Blood Eye(10)

Sigurd frowned, thrusting the cup to arm's length.





And Wulfweard must have known I had warned the Norseman, for he made the sign of the cross. 'Lies!' he yelled. 'Whatever he's spewing! Lies from Satan's own pus-filled mouth! Lies!' He stepped towards me and I thought he would strike me down.





'Then drink some yourself, priest,' Sigurd growled in English, offering the cup to Wulfweard. 'We will share the mead, but you drink first.'





Wulfweard closed his eyes and turned his face to the old roof, gripping the wooden cross that hung over his chest. He was muttering something, prayers, I think, under his breath.





'Drink!' Sigurd commanded and that one word was so heavy with threat that I could not imagine how any man could disobey it.





'The mead is mixed with hemlock,' I said, glancing at Ealhstan who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. 'You would have drunk the mead and you would have slept, lord.' I took a deep breath. 'By noon you would be unable to stand, your legs would be cold to the touch and you would piss yourself.' I did not know if this last part was true, but I thought it would sting a proud man like Sigurd. I was deep in the mire now and saw no point in trying to drag myself clear.





'It would kill me?' Sigurd asked, his eyes boring into mine, as a spoon auger bores into timber.





'I think so, lord,' I said, 'yes. You would die and tomorrow Father Wulfweard would claim it to be the work of God.'





'And the bloated pig would shout that the Christians' god was more powerful than Óðin All-Father!' Sigurd roared, his hand falling to his sword's pommel. Then Wulfweard spat at me, reached into the long sleeve of his tunic and leapt at Sigurd. I saw the knife in the priest's hand, but Sigurd saw it too and jumped back with astonishing speed, drawing his sword at the same time.





'Father!' Wulfweard screamed as Sigurd stepped up and swung his sword into the man's head. The priest's legs buckled and he fell convulsing on the ground, clutching at his wooden cross as his grey brains spilled wetly from his skull.





The men of Abbotsend cursed and spat, looking to Griffin for leadership. And by the hearth light they must have seen doubt in the warrior's eyes.





'He was a servant of God!' Griffin yelled. Men were pouring out of the hall. 'A priest, Sigurd!' Griffin shouted, staring at the jarl as the Norsemen armed themselves and the Abbotsend men hurried into the night. Ealhstan was kneeling by Wulfweard and I grabbed the old man's shoulder and pulled him away, hardly believing what was happening, then pushed through to the door and out into the fresh air. Into the chaos. The Norsemen were forming a shieldwall, each man's shield overlapping that of the warrior to his right, and the speed and efficiency of their movements was frightening. But the village men were also forming a dense line in the shadows, gripping spears and swords, and more men were coming from their houses with shields and helmets.





'Get away, Ealhstan,' I said, as the world was suddenly touched by dawn's red hue, 'it can't be stopped now. Come!' But Ealhstan shook his head and pulled away from me. When I grabbed for him again he slapped my hand and croaked what I took for a curse. Then the shieldwalls crashed together and the first grunts and screams battered the still air. I let go of the old man and saw Griffin thrust his sword into a Norseman's neck. What have I done? my mind screamed. I had spoken against the priest and now men I knew were dying and their blood would be on my hands. I ran to fetch Ealhstan's hunting bow, praying I would sink an arrow into a heathen's black heart before the end. I threw open Ealhstan's door and in the darkness smashed into his table, my chest thumping wildly as I felt myself running back towards the sound of fighting, clutching the bow, the string, and a sheath of arrows. Some of our men lay broken in the mud, their slick guts steaming in the weak dawn light, but some fought on, groaning as they were forced back over dead friends. Sigurd himself cut Griffin down. I saw a spray of bright blood slap Griffin's hair and I was terrified to see how easily these Norsemen in their brynjas slaughtered men without mail.





Ealhstan was pointing at Griffin and grunting, clawing at my shoulder as I fumbled to string the bow. 'I know, old man,' I hissed, sick because Griffin had been a friend to me. I nocked an arrow, drew back the string, held my breath, then exhaled slowly. 'Heathen bastard,' I spat, then loosed. A Norseman jerked violently, the arrow embedded in his shoulder. I scrabbled to put another shaft to the string and saw Siward the blacksmith stagger backwards, clutching a spear in his gut and screaming. I loosed the arrow, but it flew wide and when I drew again the cord snapped, whipping my forearm. The Norseman I had hit strode towards me, careless of the blood slicking the mail at his shoulder. I stepped forward and swung the bow at his face, but he caught the stave and ripped it from me, then slammed a fist into my face. From the stinking mud I watched him drop Ealhstan and kick the old man once.