After a short ride, we arrived in Cattune and rode to the manor. There, we were told that the herb woman actually lived in Wilburgfos, a small village within the manor and soke of Cattune, about half an hour to the southeast. In order to spare my father a further journey, I asked if there was someone here who could help him.
The seneschal sighed. “Your father has more than a few scratches from the battle, my boy.” He pointed to the bloody stump on my father’s arm. “We could treat something like that here, but it would be doomed from the start. If you want to save your father, you must ride on to Wilburgfos. If anyone can save him, it is Hild the healer at Kjetil’s manor house. Hurry! It is already getting dark.”
So we continued on our way as the sun slowly disappeared on the horizon. Shortly before nightfall, we reached Wilburgfos. It was indeed a small place, and we quickly found the manor house. As we rode into the yard in front of the great hall, a man about twice my age came towards us.
“Wel gesund, hlaford min,” I said, bringing my horse to a stop. “We are looking for Hild the herb woman.”
“At such a late hour?” The man raised his torch and gave me and my father a curious look. “What happened? Have you been set upon?”
“No. We come straight from the battlefield at Stanfordbrycge, where King Harold defeated the Norse army. My father needs help urgently.”
The man was talking to one of the youths who had run after him and sent him back to the great hall. Then he beckoned to us. “Take him to Hild’s herb hut, just over there. He must be treated as soon as possible, otherwise it will be too late.”
Too late. Like a lightning bolt, it struck me that my father might already be dead. But now was not the time to check his heartbeat and breathing. The sooner the healer looked at him and treated him, the better for him. And for me.
Ulfgar had jumped off his horse and gently pulled my father from the horse’s back, while the other man reached for his legs to catch them before they slipped off.
A small group of people approached, led by the youth who had been sent into the great hall and a small, delicate woman who advanced with quick steps. After taking one look at my father, she waved the man and Ulfgar to her hut. “Carry him in there! Hurry up! I must look at him in the light. When did this happen?” She looked questioningly at Ulfgar as she walked beside him.
I suddenly realised that I was still sitting in the saddle, as if spellbound, instead of following my father into the hut. “About two hours,” I shouted, jumping off and hurrying after them. “It was still light when we set out. A Norþmann cut off his hand with an axe. Are you Hild the healer?”
“That’s me.” She cleared a makeshift bed, on which Ulfgar and the other man laid my father after they had painstakingly removed his chainmail. Then she lit oil lamps and placed them near the bed.
The walls of the hut were full of wooden boards on which were lined up little jars, pots and all sorts of vessels containing powders, tinctures, leaves and other remedies I had never seen before. Bunches of herbs were tied on strings, hanging from the ceiling and giving off a strange mixture of smells: sweet, acrid, warming, mellow, bitter. There were rolls of linen, several knives and sickles, spoons of various sizes, smaller and larger pots and other utensils that a healer might need to do her work.
“He is weak, but he is still alive.” Hild moved a stool next to the bed and began to examine my father’s left arm. “Who tied off the arm?” she asked as she continued to look at the wound.
“Me,” said Ulfgar.
“You did well.” Hild looked at him and smiled mischievously. “Are you a physician?”
Ulfgar’s chest swelled with pride. “No, but I once saw one treat a wound like that.”
“You are a keen observer, hlaford min.” She was still smiling, and Ulfgar lowered his gaze as if afraid to look at her any longer. I had heard of people saying that herb women were witches and that they could curse a man just by looking at him.
The man who had greeted us on our arrival reappeared in the hut, accompanied by a man with a large moustache and a young woman.
“Thank you, Cenhelm,” the moustached man said in a low voice. “You can go to sleep now. I’ll take care of the rest.” He came closer and regarded my father, Ulfgar and me. “I regret that such a sad cause should bring you to my manor house. My servant, Cenhelm, told me that you rode here from Stanfordbrycge.”
“That’s right,” I replied. “First, we went to Cattune, but there we were told that your healer was the only one who could save my father.”
The man hummed in agreement. “Hild is indeed a very good healer. But tell me, your father fought in King Harold’s army?”
I nodded. “He is a ðegn of Eorl Morkere, one of the best.” Who is dying right now.
The man stroked his moustache as he regarded me and Ulfgar from head to toe. “A ðegn and his sons, huh? I don’t often get such noble visitors here in Wilburgfos.”
“I’m just a friend,” Ulfgar said, then pointed at me. “This is Oswulf, son of Ðegn Osfrið. My name is Ulfgar, son of Godric the smith.”
The man uttered a brief laugh. “Forgive me! I was so excited about having guests at such a time of night that I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Kjetil.”
A Norþmann. The thought curdled my blood, only to make me wonder about myself. What had happened to the peaceful life together of Englishmen and Norþmenn? Until a few weeks ago, hadn’t we shared fields and woods with our neighbours without mistrusting each other? Had we not supported and helped each other in times of need? Had those two battles not only destroyed lives, but also all that trust, that closeness? Perhaps we should not have visited Wilburgfos. Who could say which side this man was on?
“This is my wife, Edeva,” the man continued, pointing to the woman at his side.
He is married to an Englishwoman. Maybe there is hope for us after all.
Edeva chastely cast down her eyes and bowed slightly. Even in the dim and flickering light in the hut, her skin shimmered silvery white like the light of the moon on a clear night. What a fine sight she must be in the daylight!
“Like Hild, she is an experienced healer and will assist her. Your father is in good hands. They will do everything to save him.” Kjetil waved us towards the door. “Come, let the women do their work. They will let us know if there is any change in your father’s condition. Until then, you can strengthen yourselves in the great hall. You must be hungry and thirsty after such a battle, although…” he glanced at me, “you look pretty young to be fighting in the king’s army.”
Outside, a lean man with a black robe and a dangling cross, accompanied by a boy with a bell and a lantern, hurried after a youth about my age.
“Ah, Father Leofric! Sorry for troubling you so late at night, but it is urgent.”
“I am sure you will have a good reason for driving me all the way to you at this hour.” Leofric stopped, panting, and jerked his Bible and robe into place.
“We have a seriously injured man in the hut there who may not live much longer. Hild and Edeva are with him right now to see if they can save him with what they know.”
At the mention of the names, the priest winced and drew in air through his nose indignantly.
“It will be in the Church’s best interests if he survives,” Kjetil continued with a gleeful glint in his eye that could be seen, even in the moonlight. “He is a noble warrior of the English king. If the Lord holds his protecting hand over the wounded man at this moment, King Harold will certainly reward His earthly servants and their places of worship.”
A smile twitched across Leofric’s face, but he seemed anxious not to let his joy at Kjetil’s words show. “I will do everything in my power to ask the Lord’s blessing for your guest.”
“I appreciate that, Father. I will have a little compensation for your trouble served up in the great hall.”
The priest’s face lit up before his smile disappeared when he saw me staring at him. “May God repay you, my son.” With a subservient nod of his head, he made his way to the hut where my father lay.
“What an uncouth man,” I muttered to Ulfgar as we continued on our way.
“For a man of God, he does not seem averse to earthly pleasures.” Ulfgar looked around once more.
“Father Leofric is not a bad man,” Kjetil said, “even if his flesh is sometimes weak. If you know this weakness, however, it is easy to… let’s say… lead him.”
We accompanied Kjetil into the great hall where a servant laid linen sheets and fresh clothes next to two buckets filled with warm water. She watched with wide eyes as we took off our dirty clothes, which she took from us with a smile.
After we had washed and put on clean clothes, we settled down with Kjetil at one of the long tables. A servant brought us food and a large cup of ale, which we greedily downed. While we ate, we had to tell Kjetil all about the battle and the victory.
Finally, he leaned back and interlaced his fingers. “You are young and strong; I could do with your help. I assume you will stay here until your father is well enough to make the journey home.”
“You have great faith in your healer’s abilities, Kjetil,” I said. “I pray to God that you are right.”
“Every person has something they are good at. With Hild and Edeva, it is the ability to heal people with their knowledge of herbs. What are you good at?”
Ulfgar and I looked at each other in surprise.
“Well,” Ulfgar began hesitantly, “we are both familiar with working at a manor and will repay your hospitality by working for you.”
Kjetil propped up his head on one hand and looked at my friend. “Hm. I don’t think this is what you excel at, but so be it. For now, we will see what chores you can help with. I am sure we will soon find out what you are really good at and where you could be of more use to me.” He stood up. “You should go to sleep now. You have had a hard and long day. A little rest will do you good.”
“But my father? I have to go to him.”
I rose and started to make for the door, yet Kjetil gently but firmly held me back. “For the moment, there is nothing else you can do for your father but pray, Oswulf. Believe me, Hild and Edeva know what they are doing and will do everything in their power to make sure you see your father alive tomorrow.”
I looked to Ulfgar for help, but he sighed, “He is right. In your current state, you would be of no help to your father. But if he survives, he will be all the more grateful to see you alive and well.”
“Come,” Kjetil said and pointed to a corner in the great hall where Cenhelm had also made himself comfortable and was sleeping peacefully. “Lie down here and sleep. Tomorrow, I will show you around the manor, and we will see how your father is doing. Good night.”
* * *
The thoughts of what had happened kept turning in my head. Images of the battles woke me from my sleep again and again. Even in the stillness of the night, the noise of screams, the dull thud of weapons on wooden shields and the clang of metal on metal rang in my ears. Only yesterday, we faced the Norþmenn as foes, now we were lying in one of their manor houses, trying to save my father’s life. Perhaps he had died in the meantime, while I lay here, comfortable and rested. I must send a messenger to Ledlinghe in the morning. They won’t even know what has happened since we left the village. Perhaps none of the men we accompanied have survived the two battles. And Father might be losing his battle, too.
I looked around in the dark. A faint hint of light fell through the small openings under the roof, enough for me to find my way to the door. Ulfgar was sleeping peacefully amidst the odd rhythmic snoring from elsewhere. I left the great hall and stepped outside. The night air was cool, but not yet frosty. The thin crescent of the moon bathed the yard in a dim light as I made my way to the herb hut. I absolutely had to see my father. To my surprise, something flickered in the window. Had someone left a light on? Was that the lantern that would tell me when my father had left this world? Or was there someone else with him? I knocked softly on the door and listened.
“Who is it?” asked a muffled female voice.
“Oswulf,” I answered without further explanation. At that moment, it did not even occur to me that whoever was sitting in there might not know my name or who I was.
“Enter, Oswulf,” said the voice.
I opened the door and peeked into the room. On the stool next to the makeshift bed sat Edeva, Kjetil’s wife, sewing in the glow of the light. I glanced cautiously at my father.
“Come in and close the door.”
I did as I was told and slowly walked towards the bed. My father lay there, motionless, peaceful, without making a sound. Was he still alive or was Edeva already holding the wake? Which I, as his son, was supposed to be holding. “Is he…?”
“He is still alive, but he is very weak.” Edeva smiled wearily.
I had no idea what time it was and how long she had been sitting here, but surely, she had already spent several hours looking after my father. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Mm-hm.” I wiped my upper lip.
“He lost a lot of blood, even though your friend tried to at least stem the bleeding. I washed out and cleaned the wound. Hild has swathed it with herbs to prevent it from rotting and to speed up the healing.”
“Why are you still here?”
“I keep changing the cloth strips. As soon as they are soaked with pus and blood, I boil more herbs and wrap them around the wound.”
“I owe you for what you have done, Lady Edeva.”
“God has given me the gift of healing, so it would be a sin not to use it to help the sick and wounded. My husband gives me all the freedom I need to do this. He is a good man.”
“He is indeed.”
We were silent for a while until Lady Edeva rose and examined my father’s arm. She looked at me with her fair eyes and smiled. “You should go back to sleep. Surely, you are exhausted from the fighting.”
I fiddled with my tunic, looked from Edeva to my father and back again. “Yes, I suppose I should. Do you need anything else?”
“No, thank you. I have everything I need here.”
I didn’t know where to put my hands and finally stroked my tunic helplessly. “Very well, I will go then. Good night, Lady Edeva.”
“Good night, Oswulf.”
* * *
In the morning, Kjetil showed us around the manor and the village. Wilburgfos was larger than Ledlinghe, with a handful of fields enclosed by woods. To the west of the manor, the Fors Bekkr meandered into the village, a small river that offered not only fresh fish but also a means for a mill to grind crops into flour.
Back at the manor house, Cenhelm and a messenger from the king were already waiting for us.
“King Harold has made the Norþmenn swear that they will never again enter our land to wage war on us,” the messenger said proudly.
“Good tidings forsooth,” Kjetil said. “Give the man a drink, Cenhelm. I’ll be with you in a moment. As for you two, I have thought of something for you to do. If you fought in King Harold’s army, you must know a lot about weapons, right?”
Ulfgar swung a strand of hair out of his face. “We wield them at least as well as we clean them, don’t we, Oswulf?”
“As a ðegn, my father always made sure that his battle wear was clean and ready to use at all times,” I said, not without pride. “I know how to get old, rusty chain mail shiny and supple again and how to quickly make even the dullest weapon as sharp as a shearing knife.”
Kjetil rubbed his beardless chin. “That could be useful. King Harold may have banished the Norþmenn from our land forever, but our coasts will continue to attract the greed of others.”
I snorted. “Who knows if these Niþingas from the north will keep their word?”
“Even Norþmenn have a sense of honour, Oswulf, when it comes to keeping their word, though not all of them. Do you think that I belong to the latter?”
“I meant the Vikings who invade our coasts.” I made a sweeping gesture towards wherever I thought those were. “You’re not a Viking. You live here and have your manor house here.”
Kjetil folded his arms. “Yes and no. My great-grandfather was, in fact, one of those Vikings who invaded Englaland, but he settled here with his family. I have a Norse name, but deep down I feel like an Englishman, just like you, even though our ancestors come from different countries.”
Just like Stígandr. Maybe I was wrong to suspect him. Surely, it just so happened that he appeared on the far side of the battlefield. “Do you know that the king has gathered the fyrd in the south because he fears that the French might attack any time?” I asked, trying to steer our thoughts in a different direction.
“The fyrd was disbanded a long time ago,” Kjetil replied. “The men have been away from their homes for months and need to help with the harvest.”
“That means the king’s entire host of warriors is currently here in Norþhymbre.”
“That’s what it looks like, yes.”
“Do you think the French will attack?”
“There’s no doubt about that. That is why it will be good if you and your friend take care of the weapons and armour of all men who are able to fight. I think we must be prepared. Cenhelm will get you everything you need.”
Edeva crossed our path and nodded in a silent greeting when she saw us.
“How is my father?”
“His condition is very serious. He absolutely needs rest.”
“Can I see him?”
Edeva tilted her head as if she had to refuse a child a favour. “Don’t worry, Oswulf. I will let you know as soon as anything changes – for better or worse.” She turned hastily away and continued towards the herb hut.
“Come on, Oswulf!” I felt Ulfgar’s warm paw on my shoulder. “Let’s do some work. Standing around does no one any good, least of all you. Come on, it’ll take your mind off things.”
We carried rags, oil, wax, a bucket of ash and a bucket of sand to the yard in front of the great hall and got the pieces we were to clean that day. The sun was shining. It was warm, but rubbing down the rusted and dirty parts would not bring sweat to our foreheads. Since we had fought at Stanfordbrycge, autumn was bringing along shorter and cooler days.
I was wiping around on a sword while my thoughts wandered off to Kjetil and the herb women. Could we really trust them? “My father’s condition hasn’t changed,” I murmured, scrubbing the individual grooves in the sword’s hilt with the rag.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” asked Ulfgar. “At least he’s still alive.”
“Unlike the Norþmann who attacked him and who has hopefully been slowly eaten by the crows. Would that he had not died from a single thrust of my spear! He should have endured the same torment as my father.”
“He’s dead, Oswulf,” Ulfgar said. “What more do you want? It wouldn’t make your father any more alive.”
“The Norþmann made my father, a strong and brave ðegn, weak as a newborn child – anything could kill him in this state. And we are in the manor house of a Norþmann.”
Ulfgar looked at me and shook his head. “They say war changes people, and when I see what two battles have done to you, I believe it. Where has your sudden distrust of the Norþmenn come from? What have the people who have lived in this land for centuries done to you? Those who attacked us came from far away.”
“But how do we know what Hild and Edeva are doing with my father? Everything is a big secret and—”
“Oswulf! Come to your senses! I know your father is badly injured, and what we saw on the battlefield was terrible. But I was there too, and I don’t hate every Norþmann I meet because of it. Especially not those with whom we have always lived in peace. As for the herb women, they have powers and knowledge that we don’t understand. Kjetil has confidence in their skills, and we have also been assured in Cattune and Stanfordbrycge that only Hild can save him.”
“Maybe, but I still wonder if we shouldn’t have gone to Eoforwic and taken him to a physician. After all, he is still alive, and by today, we would have reached the town long ago.”
“How do you know if he would have survived the longer ride? There’s no use in worrying about it now. We are here, and no matter who takes care of your father, it is in the hands of the Lord whether he remains in this world or goes to the next.”
I sighed and turned the sword in the light of the sun to look for more dirty spots and damage. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone approaching.
“You’re the two who arrived at the manor last night, huh?”
“They’ve heard about us before we even meet them!” Ulfgar said with awe.
I looked at the youth standing there. It was the one who had gone to fetch Kjetil and the rest from the great hall.
“Fought in the king’s army, didn’t you?” The boy moved his arms about restlessly. “I want to fight for King Harold later, too.” His eyes glowed with excitement.
After a sideways glance at Ulfgar, I looked up at the youth. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen winters. And I’m pretty good with a sword.” He lunged to the side, bent one arm upwards and stretched the other arm straight out. With shouts to match his movements, he leapt forward a few times, swiftly slashing and thrusting.
Ulfgar burst into laughter. I shook my head and continued to polish the sword in my hands.
“What are you laughing at?” the boy grunted.
“We could have done with someone like you,” Ulfgar said.
“Really?”
“Yes. Then the Norþmenn at Fuleforde and Stanfordbrycge would have died laughing.”
The youth came up to us. “Oh, think this is funny, eh? If it’s so funny, the way I fight, then let’s fight. C’mon, I’ll fight one of you, and then we’ll see who dies laughing. Git hildlatan!”
His bragging was annoying me. Who did he think he was?
“Get us two thick sticks!” said Ulfgar. “Or twigs, if sticks are too heavy for you.”
The youth sneered. “Ha! Sticks? Only children fight with ’em.” He pointed to the weapons in front of us. “There’s enough swords there. Why don’t we use those?”
“Because you can’t handle them,” I snapped at him.
The boy stood wide-legged in front of me. “Think you’re better than me ’cause you’re the son of a ðegn, eh? If you can fight so well, then fight, you coward. Or don’t you dare? You’re so scared you’ll wet your breeches, aren’t you?”
I slowly looked up at him. “You’re waving your arm in the air like you’re chopping old vegetables with a dull kitchen knife.”
The youth flared his nostrils in anger.
Ulfgar took the next helmet. “You’re messing with the wrong man, my boy.”
“We’ll see about that.” The would-be fighter grabbed one of the swords and took a few steps backwards. “Go on, grab a sword!”
I looked at Ulfgar, who shrugged his shoulders. “You don’t want to look like a coward, Oswulf, do you?”
“You’re wasting your time, boy. And most of all, you’re wasting mine.”
The youth shifted his weight onto one leg and put his free hand on his hip. “I see. Fighting with a peasant boy is not good enough for the noble lord.” He raised the sword and pointed the tip towards me. “But I ain’t just any peasant boy. I am Cenric, son of Cenhelm, and as of yet, I’ve not lost a single fight ever.”
“A man of many honours, forsooth,” Ulfgar murmured.
The tip of the sword was now almost touching my chest. I took a deep breath without looking up. What was this stripling thinking? “Take that sword away!”
“You afraid I’ll thrust it into your cowardly belly?”
Cenric had not quite finished when I leaned back, threaded his sword with the one I was holding and knocked it out of his hand. I jumped to my feet, grabbed the second sword and held both sword tips to Cenric’s throat. “Not really. What about you?”
With bared teeth and widened eyes, Cenric stared at the two swords and made no sound.
“I warned you,” Ulfgar said with a sigh as he laid a spear to the side.
I threw the sword Cenric had chosen back onto the heap of weapons and sat down. After another wipe with a dry cloth, I put the sword I held to the side and picked up the next one.
Cenric cleared his throat and took a small step backwards, just in case. “You’re pretty fast.” When neither of us answered, he started kicking from one leg to the other. His hands swung back and forth, his fingers intertwined and unknotted again.
I looked at him grimly. “Why are you still standing there? Don’t you have anything to do?”
“Who did you learn that from? Your father?”
“What, that I won’t be accused of being a coward?”
“Nay, the thing with the sword. How did you do that?”
“I use a sword like a weapon, not like a kitchen knife.”
“Can you teach me?”
“Me?”
“Aye. Why not?”
“The stripling fights miserably, but he’s a lot better at thinking, Oswulf.” Ulfgar nudged me. “The French could soon appear on our shores. We will need every man who can handle more than a pitchfork.”
I should teach someone how to fight with a sword? “How am I meant to do this, Ulfgar? I fight without thinking about my movements beforehand.”
“Then I’ll attack you, and Cenric can watch what you do to fight me off. And then he does the same with me, and you watch us and tell him what he’s doing wrong.”
“Who has taught you so far?” I asked Cenric.
He looked around questioningly. “Who?”
“Well, you, the young men here in Wilburgfos. There must be someone to teach you how to wield a sword.”
Cenric hunched his shoulders. “Nay, not really. Father showed us a bit what to do with a spear, an axe and a sword. But most of the folk in Wilburgfos are peasants. Their sons have to help in the fields. They’ve no time to learn how to fight.”
“Think about it, Oswulf. It would help take your mind off worrying about your father. Kjetil will be grateful for someone who knows how to wield a weapon as well as you do. No lord will refuse to have skilled warriors defending his manor.”
I stared at Ulfgar as if he were out of his mind. At sixteen winters, I should turn village youths into swordsmen? The thought was mad. On the other hand, spending more time fighting instead of cleaning weapons or handing them to other warriors in battle seemed tempting. Back home, practising with my father was part of the daily life of a ðegn’s son – why should it be different elsewhere? Above all, if I want to become a huscarl, I must not neglect daily practice, no matter where I am. I’m sure I could work my way into the army of Eorl Morkere and even King Harold if I pass on my knowledge here and bring on skilled warriors. Won’t they tell others what an outstanding fighter I am and that I am worthy of becoming a huscarl? It would bring me one step closer to my goal, should my father… I gritted my teeth.
“Well?” asked Cenric.
Ulfgar leaned towards me. “What do you think, Oswulf?”
I looked up. “I don’t want to decide right away. I will think it over. God willing, I can speak to my father soon. Then I will ask him for advice.”
* * *
The days passed, and apart from the fact that King Harold had moved his warriors to Eoforwic after the battle at Stanfordbrycge to celebrate the victory, we had no further tidings about what the king was up to next or whether the French had landed in the south. I was also still unsure how my father was doing. Both Hild and Edeva failed to answer my questions in a way that put my mind to rest. He was still weak and shaken by fever, so they told me, but he was a tough fellow who clung to life with all his remaining strength, perhaps, because he was desperate to see his son once more. Whether that would bring him back to life or rather be the last thing he would do before he died of his injury was in God’s hands.
On the first Sunday after the feast of Saint Michael, I sat with Ulfgar and the other people from the manor in the great hall to have the first meal of the day. “We’re stuck here like a careless animal that has fallen into a deep well,” I said, poking vigorously with my spoon at the greyish-brown barley mash we were fed as usual in the morning. “Does anyone amongst the king’s warriors even know we’re here? That we have not returned to Eoforwic with all the other survivors?”
“Hardly,” Ulfgar replied. “They may have found that your father is missing in Eorl Morkere’s army, but they will assume he was killed on the battlefield. Whether they searched for him among the fallen I doubt. There were just too many of them.”
“So no one will let us know when the king’s army moves on, but shouldn’t we be there? Maybe Kjetil is deliberately keeping word from us.”
“Why should he do that? He has kindly taken us in and offered us shelter and food. He even has two healers who are both looking after your father.”
“Yes, but perhaps the herb women are delaying my father’s healing on purpose so that we don’t leave the manor.”
“You’re not yet a huscarl that the king could not do without, my dear Oswulf. You are one of several youths who pull the wounded from battle and provide them with drink and weapons.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange that I’m not allowed to see my father at all?”
“I don’t think he’ll be happy to have guests in the state he’s in yet – if he is able to notice them at all.” Ulfgar shoved another spoonful of mash into his mouth.
“We’ve been here almost a week now, but I have not seen my father since we arrived. Every time I have gone to the herb hut and asked to be let in, I have been denied entry for some reason. I am being kept away from my own father.”
“Your father is badly injured and needs rest. I’m sure it’s for his own good.”
“How can you tell? We don’t even know these people.”
Ulfgar scraped his bowl noisily with his spoon. “That’s true. But do you think everyone would have recommended the herb woman to us if she was no good?”
“Maybe they just wanted to get rid of us in Cattune. After all, it was already late in the day when we arrived there. We may have told them about the seriously injured man just so we could sneak into their manor and then rob or kill them at night.”
Ulfgar paused. “You should learn to play the harp. Then you could recite your gleoman’s stories with music.”
“Doesn’t anything seem strange to you here?” I held my spoon over the bowl and watched closely as the barley slurry trickled off my spoon in a crumb-filled stream, swirling into the liquid in the bowl. It was strange, wasn’t it, that we had been put to work, as if we had come here for this, while my father was locked away in a hut stacked with herbs. What was going on in there? What were those healers doing with my father?
“The only thing that seems strange to me at the moment is you.” Ulfgar licked the spoon with relish.
“Think about it, Ulfgar, two youths arrive at your manor in the dark, claiming to bring a seriously injured man.”
“You must be joking. A chopped-off hand is pretty hard to fake.”
“Listen to me first! So, these two young men arrive and one of them says that his father is injured. How would the men at the manor know that it’s really the father and not some injured person that the two had picked up on the battlefield or wherever? And then the youths say they want to see Hild the healer, who happens to live at this manor.”
“She doesn’t happen to live here. We asked for her, and anyone we asked specifically sent us to Wilburgfos.”
“Yes, but the people here are unaware of that. Now, all of a sudden, the injured man disappears and no one is allowed to see him except this herb woman and the woman married to the hlaford, who, to make matters worse, is a Norþmann.”
Ulfgar put the spoon in his bowl and, with his moustache smeared with barley mash, looked at me for a long time. “We had already been told in Stanfordbrycge that there was a herb woman named Hild nearby who can heal the sick. That’s why we’re here. I can also understand that she wants peace and quiet while she treats your father. You don’t like people pacing around you or snooping behind you all the time when you’re working either. And lastly, it is not the fault of the people in Stanfordbrycge, Cattune or Kjetil himself that Kjetil’s forefathers were Vikings.”
I looked around then leaned towards Ulfgar. “I don’t trust these two healers. This Edeva is friendly, but there is something lordly about her friendliness. When she tells you to come in, what she really means is, go away and leave me alone!”
Ulfgar laughed out loud. “Oh, Oswulf, the barley mash doesn’t agree with you, does it?”
“Why do they keep everything they do in that herb hut so secret?” I sucked in the air through my nose and looked at Ulfgar stiffly. “You know what they say about women who are skilled in the art of healing?”
Ulfgar grinned. “That their barley mash is spicier than other women’s because they know their herbs?”
“Ulfgar! My father’s life is at stake here. Maybe Hild and Edeva are not just herb women. They might also be skilled in the evil arts and doing all sorts of hellish things to my helpless father.” The last words came out in a whisper as the thought choked me. I swallowed hard and looked at Ulfgar urgently. “The Norþmenn are probably behind all of this,” I croaked. “And they also came up with the ruse with Cenric so they can use my fighting skills for their own purposes. I wouldn’t be surprised if Stígandr also showed up soon.”
Ulfgar wiped the barley crumbs from his beard and regarded me rather worriedly. “I’m beginning to think that maybe you should be treated, not your father. Or that you’ve been smelling the herb vials too much.” He pushed his bowl away and rose.
“Where are you going?”
“Well, to the herb hut, of course.”
“But no one is allowed in there.”
Ulfgar ran his hand through his tousled wildcat mane. “Have faith in Ulfgar, your friend and helper.”
I puffed out my cheeks and blew air through my lips. “You’ll never make it into the hut! They didn’t even let me, his own son, see him.”
Ulfgar put his paw on my shoulder. “You really need to calm down. Now, come with me and learn from the master!”
I laughed. “Learn from the master! As if! But I’m not going to miss seeing how they show you the door. Just you wait! They’ll chase you away just like they did with me.”
“Ungeleafful.” Ulfgar waved aside my words and headed for the door.
I followed him shaking my head. What made him think that Hild and Edeva would let him, of all people, into the hut? Why should they? And if they actually did, how would they justify it to me? As the son of the injured man, didn’t I have much more of a right to see my father? At least, I might have the opportunity to take a look at him, should Ulfgar really succeed in gaining access to the herb hut. Perhaps I could accompany him in that case. Of course, it would hurt my honour that I myself hadn’t been able to get to my father, but if I could finally see him, thanks to Ulfgar, I would be able to get over it. If only he was well and the suspicions that had been swirling around in my head and weighing me down for days turned out to be untrue. I wouldn’t even be able to be angry with my friend if he did get me into the hut, though he would probably tease me even weeks later about how he had persuaded Hild and Edeva, while I had miserably failed to do so several times. Fortunately, I had more luck with weapons than women.
Ulfgar stalked up to the herb hut and peered through the small window. Then he winked at me and knocked on the door.
“Who is it?”
“I bring a sick man for you.”
I looked around and whispered, “What sick man?”
“Forgive me, Oswulf!” Ulfgar stamped on my foot with such force that I cried out as if an ox had kicked me. “It’s for a good cause.”
The door opened, and Hild stuck her head out. “What happened?” she asked when she saw me moaning and hopping on one leg.
Ulfgar gently put his arm under my armpits to support me and smiled sweetly at me. “Something heavy fell on his foot. He can barely walk.” He pointed into the hut. “I know you’re busy, but could you perhaps…”
“Certainly, bring him in.” Hild opened the door and stepped aside.
“We owe you a lot for your kindness, Hild.” Ulfgar pulled me past her with a broad grin. I would have liked to strangle him at that moment, but the fact that I would finally see my father washed away my anger.
“Sit down here,” Hild said, pulling up a stool for me. “I’m going to have a look at your foot.”
While she opened my shoe and undid the cloth strip on my leg, I peered over to the bed. My father was lying on his back. His face was red and sweaty despite the coolness of the room. Nevertheless, he had a peaceful expression on his face. Almost like that of a dead man whose soul had just flown to its maker.
Hild was running her hand over my foot. How could I ever have hoped that a woman as delicate and weak as Hild could save a man like my father? His wound required the skilled knowledge of a physician, not a woman dabbling in the art of healing by occasionally attending to scratches and bruises. Those disappeared after a few days even without secret herbal potions and spells. How could I have been so stupid! Why did I listen to one man’s rede at Stanfordbrycge and not ride to Eoforwic instead? I buried my face in my hands. How am I going to explain this to Mother?
“Does that hurt?” Hild gently turned my foot.
Yes, it does. I wiped my face with my hands. “No. There’s nothing wrong with my foot.”
Hild rose and tossed her long hair over her shoulder. “Nothing is broken, but your foot will continue to swell and go blue. I’ll put some arnica on it.”
I waved it off and grabbed the cloth strip to put it back on. “Thank you, don’t bother. We’ve already wasted enough time here. We should go.”
“Would you want to see your father before you leave?”
“What for?” I scowled, rolling a length of cloth around my lower leg. “I will take him home as soon as possible. Did you at least call the priest in time, or did my father die without the last sacraments?”
Hild strode over to my father. “He is weak and feverish, but we were able to pour some soup into him.”
The roll of cloth fell out of my hand. “Are you saying…” I stood up and walked cautiously towards the bed, “my father is alive?”
“Many would have died of less, but your father is a tough man. He holds onto his life.”
He is holding on. He is still alive. Ðe ic herige, Drihten ælmihtne, forðam þu bist swiðe rummod and swiðe mildheort! “Can… can I talk to him?”
Hild made a head movement towards my father. “Talk to him! Hearing his son’s voice will hopefully give him the strength he needs to get through the fever.”
My lips were as dry as a harvested wheat field on a hot summer’s day. Talk to him? What should I say? I wiped my mouth and chin.
Ulfgar gave me a push. “Go on, Oswulf! You can’t stand that long with your sore foot.”
I drummed my fingers on my lips as if to tap out the words. Say something… I bent down carefully, almost fearfully, to my father’s ear. Maybe then the words would fall out, stuck somewhere in my throat. “Father?” I breathed. “It’s me, Oswulf, your son. I don’t know if you can hear me. You must get well, do you hear? Mother is waiting for us in Ledlinghe. King Harold is giving a great feast at Eoforwic. We have yet to drink to our victory over the Norþmenn. We must go to Eoforwic. You do want to make merry, don’t you?”
As I spoke, my gaze had wandered along my father’s body. He was covered with two thick, coarse blankets of dark wool, under which a light linen cloth with sweat stains peeked out. Under his red head and the strands of grey hair was a horn-coloured cloth on which had formed a damp circle, like a halo around the back of his head. Thick layers of cloth protruded from the slit left sleeve of his tunic, covering the place where, not a fortnight ago, there had been a healthy, strong hand, the one that had so faithfully carried Father’s shield and protected him in all the battles. But perhaps there was no reason to be sad. After all, my father was still alive. Had not the god Tyr also lost a hand, bitten off by the monstrous wolf Fenrir? Even with one hand, Tyr was still the great Germanic god of war, no less revered after this misfortune than before.
My father’s lips opened ever so slightly. They trembled as if he wanted to say something. No sound came out, but my father seemed to be forming a word.
I tilted my head forward in confusion. Nothing. I couldn’t hear anything at all, but I could feel my father’s breath escaping his mouth and tickling my ear. Smiling weakly, I straightened up again. “He… he wanted to say something. I felt his breath. He heard me. He’s alive. He’s alive, and he heard me!”
I jumped towards Hild and flung my arms around her. “You’ve saved him. You—” Hastily, I let go and averted my gaze, ashamed of letting myself get carried away. “Forgive me! I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just…”
Hild smiled at me kindly, like a mother whose child is happy about a beautiful apple she had saved especially for him. “That’s all right. But now, I must ask you to leave. Your father needs all the rest he can get.”
“Sure, sure.” I grabbed the cloth and my shoe and hopped through the door that Ulfgar was holding open.
“Are you sure your foot is all right?” asked Hild as we walked into the yard.
Ulfgar raised his hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he watches where he puts it.”
I looked back at Hild once more. “I am deeply grateful for what you’re doing for my father, Hild.”
“I am happy to help if it is in my power. Now, go and pray that your father will survive the fever.”
She closed the door and left us standing in the yard.
“You can put your clothes back on now.” Ulfgar pointed at my bare foot and the cloth strip I was still holding.
I growled. “If you hadn’t stood on my foot like an ox, I wouldn’t have had to take them off.” I slumped on the floor and began to wrap the strip around my lower leg.
Ulfgar raised his hands. “Have you seen your father or not?”
“Yes, but did you real—”
“There you go! The end justifies the means. You may now thank me.”
“All right. You win.”
“Is that all? I would have expected a little more.”
I rolled my eyes and sighed. “Ulfgar is the very best. Is that enough?”
Ulfgar stroked his short beard thoughtfully. “That didn’t really sound like it came from the heart.”
I put on my shoe, lifted myself off the ground and shook the sand off. “Let’s say I owe you one, all right?”
Ulfgar made a face as if he was considering my offer carefully. Then he slapped me on the shoulder. “All right, my friend. And should you need my help again…”
“Then I will first put my feet somewhere safe.”
Both of us laughed. How long had it been since we had done that? What would I ever do without you, Ulfgar?
* * *
It was a grey morning when the tidings from the south reached us.
Only a few days ago, I had started to gather together all the youths and young men who could hold a sword in the yard to see what their fighting skills were like. Many a time it hurt my eyes to watch them almost twisting their arms while wielding the weapon. Some appeared only once and did not stay long when they saw that a youth like me wanted to teach them how to use weapons. Most, however, were quite curious and were happy to let me show them more skilful and effective ways to perform certain movements. In fact, ever since our memorable encounter while cleaning weapons, Cenric’s pride had given way to a surprising eagerness to learn. Like a sponge, he absorbed everything I said and showed him. Even Ulfgar was amazed at how much the youth, whom I had recently mocked as a master of kitchen knives, had changed.
The other members of the manor did not mind us and went about their work as usual. Sometimes, Kjetil stood in the yard and watched us silently, but with an appreciative look, as we practised.
The aforesaid day was particularly busy, but we tried as best we could to go through the moves conscientiously. After all, a brief distraction could have terrible consequences in a real fight, as my father had experienced first-hand a few weeks ago. And there would not always be someone else around to step in and kill the opponent in time.
As I took a break from fighting, I noticed two riders in fine clothes appear in the yard. The king’s messengers. I asked Ulfgar to take charge of the fighters and hurried over to the men, who were now joined by Kjetil.
“King Harold is on his way south with his huscarles,” said one of the messengers. “He is calling on all lords to provide men for an army to follow him as soon as possible.”
A cold shiver ran through my gut. I lowered the spear I still carried. “So, the French have landed on our shores.” My heart wished for a denial, but somehow I knew that what we had feared for so long had come to pass. We had driven the Norþmenn out forever, but now their descendants from Normandig were invading Englaland like hungry wolves. This seemed to worry Kjetil as much as it did me. So maybe he was on our side after all, as Ulfgar never tired of pointing out.
“They have, forsooth,” said the second messenger. “Their leader, Willelm of Normandig, landed at the bay of Pevenesel with his fleet the day before the feast of Saint Michael. They have been laying waste all the land along the coast and killing the inhabitants. Instead of riding north to Eoforwic, they are waiting for King Harold and his host of warriors to come down to them.”
“He kills innocent people and destroys the land to lure the king down south? Niþing!”
“He certainly got exactly what he wanted,” Kjetil said.
“King Harold aims to get there by the middle of the month to put an end to the destruction,” said the first messenger. “The French army is said to be about three times the size of what King Harold is left with after the battles at Fuleforde and Stanfordbrycge. That’s why he needs more men.”
“But even his huscarles on their horses will be exhausted by the time they reach the south,” I said. “And the rest of the surviving warriors? They have fought two long battles and will have to march for several days to get there.”
“That may be true, but the king has no choice,” said the second messenger. “He has no army in the south to defend the country against the invaders. All his men are here in the north.”
“That’s true.” Kjetil nodded sadly. “He must not continue to leave the south unprotected but must get there as soon as possible before the French wreak further destruction.”
My heart was burning. What was happening to my home? Torn to pieces like a sheep mauled by a pack of hungry wolves? And the shepherd who was meant to defend it looked like a sick man with old shepherd dogs who could do nothing against the wolves’ ravenous appetites. Perhaps the wolves would finish them off, too. What would happen then? What would become of Englaland, the king, its inhabitants? What about me? I wanted to be a huscarl to the king. The English king. I was trembling.
Kjetil put his hand on my arm. “We shouldn’t worry yet. No one knows what will happen when King Harold and the French face each other. There will be a battle, of that I am sure. But it is in the Lord’s hands who wins it. May He have mercy on us and the destiny of this land.”
I nodded weakly but was not convinced that the battle had not already been decided. If the king was able to delay fighting, they might have a chance to win. Taking on a horde of rested and battle-thirsty Frenchmen with exhausted warriors meant certain defeat.
Kjetil patted me on the back. “Cheer up, young friend. We will prepare as best we can for whatever may come. I watch you regularly during weapons practice. You really seem to know what you’re doing. Who taught you that?”
“My father.”
“He must be a very good teacher. I appreciate having the two of you on my manor. If the English in the king’s army fight anywhere near as well as you do, I see no reason for Englaland to despair.”
I stifled a smile. It felt good to be praised for the work I was doing, especially by someone I suspected of being allied with the Norþmenn. But Kjetil wasn't one of them. I had been wrong about him. He was not a foe, he felt the same as I did, and the Norse and French attacks on this land caused him as much pain as they did me. His name was Norse, but he was an Englishman at heart.
Thoughtfully, I strolled back to where Ulfgar was keeping the youths busy fighting. Others had also told me that they admired not only how I handled weapons, but also my ability to pass on that knowledge. Could it be that my destiny was not to become a huscarl, even though it was my father’s wish? Perhaps, instead, I was born to teach others how to fight so that Englaland would always have strong and skilled warriors to take on any further assaults on their country?
* * *
About four weeks after the battle at Stanfordbrycge, my father had, to my great relief, overcome the worst of what had befallen him after his injury on the battlefield. The cut looked gruesome with its scarred scab, but it was neatly stitched and healing well. My father would no longer be able to hold a shield as usual, so I made him one with a double loop that could be slid over his arm and then pulled tight. That way, he would be able to stand his ground in the thick of battle in spite of his missing left hand. After all, his right hand was intact and just as dangerous as ever. Of course, my father was still very weak after everything he had been through. The bones were shining through his skin, his movements were slow. He needed help to sit up or turn in bed. But he was aware of what was going on around him and regularly took a little soup and a warm herbal drink.
One day, as I was sitting at his bed, helping him spoon up the soup, Kjetil stepped into the room.
“You sent for me,” he said. “I am glad to see you are getting better every day. Now, tell me what I can do for you.”
“I should be the one asking that question, Kjetil,” my father said in a low voice. “You were kind enough to host me, my son and his friend for many weeks without asking anything in return.”
“Well, the two young men have made themselves very useful here. No one beats your son at fighting, and he seems to enjoy showing off his skills and passing them on to others. People have said many good words about him, not just his pupils.”
I grinned. My pupils? Am I a teacher then? At sixteen winters?
“I am glad to hear that. After all, he is to follow in my footsteps one day and become a ðegn, perhaps even a huscarl of the king.” He raised the stump of his arm. “It certainly looks like my days in the king’s army are done.”
Kjetil and I exchanged a look. No one had yet told my father that the French had landed in Englaland and that King Harold was on his way to battle with them. We did not want to put my father’s recovery at risk unnecessarily. When we knew how the battle had ended, it would be early enough to tell him about it.
“Your healer has done wonders to bring me back to earth from the realm of the dead. At least most of me.”
Kjetil cleared his throat. “You’d better not let Father Leofric hear you say that, or the salvation of your soul will cost you dearly.”
“I would like to thank you for your kindness in welcoming us and for what you have done for me, Kjetil. I owe a lot to Hild and to your wife.” He pointed with his right hand to a small, locked chest that stood under a shelf. “Oswulf, will you bring me the chest, please?”
He rummaged under the rolled-up sheet behind him, which served as a pillow and at the same time as a support when he sat, and pulled out a small key, which he held out to me. I sat down on the stool, put the chest on my thighs and unlocked it.
“I would like to give you something as a token of my gratitude,” my father said.
I opened the chest and held it out to him.
He pulled out his scramasax, a short sword with an elaborately crafted hilt and protected by a richly decorated sheath of soft pigskin, and held it out to Kjetil, who spread his hands in amazement to receive the sword. “Take this as thanks for all you and the people of Wilburgfos have done for me and my son.”
Kjetil examined the sword with wide eyes. “I cannot accept that, Osfrið. You should save the scramasax for your son.”
My father shook his head. “I have decided that Oswulf will receive my longsword when I no longer need it. The scramasax, however, is due to you as a reward for your help, for without your healers I would not be alive now.”
Kjetil took the short sword in his left hand and grasped my father’s hand with his right. “I thank you for this precious gift, Osfrið. I will cherish it as befits the scramasax of a ðegn.”
The door flew open and Cenric rushed in. “The king’s dead, and everyone else too.”
We stared at him as if a two-headed calf were standing in front of us.
Kjetil was the first to awake from his stupor. “What are you saying?”
“The French killed King Harold. And all those who fought with him.”
They killed the whole army? All the fighters, the brave huscarles, the ðegnes, all the men who had gone into battle with their lord? Everything was spinning around me. If I hadn’t been sitting on the stool and holding the chest in my hands, I might have staggered like a drunken Viking.
“Who told you that?” Kjetil seemed to be the only one who could think clearly and not be overcome by his dismay and anger.
Cenric wiped the tears from his face, looking like an owl with dark circles around his eyes. “The messenger out there.”
Kjetil glanced at my father and me and raised the short sword. “Looks like we could put this to good use soon. Your son should do the weapons practice more often from now on.” He pulled Cenric along and closed the door. My father and I were left alone with a feeling of great emptiness.
“How could God let this happen?” I asked after a while.
My father slowly propped himself up on his bed. His face was still gaunt from the struggles of the last weeks, but in his eyes burned again the fire that befitted a warrior. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, Oswulf. But it is not for us mere mortals to question His decisions. Perhaps he wants to try us by shaking our world to the ground.”
“An ordeal? But haven’t we just driven the pagan Vikings out for good after so many centuries of plundering and pillaging? How many more trials by ordeal do we have to pass?”
“We have defeated the Norþmenn. We will also defeat their French descendants.” He reached out and stroked my arm. “It will be a hard and long fight, but we won’t give up that easily, will we, Oswulf?”
Time passed and the blood month came. Many animals were slaughtered to make food for the winter. The smell that spread through Wilburgfos in those days reminded me of the sausages and smoked meat hanging everywhere in Ledlinghe and so many other places in Englaland in those days.
We stayed another three days after the slaughtering. Getting to Ledlinghe needed less than half a day’s walk, but only now was my father strong enough to ride back safely.
He did not yet have the strength he used to, being only able to take a few steps on foot if he was given a little support. His movements were still slow, and he would probably never recover his old nimbleness. For another battle, it would not be enough, but for life on the manor? Surely, he would need more help there, too.
How far this would affect my weapons practice and my becoming a huscarl, I could only guess. We would have to see how my father coped with only one hand.
“You’ve served us well here,” Kjetil said, while Cenhelm helped me put my father on the horse with the aid of a small stool. “We’ll miss you.”
With a swing, we pushed my father up so that Ulfgar could get hold of his leg on the other side and pull it towards him. With a groan, my father slid into the saddle and slowly straightened up. A smile crossed his face. Either he was glad to return home and see his wife and children that he’d left behind, or it did him good to finally be back in the saddle after spending the last few weeks mainly lying down.
“Our work is nothing compared to what your wife and Hild have done.” I looked up at my father with satisfaction. “If you are ever in need, we will stand by you.”
Kjetil took the hand I held out to him and put his other hand on top. “Wilburgfos will not forget you, young Oswulf. We would be glad to see you again one day.”
I nodded and then got on the horse behind my father, while Ulfgar mounted his own. Cenhelm handed us the weapons we had rescued from the battlefield at Stanfordbrycge.
“What will happen now?” I asked as I picked up the reins.
Kjetil shrugged his shoulders. “We will have to wait and see. I heard that Eorl Morkere and his brother fled from Eoforwic with their surviving warriors after the battle at Fuleforde. Whether they are back at their manor houses or already in Lunden, no one could tell me.”
“What do they want in Lunden?” my father asked.
“They are part of the witan, who already chose King Harold. It is rumoured that the witan met in Lunden after his death and decided that Eadgar Æðeling should be the next king.”
“The ætheling?” my father asked in surprise. “He does have kings amongst his forefathers, but he is younger than Oswulf. How is he to rule a land over which the French descend like crows over a freshly sown field of grain?”
“It seems that he is supported by four powerful Englishmen who survived the French attack: Eorl Morkere and his brother as well as the Archbishops of Cantwarebyri and Eoforwic.”
My father looked at Kjetil sorrowfully. “We lost many men to the Norþmenn near Eoforwic. The two eorles only just escaped the axes of the Norþmenn. Do you really think they’ll be able to install an immature youth as heir to the throne against the French? Men who do not shy away from killing women and children and destroying everything as they please?” He shook his head. “I fear for Englaland and the difficult times ahead of us.”
Kjetil held out his hand to him. “This country has survived other trials. It was on the brink of death when the Danes invaded many centuries ago and plundered and pillaged everything. But after every defeat, the English have risen again. Let us keep faith in ourselves and stand up to the French!” He grasped my father’s hand. “Farewell, Osfrið. May God protect you and your family.”
* * *
Just as we reached the village in the early afternoon, a large, black, barking beast came running towards us.
“Bargest, old girl! Come to Ulfgar!” Sitting on the horse, my friend spread his arms as if waiting for the dog to throw herself into them. Instead, she bounced round the horses in huge leaps, wagging her tail excitedly.
The smell of smoke filled the air as we passed the first huts. The people of Ledlinghe were filling up their winter stocks with smoked meat, but the only sound was three children running after a flock of chattering geese.
Old Dunstan came towards us with his donkey, loaded with two sacks of grain. “Osfrið?” he asked incredulously, stopping. “You’ve been gone a long time.”
“I’m afraid that was unavoidable, Dunstan,” my father said.
“They say there were terrible battles near Eoforwic.”
My father took a breath and gave me and Ulfgar a sideways glance. “It’s true, Dunstan. Unfortunately, we do not bring good tidings. We did win against the Norþmenn, but while we were fighting at Stanfordbrycge, the French landed in the south. King Harold could not stop them.” He lowered his eyes.
“Will there be a war?”
“It’s already over, Dunstan. The French have defeated us. King Harold is dead and the English army destroyed. If my son had not saved me in my last battle, I too would be dead now.”
Dunstan nodded appreciatively. “Your son is a good boy, Osfrið. You should be proud of him.”
“I am, Dunstan. Very much so.”
The old man pointed ahead. “I must go on to the mill. God bless you.” He clicked his tongue once and trotted off with his donkey.
We slowly approached the blacksmith’s hut, where we left Ulfgar. My gaze wandered over the wooden structure, which was framed by two large apple trees. It looked like we would need the blacksmith’s services very soon.
“Don’t you want to see Godgifu?” my father asked, as Ulfgar allowed Bargest to lick him enthusiastically.
The image of my beloved’s adorable face appeared before me like a vision. How I would have loved to run to her, to take her in my arms after all these weeks and cover her in kisses. Instead, I shook my head. “It’s been almost a month since I sent a message to mother. She should be the first to know that we’ve returned. Ulfgar will tell Godgifu that I am back and will visit her later.”
Ulfgar nodded and went away with Bargest and his horse.
A muffled neighing sounded from the stable next to the smithy. A bleating voice made me sit up and take notice. I steered our horse closer to the stable.
“Where are you going, Oswulf?” my father asked.
“I want to greet an old friend.” I brought the horse to a halt and peeked into the stable where Ulfgar’s father was cutting the hooves of one of the horses. Apparently, it was to be re-shod, because he had all his tools ready, as well as four new horseshoes. Stígandr was leaning against the wall with his legs crossed and his arms folded, watching the blacksmith with drumming fingers. When his horse turned its head towards us and whinnied, Stígandr looked up.
“Eala, Osfrið, hlaford min.” He approached us to a certain distance. “I understand you were badly wounded in battle. They already feared for your life.” He made a large-framed gesture with his hands. “But to my great joy, I see that you are well. No doubt you owe it to the commendable efforts of your son, who never let you out of his sight.”
A few insults came to mind that I wanted to hurl at him, but because I couldn’t decide which would be most appropriate, my father beat me to it by speaking.
“Well, I’m fine again.” He raised the stump of his arm. “But I had to leave part of me on the battlefield. My son saved my life, otherwise, the rest would be lying there now too.”
Stígandr tugged at his chin beard. “Yes, your son is indeed a capable boy. And so eager when it comes to the good of the fatherland. Only, alas, a little hasty with his suspicions.”
“At least I wasn’t sneaking around on the Viking side of the battlefield.”
The blacksmith hammered rhythmically on a red-hot iron, which he turned back and forth on his anvil with a pair of tongs.
“What are you talking about, Oswulf?” My father looked at me over his shoulder.
“Stígandr was also at Stanfordbrycge, Father.”
“Was he?” My father frowned. “How come I didn’t know about it?”
“I decided late that I should come along,” put in Stígandr.
“He was standing off the battlefield on the path the Norþmenn took from Richale. Ulfgar and I beckoned him towards us, but he tried to flee.”
“It is an unfortunate misunderstanding, Osfrið. I wasn’t trying to flee. I just stumbled.”
“Besides, he told me himself that the Norþmenn forced him to spy on us.”
Stígandr placed a hand on his chest. “You threatened me with a sword. What was I supposed to do? I only told you what you wanted to hear.”
“You lie as soon as you open your mouth.”
“Would you have believed me if I had told you something else? If I had told you that I had personally offered King Harold to spy on the Norþmenn for him, would you have believed me? That I was to find out for our king how many Norþmenn had remained in Richale and that they were going to join the warriors already at Stanfordbrycge at some point anyway? That I was to find out when they were leaving to do so? Would you have believed me?”
I kept silent. Stígandr, of all people, as the king’s spy? Had he really been on the side of the English all along? Indeed, he still knew the Norse language well enough to easily mingle with the Norþmenn, but wouldn’t this disguise have been noticed at some point? Or had I actually done him wrong, just as I had initially misjudged Kjetil and the herb women?
There was a hiss as the blacksmith put one of the hot irons on the horse’s hoof.
“What do you have to say to that, Oswulf?” my father asked. His voice sounded calm, but he clearly blamed me for having gone too far and threatened someone unjustly and with a sword. That was not proper for a future huscarl. Nor for the son of a ðegn.
Stígandr smiled and pushed his lower jaw forward so that his teeth showed. This goat smile had once been pitiful, but after the quarrel during our last hunt and since the events at Stanfordbrycge, it was like a slap in the face.
That was the day I began to hate my former friend. I wish I had cut his throat on the battlefield.
But then I wouldn’t have got to my father in time.
I snorted. Was I supposed to be grateful to this liar because I wouldn’t have been able to save my father if it hadn’t been for him?
“Maybe I was wrong,” I murmured.
Stígandr put his head to one side and held his hand behind one ear. “Sorry, but my hearing is not so good. What did you say?”
“I said I might have made a mistake.” I squeezed the words through clenched teeth. Ðu scealt gan libbende on helle.
Stígandr opened his arms. “Well, that happens, young Osfriðson. You were wrong. We all make mistakes sometimes, don’t we? I’m sure your father agrees with me.”
My father nodded. “Man is flawed and fallible, Oswulf. The Lord has given him weaknesses but also the strength to forgive others for their weaknesses.”
“Wise words, aren’t they, Oswulf? You see, I am not at all angry with you for being wrong. You are a young warrior who wants to become a huscarl. You sometimes don’t know what to do with your excess strength, and in the heat of battle, your judgement wanes. I am only a shoemaker, yet I can understand how difficult it can be to meet all expectations. That is your lot as the son of a ðegn. You were born to follow a higher calling and therefore have to learn much more than I, a simple shoemaker’s son. But I am sure that one day, you too will acquire the wisdom and maturity of your father and become a worthy huscarl.”
Another loud hiss of hot iron on horn as the last horseshoe was placed on the animal’s foot. If the anger that had just built up inside me could have escaped through my nose, it would have drowned out the sound completely.
Stígandr waved his hand. “Forgive me, but the blacksmith will soon be finished. God be with you.”
I felt ashamed and didn’t say another word until we arrived at our manor house. Only when we were greeted there by the rest of our family, beaming with joy, did I regain hope – hope that in the years to come, I would learn to master not only all sorts of weapons, but also my mind and my tongue, and that one day, Englaland would once again be a free country under an English king.
In December of the Year of Our Lord 1066, the Archbishop of Eoforwic crowned Willelm of Normandig King of Englaland in the cathedral at Wincestre – where King Harold and all his predecessors had received the crown. We had lost the battle. But contrary to what my father said on our return to Ledlinghe, the war for Englaland was far from over, and not only in my heart.