Conqueror (16 page)

On the causeway the tide was rising. Belisarius and Macson had rushed back from Bebbanburh. Now, hurrying to Lindisfarena, they had taken off their boots, but the clinging sand sucked at their bare feet, and the water, steadily rising, lapped at their shins.

‘This is ridiculous,’ panted Macson. ‘Dangerous. We should go back.’

‘We go on.’

Macson, defiantly, stopped dead. ‘We’ll get ourselves killed! And for what?’

Belisarius paused, breathing hard. He knew Macson had a point. Though he and Macson had ridden hard from Bebbanburh, those ships with the checked sails had beaten them here. He had seen for himself how they had pulled in to a shallow sandy beach near the village. And he had seen their carved prows, the snarling dragons’ faces -
dragons,
just as in the prophecy.

He should have known, Belisarius told himself. East Romans knew all about the dragon ships of the Northmen, which came raiding down the great rivers of Asia. He should have put the pieces of the puzzle together; he should have known what the Menologium meant. Then perhaps he could have saved lives, fragile, grumpy old Boniface and his flickering candle of literacy, and Aelfric, young, so eager to learn she was prepared to hide her own sex to do it. And then there were the books—including his own stock, still sitting in their wooden chest in the monastery’s library.

As Macson kept saying, this wasn’t his fight. But remarkably, all around him,
the prophecy was coming true,
a tapestry of omens and numbers that had somehow tangled him up. He was part of this now and felt he could not leave, not until these darkly foreshadowed events had played out.

‘We go on,’ he said grimly. ‘We swim if we have to. But we go on.’ And he marched on towards the island, splashing in the deepening water. He didn’t look back. Macson was engaged in his own conflicts, a war between his greed for the Menologium and his urge for self-protection. At last Belisarius heard a curse, couched in an obscure mix of Latin and British, as Macson came wading after him.

 

Gudrid had been on one raid before.

It was five years ago. She had been fifteen, about to be wed. It had just been a jaunt along the coast, an assault on a village against whom Bjarni and his elders had a grudge over an unpaid debt. Raiding wasn’t a woman’s work, but her father Bjarni insisted she saw blood spilled, just once, so she might be better prepared if anybody ever came to raid her home. One man on each side was killed, a few heads were broken and limbs chopped, and Bjarni’s raiders had crowded a few head of nervous rustled cattle into the boats. It had all been brisk, efficient, business-like. And although the target village had launched a petty raid in their turn the next season, nobody held a grudge.

Gudrid had found the sight of blood hugely distressing. But her father understood. He hated to see slaughter too, clearly. But this was how things were. If you went hungry, your neighbours’ cattle were your emergency larder. Others did the same if you had a good year and them a bad one. It was just work, just business.

Here, though, on this British island, it was different. Here, the villagers didn’t scatter, even when the shallow-draught Viking ships came sliding up the beach. They didn’t try to gather their children and livestock and petty valuables when the Vikings came striding out of their boats, weapons in hand. They even clustered around, curious, as Bjarni confronted the scowling, arrogant man in the black habit - the
monk.
They felt safe here, on their holy island. They hadn’t played this game before, this lethal game of iron and blood, and didn’t know the rules.

It was only when the monk’s brains oozed grey through his split-open face that the villagers ran, and mothers tried to find their children, and fathers and sons hunted for weapons in their huts.

The Vikings stood watching, amused, unhurried. Gudrid heard Askold, her husband, speculating with the others about the women: which were the best looking, which would put up a fight. Mothers were easier to catch because they were always slowed down by their children, but they were looser than virgins.

Bjarni watched his daughter’s reaction to this talk. ‘I told you not to come.’

One man came striding out of the village. He was tall, lean, with a streak of grey in his blond hair. Gudrid judged he was a few years younger than her father. He carried a crude woodcutter’s axe. Other men of the village hung back, watching, weapons in hand. This was the challenge, then. The Vikings grinned.

The man faced Bjarni. His tongue was unfamiliar, but it was sufficiently alike Gudrid’s own that she thought she could make out the words.
‘My name is Guthfrith. This is my home. All we have is a few cattle and sheep, and the fruits of the sea. You are welcome to eat with us, sleep in our homes. But if you intend to rob us—please, take what you want
and
leave us. We can do you no harm.’

Bjarni eyed him, sighed, and turned to Askold. ‘We’re here for the monks, not this starveling lot. But we don’t want trouble at our backs. If we make an example of this one it might be enough to scare off the rest.’

Askold nodded.

Guthfrith understood what was happening. Gudrid could see the hardness in his eyes, the realisation that his life was already over. With a roar he raised his weapon.

The Vikings rushed him. He didn’t land a single blow. The Vikings took his arms, easily removing his weapon. They threw him to the ground, face down, and four of them pinned his limbs, holding him spreadeagled. All this happened in a heartbeat.

Then Askold bent over and plunged his knife into Guthfrith’s tunic at the back of his neck and cut down to his backside. He worked briskly, like a butcher. Guthfrith howled, and blood spurted, for the knife had cut a groove into his flesh, but Askold’s purpose was to cut through his clothes. He spread aside the woollen cloth, exposing a heaving back already slick with blood.

Then Askold took his axe and hefted it, standing astride over Guthfrith’s torso. One of his fellows called, ‘One blow, Askold. Show this dirt-digger some skill.’

Askold grinned. Then, his tongue protruding from his lips, he brought the axe down on Guthfrith, almost delicately, a single strike that chopped through flesh and muscle and bone with a firm, meaty, satisfying sound. Guthfrith’s howls turned to a gurgle as blood spilled from his mouth.

Askold and the others kneeled over Guthfrith. Hands dug into the bloody darkness of his body, and tore back Guthfrith’s ribs with a crunch of splintering bone. Gudrid could actually see the heart pumping, surprisingly big, and lungs billowing. Here was a man, a living man, his inner workings so easily exposed. Askold rummaged in the cavity, grabbed the lungs with his big hands, ripped out their roots and spread them out over Guthfrith’s shoulders. Then Askold stood up, his arms and chest bloodied as if he had been slaughtering a stubborn ox. Even now Guthfrith lived on, Gudrid saw to her horror. Askold laughed, and spat in the hole in Guthfrith’s back.

In that instant Gudrid knew she would never again lie with Askold, not as long as she lived.

Bjarni said dismissively, ‘Not bad, Askold. When he’s dead, nail him to a wall. Now let’s get on with it. If we move fast we’ll hit the monastery before the monks have time to hide anything. We’ll leave a couple of men to watch the boats, though. We don’t want anybody getting clever and making a bonfire of them. And torch these hovels.’ He glanced around the island. On the causeway that linked it to the mainland, two figures were struggling through rising water. ‘We don’t want anybody getting away either. You, Leif, Bjorn, go to the head of the causeway. Stop anybody leaving.’

Leif, a big, slow-moving man, grumbled. ‘And leave the treasure to you?’

‘You’ll get your share,’ Bjarni said patiently. He glanced at Gudrid. ‘Daughter, go with them.’

Gudrid tried to speak. ‘Father—’

Bjarni stood close to her, so his creased face filled her vision. ‘Why did you come here? What did you expect to see? I tried to warn you.’

‘Does it have to be so -
wanton?’

Bjarni thought that over. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I think it does. It is easier to cut a man down if you think he is less than a man, not human at all. The wantonness isn’t the point, but it helps.’ He glanced down at Guthfrith. ‘But I think you’ve seen enough. Do as I say.’

She didn’t have the will to disobey.

As they reached the island Belisarius saw that the raiders were already at work in the village. The people fled, running north, men with bundles of belongings, women with children in their arms, others helping the frail and elderly, some even trying to drive livestock ahead of them. Two bright red splashes showed where people had already been killed. And as Belisarius watched, the modest square houses of the village blossomed into flame, one by one. When Guthfrith’s big house burned down the gaunt outline of the sacred tree was revealed.

Belisarius felt outraged that people who had treated him with such hospitality should be treated this way. Were human lives worth no more than this? But anger was useless. He tried to stay calm, to think.

He beckoned to Macson. ‘Come. If we hurry we can still reach the monastery before the raiders get there.’

‘Good plan,’ Macson growled, sarcastic. But he followed Belisarius’s lead.

They reached the monastery. There was nobody to be seen. No doubt the monks were all in the church, engaged in one of their interminable services. They probably didn’t even know that the raiders had come.

For the first time Belisarius looked at the monastery as a warrior might. The low earthen bank which surrounded it would keep out stray cattle, but would not impede the raiders. The buildings, even the wooden church, would be no use as shelters. Only the monks’ squat beehive cells, built of stone, might withstand a raiders’ torching. And so unusual was their shape that perhaps there was a chance the raiders might dismiss them as food stores and ignore them altogether.

He hurried to the cells, offering up a silent prayer that similar thoughts had occurred to the sensible Aelfric.

At Boniface’s cell he pushed at the wooden door. It felt as if it had been blocked from behind. He rapped on the wood. ‘Aelfric, Boniface? Are you in there? It’s me, Belisarius.’

There was a scraping. Then the door opened, to reveal Aelfric’s oval face. A lamp flickered in the darkness behind her, and she blinked in the bright daylight. ‘Belisarius, thank God.’

‘Is Boniface with you?’

‘Yes. We went first to the library - we have the Menologium, the oldest copy.’

A thin voice called querulously from the darkness. ‘Is that you, Roman? Let me go to the church.’

‘There are men here,’ Belisarius said heavily, ‘intent on killing you, old man.’

‘That’s no good reason to abandon God’s worship.’

Aelfric said unsteadily, ‘I had to drag him in here, to stop him going to the service. God forgive me.’

Belisarius touched her shoulder. ‘You did the right thing.’

Boniface came shuffling to the door. ‘If you won’t let me go to the church, then at least we must warn the abbot.’

‘No. The raiders will concentrate on the church, the library. They may not touch these cells at all. We will wait until the danger is past. And in the meantime—well, we will pray for deliverance. We are different breeds of Christian, but we must all seek the mercy of the same God. Aelfric, show me how you blocked the door—’

‘No,’ Boniface cried. Aelfric tried to soothe him, but he shrugged her off. ‘We have to warn the abbot.’

‘Please, Domnus,’ Belisarius said. ‘Stay and lead us in prayer—’

Belisarius had rarely heard such authority.

Macson shrugged. ‘Let the old fool go. What does it matter? One more dead monk—’

‘I will go,’ Belisarius snapped. Nobody spoke. Macson looked away. Aelfric’s eyes, adapted to the dark, were huge and fearful. ‘Aelfric, keep them here. And block the door after me.’ He turned away, not looking back, ignoring Boniface’s cries of protest.

Trying to spy out the raiders, he crept to a scrap of high ground, ducking behind buildings and walls to keep out of sight.

They were already all over the monastery, he saw, tall, muscular men in leather tunics, like vicious, destroying angels. He was too late to warn the monks, even supposing they might have listened to him any more than Boniface had.

And as he watched, helpless, the raiders broke open the library and the scriptorium. They didn’t bother with the doors; they just smashed in the flimsy walls of wood and daub with their axes. There was little to interest them in the scriptorium, and the workbenches and vellum frames, the pots of ink, the jars of quills were thrown into the dirt.

In the library they pulled down shelves piled high with books, scattering their loads on the ground. With an aching heart Belisarius saw his own trunk broken open by a barbarian’s blade, his precious stock dumped out and filleted. The raiders stripped out the more obviously precious items, like the glorious gospels with their leather bindings crusted with jewels. But there were books in there, Belisarius knew, of far greater value than such baubles: ancient literature, some of it dating back to the days of Britannia, and more recent literature from the British provincial states - some of it
the only copies in existence.
But the raiders simply kicked the books they didn’t want on to a rough bonfire, and black smoke rose as skin pages crisped and curled. It was the end of the work of centuries. How fragile were the products of civilisation, before these men with their iron and their fire and their dark ignorance.

Now the raiders closed in on the church. Again they simply bludgeoned down the walls. The monks, shocked, came swarming out like black-robed termites, and the raiders waded among them, their shining axe blades swinging like scythes. As blood splashed, a brilliant, terrible red, the monks’ squeals of terror turned to pain. Many of the monks died in their church, unwilling to leave the sacred ground. Others fled the closing circle of axes, only to be pursued and cut down in turn.