I am the eldest son of Osfrið, Ðegn of Ledlinghe. Together with my parents and my five siblings, I lived peacefully at our manor, a longhouse made of mighty wooden beams, home to my father and grandfather, the ancestral home of my family.
Ledlinghe lies northeast of Wilburgfos, some three hours on foot, less than an hour for riders in a hurry with a good horse. It was once surrounded by fertile manor land, lush green meadows and large woods where we could freely hunt for game. This was a time when the English got on well with the sons and daughters of the Norþmenn who had settled down in Englaland over the last two hundred years. We shared fields and woods, tools and oxen, helped each other in times of drought, flood and disease, celebrated and mourned together.
I had everything I could wish for. I was the son of a ðegn, a rich nobleman who was loved by the people of Ledlinghe and respected among the ðegnes of the neighbouring villages. My mother’s father had also been a venerable ðegn in Norþhymbre. I had two elder sisters, but as the first-born son, I was the most important child to my father, for I would one day replace him as head of the family and Ledlinghe manor. To this end, he started early to prepare me for my role as a warrior and heir. He showed no mercy during weapons practice, but I liked fighting, and I was good at it.
When I was not practising, I shared happy moments with my brothers making arrows and bows and enjoyed the warm summer evenings carrying my little sister, Eda, on my shoulders and galloping through the colourful meadows and fields like a proud warhorse. I also took part in wrestling matches and did secret weapons drills with the peasant children, who would never be called up for military service but would be the first to fall in the event of an attack by enemy troops. All those things my father contemptuously called useless and a waste of time.
I remember a morning in the summer of the Year of Our Lord 1066, when I was practising swordplay in the yard with my father, as I did every day. The hot, humid air weighed heavy on my arms like chain mail, and even the breeze did not cool me down. Rather, it seemed to drive hither all the midges and flies from the river Deorwente, which meandered south about an hour’s walk to the west of Ledlinghe. I constantly lashed out at the gnats, which greedily attacked my bare upper body and legs.
“If you let every fly bother you, you’ll never become a huscarl,” my father rumbled. “Every dead man on the battlefield lures more of this vermin, and your opponents won’t wait for you to chase the flies away. Turn your thoughts to what really matters: your enemy and your sword. Forget everything else.”
I hit another midge on my upper arm and growled. My body was drenched in sweat, but my mouth was so dry that I couldn’t even swallow – and my father would not let me drink for quite some time.
In front of the stables, my older sisters Æðelflæd and Wassa were feeding the chickens, while little Eda carried her favourite chicken in her arms and stroked it. They didn’t seem to mind the gnats, and for a moment I envied them.
A swing with the sword right in front of my face made me jump.
“Don’t dream, Oswulf!” my father said. “On the battlefield, you would now be dead. He who does not fight is worth nothing. You want to be worth something, don’t you? You want to become a huscarl and be one of the best and most respected warriors to protect the Eorl of Norþhymbre with your own life and limb, do you not?”
I took a deep breath and nodded with my head down. “Yes, Father, I do. Forgive me my recklessness.”
“I am doing this for you, Oswulf. I want you to attain what I was denied. I have been gathering a large sum of money for you so that you can afford everything you need to become a huscarl.”
Inwardly I winced. Yes, my father collected coins in a chest, but the money came from the pockets of the peasants and smaller landowners from whom he collected taxes for the king. I had seen him secretly put some coins in the chest while the rest went into the sack for the king.
“I make sure you have the necessary skills in using weapons. Every evening, I check that the chest with the money and your battle wear is well locked. Once we have the sword with inlaid gold inscription for you to present to the eorl, nothing and no one shall stand in your way.”
He spat out the words “no one”. The anger about failing to become a huscarl many winters ago still gnawed at him. He too had had such a sword, which he proudly showed to his friends after picking it up from the blacksmith. That very night, it was stolen from him. One of his friends then presented it to the eorl and became a huscarl. My father never tried again. Since that day, however, he hated his former friend’s brother, our shoemaker, as well as the shoemaker’s son with whom I used to spend time in the woods or at board games. “Never trust a Viking!” was a phrase he often repeated since then. But why should I do so, when we had been living peacefully with them as neighbours for many years?
“Are you even listening to me, or are you dreaming?”
“Yes, Father…” I had been listening to him, but another noise distracted me. A rattling and wild mooing that grew louder as it approached from somewhere beyond the manor.
Little Eda was running after her favourite chicken, which was trotting around in front of our manor house and seemed to be playing tag with her.
The rattling noise came rushing in like a roaring torrent of water that bursts a riverbed after the snow melts. My heart was pounding. Something big was coming. Unstoppable, with force – and fast.
I dropped my sword and took a few unsteady steps across the yard.
“Where are you going, Oswulf?” my father asked. “We are far from finished.”
My steps quickened. Faster, faster, said an inner voice. A shiver ran down my skin. Suddenly, I no longer cared about midges and flies, nor the swordplay.
“You come back right now!” my father shouted.
The thundering of hooves on sandy ground was now loud and clear. I set off running. Eda was sitting on the floor, stroking the chicken in her arms. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the yoke of oxen thundering round the corner.
My father yelled. I shouted. Eda shrieked.
I darted across the path, snatched my sister and leapt into the dirt on the side of the road. The ground shivered as the oxen rumbled past with the cart. Grit pelted my naked back. A cloud of sand rose above us. Then the rattling died away.
From the other side, I heard voices. Cautiously, I unrolled and looked up.
A few men came chasing after the oxen, trying to bring them to a halt. Two peasants hurried past us without even bothering to look.
I lashed out at the flies buzzing around us, stood up and helped Eda to her feet. “That was close,” I said, brushing the sand-strewn hair out of her face.
“Hwær is Hen?” Eda sniffled and looked around with a worried face and empty arms.
From the yard, my older sisters rushed over. “Are you injured?” asked Wassa.
I wiped my face. A few grains of sand crunched between my teeth. “No, everything’s fine.”
Wassa fell to her knees and hugged her little sister. “Ic ðancige ðe, Dryhten min! Nothing has happened to you.”
“I’m so glad you were there, Oswulf.” Æðelflæd hugged me before stroking Eda’s cheek. “Without you, the oxen would have run her down.”
“Oswulf!” My father stood at the entrance to our yard and looked at me grimly. “I don’t have all day.”
“But, Father!” said Wassa. “He saved Eda’s life.”
“That was very brave of him. But also very foolish. He could have been hurt, and what chance would a cripple have of becoming a huscarl? His brothers are too young to be taught how to fight properly. I need a strong and able son to take over the manor one day. Let us go, Oswulf.”
* * *
So, I lived happily with my family and friends, but as the warm summer days passed, travelling minstrels and messengers brought news that both Norþmenn and the French wanted to take the crown from our king. Father stepped up the weapons practice, even my brothers became more involved in the daily fighting. At the time, I did not understand my father’s concern. If our enemies were after the king, wouldn’t they attack in the south, far from Ledlinghe, where the king usually held court?
I was pondering this question, the disturbing tales and what they possibly meant, as I looked after our equipment and weapons one day. Father had had chain mail made especially for me and two leather harnesses for Wigstan and Oswine and picked up three extra swords from the blacksmith. After removing the rust stains from father’s chain mail with sand, cleaning the spear, sword and axe and checking the shield for cracks, I took my bow and arrows and set off in search of Ulfgar and Stígandr. A little trip into the woods would do me good and hopefully, take my mind off things. Besides, now was the best time to catch a careless roebuck.
I hadn’t quite left our yard when I heard a harsh barking sound from the other end of the village, alternating with hoarse yelping. Sighing, I continued towards the noise. On the dry ground, an ochre-brown-black hairy ball was rolling around, kicking up dust. The sounds came from within, sometimes from a muzzle, sometimes a mouth.
I stood beside the bundle and put one end of my bow on the ground. “When the two of you have flattened the sand enough, perhaps you would like to come hunting with me?”
The hairy ball unrolled, and four eyes looked at me sheepishly. “Oswulf, my friend. Good to see you.”
Before I could reply, the four-legged half of the bundle, tail wagging and barking, jumped at me and just about failed to knock me over. She was the size of a cow, with equal weight and power, and there was nothing I could do to stop her from greeting me joyfully as she licked my face with her oversized tongue.
Meanwhile, the two-legged half had also lifted himself off the ground. Looking at the two of them, you could see they were a perfect match. “Bargest missed you,” said Ulfgar, my friend and trusted brother-in-arms.
“Sit! Sit, Bargest!” I said, gasping, as I pushed the dog away from me. At last, she let go, but continued to pant and wag her tail, four paws on the ground. Breathing a sigh of relief, I pulled my linen shirt back into place.
Like two giant pincers, Ulfgar’s arms flew around my shoulders and squeezed the air out of me. “Let me clasp you to my bosom, dear friend!” Eyeing my bow, he loosened his embrace. “I see you are on your way to the woods. Do you need some company?”
“Do you have time?”
“There’s nothing for me to do at the moment.” The expression on his face, shaped like a small round shield, was rather bored, yet my friend was still an impressive sight. His ochre beard curled sparsely but evenly over his upper lip, chin and cheeks – a sight envied by many youths in the village who, like me, boasted a mere below their nose. With his beard and a thick mane of the same colour, darker at the hairline and sun-bleached towards the tips, Ulfgar looked like an oversized wildcat standing on its hind legs looking for something to eat – and eat he did, as anyone who saw him could tell. For my friend was not at all the slender, sinewy “wolf-spear” one might expect from his name. He was a stocky, strong and brave fellow who never backed out of a fight. Countless scars on his body and a missing piece of his right forefinger bore witness to this.
“Well, get your bow and come! I need to talk to you.”
“Talk to me? Eala, I thought we were going hunting.”
“Gleoman. My father rode to Chercam this morning to discuss something important with the ðegnes.”
“Something important. I see. Now, I suppose you think I can tell you what it is.” He stroked Bargest over the head.
“Just get on with it or the deer will all be gone before we even reach the woods.”
But Ulfgar would not let himself be rushed. “Easy, Oswulf! Deer come to those who wait. Haste scares them away.”
When he returned with the bow on his back and Bargest at his side, we went on to the shoemaker’s house to pick up Stígandr. As usual, his father Olaf flinched when I appeared in his workshop. Perhaps he was still afraid that my father would one day punish him for what his brother did, since his brother was no longer around to avenge directly.
“We have a lot of work,” Olaf said with a sweeping motion at all the leather rags, half-finished and damaged shoes that surrounded him in his workshop. “Can’t you go another time?”
“We’ll be back before you have finished even a single pair of shoes.” Like a cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse, Stígandr skirted his father. His blonde hair, tied together at the nape of his neck, nestled tightly against his head and made his bony face look even narrower than it already was. “Just remember, a little more meat for the winter never hurts.” He smiled, showing a row of even teeth in his protruding lower jaw.
I was ashamed of my thoughts, but with that expression on his face and the sparse strands of beard on his chin, he always reminded me of a goat chewing. Perhaps this appearance was the reason he was still not married, for he was several winters older than me and Ulfgar. Or perhaps his father couldn’t bear the loneliness that had been spreading through the hut since his last daughter married and his wife died.
His father sighed and waved his hand. “Then get out of here. But you will make up the time tonight, son.”
Stígandr indicated a bow. “Of course, Father.”
So, off I went with my strange friends – a tall and chunky one who my father appreciated because he came from the family of my betrothed, and a tall thin one whom he hated because he was the nephew of his cheating huscarl friend, a Norþmann with the morals of the god Loki, as he said. More than once, my father had warned me that names were not given without reason, that Stígandr too would eventually live up to his name “wanderer” and that he would change sides like the autumn wind changes the direction from which it blows. I did not feel so sure about this. Wasn’t the name what the parents saw in a newborn or what they wanted to ascribe to him, rather than an evil prophecy that would someday fulfil itself like an inevitable curse?
We walked along the wide path to the woods while Bargest ran, sniffing through the tall grass beside us.
“Do you think the Norþmenn and the French will invade Englaland?” I asked my friends.
Ulfgar sucked in his breath. “Both of them at the same time? That’s going to be tough.”
“One West Saxon less to oppress us?” asked Stígandr. “I think that’s something to look forward to.”
“How can you be so sure that our king will lose?” I asked.
Ulfgar leaned forward and looked past me at Stígandr. “And what if he does? Do you think the Norþmenn or the French will treat us better once one of them is king?”
“You mean, will they squeeze us even more than that wicked brother of the king?” asked Stígandr.
“My father and two hundred other ðegnes drove him out,” I said. “We will also protect ourselves from any other men preying on us.”
“Oh, yes, sure.” Stígandr waved my words aside. “You are the son of a ðegn and have nothing to worry about. Everyone knows that the tax collectors slip some of the coins into their own money pouches before passing the rest on to the king. You have money, a manor, people who work for you.”
“That is the God-given order,” I said. “Do you want to doubt it?”
“Nowhere is it written that a man should not seize an opportunity when he gets one.”
“What are you implying, Stígandr?”
“My father expects me to take over the workshop and be a shoemaker for the rest of my life. But look at my uncle, he has become a huscarl, lives a carefree life at the manor house of the Eorl of Norþhymbre and receives a nice sum of money for it.”
“And is the enemy’s first target when they try to get rid of the eorl,” Ulfgar said.
“But you can’t become huscarl,” I said.
“Who said I wanted to be a huscarl?” asked Stígandr.
“Why else would you have mentioned your uncle? He would never have become a huscarl either if he hadn’t…” I pressed my lips together.
Stígandr turned and looked me in the eye. “Not everyone can be born into a wealthy family like you, young Osfriðson. Your father never accepted that my uncle was better than him, so he made up that story about the stolen sword.”
“Oh did he? And what if I become a huscarl too, and I’m better than your uncle? Will your uncle accept it then?”
“You want to be a huscarl?” Stígandr raised his eyebrows. “Why? Because your father failed?”
“My father did not fail!”
“So why does he then put you through weapons practice and battle preparations until late at night? You already excel among your peers. But your father wants to be absolutely sure that you meet the physical requirements to become a huscarl, while he is taking care of your armour, weapons and the money. He wants you to become a huscarl in his place because he didn’t make it.”
“That’s not true. I’m just not good enough yet, so I need to practise more.”
“So it is your very own wish to become a huscarl?”
“Yes, forsooth!” How could he even ask? Of course I wanted to become a huscarl. They were honoured and highly respected warriors at the manor house of the great eorles and even the king himself.
“That’s enough now,” said Ulfgar. “Otherwise, you’ll scare away the few animals that haven’t already fled with all your shouting.”
We continued in silence among the tall spruce and beech trees until we reached a long row of thorny brambles in the middle of the woods, where a grassy clearing spread out over a gentle valley. From behind the brambles, we had a good view of the clearing. Now, we had to wait.
“Lay down, Bargest!” Ulfgar pointed his mangled right forefinger and looked at Bargest with raised eyebrows. The dog lay down at his feet and let him pat her head. “Good girl. Now, stay there.” As if to confirm, Bargest nodded and rested her head on her front paws.
Stígandr crouched next to the dog and took out his snare traps. I peered over the thorny bushes. No deer, not even the tiniest beast in sight.
Ulfgar let his massive body fall onto the ground and laid the bow beside him. Then he interlaced his fingers and let his gaze wander over the ground as if he were looking for something. “We should have brought something to eat.”
“You’re a glutton, Ulfgar.”
My friend held his palms up reproachfully. “Hey, not everyone can be a sinewy stripling like you.”
“Eat the blackberries in front of you. That will keep you happy for a while.”
Ulfgar rolled to the side, crouched against the bushes and began to eagerly gather berries. While he stuffed a handful into his mouth, he held out the other hand to me. “Want some?”
I looked at his hand, then turned my gaze back to the clearing. “M-m.”
“Hm!” Ulfgar shrugged and after Stígandr had also declined, gobbled up the rest of the berries before gathering more. He was probably expecting a longer wait.
Stígandr disappeared between the trees to set some traps. As nothing budged on the clearing, I sat down next to Ulfgar to eat some berries, but suddenly, Bargest raised her head and started sniffing. Ulfgar and I gulped down the fruit and peered from behind the bushes as carefully as we could. On the far side of the clearing, some deer emerged from the undergrowth, nibbling the young buds of the small trees.
“We’re lucky,” I whispered. “The wind is blowing in our direction. They won’t smell us.”
Little by little, the deer’s grazing brought them closer, but they were still about half a mile away. Bargest became restless, repeatedly looking from the deer back to her master.
Ulfgar fingered his bow nervously. “Can’t they go a little faster? I’m about to wet my breeches.”
“Can’t you hold on? If one of them gets just a little closer, I can take a shot.”
“You're mad. They’re a good four hundred feet away. Even a king’s archer would have trouble hitting them.” Ulfgar stepped from one foot to the other. “You’ll only scare the whole herd away.”
“You too, if you don’t shut up.” Slowly, I placed the arrow on my bowstring. “Now, if you want to pee, let me finish this.”
“Pff. As if!”
The deer pattered a few steps closer, stopped, raised its head and twitched its ears as if it had heard something.
“You see? It knows that we—”
The rebound of my bowstring silenced Ulfgar. In a high arc, the arrow whizzed through the air over the clearing and then took a dive like a hungry hawk.
“You’re in league with the Fiend,” Ulfgar breathed as the arrow pierced the deer’s side.
It flinched and pelted off. The rest of the herd disappeared, leaping into the woods.
“Let’s go!” I dashed down past the brambles into the clearing.
“Fetch, Bargest! Go, get that deer!” shouted Ulfgar.
Barking, the dog raced past me to chase the injured animal, and we soon found her sitting like a good dog next to the dead deer.
Ulfgar slowed his steps and finally stopped. “I don’t believe it.” He turned to me, stretched out his arms and bowed so low that the tips of his hair touched the ground. “Oh, Oswulf, great god of hunting and king of the longbow, forgive me for not believing in you and for daring to doubt your abilities. I am unworthy of your friendship.”
I could not help laughing. “You madman. Shut up!” With Bargest watching me, I pulled the arrow out of the deer. “Now, do what must be done,” I said with a glance at Ulfgar.
“Like… what?”
“Wasn’t there something you wanted to do before we head back?”
“Oh, right.”
Ulfgar hid behind the bushes, flooded the ground and came back with a satisfied smile.
“Let’s get our guest ready to travel then.” He pulled two leather straps from the pouch on his belt.
We felled a thin tree to which we tied the front and back legs of the deer, hoisted the ends of the trunk onto our shoulders and set off.
“I see your hunt was successful.” Stígandr joined us on the way, lifting up a pheasant. “But the shoemaker’s son also made a catch.”
“Come on, Stígandr!” I said, patting him on the back. “We’ve lived together peacefully until now, and that’s how it’s going to stay, isn’t it?”
Stígandr nodded. “God willing.”
* * *
Back in Ledlinghe, Stígandr refused his share of the deer – he had, after all, caught a pheasant and held it up once more as if to prove it – and left us outside his father’s workshop. We took our hunting prey to Ulfgar’s home so his mother could start gutting the animal. Later, my mother and sisters would help her carve, roast and smoke it.
With a loud bark, Bargest announced us and ran into the hut. Shortly afterwards, the blacksmith’s daughter stepped out, Godgifu, God’s gift – and that’s what she really was: the prettiest girl in Ledlinghe, sister of my best friend Ulfgar and, for a few months now, my betrothed. I still see her face before me, her large, bright eyes in which I could see my reflection as in a clear lake, her rounded lips to which I owe many sweet moments, her delicate hands gliding over my face and body like a feather. She stepped out of the hut into the light, and the sun tried in vain to outshine Godgifu’s beauty. The slender gold ring that bore our engraved names on the inside sparkled on her right hand as she held out her arms to me.
With my free arm – I needed the other to hold the trunk with the deer on my shoulder – I pressed her against me and gave her a long kiss.
“Take your time, you two,” Ulfgar said. “Deer dries much more gently in the sun than in the kitchen.”
Godgifu ran her hand over my shoulder and arm. “Eala, you’re getting stronger all the time. You’ll crush me one day.”
“And you’re getting more beautiful every time I see you, Godgifu,” I said and kissed her again.
“Never stop saying that.” Another kiss.
“Not in a hundred winters.”
The shuddering on my shoulder brought me out of heaven and back to earth.
“The deer is already starting to smell,” Ulfgar said, continuing to pull on the tree trunk. “Save your sweet words for another time.”
Godgifu slipped into the house, and we followed her into the kitchen, where Ulfgar’s mother had already prepared everything for butchering the animal. I said goodbye to go and fetch my mother, gave Godgifu a kiss on the cheek and hurried home.
As I was walking towards the great hall, my brother Oswine came calling. “A messenger is here, Oswulf. Come quickly! It’s urgent.”
My father and a stranger were sitting at a table, with Wigstan standing beside them. After taking a large sip of his ale, my father slammed the cup back on the table. “There’s bad news, Oswulf.”
The messenger turned to me and said, “The king’s brother has left his exile and conspired with the Norse king against his own brother.”
I frowned. “You mean they want to invade Englaland together?”
“He’s already doing it. All along the south coast of Englaland, from Sandwice in the southeast to Wiht in the west, he raids and ravages the land. King Harold has sent scouts to find out what his brother and the Norþmenn are up to. He has also called for the fyrd to gather in the south in case Willelm the Bastard and his Frenchmen decide to set sail for Englaland.”
My father stared at the table.
“Will you take me south with you?” I asked him.
“No.”
“But I could be useful to you—”
“I’m not riding south, Oswulf.”
“But why not? The king is assembling his army there.”
“If the Norþmenn attack – and they will do so sooner or later – they won’t sail down south first.”
Of course not. From Norweg, they are much closer to the English northeastern coast. Where we live.
“I can tell by your look, that you understood, my son.”
I nodded, not sure whether to rejoice or weep. Should I have struggled through all those hours of my father’s ruthless weapons practice honing my fighting skills just for the sake of defending a manor house, stopping a few stray Norþmenn from raiding Ledlinghe? Were not the pitchforks and pikes of the peasants enough for that? Surely, no young man who wanted to become a huscarl was needed for that. On the other hand, what about my mother and my brothers and sisters? How were they to defend themselves against the Norþmenn? Those grim wælwulfas from the north would take what they wanted with their greedy fingers – using an axe, if necessary. My mother and sisters were helpless against them, and my two brothers were too young to protect them. They could hardly fight for themselves, so how were they meant to stand their ground against a much older and battle-hardened Norþmann?
The messenger continued. “The king will defend the south against the French, if necessary. At the moment, the wind is keeping Willelm from crossing the water between Englaland and the Frankish kingdom. As for a Norse threat to the northern part of Englaland, all the huscarles and ðegnes who live here will gather in three days. It will not be easy for us. In Norþhymbre, some people have been upholding their oath to the king’s exiled brother and are waiting for his return. He also has strong ties with the powerful Scottish king who will come to his aid. They will all bring together their men in the north.”
“You mean they will attack from Scotland?” I asked the messenger.
“No,” he said. “Our scouts tell us that they are meant to sail along the coast and then up the Humbre as far as they can with their longships, that is, as far as Richale. From there, it is not far to Eoforwic, the only large town up here and the most important place for traffic, trade and politics. Once Eoforwic falls, other places will follow. If the huscarles and ðegnes who have sworn oaths to Eorl Morkere are not all ready to defend Englaland with their men, it will be easy for the Norþmenn to take the north by force.”
My father nodded and looked at me. “Eorl Morkere needs every man.”
I chewed on my lip. Eorl Morkere needs every man. Every man?
“Well, what do you say, Oswulf? Will you support me in the fight against the Norþmenn?”
“You want me to ride with you? But who will take care of the manor and Ledlinghe?”
“Are you surprised that you are to go to war?” My father raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t that what I’ve been teaching you? True, as my first-born son, you would usually be overseeing the manor when I am not around, but these are not ordinary circumstances, Oswulf. The future of Englaland is at stake. Your future, not that of a single manor. We will find a way to gather enough men to defend Ledlinghe while we are away, should the Norþmenn come this far. In the meantime, we must prepare to catch the enemy as early as possible.”
“Our scouts are following their every move on English soil,” said the messenger. “We know exactly where they are and what they are doing at all times.”
I will fight in the name of Englaland and for the good of a whole people against unlawful invaders? “But Father, I am still too young to fight in a battle. What could I possibly do against a skilled warrior?”
“Don’t worry about that. I know I can rely on you. You are a brave and tough boy and wield weapons like no other. You will look after my horse, weapons and shield and, God willing, you will come to help me.” He raised his cup to me and drank.
Afterwards, when I accompanied my mother and sisters to Ulfgar’s home, thoughts were whirling wildly in my head. This would be my first real battle. Was I ready? Had my father really prepared me enough?
“I am scared, Oswulf,” Godgifu said, squeezing my hand as if to keep hold of me forever. “What if something happens to you? If you get wounded or…” She turned her head away. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
I gently clasped her hands. “Fear not, Godgifu. My father has taught me well over the years. Besides, I am still too young to join the battle myself. I will only be watching my father’s horse and weapons, way off from the fighting.”
My voice was firm to take away Godgifu’s fear, but inside I was trembling. I was no huscarl, no ðegn, not even a warrior. I was just a sixteen-winter-old youth facing his first battle and not wanting to fail in meeting his father’s expectations.
* * *
In the afternoon, my father called a meeting to choose the men who would go with him into battle. It was with great relief that I heard that Ulfgar was to remain by my side, yet it broke my heart that as a result of that decision, Godgifu would now be fearing for both her brother and her beloved.
The Norse threat became a certainty in September when our scouts reported the first raids along the northeastern coast of Englaland. Only when the Norþmenn embarked on the Humbre did the raids stop, and the invaders eventually pitched their tents at Richale.
On the last day before we left for Eoforwic, we spent much of our time preparing horses, armour, weapons, tents, provisions and all that we would need for a prolonged stay at the town gates. After the work was done, I sat with Ulfgar, leaning against the wooden wall of our stable and watching the setting sun.
“Sitting here doing nothing until we leave is unbearable,” I said.
“You can’t wait, can you?” asked Ulfgar, taking a sip from his cup.
“It will be my first real battle. That is truly exciting.”
“Get used to it if you want to be a warrior.”
“Are you scared?” I looked at Ulfgar.
He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Right now, I have a strange feeling in my stomach. Tomorrow, I’ll know if it was fear or a bad meal.”
I looked again at the sun, whose yellow hue was slowly turning a reddish orange. “I want to get it all over with as quickly as possible and return to Ledlinghe.” Back to the everyday life that I must give up for this battle.
“How many Norþmenn do you think we’ll have to fight?”
“The scouts mentioned several hundred ships. Not all were warships, but there must be thousands of warriors.” I shuddered at the thought of facing such a vast army of axe-wielding enemies.
“Then let’s hope they don’t bother with us but go for the warriors of the eorles.”
The warriors of the eorles. His huscarles. And my father. I took a deep breath. The huscarles were highly skilled and had the best armour and weapons a blacksmith could make. If it hadn’t been for Stígandr’s uncle, my father would be one of them now.