Sword of Vengeance, page 5
‘I came north in search of peace. I have no desire to return to a life of combat.’
‘I mentioned the king’s desire for vengeance today. Have you thought about that?’
‘I have thought of little else since the slaughter. But I am not the man to seek it out.’
‘The king’s hands are tied. The Church is too powerful, and they would pay the Vikings off. To raise his army, the king would need money from the deep Church coffers, and the blessing of the archbishop. His inevitable war tax would fall most heavily on abbeys and church lands across the kingdom. War is an expensive business. Then there are those who are not loyal to the throne, like the bastard Aethelric you punished at Bocking. Men who descended from Viking fathers or grandfathers, the powerful men of the old Danelaw who yearn for a return to Viking rule. They are sick of the king’s taxes, and of the land they must yield to the Church. Delicate threads hold together the kingdom, like a spiderweb in a thunderstorm. But the king has not forgotten Ealdorman Byrhtnoth, nor his own men, Wiglaf and Wigstan, the Wessex twins who perished in the shield wall at Maldon. Despite the mire through which he must rule his kingdom, he would have us strike back at those who conspired to cause the deaths of men Æthelred loved and admired.’
‘And you will go after the men who led the retreat from the battlefield?’
‘I will, and I will teach Godric what it means to incur the king’s displeasure. For I am his hammer, his sword and his executioner.’
‘Then I wish you well on your journey, and hope that those responsible suffer for what they have done.’
Hrodgar stood straight and stared up at Beornoth, his eyes flickering as he peered into Beornoth’s soul. ‘You will not ride, then?’
‘I cannot.’
‘Did you know that the Vikings have Byrhtnoth’s corpse? That his head is displayed on a spike before their camp?’
Beornoth shook his head and turned to leave, but Hrodgar pressed the stump of his missing hand into Beornoth’s arm to stop him.
‘There was another survivor. Thered, who was of your brotherhood. He is now the ealdorman of Northumbria and one of the most powerful men in England. He would support any move against the betrayers at Maldon.’
‘Thered lives?’ The young Northumbrian had fought like a bear at Maldon, and Beornoth had been sure the lad had perished in the battle.
‘Did you know that the entire Viking army pissed on the bodies of your old hearth troop? Are you aware that the coward Godric, son of Odda, has claimed land in Essex belonging to Ealdorman Byrhtnoth? That he and his brother enrich themselves whilst Byrhtnoth’s widow mourns for her husband with no sword to defend her?’
Beornoth snarled and dragged his arm free. ‘You have my answer,’ he said and stalked away. He wanted to vomit and thought he would throw up his meal there in the floor rushes. Could all that Hrodgar had said be true? Beornoth’s head spun, anger, fear, rage and sorrow swirling around his mind, confusing him, ripping at his very being.
‘The king gave you a warhorse. She is in Alfgar’s stable,’ Hrodgar shouted after him. ‘If you change your mind, I travel south in the morning.’
5
Beornoth heaved the hall doors open, leaning into the heavy oak. He strode out onto the timber walkway and sucked in gulps of chill night air. His breath steamed around him, and Beornoth reeled from the words that had spilled out of Hrodgar’s mouth like arrows falling on an advancing army. He leant upon the balustrade which ran around the front of Alfgar’s hall and the sounds of Maldon pulsed through his thought cage and banged at his skull like Viking war drums. Beornoth’s head ached. He retched and coughed up a sliver of stinking bile.
‘Are you all right?’ said Eawynn, emerging from the hall with soft steps. She placed her hand on his back and peered around at his face.
‘No,’ he croaked. He wanted peace, but it was not within his reach. Beornoth was done with war and blood and pain, but it was not done with him.
‘Can I help you?’
Beornoth turned to look into her beautiful eyes, dark and deep as mountain pools. His mouth opened and closed, words unformed, thoughts clouded and impossible to wrangle into something coherent. Could they run, become unknowns? Could he find work labouring for some lord in a distant land? No, that was fool’s talk. The thoughts of a child and a coward. There could be no running away from his fate. He felt it chasing him, hunting him. The ghosts of Maldon lived inside him, and they wanted something from him.
Eawynn kissed Beornoth on the cheek and returned to the hall, but as she closed the door, another figure slipped through. The doors creaked closed, and Beornoth stared into the black night, interrupted only by the gentle glow of a rushlight or torch in a window in Mameceaster’s winding streets. Beyond the city was nothing. Thick night, vast and unforgiving like death’s embrace. A sliver of moon fought to wink through the smothering cloud, but the darkness won and enveloped it.
‘They want you to fight again?’ said Brand in Norse. He leant on his elbows next to Beornoth, staring out into the void.
‘Yes.’
‘The man with the wolf-joint is a killer, is he not?’
‘He is. Wolf-joint?’
‘When the great wolf Fenris was loosed upon the world, the offspring of Loki, monstrous and savage, the gods had to find a way to stop him. They tried to chain him, but Fenris broke through each of their bindings with ease. The gods played a trick on the great wolf, telling him that the chains were a test of his strength. Each chain was stronger than the last, and the gods whooped and clapped as Fenris broke each one as though they celebrated his prowess and strength. Finally, a mighty fetter was forged for the wolf. The gods journeyed to Svartalfheim, the home of the dwarves, greatest of smiths. The dwarves formed a fetter named Gleipnir, made of the sound of cats’ footsteps, the beard of a woman, the breath of a fish and the spittle of a bird…’
‘This is a nonsense; those things don’t exist.’
‘Exactly, my Saxon friend. So, it was impossible for the wolf to escape from a fetter made from such deep cunning. Anyway, Fenris suspected trickery was afoot, and he refused this ultimate test of strength unless one of the gods would place their hand in his maw whilst he tried to break the chain. None of the gods would consent, none but Týr. For it would mean the loss of a hand and a breaking of an oath, but Týr agreed to do it for the sake of the world and to avoid the onset of Ragnarök. When Fenris Wolf discovered that he could not break free of Gleipnir’s links, he bit off Týr’s hand. So, we say any man who is missing a hand is wolf-jointed.’
‘The king sent Hrodgar to make me his man. He wants me to seek those who fled the field at Maldon and punish them.’
Brand stood and frowned at Beornoth. ‘So why are you so sullen? Those men should die, and you should be proud to be the man to do it.’
‘I just… don’t think I can…’
‘I sailed with a man once, a Dane from Jutland…’
‘I am in no mood for another story.’
‘Stories help us see things more clearly sometimes. I once sailed with a man who was injured in battle, and he believed that the blood that leaked out from his body took away his bravery. He could not and would not fight any longer, even though he had once been a warrior of reputation and skill.’
‘And?’
‘What?’
‘What happened to this man?’
‘We left him in Frankia, because he was no use to a raiding crew.’
‘So why tell me the tale?’
‘Because it was all in his head. Our Godi, the ship’s holy man, tried to explain that to him, to cure him with foul drinks, but he would not understand. Your strength is in your heart and your arm; they did not take it from you in the battle.’
‘They have Byrhtnoth’s head on a spike.’
‘Just so. He is a defeated lord, a famous warrior whose death does Olaf great honour.’
‘They pissed on the corpses of my friends. Olaf has Byrhtnoth’s body, and men come to look upon it. It’s not right, and there is no honour in that.’
Brand smiled. ‘He was a great warrior; men will want to see it. His spirit has already left the corpse; it’s just flesh and bone.’
‘The men who fled the field, Godric and his brothers, are stealing land from Byrhtnoth’s widow, and the bishops conspire to pay Olaf his gafol payment.’
‘So, are you going to do something about it, or just complain about it?’
Beornoth stared into the Northman’s pale blue eyes, and Brand held his gaze. A dog barked in a distant lane, and the sound of chatter from Alfgar’s hall was muffled by the closed doors.
‘If I ride with Hrodgar, I’ll kill them all.’ Beornoth spoke quietly, his hands curled into fists. ‘Every man who led the retreat from Maldon, everyone who conspired with the Vikings, the men who stopped the king from raising his army. All of them.’
A grin split Brand’s face. ‘Now that would be worthy of a song. There is reputation in such an undertaking. If you ride, I go with you.’
‘Even if it means fighting your countrymen?’
‘I fight who I want.’
‘How many men did you kill in the days after the battle when you brought me north?’
Brand looked out into the night sky and sighed, a plume of smoke bursting from his mouth and drifting upwards to disappear into the blackness. ‘Three on the first day, two Danes the next day, and two more Saxons on that same day. More on the road north. The land around the battlefield was thick with Forkbeard’s men, and roving bands of Saxons who had fled the battle. They saw you on the back of my horse and thought we were two men easy to rob. And they died for it.’
‘You saved my life.’
‘So, let’s use that life to punish the men who brought about Byrhtnoth’s defeat.’
When the feast was over, Beornoth and Eawynn retired to their room. Eawynn was exhausted and fell asleep in moments. But the decision to ride or stay kept Beornoth’s mind working, churning around the problem like a river in spate. He tossed and turned and fought with his head and heart.
‘What is it, Beo?’ Eawynn said eventually, looking at him with bleary eyes in the darkness.
‘I have to go. I must ride with Hrodgar,’ he said.
Eawynn sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. ‘Then we had better get you ready,’ she said simply, as though she had known that would be the case all along. By the light of the small hearth in their bedroom, Beornoth pulled on his trews and boots. He tied a leather jerkin about his torso, and gingerly rose his arms. Eawynn stood on the bed and slid the chain-mail byrnie over his hands and shoulders. Beornoth shrugged it down over his chest, the iron rings cold against his neck. It fit well, and the craftsmanship in the king’s gift was extraordinary. Beornoth had not worn mail since Maldon, and the coat of armour was heavy upon his shoulders. He cinched the byrnie with a thick leather belt around his waist, upon which he hung the king’s sword. The dragon of Wessex was stitched into the red scabbard, but Beornoth refrained from drawing the blade. He fastened the seax in its sheath on the back of his belt with two leather thongs, and suddenly he was a warrior again.
Eawynn brushed his hair in silence and tied it at the nape of his neck. She trimmed his beard, polished the full-faced helmet with a cloth.
‘I’ll wait for Hrodgar in the hall,’ said Beornoth. He couldn’t summon the words to tell Eawynn how much he would miss her, how much she meant to him, and he hoped he would see her again. He just smiled at her, and she began to cry. ‘Thank Alfgar for his kindness. He is a good man.’
‘Come back to me, Beo,’ was all she said, as tears streamed down her face.
Beornoth left the room with a lump in his throat and strode along the corridor, his boots heavy on the timber floor. The hall was empty save for a boy who sat beside the great fire. It had died down to a small blaze, and it was the boy’s job to keep the thing lit all night. The flames cast dancing shadows across the rafters and Beornoth sat on a bench beside the boy.
‘Lord,’ said the lad, springing to his feet in shock. He had been half-asleep and had not noticed Beornoth’s approach.
‘At sunrise, have my horse saddled and find someone to add a shaft to this,’ said Beornoth, and he handed the boy the aesc spear blade.
The boy left Beornoth in peace, opening the hall door to reveal a tinge of buttercup yellow in the early morning sky. The door creaked closed and Beornoth warmed his hands in front of the fire. Its flames crackled and spat, and he fed the hungry fire another log which it devoured in its creeping but inevitable grasp. The longer he wore the mail and weapons, the more Beornoth felt like his old self. The emotion of leaving Eawynn crept backwards, like a night spirit frightened away by sunrise. The desire for peace burned and shrank like the log in the fire and was replaced by the hunger for vengeance for his slaughtered brothers in arms. It blossomed in Beornoth like the rising tongues of flame, licking at his heart, forging his resolve. He welcomed it, letting the softness in him die, the want for a gentler life drowning in the sea of rage.
In the empty hall, Beornoth steeled his mind towards those who had to pay for Maldon. Godric and his brother, who led the retreat from the battlefield. Wictred of East Anglia, and his father, the bedridden Ealdorman Leofric, who had promised the support of East Anglia’s swords but failed to march. Archbishop Sigeric and his coterie of churchmen who sought to bargain with Olaf and Sweyn, and therefore forced the king to hold his army back or face their displeasure. There were others, thegns, who fled the field with Godric, men who broke their oaths to Byrhtnoth and left him to die.
Servants awoke and busied themselves with the morning meal which Alfgar and his household would consume once they finished morning prayers. Hrodgar entered the hall in his byrnie and war gear, ready to ride out early on his journey south. Beornoth stood and walked to him, and the warrior smiled as he took in Beornoth’s gear from the king.
‘You look like a king’s thegn this morning,’ said Hrodgar.
‘That’s because I’m coming with you,’ said Beornoth.
‘The king will be pleased.’ Hrodgar clapped Beornoth on the shoulder. A wracking cough echoed around the hall and both men turned to watch Brand stumble from the rear door and hawk a gobbet of spit into the floor rushes. He grabbed a jug of ale from a tabletop, leftover from the feast, and took a long pull. Beads of golden liquid poured into his beard and he slammed the jug back onto the table and let out a monstrous burp. Brand wore his byrnie, axe and long knife along with a thick woollen cloak.
‘I need a shit,’ he barked, and chuckled to himself as he approached the two Saxons.
‘Why is this Viking dressed for the road?’ asked Hrodgar, looking Brand up and down as though he were pig droppings.
‘What did the Saxon sheep-humper say?’ asked Brand in Norse. He closed one eye and returned Hrodgar’s withering stare. Brand reeked of old ale and sweat. He belched again and blew the foul stink in Hrodgar’s direction.
‘He asks why you are dressed to ride.’
‘Tell him I must go and visit his mother for some warmth on this cold day.’
‘He says he is eager to help us punish those responsible for Ealdorman Byrhtnoth’s death,’ Beornoth lied.
‘This man is a Viking. He is our enemy, a slaver, a defiler, and a heathen.’
‘He is my friend. He saved my life and killed ten men to do it. Brand is a Viking, but if I ride, then he comes with me.’
Hrodgar tightened his sword belt and shook his green cloak closer about his neck. ‘Very well then, but he must learn our tongue. And I won’t abide any prayer to his foul gods.’
‘His gods do not demand worship or prayer. They ask only that a man lives with honour, that he fights with fury, and if he wants to go to their heaven, then he must die with a blade in his hand. We will need his axe if it comes to a fight. Which it will.’
‘Very well.’
‘But we do it my way. Everyone must die.’
Hrodgar laughed and took Beornoth’s hand in the warrior’s grip. Beornoth was not yet healed, still burdened by pain, and even to ride would be difficult. But it was time for vengeance, and Beornoth would bring fire and sword to betrayers, turncloaks and cowards.
6
Beornoth, Brand, Hrodgar and his servant Tata rode south through a land in winter’s grip. They kept to the old Roman roads, so that the travellers could spend nights in roadside taverns rather than camp in the wild. The roan mare the king had gifted to Beornoth had been trained for war in the king’s own stables. She was not as large or vicious as Beornoth’s old warhorses, Ealdorbana and Hrid, but she was fast and strong. Her name was Virtus, which Hrodgar said meant courage and strength in Latin, the tongue of the Church and of old Rome. It was a good name, and the animal responded well to Beornoth’s ride: his unhealed wounds made riding uncomfortable, but the mare was gentle and he bonded with her quickly. He fed her oatcakes and brushed her down himself each evening. Beornoth had always felt a closeness to horses. He enjoyed their company. There was a bond between a warrior and his mount, the care and respect of the rider in exchange for the horse’s strength and willingness to carry his burden.
They arrived in East Anglia after fifteen nights, to find that Sweyn Forkbeard had left England’s shores before winter. The talk in the taverns was that Sweyn had grown too rich, that he had plundered so much silver from England that he could not take it all back to Denmark, because his dragon boats would sink under the weight of so much silver. Such taverns were the waypoints along the merchant and trade routes across the country. Beornoth listened to the drunken men in the tavern talk of Forkbeard as though they knew him, as though he were a rogue or a legendary figure, to be respected for his bravery and guile. That tavern was far enough away from East Anglia for those men not to have felt the touch of Forkbeard’s malice. The men who slopped ale, ate smoked fish and talked of Forkbeard would not have sisters, cousins or mothers snatched by his crews to be raped and enslaved. They would not have brothers, fathers or uncles slaughtered in foraging raids or in Forkbeard’s bloody search for silver and wealth. Beornoth wished the Danish king had stayed in Gippeswic, which he had taken in summer and used its mint to create coins for himself. Beornoth remembered the exchange of riddles in Forkbeard’s hall, and how he had not the face or the bearing of a warrior, but then how Forkbeard had emerged snarling from the River Blackwater and fought like a demon. He was gone now, across the sea and beyond Beornoth’s reach. Forkbeard had won. He had enriched himself with silver and reputation and returned to his kingdom a hero. That was a dark thing, a knot in Beornoth’s gullet, that the king of the Danes had trampled his way to glory over the corpses of those Beornoth had loved like brothers.
