The rasp of scraped pebbles carried clearly in the still air as the Norse ship landed by the water’s edge.
Catla’s throat felt full of grit. Flattened into the worn hollow of the path, she peered between a juniper bush and some feverfew, her mind racing with questions. Could they defeat the Nord-devils? What if she died? Or Sven? She blinked to erase the fear. She recalled her father’s words: Hold a clear image of the end result you want—then work to make it so. She pictured her family together, Bega on her lap, her chin resting on Bega’s head. She gripped her rock and catapult and stared at the ship.
Arching heads—half dragon, half snake, sinuous and lithe—reared from both bow and stern. The sound of villagers sucking in their breath comforted her. She was not alone. Her eyes focused on the dragonheads. Some people believed it was the eyes of the dragon that sought out villages to burn and rob.
Her father had roared with laughter when she’d told him that. “Nonsense,” he’d said. “Nonsense.” She smiled at the memory but ducked her head and lowered her gaze, unwilling now to take his word.
At new sounds, she looked up again. The Nord-devils sat on rowing benches in the wide bilge. Some of them scooped up their shields and vaulted over the side into knee-deep water. They pulled the shallow, rounded hull onto the land. It tilted on its keel and everyone clambered out.
Two Nord-devils kicked at the small leather fishing boats, overturned and drying on the pebbled beach. One slashed at the leather hulls and muttered harsh-sounding words. Sword hilts protruded from leather scabbards. Knives flashed at belted waists. Some men carried axes. Catla peered at their weapons and black tunics. She thought they were the same men she’d seen below Elder Bush Hill and in her village, although their faces were obscured by their helmets. Snatches of muted laughter floated up from the path. The Nord-devils huddled close together, but they seemed relaxed and confident, unaware of the trap.
One man said something, his words sounding as harsh as a seal’s bark, and they turned and looked toward the villagers. Fear held Catla’s body rigid. She heard no outcry. The villagers had not been seen. She ducked her head slightly, her heart pounding. A man jerked his head toward the ship and two others shook their heads as if to argue, but they turned and climbed back into the ship, likely for lookout duty. That might be a problem. They all had to be captured.
Catla was so absorbed in the scene below, she almost shrieked when someone slid in beside her. The whisper of a familiar voice brushed her cheek. “Easy. Be calm. I thought you might like company. This must remind you of home.”
She turned and saw the kindness in Edith’s face, then nodded her head once, hard. Dropping her rock for an instant, she put her hand into Edith’s, squeezed it and felt the answering pressure. Some of the tension in her back eased. Edith settled her catapult in front of her within easy reach and they turned to watch.
The Nord-devils formed a close, silent cluster as they advanced up the path to the village, forming a wall of shields. Catla remembered a traveler talking about such a thing, and her father said he, too, had fought like that. Catla fixed her eyes on them and tightened her fingers on her stone. The sun glittered off the flat planes of the axes. The sword blades glinted as they slashed at low-growing bushes. She felt a nervous tremble as she thought of the ambush of stones and bushes matched against their enemy’s weapons and warrior skill. The invaders came closer, their helmets hiding their eyes, their shields at chest level.
The trap would only work if the Nord-devils stayed close together. Her eyes kept snaking between Fergus and the men below as the invaders drew closer. They were almost at the oak sapling. Were they too close? She shifted her eyes and fastened them on Fergus. He signaled and picked up the rope. The silence held. The rope-pullers jumped up, braced their feet and pulled. Muscles bulged; the ropes stretched tight. For an instant nothing moved. Nord-devils would swarm over the river cliff and look straight into her eyes. The men heaved again.
Abruptly, the netting parted.
Catla jumped to her feet as the dirt, rocks, boulders and bushes plummeted onto the enemy, filling their eyes and mouths. She flung her rocks, aiming for the open flesh of their arms and faces. The boulders and rocks bounced off the Nord-devils’ helmets and backs and tumbled down the incline to the shoreline. They lurched and scrambled, trying to stay on their feet. Loose rocks tripped them. They cut each other as they swung their swords to keep their balance. Shields clashed. The air resounded with cries, curses and snarls.
Then the fishermen flung their nets. The ropepullers dropped the slack ropes over the edge of the riverbank for later. Villagers hurled rock after rock. The empty nets flipped down over top of the Nord-devils, who howled, struggled and shouted in rage, ensnared in the nets, a seething mass of tangled arms and legs. Norse curses vied with shouts of triumph from the villagers when a rock struck a target.
Catla couldn’t keep track of everything that happened. From the moment when the invaders had been so close to the villagers, to when the nets had caught them, she’d hardly taken a breath. Now she realized all her rocks had been thrown. She leaped about and shouted in joy, until Edith reminded her their job was not done.
Catla slithered down the bank with the rest of the villagers. The rope-pullers wound the ropes around the netted Norsemen, then pulled both ends tighter and tighter, drawing the Nord-devils closer together. The invaders scuffled and shifted as the ropes pressed them inward. Yells and curses filled the air. The trap was working. Catla shifted her grip on her stave, checked that her knife was still in her belt. Now her heart pounded in excitement, not fear.
The invaders used their knives to hack at the webbing. The villagers used their staves to knock the weapons away from the prisoners’ hands and jabbed at them through the netting. A few villagers picked up the fallen weapons, until Hugh bellowed, “Leave them. You’re too close. Some still have their knives and swords. We’ll get them later.”
Catla had been eyeing a short sword with an intricate hilt, but she backed away from it when Hugh spoke. The ropes were pulled and the trap tightened.
When the Norsemen were a tight bundle, the villagers claimed the fallen weapons. Catla darted in and picked up the sword she’d seen. I’ll take it home. Maybe Bega will like it when she grows older. She smiled and tucked it into her belt.
The prisoners’ struggles slowed. Catla was reminded of a net full of squirming black smelts. Hugh bellowed for quiet, but a few of the villagers continued to poke at the prisoners with their staves.
“That’s for my brother,” one man yelled. He thrust his stave into an opening. “He was a good man, taken one winter evening when he was alone.”
Others cheered, jabbed and called out the names of family members and friends who had gone missing in slave raids. Catla was looking for an opening for her own stave when Hugh raised his arms again. “Stop! Stop now. These men will be slaves. Don’t blind or maim them. They need to be strong to bring a goodly price.”
The jabbing and jeering stopped.
Hugh said, “Good work, everyone. Good work! Let’s get them to the council ring.”
A cheer burst from the crowd of villagers.
Then Hugh yelled something in Norse. Catla wasn’t surprised that he knew some words of Norse. She remembered her father saying that part of Hugh’s family had helped build York over one hundred years ago.
There were more struggles from within the net, more jabbing and whacking with staves. At last, one Norse voice rose above the growls and snarls, and the struggles stopped.
More cheers filled the air. Catla’s voice was drowned in the tumult.
“They’ve been told to drop out their weapons and stand still,” Hugh said. “When you see a weapon, whoever is closest, run and pick it up. Be on guard. They’ll try to keep their knives.”
“Do we get to keep the weapons, Hugh?” asked Hindley.
“Yes, we’ll keep them and divide them by the oak tree. The spoils of war will be shared equally.” Catla wasn’t the only one who coveted a strong and skillfully made Norse weapon.
Angry words still came from inside the net, but slowly knives and swords appeared through the webbing and dropped to the ground. After the last knife dropped, the villagers darted in and pulled the weapons away. The Norsemen stood still. The villagers raised another cheer, slapped their neighbors’ backs and pranced about in glee and relief.
Catla danced too, her heart filled with joy.
The mighty Nord-devils were captured. There was hope for Covehithe.
One Norseman at a time was untangled from the net, searched for weapons, and bound, hands and feet, with thin strands of hide. He could take short steps but would topple if he tried to run. More short knives were discovered, and the men who had hidden them received a whack for their trickery.
Then Catla remembered the ship in the harbor and the two guards. She looked at the river and her mouth dropped open in surprise. “Sven!” she yelled. Other people turned to the ship and saw two more prisoners sitting in the bilge, their bodies wrapped with rope. Sven and three friends stood behind them, short stabbing knives at the ready. Catla realized she hadn’t seen Sven during the fight. She was glad he was safe but felt miffed she hadn’t been told about his plan. Then she chided herself. He was with his friends, the older boys. He didn’t need to tell her his plans.
“How did you do that?” Matthew called to the boys in the ship. He sounded cross too. “Oh, never mind. Good work. Bring them here with the others and we’ll hear about it later.”
Catla waved and Sven waved back. She grinned when she heard Matthew complaining to Hindley that the boys hadn’t told him what they were planning. It reminded her of Wulfric. No one liked to miss out on things, not even her.
The boys hoisted the captives to their feet and then all the invaders shuffled up the path to the village.
As Catla walked to council ring, Hugh said, “Put them into the goat pen for now.” The goat pen? In her mind’s eye, she saw her family pushed toward their own pen. Her hope for justice grew. These people of Aigber were more resourceful than she had dared to count on.
Catla waited until most of the villagers climbed the riverbank before she did. As she headed to the council ring, a movement between the cottages caught her eye. One of the invaders raced down the path out of the village. Matthew and Hugh bellowed. Fergus and Sven sprinted behind the invader. People shouted, “Stop him! Stop him!”
Fergus pulled his knife from his belt as he ran. He was ahead of Sven by a leg-length, closing on the fugitive.
“Go, Fergus!” Sven’s voice broke the silence.
Catla darted forward, caught in the drama.
The Norseman sprinted between cottages and started along the path to the heath. As he passed her, she realized with a shock that he was about her age. The long leather strand that had hobbled him flipped around one leg. His face contorted in desperation. He veered off the path and dodged a low blackberry bramble, evading Fergus. The thong whipped around his opposite ankle. His body twisted as he tried to maintain balance, but he stumbled. His arms were still bound behind his back and he came down heavily on his shoulder.
Catla caught the glint of a blade in his hand as he sprawled on his side in the dirt. Fergus and Sven were too close to stop. They landed on top of him, Fergus first, then Sven. There was no struggle. Sven pushed himself up and lowered his hand to Fergus, who pushed himself away from the boy, grabbed Sven’s hand and stood. The Norseman lay still. Blood glistened on Fergus’s knife and hand, and his face was pale. It was not clear to Catla if Fergus had meant to stab the prisoner or not. The crowd fell silent.
One of the men said, “Good for you, lad.”
Matthew said, “He deserved what he got.”
“Is he dead?” Fergus asked.
Catla’s stomach lurched.
Edith and Hugh knelt beside the boy, and the crowd encircled them. Edith examined the cut. “He still lives, but not for long,” she said. “The knife caught his neck. The cut is very deep. He cannot be saved. He’ll die quickly.”
“Bring his lord before he dies,” Hugh said. Sven turned, but Erik and Rufus had already gone.
The news had a sobering effect. This village shared Father John as their priest, and he preached “Thou shalt not kill.” It was a mortal sin to take another person’s life, but this was war. Some of the villagers crossed themselves. Some crossed their fingers and spat on the ground. All believed a lost soul could haunt their village if it did not find peace. Catla wondered if the warrior would find his way to his Norse heaven, Valhalla. She shivered in pity for both Fergus and the Norseman.
The Norse chief arrived, and Hugh cut his hands free so he could comfort the boy. He spoke softly and closed the young man’s fingers more firmly around the knife still in his hand. He crossed the boy’s arms over his chest. Made a sign on his forehead.
Hugh translated what the chief had said. “This one will find peace. He died with his knife in his hand, as a true warrior should. He will feast in Odin’s hall.”
The young man’s chest grew still. Matthew and Rufus retied the chief’s hands and took him back to the goat pen.
Some men picked up the body and went to dig a grave. Edith went to find a piece of cloth for the wrapping. A few of the women offered to bring rocks to place on the disturbed earth of his grave. Fresh blood would attract the wolves, and that night the village would be empty.