Warrior and Protector, page 6
Osric looked down his nose at Beornoth, the corner of his mouth twisting. He turned to his two friends and muttered something out of earshot. The two men laughed, and they rode on past the praying, distraught villagers.
That night the riders camped west of the burned village. Beornoth had kept to himself throughout the journey south. He had barely spoken to any of Streonwold’s men, distancing himself even from his sworn man, Wulfhere, and from Alfgar. His only companion through the long days and evenings had been ale, or mead, or whatever mind-numbing drink he could get his hands on. It was a warm evening, and two of Streonwold’s men cooked rabbit over a small fire. Beornoth sat with his back against a sycamore tree. He twirled one of its fluttering seeds between his fingers, hoping the spinning of the small leaves would distract him from the overwhelming urge to take a drink. It wasn’t working. An ale skin lay beside him on the grass, but he hadn’t taken a drink since the village. The charred, smoking corpses at the raided village were a harsh reminder for Beornoth that he was at war again. He had spent the last few years rounding up or killing masterless men and cattle thieves or settling small family feuds in the valley in return for his pay as a reeve. This was different. This was war. To fight well required more than skill at arms, and as Beornoth scratched at his dry throat and licked at cracked lips, he knew the drinking had to stop. The Ealdorman wouldn’t grant a Heriot to a drunk. That was what had cost Beornoth his land and inheritance in the first place. If he was to win back his family’s honour, and become a Thegn again, then he would need a clear head and a steady hand.
Beornoth closed his eyes and saw again the rage on Eawynn’s scarred face, the fury in her eyes as she had clawed at him, spitting her hatred. His hand reached for the ale skin, but he pushed himself to his feet instead, he had to become sober. He needed something to take his mind off the pain, the shame deep inside him, and the harrowing cries of his mad wife and the nightmare of his dead children.
‘Alfgar, come here,’ he called to the Ealdorman’s bastard. Alfgar looked up from where he sat cross-legged, close to the fire. His mouth hung open, and he just stared at Beornoth. ‘Come here and bring your spear.’ The lad looked at the other men, then leapt to his feet and grabbed his spear. The Ealdorman had tasked Beornoth with teaching the lad to fight, so teach he would.
Alfgar walked towards Beornoth. He was pigeon-toed and walked in small shuffling steps with his shoulders hunched and his eyes fixed on the ground. Beornoth saw Osric and his men giggling and pointing at the youth. The heir and his two companions had been a thorn in Beornoth’s side all the way from the north-west down to the land of the East Saxons. They had chided and mocked the other warriors, safe in the knowledge that they had the protection of their Lord and ranked above the other men. It had not bothered Beornoth too much, largely because he had been drunk for most of the journey, but now that he was sober and his head throbbed with the thirst of it, the three men were getting under his skin.
Alfgar stood before Beornoth, holding the spear at his side, its butt resting on the grass. He did not meet Beornoth’s eye, but stared at his own boots, and for a moment Beornoth thought the lad might cry.
‘Did your father teach you to fight, boy?’ said Beornoth.
Alfgar muttered and covered his mouth with his left hand so that Beornoth couldn’t hear him.
‘Speak up, I can’t hear you.’
‘I said no, Lord.’ Alfgar spoke louder, but Beornoth still had to crane his neck to hear the words.
‘I am not a Lord. Just call me Beo. Why were you not taught to fight?’ They taught all boys of rank the use of weapons. Any lad whose father was a Thegn, a household warrior or retainer, would learn how to use axe, spear, shield and bow. Weapon craft would be how they made their living once they became men, and skill at arms was a sure way to keep a man alive.
‘My father wanted me to join the Church, so I learned my letters.’
‘So why didn’t you join the Church?’
Alfgar shuffled his feet and shot a glance over his shoulder at the men around the fire to make sure they weren’t listening.
‘I fear God does not look favourably upon me. I pray and worship and am a godly man, but I fear God does not hear my words. And the Church… was not what I had hoped it would be. I did not feel the grace of God.’
Beornoth stared at the lad. He guessed Alfgar had seen close to twenty summers, which was old for an unmarried young man. At his age he should already be an experienced warrior with a wife and part of his father’s hearth-troop. He was of average height but narrow in the shoulder. Beornoth thought Alfgar looked like a priest, and could see him with a tonsure and wearing the brown, drab robes of the clergy. Beornoth himself was no longer a man of God, which was rare, so he didn’t question the boy further on his beliefs.
‘Show me how you thrust that spear.’
‘What, here?’ said Alfgar, and threw another glance over his shoulder. This time, the men were watching him.
‘Yes, show me a solid thrust.’
The Adam’s apple in Alfgar’s throat bounced up and down, and he shuffled his feet. He placed two hands on the weapon and pushed it forward, but with no commitment. Beornoth shook his head.
‘I will show you how to use that, then the shield, and then the axe. Give it to me.’
Alfgar handed him the spear.
‘Thrust, parry, hook, low, high,’ said Beornoth, grunting as he showed the key movements.
‘Watch out, you might fall over, you sack of mead,’ shouted Osric, and his men hooted with laughter.
‘Ignore those fools. We practise each morning and evening until you get it right. You will need to learn if you want to live.’
Alfgar nodded, and Beornoth saw the hint of a smile on his pale face.
‘Wulfhere, bring your spear,’ he called. The big man stood and grabbed his weapon, which was propped up next to him. He approached, rolling his shoulders. Beornoth had all but ignored the man since taking his oath. That, too, was something he would need to change. If it came to shield-wall fighting, which Beornoth knew and hoped it would, then he would need a trusted man holding the shield on his unprotected right side.
Beornoth stood next to Wulfhere, and they went through the drill of spear craft. The drill any self-respecting warrior did regularly to keep his skills sharp and his arm strong.
‘We will do this together, the three of us each day. Bring me a shield.’
Wulfhere fetched Alfgar’s shield and handed it to Beornoth. He grabbed the rim, one hand on each edge of the iron band which ran around the edge of the shield. Beornoth lifted the shield high and held it there, then lowered it and repeated the movement until he could lift the thing no longer.
‘Do that twice a day, and you will get stronger. You will need your strength.’
Which was true, because the next day they met the Vikings.
6
Beornoth woke the following morning with a pounding head and a sour feeling in his stomach. He had awoken to such discomfort countless times, the heavy penance for drinking too much the night before. But that morning, the opposite was true. He had drunk nothing but water that night, but now he craved ale, or mead. He needed it, the want of it overwhelming and painful. Most men carried ale to drink instead of water because it was easier to keep fresh, and less likely to give them poorly guts, so it would not be hard to find. Beornoth, however, had promised himself that he would stay away from ale, he knew he drank too much, and the burned village had been a stark reminder that he needed a clear head if he was to fight effectively, and he would need to kill fierce Viking warriors if he was to get his Heriot back.
Alfgar carried a horn of water, and Beornoth took a thirsty pull at it before taking the lad through his morning practice. Wulfhere, Alfgar and Beornoth found a patch of open scrubland close to the camp and went through the same drills as on the previous night. The movements of the spear and strength work with the shield. Then, at the end, Beornoth strapped the shield onto Alfgar’s left arm and showed him how to brace himself behind it and use the spear to counterstrike over and under the iron rim. Alfgar was clumsy and unsure of himself, and could not hold the heavy shield steady for long, but he listened and tried patiently to follow Beornoth’s lead.
Streonwold gave the order to push south-west in search of Ealdorman Byrhtnoth, and they rode out as a chill morning wind whipped across the East Saxon hills. The treetops rustled and swayed, and Beornoth pulled his old woollen cloak around him. His hands and face were sweating, but he was shivering in the saddle. Every step his horse took felt like a knife stabbing behind his eyes, and as they crossed hills and dales, all Beornoth could think about was how much he wanted a drink.
Mid-morning came and Beornoth saw the shining coils of a river meandering in the distance, glittering under the sun like the scales of a writhing dragon. The water was the thoroughfare by which the Vikings made their attacks inland, so Beornoth was glad to see it, because it meant they were closer to the enemy. They stopped to rest the horses, and Beornoth huddled against the base of a fallen oak tree, hiding his shaking hands beneath his cloak. His mind was drowning in his thirst for ale or mead. He needed it, craved it. Beornoth pushed the desire deep down, and told himself that he had spent enough time at the bottom of an ale jug. The time for drinking was over.
Wulfhere and one of Streonwold’s men went to forage for berries and mushrooms in a nearby woodland so the men could eat whilst they rested.
‘You look like shit,’ said Streonwold, coming to stand next to Beornoth. Beornoth grunted and pulled his cloak tighter around him. ‘There should be another town to the south, according to the priest at the burned village. No doubt we will meet Byrhtnoth either today or tomorrow.’
‘When will Aethelhelm ride south?’
‘In the next few days, he should have gathered enough men by then.’
‘Will Theodred ride?’
‘He’s the Thegn with your old Heriot?’
‘He is.’
‘Maybe. The Ealdorman won’t send all of his Thegns and warriors south. Just one for every ten hides. You came, and you’re a reeve. If he can get a few more like that, then he can leave some Thegns in the north to protect his lands whilst the rest of us are away.’
‘For what? The fighting is here.’ Beornoth knew how Aethelhelm was thinking, just as much as Streonwold did, and it made sense for the Ealdorman to not leave his lands unprotected whilst he rode to war. But Beornoth wanted Theodred in harm’s way. He wanted the bastard skewered on a Norseman’s blade. That way he could win his old lands back, instead of fighting on the promise of a new Heriot the Ealdorman had promised to create for him.
‘Lord Aethelhelm can’t leave his lands unprotected, some Thegns must remain in case any attacks come from Ireland or the north. I know you hate Theodred, but he was granted your old Heriot, he didn’t seek it.’
‘He got it because his father paid Aethelhelm. He is a rich man’s second son and a turd, and I want him in harm’s way.’
‘You were in no fit state to be a Thegn, Beo. You know it. The Ealdorman stripped away your Heriot and granted it to Theodred. He stays in the north to protect Aethelhelm’s lands and we are here, that’s just the way it is.’
‘Can Theodred fight?’
‘He has a hearth-troop of men who can, and he knows his weapons. That’s enough now, I’ll say no more on it. What the bloody hell are they doing?’ Streonwold huffed, looking at Osric and his men, who were wrestling and rolling on the ground like boys at a summer fair. He strode over, bellowing at them to stop and get a grip on themselves. Beornoth ignored them.
‘Water?’ said Alfgar, holding his horn to Beornoth. ‘It’s fresh, there’s a brook back there, I just refilled it.’ He didn’t meet Beornoth's eyes, and kept his gaze on his boots. But Beornoth nodded thanks and took a drink, trying to stop his hand from shaking whilst he held the horn.
‘You used to be a Thegn?’ asked Alfgar, and then his face flushed when he noticed Beornoth’s frown. ‘I’m sorry, you don’t need to answer. I’ll go…’
‘I was a Thegn, as was my father before me and his father, going back through the generations until our people first came to these shores. I lost it, lost my family, my lands, my Heriot. Everything.’
‘What is a Heriot?’
‘Bloody hell, boy. Does your father teach you nothing? A Heriot is the gift the King or an Ealdorman grants to a Thegn for his service. His land, weapons, a horse. It’s usually passed on through the generations, but it’s the Ealdorman’s right to grant it or take it. In return, a Thegn looks after the hides under his protection, and fights for the Ealdorman and the King whenever they call.’
‘A hide is a farm?’
‘Yes, it’s a bloody farm, enough to feed one family. So ten hides are ten farms, or ten families.’
‘So how did you lose your Heriot and hides?’
‘Enough bloody questions for one day,’ growled Beornoth, and handed the horn back to Alfgar. The boy plainly knew little of war, or how the warrior hierarchy worked. ‘What did you learn when you were a child?’
‘My letters. The Bible and the word of God.’
‘So why did you not become a priest, then? You are a little old to be only learning how to fight now, most lads your age should already be seasoned fighters, married and settled.’
‘I am a godly man. I pray and try to be virtuous. But I simply did not feel God the way the other students did, it is a lot to give up one’s life in service of the Lord. To sacrifice oneself to chastity, to forego wealth and be devoted to God alone.’
Beornoth laughed at that. ‘There are not many priests in my experience who forego wealth, and who keep their vow of chastity. Most of them have fingers thick with rings, and they live and eat like Kings.’
‘That was also part of the problem, Lord. My father wanted me to join the Church so I could eventually hold some of the land owned by the Church. Land ceded to them by him and our forebears. The abbeys and monasteries own lots of good land across the north-west. So I would have become a priest or Bishop landowner, wealthy and rich.’
‘And your father wants to keep it all in the family, the profits will still flow to him. Men would kill for such a life of comfort, Alfgar.’
‘Yes, Lord. But that is not the word of God.’
‘You are better off becoming a fighter, lad. Simpler work.’ Beornoth shook his head. The word of God might be good for soothing the pain of a mother’s loss of her child, or a widower’s loss of his wife, but it would not stop the Vikings from raiding and killing. Beornoth had been a man of God. All Saxons were. But the pain of his life had forced him to question God and Christ. How could God allow all the suffering in the world when he could take it all away whenever he wished? These days, Beornoth saw God more as a crutch for the bereaved and the hopeful, if it comforted people to believe that their dead loved ones were waiting for them in Heaven, where they would one day be reunited, then it made no difference to him. For generations, Ealdormen and men of power across the Saxon lands had granted swathes of land to the Church in return for God’s favour. Down the years, this practice had made the Church extremely wealthy, and also deprived Ealdormen and Thegns of good land. Aethelhelm was no fool, he wanted his son to own much of that land so that the income it generated would still flow through his family, and not into the already overflowing coffers of the Church.
Beornoth turned at a crunch of foliage and crack of fallen branches over his shoulder. Wulfhere came bursting from the forest’s edge, red-faced and out of breath.
‘Vikings, in the wood. Foraging,’ said Wulfhere, squeezing the words out between huge sucks of breath. ‘Cwicca spotted them, then I saw them, too.’
Cwicca was Streonwold’s man, a thin warrior who carried a bow slung over his back and had a face pitted from a childhood pox.
‘I reckon there’s about three of them looking for grub, just like us,’ said Cwicca.
Beornoth stood and strode to his horse. He pulled his war axe from its sheath in the saddle and took off his cloak. His head still pounded from the ale-longing, and the pain made him quick to anger. If there were Vikings ahead, then he wanted to fight them, to sate his fury for all their kind had wrought upon him.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’ asked Streonwold, hands on his hips.
‘Going to kill Norsemen, that’s why we’re here.’
‘What if there’s more of them in the woods? It’s too risky and our orders are to join up with Byrhtnoth.’
‘I’m here to kill Norsemen, and there’s three of the bastards in there. Wulfhere comes with me. The rest of you do as you like.’ He ignored Streonwold’s complaining and walked towards the forest. Wulfhere fell in alongside him, as did Alfgar, clutching his spear to his chest. Osric and his two warriors also followed, which surprised Beornoth. Streonwold was not a coward. Beornoth knew him to be a brave and skilled warrior, but he would follow Aethelhelm’s orders to the death and would never deviate from them, and Beornoth expected Osric to side with his father’s captain.
‘Where did you see them?’ Beornoth said. He rested his axe on his shoulder for a moment to make sure the antler-handled seax was loose in its sheath at the back of his belt.
‘This way, the forest thickens and then opens out into a glade. Buggers are in there. Follow me,’ said Wulfhere. He led them on through the undergrowth until they reached a large thorn bush. There Wulfhere crouched and placed a finger to his lips. ‘I saw them over there, so best go quietly now,’ he whispered, and moved cautiously. Beornoth followed his lead, walking carefully, making sure not to tread on a rotten branch or twig and alert their prey.
Wulfhere held up a hand, and the line of men stopped. The big man reached up and tugged on his own earlobe, and pointed ahead of him. Beornoth held his breath and turned his head to listen. Sure enough, he could hear Norse voices talking some distance before them. He set his teeth and his hand clenched on the haft of his axe. Beornoth waved the others in close to him.
