Sword of Vengeance, page 23
Thered passed a hand over the scars on his face and looked at his men. They were brave, stalwart warriors, and they offered no reaction. Those warriors would fight, or ride, just as their lord commanded. They were his oathmen and would die fighting beside him if necessary.
‘What are you saying?’ said Brand. ‘That we are beaten?’
Beornoth yawned and rolled his stiff shoulder. ‘We cannot win here, Brand. There might still be time for you to find your people before they set sail. Go back to Olaf, find your cousin, Hrafn. You have more than repaid the blood debt, which I never held over you anyway. You saved my life, and we will always be brothers.’
Brand stood and kicked at a loose stone. He strode one way and then the other, looking from Beornoth to Sefna, and hiding a quick glance at Vigdjarf. ‘I do not think we should give up so easily. We can kill the Saxon bastard. We can’t attack the fort, but we can draw the turd out into the open and fight him on ground of our choosing.’
‘Just over two dozen against three hundred?’
‘What a song that would make,’ said Reifnir. ‘We would have the gods’ attention, and even if we were to die, we would live on in glory until the day of Ragnarök.’
‘There won’t be another fight,’ said Beornoth. ‘Go north with Thered and return to your lands in Northumbria as brave men; your reputations are sealed for the deeds you have performed on this quest.’
‘Shit on the quest,’ said Brand. ‘I don’t want to take to the Whale Road and live out my days knowing that Godric, the snivelling piece of seal offal, has bested me.’
‘It’s over, Brand.’ Beornoth held out his hand to Brand, but the Viking slapped it away. Beornoth was not mad at the insult. He understood. He felt the same way, bitter and shamed at the defeat, but he could not see any way to kill Godric. He had become too powerful, and Beornoth simply did not have enough men.
‘Maybe I will stay in England, take a wife, and then come back and kill the bastard years from now when he is not expecting it.’
‘Take a wife?’ said Sefna, her face turning from pretty to anger in a heartbeat.
‘I hope you aren’t referring to one of my daughters?’ said Vigdjarf, and he rose from the log, with his chest puffed out and his hand dangerously close to his axe.
Brand waved a hand at them both and stormed off towards the horses. The abbess and her nuns came from the hall with bowls of steaming broth and cups of ale. Beornoth refused the ale, and his cup was filled with fresh milk instead. The company ate in an awkward silence, and Beornoth felt lighter now that he had relinquished his vengeful desires. Godric would live and would more than likely become the ealdorman of Essex.
‘Your men seem full of sorrow,’ said Abbess Agatha, sitting next to Beornoth and taking a sip of milk from her own cup. ‘Shall we pray for you? Though I note that some of your companions are pagans.’
‘You do not mind feeding pagans?’
‘Even the Viking warlord has now become a man of God, so there is hope for all of them. I believe Christ would want me to treat each man the same, and to extend love and care to all travellers.’
That surprised Beornoth, for most priests hated pagans. They preached against them in sermons and cursed them to the pit of hell. Any man who did not worship God and Christ was an enemy to be killed or turned to the true faith. Beornoth was more tolerant than that, mainly because he had been raised amongst men who worshipped God and the Vikings’ gods. But he also understood why people hated the Vikings. They had brought nothing but violence and suffering to the Saxon people across the country, a land they craved to take for themselves. So, there was no love lost between Saxon, Norse or Dane.
‘We are defeated, lady. Rogues and traitors prosper, and good, honest men are cast down. We came to punish a man who betrayed the old ealdorman, and we have failed.’
‘You hunt for Godric, son of Odda?’
‘Aye, we did.’
‘And does the Lady Ælfflæd know you are here?’
‘She does. I recovered her husband’s body from the Vikings and returned it to her for burial.’
‘Men flock to her home at Rettendon,’ said the abbess. ‘A man came here yesterday to request food to help them cope with the arrivals.’
Beornoth stared at her over the lip of his bowl and then set it down on the log.
‘What men?’
‘Warriors, like you. The news that you have come to avenge Ealdorman Byrhtnoth has spread throughout the shire and survivors of the battle. What few there were have come to help you. Other men of the fyrd, or old warriors who had fought beside Byrhtnoth, arrive in ones and twos. The man who came spoke of grandfathers with rusty seaxes and spears, and men with scarred faces and healing wounds gather in the fields around Rettendon.’
‘Are you sure?’ Beornoth’s heart soared like the falcon above the field, but he checked himself. He still bore the muck on his face and hands from the fight in the ditch, and his head throbbed from where he had been cast down from the palisade. A small fire kindled in his being, like the tiniest ember in a snowstorm, but he clung to it, hope igniting where it had seemed like continuing on was impossible.
‘Send a rider to see for yourselves if you won’t take my word for it, but I’m busy and I won’t repeat myself. There is work to be done here, Lord Beornoth. You are welcome to spend the night with us whilst you wait for your man to return. We have meat, eggs, milk, bread, cheese and butter.’
‘Thank you, lady,’ Beornoth said, wanting to grab Abbess Agatha in a tight embrace of joy, but holding himself back from scandalising her.
‘What is it?’ asked Reifnir, scratching his bald head in confusion.
‘There are men at Rettendon, men who might help us in the fight against Godric. Good men, loyal men.’
‘So, it is not over?’ asked Vigdjarf. He and Reifnir exchanged shrugs.
‘Not if there are enough men there who can fight. Thered, will you ride to Rettendon with your men?’
Thered swallowed hard, and his fingers flicked over the hilt of his sword. ‘I’ll ride to Rettendon and send whatever men are there this way. But I won’t join the fight, Beornoth. I return to York tomorrow.’
‘I will go with you, Lord Thered,’ said Wuffa. ‘Rettendon is my home, and I would tell the Lady Ælfflæd of all that we have done in her dead husband’s name.’
‘We have a day to prepare then,’ said Beornoth, suddenly feeling strong and light, as though he had slept for a week in a bed of goose feathers.
‘Prepare for what?’ asked Hrist, leaning on her bowstave and just as lost as the rest of the warriors gathered about Beornoth. They had thought their campaign was over and could not understand how Beornoth had shifted from shamed defeat to talk of preparation.
‘To fight and kill Godric of the East Saxons. Men will come, and I can feel the strength of Byrhtnoth’s spirit in my bones. He looks down upon us, as do Wulfhere, Leofsunu and Aelfwine. They have sent us a gift, the gift of luck. Men will come. East Saxon fighters and men of honour have roused to avenge their slaughtered ealdorman. We will stand and fight and Godric will die. Then we can go home.’
22
Thered led his men away from Branoc’s Tree that afternoon. His warhorses cantered across green fields trailed by a gaggle of orphans who whooped and cheered until the horses rode out of sight. Godric would come for Beornoth, that was certain. He had always hated Beornoth and could not resist the chance to bring his army to Branoc’s Tree and lay him low. Godric saw a chance to take a shire for himself and to become one of the most powerful men in all England. Godric faced an outnumbered foe, bloody and beaten, and with one more fight, he could end it all. Beornoth and Thered were the last of Byrhtnoth’s hearth troop, the only warriors in England who had fought beside the mighty ealdorman and who could spread the word of Godric’s cowardice and betrayal. So, he would come with every warrior, ruffian and masterless man he could muster.
‘You should go to the forest,’ Beornoth said to Abbess Agatha as he organised the defence of Branoc’s Tree. ‘My coming here has brought danger to you and your sisters, and the children.’
‘We will not leave,’ she said firmly, scowling at him as she would if she were scolding a child for stealing honey. ‘We have worked hard to turn this place into what you see today. It was a ruin when we arrived, and I won’t let you warrior-brutes hack it to pieces again.’
‘Then perhaps I should lead my men away, and we can make our stand elsewhere, so that you are not in danger.’
‘Danger?’ She laughed and cast her eyes up to heaven. ‘You warriors think you bear all the danger in your shield walls, that the pain and suffering of war is at the end of a blade. But I assure you, Lord Beornoth, that the real pain and suffering of war is borne by women and children. When the Vikings come, we are the ones who are raped or enslaved. My own cousin was taken by the Vikings two years ago, and the Lord God only knows where she is now, in some pagan land living as a slave, or dead in a ditch. So, we will not run, and neither will you. We shall stand up to these men. The Lady Ælfflæd granted us this land, and by God, we shall protect it. Show us how, Beornoth, and you will see that we can cut wood, build ramparts and do as much as your warriors to help protect this place.’
‘Very well, lady,’ said Beornoth, and he bowed his head in respect. ‘Reifnir,’ Beornoth called, and the bald Viking looked up from where he carved at a wooden stake with his axe.
‘Yes, lord?’
‘The nuns will help us prepare the defences. Show them how.’
Reifnir nodded. He was a woodcutter and a carpenter, as were his men, and they had started work immediately, repairing what remained of the palisade. They could never repair the entire ring of fortifications in time for Godric’s attack. The nuns had pulled timbers free to help construct their dwellings. More had been scorched by Viking fire, and entire sections had bowed outwards towards the bank and ditch or collapsed completely. There was, however, a half-circle around the hall, which was in good repair, and Reifnir reckoned they could build enough of a ring inside the old burh to mount a stout defence. It would not be a proper palisade, but they could build a defendable barrier inside the settlement, running between the houses and around the hall.
‘I have to say, Lord Beornoth,’ said the abbess, making the sign of the cross as she watched Reifnir and Ornir cut wood. ‘I am surprised to see you in the company of Vikings. Are you not the most famous Viking killer in the kingdom?’
‘These men were all born in Northumbria, sons, grandsons and granddaughters of Viking settlers. They are people, just like us, and they came when I asked. They are as English as you and me now, lady. For a hundred years we have been a country of two peoples, Saxon and Viking. The Danes and Norsemen who settled the Danelaw are here to stay and, over time, it will become as normal as when our ancestors took the land from the Britons. Maybe someone will come and take it from us one day. They are brave and follow a code of honour, and I would rather share a meal, or stand in the shield with one of them than any warrior in Godric’s force.’
‘Let us hope we can return to times of peace now that this Olaf Tryggvason has become a man of God and will leave our shores. We need time to heal, to dig furrows and sow the seeds of healing and growth.’
‘We shall see,’ said Beornoth. He didn’t want to ruin her hopes of peace, but in his heart, Beornoth knew that there would never be peace in the world. Men would always want more and had always wanted more. He imagined that in the times stretching back before man’s memory, men fought because they wanted more cows, or better water for their horses and sheep. Now, they fought for silver, reputation and new lands to settle their people. They came from places where farming was hard, and where they served other men. With a ship of spear warriors, a man could make himself a lord, rather than serve one. So, as long as violence and greed lived in men’s hearts, there would never be peace.
Abbess Agatha rubbed her hands together and took a wood axe from Reifnir. She called her sisters together and Reifnir showed them how to chop the old palisade timbers in half, and then how to sharpen them with four strikes of his axe. There would be no fighting platform on the hastily prepared defences, so the stakes needed only to be high enough so that the defenders could reach and fight across their tops. Dolgfinnr and his men dug holes for the stakes to be planted into, whilst Sefna and Hrist took the orphans to make as many arrows as possible to fill their quivers. Vigdjarf walked the perimeter, pulling at his beard, pointing and barking orders at points which needed to be shored up, or where they should make piles of missiles. His men worked with some of the damaged palisade timbers to cut makeshift wooden spears, which were little more than sharpened staves, but they could still kill a man.
Beornoth and Brand made piles of rocks and stones inside the new defences and between the old dwellings, which the defenders could use as missiles once the enemy came close enough to the walls. They paced the ruined burh, trying to foresee how the attack might go, and how they might best defend it. They talked of an all-out attack, or of Godric sending his best men at the weak side of the burh, which was the hastily erected new, shorter palisade. It was not a complicated problem to solve. Godric’s scouts would already have reported that Beornoth and his company were in the ruins of Branoc’s Tree. At the time when Olaf brought fire and death to Branoc’s Tree, Godric and Beornoth were blood brothers in Byrhtnoth’s hearth troop, so he knew its fate and condition. Godric would see the broken buildings and crumbling palisade and send his fighters around the perimeter. They would charge the walls and overwhelm Beornoth with their greater numbers. They would probe and stretch the defenders too thin, like too little butter over too much bread. Godric’s fighters would cut and hack with their weapons and find a way in. Once they were inside, the fighting would become desperate. A bloody brawl amongst the buildings and lanes where many would die until the greater numbers put down the fewer, and Godric could boast that he had killed Beornoth, king’s thegn and Viking killer.
‘We can start on the old walls,’ said Brand. He walked to a section where the timber palisade had pushed outwards like a set of claws, and he kicked a splayed post. ‘On the old palisade. Let them think we will stand on the broken timbers, lure them in and retreat to the new defences.’
‘Godric is belligerent. He’s a bloated bag of piss full of his own self-importance. When we retreat, they will swarm after us. That will give us a chance. Kill some on the outer wall, and then as we retreat, hammer them with arrows and rocks; once we fall back to the new wall, we can make a stand.’
‘If we have enough men.’
‘If we have enough men who will stand and fight,’ Beornoth agreed. ‘What we have here is not enough, but with another thirty or forty warriors, we can make a fight of it.’
‘We need at least another three score to have any chance. Even then, each man would have to kill three of the enemy. Our best hope is that we can hurt them enough so that they fall back.’
‘Which is what we shall do. We have luck on our side today. I feel it.’
‘Few fight against many.’ Brand shrugged. ‘Sefna says the Valkyrie are already swirling above us, unseen and looking for fallen heroes, ready to whisk them away to join Odin’s einherjar.’
‘Sefna says that, does she?’ Beornoth smirked and Brand bridled.
‘What of it?’
‘Everyone can see the two of you are in love. You are like youngsters stealing kisses behind the hay bales.’
‘Do you think Vigdjarf knows?’
Beornoth laughed. ‘Of course he knows. It’s a miracle he hasn’t split your head open with his axe.’
‘The sun rises and sets with her, Beo. She fills my every thought. Her eyes seem to cast a seiðr spell upon me and turn me into a gibbering fool. Her hair is…’
‘That’s enough. I don’t need to hear any more of your lover’s chatter. She is fierce and beautiful, and you should ask Vigdjarf if you can marry his daughter. If we survive this fight.’
‘If we survive, maybe I will.’ Brand stopped and tucked his fingers in his belt. ‘I have little to offer her. No land, no wealth.’
‘She would be honoured to have a warrior of reputation like you. You have silver, and either of Thered or Alfgar would take you into their service as a warrior. In Northumbria you would even be amongst your own people.’
‘Or she might return to Norway with me. I will have land from my father there one day.’
‘So, you will ask Vigdjarf then?’
‘If we live. But that doesn’t seem likely, lord. You seem confident, and I don’t want to take the shine off that blade, but we can’t defeat three hundred men with our small company, some Christ women and a handful of orphans. Wait, who is that?’
Brand pointed to the eastern fields, where a man marched towards Branoc’s Tree. Beornoth shielded his eyes from the bright sky and stared at the striding man. More figures appeared behind him, emerging over the slope until ten men strode across the field, and they carried bows, mattocks and hoes. One carried a wood axe, and another a spear.
‘Let’s find out,’ said Beornoth, and he clapped Brand on the shoulder. They walked through a missing section of the old palisade and the line of men waved a greeting.
‘We are from the next valley,’ said a thick-chested man with broad shoulders. He carried a long staff, and he was almost as tall as Beornoth himself. ‘My name is Dudda, and I was in the fyrd at Maldon. These men are from the farms close to mine. You were seen, Lord Beornoth, riding towards Hareswood, and then we heard you were here. Word travels fast around these parts.’
‘You fought at Maldon?’ asked Beornoth.
‘No, lord.’ Dudda tore his eyes away from Beornoth’s and cast them down to the earth. ‘We ran. We let Godric lead us away. And I haven’t been able to live with myself since. So, we have come to make amends, for Ealdorman Byrhtnoth, and to you, lord.’
