Gwawrddur took a deep breath. He squared his shoulders, showing the rest of us how a warrior dealt with bad tidings.
“We cannot give up hope,” he said, sweeping the gathered men with his glare. “To do so would be to see the monks, women and children of Werceworthe slaughtered or enslaved. They have only us to protect them now. And, Ingild,” he said, turning to the injured man, “you are not at fault.”
Ingild nodded his thanks, but it was clear that he did not truly believe the Welshman’s words.
“You two,” Gwawrddur pointed at a couple of the spear-men, “give your spears to others to carry and help Ingild back to the hall.” The men hesitated. “This is no time to tarry,” Gwawrddur snapped and they jumped to do his bidding. “All of you,” he went on, “hurry back to the hall. If the fighting has not started already, it will soon, and Hereward will need all the spears and blades he can get. Eowils here will keep watch for us.” He clapped the boy on the shoulder and a silent understanding passed between the Welshman and Gewis. The boy would be safer here, far from the fighting at the minster. Gewis nodded.
“Back up that tree with you, boy,” he said.
“And, if you see any of those heathen whoresons,” said Gwawrddur, “blow your horn as if Satan himself is risen from hell. And then run like the wind.”
Eowils grinned, despite his obvious fear. His father ruffled his hair and pushed him towards the tree.
“I won’t let you down,” Eowils said and leapt for a low branch. He swung for a moment before pulling himself up and was soon high in the leafy canopy.
“Well,” said Gwawrddur, turning to Cormac and me, “what are you waiting for?” The rest of the villagers were already making their way back up the rise towards the hall. Gewis looked back once and waved at his son. The sky was dark with smoke. Neither Cormac nor I had moved. “Your fine blades will be no use to anyone here,” he said, falling into a loping run. We hurried to catch up with him.
And so, for the second time that ill-fated morning, with the sun’s red disc barely over the horizon, I found myself running through the rain-soaked grass. When we had run towards the sounds of Eowils’ horn, we had been filled with anxiety at what we might find. Would the Norse be awaiting us there, with swords and axes bared to hew our flesh? Now, as we headed back towards Werce’s Hall and the smoke-leavened sky beyond it, there was no doubt in our minds of what we would face when we reached our destination. We had seen the Norse put their torches to the thatch and wattle of the buildings and watched as the flames leapt high, just as the ships’ fires had burnt brightly in the darkest part of the night. Skorri’s wolves were loose in the sheep pen and there was nowhere for them to turn.
Gwawrddur had told Eowils to sound his horn as if Satan was coming from his sulphurous realm should he see the Norsemen approaching. We were running towards a mass of those Norse demons and I could not shake the image of the flames licking the sky, as if hell itself had already opened up its fiery depths to spew forth pain and misery on God’s children. The stink of smoke was thick in the morning air now. It burnt my throat and my eyes streamed.
I ran on, the weight of my byrnie encumbering me, but not slowing me unduly. I kept close to Cormac and Gwawrddur and we soon passed Ingild and the two men who were helping him up the rise. Not for the first time I wondered at the madness that had taken a hold of me back in that bloody dawn on Lindisfarnae. For was this not what I had wanted since then? To run towards danger instead of away from it? Whether I was chosen by the Almighty to bring the defenders to this place, or I had become moonstruck, or even, I thought with a stab of unease, if I had been touched by the Devil himself, there was no time now for second thoughts. For, as we grew closer to the hall and the knap of the hill, the clash of blade against blade and the screams of men fighting and dying reached us.
There was no more time for thought now. Blood and fire had come to Werceworthe and all I could do was to stand alongside my new shield-brothers and fight until we had vanquished or I could fight no more. It was in the Lord’s hands now and I offered up a silent prayer to Him as we crested the hill to look down at the mayhem arrayed before us.
Fifty-Three
Catching my breath after running up to the hall, I looked down in horror. The land beyond the hill was wreathed in thick black smoke, obscuring the river and forest. Every now and then fire ripped through the black murk, rending the smoke with red claws of flame. Sparks showered into the darkened sky and beneath them, Werceworthe blazed.
Once more I thought of hell and the Devil. Perhaps there was truth to what Godwig and Eadgar had said on Lindisfarnae. Mayhap these Norse heathens had been sent to punish us for our sins.
The roof of the scriptorium, where I had spent so many hours copying texts onto stretched hides of vellum, collapsed. The growl and hollow groan of its demise reached me a heartbeat after it fell and in that instant, I was back in Lindisfarnae, witnessing the buildings there, the knowledge and learning, being destroyed as peaceful, God-fearing men and women were violated, butchered and enslaved. The aches of my body and the fear that had gripped me since the raiders had first torched the buildings vanished, burnt away in the flames of the savage destruction of my home.
Closer to my position I could see that the raiders had advanced on the steep incline. There they had found another of our defences. I well remembered the gruelling labour of digging the deep trench and then helping Drosten to drag the heaps of brambles to fill them with their thorny tangle that would claw and snag at anyone who attempted to pass. My arms and hands still bore the scratched memories of those sharp thorns. We had created the obstacle to slow down any attack, but the Norse were no fools. They had fallen foul of the ditch in the village and they would not be so easily tricked again.
They had brought planks and boards of timber they must have taken from the buildings before setting them on fire. These they had lain across the bramble-tangled trench, using them as a bridge, just as we had done.
But they would not cross unimpeded.
Hereward and Drosten had led half a dozen spear-wielding villagers to the edge of the ditch. And there, in the smoke-swirled morning, they were holding back the score or more Norse raiders. The Norse had formed a shieldwall to ward off the thrusts of the crude spears and more than one of their hide-covered boards bristled with white-fletched arrows. Some way up the slope stood five of Wulfwaru’s archers, though where she was, I did not know. More arrows flew, flickering bright in the morning sunlight that struggled to penetrate the gloom that had enshrouded the settlement. None of the arrows found flesh. The Norse seemed content to stand behind their shields, perhaps waiting for the archers’ meagre supply of arrows to be used up.
The Norse line parted and a tall warrior stepped forward, right onto the lip of the trench, seemingly uncaring of the spears that probed for him. His right arm swung and the dawn light gleamed from a flying axe. With unerring accuracy, it spun towards Drosten. I wanted to shout out a warning, but the words caught in my throat. The axe flew true, and would have buried itself in the Pictish warrior’s head, if not for his uncanny speed and instinct. Drosten must have noticed the movement of the weapon out of the corner of his eye, for in the instant before impact, he swayed to the left and the axe sped harmlessly past him. The villager beside him was Freothogar, the man who made the best honey cakes I have ever eaten. Freothogar was a wonderful baker, but he had neither Drosten’s skill in battle, nor his luck. The axe-head buried itself deep in his throat. As I watched from the hilltop, Freothogar clawed at the axe, staggering backwards, before collapsing on the wet grass, to stare up sightlessly at the smoke that filled the sky. Perhaps his soul was even now flying with that hot smoke towards our Heavenly Father.
On the hill beside me Cormac growled. Gwawrddur’s face was set and stern. Off to my right, I noticed Runolf. He had donned his byrnie and at his side he held his huge axe. The stark shadows from the light of the rising sun made him appear to be carved out of granite. Around him were gathered the last of the ceorl spear-men.
Some of them also bore axes and swords stolen from the fallen Norse. Beside the giant Norseman, the villagers seemed like men in the shadow of a god of war stepped from a saga of old. His expression was resolute and bore no emotion. His beard jutted and I saw that he had brushed and oiled it so that it shone in the morning light. The peasants stared down at the battle below them, their faces aghast and pale, the only colour on their cheeks coming from the flames and the fire of the sun.
“What are you doing standing there?” I bellowed, suddenly unable to contain my fury. The men who had run with us to the oak had now reached the hill too and looked down with horror at the doom that was before them. “Come on!” I shouted. “Follow me. We must aid them.”
I raised my sword and made to run down the hill, but Gwawrddur’s hand gripped my shoulder, pulling me up short and making me wince against the pain of his fingers digging into the wound there.
“Wait,” he said. I tried to shake him off, but he tightened his grip and the pain was excruciating, so I stopped struggling. Looking over at Runolf, he shouted, “Do you plan to just watch?”
Runolf glanced over.
“Hereward ordered us to stay here,” he said. “Protect hall.”
Gwawrddur nodded. Below us, the Norse began to push forward, arranging their shields into a wedge that would allow them to be protected while they used their makeshift bridge to cross the ditch. Once they were over that obstacle, death would be upon us all. There was no way that the defenders there could hold against so many. Only Drosten and Hereward were true warriors, but they were but mortal. In moments, they would be overwhelmed, hacked down by Norse blades.
“You cowardly, Norse bastard,” spat Cormac.
Runolf’s face darkened.
“I no coward, Hibernian puppy,” he said, his rumbling voice carrying over the tumult of the fighting and the roar of the flames from the burning settlement. “I follow orders. Not like you.”
Cormac moved towards the huge Norseman. The men around us shifted nervously.
“Enough, Cormac!” snapped Gwawrddur, his voice cutting through the tension like a sharp sword blade. “Runolf was right to follow Hereward’s command. And the hall must be protected. If Skorri has split his force and attacks the hall when none of us is here to stand against him, all we fight for will be lost.” He rubbed a slender hand over his face. His eyes narrowed as he thought of our predicament. “But Hereward thought Skorri had attacked from the south,” he went on. “We know that he hasn’t and so I will give a new order. Runolf, stay here with those men in case some of the raiders come from the south after all. Cormac, Hunlaf, stay here too and save your anger for the enemy. If they break through, you must defend the hall.” I longed to rush down the hill towards the fighting, to aid Hereward and Drosten and the others; to throw myself into the fray and feel the bite of my blade into the flesh of the heathens who had defiled our land. But Gwawrddur squeezed my shoulder, making me wince. “Do not give in to your lust for battle, Hunlaf,” he whispered, so that only I could hear him. Then, raising his voice again, he shouted, “Listen for Eowils’ horn. The rest of you,” he swept his gaze across the pale-faced spear-men who had run with us, “follow me!”
With that, the lean Welshman, sword in one hand and a short axe in the other, sprinted down the slope. The spear-men hesitated for a heartbeat. I wished to run after Gwawrddur, but they were terrified. And yet, he was right. Hereward had drilled into us over and over the importance of obeying commands in battle and so, despite the burning fury that threatened to overwhelm me, I held myself back.
“You heard him,” I shouted, my own impotent rage lending my voice a savage edge, “do not just stand there. Do your duty! Do not forget what you are fighting for!”
Dudwine, a stocky man who I knew had three children under the age of four cowering in the hall, was the first to react. He nodded at me and set off after Gwawrddur. An instant later, the others followed and soon they were roaring their own battle cries and exhortations to God to give themselves courage and to drown out the rage-filled shouts of the Norse.
“Where is Wulfwaru?” asked Cormac.
“I know not,” I replied. “I cannot spy her amongst the archers.” Even as I spoke the words, the women on the slope loosed their last arrows and turned to hurry back up the hill, passing the shouting men with their black-tipped spears. As they reached within earshot, Cormac called out to them.
“Where is Wulfwaru?”
They carried on up the slope, but none of them replied.
When they reached the crest of the hill, Cormac grabbed hold of Mildrith. She tried to pull away. One of the men with Runolf shouted out angrily.
“That’s my wife! Unhand her!”
Cormac ignored the man, instead focusing his glare on Mildrith. She was pale beneath the soot streaks on her face. Cormac would not relinquish his grasp on her. “Where is she?” he hissed.
Mildrith looked about her for support, but the other archers had hurried inside the hall and her husband was being held back by Runolf, who seemed interested to hear what she had to say. There was something in the demeanour of the women that demanded an answer.
“Tell him,” I snapped, suddenly certain that there was a secret we needed to hear.
Without warning, Mildrith’s shoulders slumped and she looked down at the churned mud before the entrance of the hall.
“She is doing what she must,” she murmured.
“What do you mean?” said Cormac. “Speak clearly, woman!” He shook her, and her husband called out again.
“She is protecting our families,” Mildrith said with resignation in her voice.
I could make no sense of her words. The heat of the fires that yet raged in the settlement reached us here on the hill, drying the sweat on my forehead. The acrid stink of the smoke that billowed and swirled from the conflagrations scratched in my throat and stung my eyes. The families of those defending the settlement were in the hall.
“Why has Wulfwaru remained inside with the monks, with the women and children?” I asked. “She is the best archer of you all.”
Mildrith shook her head. Perhaps sorry for what she was going to say, or maybe bemused at my lack of ability to understand what she was telling me. I should have known. We all should have seen what would happen when the sword-song began, when the flames licked the sky and the raiders were so close we could hear the hatred in their shouts. I was young then, and naive, but I am surprised the older men did not comprehend what I have since witnessed countless times in my long life. For a mother will do anything to protect her children. She will lie and cheat and even sacrifice her own life, if she thinks she can save her loved ones.
Wulfwaru was no craven. She had not avoided the battle. But she had looked at the force arrayed against us and had decided we could not prevail.
“She is leading them away from here?” I asked, knowing the answer from her expression, even before she replied with a nod.
“She is leading them all to safety,” she said.
I sighed. Of course. The attack had not come from the south as we had thought and so, after realising that the way was clear, and with the savage fighting at the ditch to the north holding the Norse at bay, Wulfwaru had made the hard choice to betray our trust and to disobey the orders Hereward had given us. She had broken her word, but I could not find it within me to be angry at her. Neither, it seemed, could Cormac, who was nodding.
“It is dangerous,” he said. “She cannot have gone far. I must go with her.”
I reached for him, holding him back.
“Wait. If you go too, we will have lost two of our best fighters. You will be dooming us all.”
He glared at me, weighing the value of my words. I like to think he was going to stay with us, to stand shoulder to shoulder against the attacking Norse. But in that moment, everything changed, and he pulled free of my grip and sprinted away, quickly disappearing around the side of the hall.
For over the clash of battle and the hissing crackle of the f
ires, a scream had echoed on the morning air. It had come from the south, from behind the hall and it was some way off. It was a terrible scream of pain and anguish.
It was a woman’s scream. And we all recognised the voice behind it.
Wulfwaru.
Fifty-Four
The southern slope beyond the hall was chaos. The great oak loomed in the distance, and I wondered for a heartbeat how Eowils had allowed the Norse to approach us without warning. A dozen or more warriors, led by the red-cloaked Skorri himself in the great helm I had first seen on the beach at Lindisfarnae, had swarmed up the shallow rise and met the fleeing villagers. If Wulfwaru had not been leading them away from the fray, we would have had no warning of this second group of attackers.
I cursed Eowils and then with a wrench of my stomach, I understood he must surely be dead. Skorri must have somehow sniffed out the boy hiding in the tree’s branches and slain him before he was able to warn us. Either that or Eowils had fled the moment we had left him to watch the south.
The Norse had yet to reach the huddle of villagers, but they would be upon them in moments. They laboured up the incline, their faces grim; the steel of their swords, knives and axes bright in the morning sun. Most of the people from Werceworthe who were gathered there were frightened women and children. I saw none of the brethren who had been my brothers until so very recently, so it seemed Beonna had ordered them to remain in the hall, perhaps trusting to God’s mercy. Watching the oncoming Norse raiders, with their round shields, sharp blades and snarling grins, it would make little difference whether they were in the hall or not. Soon we would all be dead.
Wulfwaru sent an arrow flying and I lost sight of it as it shot towards the Norse. It hit its target though, and I saw its effect as one man halted, and fell to his knees, clutching at the shaft that now jutted from his throat. Blood bubbled up between his grasping fingers, smearing the white goose feather fletchings. Wulfwaru nocked another arrow and loosed seemingly without thought. The Norse were almost on the villagers now and she could not miss. But these were men of war, not straw targets, and having seen their comrade fall, they raised their shields as they ran. Even over the cacophony of shouts, and screams, and the clash and crash of battle and fire to the north, I heard the arrow strike Skorri’s linden board. The arrow remained there, quivering, but the jarl did not slow, and a heartbeat later, the Norse were upon the villagers.
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