Sword of Vengeance, page 3
‘He was the captain of my warriors, and he was your friend. We will miss his sword and his experience, but he died a warrior’s death and we shall remember and honour him.’ Alfgar had sent Streonwold south with a company of his warriors to help Beornoth and Byrhtnoth in the fight against the Vikings, and they had fought courageously and perished in the slaughter.
No more words of pity needed to be spoken between the two men. Alfgar just held him close and kept him there, the big man’s shoulders shuddering with anger and sorrow.
Alfgar made them welcome in his home, and despite the unthinkable desolation the battle had left inside Beornoth, there was peace and stability in Cheshire. Alfgar had the respect of all in his burh, warriors and nobles alike. He had grown a beard and looked every bit the ealdorman he never thought he could become. That night, Alfgar invited Beornoth, Brand and Eawynn to a small meal in a room behind his hall. It held only a long table for eight people, a shining oak sideboard for candles and enough food and drink for a feast. Alfgar brought guests, including his wife, Wynflaed, beaming with her flame-red hair. She entered the room with a tiny baby swaddled in soft blankets, and Eawynn’s heart melted as she held the small pink child. She kissed its wrinkled forehead and showed it to Beornoth, and he smiled, happy for Alfgar and the prosperity he had found. Alfgar had been destined for the Church, but had not felt its true calling. His father had passed the callow youth into Beornoth’s care, entrusting his son’s development to Beornoth and his harsh ways. The lad had grown from a fearful and pious boy into a stout fighter and leader of men.
Alfgar spoke of masterless men abroad in the north, supporters from the dead Ealdorman Oslac of Northumbria, outcasts who roamed the countryside as brigands, raiding and killing.
‘Wicked men, every bit as brutal as the Vikings,’ grumbled Oswine, the new captain of Alfgar’s household troops. ‘But these are our own people, grandsons of Danes perhaps, but people born of these lands. Killing their own.’
‘Those northern lands are cursed because of the heathens who settled there,’ Lady Wynflaed said. She was young and fresh-faced and wore a silver crucifix over a blue dress. She cast a sullen frown in Brand’s direction, but the Viking didn’t notice because he was too busy supping ale and stuffing his mouth with roast pork. ‘We could fight forever and there would never be peace. It’s futile.’
‘But yet we must. That is our duty,’ said Oswine. His blue eyes glinted as he spoke. He was a short man, but broad across the shoulder, and spoke slowly. Beornoth had heard Streonwold talk of Oswine, and the old warrior told of a fierce warrior of reputation and skill.
‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ said Beornoth, breaking the tension. ‘You have been most generous to keep Eawynn here, and for extending that generosity to Brand and I.’
‘You are welcome to stay as long as you wish,’ said Alfgar, inclining his head. ‘Please, consider Cheshire your home. There will always be a place for you here, Beo.’
Beornoth listened to the group make small talk, but though they spoke of small raids from Welsh cattle thieves, and of the wildness of Northumbria, he felt their eyes upon him. His every living moment was haunted by the battle, a horror that he could not escape from. In the clatter of knives and ale jugs, Beornoth heard the clash of sword and spear. In the scrape of a wooden plate on the tabletop, Beornoth heard a shield split by a Viking war axe. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw men’s bodies hacked to bloody ruin, and the faces of his friends dead on the battlefield.
‘I will tell you of the battle, if you wish to hear it,’ Beornoth said softly, keeping his eyes on his plate. They all longed for the news, and Beornoth knew that if he didn’t give voice to his tale, then it would follow him around like a ghost. So, he told them of Olaf and his dragon ships, of Sweyn Forkbeard and his war-Danes. They wept at the tale of Byrhtnoth’s fall, and of how Wulfhere held the causeway against overwhelming numbers, and of Streonwold’s death.
‘Did the king not ride to war?’ asked Oswine.
‘He sent a force of his household troops,’ said Beornoth. ‘But the king himself could not fight. His bishops believe that Olaf and Sweyn should be paid to leave our shores, not fought, and the king is ever cautious to heed the advice of the Church.’
‘Christ will protect King Æthelred and our people from the godless heathen,’ said Wynflaed.
‘He did not protect us at Maldon,’ said Beornoth, and he spoke more harshly than perhaps he should. Eawynn placed her hand on Beornoth’s arm.
Wynflaed fussed with the cross upon her chest and fidgeted in her chair. She opened her mouth, but Alfgar coughed and raised a finger to catch his wife before she challenged Beornoth on the power and glory of God.
‘So what will happen in the south?’ asked Oswine to fill the awkward silence. ‘If there is a Viking army marauding over Essex, the king will have to ride to war?’
‘Forkbeard does not want war,’ said Beornoth, recalling the cleverness of the king of Denmark and their challenge of riddles last year. ‘He is only here for silver and will probably return to Denmark before the summer ends. Olaf, however, is here for reputation and war. He is the son of a usurped kingdom in Norway, and he would rule there rather than here in England.’
‘So why fight your ealdorman then if he doesn’t want to own land here?’ asked Wynflaed.
‘Olaf needs to burnish his name so that he can attract ships and warriors to his cause. He has that now. So, the bishops will offer him cartloads of silver, and Olaf will give an oath of peace. He will sail away rich enough to build a mighty army and win back his father’s kingdom.’
‘So, the battle was for nothing?’
‘No, lady. Olaf had to be fought. Though he won the battle, he lost many of his warriors. Vikings fear those losses. To replenish their numbers, they must either return across the sea, or wait for fresh ships to arrive, and that could take a year or more. We had to fight Olaf to stop his raiding and force him to the parlay table.’
‘Could you have won?’ asked Alfgar.
‘We could,’ said Beornoth. His hand curled into a fist, and he had to take deep breaths to still the tense shudder that ran through his body. ‘But we were betrayed.’
‘How?’ asked Oswine, dropping a glistening chicken leg onto his plate.
‘Cowards led the fyrd away from the field of battle. They saw the Viking numbers and fled the field, and left us all to die.’
‘Do you mean Byrhtnoth’s own men fled with the fyrd?’
‘They did. The thegn Godric and his brother led the retreat, and he was an oathsworn member of the ealdorman’s hearth troop.’
Alfgar wagged a finger and stared at Beornoth with hard intensity. ‘Then they shall be punished; the king must hear of this, and he must act.’
‘And what of your… friend, here? What role did he play in the battle?’ asked Wynflaed. She flicked her hand at Brand as though he were a dog in the street.
‘This is Brand Thorkilsson, and I owe him my life. He pulled me from the battlefield when I was wounded and fallen beneath the axes of our enemies. Had he not, then Ragnar the Heimnar would have subjected me to unthinkable torture.’
‘Then I thank you, and you are welcome, Brand,’ said Alfgar, and he raised his cup of ale to honour Brand. The Norseman spoke only a spattering of Saxon, and that was only because the two tongues were close enough for a basic understanding to pass between men who spoke carefully.
‘What is a heimnar?’ asked Wynflaed, and Brand laughed at the sound of the word coming from her pretty mouth. She blushed and scowled at him in return.
‘Ragnar the Heimnar was once known as The Flayer, my lady,’ said Beornoth. ‘He was a slaver, and I caught him in his camp full of our captured people. He used the flayed skins of our folk to cover his men’s shields. So, I took his legs and arms and left him alive. That is a heimnar, a stump of a man completely reliant on the care and charity of others. Unable to feed himself, or take himself off to void his bowels, and yet able to see and hear the revulsion of others when they look upon him.’
‘Such cruelty.’ Wynflaed shook her head and made the sign of the cross again.
Beornoth’s world was full of cruelty and war. He fought like the Vikings, and to match them, a man must be both brutal and savage. The guests ate and drank and talked of gentler things for the rest of the evening. Eawynn tended a fine garden and curated beehives, which Alfgar swore produced the finest honey in Cheshire. The baby cried, and Wynflaed let a maid usher him off to bed. Beornoth remained silent, brooding again on events in the south. He thought of Ragnar, and what it meant to be a heimnar, and the irony of it wasn’t lost on Beornoth. Branoc’s Tree was gone, and Ealdorman Byrhtnoth was dead. Beornoth had neither land, lord nor heriot. He, too, was now dependent on the care and charity of others.
Beornoth slept beside Eawynn that night, and though he was content and happy to be in her company, he did not experience the peace he had hoped for. Still, the events at Maldon nagged at him, the faces of his slaughtered brotherhood coming to Beornoth in the darkness. They whispered the names of Godric the traitor and others who had fled the battlefield.
The days passed in quiet reflection. Beornoth visited Mameceaster’s church with Eawynn and Alfgar. He lit candles for the dead and even prayed for their souls, finding solace in the words. Brand spent his time riding in the forests and fields around Mameceaster, or at axe and spear. He practised with Alfgar’s men, who complained to Oswine of Brand’s ferocity. More than one man suffered a broken wrist or arm under his fury. The priests tended Beornoth’s wounds, but his face and body would forever bear the scars of Olaf’s war.
Summer turned to autumn, and as leaves changed to bronze and copper, Beornoth grew stronger. He could walk again and take short rides. He helped Eawynn with her garden and spoke to Alfgar about the affairs of his shire. The young ealdorman asked for advice, which Beornoth provided. He kept away from the training fields, and whenever he heard the clash of practice weapons, Beornoth would go indoors. The sounds evoked the ghosts who lived inside his head, and he could not bear the ring of steel or the clash of linden wood shields.
On a day of blue skies and low sun, when dew left the grass wet with gleaming pearls, Beornoth rode south, taking Brand with him to a ford across the River Mersey, and to a fortified holding he knew well. He and Brand took a rest on the river’s edge, where the horses could drink from the river and they could eat some of the bread and cheese brought along for the journey.
‘Do you know this place, lord?’ asked Brand through a mouthful of cheese.
‘I am not a lord any longer, so call me something else,’ said Beornoth. He wasn’t a thegn any more, and not deserving of the title. ‘I know all of it. I was once thegn here, long ago. I was born and raised here. My father and his father were thegns here.’
‘So this was your home?’
‘It was. And what of your home, will Olaf and your people take you back? Men will have seen you drag me away from battle. Ragnar saw you, and he will hate you for denying him the chance to torture me.’
‘Ragnar will be furious, but Olaf respects debts of honour and he is a drengr. My family would welcome me home, I have not betrayed anyone. I merely paid my debt. But for now, I will remain with you and we shall see what the Norns have in store for my destiny.’
Beornoth walked to a small wood of trees blown bare of their orange leaves, which rose at the centre of a field recently harvested. The wood perched upon a hillock of green grass and thick, twisting roots, its lower edge ringed with grey rock. He closed his eyes and inhaled the air, fresh and thick with memories. Birds chirped from the clutch of trees, and the breeze was cool upon his skin. In his head, he heard children laughing. Beornoth smiled. He remembered two little girls running through that same field when it was waist high with golden wheat. He remembered chasing them, playing hide-and-seek amongst the high crops. Beornoth reached the copse and put his hand on a cold slab of stone which jutted from the twisting roots like a huge tooth. Its rough coolness brought back a memory of sitting in that small wood, hidden from the folk beyond the palisade and buildings beyond. He and Eawynn would sit there for hours, talking and laughing. Planning their lives together, holding and kissing each other. Beornoth was young then, and Eawynn had been so beautiful, so carefree, but sure of herself. She had run the burh with confidence as the lady to Beornoth’s thegn.
Beornoth sighed. His children were dead, buried behind the burh, and he had been away fighting for Alfgar’s father, Aethelhelm, when Vikings had come up the river to burn this place to the ground, slashing, rending and tearing with their spears and axes. Beornoth had found his girls’ bodies burned, shrunken and blackened in the ruin of his own hall. Beornoth’s hand trembled. He swallowed at a hard lump in his throat and felt the impossible weight of the cloak of grief and sadness weigh him down. He looked up to the sky, wondering, as he had countless times, why his God had forsaken him, in those days; why had God punished him by taking their precious lives? His breath was ragged and caught in his chest. God had deserted him and allowed his family, good, pure and innocent, to be slaughtered and brutalised by raiders. They had died, whilst the ravagers went unpunished. What sort of God allowed that to happen? How could God allow Olaf and Sweyn to win at Maldon, and good men to fall to heathen swords? In his time as thegn and in the darker years as a reeve, Beornoth had seen and dispensed justice on murderers and thieves, and yet God had let Olaf and Sweyn live without punishment. Beornoth did not understand how the Almighty could take so much away.
Beornoth closed his eyes, trying to recall the faces of his two dead daughters. He searched the depths of his memory for the detail of their small faces, of which side of her face Ashwig had a dimple, which of Cwen’s ears had a deep red birthmark at the bottom corner. All he could remember now was their joy, their soft hair, and their laughter. The savage men who had ripped their warmth from him had taken that away, and left Beornoth hollow, just a vessel of violence, justice and vengeance.
The pain of his past was thick in the place, memories so vivid he could almost touch them. For years Beornoth had wallowed in drunken anger at what he’d lost in those dark days. That had passed, and Beornoth had built a new life, but hate burned inside him like the red fiery pit of a smith’s forge. It was a hungry thing of blood and iron, which could never be sated. If Beornoth paused to think of all his pain, it overwhelmed him, sending him into a spiral of malevolent thoughts and feelings. So, he fought a constant battle to keep that hatred at bay, to master himself. Beornoth had accepted Alfgar’s hospitality. He would turn his back on war and death. He would be a man of peace now. Beornoth had come to his childhood home to search in the ruins of his past for a way to live the rest of his life. He told himself he must bury his hate and hear his lost children’s laughter in the leafy boughs and ripple of river water. Perhaps there was a chance for peace in Beornoth’s life, maybe it was time for him to hang up his sword.
But fate laughs at the hopes and dreams of men, because as autumn turned to winter, the king’s man came.
4
Frost touched the grass like a dusting of flour. Nights drew in and people brought animals down from high pastures to stay close to their steadings. A roaring fire burned day and night at the centre of Alfgar’s hall. Folk prepared for the long winter ahead, storing food, checking roof thatch, and repairing window shutters and doors. Stores were full of harvested wheat and barley, logs chopped and stacked, and fresh ale brewed to last through the long months of short days and frosty nights.
Winter was a time of fireside gatherings and storytelling, of close living huddled in furs and waiting for the first green shoots of spring to appear. But it was only the beginning of winter when the king’s man arrived on his white horse. Beornoth sat by the fire with Brand, and the two men worked on Brand’s Saxon words. Eawynn paced the long hall with Alfgar and Wynflaed’s baby, shushing and singing to the infant boy, who would scream the rafters down until he released the tiniest of burps.
The thin-faced steward and head of Alfgar’s household servants came bustling through the hall doors. He leaned into the heavy oak and barked at two female servants to push them closed after him.
‘A man approaches,’ said Wynstann, the thin-faced man. He spoke quickly, and his long fingers turned over themselves, hands wringing like a butter churn. ‘Says he is come from the king, no less.’
Beornoth stood and winced in discomfort and he clasped a hand to his stomach wound. The outside of the stab wound was now a red, puckered scar, but the insides still ached and throbbed if he made any sudden movements. Now that colder weather had set in, the spear thrust he had taken in the hip had also stiffened, to join his already painful shoulder and the other aches and pains his body had suffered during a lifetime of warfare.
‘What is his name?’ asked Beornoth.
‘Lord Hrodgar of Defnascir. King Æthelred’s man, come to visit with you, lord, and Ealdorman Alfgar.’
Beornoth nodded and then peered down at himself. He had worn neither weapons nor mail since Maldon, and for the first time he felt less than his former self. A pang of shame made him glance around the hall, wondering if there was an axe, spear or seax that he could grab and keep by him to show a semblance of his status as a warrior.
‘Do not worry,’ said Brand in Norse, sensing Beornoth’s concern, of how his warrior’s pride needed the visitor to know that he was a fighter of renown, a member of the warrior caste of Saxon society. He rose and clapped Beornoth on the shoulder. ‘Though you do not wear your armour or carry a sword, your scars tell the truth of your reputation.’
Beornoth nodded and brushed down his woollen tunic. Eawynn came to stand alongside him, Alfgar’s child sleeping soundly in her arms. Wynstann ordered the servants to fetch bread, cheese and ale and set an eating bench to welcome their guest. He peered out of a window shutter and ran to pull the hall doors open. Alfgar strode in, clad in his fine byrnie and with his sword strapped to his waist. The man beside him walked confidently. He was of average height and build, with the narrow face of a monk or cleric rather than that of a warrior. His left hand was missing, the wrist covered by a leather cap tied around his forearm. He wore byrnie chain mail, whose links were a dark black over a black leather jerkin, and his hair was closely cropped to his scalp.
