Authors: Giles Kristian
'But men remember us for the things we do, Mauger. The great things,' I said, wondering how many men he had killed. 'Olaf says the skalds in the halls of the northlands already sing songs of Sigurd. His name is known. Men fear him, and even the grey sea cannot confine his fame.' I lengthened my stride, forcing Mauger to do the same. 'Our names will resound in the drinking halls of kings. They will become ingrained like smoke in stout oak beams, felt by our sons and their sons after them.' I touched the amulet at my neck. 'But only if we are worthy. That is what Sigurd says. Only then will Óðin send his death maidens for us when our time comes.'
'You believe in their gods too?' Mauger asked gruffly.
'I have seen the Wolfpack fight, Mauger, as have you. I have seen them kill as though it were as easy as drawing breath. Their gods love battle and battle is the path to glory. They are my gods now. Maybe they have always been,' I dared, hoping the Christian god was not listening. I stepped up again, so that Mauger had no more breath to waste on talk. In those days I was arrogant and intoxicated by the Norsemen, and I believed the Norns of fate wove our futures. But I also believed we could guide their old hands, and for that I was a fool.
'That must be it,' I said later, pointing to the east where we could make out wisps of grey smoke rising to dirty the sky. A lone cloud suddenly snuffed out the watery sun above us, casting the yellow gorse and bristle grass into shadow and stilling the cry of a warbler nesting nearby. I took this as a good omen, meaning that the great warrior king of Mercia would be blind to our ruse. The shield slung over my back was starting to rub and I looked forward to taking it off.
'Aye, that's it all right,' Mauger confirmed, scratching his thick beard. 'We'll keep going until we reach that hill in the distance, then track east and come in from the north. You remember the story?' He palmed sweat from his brow.
I stared at the rising smoke, wondering what lay in store for us at Coenwulf's hall, then touched the pommel of my sword, the sword I had killed with. 'I remember,' I said. I felt for the amulet of Óðin at my neck, tucking it deep inside my clothes, and then checked the rest of my gear, my mail, sword scabbard and helm, in case they bore any pagan designs I had overlooked. A swineherd called a greeting. Mauger raised a hand and we carried on, heads bowed, along the drying mud track which led up to the walled settlement. The smell of wood smoke and animals filled my nose, which was still swollen from the fight with Aslak, and I shuddered at the risk we were taking. For the ruse had begun and we had grave news for King Coenwulf.
'The ditch shouldn't be a problem for your friends but the wall looks sturdy enough,' Mauger muttered. 'Arse and bollocks!' He had trodden in fresh cow shit. 'You'll not get in uninvited,' he said, wiping his boot against a clump of grass beside the path.
'It'll burn,' I said, remembering Abbotsend in the grip of yellow flames.
After the time it takes to fletch an arrow and before I could think about changing my mind, we stood at the threshold of King Coenwulf's fortress. Sweat chilled the skin between my shoulder blades and Mauger suddenly seemed a hostile presence beside me.
'We have important news for the king,' he said to the older of two guards who stood either side of the open gateway. They gripped long spears and wore leather armour, and they looked us up and down, seemingly unimpressed by our mail and arms.
'What news?' the guard asked, leaning the point of his spear towards Mauger. 'What business do you have with the king?' The younger man was staring at my blood-eye, so I turned to fix him with it and he looked away.
'What I have to say is for my king, Coenwulf the Strong,' Mauger blurted, 'not for some little prick who ought to know he's unworthy to hear words meant for the Lord of Mercia, hammer of the Welsh and future king of Wessex. May your rotten tongue fall out, you worthless arse leaf.'
The guard blanched and stiffened and for a moment I thought he would turn his spear on Mauger for which he would die, but he must have known this too, for he stretched his neck awkwardly and then turned to the younger man.
'Stay here, Cynegils. No one gets in, understand, lad? Not even the bishop of bloody Worcester with a box of forgiveness.' He looked us up and down once more and shrugged. 'Come on then,' he said. He turned, spear in hand, and marched into King Coenwulf's stronghold, and we followed him.
The place was full of noise. A watermill creaked and an iron corn-grinding wheel moaned. Chickens clucked about on ground churned to mud by countless feet. Pigs grunted and cattle lowed and goats munched on tufts of new grass. At least two forge hammers rang out, men and women called from house to house, horses whinnied, children played, and infants cried. I felt as though I was drowning.
'Wait here,' the guard said, striding off towards two more warriors in leather armour, who guarded the door of Coenwulf's hall. One of them disappeared inside. An old grey hunting dog came to sniff at Mauger's boot, but he kicked the beast and it looked at me as though wondering how I could let such a thing happen, before padding back to flop down beside the hall's entrance. The guard reappeared.
'King Coenwulf, Lord of Mercia, hammer of the Welsh and warrior of the true faith, grants you an audience. You will remove all blades before entering the king's hall.' We left our swords and knives with the guards and entered the dark interior, coughing from the smoke slung among the thick old beams of Coenwulf's hall. At the far end sat the king himself on an ornately carved throne. Behind him were tapestries depicting a warrior with wings and a great flaming sword. The needlework was poor, but the image was striking none the less. Between us and the king a woman stood stirring a cauldron suspended above the central hearth, and two young girls sat in a corner sewing by sooty candlelight.
Coenwulf beckoned us forward. He was flanked by two huge warriors, both wearing mail and iron helmets and holding great ash spears.
Mauger cleared his throat. 'My lord king,' he began, 'it is a great honour . . .'
Coenwulf grimaced and batted the words away with ringed fingers. There was a brief silence as he shifted in his throne, then he twirled a finger, summoning Mauger to continue.
'We have come from Eoferwic in the north of your kingdom, my lord,' Mauger said, ditching the formalities, 'and we bring word that King Eardwulf is burning your land. That whoreson has killed many good men and we only left the fight when all was lost.' The king was scowling now. 'My lord, it was no easy thing to leave, but we knew our duty was to inform you of Eardwulf's treachery,' Mauger pressed on. 'I only pray Christ forgives us for not giving our lives avenging the innocents.'
'Eardwulf has broken the treaty?' Coenwulf asked, leaning forward in his throne and staring at Mauger with dark, brooding eyes. He had a warrior's build and his face was scarred. One of the wall-mounted torches spluttered and went out, distracting the king for a moment. 'Why have not my spies informed me of this treachery?' he asked, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip. 'Unless the sly dog has dug them out and slit their throats.'
'So it is as I feared and we are the first to bring this news,' Mauger said, glancing at me, his expression all gloom. Then he shook his head slowly and I was impressed by the warrior's guile, for I had thought him a brute, no more than a grizzled fighter. I would remember he was more. 'I fear our kinsmen gave their lives and even now lie dead on the field.' Mauger made the sign of the cross and I stared at Coenwulf, not daring to look at Mauger for fear of pulling a thread from the weave of his lie.
The king sat back in silence, scratching his black beard.
'We of Eoferwic have kept our spears sharp, my king, ever watchful of our faithless northern neighbours,' Mauger said, 'but most of your people there are farmers, not warriors. We were ill prepared for an invasion.' Mauger's shoulders slumped and he suddenly seemed exhausted.
'An invasion of Mercia?' Coenwulf's eyes flamed for a heartbeat. 'You have proof of this?' he asked. A woman took the dead torch from the wall and held it in the hearth flames till it burst back to life.
'Proof, my lord? Only the blood on my sword, not yet dry,' Mauger answered grimly. Then he shrugged and stepped forward. 'Oh, and a letter, my king. The scratchings of some monk, though I'd wager the man hitched up his skirts and ran at the first sniff of trouble.'
'Hold your tongue, man!' King Coenwulf clamoured, his voice filling the dark hall. 'The word of a man of God will not be disparaged! Our faith is our greatest weapon against the heathens and devils who writhe in the darkness beyond our borders. You would do well to remember it. Bring me this letter!'
'My lord,' Mauger muttered, giving a shallow bow, and one of the king's guards stepped forward to take the offered parchment. I could not read, but Egfrith had assured us there was that about the dark flowing markings that was deliberately imperfect, which an astute man might take for terror, as though a trembling heart had steered the hand. To me it seemed incredible that those small twisting shapes invoked a voice from far away; a voice that implored Mercia's warrior of God to rescue his flock from the Northumbrians. As Coenwulf clutched Father Egfrith's parchment I saw that his hands were trembling. He called for someone to fetch his abbot, then roared at the slave girl as the torch went out again. White spittle had gathered at the corners of his lips and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as though trying to contain his rage. The abbot soon appeared. Red-faced and breathless, he hurried to where Coenwulf sat holding the parchment in the air, then took the thing and began to read, squinting in the darkness. After a few moments, the abbot leant and whispered in the king's ear. Coenwulf's eyes widened as though he no longer saw us standing before him, but saw instead King Eardwulf himself riding through Mercia, a flaming torch in one hand and a sword in the other. I clenched my jaw to keep from smiling, for King Coenwulf of Mercia had the fire of battle in his eyes.
The king's face was dark and grim-set when he rode out later that day at the head of his war band. His household men, those with warrior rings and the finest arms, rode behind him, whilst after them went the men of the levy wearing whatever leather or iron armour they owned, clutching spears or scythes or hunting bows. Coenwulf had expected us to ride north with him, but Mauger had grumbled that we were exhausted and begged that we be allowed to follow on once we had a meal in our bellies. The king had spat in disgust and waved us away coldly, and I'm sure Mauger's request confirmed his suspicion that we were cowards. I liked Coenwulf then, for he seemed like a man who would rather command a farmer with a pitchfork and a stout heart than a man in mail with no stomach for the fight. So we stood awhile by the great gate, watching the war band disappear as a veil of white cloud filled the sky and blurred the sun. Again I marvelled at the magic of the written word, which could stir a heart to action as surely as a battle cry. And a part of me feared this gospel book we had been sent to find, for it must surely be a powerful thing indeed.
Then we set off south to fetch Sigurd and his Norsemen, hoping the book that King Egbert of Wessex was so desperate to get his hands on was not on a horse walking north.
CHAPTER TEN
'HOW MANY WARRIORS WENT WITH HIM, RAVEN?' SIGURD ASKED.
His eyes shone as though he believed the Norns of fate were weaving the most wonderful pattern.
'No less than seventy,' I replied, 'and thirty of those were his own men. Real fighters, my lord. The rest were levy men. He left maybe twenty household men behind that I saw. There are others too, but they shouldn't give you much trouble.'
'We should send the monk in to steal the book,' Olaf said, staring at Father Egfrith in wonder, for we all knew it was the monk's letter rather than my and Mauger's presence which had convinced King Coenwulf to ride north. 'He knows what the thing looks like.' He shrugged. 'Damned if I've ever seen a book before. Heard about them, though.'
'No,' Mauger said, shaking his head, 'too risky.' He wore his warrior rings again and they obscured the fierce tattoos on his arms, clinking whenever he moved. 'If they catch wind that it's the book we're after, they'll bury the damned thing so deep we might as well stand around picking our arses till judgement day.' He thumbed at Father Egfrith. 'He might be a sly old stoat, but if he went alone he'd have to fool churchmen like the one who whispers in Coenwulf's ear, and some of them are sharp as a Frank's blade. They're cunning bastards, take it from me. You've never had to raise war silver from priests. Blood from a stone,' he said, spitting.