Warrior of Woden

by Matthew Harffy

  "I'm sure that you would have been ready to prepare an elaborate ambush," he said to Ástígend with a sardonic grin, "but I am weary. And I think the best we can do is to make these Waelisc bastards remember this day." Ástígend pushed himself to his feet with a groan and walked stiff-legged to stand beside Acennan in the stone doorway. "I am proud to have ridden with you, Ástígend."

  Ástígend hefted his own shield and planted his feet. To see him thus, nobody would think the man had been injured the previous night and then ridden hard for the best part of a day. And yet Acennan could see the dark stain of drying blood on Ástígend's side and leg. Ástígend nodded. A dozen paces from the fort the white-cloaked warlord reined in the huge black stallion. Behind him his warband drew to a halt with a clatter of harness and hooves.

  "And I am proud to die with you here this day," said Ástígend in a low voice that only Acennan could hear.

  "Well," Gwalchmei said, his voice loud and clear, "you have led us a merry dance. But now, alas, you will die."

  "We will spare you and your men," Acennan replied, "if you ride away now."

  Gwalchmei laughed. The harsh sound made his stallion flinch and its ears twitch.

  "I like a man who doesn't know when he is beaten." He turned to his men. "Kill them quickly."

  Four of the warriors dismounted, pulling blades from sheaths and lifting shields. Acennan cursed silently as one of the men hefted a long spear. The weapon's reach would be hard to counter, armed as they were with only swords. Their position, flanked by the stone walls in the arched entrance to the fort, meant that Ástígend and he would only face a limited number of attackers at any time. The four men of Gwynedd closed in on them.

  "This is your last chance, Gwalchmei ap Gwyar," bellowed Acennan. "Call off your men and leave this place and we will allow you to live, despite the wrong you have done to our king and our country."

  Again Gwalchmei laughed. The mounted onlookers laughed too.

  The four men rushed forward. But their movement was hampered. All four wished to attack the same two men who were protected by the stone columns of the entrance. And so two hung back, hesitating, as the other two moved in close.

  The one with the spear came first. He lunged forward with the wicked point, feeling safe at the end of the long ash haft. But rather than hold his ground as the man had expected, Acennan leapt forward out of the shadow of the doorway. He caught the spear on his shield, lifting it harmlessly over his shoulder and thrusting forward with savage efficiency. The man's eyes opened wide in shock as Acennan's sword ripped open his throat. Hot blood spurted over Acennan, adding more gore to the congealing horse's blood that already caked his hand and arm. Without pausing Acennan threw his sword into the fort's entrance and scooped up the dying Waelisc man's spear. He reversed the weapon and drove it into the chest of the next attacker. Twisting the haft, he tugged it free from the man's sucking flesh.

  None of the horsemen had yet reacted. They sat their mounts, mouths agape and the laughter dying in their throats.

  Acennan spun around. As he watched, Ástígend delivered a scything blow to the third attacker's shoulder. The man screamed and fell to his knees. Ástígend hacked down again and again, and the man crumpled at his feet. The fourth man advanced towards Ástígend, then halted suddenly as Acennan drove the spear's point through the man's back with such force that it protruded a full hand's breadth out of the Waelisc warrior's chest. For a heartbeat, the Waelisc man looked down, aghast at the gore-slick metal that jutted from his body. Acennan tugged the blade free and the man tumbled forward with a whimper onto the bloody corpse of his companion before the stone doorway.

  Acennan walked briskly back to take his place once more shoulder to shoulder with Ástígend facing Gwalchmei and his men.

  "You should have taken the offer," Acennan shouted. "Now we will have to kill you all!"

  Nobody laughed now.

  The sun began to sink beneath the edge of the world. Above them the crows croaked, perhaps with joy at seeing the slaughter below. The birds would not go hungry that night.

  Ástígend was breathing hard. The blood splatter from the man he had killed was bright and harsh against his pale wan skin.

  "How do you fare?" whispered Acennan.

  "I am strong enough to kill a few more of those sheep-shagging whoresons." He offered Acennan a thin smile. Acennan believed him.

  Gwalchmei barked some orders in the sing-song tongue of his people and half of his remaining warband turned their horses and rode towards the setting sun. The rest of them slid from their mounts and readied themselves to advance on the two defenders.

  The Waelisc locked shields and marched towards the fort's entrance. Several held spears over the shieldwall. They came on towards them, less reckless than before, but assured of victory due to their numbers. At their backs, still astride the huge black stallion that had once been Beobrand's, watched Gwalchmei. The horse's black coat shone in the light of the setting sun. Its mane and tail were braided. They reminded Acennan of Eadgyth's night-black hair. He hoped she and the children were well.

  With a scream from one of the men, the shieldwall surged forward. The spear-points probed and both Acennan and Ástígend blocked several attacks on their linden boards. The Waelisc formed an arcing line around the doorway, a bristling curved wall of wood and steel. Acennan thrust forward with his own spear, but he only met with the resistance of a Waelisc shield. An enemy spear-point found his outstretched arm, opening up a deep cut. Acennan pulled his spear back. His arm was aflame with pain. In an instant it was soaked in his warm blood.

  "Come on then, you whoresons! Come and die, you goat-swiving Waelisc scum!" Acennan bellowed his ire.

  One of the men was foolish enough to react to the taunts and darted forward, probing with his spear. Acennan did not hesitate, deflecting the attack on his shield he punched his spear-tip into the man's face. The warrior collapsed as instantly as a bullock slaughtered at Blotmonath.

  Acennan let out a roar.

  The Waelisc were wary now and they stood their ground, unwilling to close with the two blood-spattered Northumbrians who stood before a heap of their dead companions.

  A sound from the ruins of the fort behind them caught Acennan's attention. Beside him Ástígend grunted, and then, with a sighing groan slowly slid down the stone wall to his knees. For a moment Acennan was confused, and then he saw it. The spear that had skewered Ástígend was pulled free and Ástígend's blood painted the ground as red as the setting sun. What had happened was suddenly clear to Acennan. The remainder of Gwalchmei's warriors had entered the fort from the far side and now formed a ragged line behind them. Acennan glanced down at Ástígend. The man yet gripped his sword and shield, leaning against the wall of the entrance. He might have been resting, but the blood that pumped feebly from the huge gash in his back told the truth of it.

  Acennan was alone now and surrounded by a score of Waelisc.

  In his mind's eye he conjured up the vision of Stagga as it would look then, in the ruddy glow of the setting sun. He closed his eyes and imagined the faces of Eadgyth, Athulf and Aelfwyn smiling at him. He took a deep breath and flung his spear at the approaching men. He snatched up his sword from where it lay and sprang forward, bellowing the battle-cry that had become so familiar to him over the years in Beobrand's warband.

  "For Oswald!"

  The crash and clang of metal on metal echoed from the ancient stone carcass of the ruined fort. The crows looked down, with their cold, unflinching eyes, at the battling men. In the west, the sun had vanished behind the rim of middle earth and darkness enveloped the land.

  Chapter 45

  Coenred splashed cold water on his face. It was yet dark, but enough of the iron-grey light of predawn filtered through the cracks in the walls of the small chapel for him to see. He scrubbed the water against his face with the heels of his hands, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The chapel was cool, the chill of autumn in the air. Winter would be upon them soon. And
yet he had awoken bathed in sweat. His dreams had been filled with Sulis. When he had seen her the day before she had been as she always was: glowering and sullen. She had reluctantly allowed him to see the ragged, raw skin of the scars on her wrists. They were healing well but he applied more of the salve he had made for her. He had revelled in the touch of her soft skin. Coenred had been glad that Cynan had ridden to join Beobrand in the south. The Waelisc gesith had been defensive of the Mercian woman when Coenred had tended her wounds in Deira. But what of it? Cynan was a warrior. He was permitted to lust over a house thrall.

  Coenred ran his dripping hands over the rough stubble of his shaved forehead, drying his fingers on the hair that grew long and thick at the back. By God, he tried not to think of her, but the visions of his dream had been so vivid. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the warm tingle of Sulis' hands on his body. He remembered a time when he had often woken from such dreams, sticky with his own spilt seed, his manhood throbbing and his groin aching. But it seemed the devil cared less for his temptation in recent years. Or maybe Coenred was closer to God now. He certainly felt a greater understanding of Christ's teachings. He enjoyed talking of the one true God to the people of Bernicia and Deira. Normal, everyday folk like those here in Ubbanford.

  He felt at home at the monastery of Lindisfarena. The monks there were his family; his brothers. And Abbot Aidan was a good father to him and to the whole land of Northumbria. Coenred felt loved and nurtured by the brethren and through his prayers. And yet he could not deny that he sometimes longed for the life he had once known at Engelmynster. Ubbanford, with its cluster of houses beside the river, reminded him of Engelmynster. Coenred always looked forward to coming here, to the church that Beobrand had ordered built. It had taken years for Beobrand to give the order, but in the end he had succumbed to Aidan's soft reminders that Beobrand had promised to construct a church for them following Christ's miraculous healing of Attor.

  Coenred dried his face on the coarse cloth of his robe's sleeve. Gothfraidh and Dalston still snored in the darkness of the small building. Beobrand had first paid for a cross to be erected in the centre of the village. He had summoned a mason from Eoferwic. The mason, a sombre man from Frankia with a narrow face and huge, burly hands, had chiselled intertwining images of marvellous animals and the Christ himself into the stone rood. They still preached beneath the cross when the weather was good, but far too often it rained and was too cold to be standing under the sky for any length of time.

  "It is all very well," Aidan had said to Beobrand at a feast in Bebbanburg one Eostremonath, "for the monks of God to suffer the hardships of the weather. But I find it does not help the ceorl, the thrall, the goodwife or," and here he had smiled archly at Beobrand, "the thegn, to concentrate on the stories of Jesu Christ when they are shivering and wet and worried that they will fall ill."

  And so it was that eventually Beobrand had ordered his gesithas to build the small chapel. It was a simple building, at the side of the settlement furthest from the Tuidi. When a strong wind blew, it creaked and groaned and, if they lit a taper, the flame would flicker in the breeze that whistled through the knotholes and gaps between the planks of the walls. But it was sheltered and dry enough beneath the thatched roof. Beobrand had never intended it to act as sleeping quarters for the monks when they visited, but Gothfraidh insisted that they not sleep in the hall. He said there was too much temptation there. Coenred wondered at times whether Gothfraidh could read his thoughts the way he could read words scratched onto vellum.

  Coenred had not felt temptation when visiting, until now. He did not crave mead or rich meats. And, since the passing of Lady Sunniva, he had scarcely thought of women. But somehow, this new Mercian thrall, with her wounds, her pale flesh and her anger, had enthralled him.

  They came to Ubbanford once a month to offer the people a chance to hear the word of God. Gothfraidh usually led the sermons. He was good at recounting the tales of the scriptures and, despite some reluctance from a few of the older people, almost all of the folk of Ubbanford attended the church, or sat beneath the stone rood and listened to the stories of Christ and his father, the one true God. Sometimes Gothfraidh allowed Coenred, Dalston or one of the other monks to lead the service, but Coenred was content to listen and join in when called on to respond. He did not much care to feel the eyes of the gathered people upon him. He would stumble over words that were usually easy for him, forgetting things that he well remembered at other times. No, he was happy enough to be there with his brothers, and to help the people of Ubbanford with their chores and tasks. For it was not only with words that the monks provided aid to the folk of the settlements they visited. There was always work to be done and the brethren of Lindisfarena would offer their strength and hard labour to help in whatever way they could.

  "This is the best way that you can show them who Christ is," Gothfraidh would say, when any of the novices complained of toiling in the fields. "By offering your sweat for others, you show them that Jesu gave his own sweat and his blood for them."

  Coenred walked to the door and pulled it open. It creaked quietly, but Gothfraidh and Dalston slept on. Coenred smiled to himself. There was a time when he had always been the last to wake. Now, he was often the first to rise. He stood in the doorway and listened to the quiet of the dawn. A light breeze rustled the treetops in the distance, but here, on the floor of the valley it was still. Mist curled, sinuous and serpent-like from the earth. The twitter and chirping of birdsong filled the air, welcoming the dawn. He enjoyed these moments of total peace and solitude. Aidan would sometimes have some of the other monks row him to one of the small, barren Farena islands where he would remain alone save for the gannets, guillemots, puffins and the seals for days or even weeks at a time. Coenred admired the abbot for his devotion to prayer and to God. Yet he could not imagine such a solitary life. A moment of still solitude such as this brief respite from chores and offices was enough.

  He stared at the shadowy shape of the great hall on the hill. Sulis would be sleeping still. The thought of her made him shudder.

  Give me strength, Lord, to do what is right.

  And yet he had done nothing wrong, he told himself. For was it not one of their duties to offer succour and aid when one of Christ's flock was sick? And Coenred had a particular skill for healing. Aidan had taught him some of the skills needed to heal different ills. He had learnt how to balance the natural spirits of the body and how to treat common ailments. The abbot had also taught him how to lance boils and clean and bind cuts so that they might not fester. Leechcraft was what Coenred most enjoyed about travelling the land of Northumbria. To apply the knowledge Aidan had imparted and, through the grace of God and his providence, to set the bones that had been broken in accidents, or to draw out the poison from a suppurating wound, or to banish an elf-shot fever from a child. These were to him some of the clearest ways that God had chosen to work through him.

  He had sometimes rebuked himself for the sin of pride when he had caught himself grinning with pleasure at curing some sad wretch. He loved the hearty welcome he received from those he had helped in the past, and those who knew of his skills as a healer. Of course, there were still those who turned to the old ways of the dark gods of the forest and the land. Here in Ubbanford, Odelyna, the old woman who had always helped the people with their ailments, would spit at his approach. She would mutter curses under her breath and at such times Coenred's skin prickled as he was reminded of that dark cavern in Muile and Nelda's shrieking spite from the bowels of the earth.

  Well, perhaps the old gods had power still, but it was the Christ god who offered eternal life. And it was the one true God who helped Coenred to heal those who came to him. He would check on Sulis again after Prime. It was true that her wounds seemed healed now, but surely it would do no harm to apply the salve one more time.

  Someway off to the west a dog barked. Ubbanford would be stirring from sleep soon. The time had come to rouse Gothfraidh and Dalston. Coenr
ed turned to once more enter the gloom of the chapel.

  A sound, harsh and hard, and yet somehow stealthy and cautious, brought him to a halt. What was that? Coenred held his breath, straining to hear again the sound that had caused fingers of dread to scratch the nape of his neck. He could make out the low rumble of Gothfraidh snoring and further off in the distance the trees still sighed with the wind-whisper of the breeze.

  But gone was the birdsong.

  The dog began to bark again, loud, insistent. A moment later, it yelped and was silent in an instant.

  Coenred was suddenly cold. Memories of a night long ago in Engelmynster flooded into his mind. For a moment he stood in the doorway of the chapel, unsure how to proceed. Save for the murmur of the wind in the trees, all was quiet. If the wind picked up, the tendrils of mist that eddied and swirled around the buildings would quickly tatter and dissipate.

  He made his decision and offered up a silent prayer.

  Lord watch over me now.

  Making the sign of the cross – forehead, chest, shoulder to shoulder – he stepped outside.

  Barefoot and only wearing his simple woollen robe, he crept as silent as thought around the edge of the chapel. Dawn was very close now, the great hall on the hill silhouetted against the lightening eastern sky. The buildings of Ubbanford loomed dark and shadowed yet familiar all around him. He peered into the gloom. The breeze had died again and the dawn was silent. The mist hung in the air, shrouding the earth. Coenred stood still listening and straining his eyes.

  He was being foolish. There was nothing here. Nothing untoward to frighten him in this way. The attack on Engelmynster had been years before, and it always surprised him just how quickly the memories could rush back to terrify him again. Gothfraidh said he allowed his imagination to rule him. He would not tell Gothfraidh of this, he decided. He would awaken the old monk and Dalston and they would perform Lauds, the first office of the day. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, Coenred turned.