Sword of Vengeance, page 7
Olaf barely stifled a sigh of disappointment at the arrival of the heimnar. ‘Easy, Ragnar. Lord Beornoth comes to us under a truce to talk. He is my guest.’
‘Your guest?’ spluttered Ragnar, his head thrashing from side to side. For a moment Beornoth thought he would fall out of his box until one of the two men who had carried him tightened a leather strap which ran across his chest and through the back of the wooden casket. ‘He is our enemy, hated by the gods, give him to me. Let me have him, Olaf, let me have him!’ Ragnar’s shrill cut the air like the sound of a fox cry, and men shrank away from its awful rancour.
‘Take him away,’ said Olaf with a wave of his hand. Ragnar screamed in protest, but there was little he could do as his two handlers carried him away.
‘I thought he was Sweyn Forkbeard’s man?’ asked Beornoth.
‘He was, but when King Sweyn left for home, he left Ragnar as a gift to me.’
‘A gift?’ said Beornoth, and Olaf shrugged with a wry smile. ‘Why not throw him into the river? He wasn’t a warrior of honour when he was whole. Now he’s just a turd with a head.’
‘Some men think he has power, that the gods keep him alive in his tortured state to speak their will.’
‘If I may, Lord Olaf,’ said a voice so quiet it was barely audible. A little man, no higher than Olaf’s chest, appeared between the warriors. And Beornoth was surprised, because he was a priest. The man wore a roughly spun brown woollen robe, and his tonsure was freshly shaved. ‘Byrhtnoth was a good man, a pious man, and a great benefactor to the church at Ely. He should be allowed to rest in the glory of God.’ He spoke in a serious, almost scalding tone, and Beornoth half expected Olaf to backhand the little man across the face. But instead, he scratched his beard thoughtfully and then grinned at Beornoth.
‘Very well,’ he said wolfishly. ‘Winter in this country is a mess of rain and mud, and my men are bored. Your jarl was a great warrior, and perhaps I should let you bury him the way the nailed god demands. So, I will allow you to challenge for his corpse. You know our ways, Lord Beornoth, so you can fight for the headless, piss-stinking offal if you wish.’
Beornoth couldn’t contain a long sigh. Every bone, wound, scar and knot in his body pulsed in protest. But he nodded. He would fight for Byrhtnoth’s body. If he won, he would return the corpse to Byrhtnoth’s wife so that she could bury him with the honour that he deserved. If Beornoth lost, then it would be humiliation or death, or both, and Byrhtnoth’s body would remain with Olaf.
7
‘He wants you to fight two men?’ asked Hrodgar.
‘Yes. Olaf has made me fight for sport before, and it would seem that’s my fate whenever I come to parlay with him,’ said Beornoth. He stretched upwards and backwards, tilting his head and holding a hand to the tender wound still healing in his stomach.
‘Could you not ask to wrestle or fight with wooden practice blades or swords dulled with cloth wraps?’
‘Olaf wants blood. He wants his men entertained and me dead. It is nothing to him if we take Byrhtnoth’s body, but he sees a chance to amuse his gods, himself and his army. Not too hard, boy.’ Beornoth frowned at Tata as the boy ran a whetstone along the edge of Beornoth’s seax. The lad glanced up at him, then looked across the square at the two men Beornoth would fight. Both were huge, bearded, experienced Viking warriors. The first man’s head was bald and covered with black tattoos that depicted writhing dragons and other clawing beasts from legend. He lunged and swung practice strokes with a war axe, long-hafted and heavy. Its blade was oversized and after every stroke he beat it upon the iron rim of his shield. The second man was taller, a head above most of the leering Vikings huddled around the square, which Olaf had laid out carefully with hazel rods. He was of a size with Beornoth himself, but not as broad across the shoulder. He had a long black beard woven into a plait shot through with silver wire. This man had stripped off his armour and waited to fight bare chested, wearing only his trews and boots. He carried a spear in his right hand and a shield in his left, with a seax tucked into his belt. Their shields were iron bossed and covered in dark leather painted with clawed beasts, snarling and bright beneath the rain-soaked buildings of Maldon. They were huge, fearsome killers, experienced Viking warriors who were waiting for their chance to kill Beornoth and burnish their reputations bright with his death.
‘Will you fight them one at a time, or both at once?’ Hrodgar stood beside Beornoth, staring across at the mighty Viking warriors with a worried look on his face.
Beornoth shrugged. ‘I’ll fight them as they come. Doesn’t matter.’
‘Did you see the priest at Olaf’s shoulder?’
‘I saw him.’
‘What business would a Saxon priest have in a nest of heathen vipers?’
‘Little bastard probably smells silver. Find me a shield, if you can.’ Whilst Beornoth had rediscovered his faith in the Lord during the previous year’s troubles, he still held little respect for priests and men of the Church. There were some exceptions, but in Beornoth’s experience they were either greedy, power-hungry, or both. Priests and bishops were generally the second or third sons of wealthy men; fathers had their sons take holy vows, and then influenced their promotion to take control of swathes of valuable land owned by the Church. Once in high-ranking positions, concessions were made to families for grazing rights, access to forests for woodcutting, and other important benefits.
Hrodgar nodded, walked two steps one way, looked at a snarl of grim-faced Vikings, and then walked in the other direction. Neither Beornoth, Brand nor Hrodgar carried a shield on their travels, so Hrodgar would need to borrow one from Olaf’s men.
‘Are you ready?’ asked Brand in Norse.
‘As I’ll ever be,’ replied Beornoth.
‘I know one of those men. The big one with no jerkin. He is from an island in the far north, close to my home. He is a renowned Holmgang fighter and has killed four men that I know of. The bastard will be as fast as a wolf with that spear, so be careful.’
‘He’s going to die. They both are. Both fought at Maldon, and I can smell the blood on their stinking hands. They will be the first to suffer for what happened. They cut off my friends’ heads and pissed on their corpses and they laughed at Ealdorman Byrhtnoth’s body and denied him burial. I’m going to kill them.’ Beornoth realised that by the time he had finished speaking, he was shouting. Not just with a raised voice, but bellowing like a madman. His boots stomped in the mud and his teeth gnashed.
There was a ceremonial part to a Viking Holmgang duel; it honoured the gods, and Olaf or his Norse holy men would want to say words to Odin, Thor or Týr. To hell with that. Beornoth wanted blood. He ripped his sword free from his scabbard and the leather grip of the king’s sword was as warm and comfortable in his hand as the skin of a lover. Where before he had been afraid to hold it, shirking from the memories it evoked of the slaughter at Maldon, now he welcomed it. He let it wash over him and the faces of his dead friends came before his eyes to give him strength and rage.
Beornoth didn’t even wait for Hrodgar to return with a shield. The blood fury was on him, and it could not be contained. He kicked off his boots, because the rain had turned Maldon into a muddy mess, and he didn’t want to slip into the swing of that monstrous war axe. He strode forward with his sword raised, and the Vikings gathered about the fighting square, cheered, spat and clashed their weapons at the prospect of the fight to come. The mud squelched cold and mushy between his toes, and Beornoth looked across the faces of his enemies. Men in leather breastplates with gaping maws snarled and spat at him. Men in mail with bright weapons shaking in their fists, brown teeth and scarred faces cursed him, baying for his blood. These were men of the north, who had braved the treacherous Whale Road on their shallow-draughted warships to bring war and death to Beornoth’s people. They were adventurers, willing to risk their lives in search of reputation, silver and glory. Death was their trade, and many had suffered and bled because of their lust for more. They could have stayed at home in Norway, or Jutland, the Vik or the lands of Svears, but they had come to England with axe, sword, spear, greed and spite.
Beornoth raised his sword and roared back at them. He stared into their blue, brown and hazel eyes and let them feel his hate and his power. He was Beornoth, killer of Skarde Wartooth and the White Wolf. He was an avenger and a killer, and he was here to punish them. Beornoth strode forwards, his rain-soaked hair slick to his scalp. His bare feet sunk into the wet filth and found purchase on the hard ground beneath. He went slowly at first, cautiously, as though he were wary of his enemies’ heavy shields and bright blades. The bald man threw his head back and whooped for joy. He came on with his shield held low and his heavy axe held halfway up the haft. It was a weapon to break a shield wall, its bearded blade designed to hook over an enemy shield and yank it down so that a sharp blade could slice into the space and tear the life from the shield man. Most Vikings preferred shorter-hafted weapons, with better balance. Beornoth had wielded such a weapon himself before. It gave the fighter options for hack, slice, punch and drag, but the heavier weapon would be clumsy and brutal unless the man had a giant’s strength. Beornoth saw in the man’s feral brown eyes, like those of a woodland animal hungry for blood, that he was a front ranker, a lover of battle who prided himself as a shield-wall breaker. Had he broken Byrhtnoth’s own shield wall at Maldon? Was he one of the men who had formed the swine-head wedge that had punched through the ealdorman’s battle line and swarmed him, hacking him to death?
Yes, Beornoth decided, he was one of those men. Beornoth told himself the man was, in fact, the Viking who had cut Byrhtnoth’s head from his body. So, as the axeman picked up his pace and raised his axe, Beornoth ran at him. The axeman’s shield was still low at his side, he was so confident in his own prowess that he believed the weight and power of his axe would be enough to scythe through Beornoth’s sword blade in one mighty stroke and cleave his chest open like a pig on the butcher’s block. Beornoth ran and instead of raising his sword to block the overhand axe below, he kicked out and his bare foot pinned the man’s shield low and Beornoth stepped into the axe swing. Most men would dart backwards from the monstrous blade or swerve out of its way. But Beornoth was not most men. He stepped into it, catching the haft in his left hand, and pulled the bald warrior across his body off balance. Beornoth slammed the pommel of his sword on the back of the Viking’s skull with an audible crack. The Viking fell forwards onto his knees and Beornoth turned, bringing his sword around overhand to smash its long blade into the Viking’s shield arm. The blade cut deep into the arm above the wrist and Beornoth sawed it backwards, smiling as the axeman howled in pain. Beornoth crashed his knee into the kneeling man’s face and turned to face the spearman.
The long-bearded man came quickly, and Beornoth only just reacted in time to raise his sword and block the spear point from slicing into his eye. The blow went wide, but the man’s shield thudded into Beornoth’s shoulder, and he took three steps backwards under its force. The spear came low and Beornoth stepped over it, then the spear butt whipped around and Beornoth ducked under the swing, and the whoosh of its passing sang in his ears. Beornoth grabbed with his left hand but found only the hard iron of the spearman’s shield. He swung low with his sword, but the spearman parried with his spear shaft and slashed with its blade so that the point scraped down the front of Beornoth’s byrnie. Had he not worn the armour, that blow would have sliced him open from neck to navel. Beornoth growled and set about the Viking with a flurry of sword strikes, he thrust overhand and underhand, but the man caught each blow with his shield, shuffling backwards under the fury of Beornoth’s attack. Beornoth stabbed low, and the shield dropped to block it, so Beornoth swung his left fist over the shield rim and punched the spearman full in the face. The Viking tottered backwards, dark blood rushing from his nose.
The crowd howled in anger that two of their champions were bloodied. Three men surged from the crowd to Beornoth’s left and he went to meet them. A short man wearing striped trews came at Beornoth, his face bright red and twisted with rage. Beornoth plunged the tip of his sword into the man’s belly and a gush of his fetid breath swamped Beornoth’s face. The second attacker suddenly fell back, a small knife protruding from his neck. Beornoth turned as Hrodgar threw a second knife underhand, and the blade cut through the air to take the third man in his ribs. Beornoth dragged his sword free of the little man, and a gout of blood came out with it.
Olaf himself charged at the side of the fighting square from which the men had spilled over into the arena. His Jomsvikings followed and shoved the heaving mass of Vikings back with their shields. The Holmgang was ceremonial for Norsemen; they believed battle brought them close to their gods, so any infringement upon it was done so knowing that the Aesir themselves looked upon the fight, and to displease the gods could bring bad luck or punishment. The men shrank back from the Jomsvikings, and Olaf emerged from the crowd with his rain-soaked hair loose and wild about his face. He held up a hand in apology to Beornoth and flashed a murderous scowl at his two champions who had so far struggled against Beornoth.
They restored order in the crowd, and the spearman helped the axeman to his feet. He had dropped his shield and stuffed his shattered, bloody wrist into the side of his breastplate to keep the useless arm out of his way. His face was pale and pulled tight with pain and anger, and the two men came on together, both huddled behind the spearman’s shield. They knew now that they faced a dangerous foe and approached the fight cautiously. Beornoth still held only his sword. He turned and nodded his thanks to Hrodgar for dropping the two attackers with his throwing knives. Then Beornoth attacked. His right shoulder burned from the effort of swinging his sword and his breath was short. He tried to disguise his limp, a remnant from a wound to the thigh taken in last year’s fighting, but the more exhausted he became, the less easy it was to mask. But he would not wait for these men to kill him. He had come into their lair for Byrhtnoth’s body, and he would not leave without it.
As he surged forwards, Beornoth pulled his seax free from the sheath at his back and gripped it in his left hand. He punched his sword forwards and its blade stabbed into the top of the spearman’s shield, tilting towards the two Vikings. At the same time, Beornoth dropped to one knee and stabbed his seax into a booted foot. He twisted the knife and yanked it free, accompanied by a desperate cry of pain. The axeman fell to one knee, and as he fell, he stabbed forward with his mighty weapons, and the top of the axe haft thumped into Beornoth’s face. Pain surged beneath Beornoth’s left eye and he flung himself away from the Vikings. His vision blurred and pitted with black spots. He shook his head to clear his vision, but had to close his left eye. Just as he focused his right eye, the spearman was upon him. Beornoth parried a spear thrust with his sword and stabbed his seax into the shield to stop it from cannoning into his face. He wrenched at the weapon, but it was stuck fast in the linden wood boards, so he left it there.
Beornoth scrambled and his bare feet found purchase in the slime. He swung his sword at his enemy, but the blade whistled through thin air as the man ducked out of its path. The swing had been wild, and Beornoth was overextended. The spear shaft hit him in the stomach, and now it was Beornoth’s turn to gasp in pain. He stumbled backwards and clutched his left hand to the wound in his gut, the Maldon wound which had yet to heal properly. It pulsed and drained his energy, as though the blow had reopened the terrible cut. The spearman smiled at him over the rim of his shield, and he spat a gobbet of blood at Beornoth’s feet.
Beornoth straightened, and it was as though he had a blade stuck in his belly again. The spearman came for him, lunging and slashing with his spear, and every time Beornoth swung his sword, pain seared through his insides like a red-hot poker. He missed a parry, and the spear punched Beornoth in the shoulder, but his mail held. Then the butt came around in a whirr and cracked Beornoth across the skull on his left side, where he still couldn’t open his eye.
‘No,’ Beornoth growled. He ingested the pain, swallowed it like a fire-eater at a summer fair. They would not defeat him. He had not yet avenged his dead friends. ‘No, no, no,’ he said between gritted teeth. The spearman lunged again, and Beornoth danced to his left. The Viking pivoted on his heel, but his boot slid in the muck and his leg kicked out to the side. He fell, caught himself with his shield and looked at Beornoth with the realisation that death had come for him. Beornoth sprang forwards and stepped onto the antler hilt of his seax which was still embedded in the shield’s boards. The man tried to lift the shield, but it was stuck fast by Beornoth’s muddy foot, so he plunged the butt of his spear into the slime to steady himself and Beornoth rammed the blade of his sword into the man’s gullet. It sliced through his plaited beard and into the soft, sunken flesh between his collarbones. Beornoth bellowed and twisted the sword. He pushed it deeper and then dragged the hilt upwards to split the spearman’s neck wide open. Dark blood gushed down the man’s pale torso and on into the rain-soaked ground inside Maldon’s burh.
Beornoth took his foot off the seax and kicked the dying man off his sword blade. The crowd fell silent as their champion slopped into the mud. The wound in his neck was horrific and terrible to look upon. Beornoth held his bloody sword up, and he turned slowly in a circle so that all the crowd could see him. Beornoth was battered and in agony, but he had won. The Vikings stared at him, no longer angered and maddened, but silent and baleful. A thousand cold eyes watched him, hating him, wanting nothing more than to spring forward and cut him down. The only thing that protected Beornoth from their blades was the respect they held for the Holmgang, and the fear of their gods’ displeasure. Beornoth limped through the mud towards where the axeman writhed and moaned in the mud. His foot splashed in a pool of blood and his useless arm flapped beside him. He stared at Beornoth, holding his axe close to him, perhaps hoping for another strike at Beornoth before he died.
