Blood Eye(3)

So, with a sickness in my stomach and a spinning head, I led these Norsemen towards my home. And in my heart I knew I should have let them kill me.





I stumbled across the rocks and shingle, trying to keep my footing as the Norsemen pushed me on. I guessed there were about fifty of them, though half stayed with the ships as the rest of us climbed the grassy dunes where red-beaked oystercatchers trilled noisily, fleeing their scrapes among the tufts as we approached. The Norsemen gripped spears, axes and shields as though off to battle, none speaking now as the dunes gave way to solid ground and we climbed the scree-covered path leading to the summit of the hill overlooking my village. I let my mind tell me they would have found the place without my help. Abbotsend was just the other side of the swell and if they had taken to the high ground they would not have missed it. But the truth was I was leading them, as Griffin's dog might lead him to a badger's sett, and if there was blood it would be on my hands, for I had lacked the courage to die.





The Norsemen stopped on the ridge by the old crumbling watchtower, taking in the small settlement: a loose clutter of sixteen thatched dwellings, a mill, a hall and a small stone church. That was Abbotsend, but it must have been enough, for some of them grinned. The grip on my tunic was released and I seized my chance. I hared down the hill, throwing my arms out for balance and yelling to wake the dead. Folk looked up, then scattered, their panicked cries carrying up the hillside. Even back then we had heard of the heathens' savagery and thirst for plunder, and now the Norsemen were running too, to reach the village before its people could hide their possessions or find their courage.





I tripped sprawling into the mud between the houses where some of the men of Abbotsend were already forming a thin shieldwall. Others grimly hefted axes and forks, anything sharp enough to kill a man. I got to my feet as Siward the blacksmith lumbered from his forge, a bundle of swords in his heavily muscled arms, some without grips and pommels, others still black, yet to be polished and honed. He was handing them to any man prepared to stand and face what was coming. I ran to him.





'Out of the way, boy!' Griffin growled, grabbing Siward's arm before the blacksmith could give me a blade. I tried to take the blade anyway, but Griffin growled again and Siward turned his back on me and took his place beside the warrior. 'Hold the line! Straighten up, lads!' Griffin yelled to the eight men now standing with him. Griffin was the most experienced fighter of our village, but he had had no time to fetch his mail shirt or his shield and so stood armed only with his great sword. Arsebiter was beside him, his yellow teeth bared in a rolling snarl.





Ealhstan appeared at my shoulder, his eyes twitching madly.





'They said they were traders,' I said. By now, the Norsemen had formed their own shieldwall facing Griffin's, but theirs was longer and two men deep.





You brought them here? Ealhstan's eyes asked. The old man crossed himself and I saw he was trembling. They don't look like traders, boy! his face said. By Christ, they don't!





'They would have killed me,' I said, knowing they were the words of a coward. Ealhstan hissed and pointed towards the eastern woods but I ignored him and he hit me with a bony fist, again pointing to the trees. But I had brought the heathens over the hill, and if I ran it would make me less than cuckoo spit.





'What do you want here?' Griffin demanded. There was no fear in his voice. His chest swelled beneath his tunic and his eyes narrowed as he assessed the men facing him. 'Go now and leave us in peace. Whoever you are, we have no quarrel with you. Go before blood is spilled.' Arsebiter's hackles bunched as he echoed his master's warning with three coarse barks.





Sigurd, his sword still in its scabbard, glanced at the beast, then stepped forward. 'We are traders,' he said in English, his accent thick. 'We have brought furs and much deer antler. And walrus ivory, if you have the silver for it.' The Norsemen behind him bristled with violence, like hunting dogs themselves straining at the leash. No, not dogs but wolves. Some began thumping their sword pommels against the backs of their shields in a threatening rhythm. Sigurd raised his voice. 'Will you trade?' he asked.





'You don't look like traders to me,' Griffin answered, spitting on the earth between them. 'Traders have no need of war shields and helmets.' Griffin's men murmured in agreement, taking heart from their leader's defiance. More village men had gathered now, having seen their families safe, and some of them had shields. These pushed into Griffin's line, whilst others stood behind armed with hunting spears and long knives.





Sigurd shrugged his broad shoulders and grimaced. 'Sometimes we are traders,' he said, 'sometimes not.'