A Time for Swords Read online

  BY MATTHEW HARFFY

  The Bernicia Chronicles

  The Serpent Sword

  The Cross and the Curse

  Blood and Blade

  Killer of Kings

  Warrior of Woden

  Storm of Steel

  Fortress of Fury

  Kin of Cain (short story)

  Wolf of Wessex

  A Time For Swords

  A TIME FOR SWORDS

  MATTHEW HARFFY

  An Aries book

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in 2020 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  This edition first published in 2020 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  An Aries book

  Copyright © Matthew Harffy, 2020

  The moral right of Matthew Harffy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781838932855

  ISBN (ANZTPB): 9781838932862

  ISBN (E): 9781838932886

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  A Time for Swords

  is for Shane Smart.

  Keep on reading, Big Shaner!

  Contents

  By Matthew Harffy

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Epigraph

  Place Names

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Map

  To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

  A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

  A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

  A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

  A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

  A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

  A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

  A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

  Ecclesiastes 3, verses 1-8

  Place Names

  Place names in early medieval Britain vary according to time, language, dialect and the scribe who was writing. I have not followed a strict convention when choosing the spelling to use for a given place. In most cases, I have chosen the name I believe to be the closest to that used in the late eighth century, but like the scribes of all those centuries ago, I have taken artistic licence at times, and, when unsure, merely selected the one I liked most.

  Some of the place names also occur in my Bernicia Chronicles novels with different spellings. This is intentional to denote that this is not part of that series and also to indicate the passage of time and the changes to language that occur over the centuries.

  Bebbanburg

  Bamburgh

  Berewic

  Berwick upon Tweed

  Byzantion

  Constantinople (Istanbul)

  Cocueda, River

  River Coquet

  Cocwaedesae

  Coquet Island

  Cordova

  Córdoba, Spain

  Corebricg

  Corbridge

  Duiblinn

  Dublin

  Eoforwic

  York

  Fossa, River

  River Foss

  Gwynedd

  early medieval kingdom, now a county, situated in the north-west of modern-day Wales.

  Gyruum

  Jarrow

  Hereteu

  Hartlepool

  Ifriqiya

  area comprising what is today Tunisia, western Libya and eastern Algeria.

  Lindisfarnae

  Lindisfarne

  Loch Cuan

  Strangford Lough, Northern Ireland

  Magilros

  Melrose

  Oguz il

  (Oguz Land) Turkic state located in an area between the coasts of the Caspian and Aral Seas.

  Powys

  early medieval kingdom, now a county, situated in central modern- day Wales.

  Roma

  Rome

  Rygjafylki

  Rogaland, Norway

  Streanæshealh

  Whitby

  Tine, River

  River Tyne

  Tuede, River

  River Tweed

  Ubbanford

  Norham

  Usa, River

  River Ouse

  Uuiremutha

  Monkwearmouth

  Vestfold

  Vestfold, eastern Norway

  Werceworthe

  Warkworth

  One

  I am dying.

  For months I have denied the signs, but this morning there was blood in my shit and a hollow ache has settled deep into the pit of my stomach. It feels as though there is a demon inside me, gnawing on my guts. Perhaps there is. Maybe the Devil has been given my body to do with as he wishes before I succumb to the cold embrace of death. I would not blame God if He has abandoned me. I have done my best these last years to do His bidding. With prayer and labour I have worshipped and honoured Him, but perhaps a man can sin too much in his lifetime for forgiveness. I know the Scriptures say otherwise, but I cannot but wonder whether the things I have done have made even the Almighty turn His back on me.

  I have often awoken, in the cold stillness of my cell, my
nose bitten by the chill, the world dark and silent, and I have lain on my pallet, thin blanket clutched tightly to my throat, terrified that I will not be brought unto my Heavenly Father on my death. Could Jesu truly forgive a man such as me?

  Well, I am dying now, so I will know soon enough. Death is coming for me just as sure as the snow is thawing outside, turning the fields into a clinging quagmire that cakes the feet of the ceorls who toil there. The days are filled with the constant dripping from the melting ice and, every now and then, the growl and thump of snow sloughing down the sloping shingled roofs of the monastery. As the land warms, I can feel my strength leaching away. It feels as if, as the winter recedes, so its frost settles within my bones.

  For the longest time I believed I was immortal, as all young men do, I suppose. When I was young I would have scoffed if someone had told me that I would grow old and weak, unable to walk more than a few unsteady strides, hands gnarled and painful, eyes dimming and blurring so that it is difficult to see the letters I scribe, except on the brightest of days. But time, like wyrd, is inexorable, and slowly, without cease, it has taken those I cared for from me and it has withered my frame until I am a miserable, wheezing husk; a shade of the young, vital man who once thought he would live forever. That young man was defiant and headstrong.

  And yet despite the ravages of time on my body, that impulsive youth resides within me still. For what I am about to do is rebellious and disobedient.

  I have pondered for many days now whether I should undertake to write this story down. Vellum, ink and quills are all costly and Abbot Criba will be furious when he discovers that I have not been working on a copy of the Vita Sancti Wilfrithi as he instructed. His ire will do him little good though, I fear. For he does not enjoy my company and he will not visit me until the book is finished. He likes me not, but he trusts in my abilities as a scribe, even though it takes me longer than it once did to fill each stretched calf hide sheet with my scratchings. As likely as not, I shall be buried before he discovers the truth of what I have done. The thought of this deception sends a thrill down my spine.

  Yes, the young man is still in there somewhere, still wilful and filled with pride.

  Another sin to add to the list.

  And yet, perhaps this is not such a thing of evil that I do. The life of Saint Wilfrid, blessed as it was, has already been written, but my life is known to nobody. The lives of saints and kings are piled high in the scriptoria of the world, and that is good. But what of my life? I’ve seen things that people wouldn’t believe. A Turkic ship on fire off the shore of Odessa. I’ve watched sunbeams glitter in the dark eyes of the Empress of Roma, as we passed beneath Byzantion’s Golden Gate. I do not want all those moments to be lost in time like the winter snow when the rains of spring come.

  For years I have copied countless books on history, from Tacitus to Bede. Each of those tomes is filled with accounts of illustrious emperors, kings and queens; lords and ladies. But what of the men who served them? Their lives are forgotten after their deaths. Few of those who have died over the centuries have had the knowledge to commit their thoughts to writing, but my letters are yet clear when I scratch them onto a page and my memory is sharp. It seems that, as I have the opportunity and the skill, perhaps it would be sinful for me not to pen the history of my life. For I am now a writer and if not me, then who will record the history of my times?

  Nobody else remains to speak of the secrets I have borne all these years. These stories are too important to vanish, buried along with my frail mortal form. But there is danger in my tale, mysteries that I have been too afraid to speak of before. Now all I fear is death, and I would have my secrets set down for those who come after. I have at times been accused of hubris, and perhaps this desire to record my life for posterity stems from that overbearing pride. Such judgement can be reserved for the readers of this work and for the Almighty Himself.

  Time is passing quickly. I can all but feel the breath of Death on the nape of my neck. So I will begin with no further preamble. But where to start? I could tell of my childhood in a small village on the banks of the Tuede, but there is little remarkable to speak of there. No, I should commence with the day that my world changed forever. The day that blood, fear, fire and death descended on our once peaceful shores.

  On that momentous morning my mind was teeming with images of a thing of wonder and beauty. A treasure that would prove to be an undying passion; the mistress I would turn to throughout my life. I have cherished her, fought and spilt blood for her. Even killed for her. And now, before my death, I aim to finally, truly entwine my story with hers.

  This tale begins long ago when I was still a young man, heart swollen with pride. My sharp-witted mind overflowed with thoughts of knowledge and learning, of the perfection of words, philosophy and theology, and I had no inkling of the horrors that would befall Lindisfarnae on that fateful June day in the Year of Our Lord Jesus Christ 793.

  The day the northern devils came.

  Two

  I can still recall the wonder of walking northward towards the holy isle of Lindisfarnae. The mule, cantankerous at times, but biddable enough, plodded along beside me. Brother Leofstan, long-legged and slender, strode ahead of us, as if he was keen to be away from my chatter. I walked with a spring to my step, tugging the laden beast to greater speed, more often using a softly spoken word of encouragement than a stroke of the hazel switch I carried. My heart soared at the feeling of freedom from being outside the minster of Werceworthe after so many months of inclement weather through the winter and spring.

  I could still barely believe that Leofstan had chosen me, above all of the other novice monks, to accompany him. He was to bring a stack of freshly dried, stretched and scraped lamb skins to be used by the brothers at Lindisfarnae’s scriptorium. When I had heard, I begged to be taken with him.

  “You would do better to apply yourself to your studies than trudging north with me,” he said.

  “I have already finished committing to memory chapters eight to nineteen of the Regula,” I told him.

  Leofstan raised an eyebrow.

  “What about the Latin exercises?” he asked, squinting down his thin nose at me.

  “I copied out all of the declensions and I have learnt those pronouns that deviate from the normal order.”

  I proffered a wax-covered boxwood tablet to him. He took it, glancing down at my scratched letters in the thin veneer of beeswax. I have always had a natural ability with the learning of languages, both written and spoken, and I knew my Latin was all correct. His thin fingers traced the words as he read and he grunted, whether with approval or annoyance, I could not tell.

  He stared at me for a long while.

  “What is it that so draws you to Lindisfarnae?” he asked.

  I longed to be free of the oppression of the minster, to travel further than the boundaries of the small parcel of land around Werceworthe. But I chose a different reply for Leofstan.

  “You often tell us that the scribes of Lindisfarnae are the best in the whole of Christendom,” I said. “Now that I have begun to learn the finer arts of writing, I would like to see the finest writing in the world.” He stared at me, his thin, wrinkled face expressionless. Was there a slight creasing of his brows? I pressed on regardless, forcing myself to stare into his eyes with what I hoped was an open and eager mien. “I think I would learn much from watching the scribes at Lindisfarnae work and,” I said, adding what I hoped would be the winning argument to my cause, “I would also welcome the chance to see the head of Saint Oswald and the bones of Saint Cuthbert; to offer up a prayer to that splendorous king and to the most sacred of holy men. I would pray for my dear mother’s immortal soul. May she rest in the eternal peace of the Almighty’s bosom.”

  I felt a pang of guilt at using my mother’s memory to get my way. She had died when I was but a small boy, and my recollection of her was nebulous. And yet my words were not a lie. I would pray for her soul to the saints of Lindisfarnae, if Le
ofstan took me with him.

  My teacher frowned and was silent. I was often as lazy as I was talented at languages and scribing and he clearly had his doubts as to my sincerity. For several heartbeats I was certain that he would reject my request, but after a time, he nodded.

  “Very well,” he said. “You will attend me on the journey. You might learn much from the brothers at Lindisfarnae. The mule will be your responsibility. Do not make me regret my decision.”

  I am quite sure he regretted his decision more than once as we headed north on the old crumbling road of Deira Stræt. I was poor company and the closer we got to our goal the harder I found it to suppress my excitement. I pointed out a tiny tan-coloured warbler, flitting in and out of a tangle of gorse. Leofstan glanced at the small bird, nodding absently. Free of the rule of silence imposed in the minster, I talked incessantly and, looking back, I see that Leofstan was indulgent to my whims. I thought nothing of it then. I was genuinely excited to see the monks’ work in the scriptorium that supplied Gospels, missals and psalters to bishops and kings all across the world, from distant Roma in the south, to far-away Duiblinn in the west. I was already fascinated with the art of creating books and I was sure that I would indeed learn from the masters of the craft; the best scribes in the land. I was also intrigued about what the head of Saint Oswald would look like. And what about the remains of the saintly Cuthbert, the bishop whose name was now forever intertwined with Lindisfarnae? Would I feel the power resonating from his tomb? Would I sense the holy energy throbbing from the reliquary that held Oswald’s wizened skull?