He struck his son across the side of his head, hard enough to send him reeling, stumbling sideways so that he almost fell over a stool. How Orm managed to stay on his feet, I don’t know, but he did. His ear was bleeding where I guessed Skalpi’s ring had cut him, blood streaming down his face, dripping on to the rushes and the straw. He put a hand to his cheek, and his fingers and palm came away smeared red, and he just looked at them, bewildered, his mouth hanging dumbly open like he didn’t understand what had happened, like he couldn’t believe what his father had done.
‘You dare disrespect me?’ Skalpi roared. ‘You don’t know what I’ve given for this kingdom, for my people. I’ve marched until my feet were raw and bloody. I’ve stood in the shield wall with Earl Siward against the Scots, in fog and hail, wind and snow, my fingers so stiff with cold that afterwards I couldn’t make them let go of my spear haft. I’ve killed more men than you’ve winters to your name. I’ve done things I hoped I’d never have to do, seen horrors you wouldn’t believe if I told you. I’ve done more than you ever will, and I did it all to defend these lands, you ingrate. These lands, which our family has held by charter right since the days of my father and his father, so that you and your brother might in turn inherit them from me some day. Do you hear me?’
That’s what he said, more or less, while Orm simply stared at him. For once he had nothing to say.
‘Next time you think about accusing me of faint-heartedness, remember that,’ said Skalpi, then went out, without finishing his meal, without as much as another word either to Orm or to me, as if in his anger he’d forgotten I was there as well.
Maybe part of the reason he was angry was that he believed Orm was right, even if he didn’t want to admit it. He might have been nearing fifty and as far as I knew hadn’t lifted a blade or donned byrnie or helmet in years. He certainly hadn’t in the months I’d known him. In spite of that, I think he felt he should have been there, riding with Eadgar, fighting against the foreigners, doing what he could to defend the land he loved, the land in which he had grown up. The one thing that gave him hope was that the ?theling had escaped the battle and probably still lived. As long as he did, the remaining rebels, the ones who’d survived Eoferwic, had someone to rally around.
Those were strange times. All that anyone talked about, in the fields or the hall or the yard or the pigpens, was the war against the foreigners. Whenever more news came our way, Skalpi would summon ?lfric to consult with him as to what he should do. There was great excitement but at the same time great uncertainty, because no one knew what the Normans would do next. King Wilelm himself had gone back south to put down risings elsewhere, but he’d left behind even more men to occupy Eoferwic and the surrounding country. They were seizing manors close to the city in reprisal for the rebellion, and we heard of scouting parties riding north into St Cuthbert’s land to try to root Eadgar out. We knew they hadn’t succeeded, though, because just after midsummer a man arrived at Heldeby, sent by the ?theling himself.
He came alone, arriving one bright morning. He rode a white horse, and not some old nag but a stallion, well bred and spirited. Weeks of dust and dirt caked his shoes and his cloak and his trews, which were full of holes, some of them stitched back up and others not. By the state of him he looked poor, but his clothing was fine, or at least it had been at one time. I remember thinking that his tunic must once have been reddish in colour, although it had faded to a sort of mud-brown, and it was embroidered at the cuffs and the neck and hem and along the sleeves, but all the threads were coming loose. He was about the same age as you, Beorn, or maybe a bit older. It was hard to tell; his face was drawn and he had dark pouches under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept properly in several days.