“The Almighty can forgive anything, if a man comes to him truly repentant and with an open heart,” he said.
I did not speak, but his words gave me some comfort. The thought of eternal damnation had been gnawing at me ever since the horrors of Lindisfarnae.
“But a man who seeks war and killing,” he went on, “is surely not penitent.” He stared at me. The evening was drawing in and only a dim light shone from the small window in the room. His eyes were shadowed; hidden from me beneath his heavy brows.
“I have thought and prayed much on this and waited for your return before I made my decision,” Beonna continued. “Leofstan has told me of the events that have transpired, but I wanted to be certain of your mind before I pass judgement.”
His words were ominous. Again I felt like the child about to face punishment and, just as when I had stood before my father, I was certain I had done nothing wrong. I bit my lip.
“Do you choose the sword over peace, Hunlaf? Will you allow war to govern your life, rather than God’s love?”
“God has placed a sword in my hand and given me the skill and strength to wield it to protect his own.” I sat up straight and puffed out my chest. Pride is a sin too, but I cannot deny that I felt proud of the battle-skill I had unearthed from within me. “I cannot turn my back on that.”
“The Lord places many things within our reach,” Beonna said, shaking his head. “We decide which we pick up. The choice is ours and ours alone.”
“I can feel your disappointment in me,” I said, tears stinging my eyes. I blinked and took a deep breath. I would not cry.
“No, no, Hunlaf,” Beonna said. He leaned forward and patted my knee. “We are not disappointed. We are scared of what will become of you. You were sent to us as a boy by your father, and we will suffer his wrath if you leave us, but you are a boy no longer. And each man must make his own choices.”
I had not thought that far ahead, or how my father would react to the tidings of his second son abandoning the post he had secured for me. He would surely cease to pay whatever silver he placed within the coffers of the church for my upkeep when he learnt of my change of heart.
“Leave you?” I said, a new fear gripping me. “I do not wish to leave. I have brought the band of warriors to defend the minster, and those I love.” My voice cracked. “And I will stay to aid them.”
“And you are welcome here, my son,” Beonna said softly. “Know that you will always be welcome.” He hesitated. “But as you no longer abide by the Regula Sancti, you cannot remain part of this brethren.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but the words did not come. Hereward had said the same, and the truth was that I had already made my decision. I had not thought of my father’s reaction to the news, but that would not change my mind. The abbot and Leofstan could clearly see as much and were merely formalising it. I looked down at the cup in my hands and nodded. I emptied the contents and welcomed the burning sweetness of the strong mead. A warrior’s drink, I thought with grim irony.
“There is no shame in this, Hunlaf,” said Leofstan.
I nodded again. If Leofstan spoke truly, why did I feel so shameful?
“Perhaps one day you will return to us,” said Beonna, “but for now, it seems the Lord has other plans for you. Now, let us pray together for the days that are to come.”
At the time, filled with the passions of youth, I could not imagine ever returning to the life of a monk. Something had awakened within me when I took the life of that raider on Lindisfarnae, and I had found my true calling when I picked up the sword from the brigand’s dead hand on the muddy stream bank. I was a warrior now and would not look back at who I had been. But the abbot was a wise man. Beonna is long since gone now to sit by the throne of our Heavenly Father, but I often think of him and pray for his eternal soul. Not that the prayers of a sinner like me are needed for such a holy man. For in the end, his words proved true. Fighting and killing are the pursuits of young men and, as the years passed, with increasingly fewer of my friends surviving and my bones aching whenever there was rain in the air, the prospect of quiet contemplation and prayer appealed. Eventually, I made my way back to the minster at Werceworthe, and found the abbot’s promise had been passed on to his successor, Criba. He did not like me, or what I stood for. I am sure he would rather I had died in some distant land, but somehow I had managed to outlive all of my warrior brothers and whilst I was not welcomed like the prodigal son with open arms, I was allowed to take up my place within the minster, and for that I am thankful.
But back then, in the abbot’s room, I could only see as far as defending the minster against the Norsemen. If I lived beyond that, time would tell where God and my wyrd would lead me. We bowed our heads and Beonna led us in prayer. With each word I felt my old life drifting away, like dark dye leaching from cloth in hot water. The abbot’s words and his and Leofstan’s love comforted me, and yet, at the same time, I knew that when I left that room, I would be a monk no more. I would discard the habit and the tonsure, wear a sword and ride rather than walk. Men and women would look at me differently, expecting things of me that I had never truly contemplated before.
The future was unseen and I could not imagine the great deeds I would witness in later years. As I knelt there in the abbot’s darkening room, all I knew for certain was that when the Norsemen came again to our shores, I would not cower in the church with the holy men, or flee before them with the women and children and the ceorls who toiled in the fields. No, I would face them alongside my new brothers. I might die on the cold iron of the Norse axes and swords, but I would fight to protect the lives of those unable to fight for themselves. I would not run from battle, but towards it, and I would stand as a warrior, blade in hand and willing to give my blood and my life in the defence of my friends.
There was a time for prayer and forgiveness, and there was a time for swords.
Thirty-Four
When I returned to the dormitory, the boards had been laid out for the evening meal and the smell of cooking filled the air as I passed the kitchen. The conversation with the abbot had left me in a daze. My mind was clouded, as if I had drunk much more than the single cup of mead.
My discomfort must have been plain to see, for as I walked, stiff-legged, to find my place on the benches, Hereward caught my arm. I looked down at him, a blank expression on my face.
“Are you ill, Hunlaf?” he asked.
I shook my head but said nothing. Frowning, he released me and I stumbled on.
The brethren traipsed in after Vespers and the food was served. I noticed Osfrith staring at me, and when I swept my gaze about the gathering, all the faces that looked back at me seemed cold and unforgiving, as if I had been judged and found wanting.
The fare was simple enough; a pottage and a thick slice of fresh bread each. But this was followed by a treat as tasty as any morsel on a lord’s table. Freothogar, a man from the village, had baked some of his fabulous honey cakes. Everyone in Werceworthe agreed that Freothogar’s cakes were better than any other, but when asked what made them so delicious, he was always tight-lipped and would merely smile and tap his nose.
I did not think I had an appetite, but the thought of one of Freothogar’s honey cakes changed that, and when a steaming bowl of stew was placed before me, I ate ravenously, mopping the bowl clean with the bread.
The older men seemed to understand that I needed time to myself and none of them tried to engage me in conversation, but Cormac slid onto the bench beside me, speaking incessantly and asking all manner of questions about the brethren, the minster and its environs.
“Speak to Leofstan,” I growled, “if you wish to hear about the minster and the monks.”
“But I would rather hear it from you, Killer,” he replied, using the name that Gwawrddur had given me. When the older man called me that, it did not rankle and I took it in the spirit it was meant. But the name on Cormac’s lips saw me flying into a rage. I hammered my fist down on the board and the cups
and plates rattled.
Drosten cursed as his cup of ale tumbled over.
“That is not my name, you Hibernian fool,” I snarled, my voice ringing out loudly above the murmured hubbub of the hall.
The room fell silent.
“I meant no ill,” Cormac said.
“Come now, Cormac,” said Gwawrddur, his tone soft in the sudden stillness. “You have keen eyes. Can you not see that Hunlaf does not wish to converse with you this night? Leave him be. He has no time for your prating tonight.”
I nodded my thanks to the Welshman and mumbled an apology to Cormac before pushing myself up and stalking to the corner where lay all of our belongings.
Everybody watched me and I wanted to scream at them to let me be, but soon enough the room was abuzz with the drone of the warriors’ conversations, while the monks ate in their customary silence.
Osfrith used his hands to sign at me, asking if I was well.
I made the sign for “yes” back at him and offered him a thin smile. I would have to find time to talk to him. We had been friends ever since coming here, and he looked up to me like an older brother. The change to my circumstances would surely hit him hard.
But for now I ignored him and the rest of the men in the hall and went about what I had been thinking of doing for the last few days but only now, after speaking to the abbot, dared to do.
Thirty-Five
“What is that up there?” asked Hereward. I looked in the direction of his pointing finger, peering through the mist of drizzle at the mouldering buildings that stood on the high grounds that overlooked the monastery.
“That is Werce’s Hall,” I said.
“Werce? The lord of this place? I thought it was just monks and ceorls.”
“He was the lord once, I am told, but it has been close to a hundred years since this land was gifted to the brethren of Lindisfarnae by King Ceolwulf.”
“Does nobody live there now?” Hereward asked.
I shook my head. I had been up there before with Osfrith. Neither the large building, nor the smaller huts near it, were in use. The thatch had fallen in and rotted through in places and one of the walls had partially collapsed, but it seemed to me as though it had been used by either the villagers or the monastery until quite recently. It had certainly not been abandoned for a century, for if it had been, there would be nothing to see but rotting timbers in the grass.
“It has been empty for as long as I have been here,” I said, eager to give Hereward an answer. Gone was my sullen silence of the night before. I had awoken with fresh purpose. I had chosen this life and, if I was to prosper in it, I would need to make myself useful.
Hereward exchanged a glance with Gwawrddur. The Welshman said nothing, but nodded slowly, as if in response to some unspoken question. I marvelled at how the two warriors seemed to understand one another with barely a word uttered. It was not the first time I had noted this since we had set out that morning to survey the land.
“We shall have to go up there to take a closer look,” said Hereward.
I looked up at the grey sky. The light rain moistened my cheeks and I wished I had a cloak to keep me dry.
“It will be slippery on that slope,” I said.
Hereward smiled.
“Good,” he said, and began walking across the fields towards the high hill that rose to the south of the promontory that was made by the loop of the Cocueda.
We skirted the green barley that dropped under the weight of the rain. The nettles and weeds that grew along the verge were wet and soaked our clothes as we passed. It had started raining in the night and, though it was not cold, I was glad of the extra protection from the mud and the moisture on the long grass that my new leg wraps provided. I had cut the bottom half of my habit using the sharp seax I had taken from the dead brigand by the river. What had been my long robe was now a short kirtle, the tattered, un-stitched hem of which hung to my thighs. The remainder of the woollen cloth I had cut into strips. In the morning I had bound them about my lower legs. I wore old breeches that I had brought with me to the minster when I had first come from Magilros.
Hereward had raised an eyebrow when he’d seen my new attire, but he’d said nothing.
Cormac had grinned and said, “You look every part the warrior now, Hunlaf.” I had returned his smile. I did not wish to argue with him or any of the others that morning. But despite the change to my clothes and the heft of the sword at my hip, I did not feel like a man of war. As we trudged through the rain along the southern and eastern edges of the land upon which the minster nestled, I felt strangely out of place. I knew the surroundings well, the sandbars in the river, the shingle beach where the ferry landed, the alders that skirted the waters of the river and the fields of barley that grew in the east between the river and the hill of Werce’s Hall. I answered Hereward’s questions quickly and as fully as possible, but as I walked beside these men of action, these killers, I could not shake the feeling that I was an impostor amongst them. A cuckoo in a nest of falcons.
Drosten pointed out likely places where it might be possible to ambush the Norsemen. Gwawrddur said that it was clear they would need to sacrifice some of the buildings, if they were to stand any chance against superior numbers. Hereward listened to their suggestions, his eyes ever roving over the land in search of weak spots or places that could be more easily defended. I did not look at the land with the eyes of a warrior. I had much to learn if I wished to be of real use to these men. Cormac, I noticed, was uncharacteristically quiet. Perhaps I was not the only one feeling out of my depth and adrift.
Grass grew thick and lush on the hill that loomed over the settlement and minster of Werceworthe. As I had warned, the rain made the going difficult. The ground was slick and we had to use our hands to steady ourselves as we ascended. When we reached the summit we looked down at the houses of the lay people and in the distance, at the far northern tip of the jutting piece of land, the church and minster buildings by the river’s edge. The rain stopped as we stared out over Werceworthe. In the north, far off on the horizon above the distant hills, the clouds parted and a ray of sunshine lit the land below. Even up here, there was scarcely a breeze. It was yet high summer and the sun was hot. The cooling effect of the rain was quickly forgotten and it soon felt uncomfortably warm and clammy.
Hereward led us over to the western side of the hill and we looked down the steep bank at the river below. This side was much steeper than on the east, and the slope was heavily wooded with alders and sallows.
“They won’t be wanting to come that way,” said Gwawrddur. I wondered at his words, but did not wish to appear foolish, so kept silent. Why would the Norsemen seek to climb this hill at all, when the settlement was below us?
Seemingly satisfied with what he saw, Hereward turned and went to the hall. It was a large building and must have been imposing before it fell into disrepair. There were two smaller outbuildings, but both of those looked to be in an even worse state than the hall. We walked around the outside of the building before eventually stepping inside through the doorway. The door had fallen from its leather hinges and lay rotting on the floor inside. The place was redolent of mildew and damp. Pigeons, disturbed by our arrival, fluttered and cooed in the rafters. Rotted thatch, broken timber, bird shit and mouse droppings littered the floor.
Hereward slid his seax from its sheath at his belt and went to the thick pillars that supported the beams of the roof. He jammed the tip of the knife into the wood in several places, prying and twisting the blade and examining the damage. Turning back to us he nodded, a grim smile on his face.
“The timber is sound enough,” he said. “For the first time I am beginning to think we might actually do this thing.”
We left the stinking shaded interior of the hall and stepped once more out into the steaming warmth of the sunshine. Hereward and Gwawrddur were both pleased with what they had seen. Drosten, his tattooed face making him appear to be frowning, surveyed the land from the hall’s vantag
e point. As if he too understood what Hereward planned, he nodded silently to himself. I glanced at Cormac. The Hibernian raised an eyebrow sardonically, inviting me to ask the question that I thought was probably also on his mind. Again, fearing appearing foolish, I clamped my mouth shut and said nothing. Instead, I led Hereward and the others to the south of the hill. There it dropped away in a shallow incline. A huge solitary oak stood there, like a sentinel, and we could clearly make out a deep ditch that led from east to west across the outcropping of land that was largely encircled by the river’s meandering loop.
The ditch was too straight to be natural. Wide and as deep as a man is tall in places, it seemed that the only reasonable explanation for it was defence, but its banks were eroded and overgrown; clogged with weeds and brambles.
“It seems that men long before us defended this place,” said Hereward.
“Nobody knows who dug it,” I said. “It was here when the monks came, and they say even before Werce’s Hall.”
Hereward rubbed his bearded chin, surveyed the land all about, before nodding in approval at what he saw.
“This is a good place,” he said. “I imagine men have lived here for generations. Who knows, perhaps they even made this hill.”
I gazed about the expanse of the raised mound where we stood. I took in the shallow slope to the east, and the steep wooded fall down to the river in the west.
“You think that is possible?”
“Anything is possible, Hunlaf,” said Hereward, with a smile. “Even a monk becoming a warrior.”
My face grew hot. Hereward laughed at my expression and slapped me hard on the shoulder.
“Relax, young Hunlaf,” he said. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“My secret?”
He looked at me and shook his head.
“Pay me no heed,” he said. “I am merely jesting with you.”
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