His words added to my unease. From the distance came the echoing clang of the church bell. I realised with a start that it must be Sunday, for that was the only day the abbot allowed the piece of metal that had been fashioned by Garulf, the smith, to be hit to call the faithful to mass. Without thinking, I turned towards the north and began walking briskly towards the church. Hereward laughed.
“Not much of a secret,” he said.
I paused, frowning at his meaning.
“You can take the monk out of the monastery,” said Cormac, “but you cannot take the monastery out of the monk as easily.” He chuckled at his own wit and the sound of his laughter chafed against my nerves.
“That is the sound of the call to mass, Cormac. I may no longer be one of the brethren here, but I am yet a Christian.” I looked about the men, unable to hide my displeasure. “Are we not all good Christians?” I asked.
Hereward held up his hands in a placatory gesture.
“Well,” he said, smiling, “I am not too sure about him yet,” he nodded in Runolf’s direction, “but I take your meaning. Come, boys. Let us to mass. If we are to make this work, we will need God on our side.” Runolf frowned, an expression of consternation on his craggy features.
“What say you?” he said. “And what is that noise? An attack?”
For a heartbeat nobody made a sound and then, as one, we all laughed. Runolf, confused, asked, “What? What is the sound?”
When we had stopped laughing, I explained to him in Norse that the metal clang was the sound of us being called to worship. He frowned again, still unsure why we had laughed. I chose not to explain further and felt a thin prickle of shame at my behaviour. I knew it was craven of me, but I could not deny that it had felt good for the others’ ridicule to pass from me to the huge Norseman.
We arrived at the church when the mass had already commenced. Abbot Beonna had welcomed the congregants and was now reading the first lesson. We shuffled in at the rear of the building and the abbot fell silent for a moment at the disturbance. The curious faces of the villagers and the brethren turned towards us and I knew not how to respond to the expressions I saw there. Sweat beaded my brow and I rubbed uncomfortably at my itching scalp, where the bristles of my disappearing tonsure grew. I looked down at the ground, closed my eyes and focused on the words of the service. Once again the sensations and sounds were so familiar to me that it was easy to imagine that nothing had changed. But I was not standing with the brethren at the front of the coolly shadowed building, I was huddled by the door surrounded by hard men who, whilst bowing their heads and muttering the necessary responses, were clearly not well-versed in the sacred rites of the mass.
The abbot droned on and, automatically, my mouth uttered the correct words in reply. When the brethren chanted the epistle, I sang with them. By the time the moment came to partake of the Eucharist, my sweat had cooled and I shivered. Was I yet welcome here in the house of God? Despite the words I had said to the abbot and Leofstan, here, standing in the presence of the Lord in His house, I questioned whether He would truly forgive me the sin of murder.
“What must I do?” rumbled Runolf beside me.
I looked up at him, suddenly aware that his discomfort must have been greater than mine.
“Follow me,” I whispered. “It is but a mouthful of wine and a piece of bread.”
He clearly had no understanding of the significance of the symbols and I vowed to myself that I must spend time explaining the rituals and the true faith to him. He was baptised and tied to the king of this land, so it was only right that he should understand the religion he now ascribed to.
Runolf walked hesitantly behind me up to the altar. On my instruction he knelt beside me and without comment he drank wine from the ornate silver cup the abbot offered. He watched me closely, as I took the bread on my tongue from the abbot’s hand. I chewed and swallowed, watching as Runolf did the same. How easily men adapt. Heathen becomes Christian; monk becomes killer.
At the end of the mass, when Beonna dismissed the faithful, the brethren and lay people filed out into the welcoming sunshine of the afternoon. Hereward stepped before the abbot as he prepared to leave the church. Signalling for the others to go on ahead, Beonna moved back into the gloom of the building and nodded for Hereward to speak.
“We have walked the perimeter of your lands,” Hereward said.
“And what did you find?”
“The good tidings are that, with God’s grace, and with enough time to prepare, we might be able to protect your people.”
“These are good tidings indeed. Praise be to God that in His wisdom he has brought you here to this place.”
“And praise be to my Lord Uhtric,” Hereward said, “for it is he who has granted us permission to come to your aid.”
The abbot waved his hand dismissively.
“Of course,” he said. “God is good and so is Lord Uhtric.”
“There is much work to be done if we are to have a hope of vanquishing the Norsemen when they attack.”
“If they attack,” the abbot corrected.
“When they attack,” Runolf said. His voice was firm. He may not have understood every word we said, but he understood this much, that was clear.
The abbot ignored him, but Hereward nodded.
“When the Norsemen attack,” he said, “there will be many of them and there are few of us.”
“What is it that you are asking for?” asked the abbot, astutely recognising the request couched in Hereward’s words.
“We need people to help prepare the defences,” Hereward answered. “To make spears, to dig ditches, and to repair the buildings on the hill.”
“Werce’s Hall?” asked Beonna.
“Yes. The hall must be repaired so that once more it can house people.”
The abbot scratched at his scrawny throat, pondering Hereward’s words. At last he nodded.
“I will order some of the brothers to aid you with the construction work at the hall. It is good that you do not stay here at the minster. Your presence is a distraction to the less devout of my charges.”
He did not look at me as he said the words, but they stabbed all the same.
“No, no,” said Hereward. “You misunderstand me. The hall must be readied so that every man, woman and child in the minster and village can be housed there.”
The abbot’s mouth fell open, aghast at what was being suggested.
“But… but…” he stammered. “Such a thing is madness. What of the church? The scriptorium? The cells? My room? You would have us abandon them all?”
Hereward’s expression was stern, unflinching.
“It is the only way we can save the minster. When the Norse come, we must be prepared for everybody to go to the hall on the hill. We will defend that place and that place alone.”
“But what of all the other buildings?” Beonna waved his hand to take in the fine cross on the altar. “What about the gold cross. The reliquaries? The finger of Saint Edwin?” His eyes widened as he thought of all the treasures in the minster. “What would become of the books in the scriptorium? We have one of the finest examples outside of Roma of Exposito psalmorum by Cassiodorus!”
“All that is left here,” said Hereward, his tone brooking no argument, “will be taken by the raiders. We cannot make you and the brethren, or anyone do what we say, but know this, if you do not come to the hall when the Norsemen arrive, you will be killed or enslaved. We will not be able to save you.”
For a time the abbot was speechless. His face had drained of colour and he looked as if he had aged a decade in a heartbeat. Absently, he wrung his trembling hands. He looked as though he would welcome a cup of his strong mead, but that would have to wait. I felt sorry for him. It was no easy thing for a man of peace and learning to imagine the destruction the Norse would wreak on the minster. But I had been there. I had heard the screams, felt the heat of the flames, smelt the smoke and charred flesh on the breeze.
“It is the o
nly way,” I said.
“How can you be so sure they will attack the hall?” he asked, trying to find fault with Hereward’s plan.
“I hope they do not,” said Hereward. “I hope they look upon the defences, and the position of the hall, and sail on in search of weaker prey. But make no mistake, Beonna, these men come for slaves and for riches. They do not seek land to till or buildings to settle, they come in hunt of able men and young women, silver and gold. And all of those things will be in Werce’s Hall or buried somewhere near. The Norse will attack us on that hill, or they will leave empty handed.”
Thirty-Six
We left Beonna by the altar in the dark interior of the church. I looked back and felt a terrible pity for the man. He had come here as the leader of a house of holy men, to lead them in prayer and the study of the Scriptures. The minster was far from the borders of Northumbria. There was no reason to expect war might descend upon his small peaceful domain. And yet, the more that Hereward had spoken, the more Beonna’s shoulders had slumped. Hereward’s words were hard and unyielding, like stones. And that such a man as this, a hearth-warrior of the lord of Bebbanburg, would speak thus, gave the meaning all the more weight.
He had tried to believe this would not happen, that it was some distant event that might never come to pass. So it is with all men, even those as wise and caring as the abbot. It is one thing to hear of something that has occurred elsewhere and to weep for those lost, and rage at the injustice of it. Good men, like the abbot, feel great compassion for others and will pray for the souls of those less fortunate than themselves. But when confronted with the possibility that their lives might be thrown into disarray by some unseen threat, it is hard for any man to truly believe it. It is this same trait that makes young men believe they will never die.
But the abbot was no fool and he was no young man. Listening to Hereward’s instructions and predictions his face had crumpled and he had made the sign of the cross several times.
“I trust that the Lord will protect us all,” he muttered at last.
Hereward nodded.
“Well, the good Lord sent us and we will do our best,” he said. “But if you do not follow my orders, I fear that God might believe you have decided not to take the help He has bidden unto you.”
With that, Hereward had stalked out of the stone church. He did not wait for a reply from the abbot. As I glanced back at the old man’s drawn, pallid face, I deemed it for the best. Beonna needed time to come to terms with what Hereward had told him. He would pray, asking for guidance, I was sure, but in the end, he would realise that the warrior spoke the truth. Yet such decisions could not be hurried, and so we left him alone to his prayers and worries.
“I am starving,” Hereward said once outside in the warm humid afternoon sunshine. “Let us see what food we can find.” We had been given the same as the monks to break our fast, a watery gruel and a slice of stale bread, and it was clearly less than the warrior was accustomed to.
The monks were eating in silence when we returned to the hall. There was food laid out for us, and we sat and talked about what we had seen and the plans that would be needed. The men’s voices were loud and jarring in the quiet of the refectory and I wondered how long it would take me to speak freely as I ate, like them. Hereward spoke with seemingly no care for who overheard and I wondered if this was part of his plan. I glanced about and saw that the monks were clearly listening. Hereward was a wily one. Easier perhaps for Beonna to be persuaded of what he needed to do from his own brother monks. And even if he were already convinced of what must be done, in this way, his brethren would be less shocked when he informed them.
After a time, the monks rose from the benches and left to perform their chores and to attend Sext. We were left alone. The food, a wholesome pottage flavoured with small flakes of pike caught in the Cocueda, whilst more plentiful than the morning meal, was still not to Hereward’s liking and all of the bread had already gone. I was full enough after my serving, as was Gwawrddur, but Drosten, Hereward and Runolf all ate two helpings. Cormac, as hungry as ever, ate three whole bowls of the stuff.
“By Christ’s bones,” said Hereward, “where do you put all that food?”
Cormac grinned.
“I grew up with four brothers and three sisters,” he said, chewing the last mouthful. “I learnt to eat quickly and not to waste anything. If I didn’t eat it, someone else would.”
“I have four brothers also,” said Drosten. “Are yours all back in Hibernia?”
Cormac’s face darkened and he stared into his bowl.
“Yes,” he mumbled, his voice catching, “they are all in Hibernia.”
Cormac’s shift of humour had soured the mood between us and an awkward silence fell.
“What we need is a good drink,” said Hereward, casting about for something stronger than the weak ale we had been served. Noticing a movement at the far end of the hall as someone stepped in from the bright sunshine outside, Hereward smiled. “Perfect,” he said, beckoning the figure over. The newcomer was silhouetted in the light from the doorway, but the sway of the hips and the narrow waist gave away that it was a young woman. “Fetch us some mead, girl,” Hereward said and aimed a playful slap at the woman’s rear.
As quick as thought, the woman stepped out of his reach and hit his hand away. The report of her palm against his skin echoed in the room.
“I am no maidservant or slave for you to grope,” she snapped. On hearing her voice, I looked up at her face and finally recognised her. Wulfwaru, the tanner’s wife.
“Forgive me, goodwife,” Hereward said, rising to his feet. I saw his gaze drop to the keys that dangled from her belt and then up to the wimple that covered her head. “This ale must be stronger than I thought.” He was flustered and his cheeks burnt red.
She glowered at him.
“I came to offer my services to you,” she said.
Cormac, his previous sombre mood seemingly forgotten, whistled. Drosten laughed. A stern look from Wulfwaru silenced them both. Gwawrddur narrowed his eyes and said nothing.
“And what services would those be,” asked Hereward, maintaining a serious mien.
“We all know why you are here,” she said. She cast her gaze over us. She offered Runolf a small nod of recognition, presumably for what he had done for her by saving Aethelwulf. “But we are not fools,” she went on. “We can count and you are but six men. You need help.”
“You are right,” replied Hereward. “We will be asking for people to help dig and build defences. Everyone will be needed, if we are to survive what is coming.”
“We will all do our share of what is required,” she said. “The people of the minster are hardworking and strong. But it is not the sweat of my labour I offer you.”
“What is it then that you are offering?” Hereward’s brow furrowed.
“I would fight alongside you,” she said, her voice firm and hard. “Where you are six, I will make you seven.”
For a moment there was silence in the hall. Then Gwawrddur spoke for the first time.
“Well, Drosten, you should be pleased,” he said, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“What are you speaking of Welshman?” asked Drosten, confused.
Gwawrddur’s smile broadened.
“With the addition of the woman,” he said, “we are once more no longer a band of thieves.”
Thirty-Seven
Runolf heaved on the oars of the small boat, pulling us quickly and effortlessly towards the mouth of the Cocueda on the outgoing tide. For a time Drosten had sat on the thwart and manned the oars, but the skiff had meandered left and right and we had made slow progress. We had barely reached the next looping turn in the river to the east of Werceworthe when the Pict had sent the craft into a dense stand of rushes. With a growl, Runolf had pulled him away, almost tipping the boat over in the process, and positioned himself at the oars. He was clearly a much more experienced oarsman, and he soon had us speeding along the river towards
the sea. His skill, coupled with his prodigious strength, would quickly take us out of the river and into the open waters of the North Sea. I had travelled in this boat several times before, and I had even manned the oars, but we had never made such rapid progress as when Runolf powered us along, his shoulders and arms bulging with each pull.
As one of the youngest members of the brethren of Werceworthe, it had often fallen to me to help take provisions to Cocwaedesae. Even though this was an unscheduled trip to the island, we had decided to bring some things for Anstan, the old monk who lived there. We could not carry much though, just a small barrel of mead with the abbot’s greetings, a sack of flour and a linen-wrapped hunk of ham. Usually there would only be two of us in the boat, leaving much more room for supplies, but today, as the sun lanced through the trees that lined the Cocueda’s edge, the small boat was already low in the water with its four occupants. Hereward was sitting at the stern, looking ahead, past Runolf. He had not spoken for some time, but I knew we were not done with the subject that had resurfaced as we loaded the boat back on the shingle beach at Werceworthe.
Hereward’s eyes darted and he was suddenly alert, peering to the left at the shadows of rushes and trees as we passed. Curious and on edge, I followed his gaze. Had he seen some hidden danger? His obvious unease was making us all nervous. A flicker of iridescent green and blue flashed against the shadows. With a sigh I realised that what had caught his attention was the darting of a dragonfly, low over the water. I trailed my fingers into the cool waters of the river and then splashed a few drops on my face. The sun was not yet at its zenith but the day was already hot. The drizzling rain of yesterday was now a distant memory and the sky was a pale egg-shell blue. The trees that towered over the river rustled and sighed with the light northerly breeze, but here in the wind-shadow all was still, the only sound the gentle splash of the oar blades cutting through the water and the soft creak of wood on wood.
“A woman!” Hereward blurted out suddenly.
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