The Hammer and The Cross

he had none.

“You see now what you have done?” said a voice behind him.

Shef turned slowly, found himself confronting Alfred. The young king had dark rings under his eyes, his clothes were stained and muddy. He had neither sword nor cloak, but still wore mail, with a dagger at his belt.

“I have done? I think she is one of your subjects, this side of the Thames. The Way may have taken her priest away, but you took her man away.”

“What we have done, then.”

The two men stood looking down at the woman. This is what I have been sent to stop, thought Shef. But I cannot do it by following the Way alone. Or not the Way as Thorvin or Farman see it.

“I will make you an offer, king,” he said. “You have a purse at your belt and I have none. Give it to this poor woman here, so that at least she may live to see if her man returns. And I will give you your jarldom back. Or rather we will share till we have defeated your enemies, the Cross-wearers, as I have already defeated mine.”

“Share the jarldom?”

“Share all we have. Money. Men. Rule. Risk. Let our fates run together.”

“We will share our luck, then?” said Alfred.

“Yes.”

“There must be two conditions on that,” said Alfred. “We cannot march under your Hammer alone, for I am a Christian. Nor will I march only under the Cross, for that has been defiled by the robbers of Frankland and Pope Nicholas. Let us remember this woman and her grief, and march under the sign of both. And if we conquer we will let our peoples find comfort and consolation wherever they can. In this world there can never be enough for everyone.”

“What is the other condition?”

“That.” Alfred pointed to the whetstone-scepter. “You must get rid of it. When you hold it, you lie. You send your friends to their deaths.”

Shef looked at it, looked again at the cruel, bearded faces that ornamented each end: faces like that of the cold-voiced god in his dreams. He remembered the mound where he had got it, the slave-girls with their broken spines. Thought of Sigvarth sent to die by torture, of Sibba and Wilfi sent to the burning. Of Alfred himself, whom he had knowingly allowed to march to defeat. Of Godive, rescued only to be used as bait.

Turning, he hurled the scepter end over end into the deep undergrowth, there to lie once more among the mold.

“As you say,” he said. “We will march under both signs now, win or lose.” He held out his hand. Alfred drew his dagger, cut free his purse, threw it with a thump onto the wet ground by the woman's feet. Only then did he shake hands.

As they left the woman struggled with feeble fingers to pry at the lashings of the purse.

They heard the commotion before they had gone a hundred yards down the path: clash of weapons, shrieking, horses neighing. Both men began to run toward the Wayman camp, but the thorns and thickets held them. By the time they arrived, gasping, at the edge of the wood, it was over.

“What happened?” said Shef to the men who turned disbelievingly toward them.

Farman the priest appeared from behind a slashed tent. “Frankish light cavalry. Not many of them, maybe a hundred. They knew we were here, came all at once out of the wood. Where were you?”

But Shef was looking past him, at Thorvin pushing through the crowd of excited men, holding Godive firmly by one hand.

“We came just after dawn,” said Thorvin. “Got here just before the Franks attacked.”

Shef ignored him, looked only at Godive. She raised her chin, stared back at him. He patted her shoulder gently. “I am sorry if I have forgotten you. There are things—if… soon… I will try to make amends for what I did.

“But not now. Now I am still the jarl. First we must set guards on the camp, so we are not surprised again. Then we must march. But before that—Lulla, Farman, all priests and leaders to me as soon as the guards are set.

“And Osmod, one thing before that. Send twenty women to me now.”

“Women, lord?”

“Women. There are plenty with us. Wives, friends, drabs, I don't care. As long as they can push a needle.”

Two hours later, Thorvin, Farman and Geirulf—the only priests of the Way present among a half dozen English unit commanders—stared unhappily at the new device hastily stitched onto the army's main battle-banner. Instead of the white Hammer standing upright on a red field, there were now a Hammer and Cross, set diagonally, one across the other.

“It is dealing with the enemy,” said Farman. “More than they would ever do for us.”

“It is a condition made by the king for his support,” said Shef.

Eyebrows raised as the priests looked at the shabby, solitary figure of the king.

“Not just my support,” said Alfred. “The support of my kingdom. I may have lost one army. But there are still men who will fight against the invaders. It will be easier if they do not have to change religion at the same time.”

“We need men, for sure,” said Osmod the camp marshal and leader of the catapulteers. “What with this morning and the desertions we've had—seven, eight men to a team left, where we need a dozen. And Udd has more crossbows in store than men to use them. But we need 'em right now. And where are we to find them? In a hurry, like?”

Shef and Alfred stared uncertainly at each other, digesting the problem, groping for an solution.

An unexpected voice cut the silence from the back of the tent. Godive's.

“I can tell you the answer to that,” she said. “But if I tell you, you must grant me two things. One, a seat on this council. I do not care to be disposed of in future like a lame horse or a sick hound. Two, I do not want to hear the jarl say again, ‘Not now. Not now, because I am the jarl.’ ”

Eyes turned; first, in amazement, to her, then in doubt and alarm to Shef. Shef, hand fumbling automatically for reassurance to his whetstone, found himself looking into Godive's brilliant eyes as if for the first time. He remembered: the whetstone was no longer there, nor what it stood for. He looked down.

“I grant both conditions,” he said hoarsely. “Now tell us your answer, councillor.”

“The men you need are already in the camp,” said Godive. “But they aren't men, they're women. Hundreds of them. You find more in every village. They may be only drabs to you, as the jarl said before. Needle-pushers. But they are as good as men for some things. Put six with every catapult-team. The men released can go to Udd, to carry a crossbow, or the strongest of them to Lulla, to use a halberd. But I would also advise this to Udd: pick as many of the youngest women as you can, those who are not afraid, and put them with your crossbows as well.”

“We can't do that,” said Cwicca incredulously.

“Why not?”

“Well—they aren't strong enough.”

Shef laughed. “That's what the Vikings said about you, Cwicca, remember? How much strength does it take to pull a rope? Turn a lever? Wind a pulley? The machine gives the strength.”

“They'll get frightened and run away,” Cwicca protested.

Icily, Godive overrode him. “Look at me, Cwicca. You saw me climb into that dung-cart. Was I frightened then? And if I was, I still did it.

“Shef. Let me talk to the women. I will find the ones you can trust, and if need be I will lead them. Don't forget, everyone”—she looked round the circle challengingly—“it may be that women have more to lose than any of you. And so more to gain.”

In the silence Thorvin said, still skeptically, “This is all very well. But how many men had King Alfred here when he marched against the Franks? Five thousand? Trained warriors. Even if we use every woman in the camp, how can a third of that number hope to win? People, men or women, who have never shot so much as a bird-bolt before? You cannot make a warrior in a day.”

“You can teach someone to shoot a crossbow in a day,” said Udd unexpectedly. “Just wind 'em and point