Sword of Vengeance, page 8
As Beornoth drew closer, his right foot dragged in the mud and the rain beat down on the increasing swelling at the left side of his face. He thought about cutting the axe away from the Viking. To die without his axe in hand would deny him entry to Valhalla, and that would bring Beornoth pleasure. The man would wander the underworld of his gods’ afterlife, forever denied the glory of Odin’s Hall. But that might push Olaf over the edge, and though the Viking warlord respected the right of the Holmgang, what was to stop him killing Beornoth before he could leave Maldon? So, Beornoth took three quick steps and swung his sword backhand into the axeman’s neck. He wanted to take his head, just as they had taken the heads of Beornoth’s friends. But the blade met too much resistance on the man’s spine and Beornoth had to wrench it free and chop at him three times before the grizzly head rolled free.
‘Now, where is my Lord Byrhtnoth’s body, you Viking shit eaters?’ Beornoth said with a curled lip, and he kicked the axeman’s head so that it rolled in the mud and came to a stop at Olaf Tryggvason’s feet.
The rain stopped, and a shaft of warm sunlight broke through the clouds to shine upon the soaked land. Wet thatch steamed under the bright sun, and Beornoth sagged back against the wall behind Maldon’s hall. The Viking crowd melted away, seeping back into the snarl of streets and laneways inside the burh. Three broad-shouldered Jomsvikings stood guard in front of where Beornoth allowed Brand to help him slide out of his byrnie. Olaf had set the men to protect Beornoth from the ire of his warriors as Beornoth recovered from the fight.
‘The wound is not split, lord,’ said Brand, peering beneath the byrnie. ‘You must have just hurt the insides again.’
‘Put the bloody mail back on then,’ Beornoth said. He sucked his teeth as he lowered his arms and the byrnie slinked down over his shoulders.
‘But your face is a mess. I hadn’t thought it was possible for you to be any uglier, but it is.’
‘Norse bastard.’
Hrodgar came around the corner and the Jomsvikings let him pass between their shields. He slid his two knives back into the rear of his belt. His lad, Tata, scampered behind him, his straw-coloured hair dripping fat drops of rain onto his shoulders.
‘A glorious victory,’ said Hrodgar, inclining his head at Beornoth.
‘They almost killed me, but for your well-timed knives I would have been overrun.’
Hrodgar shrugged. ‘Glad I could help. I have never seen such a ferocious fight. Tata, take Lord Beornoth’s sword and seax and wipe them down.’
The lad bowed his head and stooped to take the weapons from Beornoth’s belt, which lay on the ground beside him.
‘Well fought, Saxon,’ said a familiar Norse voice. The Jomsvikings parted to reveal Olaf, wearing a dry cloak and a sour look. ‘You won fair, and I will honour our bargain. I have a wagon prepared, and your Byrhtnoth’s corpse is in it. You can leave this place in peace; you have my word.’
‘Thank you, lord,’ said Beornoth.
‘Your face is swelling quicker than a grandfather’s bladder. You should slap some cow dung on it. It will bring the swelling down.’
‘I will try that,’ Beornoth lied.
‘You won today, Saxon, just as you have defeated my men in a Holmgang before. This is the last time. Do not return to my presence or request a parlay, for if I see you before me again, I will kill you where you stand. Brand Thorkilsson, you came here today under the protection of guest-friendship, so leave in peace.’ Olaf turned on his heel and marched away, but the little priest took his place, smiled nervously. He had buck teeth and pursed lips and wore a wooden cross over his heavy priest’s robe.
‘A triumph for a warrior of the Lord,’ said the priest, and made the sign of the cross.
‘Who are you?’ asked Hrodgar. ‘Any why is a priest tolerated by these heathens? Greater men than you have been tortured and killed for their beliefs by men such as these.’
‘I am but a lowly emissary of the bishop come to talk of God to heathens,’ said the priest, and he clasped his hands together as though his presence at Maldon were a sort of miracle. ‘Forgive me for disturbing you so soon after your… encounter. But I must ask if your intention is to take the late ealdorman’s body to the abbey at Ely?’
‘I will bring the body to Byrhtnoth’s wife, Ælfflæd, and let her decide where her husband is to be buried,’ said Beornoth.
‘I studied at Ely, when I was a boy, and the ealdorman was ever a great benefactor of the abbey. It is only right and proper that he should be interred there in God’s glory.’
‘Who are you?’ Beornoth took an ale skin from Hrodgar’s outstretched hand. He took a long pull and winced as opening his mouth stretched the swelling on his face. He rarely drank ale, not since the drink had become his master during the dark days of his life, and would have preferred water, but after the fight, any sort of liquid was welcome. Beornoth suspected the priest wanted Byrhtnoth’s body taken to Ely because he saw some sort of profit in it for the abbey. Perhaps to charge a silver coin to any who wanted to gaze upon the tomb. But he was tired and sore and couldn’t summon the energy to bandy words with the little priest.
‘I am Wulfhelm. Come to the heathen by the order of Archbishop Sigeric.’
‘Why haven’t they killed you?’ Beornoth avoided cursing the name of the archbishop who had done so much to keep the king’s army from the battlefield. He did not want Wulfhelm to warn Sigeric of his open enmity.
‘Because my lord archbishop negotiates the terms of the gafol with Olaf, and as part of that arrangement, he has agreed to hear the word of God. He is an eager listener, the power of our Lord shocks and intrigues him. It is most inspiring.’ Wulfhelm clapped his hands together.
‘You don’t believe you can actually persuade Olaf Tryggvason to become a Christian, do you?’ Beornoth was so astounded that he almost dropped the ale skin.
‘He wonders why his gods have not allowed him to overrun our entire country. Olaf questions his pagan gods, they do not speak to him, and he has no evidence for their existence other than the rumble of thunder and the flight patterns of ravens. But we have miracles, and we have the words of the Lord Jesus set down in the Bible. I think Olaf will see the light; he will come into the warmth of the Lord.’
‘What is this little shit babbling about?’ asked Brand, so Beornoth translated for him, and Brand roared with laughter. ‘Olaf, become a Christian?’ he said, running a hand down his face. ‘There is more chance of me humping the king’s wife. The Saxon holy men probably demand that Olaf let them wash him before they pay him to go away. That’s all it is, ask the pious little bastard.’
‘Is Sigeric asking Olaf to be baptised before he gets the gafol payment?’ Beornoth asked the priest.
‘Yes, he is, and what a miracle it would be if he does! We will have accomplished more with the word of God than you could have with your swords in a hundred battles.’
Beornoth swallowed his anger at the priest’s foolishness. ‘How much has Sigeric committed to pay?’
‘Ten thousand pounds of silver.’ Wulfhelm raised a hand and coughed as Beornoth choked on his ale. ‘A small price to pay for peace, and to convert a heathen warlord.’
‘Go away,’ said Beornoth. Wulfhelm opened his mouth but glanced at the Viking blood still spattered on Beornoth’s hand and byrnie, and thought better of it and left.
‘Can such a sum even exist?’ asked Hrodgar, gaping at the unbelievable size of the payment offered in return for Olaf’s peaceful departure.
‘It can, but it will cripple the kingdom and build more discontent towards the king,’ said Beornoth. ‘Olaf will happily let them wash him and crow some holy words over his head for ten thousand pounds of silver. With that, he can win his father’s kingdom back and become king of Norway.’
They loaded up the cart and tied Virtus to the rear. Beornoth drove the wagon, led by a large farming horse with shaggy fetlocks and a chestnut coat. Behind him was a large corpse wrapped in an old sailcloth. Beornoth clicked his tongue and led the cart out of the burh and past the line of decayed heads along the roadside. He had recovered Byrhtnoth’s body and could return it to his widow, but had taken a severe beating to do it, and not a single traitor had been punished. But Beornoth had felt strong in the fight, just like his old self. So on to Ælfflæd and then vengeance.
8
Beornoth, Brand, Hrodgar and Tata led the wagon containing Byrhtnoth’s body south-west from Maldon towards Ealdorman Byrhtnoth’s Essex estate. Vikings had destroyed Byrhtnoth’s horse stud in the fighting before the Battle of Maldon, so Beornoth decided they should head for Rettendon, the site of a hall and village which had formed part of Lady Ælfflæd’s marriage portion and which she favoured.
Every jerk and rattle of the cart hurt Beornoth’s stomach wound, and once they were out of sight of Maldon, he stripped his byrnie and had Tata clean the armour with sand from a shallow river, dry it, and rub it with lanolin to protect the iron links. A line of horsemen shadowed them from Maldon and along the crest of a forested valley. Once they were satisfied that Beornoth rode away from Maldon, Olaf’s riders turned back towards the burh. Removing the byrnie gave Beornoth some comfort, but not as much as dipping his face in the cool river water. His eye was swollen shut and throbbed every time he moved, and Beornoth thought he could sleep for a week. He was glad to have recovered the ealdorman’s body, but the fight to get it had been brutal.
They came upon a farm later that day, as the last of the rain clouds fluttered away east towards the sea. It was a roundhouse roofed with turf, surrounded by sheep and goat pastures, and the farmer was a toothless man who offered them a night in his barn. He bowed and scraped when he saw Hrodgar and Brand’s byrnies and weapons, but Beornoth wore only his jerkin and trews. The farmer had no room in his roundhouse and his wife was sick inside, so he begged them not to make him yield his home for the night for fear that she might perish. Beornoth gave the man two pieces of the silver and the man wept with relief. They settled into the barn, and Tata made a spluttering fire from the farmer’s stack of winter firewood. The toothless man came hirpling into them with a bundle of thick, potent-smelling cheese, a loaf of dark bread and a crock of goat’s milk.
‘Now that we have the ealdorman’s body safe, we move on to the traitors,’ said Hrodgar once they had finished the meal. Tata sang softly to the horses as he brushed them down with a handful of dry hay.
‘Godric and his brother’s lands are in Essex,’ said Beornoth. ‘They were, after all, Byrhtnoth’s oathmen. But we also must also punish the lords of East Anglia, for had they come to battle as they swore they would, then our forces would have equalled the Vikings.’ He yawned, and the swollen side of his face pulled and pulsed. The pain in his stomach had all but gone. A rest and meal had helped. Beornoth sat with his legs out straight, and leant back, and that position seemed to help with the pain. The scarring on his gut had held, and Beornoth was sure that after a night’s sleep he would have a more comfortable ride. His sword belt and byrnie lay close by and Beornoth opened his mouth wide every so often to stretch the pain in his swollen face.
‘So, we either scour Essex for Godric, his brother and the scoundrels who fled the field, or we ride for East Anglia. King Æthelred wants them all to suffer, every man who had a hand in the defeat.’
‘And so, they shall. When I visited his hall, Ealdorman Leofric of East Anglia was dying in his bed. The old bastard has been dying for years, and I have not heard that he has died yet. His son Wictred gave his word to send warriors. But we cannot simply ride in and kill the ealdorman and his son. Their hall lies within a fortified town and is protected by a hearth troop of warriors. Even if we can ride in there and cut them down, we won’t get out alive.’
‘We must use cunning, then,’ said Hrodgar, with a glint in his eye. ‘Which is where I come in. You are a fine man for the shield wall and to stand and fight, Beornoth, but the subtler side of war is more suited to my skills.’
‘You do not fight in the shield wall?’
‘Not with this.’ Hrodgar raised his stump. ‘I solve problems for the king, here and abroad.’
‘You are an assassin, then?’
‘Let’s just say I make people who offend the king disappear.’
‘And you think we can make Wictred and Leofric disappear?’
‘Unless you have a better idea? My plan would be to find a way into their stronghold, perhaps at night or during a busy market day. We use stealth to enter their chambers, or at a moment of privacy, and relieve them of their traitorous lives.’
‘The king believes that the ealdorman of East Anglia is a traitor?’
‘Wictred and Leofric did nothing whilst Forkbeard took control of the mint at Gippeswic. Many say they provided food and succour to the Danish king. So, at best, you could brand them collaborators with the enemy. I took word to them myself that they were to help Lord Byrhtnoth throw out the Vikings and give men to the East Saxons. They feared Forkbeard, and many of the folk in East Anglia are the sons and grandsons of Vikings leftover from when Guthrum, who became Aethelstan, ruled East Anglia. They sympathise with the Vikings, miss their ways and the freedom from the yolk of Church taxes and demands. So much land has been yielded to the Church since King Edgar’s day that men resent the abbeys and monasteries. Viking rule is not such a bad thing for the men of East Anglia, or further north in Northumbria. To them, it seems like a perfect world, no taxes, no Church to cede land to every time the family patriarch dies. They remember the Danelaw like a drunkard whose memories are filtered through the fog of ale. They choose not to remember the paganism and the brutality by which the Danes and Norsemen captured that land.’
‘If Thered is now ealdorman in Northumbria, then we have an ally there. For though he is from the Danelaw, he fought the Vikings and is certainly not a supporter of the invaders. He fought bravely beside us at Maldon, even though he came as a hostage because of his father’s crimes against the crown. And we have Ealdorman Alfgar in Cheshire, and surely the king if it came to open war.’
‘The king believes his position is precarious. He must strike at his enemies using the very shadows by which they threaten his rule. Which is where we come in.’
‘You are the son of the ealdorman of Defnascir?’
‘The third son, and the fifth child that survived childhood. My father’s heir will succeed him, my middle brother entered the Church and will no doubt rise to a powerful rank in the shire, where the Church holds much land. Good land. So, I became a warrior.’
‘What happened to your hand?’ Beornoth had asked the question before and Hrodgar had shaken it off. But sitting by the fire in a barn with little else to do seemed as good a time as any for the tale.
‘The king and I are of a similar age, and as you know, he came to the throne early after the unfortunate death of his brother, Edward. When I was young, my father sent me to serve in the new king’s retinue and grow into his household troop. I did that. I learned to fight, thought that would be my life. Was barely old enough to grow the finest of beards upon my chin when the king and his mother were attacked whilst on the road between Winchester and Lundenwic. The king’s mother ruled the kingdom in those days, and there was still some discontent over the succession. A disgruntled thegn attacked the king and his mother on the road and broke through his guards, and I managed to get my shield in the way of an axe aimed at the royal neck. I closed my eyes when the axe blade came. I don’t mind admitting it now. I was but a boy. The axe ripped the shield from my grip and the backswing took my hand. There was so much blood that I thought my body was emptied. The king said that I had saved his life and the Lady Aelffwyn sent her finest healers to care for me. I have been honoured to enjoy the king’s favour ever since.’
‘You must have a fine reputation in Winchester, for everyone must know you are the man who saved the king’s life.’
Hrodgar held up the stump of his left wrist and turned the leather cover around, so that the firelight danced on the finely cut carvings upon it. ‘Nobody knows who I am,’ he whispered. ‘They saved my life, but I died that day on the road. What remained is a husk of what existed before. I saw myself bleed out, and I cowered from the axe blow. I got my shield in front of it, but I was rooted to the ground in terror. What I did was not brave. It was a reaction to overwhelming fear. What is left is not the son of the ealdorman of Defnascir, but a killer. A different man. A king’s man.’
‘Do you have a wife or any children?’
‘No, my duty is my only companion.’
Beornoth pitied Hrodgar in that moment. For though he lifted his chin and puffed out his chest as though that statement was something to be proud of, his eyes told a different story. Their emptiness spoke of loneliness and a sadness, of a man alone. Even though Viking raiders had cruelly ripped it from him, Beornoth had experienced the joy of being a husband and a father. He knew that the true meaning of life was not glory or reputation; it was love. He couldn’t put into words the impossible joy of having children, of watching them grow from helpless babes into running, laughing children. Of how their giggles made a man’s heart warm, of the pride at watching their accomplishments, and the satisfaction that one’s family slept soundly and safely in their beds. A wife made a man whole, a confidant and a wise head to talk through important matters, a mother and a lover. Beornoth thought of Eawynn, and also of Aethelberga, who had been the lady of Branoc’s Tree. Both ran complex households, with responsibility for counting and storing the harvest, ensuring weaving and distaff working was maintained, that the house was correctly provisioned. Both helped Beornoth listen to and adjudicate upon the complaints and issues within the hundred farms he had been responsible for. Aethelberga was dead, and so was her lover Wulfhere. Beornoth missed them both deeply, just as he missed Eawynn’s soothing presence. Hrodgar had experienced none of that, and so his was a life unfulfilled, a part of his humanity closed off. But such things were not discussed between warriors, and so Beornoth held his pity within, and just nodded to show that he respected Hrodgar’s devotion to his king and country.
