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 was how my first lord had been murdered, and with him so many others that once I had known.
But I had seen too many similar things in my life to be able to shut such images from my mind entirely. Even when I closed my eyes, I could not stop imagining those orange tongues licking at the sky, the plumes of smoke and glowing ash billowing into the sky, or the faces of the dying, people I had known, calling out for help that would not come. And I felt their pain.
I wandered.
One part of me wanted to put that place behind me as soon as possible, to go anywhere so long as it was away from here. The other could not leave the only home I’d ever truly known, and that was the part that won out. This was where I belonged. There was nowhere else for me to go.
Torn and defeated, I staggered aimlessly from cottage to burnt-out cottage, calling out in case anyone was left still alive amongst the ruins. There was always a chance, I supposed, that some might have escaped; at the last count of heads there had been more than forty souls in Earnford, and I had not seen that many bodies. Which meant it was possible that Leofrun was alive and well somewhere, though where to begin looking I knew not. Admittedly it was a slim hope. More likely the enemy had taken her off along with the rest of the women, that some other man had claimed her as his own, to do with as he desired. I did not even want to imagine that.
I no longer cared about food; even had there been anything left amidst the ruins it would have made no difference. Rather I wanted to give myself up to sleep, to flee this world even if only for a few hours, and hope that when I awakened all would be restored to the way it had been, the way it should be, the way in my mind it still was, even though in my heart I knew that such hope was in vain.
Hours passed. The wind rose and the skies grew dark with cloud; there would be rain soon, and I needed shelter. The long cattle barn by the river was the only building left even half standing, the fire having claimed the thatch and one corner of the walls but spared the rest, including some of the roof-beams. It was far from ideal, but it was the best I was going to find. I had begun to trudge towards it, past the fishpond and the sheepfold and the hives, when a flicker of movement caught my eye in the distance, close by the mill. A single figure, so far as I could tell, of sturdy build, leading a grey horse. One of the enemy, I supposed, come back to see if there was anything left worth plundering. He must have spotted me, for at that moment he stopped.
‘Hey,’ I shouted, my voice hoarse, waving my arms as I stumbled in his direction. ‘You might have killed them, but you didn’t kill me! Come and fight me, if you think yourself a warrior!’
It was foolishness, especially since I had no weapon of any kind, but I was beyond caring. Everything had been taken from me. I had nothing left, no reason to live. If he wished to take my life today it would be only fitting. I had failed the people I was sworn to protect, and for that failure this was my punishment. I only hoped he did not prolong my suffering, but instead made it quick.
‘Your kind did this,’ I yelled. ‘You bastards, you sons of whores, you’re no better than animals!’
Leaving his mount to drink at the edge of the millpond, he approached, striding confidently towards me. Whether it was because of hunger or tiredness or the burden of everything I had seen that day, I felt suddenly weak. Dark spots came across my eyes, blurring my sight, and no matter how much I tried to blink them away they would not disappear. My entire body felt cold and somehow numb, as if it were no longer my own. I inhaled deeply, trying to calm myself. With each step that the man took the moment of my death drew closer, but I was determined not to go to it a coward but with my head held high.