lords’ lands. Most were understandably wary of a lone traveller approaching them, especially one of unkempt appearance such as myself, and tried to avoid me when they could.
‘Hafren?’ I would ask on the occasions that they did greet me, that being how they referred to the Saverna in the Welsh tongue. After a moment’s thought they would sometimes point me in the direction they reckoned I needed to go, though just as often they seemed to have no idea, or else would reply in words I did not know. Thus, like a blind man I found my way: gradually and with not a small amount of guesswork.
Eventually, however, I came upon the Saverna, which was less wide here than at Scrobbesburh. The waters were unusually low for that time of year, too, and so I crossed it easily by means of a ford before making east for the dyke, which thankfully was not much further. Turning then, I followed the course of that great earthwork southwards. Gradually the rise and fall of the hills grew more familiar, and while still I could not say exactly where I was, home felt closer by the hour. With renewed vigour I spurred myself on, even though my legs were weary, until I found myself stumbling along the same valleys through which we had pursued the Welsh band that had raided my manor, so long ago that it might as well have been years.
I thought of seeing my hall again, of holding Leofrun close to me, of seeing all the others. What would they say? Had they heard anything of what had happened in these last couple of months? How could I begin to explain everything?
That final hour was the most painful. Although they were not yet bleeding as they had after the march to Mathrafal, my feet were blistered and every step was an ordeal. My cloak was ripped in several places from when I had fallen through a clump of brambles; bruises and scratches decorated my chest and my arms. I had not eaten in two days, the few crumbs of bread and cheese having lasted only so long. My legs could barely support my weight, but I forced myself onwards, knowing that soon I would be in my hall, with my woman to help soothe my aches and meat and ale to fill my stomach, and all would be well.
It seemed as if an eternity had passed before I glimpsed Read Dun in the distance, which marked the western bounds of my manor. Now at last I knew which paths to take. I rounded the hill’s wooded slopes as the sun broke from the clouds, slanting down through the leaves and branches. My heart was pounding while joy and relief welled in my eyes. Finally I emerged from the trees to look upon the place that was my home-
Or had been. For where houses had once stood, now there were only fallen, fire-blackened roof-timbers and heaps of ash. The church, the mill, even the palisade upon the mound and my hall within: all reduced to dust and smoke and memory.
All at once my strength fled my limbs. Helpless, I sank to my knees. My breath came in stutters, catching in my throat. I could not tear my gaze away, refusing to believe it was true and yet at the same time unable to deny what lay before my eyes. My hands clutched at my face, tore at my hair; sounds of anguish escaped my lips, and it was anguish of a kind I had never before known, as if a spear had first been driven deep into my chest, then twisted so that it pierced my heart before at last being wrenched free. I could not move, could not do anything at all as tears of what would have been happiness at coming home spilt over into torrents of desperation and defeat. Of anger at the men who had done this, at myself for not having being here to prevent it.
Everything for which I had fought so hard was coming undone, the tapestry of my life unravelling into loose threads that by themselves held no meaning.
For I had returned, but Earnford was gone.
Twenty-three
In desperation I stumbled through the charred wreckage of my manor, calling: ‘Leofrun!’
But there was no sign of her, nor indeed of anyone left alive. Corpses lay by the banks of the river where, to judge by the blood-stained grass, it looked as if a few of the villagers had made a stand. Men and women alike had met their ends here, their bodies stripped of their clothes and shoes and anything else of worth, left in the open, under the rain and the scorching sun, to rot and become food for the carrion beasts. Many of their faces were so crumpled and bloodied that I no longer recognised them, although had Leofrun’s been among them I felt sure I would have known.
Kites and crows picked at them, pecking at eye sockets, digging their beaks into pallid skin, tearing away glistening red strings of flesh, and I ran at them, screaming wordlessly to try to make them go away. With a flap of wings and a chorus of calls the Devil-birds rose up into the air, only to descend upon another corpse a short way off, and no matter how much I chased and waved my arms at them I could not make them leave. The stench of decay hung everywhere, like a deathly mist that had settled over the valley. Flies swarmed and crawled everywhere.
Among those corpses that were recognisable were the grey-haired swineherd Garwulf, whose fingers had played so nimbly on the strings of the crwth at every feast, and the girl Hild whom young Lyfing had died trying to protect. Where before her hair had hung as far as her waist, now it had been cut to her shoulders and in places much shorter, savagely and raggedly, as if someone had taken a knife to it, and what was left was matted with blood that ran from a deep gash across the back of her neck.
Neither of them had deserved to meet their ends in this way. None of this was supposed to have happened.
Fire had been taken to the wheatfields, blackening the earth and burning all of what would have been the harvest, while the pastures were strewn all about with the stricken carcasses of cattle, sheep and goats. Whoever had done this had not been interested in taking anything back with them, only in delivering death and letting the fullers of their blades run with the blood of my people. This had been no mere raid. This had been a massacre.
I came to the ruins of what had once been the priest’s house. ‘Father Erchembald,’ I called. ‘?dda!’
There was no answer. The priest’s herb-garden had been trampled, the small vegetables ripped from the earth. The roof had been torn off the house before they burnt it, for clumps of straw lay scattered about. Often men hid purses of silver and other objects of value within the layers of thatch, and no doubt that was what the raiders had been searching for. Not that they would have found much. Unlike some priests I had known, Father Erchembald hadn’t been much given to hoarding. Whatever fortune came his way he was always careful to share, and in the same way it seemed he had shared the fate of his entire flock.
The church had suffered as badly as every other building in Earnford. All that remained were the stones that made up the lower courses; everything else, from the wall-hangings that kept out the draughts in winter to the embroidered altar-cloth, had either been taken or had suffered at the torch. There was no sign of the gilded cross and candlesticks, or the silver pyx, engraved and inlaid with images of wild beasts, that the priest used to contain the consecrated body of our Lord, all of which usually rested upon the altar.
These were not men who had done this but godless fiends, the children of Satan himself, risen from the burning, sulphurous wastes of hell to wreak their hateful destruction upon this land.
It was too much to take in. By the time I reached the bottom of the mound and gazed up at what remained of my hall, I had almost no tears left to give. Trudging onwards, forcing one foot before the other, I climbed up the path towards the gap in the palisade where the gates had been. An acrid and overpowering smell wafted on the breeze: one that was only too familiar and that turned my stomach at once. The stench of burnt flesh. A lone hen clucked as she pecked at the dirt in the yard, more in hope than expectation as she searched for grain or seed; there was no one to feed her. As I came closer I spied thin wisps of grey smoke, so faint as to be barely visible, still issuing from the smouldering timbers that marked where the hall had once stood. This could only have happened days ago. Had I only recovered faster in the care of the Welshman and his daughter, had I only found my way across the hills more easily and without so much backtracking, I might have been here to prevent this, to defend those for whom I was responsible. Even if I’d failed, it would have been better to have died trying than to witness this.
It wasn’t the first hall-burning I had ever seen. But it is a different thing altogether when it is one’s own home that has been destroyed. I tried not to think of the flames spreading through the thatch, or the panic as the roof began to collapse and blazing timbers surrounded those inside. I tried not to imagine the smell of hair and flesh being set alight, the heat overpowering those souls, thick black smoke filling the chamber from wall to wall until, choking and spluttering, they burst out through the great doors, only to meet and be cut down by the sharpened steel of the foemen waiting outside. By fire or the sword: that was how it was done by the folk of this island. That
