Storm of war, p.6
Storm of War, page 6
Beornoth rode through the main gate and raised his hand to greet the crowd of people who had gathered inside the burh to welcome their warriors home. He dismounted, and a boy took Ealdorbana’s reins. ‘Feed him and brush him. I want fresh hay in his stable, and let him rest,’ said Beornoth.
Aethelberga strode over to him, broad-hipped and ruddy-cheeked. She beamed, fussing at her dress. ‘I knew you would be victorious. We prayed for your victory over the heathen.’
‘Any problems whilst I was gone?’ he said, after nodding thanks for her words.
‘Everything is fine, Beornoth. We lost a pig to sickness, but other than that, things are well at Branoc’s Tree.’
‘And Eawynn?’ Beornoth searched the courtyard, where his warriors now milled with the people and their loved ones, but could not see his wife.
‘Eawynn is well. She tends to the garden, weaves and rests. She is sitting on a chair behind the hall watching the flowers,’ said Aethelberga, and she smiled and put a hand on Beornoth’s forearm. ‘Eawynn is at peace, or has found some level of peace, at least.’
‘We have a guest,’ said Beornoth, and he turned to look at the man in mail and furs who rode alongside Wulfhere. ‘This is Brand Thorkilsson. He is a hostage provided by the Viking leader. Brand will stay with us until next summer, as a guarantee that the Vikings will not attack again.’
‘And what are we supposed to do with him?’ said Aethelberga, and she made the sign of the cross and cast a sour look at the Viking.
‘Find him a bed and feed him. He won’t harm anyone.’
‘How do you know? He might…’
‘Because I will kill him if he does,’ said Beornoth.
‘Hello, my Lady,’ said Wulfhere, after he had dismounted. Aethelberga looked at the big, bald warrior and her face flushed red. ‘I made this for you.’ He handed her a small piece of fresh golden wood carved into the shape of a swan. She smiled and bowed her head, and shuffled off, clucking with the other women and shouting orders for food and ale to be brought to the warriors.
‘You should know better at your age,’ said Beornoth.
‘What do you mean?’ said Wulfhere.
‘You are sweet on her. You are like young folk at an Easter dance, all red faces and coy smiles.’
‘She is a fine woman, and she has my respect.’ Wulfhere frowned and looked at his boots.
‘Aye, well. Her husband was Thegn here before me, don’t forget. Before the Vikings put him in the ground at River’s Bend. Tread carefully around her.’
‘I will, Lord.’
‘And Wulfhere?’
‘Yes, Lord?’
‘Don’t let me catch you stealing a kiss behind the kitchens.’ Beornoth laughed as Wulfhere cursed at him under his breath. His captain stalked off and the farmers and womenfolk of the burh greeted Wulfhere warmly as he moved through them. He hugged one girl and shook hands with a shepherd. He ruffled the hair of a dirty-faced child and pinched the cheek of a small girl. The people loved Wulfhere. Whilst he was a big man, and fearsome in battle, he had a kinder, softer side which folk warmed to. Beornoth found himself alone amongst the crowd and walked to his hall to leave them to their greetings. He was their Thegn, and their protector, not their friend.
Beornoth entered the hall and the heat of the huge fire was warm on his face where it crackled and spat at the centre of the long room. Smoke twisted lazily up through the smoke hole in the thatched roof. Shafts of bright light shone in through open window shutters to show dust dancing in the sun. He marched up the narrow corridor until he reached his rooms. A serving boy came scuttling after him with a wash bowl, and a girl brought him a jug of water, a crust of bread and some cheese on a wooden plate. Beornoth nodded his thanks, and they shuffled out of his chamber without meeting his eye. He unfastened the silver clasp and laid his thick leather belt on the bed, along with his sword and seax. Beornoth unfastened the silver cloak pin at his shoulder, fashioned into the shape of a horse’s head, and hung his dark wool cloak on the back of the door. He bent over and grunted as he pulled the heavy chain mail byrnie over his head and shook and wriggled until the armour came off. Beornoth lay it carefully on his bed; he would have Cwicca rub it down with sand, and then cover it with fleece oil. He felt light without his armour, as though he could float up to the timber joists in the ceiling. Beornoth took off the leather padded jerkin he wore under his byrnie, and then the wool jerkin beneath. He washed his face and body with the cool water from the bowl and ran his wet hands through his hair and beard. He groaned and felt gingerly at the bruises on his back, face and shoulder from the fight at Watchet. They were purple-green welts, but he was thankful not to have taken any cuts in the battle. He turned to pull a clean woollen jerkin from a drawer and caught sight of himself in the rippling water. Beornoth turned back to the bowl and saw a broad-faced man with dark hair and a dark beard shot through with grey and white. He saw a scarred warrior with a fierce face. Beornoth pushed his tongue through the gap in his teeth and there was a white, jagged scar running through his beard on that cheek, and he traced his hands across the raised and twisted scar tissue on his chest and shoulders, remembering each cut in flashes of snarling men’s faces and the white-hot pain of blades in his flesh. His back and shoulder ached still from battle, and Beornoth felt old. If he lay on his bed, he feared he would sleep for days.
Beornoth pulled on a simple brown wool tunic and went to the small window of his room. A breeze blew in to cool his face and chest and he sighed. There was a fresh, late-spring floral smell on the wind, and he breathed it in deeply. He took in the beauty of the green pastures rising on the hills surrounding the burh, and then at the garden next to his hall where vegetables and plants grew amidst the buzz of beehives. His breath caught in his chest, Eawynn was there, sat on a chair, watching the plants sway in the breeze. The wind blew her dark hair away from her face, and she clutched a blanket around her shoulders. Beornoth swallowed against the hollowness in his stomach, and the catch in his throat.
He strode through the corridor, and through the wide hall, nodding a greeting at the men who tended the central fire, which always burned, and at the women who were covering the hard-packed earthen floor with fresh rushes. Beornoth opened a small door at the rear of the hall and emerged into the sunlight, squinting at the change from the darkness of his rooms and hall to the brightness outside. The sound of children playing and the people of Branoc’s Tree talking and laughing filled the air, and it was a joyful sound. So different from the wailing and sorrow of Watchet. He walked around the hall until he came to the garden, and he approached Eawynn slowly. Bees hopped from yellow and blue flowers, and she turned her head as his boot snapped a twig on the soft grass. Beornoth stopped, the deep brown of her eyes so familiar, and yet so distant. She held his gaze, and Beornoth held his breath, unsure of what her reaction would be to seeing him. The corners of her mouth turned down and her lips turned up. It was a smile, of sorts, a sad but acknowledging smile. He took slow, careful steps until he stood next to her.
‘It’s a beautiful day,’ he said, his voice stuttering. The words were clumsy, but it was hard to know what to say to a woman who had experienced so much pain, and with whom he had once shared such deep love and happiness. There was little trace of her younger self in the deep brown pools of Eawynn’s eyes. But amongst the sounds and smells of the garden, he remembered her laughing and smiling on such a day long ago, beautiful, funny and happy. The sound of children laughing was also thick in that memory, and it soured it, too painful to contemplate. Their children, dead children. She nodded softly in answer to his statement, and he looked down at her pale face. The blanket slipped away from her neck and Beornoth saw the cruel and jagged scar which ran along her throat, white and savage where Vikings had unsuccessfully cut her throat after they had raided and burned their home in the north. He closed his eyes and raised his head, the sounds of the bees and breeze drowned out by the memory of that pain and, worse, the guilt. He had not been at home on that terrible day. Beornoth had been off fighting for his Lord, the Ealdorman of Cheshire, when the Vikings had struck and taken everything from Eawynn and from him. They had burned his hall and his children in it. Cruel and vicious men had brought ruthless violence to his wife and to his people, and left Eawynn for dead. But their cut had not been deep enough, and she had survived to live locked in a mind filled with dead children and the pain and suffering inflicted upon her on that day long ago. Eawynn had been driven mad by the pain, and Beornoth had fallen into drunken despair and had lost his lands and heriot. Eawynn had gone to live with nuns for her own safety and to be cared for, because he had been too drunk and had fallen too low to care for her.
‘There will be honey soon,’ she said quietly, almost as a whisper. His heart leapt to hear her speak, his one and only love, whom he had let down so badly, whom he had failed to protect when she needed him most.
‘Yes,’ he said, struggling for words to extend the discussion, unsure of what to say to her. He could count the times she had spoken to him since that terrible day on the fingers of one hand, and to hear her words made his heart leap and his mouth dry.
Silence passed between them. But Beornoth felt warm in it, like he was home. He wanted to tell her she would always be safe now, and that he would never let anyone hurt her again. But he had said such words before, and it was enough that she was alive, sat in the warm garden with the sun on her face. Beornoth jerked as he felt a soft warmth touch his hand. Eawynn had reached up and slid her small white hand into his own big, calloused paw and it sent a tingling rush up his arm. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and allowed himself to enjoy the moment, the feeling of her skin against his. It felt like happiness, like peace. He closed his hand softly around hers, and they stayed like that. Silent, but together, both remembering each other as they had been when they were young and happy, with two beautiful daughters filling their days with laughter and joy. He wished he could spend all his days like that, with his wife in the sun. But that was not his destiny, he was Beornoth Thegn and warrior, and two days later men came from Ealdorman Byrhtnoth, because his sword was needed again to protect the people of Saxon England.
7
A boy led Ealdorbana around the pasture on a long rope. The horse snorted and trotted, huge and powerful, and his coat had been brushed to a shine.
‘Here,’ Beornoth said, and gave the stable boy next to him three small silver coins. ‘Share that with the other lads, the horse is well cared for.’ The boy's eyes lit up, and he grinned broadly, holding the coins up to his face.
‘Thank you, Lord,’ he said, and scuttled off to show his mates their newfound fortune.
‘That is a magnificent animal,’ said a Norse voice behind him. Beornoth didn’t need to turn to know the voice came from Brand, the Norse hostage. The boy had left Ealdorbana close to Beornoth to munch at a hemp nosebag hanging from a fence post. Beornoth leant in and stroked the warhorse’s powerful neck. He reached into the pocket of his jerkin and fished out a red apple, which Ealdorbana ate hungrily, his lips tickling Beornoth’s hands as he took the fruit.
‘He was bred for war, trained not to fear the sounds and smells of battle,’ said Beornoth, speaking Norse. The horse raised his head and Beornoth looked into the beast’s large eyes and scratched under his chin and behind his ear.
‘Like you and I then, Lord,’ said Brand, and Beornoth nodded at that truth. ‘We do not have many such horses in Norway. We have fine horses, but not for battle. Vikings ride the Whale Road, and fight on foot.’
‘Where is your home?’ asked Beornoth, not because he cared about the Viking, but because he was always keen to glean as much information on the Norsemen as he could, to better understand his enemy.
‘Rogaland, close to Hafrsfjord. There was a great sea battle there, once.’
‘I have heard the tale, King Harald Fairhair, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, Lord, I congratulate you on your knowledge of our history. King Harald is Olaf’s great-grandfather, and the first King of all Norway. That was the place of my birth, but my father served Olaf’s father when he was King of Viken, which is further south.’
‘So Olaf is a prince then?’
‘Yes, he has led a life worthy of the greatest sagas.’ Brand paused, and Beornoth turned to him. He was not as tall as Beornoth, but was broad in the chest and shoulder, a gift many Northmen took from rowing their warships across seas and up rivers. He had long blonde hair which rested on his shoulders in two thick braids, and a tattoo of a raven on his neck above a long beard. Beornoth raised his eyebrow and turned back to Ealdorbana, stroking his coarse mane.
‘Go on then,’ Beornoth sighed. ‘Tell me his story.’
‘Harald Greycloak killed his father in pursuit of the throne. So his mother, Astrid, had to flee with Olaf whilst he was still growing in her belly. Harald was the son of Erik Bloodaxe, and he sent his killers on her trail, chasing Astrid first to where Olaf was born in secret on an island, then to Sweden, and finally Astrid fled to her kin in the land of the Rus. But pirates attacked her ship, and slavers took Olaf. They sold him on for the price of a cloak, and Olaf came eventually to his kin in Novgorod, who freed him from slavery. Whilst he was but a pup, Olaf killed his slave master with an axe, and fought his way up to become a leader of men and the master of his own ships. He will be King of Norway one day.’
‘Unless he dies here in England.’
‘He won’t. The Gods favour Olaf. He will be King, maybe here in England as well. That is why I came here to fight alongside him with my father’s men and ship.’
‘I have heard your story many times, from other Vikings. You want to build your reputation and honour the Gods, so you sail with Olaf, a great war leader, to make your name.’
‘Yes, that is my story,’ said Brand, adjusting his belt and jutting his chin out. ‘I left my father’s lands in Rogaland to sail with Jarl Olaf, and I will make my name as a warrior.’
‘You will make your reputation by making war on my people and write your reputation in their blood. You bring your ships and your axes here, to places like this,’ Beornoth waved his arm around the fields of Branoc’s Tree. ‘And make corpses of the simple folk, the peaceful families, all for your adventure. I suppose you think Olaf honours you by making you a hostage?’
‘He does. It means I am an important warrior in his army. We fight to honour the…’
Beornoth raised a finger to stop Brand. ‘We will bury Padda later today, a good man injured fighting at Watchet. He took a wound to the gut and had spent the last three days writhing in agony from the infection in the wound. He has a son who you can comfort as we put his father’s corpse into the ground. His father, who would be alive now if you and Olaf had not sailed to our shores in search of glory. You fight because you like to kill, and know this: if Olaf raids our shores again this year, I will kill you myself.’
‘You will try,’ said Brand with a shrug. Brand stared at Beornoth, and he stared back. The Northman was a fighter, Beornoth could see that from the scars on his hands and face, but so was he, and as Beornoth stared into his eyes, part of him wanted the Viking to try him, to lunge at him or hit him. Because if he did, Beornoth would tear him apart. And, Beornoth spoke the truth, he would kill the man in a heartbeat. They kept their eyes locked until a voice called to Beornoth from the stables.
‘My Lord, riders approach. They look like Ealdorman Byrhtnoth’s men.’
‘Thank you for your hospitality, my Lord,’ said Brand, and he smiled at Beornoth, breaking the stare and reaching out to stroke Ealdorbana.
‘I will feed you and provide you with ale and warmth. But next summer you will leave our lands, and you will not return if you value your life.’ Beornoth strode across the pasture towards the stables.
‘Looks like Aelfwine of Foxfield, and Leofsunu of Sturmer,’ said Alfgar, standing by the stables, staring at the approaching riders.
‘Have Aethelberga prepare food and drink for them.’
‘Surely Olaf cannot have attacked again already,’ said Alfgar. He glanced across Beornoth’s shoulder towards Brand.
‘Who knows? Let’s see what they have to say.’
The two Thegns rode through Branoc’s Tree’s gate and came with a party of six warriors, all mounted on splendid horses. Beornoth met them with a hand held up in greeting, and they returned the gesture.
‘Beornoth, your burh is in fine order,’ said Aelfwine with a smile splitting his handsome face.
‘Welcome, friends,’ Beornoth said. ‘What brings you to Branoc’s Tree?’
‘The King summons us to Winchester,’ said Leofsunu. He dismounted and Alfgar sent a boy to take the horse. Leofsunu clasped Beornoth’s forearm, and they nodded in greeting. Beornoth knew both men as high-ranking Thegns of Essex, and part of Byrhtnoth’s hearth troop of trusted warriors. They were brave warriors with well-earned reputations, and Beornoth had fought alongside them at Mersea Island and at Watchet. Leofsunu was a warm man, quick to make a joke and laugh, but he was the ugliest man Beornoth had ever seen. He had bulbous eyes and huge ears which stood out from his head like the handles of an ale jug. He was bald apart from wisps of brown hair which grew around the bottom of his skull, and his lips were small but thick.
‘Trouble?’ asked Beornoth.
‘There will be if we don’t get some ale soon,’ said Leofsunu, and Aelfwine laughed. ‘Aye, trouble. But not the bloody Vikings this time, thank the Lord. Come, let us drink and we will talk together.’
Aethelberga greeted the warriors and fussed around them, making sure they were sitting at benches close to the fire inside Beornoth’s hall, and that they were brought bread, cheese and ale. Beornoth brought Wulfhere and Alfgar with him to sit at an eating bench with Aelfwine and Leofsunu.
‘Wulfhere, you fought like a bear at Watchet. I hope Beornoth has rewarded you,’ said Aelfwine.
