Chapters (76)
- Cover
- Praise forMATTHEW HARFFY
- BY MATTHEW HARFFY
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Maps
- Epigraph
- Contents
- Place Names
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- An Invitation from the Publisher
Saying nothing, I turned and walked back along the path, towards the river. The clanging sound of the smith’s hammer reminded me of the warning bell of Werceworthe. As I walked, my leather shoes crunching the frosted blades of grass, my heartbeat roared in my ears, merging with the distant wave-sound of the beach and matching the rhythm of the smith’s hammer and my steps.
Nine
The incident outside the scriptorium hardened my resolve to act in every way the warrior. If my former family rejected me, I would fully embrace my new kith, my sword-brothers. They understood me better than the monks of Uuiremutha, it seemed. In the evenings, as the winter winds buffeted the hall, Drosten, Hereward and Runolf would drink copious amounts of the ale and mead Mancas’ steward delivered to us. Gwawrddur would sip from his cup, always drinking with restraint. Where I had previously drunk sparingly, I now drank as much as the seasoned warriors, laughing and riddling noisily. I would often end the night staggering out into the cold darkness to vomit. On more than one occasion I puked where I lay and the men would laugh at me in the morning, as I rose, groaning and bleary, stinking and sticky from the cold reminder of my excesses.
One morning, not long after Crístesmæsse, I awoke and staggered over to a bench, where I slumped down. I moaned, my head still spinning from too much ale. Gwawrddur came to sit beside me. He placed a bowl of porridge on the board before me and filled a cup with water from an earthenware jug.
The thought of eating sickened me and I pushed the bowl away. My head was pounding, my stomach sour, and roiling like a stormy sea.
From the far end of the hall came snoring, despite it being well after sunrise. I glanced over at the half dozen cloak-wrapped shapes of the slumbering men. The previous afternoon, Hereward had returned from Bebbanburg with six warriors. Some of them I recognised from my first visit to the fortress and the journey to Eoforwic. There was Bealdwulf, a thickset man, and older than the rest. He was broad of chest, and his face scarred. Then there was Gamal, a sharp-faced man, who seemed to be perpetually sneering, and his friend, Ida, who rarely uttered more than a grunt, but was never far from Gamal’s side. Oslaf was short, broad of girth and quick to smile, which gave him a soft aspect that was undoubtedly misleading. The last two warriors were Sygbald and Pendrad, who both had the look of formidable warriors, tall of stature, wide of shoulder, with great barrel chests. So alike were they that they might have been brothers, but where Sygbald was fair, so Pendrad was dark, with hair as black as a crow’s wing.
All of them had all been members of Uhtric’s hearth-guard, his most trusted warriors.
Uhtric was dead.