The Fighting Man. Adrian Deans
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more terrible still,’ he said, ‘was my own sin … of joy at Olaf’s death.’
I stared at him, uncomprehending.
‘Thou shalt not kill,’ quoted Carl, in genuine distress. ‘I should have turned the other cheek.’
‘Where are the Danes?’ I asked, wanting to change the subject. ‘Those that still lived … will they return?’
‘I doubt it,’ he said, crossing himself. ‘They are a superstitious people. I told them they had stumbled into the domain of a mighty witch. They had seen a dog and three of their comrades slain … it was simple enough to inspire their panic, and then slip away as they fled.’
Valla grinned, pleased with Carl’s description.
‘I am a mighty witch indeed … and I’ll thank you not to call on the Christian god in my domain.’
‘It is His domain,’ said Carl, mildly, ‘ … as are all places.’
‘The Christian god is a pillager,’ Valla spat, ‘ … like the men who brought him here, burning, thieving and raping the old gods who have dwelt in the wood since the beginning.’
‘Rape again,’ I muttered, glancing at Carl.
‘Call me obsessed,’ sneered Valla, ‘but men are beasts and think of little else than pleasing the serpent coiled between their thighs.’
‘That is why they need God,’ said Carl, ‘to teach them love and forbearance. But, as Brand implies, you do seem unusually sensitive to the idea. Have you been raped, my child?’
‘I am not your child,’ snarled Valla, once more whipping her blade from under her skins. ‘And no man has ever touched me. Nor will they … until it is time.’
Once again, I found myself strangely aroused and hunched closer to the fire to better conceal the uncoiling serpent.
‘Time?’ I enquired.
Valla’s eyes narrowed, as though she sensed my discomfort once again. I didn’t expect her to answer, but after a few moments she said, ‘Know this Christians … Valla is a witch, passing from mother to mother in a chain unbroken for two hundred and forty-two years.’
My cheek muscle was twitching in disbelief, but at the same time the hair was rising on the back of my neck.
‘That is why I fear rape. Once I am unmaidened, the power will pass from me to the daughter in my womb … I will no longer be Valla.’
With that she rose, pulled her skins close around her shoulders and disappeared into the darkness of her cave.
Chapter 5
My Errant Shafts
It was a cold night. I wasn’t sure of my welcome in the deepest and warmest part of the cave, where Valla slept with the dog. Carl and I spoke in low voices for a while and I swore with vengeful fury when he gave me full details of the arrangement between Malgard and his former master, Ulrik Dragontooth. Then, as the fire died, we found places in the wicker and turf extension which kept out most of the wind and some of the cold. It occurred to me that Angdred and the two dead Danes had clothes they wouldn’t be needing any longer, but I wasn’t going to go stumbling through the forest to search corpses in the dark – alone.
The next morning, while Valla stirred the fire, Carl and I went back to the site of the battle – a clearing just inside the forest on the marsh side of the hill. The ground was red with blood where the young Dane and Angdred had been slaughtered, and Olaf lay staring on his back with an arrow in his throat and his breeches around his ankles. Even in death, it was clear he had been a man of mighty endowment and I shuddered at what I had been spared. I expected Carl to kick the body or make some kind of vengeful gesture, but if anything he looked a little sad and muttered a prayer.
We stripped the bodies and examined the small hoard of clothing, goods and weapons. As well as the sword carried in by Carl the previous evening, there was a large battle-axe born by Olaf, two bows with quivers full of arrows, several knives, an excellent pair of boots, Angdred’s shirt of rings, three good belts, a couple of whetstones, some salt and some coins.
I dressed myself in thick woollen hose and a leather jerkin, from which I scraped the worst of the blood. The shirt of rings was overlarge, but like the axe it was valuable. I took all the weapons and wrapped them in my brother’s cloak, with the exception of the sword, which I strapped at my waste and one of the knives which slipped neatly into my new boot.
‘How long have you known Valla?’ asked Carl, as we covered the bodies with the remnants of their clothing.
‘A day,’ I answered, well pleased with my new gear. ‘I met her near Stybbor, about this time yesterday.’
‘The Lord can throw us some challenges,’ said Carl, looking back towards the cave. ‘In all my days as a thrall, I never looked to be delivered by a pagan witch.’
It was the first time I had seen Carl in daylight – he seemed younger than I’d first thought – early twenties perhaps. And he didn’t look like a monk, having lived with the Danes for three years. His brown hair was long and untonsured and his beard dark and thick. His arms, accustomed to pulling the oars of Ulrik’s dragonboat bulged with muscle. He looked more like a warrior than a monk – more like a warrior than I did.
‘How is that a challenge?’
‘A sorceress succeeds where the church and armies failed? I’d call that a challenge. His mind is mysterious and His whims inconceivable … but He does nothing if not to test us.’
‘You have spoken with God?’ I asked.
‘No man can truly claim to have done so,’ he replied. ‘But sometimes we can be fairly sure we know what He wants of us.’
‘It is perilous to speak with God,’ I said, with some feeling. ‘I have experience of this … it cost me my family.’
Carl stared at me for a few moments.
‘It would surely be perilous to act as though authorised by God … only the Holy Father in Rome may do that.’
‘Nevertheless … I have so acted. I wished to be a warrior and God responded by sending Danes to attack the village.’
Once again, my eyes filled with tears – it was only a day and a half since my world had been destroyed. I pulled the heavy sword from its leather scabbard, lined with greasy fleece.
Carl stepped back as I took a couple of clumsy swipes at the air.
‘What do you mean to do?’ he asked.
‘I have to get to the king,’ I said, ‘to let him know of the treachery of Malgard and claim my father’s thegnship.’
‘Then you had best hurry young Brand. I know Malgard left for Lundene yesterday. He sent his man to hunt you … wishing to take no chances with the succession.’
I looked down once again at the corpse of Angdred – lying in two pieces – and without thinking, struck at his thigh with the sword. The blade cut about two inches into the jelly-like flesh with a dull thunk, and I shuddered as I pulled it free of the cold, sucking meat.
‘It takes time to learn sword craft,’ observed Carl, and I grimaced as I realised how inexpert my swings must have appeared.
‘What do you know of fighting?’ I demanded, resenting his bearing witness to my lack of skill.
‘I can teach you the little I have learned … watching and listening to the Danes, who are all great warriors … and the first thing is this: keep the sword clean and sharp. Get to know it like you know your own right hand. The Danes say the sword must become part of you … before it can become part of someone else.’
He seemed to speak with authority and I found myself submitting to his instruction.
‘You and the sword must become one