Читать книгу The Fighting Man - Adrian Deans - Страница 8

Chapter 1

The Mind of God

It was the Year of Endings and Beginnings, when the wild men came to sweep away my old life like chaff in a sudden gale. Hard men with iron swords and huge hungers – they had not been seen on our coast for many years but we heard rumours from the north and east. Always from the sea they came and to the sea returned, and on a gentle bend of a small obscure river we thought ourselves safe from their fire and death.

It had been a quiet year in the village of Stybbor in East Anglia where my father was reeve and thegn, but less quiet in other places. The old king Edward was yet to produce an heir and, as he continued to age, the various candidates were jostling for position in the Year of Our Lord 1060. Those weighty matters were of small moment to the folk of Stybbor. The land enjoyed a period of prosperity it was said, although being a lad of only fourteen winters at the time, I had never known any different. A fruitful summer followed a vibrant spring and my interest grew like a spreading vine – tendrils of my vigour and curiosity seemed to encompass the village and its trade and, while I knew my father was proud of me, alas, I was not the older son. The older son learned the family business, the younger was given to the church.

But on the morning of my brother’s wedding, not even my conjugations with Brother Waldo and the imminent prospect of entering the seminary could curb my spirit.

‘Portendere, portendo, portendis, portendatis,’ droned my tutor, his back to the bright sunshine which bathed the usually dim room.

‘Brother Waldo,’ I interrupted.

‘Yes Brand?’ he enquired, opening his eyes. He usually kept them closed when conjugating, as though reading the words off a tablet in his head.

‘Tell me about the seminary.’

‘The seminary?’ he repeated. ‘You’ve been there … spoken to Abbot Oldred … walked past it many times.’

‘Of course,’ I replied, ‘but what of its daily life? What of the men who live within those walls … most of whom I’ve never seen?’

‘Never seen?’ he echoed. ‘And rightly so … the brothers are hidden … cloistered so their commune with God cannot be sullied by intercourse with the world.’

‘They truly speak with God?’ I asked, trying to quell the unworthy feelings that always seemed to bubble up from my core when people spoke of God as something real and present in our lives.

‘All the time,’ replied Waldo, as though such were beyond question.

‘I have tried to speak with God,’ I said. ‘ … really tried, but he never answers.’

‘Aah,’ said Waldo, ‘that’s why you must go to the seminary … to learn how to listen when God speaks. It’s not the same as the manner of our speaking now.’

That seemed to speak truth to me, and I had the glimmer of a vision – like sitting at the mouth of a cave and hearing the vaguest murmurs from its depths – terrifying in its way but also frustrating. Brother Waldo resumed his conjugations but I felt an itch in my soul that needed scratching.

‘Does God speak with you, Brother?’

‘Eh?’

‘God … does he speak to you?’

‘Of course he does … what sort of question is that?’

‘What does he say?’

Brother Waldo’s eyes glinted at me from under thick, white brows, which meant his patience was sorely tried. In normal circumstances I would immediately have backed down and returned to study, but that day I felt a strange sense of urgency – as though this was something I needed to understand before I could go any further. I repeated my question, trying to show him I was asking politely and respectfully.

Waldo sighed and said, ‘The Word of God can only be perceived through study of the scriptures and much prayer … but the mind and thought of God is personal to each of us and beyond expression. He doesn’t gossip like women in the market place.’

I laughed but quickly stilled myself, sensing Brother Waldo was entering one of his rare muses.

‘The mind and thought of God is in all things … wind in the trees … birdsong … thunder and lightning. His mood changes constantly but our capacity to understand Him is so weak … so lacking in the necessary tools … that all we can do is devote our lives to serving Him, and from time to time we are rewarded with a flash of inspiration … a moment gleaming like a precious jewel when a ray of the thought of God strikes you in the eye to leave you breathless. For one shining moment you see clearly and understand the full majesty of His creation but, as we are human and imperfect, the moment passes and all we are left with is a hazy memory of joy … the inspiration fades like a puddle in high summer.’

As he spoke, Waldo’s face became red with the depth of his conviction – revealing his mystery, and I felt happy for him.

But for some reason, the itch in my soul was worse than ever.

‘Do all the brothers receive such inspirations?’

And Waldo’s mood changed as suddenly as the whim of the God he served.

‘All?’ he snapped. ‘All? I should say not. For every pious man of God there are ten intriguers and twenty sodomites!’

For the first time he had put my fears into words (or at least one of them) and I felt emboldened to reveal the doubts I had dutifully kept to myself.

‘If that is so, then why does my father send me to such a place?’

Waldo shook his head impatiently and waved my fears away.

‘You would never be touched, Brand. For a start, you are a big lad … not too far in years from the fullness of your strength. More importantly, you are a member of the nobilis … and therefore likely to become Abbot in time. No-one would risk such a future enemy. Your arse is safe, boy.’

With that he returned to his conjugations and, partly reassured, I resumed my study.

∞ ∞ ∞

Five miles downriver from the town of Stybbor, a long boat with forty shields hung over the side was pulled onto a bar at a bend of the Arwan. Two horses were tethered together, and munched the thick grass as a sentry patted their flanks and muttered unfamiliar but soothing words, while their owners were led up a plank to meet the chieftain.

The leader of the two men was tall and slim, with a neat black beard which didn’t quite hide a scar on his left cheek. He was dressed in fine clothes as if for a mass, and if he was afraid to be among the savage Danes, he didn’t show it. His companion was shorter and broader, dressed in a shirt of rings and carrying a large war hammer which he surrendered with a menacing grunt at the top of the plank.

‘I see you Malgard.’

The words were spoken by a handsome young man with the iron collar of a thrall, but it was clear that he did not speak for himself.

‘I see you Ulrik Dragontooth,’ replied the tall man, ignoring the thrall but speaking directly to the hulking redbeard beside him dressed in wool and heavy leather. His words were translated almost as he spoke and Malgard marvelled at the thrall’s skill which enabled an almost seamless conversation between men of different tongues.

‘I expected you a week ago,’ said Malgard, determined to assert himself despite his need to escape the stink of sweat, fish guts and rotting meat that all such longboats carried.

Ulrik grinned, showing off the reason for the name by which men knew him. His mouth had lost all of the front teeth, upper and lower, in one of his first battles. The remaining teeth, unnaturally long where the adjoining teeth were gone, looked indeed like the mouth of a serpent.

‘There was good hunting, to the north,’ he replied, his toothless sibilance untranslated. ‘We are not here solely at your bidding, but do you grudge your brother an extra week of life?’

‘I grudge him this!’ said Malgard and, before the Danes could move, pulled a dagger from his sleeve and drove it deep into the gunwale next to Ulrik’s hand. One or two stepped toward Malgard in anger but Ulrik, pleased he hadn’t flinched, waved them back with a laugh.

‘This is what he gave me in compensation for my home,’ hissed Malgard. ‘A knife! A stinking, fucking knife! When you kill Holgar, I want him to see that knife before you stick it in his heart.’

Such was the malice of the man that all, including Ulrik, made the sign to ward off the evil eye.

‘Malgard is a not a man to have for your enemy,’ said Ulrik, pulling the dagger free and examining it closely – a beautiful piece with a silver handle carved in the shape of a coiled dragon.

‘Remember that,’ said Malgard, ‘when you do your work and come to seek your payment.’

Ulrik was tiring of Malgard’s arrogance in front of his men.

‘If you don’t keep a polite tongue in your head,’ he muttered, ‘I might say fuck your work and fuck you … and take my payment now.’

A huge man with dirty blond hair and blinded in one eye laughed loudly and the thrall hesitated before translating. Ulrik growled and the thrall complied, but in a softer tone than Ulrik wanted. He responded with a clout over the back of the slave’s head and a guttural snarl which Malgard could not understand. Then the white faced thrall repeated the threat in a louder, if unconvincing shout.

‘I heard the first time,’ sneered Malgard, but he pulled a pouch from his belt and tossed it at Ulrik, who caught and weighed it without looking inside.

‘This is only half,’ he said.

‘There will be more when I have access to Holgar’s treasury,’ replied Malgard. ‘Most of that I will need for rebuilding after you and your men wreak ruin, but I will surely be able to spare a little. Of course, in the raid you will also take lambs, and there is much food and drink prepared for the feast.’

‘So the wedding is today,’ mused Ulrik, summoning a slave with a platter of meat. ‘We were here in time after all?’

‘Only because the wedding was delayed to allow the guests to assemble,’ said Malgard, waving the platter away. ‘The summer storms have made the roads and fords difficult. If the wedding had been before now the family would have dispersed and there would be competing claims on Holgar’s legacy.’

‘How will I know Holgar,’ asked Ulrik.

‘Holgar you will know by his position, and his chain of silver and gold,’ said Malgard, glancing anxiously at the sun approaching noon. ‘Gram the son is the groom, and there is a younger son, Brand. Kill them all.’

‘What of the women?’ asked Ulrik, gnawing at a pig’s trotter.

‘Do what you like with the women,’ replied Malgard. ‘Fyllba the bride is very beautiful.’

Ulrik shrugged, as he continued to give the pig’s trotter most of his attention.

‘No-one is beautiful after being used by twenty men,’ he said. ‘It’s almost a kindness to let them go over the side … their lungs full of water, their holes full of seed.’

‘Holes,’ echoed the one-eyed giant, whose name was Olaf Pighammer, and the men listening grinned. Olaf was known as much for his strange tastes as his huge strength and violence.

‘You are indeed merciful,’ sneered Malgard. ‘Now, as for the rest, I will be at my brother’s side, helping to protect him. Obviously, I am not to be harmed, but I will be fighting. Send one of your slaves against me, so I might blood my sword. I must be seen to fight so none can question my allegiance to my brother and my right to take over … when you have gone.’

Ulrik spat a knuckle over the side and considered.

‘There will be wine at the wedding feast?’

‘Of course,’ replied Malgard.

‘Perhaps we will allow the guests a last celebration,’ said Ulrik. ‘Drunken men are less able to defend themselves, and I cannot afford to lose anyone.’

Malgard glanced again at the sun and prepared to leave.

‘Very well … but wait not overlong, and do not let me down Ulrik. There is more at stake than you have wit to understand.’

Ulrik laughed, as he spat the last of the bones into the river.

‘Fear not Malgard. You will be prince of your shithole town by sundown.’

For the first time, Malgard indicated his companion.

‘This is Angdred. He is loyal to me and will lead you to the village via hidden paths so your presence will not be known until it is too late for the rats to escape the trap.’

Ulrik and Angdred half nodded at each other with the wary mistrust of warriors recognising each other’s prowess.

And with that, Malgard disappeared back down the ramp and climbed onto his horse.

‘Farewell Ulrik,’ he called. ‘I go to celebrate my nephew’s wedding … to which you are uncordially invited.’

∞ ∞ ∞

I had always hated the smell of shit.

Most men seemed not to notice it, going about their lives as though thousands of turds, both of animals and men, were not heaped in the street or piled in the tanner’s yard. But they were, and I was constantly aware of them. Only on cold winter’s nights did I get relief from the creeping miasma that seemed to permeate all of God’s creation.

At least my father’s house was a half mile from the town and the worst of the stench, but the wedding feast was to be held in a pavilion on the green outside the church. And while fresh latrines had been dug for the occasion, they were never deep enough. I knew from experience that vast quantities of rich food and heady ale would soon have the pits overflowing with shit, piss and vomit, and as it promised to be a hot afternoon, my head was swimming in advance with the noisome prospect.

As if to somehow magically emphasise my foresight, a horse in front of me lifted its tail and shat copiously, the coincidence reminding me of Brother Waldo’s words that God spoke in mysterious ways and I found myself wondering if this was His idea of a joke. Then the hair rose on the back of my neck with the awesome realisation that God was indeed aware of me and was privy to all my thoughts.

The horse shat again.

‘Brother Waldo?’

Waldo and I were at the very back of the procession, making its way slowly towards the little town for the mass and midday wedding, accompanied by players with pipes and tambors.

‘Yes Brand?’

‘Are men animals?’

‘Animals?’ he asked aghast. ‘Of course we’re not animals … we’re men! Created in God’s image.’

‘But we’re made of flesh and do all the same things as animals.’

‘Do all the same … ’ he began angrily. ‘Do animals pray? Do animals know grammar or geometry?’

‘Perhaps not,’ I allowed, ‘but they eat, root and shit, the same as we do.’

‘Animals eat, root and shit wherever they please,’ whispered Waldo furiously, anxious not to disturb the procession with our profanity. ‘Men have rules about such things … rules ordained by God himself, to signify that we are His chosen ones … made in His image.’

‘So that we might eat, root and shit in His image?’ I asked, strangely wilful, and laughed despite the look of thunder that crossed Waldo’s face.

‘Take a care not to utter such blasphemies in the presence of the Abbot, young Brand. There are rules … those of the blessed Benedict, and yet others. And there are punishments that will teach you piety and humility if the Abbot deems those qualities lacking.’

I had the sense not to press the argument further and, as we passed under the high stone walls of the monastery on the edge of town, I felt the cold shadow and shivered.

∞ ∞ ∞

The church at Stybbor was a cool, stone building with a window on the west through which the first slanting rays of the afternoon entered in a flash of red and green through candle smoke. Saint Ybbor, after whom the town was named, had been dismembered hundreds of years previously by earlier occupants of East Anglia who had known not the scriptures and resented Ybbor’s efforts to illuminate their vacant souls. The window on the west was supposed to show the various body parts of the martyred Ybbor lying on a field of green, but to me it just looked like a red and green pattern, which no more resembled severed limbs than the stars in the sky resembled a scorpion, or a lion, or a set of scales.

But I did like the window and the way the green and red beams played over the congregation as the sun moved westwards. It seemed to me once again, like the shitting horse, that I was on the brink of understanding something of the mood of God and His way of sending messages to the faithful. Dutifully, I listened to Father Maynard singing the Latin and it seemed that I understood him better than before, as though I had made it to a new level of understanding. That thought should have made me eager for the seminary, as mastery of learning was within my grasp, but strangely I felt more anxious than ever about leaving behind the familiar pleasures of my home for the solemn house of God, even if there was less need to worry about my arse.

I found myself staring at my brother, Gram – four years older than me and already a man with a reputation. He had twice killed Danes as a member of the fyrd which had been assembled by King Edward to stem the raids on Lundene and the Temes Valley. Indeed, he was only home for his wedding to Fyllba and would shortly return with my father and uncles to the king’s army encamped near the mouth of the Temes. And suddenly I knew what I wanted. A red beam of light struck me full in the face as I knew with sudden certainty that I did not want the seminary with its learning and its prayer. I wanted the battlefield and the company of men.

The first part of the mass droned to its conclusion and then the marriage ceremony commenced. It was harder to understand the words that were less familiar to me, but I understood that marriage was a kind of sacrament – less lofty perhaps than holy orders but still an honoured place in the sight of God and the proper place for a warrior. For the first time, I found myself jealous of Gram – tall, strong – about to be married to the golden-haired Fyllba and then return with my father to the fyrd, while I must stay close to the shit stink and learn prayer and abstinence and celibacy.

In that moment I found myself in the grip of terror and it was all I could do not to cry aloud at the prospect of my entire life, the possibilities of which I was only beginning to appreciate, being utterly wasted in God’s house. Surely there were others more worthy, whose tastes and aptitude were more fitted to that role than I. Perhaps I could go to my father before it was too late and have him agree to me becoming a page, or even just a foot soldier in the fyrd. Anything was better than—

‘Brand!’ hissed Waldo, and I realised to my embarrassment that I was still standing when the rest of the congregation had knelt for the benediction. I fell to my knees, whacking my kneecap against a part of the stone floor unsoftened by rushes as Waldo glared and Father Maynard stared bleakly, and I found myself wondering whether they were as aware of my thoughts as God seemed to be.

∞ ∞ ∞

Holgar was proud of his son.

Gram had grown into his strength and would soon be producing sons to continue Holgar’s line, which he reckoned back into the mists of time. His own father’s father had not known how long the family had owned the lands around Stybbor, but it was sung that the family were immigrants from Saxony who occupied land abandoned by the Romans and offered protection to the benighted weaklings left in their wake, bereft of leaders. Holgar’s family had offered that leadership and protection in return for work and fealty and the occasional need for the stronger lads to join the fyrd for summer campaigning against the Danes (not that the Danes had ever ventured so far upstream as Stybbor).

Gram had fought well in battles on the Temes and closer to home at Gipeswic, and was now accounted a man of prowess. He could fight single-handed or in the shield wall and had even had the honour of standing to Holgar’s left – trusted to spear Holgar’s foes when Holgar’s own rightward thrusts left him vulnerable to the man directly in front. Gram had fought with the urgent terror of a man who fears his father’s death more than his own, and truly Holgar knew his son loved and honoured him and would carry on the family line as well or better than he had done himself. What man could ask for more?

Therefore, it was with impossible pride that he raised the loving cup at the wedding feast and the guests drank, as they had done all afternoon, with the exception of Malgard, and Holgar felt an irritation that his younger brother was not entering properly into the spirit of the occasion.

‘Why don’t you drink Malgard?’

Malgard, in response, took a delicate sip of mead and Holgar could have choked him.

‘You drink like a woman!’ he scorned, slamming down his own cup to be refilled with the expensive wine from Burgundy he’d imported specially for the wedding.

Even as he spoke, Holgar realised he was being unfair. Malgard had been steward of the hill farm for nearly ten years and, even if it had always been understood that he held it in trust for Gram, he appreciated that Malgard would feel the loss. The hill farm was Gram’s wedding gift.

‘My apologies brother,’ said Holgar. ‘And let me apologise also for the loss of the farm. You should have some something of your own, and I will give thought to it ere long.’

Malgard acknowledged Holgar’s generosity with a courteous nod and stood to propose his own toast.

‘My honoured brother … allow me to wish you the joy of many grandsons, and a long enough life to see them join us in the shield wall … if the Danes come again.’

Holgar grunted with a wine-fuelled contempt.

‘Danes,’ he sneered. ‘Danes won’t come to Stybbor. We beat them at Gipeswic, and again at Margate. The Danes are finished … or near enough.’

There was a roar of acclamation led by Gram and others of Holgar’s retainers deep in their cups.

‘Nevertheless,’ continued Malgard, ‘all here are in your debt, Holgar. And we pray that you will continue to lead us and keep us safe until young Gram has the years and wisdom to take over.’

There were more shouts of approval, this time from the younger men who had grown up with Gram or joined Holgar’s household more recently and looked to Gram as their natural leader. Holgar frowned with small disapproval as he noted that Brand was shouting with the rest and it seemed to him unfitting that a boy destined for the church should be carousing with warriors. He would say something about it later though, as Malgard was still giving his toast.

‘To Holgar!’ cried Malgard raising his cup. ‘To Gram … and to the continuation of Holgar’s line for many sons … into the years uncountable!’

Malgard drained his cup and all cheered his fine words and drank deeply as the sun began to sink behind the green, western hills, while the serving girls brought platters of sweetmeats to follow the beef, mutton, pork, fish and fowl that had already been consumed in vast quantities with breads, broths and greens, and ever more ale and wine.

Holgar found himself relaxing – understanding that the various arms of his family were falling into their rightful places. Malgard had spoken well and Holgar resolved to reward his younger brother with a stretch of forest and fen to the south that would need draining but would doubtless prove very fertile, and there was game aplenty in the woods. It would require hard work but a man needed work to be happy and the end of the Viking raids would afford him time to grow into his proper place in the family – a lesser place now Gram was grown into his manhood – but an honoured place nonetheless.

Yes, Malgard deserved a reward, he thought, clapping a huge arm about his brother’s shoulder.

∞ ∞ ∞

I was not accustomed to drinking ale. At least, I had never drunk so much of it in my almost fifteen years, but with my life about to change so profoundly, I wanted to know what it was like to be drunk. I matched the warriors cup for cup, hanging on the edge of their conversations and laughing at their jests. It was wonderful and I felt even sadder at the prospect of the monastery. Monks spend little time jesting about raping women and vomiting beer, or so I had thought.

And before long, I had my wish. What started as an ecstatic feeling of power and destiny soon became a thick and heavy sickness. I had been staring at the muddy ground as the men joked, and suddenly my head was whirling, and I was staring up from the mud at the early evening sky, fringed with a ring of laughing faces. And then vomit burst from my guts to cover my face and the fine linen blouse my mother had imported from Bruxels for the wedding.

Then the laughter ceased and the cold voice of my father reached me through the fog of my sickness.

‘Fine behaviour for a man of God,’ he growled. ‘Get up!’

I was raised to my feet by Guthred, the youngest of my father’s retainers and, with his help, made it to the latrines where (naturally) the overwhelming shit stink caused me to start retching. Desperate not to vomit again in front of my father, I lurched past the heavy canvas flap and was quickly bent over the logs above the pit, from which arose the sulphurous breath of Satan. Immediately a great gush of vomit erupted from my very core and it seemed the stench grew even worse, as though the vomit was stirring the piles of turd and gallons of piss to release more of their noxious vapour – all of it funnelled up into my face. And just the thought of that seemed to make me vomit again. Guthred pissed into the pit just next to me, and so my afternoon continued.

It’s possible that I slept but after some time, I became dimly aware of shouting and the clinking of fine, glass goblets, and so I thought that more toasts were being made to the bride and groom. Somehow the clinking of glass became the clash of metal blades and, with my face still full in the blast of stench, I idly wondered whether some entertainment featuring sword play had been arranged.

Then another wave of nausea ripped through me but there was nothing left to spew and I simply lay along the log with my guts clenching and spitting the foul taste of bile and beer into the pit. It occurred to me that this might be a good time to approach my father to ask his permission to join the fyrd instead of the monastery. Clearly my behaviour did not merit the intimate acquaintance of God (even if He did seem to be paying close attention to my thoughts and sending messages). I found myself giggling as I remembered the shitting horse and wondering what Waldo would have to say about God’s arcane responses to my thoughts and desires. Then in the church I had wished to become a warrior and—

Suddenly the shouting and the clash of swords was close and an unfamiliar voice bellowed in a strange language – a hoarse guttural shout full of violence, reality and imminent death and I felt rather than heard heavy footsteps coming to the latrine. Without further thought, I tumbled face first into the pit – too terrified even to notice the thick, stinking slop in which I lay, half submerged.

I heard the canvas snatched back and the sound of swords and screaming was loud. My mind was strangely cleared of its ale fog and I moved not an inch, but the pit was not deep. If they were looking for fugitives I would surely be found.

Suddenly, my world darkened and, to my profound disgust, I realised what was about to happen.

Even warriors in the midst of battle need to shit.

∞ ∞ ∞

Victory was always sweet reflected Ulrik Dragontooth. Even victories won cheaply by sudden ambush over drunken warriors were a matter for celebration and song. It was a victory of cunning and strategy, which although more pleasing to Loki than to Thor, would still be accounted to his credit in Valhalla. He would drink there, perhaps, with Holgar who had been a mighty warrior until the day of his doom when he had been confused at the sudden appearance of Danes among the wedding party, then infuriated, then terrified as he realised that his weaponless men, drunk and helpless were being methodically cut down by the invaders.

Holgar had died badly. Armed only with a ceremonial sword – jewelled, light and useless – he’d stood shoulder to shoulder with Gram and Malgard until Malgard jumped out of the line to pursue the lightly armed and terrified Irish slave prodded into his path. Then Holgar was surrounded by Ulrik’s men and cut down with his son, confronted at the last with Malgard’s silver dagger. But doubtless Holgar would laugh about it with Ulrik when they met in Valhalla.

Ulrik shifted his buttocks on the uncomfortable log. His guts were churning and he suspected the pig meat he’d eaten in the morning had not been properly cooked. The fight had lasted only minutes and already the men were slaking their various thirsts and hungers while he had raced for the nearest latrine. The women, mostly, had survived. The bride, as Malgard had promised, was indeed beautiful in her terror and on the day of her wedding would have some twenty husbands, lucky girl.

Finally the turd erupted from Ulrik’s arse and he grunted with satisfaction, immediately feeling a lot better. He squeezed out another couple of gushers of brown water but failed to notice the muffled exclamation of disgust that came from the pit below him.

‘Ulrik!’

The voice was Malgard’s.

‘Leave me in peace you treacherous Saxon turd!’ he shouted, knowing that Malgard would not understand him, but would recognise his voice. Seconds later, the canvas flap was torn back and Malgard entered with Carl Two-tongues.

‘It is over,’ said Malgard. ‘All the men are dead, save a few scattered townsfolk, whom I will need for rebuilding. I have ordered an end to the killing.’

Ulrik laughed in response to Carl’s simultaneous translation.

‘And my men … they took heed of your order?’

‘Of course,’ said Malgard.

‘I rather doubt it,’ replied Ulrik, straining to squeeze the last of the poisonous turd from his guts. ‘My men all know I would rip the balls from anyone who obeyed another man’s order. I’m guessing your order simply coincided with the end of the warriors and the beginning of the women. Am I right?’

‘It is of no importance,’ said Malgard, irritated and impatient. ‘What is important is that one of the sons is missing.’

‘So?’ sneered Ulrik, climbing to his feet and fastening the two layers of heavy woollen breeches. ‘Is not the victory complete? My men are already celebrating and I make it a rule not to stand between Vikings and plunder … especially of the female kind. I advise you to follow that same rule.’

‘The only rule that matters,’ said Malgard, ‘is the rule of inheritance. Brand is the thegn’s son. His claim is greater than mine if he lives to stand before Edward. He must be hiding and he must be found before he gets away.’

‘That’s your problem Malgard,’ said Ulrik, stumping down the slippery log stairs. ‘It is time for play.’

‘I will pay extra!’ shouted Malgard in his wake.

‘What did I tell you?’ laughed Ulrik, waving a hand in dismissal as he walked into the midst of his celebrating men. ‘Never get between a Viking and his plunder. I am a Viking.’

∞ ∞ ∞

It was dark and getting cold.

There was a constant stream of men using the pit, which had perceptibly filled, since my descent, but I hardly noticed the stench any more.

I am not ashamed to say that I was confused and utterly terrified. I hadn’t understood all that I’d heard but it was clear my uncle Malgard was allied with the Danes and had arranged a surprise attack on the town. My family were dead or despoiled and I was being hunted so that Malgard could take the posts of reeve and thegn, which had been my father’s and would have been Gram’s. So fixed in my mind was that certainty that I had never even idly entertained the possibility that the titles could be mine. Now my heart flared with a cold fury at the treachery of Malgard and my own impotence. I was now the rightful thegn – the king’s representative charged with keeping his peace and doing his justice – but instead of marching into the Viking camp and seizing Malgard, I was cowering in a shit hole, accepting all the turd, piss and vomit like a king collecting tribute.

But the one thing I knew I wanted was revenge. And to get revenge, I had to stay alive. That meant getting out of the pit before dawn because I would surely be discovered when light came and men were face down vomiting.

The Danish celebrations went on for some time, but eventually the laughing and singing and occasional screaming of women subsided to a murmur and then silence. It had been a while since I was last shat, pissed or spewed upon and the common sounds of a summer’s night – insects, frogs and owls – caused me to conclude that all were asleep.

Except the sentries.

I knew for certainty there would be sentries. Even drunken, pillaging Vikings remember to set sentries in an enemy’s land, but there was a greater threat.

Malgard.

Malgard would be sober and would certainly be hunting me. And while the loss of my family was like a dull ache in my heart, my terror at the prospect of capture meant I had no time for the luxury of grief. I waited, scarcely breathing, for the sound of another soul.

I counted two hundred seconds.

Then another two hundred – the counting warding off the need for action. But at last I stood, the shit stench foul around me as my painful unfolding from the cess pit disturbed the turds and set them stinking again.

My fine clothes I simply abandoned. It was better by far to emerge naked from the hole and would be easier to clean myself. New clothes could be found later. I kept only my shoes as I clambered dripping from the pit – a thing of slime – and peered out from behind the canvas into the moonlit nightmare. Bodies lay upon the ground in poses that could only mean death. Perhaps thirty yards away still glowed the embers of a bonfire but no shadows passed in front of it. I needed to skirt the green and get through the town to the stream that fed into the Arwan.

The moon was high and two days from full. Its light was enough to present a danger if the sentries were alert, but it passed behind cloud and I took the opportunity to creep across the green through a field of cold and clammy corpses – ever ready to assume a similar pose. Then I heard a low growl and might have vomited as I realised that dogs of the village were feasting on their former masters. But there was nothing in my stomach to throw up and no tears either for these fellow folk and kin who lay in ruin while the dogs and Danes fed. I couldn’t even force the dogs away for to do so would risk alerting the sentries. But no sooner did I have that thought than a large cur trotted towards me growling – then two more yelped at me and a man I hadn’t seen shouted in a strange tongue. Despite the terror that begged me to bolt, I believed he was shouting at the dogs and forced myself to lie still among the corpses and was utterly revolted when one of the dogs nuzzled at my ear and then started licking the side of my face. Then all three of the dogs were rubbing and rolling against me. The sentry shouted again, his voice suddenly much closer, but then he made some exclamation of obvious disgust and backed away choking, and the dogs – well fed and perfumed – resumed their peregrinations about the conquered town.

At that moment the moon came out from behind a cloud and I all but cried aloud as I recognised Holgar – my father – lying close by. His body was rent by many wounds but his face was unspoilt and he seemed to stare straight through me as though I was the ghost and he the man with unfinished business. Now there were tears. The enormity of the disaster was plain and real and I groped for his hand – hoping to find it warm still with life, but snatched my own away as I felt his flesh like cold mutton. Somehow I found the courage to touch his hand again and was surprised to discover that he still wore his ring – a thick ring of copper and gold given to his father’s father’s father by the king – that bore the seal of his office which he would press into ink or soft wax to make his official mark on letters of credence.

A sudden flame of ambitious hope, coupled with vengeance, grew in my heart as I realised that if I could bring the ring to King Edward and tell my story then maybe the king would appoint me his reeve and thegn, despite my tender years, and empower me to take my family’s revenge on Malgard. It took some time, but I managed to twist the ring off my dead father’s finger without needing to cut it off. I also, with some effort, relieved him of his fine leather belt, to which was attached his favourite dagger, that he’d mainly used for eating.

The night got worse. Next to my father’s body was my elder brother’s – although his face was so disfigured by axe and sword cuts, I recognised him by his cloak – a beautifully embroidered, fine spun garment of pale green with the boar’s head and two towers of the family badge in white and gold. I was equally surprised that such a fine cloak had not yet been plundered, but as I removed it from Gram’s corpse, the reason was possibly explained by the many rents which I tore further in taking it from him.

After rolling carefully on the grass to remove the worst of the turd-slime, I made it to the copse on the western outskirt and considered my next move. There was no point heading for home. It would certainly have been occupied by Malgard and I had no wish to see him without a sword in my hand (and the skill to use it).

No, I had to find the king before Malgard did; or if not the king then someone I could trust to hide me until I could get to the king and seek justice for my kin. But the king was in Lundene, or nearby, and I had no idea of how to get there or even in which direction it lay. Many times the size of Stybbor Lundene was said to be – bigger even than Gipeswic – and I felt excited at the prospect of seeing the great city when I should have been feeling only grief. I wondered if God was aware of my excitement and, presuming yes, hoped that He would also be aware of my penitent shame. Then I realised that such a hope was impiously self-serving and that God would be aware of that, causing me to hope that self-knowledge and regret for my self-serving penitence might somehow be worthy of …

I gave it up and concentrated on getting through the copse and then the tanner’s yard with the ring overlarge on my finger, the cloak rolled up in the belt and the dagger clutched in my trembling fist. It was suddenly silent – the night noises strangely still and I crouched at the tanner’s gate – hardly breathing, sending tendrils of my intellect and instinct into the night to locate potential dangers. There was someone close.

My scalp seemed to tighten with cold and my empty gut was sour with dread. There was a presence, lying in wait, and I became slowly aware of a low rumbling sound – an unworldly portent of evil – and I felt my limbs frozen into immobility as the sound grew louder. And just as I realised what was making the sound, the dog that had been stalking me erupted with furious barking and lunged at my throat – moonlight glinting off snapping fangs, but instinctively I thrust the dagger up to ward off the beast and the night was rent with piteous howls. There was a shout to my right and without a further thought I bolted into the darkness towards the river and lay on the low-tide mud, looking up over the bank to where the dog whined its pain and a torch came sparking through the night, revealing a broad, squat warrior, who examined the dog as he held the torch high, casting about for whomever had caused its injury. It was Angdred – Malgard’s man – whom I knew to be a dangerous fighter. Beside the torch he held also a naked sword and, if he found me, the implications were clear.

He was only twenty yards away and if he ran straight towards the river bank I’d be trapped for certain, but he glanced first into the tanner’s yard, giving me a few precious moments to scuttle backwards into the water like a crab, and by the time he did come running over to investigate the bank I was lying face down in knee-deep water, holding my breath and still clutching my bundle and dagger and fearing that my white, naked body would be easily revealed in the moon and torch light.

At this point, I was resolved to fight. My body was tense as an iron rod, ready to explode into action at the first hint of an approach, but after some time, the need to breathe cooled my desire to take the initiative and, with infinite caution, I raised my head out of the water and opened my eyes.

The breath was sweet but sweeter still was the fact that I had not yet been discovered. Angdred was side-on to me, only five strides away, examining the mud on which I had lain and would soon work out where I must have gone. In the small light of the torch, my arm looked strangely dark and I realised that the muck from the pit had dried on my skin, possibly helping me to blend with the river’s mud and obscure me from Angdred’s vision. The current was tugging gently at my legs so inch by inch I pushed myself backwards into the deeper water and began to drift away from danger. Twenty feet … twenty-five … then Angdred finally realised where I must have gone and charged into the water holding the torch aloft and muttering angrily, standing in the spot in which I had lain only seconds before. The deeper the water, the stronger the current – I drifted further from Angdred but he was still close. He picked his way out of the stream and strode along the bank in the direction of flow, peering out over the dark water and occasionally splashing into the shallows to investigate a lump or eddy. At one point he came within six feet of me but I held myself inert like a submerged log and he saw me not. Soon I was twenty, forty, sixty feet away and lost sight of him as the river bent south and I felt my fear start to ease.

The river held no terrors for me. I was not much of a swimmer but I’d grown up playing around the shallow stream and knew it to be fordable for most of its length until it joined with the Greater Arwan some miles further south and east near the town of Gipeswic. I allowed myself to drift for a few more minutes, my heels occasionally scraping against silt and stones. The moon was sailing in an open patch of sky and the night seemed unusually bright. There were trees on either bank, so I had passed into the wood south-east of the town. I kicked over to the opposite bank and hauled my sodden burden onto the dry mud. Then I returned to the cold water and scrubbed at my hair and skin until it gleamed white in the moonlight and I could no longer smell turd.

As the immediate danger subsided, the grief became sharp again and I lay for some time on the bank surrendering to tears. Then, reflecting on the events of the afternoon and evening, I was overcome with a terrible guilt. I had known that God was privy to my thoughts and seemed disposed towards answering my prayers, and yet I had wished for the chance to become a warrior. Almost immediately God had responded by sending Danes, to the ruin of my family. It was my fault that my father and brother were dead and that slavery and worse had befallen my mother and sisters. It did occur to me that Malgard’s arrangement with the Danes must have preceded my prayer in the church, but God must have been aware of my desire before I had even admitted it to myself. Malgard was simply an instrument of His design. The disaster was not Malgard’s doing – it was mine.

I must have slept, because I woke shivering and hungry in a grey half-light. For a few blissful moments, I recalled not the events of the previous day, but then it all came back and I realised I was lying in full view of the far bank and was still only a few hundred yards from the town. I picked up the still-wet bundle of Gram’s cloak and crept another fifty paces into the wood, where I found a small hollow with a comfortable log.

The ground was damp from the heavy rains that had only settled the day before the wedding so the rising sun found me in a heavy mist which shimmered and sparkled silver and green as stray bolts of dawn sun pierced the forest. Birds began nervously to announce the day and I relaxed, knowing I was safe from searching men while the birds continued to sing.

I spread Gram’s cloak on the ground and tears once again pricked at my eyes as I noted the pink stains around the many rents. But I needed warmth (and to cover my nakedness) so, using Holgar’s dagger, I cut a wide strip from the bottom of the cloak and was about to wrap my groin and butt when I realised I was not alone in the hollow.

I half cried out in panic but it was a young woman – a woman I’d never seen before. She had long, black hair and was dressed in a tunic of animal skins with hide boots held in place with leather thongs. She was very thin, and more or less my age – certainly no older. I scrabbled for the knife and held it up as though to defend myself.

‘Always the knives,’ she said, in a tired voice, and I felt faintly ridiculous despite the perils of the last twelve hours.

I lowered the knife and took further stock of her. There was blood on her hands, and at her feet was curled a dog of medium size with shaggy, red-brown hair.

‘This is the dog you wounded last night,’ she said. ‘His former master was killed by the Danes, so he is now your responsibility. That is justice.’

I was so amazed at this turn of events that, for some moments, I was unable to speak. Then at last I said, ‘I don’t have time for dogs. I must get to King Edward to warn him of the raid … and get revenge for my family.’

‘Your family are dead,’ she said, ‘but the dog can be saved. I have wrapped a poultice over the wounds in his chest and foreleg, which you must change in three days. If the wounds are clean and sweet smelling, the dog will live and will simply need a cloth bandage for another three days … perhaps the cloth you are holding.’

To my shame I realised that I was still completely naked and had been standing there for a minute or so holding a conversation with the girl without concealing my manhood, which then started responding to her presence. Hastily, I turned away and, with some discomfort, managed to wrap myself in the hem of Gram’s cloak.

When I turned back, the dog lay whimpering on the ground, but the girl was gone.