Sword of Vengeance, page 10
As the cart rumbled and rocked along the road, which looked as though it had once been dark with mud but was now the grey of an old man’s beard, three warriors ambled from the hedge gate. They wore byrnie coats of mail, helmets and carried stout aesc spears. The cart’s wheels shambled inside ruts in the road, and Beornoth cursed as the left wheel ran over a stubborn rock and the entire cart jolted, lifting him from the seat. The bounce sent a stab of pain through his gut, and he was not sorry that Byrhtnoth’s body was close to its destination.
‘Those men are finely armed for such a small village,’ said Brand. ‘Maybe there is silver hidden here. Saxons bury their silver beneath the ground like dogs. Maybe we could dig up a small horde?’ He grinned, and Beornoth rewarded the Viking with a frown. Brand chuckled and said, ‘Tell wolf-joint I said that.’ Beornoth shook his head and ignored the provocative jest.
Beornoth raised a hand in greeting to the three men and took down the hood of his cloak so that they could see his face. This was Lady Ælfflæd’s home, part of her wedding portion, and these were guards allocated to her by Ealdorman Byrhtnoth. They were men of his hearth troop.
The leading warrior was bow-legged and lean, and he nudged the man next to him and jutted his chin towards Beornoth. They exchanged hushed words, which Beornoth could not hear. Beornoth raised a hand in greeting, and the bow-legged warrior raised a nervous hand in reply.
‘Is that really you, Lord Beornoth?’ the man shouted. He lowered his spear, and his mouth fell open in anticipation.
‘It is I,’ Beornoth replied. ‘Is the Lady Ælfflæd here? For I bring her the body of her husband, who was killed by the Northmen at Maldon.’
‘We’d heard you were dead, lord, that all of you were…’ The warrior caught himself. He bowed his head to Beornoth and clamped a closed fist to his chest in salute. He whispered something to his men, and the two warriors ran back towards the gate. Beornoth pulled on the reins and soothed the horses to a stop. He clambered down from the cart, stretched his back and stamped his feet to awaken the muscles in his numb arse.
‘You served the ealdorman?’ Beornoth asked.
‘Yes, lord. My name is Wuffa. I saw you fight at Watchet. I rode with the ealdorman that day, but I missed Maldon.’ He tore his eyes away from Beornoth and stared at his boots. ‘I was ordered to guard the lady. There are ten of us here, lord. And we all… well… we should have been there.’
Beornoth took a step forward and placed his hand on the warrior’s shoulder. He looked up, and there were tears in his eyes despite his grizzled beard and the experience in his lined face.
‘They slaughtered all who were there. You honour the ealdorman by protecting his wife. Do not feel shame. You can be of service now, Wuffa. Show me to the lady.’
‘Of course, lord. This way, lord.’ Wuffa nodded and stood straighter. He turned and led them through the gate, which was little more than two pine squares hinged against posts sunk into the earth between the hedge fences. The houses centred around a circular crop of frozen grass, a meeting area where they would have small market days and celebrations throughout the year. A dog with a missing hind leg limped between two buildings with its ears pinned back, and two skinny chickens pecked hopefully at the frost. Folk came streaming from the houses, wrapped in cloaks, and steam billowed from their mouths in the cold. They stopped and stared at the warriors and clasped hands to their mouths as they watched the cart shamble into the village. Beornoth added that humiliation to his list of degradations against Byrhtnoth. This was no way for the ealdorman’s body to return home to his shire. He had been the warlord of all England, the leader of the fight against the Vikings, and a man of honour and reputation. The two warriors must have spread the word that Beornoth had brought their ealdorman’s body for burial, and some womenfolk wept, and children with mucky faces gaped at the sailcloth-wrapped mound in the cart, trying to link it with the man whose legends were spoken of at firesides across the shire.
A woman in a fine green gown came from the largest house, flanked by a younger maid with plaited hair. Beornoth had never met the lady, but he assumed by her proud stature she was Byrhtnoth’s widow. She followed one of Wuffa’s warriors, and strode with her head high, though Beornoth noticed a quiver in her bottom lip. A priest shuffled from the same building; he wore a fine robe beneath a dark fur cloak. He was a small, wiry man with tightly curled grey hair sprouting from either side of his otherwise bald head. It was Bishop Nothhelm of Essex. Beornoth had met him before in the ealdorman’s company.
‘My lady,’ said Beornoth. He bowed his head and gestured back towards the cart. ‘I am sorry for the dishonourable method of transport, but I have returned Ealdorman Byrhtnoth’s body to you for burial.’
Lady Ælfflæd was a tall woman. She was wide at the hip with a strong-boned face. A wisp of grey hair had escaped her headscarf, and she smiled at Beornoth. There was no joy or warmth in that smile. It was a dry, sad thing and melancholy tinged her eyes.
‘Thank you, Beornoth. My husband spoke of you often. Please, you and your companions must come inside where it’s warm.’ She touched Beornoth’s arm lightly and led him towards the house. Brand and Hrodgar followed, and Tata set about tending to their horses.
The longhouse was a simple structure. It had a second floor on its western side, which contained a small room where the lady slept. The building was split in two: the larger, communal area to the left with a hearth and roaring fire; and then various smaller chambers to the right where the lady’s retinue lived. There were rich tapestries hung on the walls, which seemed out of place in the small longhouse. This was not Byrhtnoth’s primary residence, but his shire was vast, and Beornoth had been there on the day Olaf Tryggvason’s Viking marauders had burned and sacked the ealdorman’s horse farm.
‘Please, have a seat,’ said Lady Ælfflæd. She gestured to three mead benches huddled around the fire. ‘Fetch ale and food for these brave men.’ Her maid hitched up her skirts to reveal soft slippers and helped the servants pull together food and drink.
Beornoth sat and Brand leant against the wall on the far side of the fire, keeping a respectful distance from the lady and bishop, all too aware of what he was and how that might offend them. Brand took a bowl of steaming porridge from a servant’s tray, along with a mug of steaming hot ale.
‘Thank the Lord God that you are alive, Lord Beornoth,’ said Nothhelm, taking up a seat opposite Beornoth. The lady sat beside the bishop, and a servant laid out bread, thick porridge and ale for the riders. ‘We feared the worst.’
‘Your fears were well founded, for I am one of the few survivors of the battle,’ said Beornoth.
‘Pray, tell us how you managed to retrieve the ealdorman’s body from the heathen?’
‘I went to Olaf and begged for its return.’
‘He had to kill two Vikings in a duel before the entire Viking army,’ said Hrodgar. ‘And the price of the ealdorman’s body was their corpses. They were brutal Viking warriors, and Beornoth killed them both to bring your husband home to rest.’
The lady stared at the purple bruising on Beornoth’s face, and his drooping eye where the swelling had pushed it closed. He removed his big hands from the tabletop, conscious of the coarseness of his skinned knuckles. She reached out before he could whip them away, and she held his rough hand in her soft fingers.
‘Thank you, Beornoth, from the bottom of my heart. Now I can bury my husband in the light of God and send his soul to heaven.’
‘I will take Byrhtnoth to Ely,’ said Nothhelm, ‘the abbey he so honoured during his life will now house his earthly body for eternity. The monks will pray for his soul every day.’
‘Was the battle awful?’ asked Ælfflæd.
Beornoth looked at her, and then at the bishop. They had no idea of the horrors of the shield wall, of the terror a snarling Viking warrior strikes into a man’s heart. They could not fathom the sight of two thousand Vikings charging with axes, swords and spears, hell-bent on ripping your life away with hacking blades and war savagery. Even he shuddered at its memory.
‘Yes,’ he said, simply. Unable and unwilling to describe the horrors. ‘We were attacked on the road here. I know that Byrhtnoth’s warriors perished at Maldon, but the shire should not have descended into lawlessness so quickly. Who will be the new ealdorman, and who could have ambushed us?’
Nothhelm cleared his throat. ‘These are dark times, dark indeed. After the battle, those who did not fight returned to the shire with all haste and began to annex land to their existing holdings. The shire is in turmoil, and men rework boundaries and deeds to take woodland, cattle, pastures and rivers from lands which rightfully belong to those who died alongside the ealdorman.’
‘Godric?’
‘Yes, amongst others.’
‘Why does the king not intervene? Why does he not send men to restore order and appoint a new ealdorman?’
‘We have sent word to the king,’ said the bishop, laying his hands palms up on the table. ‘But such things take time. Even if he sends a force of warriors, it is mid-winter. I am surprised to see you on the road. It could be spring before the king can intervene.’
Beornoth sighed at that truth. Winter was a time for huddling around the fire, of short days and long nights. Warriors did not march in the cold months, for there was not enough food and ale to support it. But if the king waited too much longer to act, then Essex would be torn apart by greedy traitors.
‘In my experience, the king does not act quickly when faced with dire circumstances,’ Beornoth said, shocking those gathered with his critical words.
‘King Æthelred faces many dangers,’ said Hrodgar defensively. ‘You think it is so simple for him to send a force of Wessexmen to restore order in Essex? Do not fool yourselves that being king is so simple. Æthelred sent one hundred warriors of his hearth troop to their deaths at Maldon. There are many threats all over the kingdom, not least a victorious Viking army on the banks of the River Blackwater. There are raids on the west coast by Viking crews from Ireland, and the Welsh raid western shires continuously. The realm is divided between those who would welcome a return to Viking rule and those loyal to the throne. Then there is the cloying embrace of the Church. The archbishops are powerful and wealthy. They administer God’s will and can grant or take a man’s pathway to heaven. Abbeys own much land and therefore wield a lot of power. If the archbishops advise Æthelred not to march, and he disobeys that advice, there are severe consequences.’
‘Who will succeed Byrhtnoth?’ asked Beornoth, changing the subject, because the depth of Hrodgar’s words kicked at his thought cage like a bucking stallion. Hrodgar had banged the table with his fist to emphasise his point, and Beornoth did not want words spoken against the king to wing their way back to Winchester. Nothhelm was a bishop, and his face reddened as Hrodgar spoke so scathingly about his Church. Beornoth wondered how much power the king actually wielded, how many decisions he made for himself, and how much of what Æthelred did was based on the influence and advice of others.
‘Unfortunately, my two brave sons are both dead, killed in the endless wars that plague these lands. And no mother should outlive her children,’ said Ælfflæd, and made the sign of the cross across her breast. ‘My daughter Leoflaed and her husband Oswig will take over from my husband as soon as we bury him. We will send word to the king to ratify the succession. But there are those who will oppose that; they will make claims and protestations that Leoflaed is not of the male line.’ Ælfflæd could no longer hold back her pain, and the lady crumpled into tears. Her shoulders shook, and she hid her face in shame.
Beornoth stood and moved around the table. He sat next to Lady Ælfflæd and put his heavy arm around her slight shoulders. She sank into him, her body shuddering against his chain mail.
‘Do not worry, lady,’ said Beornoth. ‘Your daughter and her husband will inherit Byrhtnoth’s titles and estates. Oswig will be ealdorman. I will see to it.’
Ælfflæd cleared her throat, straightened her back and shrugged Beornoth’s arm gently from her shoulders. She smiled sadly at him, and then her face became as cold and hard as a slab of rock. ‘I won’t let these snakes steal my husband’s legacy,’ she said. Her two hands curled into fists on the tabletop. ‘My father was the champion of the East Saxons, back in the time of the great King Edgar, and my husband was the warlord of all England. I am the lady of Essex, and I will not let these turncloaks enrich themselves whilst the heads of brave men adorn the blood-soaked road to Maldon. They must be stopped, Beornoth. I will raise what remains of the bravest fyrd men and have them ready to march and fight if necessary. I will send warriors to the borders of Godric’s lands and spoil his plans wherever I can.’ She paused and stared hard into each man’s face, her mouth a flat slice of grim determination. ‘Know this, all of you. These men cannot be allowed to live, for they are rich and powerful and that influence buys them favour at the royal court with powerful bishops and lords. This is a local matter, a thing to be dealt with by us. Godric can be fought, but someone will need to put a stop to Archbishop Sigeric, and he walks with the protection of Christ.’
‘I must warn you,’ said Nothhelm, wringing his hands. ‘Godric’s father Odda was wealthy and powerful, and the son now wields his father’s might. Outside of Byrhtnoth’s estates, he is the largest landowner in Essex. Since Maldon, Godric has gathered dozens of warriors to his banner and has amassed a small army of cut-throats and brigands. Godric sees opportunity in the aftermath of Maldon, a chance to seize power for himself. He rides across the shire, demanding loyalty from the men still alive after the battle, and the Viking raids before it. Essex is in peril, Lord Beornoth. Its defenders are dead, and the shire is unprotected. Godric takes land and I fear he will challenge to become ealdorman. He could make a case to the king if he can establish that Oswig is too weak, and that he alone can restore stability.’
‘It was Godric’s men who attacked me on the road. There was a big man with them. He had no teeth and was monstrous in size.’
Nothhelm nodded and crossed himself. ‘He is Godric’s man. The brute was a masterless man who has found service here in Essex. Men say he is from the borderlands with the Welsh, a killer and veteran of the endless border cattle wars, who sells his sword to the highest bidder. His name is Ansgar. A back-stabber and a rogue. He has bullied widows and young heirs into ceding land to Godric. Godric also acts with the blessing of Archbishop Sigeric, and it is he whom you should truly fear. You know Godric as well as I, and he is a braggart and a bully, but not a man capable of deep cunning. He is Sigeric’s puppet, and I don’t doubt that much of the land taken by Godric is shared between the thegn and the archbishop.’
Beornoth’s mail suddenly felt heavier and the bruising on his face ached. His eyes stung, exhausted from the hard journey south in winter. Olaf was an enemy he could meet on the battlefield, who he could strike at with his sword. But this fresh attack on Essex was something else. It was low and dirty. Sigeric and Godric were exploiting a terrible defeat, a slaughter of their own countrymen to enrich themselves, and Byrhtnoth was not even buried. ‘Sigeric has a priest with Olaf at Maldon, seeking to convert him to the one true God.’
‘There is much afoot there. Sigeric had always pushed to pay off the Vikings, this you know. But if he can convert a powerful Viking like Olaf to baptism, then he moves into a new realm of power. Men have become saints for less. He will claim the baptism as a spiritual victory of Olaf Tryggvason and the Vikings, and that he has achieved that victory with prayer and God’s grace, which the king and his warriors could not achieve with the sword. He will push that tale and make of himself a spiritual warlord, the slayer of the pagan gods. Sigeric is like a spider spinning a vast and complex web; we are caught in it, trapped in the wind and waiting for the monster to eat us.’
Lady Ælfflæd pushed gently away from Beornoth and gathered herself, wiping her face dry of tears with a cloth.
‘Enough talk of these spineless cowards. I must show you something,’ she said, rising from the bench. She led Beornoth to a far wall, where a long, half-finished tapestry hung from a high beam. Its leftmost panel showed Byrhtnoth marching to battle, and then the intricate weaving depicted the ealdorman speaking to gathered warriors before the battlefield. As the pictures moved from the left to right, sleek Viking warships with curved prows cut through waves to land on the Essex coast. Ælfflæd and her handmaidens had not yet woven the battle itself, and Beornoth wondered how they would depict the death of the great ealdorman. ‘It is a tapestry to honour my husband and all those who fought at Maldon. I will gift it to the abbey at Ely, along with some land, in return for their care and prayer for my husband’s soul.’ It was a beautiful thing of bright colours, warriors and blades and it would ensure that folk would remember what had happened at Maldon and how bravely men had fought to protect their people.
‘You do your husband, and all of us who stood against the heathen horde, a great honour. Our deeds will live on through these pictures even when our names are long forgotten.’
Beornoth marvelled at the detail of the stitched men on the tapestry. Amongst the warriors and riders, he saw Leofsunu of Sturmer, Aelfwine of Foxfield, and other men he missed so much immortalised.
‘What will you do?’ asked Nothhelm, looking up at Beornoth from his face taut with worry. ‘How can you stop this spider, who is also a man of God, and his cruel brutes from stealing a shire?’
‘I’ll gather warriors, loyal men and hard fighters,’ said Beornoth, and he noted the look of fear on Nothhelm’s face. Could a man kill Archbishop Sigeric without damning his soul for eternity? ‘Then I will kill all our enemies and return Essex to peace. But before there can be peace, there must be blood, and those who try to profit from the glorious dead will suffer. I swear it. They are cowards and traitors to the shire, to the king, and to England.’
