by Susan Amund
Sarah had dismounted and was busy tending to the cut Paul had sustained across his face. The young man had leapt to Julia’s defense with only Sarah’s small dirk in hand, and managed to fight her attacker into the water where the soldier’s heavy chain mail weighed him down; Julia had been struggling in the water herself when it happened, but she could see that Paul had drown the man. Duncan stood at Ulrich's side. The old tanner had a severe limp and his face was lined with pain. The men who had come on the boat were grouping opposite them, arranged around and behind one of the largest men Julia had ever seen. She had watched him charge into battle after he dropped her, spitting up water, on the beach. He was well over six feet, maybe six and a half. His shoulders were incredibly broad, and he wore no tunic, only a leather chest piece and rough trousers that met his boots at the knee. His eyes held hers while he worked his axe from the chest of a fallen Norman, his other lay some distance away, still buried in the head of the rider.
She dragged her eyes from him to examine his men, for he must have been their commander. They stood behind and beside him and clearly acted on his authority. They were all covered nearly head to foot in blood. Some of it was fresh, but most appeared to be old, baked into their clothes and flaking off their legs where they had waded through the water. They had come to the island from battle. Julia’s heart lurched in her chest, it seemed pulled to a distant place where she knew Aelfreic had fought these men, or more like them. A string of curses drew her attention to Ulrich.
He had not sheathed his weapon and was staring at the Viking with obvious animosity. The Viking did nothing threatening, he even replaced his axe at his belt. Julia listened closely to Ulrich’s continued curses and the steady silence of the newcomers. They appeared to be at a standstill, at least for the moment, so she waded out to the long ship. Four men stood at the prow, holding ropes and keeping the ship from backing off the beach and into the bay. As she got closer she saw that they were also bloody and muddy. And one appeared to have a head wound that had been hastily wrapped in a strip of cloth. None made any move against her, although they watched her closely as she stepped up to the hull.
Her ears began to ring, and she recognized somewhere far away the voice of Ulrich, speaking to her. She could not answer, but only stare in shock at the men in the ship. They were all horribly wounded. Some were sitting up, staring back at her, while others were lying down, the stink of their rotting wounds overpowering the clean smell of the sea. The rest lay absolutely still, as death had taken those before they could reach the shore. Julia didn’t know how long she stood there, staring into the keel of the ship, when a massive hand touched her shoulder, lightly. She caught only a glimpse of warm golden eyes before Ulrich was there, snarling between them. Both sides had drawn weapons again, and although the Norse had more wounded, they still outnumbered the islanders two to one.
“Hold, Ulrich,” she said. And again in halting Norse, “Hold, we will not attack you.” The Vikings on the beach lowered their weapons in puzzlement, looking to their leader who still had not drawn his axe.
“They are clearly coming from York or elsewhere - these are our enemy, my Lady!” Ulrich still had not put his weapon away, and Julia was forced to step between them, mashing her back against the Norse warrior’s front. She placed her bare hands on Ulrich’s blade and forced it down.
“And they have clearly lost, Ulrich. Look in their ship. These men are dying, and still they came to our aid. The battle must have quickly turned in Aelfreic’s favor for them to have run so far with so many wounded. And their leader shows no animosity towards us. We cannot strike at those who would lend us aid when they so obviously need ours.” Ulrich worked his jaw for a moment before sheathing his sword.
“What would you have me do, my lady?”
“Send Sarah and Paul to the monastery for Brother Simon and his assistants. We will need many bandages and medicines,” she glanced into the ship again, at a young man whose leg had swollen grossly and was oozing a dark yellow pus around the tight bandage, “and a saw.” Ulrich nodded curtly and reached for her arm to pull her out of the water that was soaking her trousers and tunic. The Viking said nothing, but pulled Julia tightly against him, out of the soldier’s reach. Ulrich’s nostrils flared, and he reached for his sword again.
“No,” Julia shook her head vehemently, “they need our help too badly to hurt us now. Go and bring back the women as well, we will need hot water and pallets for the injured.” Ulrich turned and marched away, his face red with anger. The Viking relaxed his grip on her, keeping his hand on her shoulder. She spoke again in halting Norse, without turning to face him.
“I have sent my man for medicine and healers. If your men have the strength to bring those not too badly injured to shore, we can set up place for them to lie in comfort.” He still said nothing, and Julia was quickly losing her patience. She jerked away from him in a quick motion and was over the keel before she could be stopped. The first man she knelt by was the one with the swollen leg. His eyes were glassy, but open, and his head was sweaty and burning with fever.
“Do you hurt anywhere other than your leg?” The man struggled to focus on her face, and answered with a heavy accent in Norse, “No, lady, but I cannot feel pain there either. I am very thirsty.” She glanced back to the leader, who still had not moved, and then to his men at the water’s edge. “You. Come here and carry this man to shore, our healer will see to him.” They did not move, but looked to their commander for permission. “Look at me!” she demanded, and she got their attention. “We can save many lives, but you must do what I say quickly. Move this man to shore, now.” The Viking nodded as she spoke, and the warriors obeyed instantaneously. She continued through the ship, closing the eyes of the dead and ordering the sailors to move those she did not think would be injured by it. By the time she had gotten halfway through the boat, she could hear hoof beats on the rocky shore, and Brother Simon called out to her,
“Julia, how many more?”
“At least five, still living, and two beyond help.”
“Brother Caemon will assist you with triage. Then I will need you here.” The line of warriors in the water parted for a short, portly monk. He could not manage the side of the ship on his own, and several of the Vikings chuckled grimly before lifting him into the boat.
“Saints preserve us,” he whispered when he saw the dead and dying in the ship.
“You can say their rites later, Brother, right now these back here need assistance.” She motioned him to three men who she had not dared to move, and he went to work immediately. Julia finished her task and was about to head back to shore to assist in the surgeries when a powerful old hand grabbed her calf.
“Ya canna leave me here, Lady,” he scratched out, his voice barely above a whisper. “My name is well known and you must take me to the Hall to dine with my son.” Julia had no idea what he was talking about, for she had thought the man dead when she first examined him. He wore a short chain tunic on his chest, and it was caked with dirt, as though he had been dragged through the mud. His face confirmed that as it was streaked with vertical scratches and cuts, one that had nearly taken his left eye. The warrior was suddenly beside her, speaking to the old man. She was shocked at the deep rumble of his voice, and the tingle of awareness it caused on her skin.
“Rest easy, Jens. You will see the Hall soon; you’ve only a bit further to go.” He spoke to her in near perfect English. “He was wounded deeply in the chest, when a pike went through the mail and ripped into his organs. I thought he had bled to death already.”
“It looks like the mud has clotted the wound. But I will have to see it, front and back, to know if he can be saved.” She felt his eyes on her face, searching out the truth of her words,
“He will not die?”
“He might not,” she corrected, “there is a small chance, but he needs to be moved very gently. If the clot is shaken loose, he will lose all his blood.” With a powerful surge of his legs, the Viking lifted the
man and stepped lightly over the bodies of the dead. His men helped him out of the ship, so as not to jostle the patient any more than necessary. Some women had already arrived in the village and were dragging pallets and blankets onto the beach. Duncan had made a blazing fire on the rocks and was boiling water from the creek. Thomas was racing between the creek and the shore bringing buckets of fresh water, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.
“Julia, I need you here!” Brother Simon stepped out of the door of the nearest cottage and motioned to her, his long tunic covered in blood and gore. She looked at her patient and the Viking, his face still unmoving, but she could feel his tension.
“I must see to this one first, send Thomas for the Abbot and whomever else you need.” Thomas tripped and spilled a full bucket of water at the sound of his name, but recovered enough to run to do the monk’s bidding. “Lay him here, on his side.” She pointed to a pallet not far from the fire, in the shade of a scraggly fruit tree. As soon as the man was settled, Julia rolled up her sleeves and began ordering the Viking about. She needed clean water, hot enough to scald, clean bandages, and hot water to wash her hands. She began rinsing his back with cold sea water first, washing away the blood and dirt that held the chain mail to his body. Underneath it he wore a shirt of some fine white material, like silk. She let out a sigh of relief and the Viking grunted at the same time. The shirt had not been pierced in the back, and there was no deep wound to suggest that the pike had gone all the way through.
Julia began the same process on his chest, gently rinsing away foreign materials and clotted blood from the wound. When she had freed the punctured mail enough to be removed, she untied it and had the Viking gently lift the patient so it could be removed. What was revealed without the mail was the best Julia could have hoped for. The tip of the pike was still in the man’s chest, and she knew it was the only thing keeping him from losing all his blood out the wound. The injury also appeared to have slid between his organs. It had obviously not struck the heart or he would already be dead. The wound did not smell of rot or the juices of the gut, and it had punctured exactly between the two lungs. She sat back and took a deep, calming breath, staring at the wound.
“What is wrong, is it too late?” The Viking tried to catch her eye and for the first time she heard a note of worry in his voice.
“I have to pull out the weapon, but-” he moved to do so himself, “no!” She grabbed his hand and slapped it against his thigh and held it there. “When it comes out, the bleeding will start again, and there may be too much to stop.” His fingers flexed against her hand and she tightened her grip. “If any of the tip has splintered, it will rip out more of the wound and stick in the muscle of his chest. It will be impossible to remove and he would die of infection.” He turned his palm up and squeezed her hand,
“What can I do?”
“Roll him onto his back.” She took another deep breath and sat astride the old man’s waist, her legs gripping him firmly. She washed her hands again in fresh hot water and readied a bandage. “Pin him down. If he moves, this will kill him.” The Viking motioned to another man and explained to him in Norse that he must hold down Jens’ legs. The second man pinned down his knees while the leader clamped down on the patient’s upper arms. His face was very close to hers, their hot breath mingled over the wound. He nodded and Julia murmured a quick pater noster as she swiftly pulled out the iron tipped wooden shaft. Jens woke instantly, and let out a scream of pain that could be heard on the entire island before passing out again. Julia swiftly pressed the wound with clean bandages and applied pressure.
“He would not have made any noise, if he was in his right mind. You must not think him weak, but he no doubt has the fever.” Julia stared at the Viking in disbelief.
“I just pulled four inches of wood from his chest, which he has lived with for what, two days?” he nodded, “and you’re concerned I will think he is a coward for yelling?” He nodded again, more gravely. She shook her head, “Your mind is not right. You should have Brother Caemon look at your head when he gets a free moment.” The Viking smiled briefly, and then Julia was pulling up the bandage. The shirt must have been fine silk, because the weapon had not broken the cloth. Julia cut away the cloth with a whispered prayer and found a neat hole in a well-muscled chest. It was clean, and free of debris, and had very little blood seeping into it. As she had hoped, the pike had miraculously speared right between the organs, stopping before it hit the spine.
“Praise be to God,” she whispered and shouted to one of the women without looking up. “Mary Ellery! Get me a needle and thread, and a hot iron!” She spoke more softly to the Viking, “It is not as bad as I had feared, although there is much yet ahead of him.”
Once Julia was finished with the older Viking, there were more wounds to see to. Brother Simon and the Abbot handled the worst of the injuries, but there were many more broken bones to set and cuts to stitch. Julia, the monks, and the women of the village worked over the Norse sailors, and then their own small party until well after dark. By the time she could pause for breath, the moon had risen over the bay, and nearly everyone was asleep or resting as best they could.
“This was a good thing to do, Julia,” Brother Simon said as he slipped down beside her on the beach, looking at the stars. They leaned against one another for support, too exhausted to sleep but without the energy to move. “Ulrich told me that he wanted to drive them off, he believes they fought our brother in the north.” Julia shrugged, noncommittally.
“How is the Norman?” she asked.
“I set his leg. It should mend, but the horse crushed the bone, he will have a limp.”
“Good.”
“Julia-” Brother Simon cut himself off, and then laughed softly, “what an un-Christian thing to say.” They both sat quietly and watched two of the Vikings bringing the last of the dead from their ship. “Too many died this day: Normans, Norse, our own people. And no doubt many English, if the blood those warriors carried is any indication.”
“Do you think Aelfreic is well?” Julia kept her eyes trained on the Vikings near the water. They were building a funeral pyre for their dead, and the Abbot would say prayers over the bodies in the morning.
“Our brother has survived many things, thus it would not surprise me to find that he is on his way home now.”
Julia shook her head, “These Normans were part of a larger fleet. Duke William is invading the South of England. The fighting may have already begun.”
“Aelfreic can take care of himself,” Brother Simon said seriously. “If he cannot, God will protect him, in this life and the next.” She sighed deeply, and moved to stand.
“I know it is not my place to question the will of the Lord, Simon.” She wrapped her arms around her waist and trembled, although it was quite warm with their backs to the fire. “It gives me a pain, deep in my chest, to think that we are all that is left of our family. And you have gone to the Church, so really it is only me.”
He stood beside her and wrapped her in a gentle hug. “You will always be my sister, Julia. You should never feel alone.” They stood that way for what seemed like hours, before Brother Caemon called Simon to see to one of the wounded. Julia wandered down to the water’s edge, some distance from the fire and the flickering shadows it cast on the pyre. She knelt and washed the blood from her hands, scrubbing them with sand and small rocks. Soon her flesh was tingling painfully, but she could not stop. She cried out softly when a sharp pebble dug into her palm but continued with her fervent washing.
A large hand settled over hers, stilling her absolution.
“They are clean, Lady,” Eric tilted her face up, expecting tears. Her cheeks were dry, although her eyes were red and sunken from lack of sleep. Her dark hair had pulled out of its braid hours ago, her cowl discarded sometime after the fight, and hung lank by her pale face. He studied her closely, as he had since the battle had ended. Her eyes were large and dark blue. Her face was thinner than it should have been, with h
igh cheekbones and a pointed chin. She was tall for a woman, but still more than a head shorter than him. She seemed strong enough, as her arms were slender and muscled from drawing her bow. When she had pinned down Jens, her long lean legs had held him with a strength that surprised Eric. Sometime during the afternoon or evening she had stripped off her over tunic, and her pale under tunic drew his attention to her flat stomach and narrow waist. Her breasts were constrained by a hard leather chest piece she had worn for the skirmish. Her hips and bottom were fuller than he had expected from such a thin woman. She was not as beautiful as some, but the combination of her features gave an impression of strength and defiance which made her striking even in exhaustion.
“Have you killed many men?” she blurted, uncomfortable with how close he was to her, the gentle way he was stroking her hands.
“Not as many as some, more than most. I do not keep track.” He continued to rub the smooth skin on the back of her hand, waiting for her to get a hold of her emotions.
“I took four lives today.” He nodded but said nothing. Julia continued in a whisper, in her exhaustion and emotional turmoil speaking of things she would not have dared reveal to anyone, much less a stranger so recently her enemy, had she felt less vulnerable. “Shouldn’t I feel bad - ashamed? I don’t. I have mortally sinned, but I feel not shame or guilt, but anger.” Her eyes blazed with a righteous hatred, her fingers tightened painfully on his while she stared out at the water. “I truly believe that they deserved their fate, perhaps more. Oh God,” her voice broke and her eyes squeezed shut, “what kind of horrible person says that, thinks that?”
Eric suppressed a tired sigh. A shield maiden of his people would not have had such regrets. Unfortunately, the English woman before him appeared to be as skilled as any female Norse warrior, but still held the innocence of one who has not seen battle. He pried her fingers away and began removing his padded leather chest piece. “Would they be less dead if you felt remorse?” The buckled straps under his arms had been drawn very tight by his own sweat and the heat of the previous two days.