A Time for Swords

by Matthew Harffy

Runolf snorted and shook his head. We had all heard Hereward voice his disapproval many times. I wondered when he would accept what had happened and move on. Ever since Wulfwaru had come to us the day before, Hereward had continued to circle back to his outrage at her proposal to help in the upcoming fighting. I did not know what else to say that had not already been said. It was unusual for a woman to offer to stand with the men in combat, that much was true, but after our initial doubts had been put to rest by Wulfwaru’s determination and obviously useful skills, we had all voiced our opinion that her aid would be welcome. This had seemed to incense Hereward, as if somehow our acceptance of the woman’s help made us traitors, that he could no longer trust us.

  “But you are… you are…” Hereward had stammered the day before, looking up at Wulfwaru, who stood with her fists clenched and pressed against her hips in a clear expression of defiance.

  “I am what?” she asked.

  “A woman!” replied Hereward.

  “My husband is pleased of that,” she said. We all laughed, except Hereward, who gave us a dark look. He stood up then, his face flushed with rage, but clearly unsure how to proceed. Wulfwaru met his gaze and did not flinch.

  “We need weapons, not spindles and cooking bowls,” he blustered, but his anger seemed to quickly lose strength, like a summer storm that blows over and is soon gone, leaving behind it just wet ground and the memory of squalling rain and wind.

  “I can offer you more than weaving and baking bread,” said Wulfwaru.

  “What can you offer us, woman?” asked Hereward, his tone dripping with disdain.

  Wulfwaru, her comely face stern and severe, turned and walked towards the door.

  “Come outside and I will show you,” she said. Not waiting for a response, she left the building.

  “This is madness,” grumbled Hereward, as we all stood up at the same time with a clatter of benches being slid back.

  “We lose nothing by seeing what she has to show us,” said Gwawrddur, already walking towards the exit. The rest of us followed and Hereward, after a moment’s hesitation, cursed and joined us.

  Outside in the warm sunshine, Wulfwaru was standing, waiting for us patiently. In her left hand she now held a hunting bow of yew. In her right was a long arrow, its white goose-feathered fletching gleaming in the bright sunshine.

  “What are you going to do with that, girl?” sneered Hereward.

  Wulfwaru sighed, but seemed otherwise immune to the warrior’s taunts.

  “My father too believed that girls were of no use,” she said. “But he had no sons and so he had to make do and teach me the things he would have taught boys, had he been blessed with them.”

  “And he taught you to use a bow, I suppose,” said Hereward, apparently tired with this conversation.

  “He did.” She nodded towards three small objects in the distance. Each was a figure made of tightly-wrapped straw, not much larger than a child’s toy, perhaps the length of a man’s arm. They were propped against the trunks of three alders that rose up tall by the river. “You see those dolls?” she asked. We all nodded. They were some fifty paces distant. “Imagine they are three Norse raiders,” she said.

  “Aren’t they a little short for Norsemen?” said Cormac with a chuckle.

  Without answering, and moving with a fluid strength that spoke of years of practice, Wulfwaru nocked the arrow, drew and loosed. It flew straight and unerring, skewering the straw doll’s head and pinning it against the tree. Her prowess with the bow could not be disputed, but before the first arrow had hit its target, she had pulled a second arrow from the ground by her feet. This, too, she sent flying, this time towards the second of the straw men. And instantly after loosing the second arrow, she reached for a third, sending that after the others. The third arrow penetrated the third straw man in the centre of its head. None of us had moved or uttered a sound. The three arrows had all been loosed with exacting skill and deadly force in as many heartbeats.

  Cormac let out a low whistle.

  “You don’t have any sisters, do you?” he asked, grinning at Wulfwaru.

  She allowed herself a small smile in return.

  “Alas, I was my father’s only child,” she said.

  “But what of your husband?” asked Hereward, his tone gruff.

  “He will do his duty along with everyone else. He is a brave man and will stand and fight.” She hesitated. “But his father did not make him practise with the bow every day.”

  Hereward glanced at the arrows. The white feathers were bright in the shadows under the alders.

  “You have a babe,” he said, turning back to Wulfwaru. “What of your son?”

  Wulfwaru met Hereward’s gaze.

  “I have known the helplessness of my son being taken from me. I will not allow that to happen again.”

  “But your place is with him, not with us.”

  “I will worry about Aethelwulf, Hereward,” she said. “He is not your concern. He is mine and my husband’s. And when the raiders come, as you say they will, I will serve him best if I put my bow to good use in defence of our home.”

  Hereward scowled at her, perhaps thinking of other arguments to use against her reasoning. But before he spoke again, Gwawrddur stepped forward and said what we were all surely thinking.

  “Well,” he said, “anyone who can shoot a bow like that can stand by me in battle.”

  As we progressed along the Cocueda, the oars groaning quietly in their tholes, Hereward’s disapproval was still plain to see. He seemed to consider it a betrayal of sorts that we had all agreed that Wulfwaru would be a welcome addition to the defenders of Werceworthe. I wondered at the depth of his anger about this issue, but no matter how much we pressed him on it, he would say no more apart from that it was not a woman’s place to put herself at risk in a fight. Still, whatever his misgivings, he had in the end grudgingly agreed that Wulfwaru would be useful, at least in the preparations for the defence of the minster.

  He had left Gwawrddur and Cormac behind with instructions to begin training the villagers and, with Wulfwaru’s help, to start organising the defences. True to his word, the abbot had sent a group of monks up to Werce’s Hall that morning to assess what materials they would need to repair it. Hereward had allowed himself a thin smile when he saw another group of monks enter the church with chests, clearly with the objective of packaging up the treasures there.

  “The only way any of this will work is if we have warning of the Norsemen’s approach,” said Hereward that morning when he had asked the abbot for use of the boat.

  I was not sure exactly what Hereward had in mind, but we were heading to Cocwaedesae, the island that was visible from the mouth of the Cocueda. The island was small, with only a single hut upon it, where old Anstan spent his days in quiet reflection of God, at peace with nature. When I said as much to Hereward, he merely nodded and said, “Let us see what we see.”

  Now, as the waters of the river opened up into a natural harbour surrounded by sandbanks to the north and rocky outcrops to the south, the island of Cocwaedesae hove into view, squat and low on the slate-grey expanse of the Whale Road. I always loved this part of the journey. The land about the estuary was seething with birds. Redshanks and oystercatchers strutted through the shallows, dipping their long beaks into the mud. A huge flock of dunlin twittered and fluttered at the water’s edge, rising into the air as each wave broke and then settling again as the water hissed back away from the sand. In the sky, gulls wheeled and shrieked. Out over the dark waters flew a group of gannets, and every now and then, they speared down into the water, diving deep in search of prey. On a twisted stump of a washed-up tree, two cormorants sat, wings open to the wind and sun, drying their feathers after fishing.

  “It is a pity that Wulfwaru is not here,” said Drosten with a wink at me. “She could shoot us a couple of birds for our supper.”

  Hereward spat over the side of the boat.

  “Do you need a rest, Runolf?” he asked. “There is
still a way to go for the island.”

  Runolf did not turn to me for a translation and I had learnt that meant he had understood. His command of Englisc was improving by the day. The Norseman looked over his shoulder and laughed.

  “That is not far,” he said. “I not need a rest.”

  He pulled hard on the oars with renewed vigour and the small craft sped forward. I had been peering at the cormorants, wondering why it was that they needed to dry their feathers while the other birds did not, and Runolf’s heave on the oars caught me unawares. I lost my balance and had to clutch the top strake of the boat to avoid tumbling into the deep water.

  I glowered at Runolf, but the Norseman just laughed.

  The sound of his laughter reminded me of Skorri’s cruel cackle and I shivered. I scanned the horizon, suddenly convinced that I would see the sails of the Norse raiders’ ships there, sliding out of the north, coming for more easy conquests from the holy men of Northumbria. But there were no ships. I let out a long breath in an effort to calm my nerves.

  It was harder going once we were out on the sea and the boat was caught by the waves. We slid up and then crashed down with a splash of spray. I could taste salt on my lips and we were soon all drenched. Despite the sun, a chill wind blew from the north and by the time we reached the pale sands of Cocwaedesae I was cold and shivering.

  Runolf was true to his word and had brought us to the island more quickly than I would have thought possible. As the keel grated against the sand, he leapt over the side of the boat, splashing into the knee-deep water and, seemingly without effort, he dragged the vessel with us and the provisions inside, up the beach and out of reach of the waves.

  “Out and help,” he said. We clambered out of the boat and lent our weight to pulling it above the high tide line that was marked with a jumble of flotsam; driftwood and seaweed.

  Runolf looked about him, staring out to sea. I wondered if he too imagined the ships of his countrymen ploughing through the waves, sliding as inexorably towards us as death. After a moment, he nodded.

  “Yes,” he said. “This is the island Skorri will sail to.” He gazed towards the river mouth and its teeming birds. “Easy sailing,” he said, scratching his beard.

  Hereward and Drosten had already taken the provisions from the boat and were striding up the grassy slope towards the small timber hut on the highest part of the island.

  “Come on,” called Hereward.

  Runolf made to follow, but I pulled him back.

  “Do you think they are coming?”

  He nodded, his expression grim.

  “Good sailing weather,” he said. “They will come.”

  “Now?” I asked and I cursed myself for sounding so timid.

  He pondered my question and then shrugged.

  “Who can say?” He stared out to the north. “Perhaps they will wait till after the harvest.”

  “Truly?” I said, my eagerness shaming me. But what was there to be ashamed of? Harvest was weeks away. That would give us time to repair the hall and prepare the defences. And yet I knew the true reason for hoping the Norsemen would not come sooner. Harvest was far enough in the future to seem like a dream; unreal.

  “Perhaps,” he said. He looked up at the cloudless expanse of the sky and again dropped his gaze to the northern horizon where the pale blue met the dark grey of the sea. “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps.”

  He walked off after the others and, frustrated at his noncommittal words, I followed him.

  The island was small and we were soon at the tiny shack where Anstan lived. The door was closed and there was no sign of the old hermit. Hereward looked at me inquiringly. I shrugged and, stepping forward, I rapped my knuckles on the door. It rattled in its frame. When the winds blew in from the sea, the whole building must shake and the weathered timbers of the walls wouldn’t keep the cold out.

  I raised my fist again, but before I could knock, a voice called from inside.

  “If you have rowed all the way over here, you surely have strength enough to open a door.”

  I tugged at the leather handle and the door creaked open, dragging in the dust so that I had to lift it as it opened or it would become snagged on the ground.

  “Come in, come in, young Hunlaf,” came the raspy voice of Anstan. I stepped into the gloom and the others crowded in behind me. I blinked against the darkness inside after the bright sun. Anstan was old, with skin as dark and wrinkled as oak gall tanned leather. His limbs were spindly but strong, and usually when I had come to the island on such a day as this, he would be found waiting for us at the beach. He liked his solitude, demanded it, in fact, but he always seemed pleased of company when it came to his island retreat, and he was especially fond of the mead we brought him. I was surprised to find him lying in his low pallet. His eyes gleamed from his sallow face.

  “When I first heard you outside,” he said, his voice reedy, “I thought you were the Norsemen, come to send me on my way to meet our Heavenly Father.”

  “You know of the Norsemen?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes,” he replied, “I am old, not stupid.” He laughed, a dry sound that reminded me of the rattling door. After a moment the laugh turned into a cough. He hacked, struggling with the effort, before reaching his bony fingers for a stained cloth. He lifted it to his mouth and spat into it. “Besides,” he wheezed, “Beonna sent someone to tell me the tidings. You had gone to Eoforwic, and now you seem to have brought some friends back.” He stared at the others, and then at the sword scabbarded by my side. He stared at me for a long moment. “It seems you have brought back one more warrior than expected. No longer a man of peace, eh?” I blushed, awaiting a rebuke. But none came and I shrugged in response, unsure how to put into words the change that had taken place within me. He let out a ragged sigh. “I miss being young,” he said.

  “And this must be the Norseman,” he said, looking up at Runolf. “The one who saved Aethelwig and Wulfwaru’s child.”

  “Yes, Anstan,” I said. “This is Runolf Ragnarsson. He has been baptised,” I added.

  Anstan nodded, but said nothing. I wondered if he had heard what I said. I was shocked at the change in the old man. He had always seemed ancient to me, but he was ever vital and full of energy.

  As if he could hear my thoughts, he said, “Do not look so glum, Hunlaf. I am old and I am unwell. When you reach seventy-six years old, I wonder whether you will look as good, hmmm?”

  I did not know what to say and so said nothing.

  Anstan turned his attention to Hereward.

  “You look like one used to being obeyed,” he said. “What is it you have come to speak to me about?”

  “First, I bring you some provender,” Hereward said. “Some ham, some—”

  “Is that mead I spy?” interrupted Anstan.

  Hereward smiled.

  “Indeed it is,” he said. “Where are your cups?”

  “Hunlaf knows,” Anstan replied. I hurried to fetch some small cups from the shelf at the back of the hut. Anstan might be old and ill, but he was tidy still, and everything was in its place.

  I held out the wooden cups and Hereward poured a small amount into each one. He filled Anstan’s to the brim and handed it to him.

  “To good health and long life,” croaked Anstan before draining his cup. He smacked his lips and chuckled. “I seem to have lost one now, but I have managed the other, with the Lord’s help, of course.” He held out his cup for a refill. Smiling, Hereward obliged him. Anstan sipped at the mead and closed his eyes. “This is fine mead and the abbot is a good man,” he said. “I take back everything I have ever said to the contrary.”

  Hereward snorted and raised his cup.

  “To fine mead and good men,” he said.

  Anstan drank some more.

  “Now, tell me why you have come here and disturbed my prayers?”

  Hereward drank the remainder of his mead and handed me the empty cup.

  “It had been my intention to build a beacon here, o
n the island. I was hoping that we could have someone watching from the mouth of the Cocueda with another beacon. When the Norse ships can be seen from here, the beacons would be lit, and in that way, we would be forewarned in Werceworthe.”

  The old man nodded slowly.

  “You have a plan for the defence of the minster?” he asked.

  “Yes, but it relies on having some warning of when the raiders are coming.”

  Anstan’s eyes glittered with the intense energy I recognised from previous visits.

  “You will retreat to Werce’s Hall?” he asked. “Force them to attack you there?”

  “Yes,” said Hereward, as surprised as I was at the old man’s words.

  “It is a good enough plan,” continued Anstan. He propped himself up in his bed. He seemed somehow younger than moments before, whether from the mead or the talk of battle preparations, I could not tell. “It is what I would do.” He closed his eyes and I wondered if he was going to drift off to sleep, but he must have only been picturing the layout of Werceworthe. “You will make the land to the north a killing ground? Force the Norsemen to move between the buildings where you can ambush them?”

  “That is my plan,” said Hereward.

  “You must be careful of the east, that will be the weakest approach, I think.”

  “Thank you, Anstan,” Hereward said. “You have a good mind for strategy.”

  “Once, perhaps,” he said, “in another lifetime. But you said it had been your intention to build a beacon here. What has changed your mind?”

  “Well, I have now seen the lie of the land.” He hesitated, and then went on, “And when I saw that you were sick, I decided that it would be best to take you back to the minster, where you can be cared for. And now that we have spoken,” he smiled, “I think also you could help me with the preparations.”

  “And what of the beacon? How will you know when the Norsemen are coming?”

  Hereward shook his head.

  “I am not sure yet. I will have to think of a different plan.”

  “What other plan is there?” asked Anstan, his tone acerbic and urgent. “Will you set another here to light the bonfire?”