The Reluctant Berserker

By Alex Beecroft

Dark Ages England. Among the Saxons, a warrior is the highest form of human life. He dominates all, he yields to none, and if ever this mastery is taken away, his honour is taken with it.

Reluctant berserker, Wulfstan, a noble and fearsome warrior, has spent most of his life trying to hide the fact that he would love to be cherished and taken care of by someone stronger than himself.

Slight and beautiful harper, Leofgar, has the opposite problem – how can he keep the trained killers off him long enough to get them to acknowledge he’s as much of a man as any of them?

When, in a panic, Wulfstan accidentally kills a friend who is about to blurt out his secret, and Leofgar flees rather than submit to his lord’s lust, they meet on the road to the pilgrims’ shrine at Ely. Pursued by a mother’s curse and Leofgar’s vengeful lord, they must battle guilt, outlaws, and the powers of the underworld with the aid of only music and a female saint. And if they fall in love on the way, there’s still that murderous shame to overcome.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Beecroft
• Release date: Nov 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386544340

Alex Beecroft

Alex Beecroft was born in Northern Ireland during the Troubles and grew up in the wild countryside of the Peak District. Alex studied English and Philosophy before accepting employment with the Crown Court where she worked for a number of years. Now a stay-at-home mum and full time author, Alex lives with her husband and two daughters in a little village near Cambridge and tries to avoid being mistaken for a tourist. Alex is only intermittently present in the real world. She has lead a Saxon shield wall into battle, toiled as a Georgian kitchen maid, and recently taken up an 800 year old form of English folk dance, but she still hasn't learned to operate a mobile phone.

Book preview

Dedication

To Regia Anglorum, from whom I learned so much about being a Saxon. I owe almost all the worldbuilding in this novel to you.

Chapter One

Wulfstan’s doom came upon him in a music too angelic for this world. It happened like this:

A little to steerboard, Wulfstan called out as he piloted his lord’s ship, Ganet, through the shifting sandbanks outside the salt market of Uisebec. To his right slipped past the long, low coastline of the land of the East Angles. Before, behind, and to his left, the world was as white as the meat of an egg. A sky of high pale clouds met a sea coloured like milk.

That was when the breeze fell off. The steerboard creaked against the side, and the oars groaned together as they were pulled back. The wind withdrew and, in the great silence that followed, Wulfstan heard music, ghostly with distance, achingly sweet.

Was this Man’s music, enchanted by distance, or was it truly the voices of Heaven’s messengers meant to speak some word that only he might hear?

He stood breathless, listening hard for what felt like an age, and his heart thudded under his breastbone like horse’s hooves on a stone floor. No clearer understanding came, and finally he rebuked himself—God deals out men’s fates as He wills. It is not for them to know their wyrd until it has come to pass. Furtively, hiding the movement behind his cloak in case Cenred should see it and mock, he crossed himself for protection.

The gesture worked—the wind swung back, bringing with it the scent of the shore, seaweed and smoke, the blown murmur of a horde of chatting voices and the clap of wet rope on masts. They rounded the sandbank and saw ahead the harbour of Uisebec, crowded with ships, seething with folk and merry with market-day colour.

A flick of fluttering blue cloth snapped against Wulfstan’s thigh as Cenred came up beside him. The lord says I am to bring us in. You are to stand with the horses and calm them.

Cenred had a round face, smooth and guileless as a child’s, which he held before him like a shield, protecting and defending his thoughts rather than revealing them.

Son of a coward, but none himself, Cenred had need of armour against his fellows’ scorn. Wulfstan felt...not sorry for him, for that would be an insult, but a wary, tentative kinship. He too knew what it was to be, by gift of some mischief in God, that little bit too misshapen to fit his place.

Cenred was also good looking, and Wulfstan was aware enough of his own weaknesses to know he would not have smiled so readily but for the hint of wickedness in those half-veiled eyes. He allowed himself to reach out and curl his hand around Cenred’s arm in a friendly cuff of acknowledgment. Cenred’s smile broadened in return, and his eyes narrowed until they were scarcely more than slits of glimmering lapis against the white sky. As Wulfstan ran down the keelboard, to the pregnant hollow of the ship where the horses were lying, folded down and tied, it was with a red racing of blood and a tingle over his skin as though he had slicked it all over with nettle oil.

The oarsmen put their backs into the stroke. Wulfstan threw himself to his knees in the centre of the hobbled animals and leaned over the lead stallion’s neck to calm it as Ganet ran rattling onto the brown beach of loam and pebble at the very edge of high tide. Impact jarred through the ship, throwing forward many unsecured things: a seax—the single-edged knife from which the Saxons took their name—the tack of Ecgbert’s horse, and the youngest of the lady’s maids Ecgbert’s wife had brought with her.

A bright young creature with a plump, dimpled smile and the edge of a raven curl peeking out of her veil, the maid clutched at a rower to steady herself. Laughter burst forth all around when the rower seized her by the waist and murmured something ribald. Though she slapped him in the face for it, the smack was playful as a kitten’s swipe, and they both looked delighted when he let her go.

Wulfstan indulged himself long enough to sigh as he watched them—dealing with the horses requiring nothing more now the movement of the ship had ceased.

Envying him? Ecgbert’s voice startled him, made him scramble up and brush horsehair from his tunic, trying to look brave and keen and steady.

Envying her, Wulfstan thought. He straightened his shoulders and raised his eyes to around the level of Ecgbert’s moustache. My lord?

You are of an age to marry. Ecgbert’s smile was a tucked-in little thing, scarcely to be seen behind his plaited white beard. It is good that you are finally giving it some thought. He stroked the up-flip of his moustache, aligning all the hairs more neatly. In truth I’m glad to see you have the appetite. You have been so chaste since boyhood I thought I was raising a monk.

Wulfstan let go of his scabbard to fiddle with his belt buckle while he thought of a way to answer his lord that did not involve lying. Not chaste, my lord, just private.

He looked up to gauge the older man’s reaction to this. Ecgbert had been young with Wulfstan’s father, that epitome of everything a man should be. He had fostered all Wulfstan’s brothers before him and had raised Wulfstan himself for the past ten years. Wulfstan would sooner tear off his right arm than let his lord down.

Well. Ecgbert’s small smile broadened into humour. The wise man gives his enemies no cause to tattle. But I’ve never known a youth who could school himself quite so well as you. Discretion is a virtue I’ve yet to master myself.

As they spoke, servants sidled up to untie the horses’ bonds. There came the snap of a whip and the tug of a long leading rein from the shore, and with a violent surge and clatter, the first of the horses half scrabbled, half jumped over the side onto the soft wet sand.

I thought you liked my Ecgfreda. Ecgbert’s observation came sidelong, his lord turning away to watch the unloading.

Wulfstan slumped, noticed that the green linen thread of Ecgbert’s red shoes had worn to snapping where he pulled them on. He sighed again. I do, my lord.

So why are you not courting her? You have my favour.

He kept his head bowed but dared to look up through the fringe of his flame-red hair. Favour in this matter tasted just like shame. I do not have hers. I spoke of it with her, but she was wroth with me. She still is—we have not talked since.

Well, I will not force her. She should know her own mind. Yet you two were shoulder companions growing up. Always at some game together. I thought it a certain thing.

Wulfstan hunched a little more. I thought so too, but she—

Ecgbert shook his head, his tone hardening. Stand up straight, boy. For God’s sake, how many times must you be told? You are always trying to make yourself small. Stand up, take up space. You are a large man, let the world know it.

Wulfstan straightened, raising an apologetic look to his lord. Ecgbert’s expression was an interesting blend of fatherly disapproval and fondness, and Wulfstan noted with satisfaction that—when he did stand tall—the old man had to look up at him.

I would not have the world undervalue you, Ecgbert said, watching out of the corner of his eye as the slaves made all tidy in Ganet’s belly, curling the ropes, passing the travelling chests and sacks out to their fellows on the bank. He turned his face aside to watch as the Port Reeve worked his way through the crowd towards them.

Son of my friend, Ecgbert finished—a little distracted, but warm—take advantage of my wisdom, hard won, when it comes to women. If she is angry with you, you have done something terrible—

I—

Which, being a man, you are not subtle enough to understand. The first thing to do is to find out what it is, and that I will help you with. Isn’t that so, my dear?

Judith, Ecgbert’s wife, had emerged from the tent amidships as it was folded down around her, and was adjusting her wimple against the wind. She smiled at Wulfstan, though he thought it was a cooler smile than her husband’s. Always more thought, more judgment behind her eyes than ever made it out in public speech. What’s that?

We will help Wulfstan here find out what he did to make Ecgfreda angry, so that he can put it right.

Her smile gained undertones of honest amusement. Is he frightened of asking her himself? I was not aware my daughter was such a fiend, to be approached only by messenger.

Lady, she won’t speak to me, either to explain or to forgive. I cannot make reparation if I don’t know what I’ve done.

Judith shrugged the folds of her mantle back into the crooks of her elbows and linked her hands over her stomach. Yet I think you do know, she said. Or would, if you thought on it. It is not my secret to give away.

She tugged at Ecgbert’s arm. Come, my lord, here is Reeve Alfric. Let us declare ourselves and find lodging. If we don’t get to the market soon, all the bargains will be gone.

With one last look to see that all in Ganet lay lashed and secure, safe to be left in the care of the reeve’s men, Wulfstan followed Ecgbert over the side, waited for Judith to leap down and for her husband to catch her, cushioning her fall. Then he joined the household to walk in procession up the thronging streets of the town to Alfric’s great hall, where they would pass the night.

As the beach fell behind him and the empty white world was closed in by houses and workshops, the music came again—a different strain this time, martial and noble. He could almost feel it tightening his sinews, bracing up his soul. It was closer now, close enough to distinguish the joined voices of mellow harp and sharp, clean pipe. Looking over his shoulder to see who was making it, he almost stumbled on the rutted mud of the street. Cenred caught him and hauled him upright, and laughed about it all the way into the burh.

When Ecgbert and Judith’s things had been settled in private chambers, and a space assigned for each of the warriors in the hall, Judith unlocked the smallest of the chests and took out two leather pouches of coin. She kept the larger for herself and gave the smaller to her husband. Give me a couple of slaves to carry the bags, and I will leave you for the day.

We could accompany you, Wulfstan offered, still at Ecgbert’s shoulder. He had come prepared to do the office of a son.

Judith grimaced. I will be half the day haggling over the salt and the other half buying spices and Frankish wine. Neither thing being a fit occupation for warriors. Go, spend money rashly. Gamble on the horse races. Get drunk. Fight. Whatever it is that you boys do out of the sight of your womenfolk, of which you like to believe us fondly ignorant.

This was his lady in her old age, saddened by time and the suffering of life. It came to him in a flash what a sharp creature she must have been in her youth. As he followed Ecgbert out onto the streets once more, he spared a moment’s regret for the prospect of a day browsing among the market stalls. He would have enjoyed sipping new wine and running his fingers over bolts of silk brought all the way from Byzantium.

He and Ecgbert returned past Alfric’s hall and picked up Cenred and the other warriors who were leaning there in the porch. Dressed for peace, they wore neither mail nor helm, and their shields were left inside, lining the walls. No one would mistake them for lesser men even so. Tall and well fed and well muscled, they wore the best of cloth, the highest of colours. Their belts were gilded, their swords ornamented with jewels.

They walked together back down to the shore, the other youths coming behind Wulfstan, jostling and jabbing him at intervals as they would have poked at a bear to prove their courage. He took the mobbing peaceably, accustomed to it.

Wait, Ecgbert said, stopping in his tracks. A fat-bellied knarr lay on the beach beside Ganet, listing over a little on her side. Around her clustered merchants and farmers and a selection of youths from other lords’ households, vaguely recognised as allies across the battle lines. They were drawn up in a loose circle. On the sand in the centre of it, a seaman with a beaten face and a blue herringbone cloak held the leash of a young man of surpassing beauty.

If it had not been for the stubble of his hair, fallow like a new-mown wheat field, and the iron collar about his throat, Wulfstan would have sworn he was a warrior. He had the physique of a man trained to kill, shoulders heavy from bearing the mail and the linden shield, deep chested for wind enough to fight all day. The muscles had begun to pare away into slenderness for lack of use, and it gave him a half-made look, like a coltish boy. The shaved head made the nape of his neck stand out, vulnerable and exposed, and with no hair to hang forward into his face, he could not veil his fine features or his downcast eyes.

He stood very still as his owner expounded on his virtues. We captured him in Cerniu. A Welsh warrior, haughty and proud. A prince, maybe—God knows they have enough of them. As you can see, he is tamed well enough now, and broken to any man’s use. It is a shame to part with him, but at my lord’s death, his widow wishes the ship and its chattels disposed of. So come, who will give me twenty shillings for a Welsh prince to work in your stables...or at whatever task you will?

Ecgbert jerked his head, and the boys cleared him a path to the front of the crowd, Wulfstan beside him as always. I will.

The slave looked up. Wulfstan caught a glimpse of freckles scattered across elegant cheekbones, and of eyes, green as beech leaves, empty as a beech-bark cup. He shuddered within at that look. It was as though the boy were dead already—a profound resignation to whatever might come, as though despair was its own peace.

You do not wish to haggle, lord? Blue-cloak looked Ecgbert up and down. He was obviously sizing up the retinue, the jewels in Ecgbert’s sword-hilt and on his belt, the scars and creases on his face. Wulfstan prickled up like a hedgehog at the thought of this man judging his lord. A foolish old man with his best days behind him. Probably can’t satisfy his young wife and wants something more tractable to bed.

His own thoughts were unbearable to him, drove him forward, tightened his shoulders and his voice. My lord is no merchant, seafarer. If he wishes to be generous to you, why should you question it? Payment of another sort he could give you, if he wished, did you choose to question him again.

The boys were at his shoulder, Cenred on the immediate left, protecting his unshielded side. Their hands had fallen to the peace-ties about the hilts of their swords, picking at the knots that held the blades in place.

Both hands in the air, placating, the merchant stepped back, and now his own gaze was on the wormy ripples of the sand beneath his feet, and his own head bowed. A sick little smile flitted across the slave’s face.

I meant no offence, ring-giver. I would be glad of your bounty.

Ecgbert dropped a hand on Wulfstan’s shoulder as he stepped forward, and something about the quiet exhale of his breath suggested a laugh. It is right for a man to aid a widow in the time of her grief, he said. What heart would hold back at such a time? What does she mean to do with this wealth?

Cunning old bugger, Cenred whispered in Wulfstan’s ear, his voice full of the same laughter. "Now he gets the balm in bed and to act the man of God."

You don’t think he means to use the boy for... Wulfstan hissed, horrified to find that others shared his suspicion.

The soft chuckle raised the hairs on the back of his neck as it ghosted across his skin. Well, if he isn’t, he’s the only one here not thinking it.

But...a warrior? A prince?

Not a warrior now, is he? Cenred’s laughter turned in an instant into anger. If he’d not been willing to bear the dishonour, he shouldn’t have let himself be captured. Look at him standing there, meek as a maid. Even now he could be fighting back. If he ran at us, we’d give him death. No, he chooses to be a real man’s whore with every breath he takes. I don’t give dog-shit what he was before. Now, he’s a coward. I hope the old man nails him so hard he can’t walk for a month, craven little lickspittle worm.

Spit sprayed the side of Wulfstan’s face. He jerked away and wiped it, feeling besmirched. There was a shake in his fingers he hoped Cenred hadn’t seen, fruits of a strange, shrill panic under his breastbone he was surprised that no one but he could hear. That could be any one of us, if the Norsemen caught us. They’ve broken others, do you think they could not do the same to you?

She means to journey to Rome, the sailor was saying, genial now he had the coins in his palm. To make pilgrimage for the sake of her husband’s soul.

The words conjured up a different world—gold and white. The mother of God, serene and mild, and holy virgins whose maidenheads miraculously survived all the world could do to steal it. Washed clean and made generous by heaven, Wulfstan thought. Of course, Cenred is furious because he is afraid. Because no matter how he denies it, he knows this too could be him. And he would not have it so.

Then, said Ecgbert, smiling with the air of a man who has ground into the dirt all those who tried to shame him, I am all the more glad to have contributed to her weal.

He held out his hand for the leash.

The slave did not look up, but fixed his gaze on the rough rope in his new master’s hand and followed where he was tugged. They walked a little, further down the beach, away from the ships and the crowd, into the sparse dunes, where long grass hissed like snakes over tumbled stone.

So, Ecgbert laughed at last. This is the reason I am not trusted with the coin. I didn’t ask if you spoke our language. Where are you from, boy?

From Petrocstow, my lord. It was a good voice, rough around the edges as though the collar had worn it down. They taught me to speak Englisc in the boat. My name is—

I can’t get my tongue around your foreign words. You’ll be Brid from now on.

Wulfstan was watching closely, but the smooth face did not alter and the downcast eyes betrayed nothing. He had not thought his lord cruel enough to take away a man’s name on a whim, but perhaps it was not cruelty at all. Perhaps he meant to put an end to what had been the young man’s life aboard ship, to mark a new beginning. Whatever his old name, it was steeped in shame. It might be a relief to be able to put it down.

Yes, my lord.

You were on an oar?

Yes, my lord, but trusted with the sail too. I am skilled with horses and—

I have no need either of sailor or stableboy, but you may make yourself useful with Shipmaster Eadwacer while I consider what to do with you. Wulfstan?

Sir?

Take him and see to it that he’s bathed and better clothed. Eadwacer is to put him to use, but he’s not to be put with the other slaves just yet. We must hold him close for a while so he does not get any thoughts of escape.

Ecgbert pressed the rope into Wulfstan’s hand, and he closed his fingers on it, feeling accused, somehow. Behind him, Manna gave a guffaw of laughter at something Cenred had murmured, and Wulfstan felt a flash of bright certainty that they were talking about him. He set his face and tugged, and Brid came to heel like a well-trained hound.

The lads followed, but for an honour guard of two who peeled from the scrum to stand behind Ecgbert. They closed in all around, and though Brid remained utterly expressionless, passive to the point where he was almost not there at all, the stink of him gave him away—the acrid, unmistakable stink of fear.

It was Manna who shoved him first, making him stumble, catch himself awkwardly with his hands lashed behind his back and his throat jerking against the iron band. He made a small unf as his air was cut off, but his expression didn’t waver from nothingness. Bland. Infuriating.

Manna reached out, caught him by the chin and raised his face so they could all see it clearly, and now its smoothness was clearer to all as a badge of pride. It earned him a cuff around the ear. Brid staggered quite silently, righted himself, and Manna caught his face again, stepped up close. This boy wants to be in the stables. I say we fit him out with a bridle and bit, for the lord will be riding tonight.

Six of the boys to one slave, and all roared with laughter, except Wulfstan. Even Cenred joined in, though he joined in with everything, too eager to be accepted to discriminate between the group’s opinions and his own.

Leave him be. Wulfstan shoved Manna away. He was a wiry, sinewy creature without much weight—the push sent him a fair distance. Wulfstan hadn’t intended the rock that met his heel and tripped him, so that he flapped and flopped onto the dune like a beached fish, but he couldn’t have said he regretted it either. It’s not your place to interfere with the lord’s belongings. He’s under Ecgbert’s protection, and Ecgbert is a kind man and would not have his slaves abused.

Manna flushed an ugly purple and leaped to his feet. He unclenched his hand from his sword-hilt with an effort, bared his teeth. You like him! You hope when the lord’s finished with him he’ll crawl out to you. Fucking suck-up that you are.

Cenred had found his bravery enough to sober and catch at Manna’s elbow. Enough, Manna, you let your mouth run away with you. Hush now before you hurt yourself with it.

Manna’s blood was too high for retreat. He gave a bright laugh. His eyes flashed. Like that, would you—to share the same hole as your lord? Bet you’d bend over for Ecgbert too if he asked.

A great silence and a moment of disbelief, when no one in the party dared acknowledge what had been said. All Wulfstan’s tangle of emotions went away in one great and glorious burst of skin-peeling fury. He was barely aware of wrenching out of the hard grips of his friends’ restraining hands. The sound of their protests was a peeping like the voices of little birds in the back of his mind as he drove across the small space that separated them, knocked Manna’s hand away from his weapon and locked his fingers around the fiend’s throat, squeezing.

Manna’s face was clear and bright in Wulfstan’s vision. He watched and treasured every change from astonishment and regret, to fear, to panic and pain. The purple suffusing Manna’s face deepened. His tongue crept out from between his writhing lips. At last he went limp.

As Wulfstan shook him to wake him up again—for it was much less satisfying to throttle a man when he flopped like a new corpse—something smashed into the side of his face and knocked him off balance. He let go as he fell, and as he rolled to his feet, all five of the lads surrounded him in a wall of clinging hands and concerned looks.

Ecgbert ran up, shaking his white head. My back was barely turned and you are murdering each other! What is this?

He said... It was suddenly hard for Wulfstan to draw a breath. He worked his lungs like bellows but could not find air to speak.

Cenred stepped into the silence, eagerly. Manna... He touched his tongue to his lips as he looked for a less damning way to say it, but found none. Said that Wulfstan would welcome...a man’s attentions. A hand-flip and a quick rush to exclaim, It wasn’t an accusation. He didn’t mean it. It was only an insult, intended to anger, and in that it succeeded better than he hoped. Wulfstan was furious. We couldn’t stop him.

Does Manna breathe yet? Ecgbert asked, and when Cenred knelt at his side, brought his cheek to the open mouth and nodded, Ecgbert frowned and nudged the fallen youth with his foot, ungently. "One day many of you youths will be men. Until that day, the wisdom of God continues to winnow out the fools and

Reviews for The Reluctant Berserker

[L'eau · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A great story of personal trials and tribulations to find and accept oneself. Though I am atheist myself, I can understand through the storyteller why people turn to religion for answers.