegmund replied. “You have no need of me now.”

  “That is as may be,” said Uhtric, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes and then passing his hands across his stubbled cheeks. “But Runolf is now a child of Christ and I would have you observe his oath-giving.”

  Daegmund spun about and I thought he would shout his objection at Uhtric, but the lord of Bebbanburg simply smiled a tired smile and said, “Thank you.”

  Daegmund swallowed and I bit back a chortle of laughter that threatened to come bubbling up. It was plain to see that Uhtric was toying with Daegmund. The priest’s attitude had annoyed him and he aimed to make him pay in whatever small way possible. I disliked Daegmund too, and I felt a thin sliver of pleasure at Uhtric’s meaningless victory. And yet I could not deny that part of me was saddened by it. A lord should be above such pettiness.

  I watched the two of them as we all waited for Runolf to return from where he was dressing. Daegmund, furious and impatient, breathed deeply. Uhtric closed his eyes and leaned against the cold wall of the church, seemingly ignorant of the anger he had stirred in the priest. Perhaps there was something to be learnt from this dance, this song without words. Uhtric had flexed his muscles with the cleric and in doing so, he had not only learnt where he was perceived to be in the rank of the king’s followers, but he had let Daegmund know that he was in command here.

  Uhtric yawned and belched. He was clearly tired and I believed he would rush through the oath. I was wrong. Whether because he wished to show Daegmund his power over him, or because he believed an oath between a warrior and his lord was more important than that between man and God, Uhtric spoke to Runolf slowly and clearly about his responsibilities as an oath-sworn man. He had me interpret every word and would not proceed until he was convinced that Runolf had understood.

  For his part, the Norseman took the oath-giving in total earnest. Both men gave the other their full attention and neither smiled. This was a solemn vow and there was no doubt to any who witnessed the oath that it was not taken lightly. When both men were satisfied with the other’s replies to their questions, Runolf knelt before Uhtric and spoke the words of the plight in his heavily accented Englisc.

  I had never before been present at such a moment and I felt a squirming excitement in my belly at the power in the words.

  “By the Lord before whom this sanctuary is holy,” Runolf said, haltingly repeating the words that Hereward whispered to him, “I will to Uhtric be true and faithful. Love all which he loves and shun all which he shuns, according to the laws of God and the order of the world. Nor will I ever with will or action, through word or deed, do anything which is unpleasing to him, on condition that he will hold to me as I shall deserve it, and that he will perform everything as it was in our agreement when I submitted myself to him and chose his will.”

  I wondered what it would feel like to swear such allegiance to a leader of men rather than to God. Of course, I had given myself to Christ and to my brethren, but something about this oath sent a shiver down my spine. My hand throbbed and I imagined clutching the seax, the weight of the metal in my grip, the surge of power and rage that had washed through me.

  Uhtric pulled Runolf to his feet and embraced him, dispelling the serious mood that had fallen over us.

  With a slap on the huge man’s back, Uhtric said, “It is done.”

  Daegmund fidgeted, but seemed strangely quiet and subdued. Again I marvelled at Uhtric’s power over the small man.

  “Thank you for your blessing, Daegmund,” Uhtric said, as if just remembering that the priest was present. “You may leave us.”

  Daegmund frowned and opened his mouth to speak. He then snapped it closed again, thinking better of it.

  “Have a good day,” he said, and stalked away down the length of the gloom-laden church, followed by his acolytes. As he opened the doors, the noise of revelry from outside was loud. Bright sunlight lanced into the church, cutting through the sombre atmosphere inside.

  “I am tired,” Uhtric said. “I’m going back to the hall. I need to rest my head. Tomorrow we head north, into the lands of Causantín mac Fergusa. The king has ordered that I join forces with Lord Lanferth there, to defend the northern border.”

  He began to walk away, towards the warm day. His men trailed after him, leaving just Runolf, Hereward, Leofstan and me standing by the font. The servants of the church were already replacing the cover. With an echoing clatter they dropped it into place. I started at the noise and Uhtric turned.

  “What about us, lord?” Hereward asked.

  “What about you?” Uhtric replied. “You are to go to Werceworthe, with my new Christian warrior.”

  “But what are we to do?” Hereward replied. His voice held a pleading note. “We have no fighting men.”

  Uhtric sighed.

  “No fighting men? The two of you are worth ten normal men.” He saw that his words did nothing to set
tle Hereward’s concerns. “Think,” he said, “did the abbot not say you could bring back good Christian men to fight for the minster?”

  “Yes, but what men? The king can spare none and neither can you.”

  “There are men who fight for other things besides their king or their sworn lord. Men who may not have a master, but are good Christians, I’m sure. Those men can still fight.”

  He made his way to the doors and pushed them open. Again, the sound of the crowds rolled in with the brilliant sunshine. We walked down the length of the church and joined Uhtric at the open doors.

  “You mean men who would fight for silver?” asked Hereward.

  “Perhaps,” Uhtric replied, staring out at the mass of tents and people.

  “I have none,” said Hereward. “Would you give me some silver to pay for men, lord?”

  Uhtric glanced at him. A slight smile played on his lips.

  “No,” he said.

  The scent of cooking made me suddenly ravenous.

  “What are we to do then?” Hereward asked.

  Uhtric said nothing. I followed his gaze and saw that he was looking at a throng of people. Like the day before a crowd had congregated around a bare-knuckle fight.

  I recalled the pinched faces of the people we had passed as we’d travelled south, the poor crops following the storms of the spring.

  “We should search for men there,” I said, pointing at the jostling people gathered about the fight. “It looks to me that most of Deira has come to Eoforwic for the festival. Surely we can find some good Christians there who can fight.”

  “But we have nothing to offer them,” said Hereward, shaking his head.

  “We have no silver,” I replied, “but there has been famine in the land and people are starving.”

  “You mean…” his voice trailed off.

  “Yes,” I said. “There is food at the minster. We cannot offer riches, but we can offer sustenance.”

  His face twisted into a humourless smile.

  “So,” he said, rubbing a hand over his beard, “what you are saying is that we must find hungry warriors.”