The Harrowing

by James Aitcheson

  ‘What about the Yslanders? I’ve heard they live without a king, and instead they rule themselves through councils, and that the earth itself spits fire, and there are giants living in the mountains.’

  ‘That’s right. Everything except for the giants, anyway.’

  Oslac looks doubtfully at him. ‘The earth spits fire?’

  ‘Spits it high into the sky, and spews it over the land, too. Rivers of flame, flowing like water from crevices in the hills. Towering black clouds, higher than you can imagine. Ash raining from the sky. Sometimes at night, high above the clouds, strange lights. Curtains of green and orange, brighter than the moon. Dancing and swirling like dragons’ breath. Like the heavens themselves are on fire.’

  ‘Really?’ Tova asks.

  Beorn nods. ‘I’ve seen it.’

  There’s so much of the world she doesn’t know about. So many things she never knew existed. So much strangeness, so many wonders. So many places she would go, if she could.

  ‘What else have you seen?’ she says excitedly. ‘Is it true there are whole islands made of ice, just floating adrift on the waves? And there are snow bears living on them?’

  ‘I never saw a snow bear myself, but I know men whose word I trust who say that they have. Where did you learn about such things, anyway?’

  ‘In stories. I didn’t know they were real.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that they are.’

  ‘And the ice islands?’

  ‘Those I know about. In the northern seas you have to be always on the lookout for them. They drift with the currents across your course, rising like white cliffs out of the dark water. At night they can be hard to spot, especially if the moon is new. You need a good crew and a good steersman. Folk you can trust with your life.’

  Merewyn asks, ‘What were you doing in Ysland?’

  ‘Trading.’

  ‘Trading what?’

  ‘Wool cloth for furs. Quernstones for walrus ivory. Things like that.’

  ‘Slaves?’ Tova asks.

  She didn’t mean to say it. The question had already slipped from her lips before she knew it. But it’s too late to take it back.

  He stiffens in the saddle, ever so slightly. His gaze fixed on the way ahead. His jaw set firm.

  ‘Beorn?’

  It’s the first time she’s seen him wrong-footed. Until now he’s always had an answer for everything.

  ‘Yes,’ he mutters without looking at her. ‘Once or twice, when my lord thought we could fetch a good price for them.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Only because if we didn’t, our families would starve that winter because we had no silver to buy food and clothing. Did we like it? No. But we had no choice. Understand?’

  Tova clenches her teeth to stop the anger spilling over. She can’t look at him. She tries not to think about those helpless wide-eyed folk, in frayed clothes either too large or small for them, being led in chains to places at the edge of the world.

  Like Ase, maybe. Like Gunnhild.

  Just as she thought she was beginning to understand him. What else is there, she wonders, that he isn’t telling them?

  Right now she isn’t sure that she wants to know.

  *

  They come to the old road around midday. Straight as a pole, it runs north as far as the eye can see, across the hills. Like a knife cut across the land. No sign of the Normans in either direction, but there’s no doubt they’ve been this way.

  Hoofprints everywhere, too many to count. The way has been churned into a mire. Long stretches ankle-deep with dirty rainwater. In the ditch by the roadside an iron cloak pin, bent out of shape, tossed away. A shoe with a hole in the toe. An ale flask. A battered drinking horn, chipped at the rim. A helmet with a dent that nobody could be bothered to hammer out.

  ‘There must have been hundreds of them,’ says Oslac. ‘A whole army, by the look of it. And not that long ago, either.’

  He looks at Beorn, who nods. It might be the first time the two of them have found themselves of the same mind on anything.

  ‘All the more reason to keep moving, then,’ says the priest.

  Tova couldn’t agree more.

  *

  They find the man by a stream, curled up in a ball like a child, whimpering softly to himself. Not dead, but hardly moving. His cloak and his brown robe are plastered in dirt and sticks and leaves; he has no shoes.

  No one else around. No other sound save for the birds.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he says in a shaky voice as they approach him. ‘Is there somebody there?’

  He stirs, raising his head a little: not so they can see his face, but enough for Tova to catch a glimpse of his bald pate with its crown of trimmed brown hair.

  A monk.

  ‘Someone you might know?’ Oslac murmurs to Guthred, who sits in his saddle as still as stone.

  Whoever he is, he’s hurt, and badly. While the others just stand there, Tova hurries over, splashing through the stream, and kneels down on the damp ground beside him. She rests her hand upon his shoulder. He flinches at her touch, gentle though it is.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she says softly.

  He lies on his side, his head turned away from her, hidden underneath his cloak. A bloodstained hand clutches glass, amber and jet prayer beads on a scarlet thread with a cross hanging from the loop, and a tiny glass phial filled with a golden liquid about half the length of her little finger.

  Holy oil. She knows what it is because old Thorvald had one much the same, which he wore on a chain around his neck. She remembers him telling her how, many years earlier, he’d made the long pilgrimage to Cantwaraburg to fill it from the gilded reliquary that held the saint’s remains.

  ‘P-please,’ he says. ‘Have mercy.’

  His voice sounds young, if strangely muffled. And he seems young, from what she can tell.

  ‘There’s no need to be afraid.’

  She reaches a hand up and peels back his cloak slowly so as not to distress him—

  And recoils, shrieking. She stands up too quickly. Her feet don’t feel like they belong to her.

  Blood everywhere, streaked across both his cheeks. An angry, crusted gash along his jawline. Where his nose ought to be there’s only a sticky mess. In place of his eyes, dark, hollow sockets.

  ‘Have m-mercy on me,’ the man says again as he turns to face her. ‘I beg of you, please.’

  She thought she’d seen everything these last few days. She didn’t think there was anything the enemy could do that could be worse than what she’s already witnessed.

  His eyes. They put out his eyes.

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ says Guthred as he raises his hands to his mouth and looks away quickly. ‘Sweet Christ.’

  ‘Who did this to you?’ Beorn asks. ‘Who? Was it the Normans?’

  But the man isn’t listening. He has started whimpering again. She can’t begin to imagine the agony he must be in.

  ‘Ale,’ says Tova, when she finds her voice again. ‘We need to give him some ale, or some water. Something. Anything.’

  Merewyn is already there with a leather bottle in her hand, kneeling beside him. ‘We need to sit him up.’ She gestures to Oslac, who is closest. ‘Help me.’

  Together they manage to drag him over to a tree and rest his back against it. That’s when Tova sees just how badly he’s injured. For it isn’t just his face. His other hand, his right hand, is missing, severed below the wrist, while the front of his robe is dark and moist where his flesh has been pierced. Whoever did this to him must have hearts of stone.

  ‘A knife or a seax,’ Beorn says after he’s had a chance to look carefully at the wound. ‘Too narrow to be a sword. But deep. Gut-deep. Recent too.’

  ‘How recent?’ Oslac asks.

  ‘A few hours. He’s lucky not to be dead alrea
dy.’

  ‘We can help him, though, can’t we?’ says Tova.

  Beorn doesn’t answer.

  ‘He’ll live, won’t he?’

  He gives her a look that suggests she shouldn’t be asking such a foolish question. But it doesn’t seem foolish to her.

  ‘Won’t he?’

  ‘If we could find him a leech doctor or a wise woman,’ he says in a low voice, ‘they could give him something for the pain, maybe, but nothing more than that.’

  ‘Could we?’

  ‘Could we what?’

  ‘Give him something for the pain. Something besides ale.’

  ‘I don’t know what, girl. Do you?’

  The man groans. Beads of sweat roll off his forehead. His lips quiver, but there’s barely any sound behind them.

  ‘I think he’s trying to speak,’ Merewyn says.

  Beorn crouches in front of him and gazes into the monk’s unseeing eye sockets. ‘What’s your name?’

  He swallows. ‘Godstan.’

  ‘Did the Normans do this to you, Godstan?’

  The young man makes a mewling sound in his throat as, almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head.

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Four. There were f-four of them.’

  His words are so faint Tova can barely hear him. She watches his trembling lips.

  ‘English folk?’ she asks.

  Godstan nods. ‘English. Three men and a w-woman. They took everything. My knapsack. My horse. They spat on me. C-called me pious filth. Then . . . then they . . .’

  But he doesn’t finish. He is crying now, or would be if he had eyes to cry with. He wheezes as he breathes, and clutches at his stomach with his one remaining hand. Why would anyone attack a monk? Why would anyone ever do such things to another man?

  ‘What else do you remember?’ Beorn asks.

  The monk shakes his head. His teeth are gritted against the pain. The last thing he needs, Tova thinks, is to be besieged with all these questions.

  ‘Wulfnoth,’ he says.

  Tova stares at him for a few moments, unsure whether she’s heard him properly. She turns to the priest, who has gone suddenly pale.

  ‘What did you say?’ Beorn asks Godstan.

  ‘That’s what they called him. Their leader. W-Wulfnoth.’

  It can’t be the same one, surely. There must be scores of men in the world by that name.

  But how many make it their business to prey upon men of the Church? To attack and steal and maim? To leave a man for dead?

  His eyes. They put out his eyes.

  ‘He’s coming after you, isn’t he?’ she says to Guthred. ‘He’s coming after the book.’

  Guthred’s eyes are glazed, unseeing, his mouth half-open. Stiff with fright.

  ‘It has to be a coincidence,’ says Merewyn. ‘Surely it can’t be him. It has to be another Wulfnoth. It must be.’

  ‘What’s h-h-happening?’ says Godstan weakly. He turns his head at the sound of each voice. She imagines that his eyes, if he still had them, would be wide, desperate. He must realise that his time is short. ‘P-please, tell me.’

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ Beorn says, ignoring him. ‘They could still be close by. We need to keep moving.’

  ‘Which way?’ Merewyn asks. ‘Back towards the old road?’

  ‘We could ask him which way he thinks they went,’ Oslac says.

  ‘Of course, because he’ll have seen them leave, won’t he?’ Beorn retorts. ‘Do you even think about some of the things that come out of your mouth?’

  ‘I was only making a suggestion.’

  The monk’s lips are moving. He’s trying to say something, but Tova can’t hear what it is for all their arguing.

  ‘Quiet,’ she says as she kneels back down beside him. ‘We’re listening.’

  ‘Don’t l-leave me,’ Godstan says. ‘Don’t let me die alone.’

  Tova glances desperately at Beorn. ‘We have to do something. We have to help him.’

  ‘We can’t take him with us, if that’s what you’re thinking. You know we can’t. He’ll only slow us down.’

  Merewyn places a hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t think there’s anything we can do.’

  Very gently Tova slides her fingers into the young man’s palm, trying to reassure him. She wishes now that she hadn’t jumped when she first saw his face. More, she wishes she hadn’t shrieked.

  ‘There must be something,’ she says.

  They could concoct some sort of infusion, couldn’t they? She’s heard that willow bark is good for headaches and other pains; if they could find some, maybe they could boil it in water for him to drink. At the very least they could bind his wounds.

  It won’t stop him from dying, of course. She understands it’s too late for that.

  ‘There is one thing we could do,’ says Beorn.

  She turns. They all turn.

  ‘What?’ asks Merewyn.

  He hesitates. Whatever it is, he clearly doesn’t want to say, at least not out loud. He reaches up to the back of his head; for a moment she thinks he’s scratching it, until she realises the motion he’s making. How he’s holding his hand. Flat, like a blade. The edge striking the back of his skull.

  ‘No,’ says Tova under her breath. ‘No, we can’t.’

  He’s thinking it’s the kindest thing they can do for him. The merciful thing. They can put an end to his pain here and now. Let him be with God, where he belongs.

  That doesn’t make it right, though, does it? Taking someone’s life, when for days all around them they’ve seen only death. What would that make them? He’s not some old nag that’s gone lame.

  Why didn’t the ones who did this finish him off when they had the chance? Why did they have to leave him like this?

  But she already knows the answer. To make him suffer for as long as possible. They didn’t want his end to be easy. No, of course not. That’s why they did it.

  But if the five of them were to leave him now, they would only be condemning him to a slow, lonely death. That’s exactly what Wulfnoth and the others did. They would be no different.

  ‘I agree with Beorn,’ says Oslac.

  ‘It’s the right thing to do,’ Merewyn says. ‘We might not like it, but it is.’

  Tova doesn’t like it. But she knows in her heart of hearts that they’re right.

  ‘What do you say, Father?’ Merewyn asks.

  Guthred blinks and stares at her. There is a look of terror in his eyes, as if he has been shaken from sleep and has forgotten where he is. He looks surprised that someone should be addressing him or interested in what he has to say.

  The monk coughs, and Tova reaches for the ale flask. Cradling his head, she raises it to his lips, letting a few drops at a time into his mouth. With every swallow he groans.

  ‘Is there a p-priest with you?’ he asks when he has finished. ‘I would very much like to speak with him, if I may. T-to pray with him, before it’s too late.’

  Tova squeezes the young man’s hands one last time, then stands and lets Guthred take her place by his side. He does so slowly, gingerly, as if not quite sure what he’s meant to do. The frightened look hasn’t vanished but seems to have become frozen on his face.

  ‘I’m here,’ he says as he takes the monk’s hand, which still clutches the rosary, and cups his own around it.

  Beorn alone remains behind with them; Tova and Merewyn and Oslac carry on a short way down the track. For a while she’s able to make out Guthred’s soft murmur, but then they’re too far away.

  They halt and pace about while the horses graze.

  ‘It’s the right thing,’ Merewyn says again, as if she needs to convince herself.

  Tova doesn’t hear the axe fall. There is no cry. No sound at all. Nothing but the wind buffeting her cheeks
and blowing her hair in her face. But somehow she can sense the moment when it happens. A fleeting stillness. A chill. She closes her eyes and says her own silent prayer for the young monk’s soul. For all their souls.

  When she opens them again, she sees Guthred, his head bowed, leading his horse up the path after them. A short way behind him is Beorn, his axe slung over his back as usual, his expression as flat as always, as if nothing has changed.

  It’s done.

  *

  ‘You shouldn’t have told Wulfnoth you were going to Lindisfarena,’ Oslac tells the priest. It’s been at least an hour since they left Godstan. An hour since any of them has spoken.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking,’ Guthred says in a quiet voice.

  ‘You realise, don’t you,’ the poet goes on, ‘that if you hadn’t told him, he wouldn’t now be looking for you, and we wouldn’t all be in danger? This isn’t just about you and your precious book; this is about all of us.’

  Beorn looks over his shoulder at him. ‘You didn’t think we were in danger before now?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I just meant—’

  ‘What? That the thought of being put to the sword by the foreigners doesn’t scare you? Is that what you meant? Because if it is, then you’re a braver man than I.’

  ‘There’s no need to be like that,’ Merewyn scolds. ‘He mis­spoke, that’s all.’

  ‘I hope so. Because you ought to be afraid. All of you. If you think the Normans will show any more mercy than the priest’s friends, you’re wrong.’ He pauses to let his words sink in, then goes on: ‘Besides, it’s only Guthred here who has anything to fear. They don’t care about the rest of us; they don’t even know we exist. All they want is to get their treasure back.’

  ‘It’s not their treasure,’ Guthred says. ‘I told you. It belongs to the Church.’

  Tova turns to Beorn. ‘What are you saying, then? Are you suggesting that if they find us, we should just hand it over to them?’

  ‘I’m hoping that they don’t find us at all,’ he replies. ‘And they won’t, as long as we stay far enough ahead of them. Or far enough behind.’

  ‘But what if they do?’

  ‘There are four of them. There’s only one of me. I can only do so much.’