‘It looks fine,’ Ballista said. ‘Time to go.’
Battle-Sun hanging with the dagger on his right hip, and the old, unnamed sword he had carried all the years on his left, Ballista walked into the hall of his ancestors.
In the cavernous interior, the massively thick pairs of oak posts marched away on either side. Shields and spears hung from the roof. Isangrim, son of Starkad, cyning of the Angles, was enthroned opposite. On either side of him sat Oslac and Morcar. Many eorls and many of the duguth stood around. Off to the left were leaders of many of his allies.
Ballista walked forward and knelt before the throne. He placed his helmet on the floor, then his hands on Isangrim’s knees. The hands that covered his were spotted with age. There was a slight tremor in one.
Ballista looked up. His father wore a jewelled diadem around his brow. His long hair was plaited back. It was silver. His face was clean-shaven as before, but the cheeks were sunken. His father looked old, tired and careworn. The very pale-blue eyes were rheumy. Yet there was still some light in them.
Isangrim stood. He pulled his son up with him. The old man was surprisingly strong. His arms came around in a bear hug.
‘Dernhelm,’ he whispered. ‘My gentle, beautiful, long-lost boy.’
‘Father.’
Isangrim stepped back, let go one of Ballista’s hands, lifted the other high, turning him to face those assembled.
‘My son is returned.’ The voice of the cyning carried to the furthest reaches of the hall, out through the still-open doors to the crowd that had assembled. ‘The youngest, but far from the least of my sons. Dernhelm, the much-travelled. Dernhelm, whom the Romans call Ballista. Dernhelm, the Angle who defeated the Persians and who overthrew an emperor and took the throne of the Romans.’
While the cheering continued, Isangrim gestured for Oslac to move along, so Ballista could sit beside the throne. Ballista scooped up his helmet, placed it on his knee, tried to look impassive. The cyning remained standing.
‘My people, our allies, the Allfather has brought the atheling Dernhelm back for the coming war. Have the duelling-ground prepared. Let us see which side the gods will favour.’
A cloth, six paces by six, was spread on the level ground before the hall. Its edges were pinned down with sprigs of hazel. It was ringed with armed warriors.
The Bronding had been given full war gear. The other prisoner taken at the Nerthus ceremony helped him prepare.
One of the men assisting Morcar was bald, but Ballista recognized him as Glaum, son of Wulfmaer. Morcar had aged better than his friend. The other was very young, well short of twenty winters. It had to be Morcar’s son, Mord.
‘What are you doing here?’ There was no friendship in Oslac’s question.
‘A man has to be somewhere,’ Ballista said.
Morcar and the Bronding stood on the cloth. Each had a sword and shield.
The crowd was still with expectancy.
As was right, Morcar, as the challenger, waited for the first blow.
The Bronding leapt forward, swinging a mighty blow. It cut through the leather rim of Morcar’s shield, splitting the linden boards to near the boss. As he staggered sideways with the impact, Morcar violently twisted his shield, hoping to pull his opponent’s sword out of his hand, if not break it. The Bronding hauled his blade out and swung again. A thick wedge of wood flew from Morcar’s shield.
‘Stop! New shield!’ Morcar shouted.
Convention just held. With evident reluctance, the Bronding drew back, lowered his sword point to the cloth. A warrior took Morcar’s ruined shield, handed him a new one. Like the last, it had a red cover and a spiked metal boss.
As soon as Morcar hefted the shield, the Bronding surged in again. This time Morcar met it with his shield at a different angle. The steel merely scraped away some dyed leather and a few splinters.
The Bronding pressed home his attack. His sword moved so quickly it was as if there were three in the air. He drove Morcar this way and that. Yet every time Morcar was almost trapped in a corner, he riposted and stepped clear. Soon Morcar’s shield was so hacked he had to call for another.
Both men stood panting as Morcar’s third and final shield was brought. Some in the crowd murmured unhappily at the passivity of their champion. Others said he was letting the Bronding wear himself out. Ballista was not sure that was the case. Defending was tiring also. More likely, Morcar was playing with his opponent’s thoughts, exhausting his hope. Again and again the Bronding attacked, but he had yet to land a blow.
Morcar lifted the new red shield. The Bronding launched another full-blooded swing. It went differently this time. Morcar moved inside the blow, and past. His sword flicked out, caught the Bronding’s exposed left leg. A line of blood appeared.
If Morcar had been quicker, he could have finished it then, while his opponent’s back was unguarded. The Bronding rallied. They went at it again. Now Morcar attacked — thrusting, jabbing, cutting — working his man around the cloth. In one of the exchanges Morcar nicked the Bronding’s sword arm. When the foreigner attacked, sometimes Morcar watched the blade, did not move his feet but just swayed back out of harm’s way.
‘Rest,’ called the Bronding.
Morcar backed off.
A new shield was passed to the Bronding as they paused. He nodded. They fell to again.
The Bronding was moving heavily, but he was not done yet. He smashed a cut, rending Morcar’s shield. The Angle reeled back. His sword stayed up, but he flexed his shield arm as if it were troubling him. The Bronding saw his advantage. With renewed vigour he closed in, cutting left and right. Morcar gave ground, meeting the blows with his blade, shield arm hanging near immobile.
With skill the Bronding took a thrust on the edge; steel rang. He rolled his wrist. Morcar’s sword was forced wide, leaving his chest open for the killing blow. Before it came, as if miraculously cured, Morcar’s shield arm whipped up. The iron spike of the boss punched into the Bronding’s face. Almost too quick to follow, Morcar sank to one knee and cut the man’s thigh open to the bone.
The Bronding was down, curled in his pain and blood. Morcar stood over him.
‘Victory!’ Morcar shouted. ‘This is the will of the gods.’ He lifted his blade to the sky.
The crown roared their approval. ‘Out! Out! Out!’
A lone voice cut through the chanting. ‘Finish him!’
The noise of the crowd faltered.
Isangrim stepped on to the cloth. ‘Finish him.’
With contemptuous ease, Morcar killed the Bronding, flicked his blood from his sword. It rained on the stained, crumpled cloth.
‘The gods favour our cause,’ Isangrim said. ‘The other Bronding can take the news to Unferth.’
The cyning held up his hand to cut off the renewed celebration.
‘This will be a cruel war. It may be a long war. Let no one enter into it lightly. No move is to be made until it has been discussed by the Himlings and the eorls, and approved by me. Any man who endangers his companions, endangers us all, by acting without my sanction will be outlawed.’
The Angles accepted the prudent words of their theoden with silence.
‘Before the war council, we must return to Hlymdale, and bury the noble Heoroweard.’
The Island Of Hedinsey
Kadlin stood with Heoroweard’s family: his widow Wealtheow, his son Hathkin, his younger sister Leoba, and her own children, his nephew Aethelgar and niece Aelfwynn. It was a gentle, early summer’s day. The air smelt of recently turned soil, fresh-cut wood, and woodsmoke.