SearchCerdic glanced longingly towards the window. Out there the other boys were learning to fight, and the clatter of their wooden swords distracted him from what his master, Widsith, was saying.
Widsith banged on the bench. Cerdic jumped and looked at him guiltily.
"Were you listening!" demanded Widsith.
"Er...yes," stuttered Cerdic.
"Then repeat the words," said Widsith.
Cerdic swallowed hard, and tried to remember the saga he was supposed to be learning:
Hear!
I sing of Wael's son, Sigemund the Dragonslayer
His great fights, feats and far wanderings,
His skill with...with...
"...ash spear..." prompted Widsith.
"His skill with ash spear...shield..."
"No!" shouted Widsith, banging the bench again. "Listen: `His skill with ash spear, sword and shieldboard..."
He stopped. Cerdic's head was buried in his hands, and he was sobbing. Widsith laid his hand on Cerdic's head comfortingly.
"Why do I have to learn all this?" cried Cerdic.
"Because you have been chosen," said Widsith.
"Because of my withered leg, you mean!" said Cerdic between his sobs. "Because I'd be no good as a warrior!"
"You would have been chosen anyway," said Widsith. "You have the gift of words, and the tribe needs words just as much as it needs warriors."
Cerdic stopped crying and looked up at Widsith.
"What is it that inspires a warrior before battle?" he continued. "Words - sagas of the great warriors of long ago - like the one you are learning now. Truly words are mightier than swords. They are just as important as what your friends are learning outside!"
Cerdic looked at him doubtfully, but Widsith could see that he had cheered up a little.
"Come, learn this by heart and you will soon be ready to make up sagas of your own."
Cerdic said nothing. He was fed up with sagas. Widsith, who was a kindly man at heart, saw this and added, "perhaps we will make a start on reading the runes and fortune telling tomorrow. A skald must have many skills!"
Cerdic smiled at last. That sounded much more exciting.
* * *
But his smile faded when he went out, hopping as usual on his crutch and dragging his withered leg behind him.
"Here he comes - old grasshopper!" taunted the boys, leaving off their sword play for a moment to enjoy a different sport.
"Why don't you learn to use a sword, like us, instead of wasting your time on stories like an old woman!" one of them taunted. It was Oswulf, one of the oldest of the boys and their ringleader.
Cerdic smarted at the insult. He tried to think of a clever answer, but all that came to him was his master's words of wisdom.
"Words are mightier than swords!" he shouted.
The boys laughed.
"Shall we put it to the test!" challenged Oswulf. He picked up his wooden sword and came towards Cerdic waving it threateningly.
"Words! Words! Words!" chanted the boys.
But Cerdic did nothing except close his eyes. He just stood there, rooted to the spot with fear, waiting for the blow to come. But there was no blow. He opened his eyes to see what had happened, and there, just in front of his nose was the tip of Oswulf's sword.
"So, words are mightier are they?" sneered Oswulf.
"Yes...no...I don't know," stammered Cerdic, close to tears.
"Well perhaps this will make your mind up!" said Oswulf, pushing his sword hilt into Cerdic's face.
Cerdic winced at the sudden pain and staggered back. He was unable to move his crutch quickly enough to save himself, and fell to the ground, where he lay clutching his bloody nose and sobbing.
"Let's teach him a lesson!" shouted Oswulf.
The other boys roared their agreement and mobbed Cerdic like a pack of wolves.
"Stop!" thundered an adult voice.
It was Widsith, come just in time. When the boys saw who it was they left off instantly, for though Widsith was a skald, and an elderly one at that, there were rumours that he was a berserker - one of those who went mad in battle and fought "bare shirt".
Widsith tended Cerdic's bleeding nose and tried to cheer him up. "They are only boys, Cerdic." he said, "When they are men they will value your art and respect you as much as they do me."
Cerdic continued sobbing. "They respect you because you can fight, not because you are a skald!"
"I am no warrior, Cerdic," said Widsith, "but when every man is needed in the battle line, I will do my part."
Cerdic covered his face with his hands and wept bitterly. "That's just it!" he groaned, "I will never be able to do my part because of this leg of mine! That's why they mock me!"
Widsith took him by the shoulders and shook him.
"Listen to me, Cerdic," he said, almost roughly, "you will play your part with words, as I said this morning. There you have no handicap - indeed, you are gifted!"
"But what about those bullies outside?"
"Fear is your problem - not your leg! You have three other limbs to fight with - use those!"
And with those sharp words, Widsith left Cerdic to brood over his insults and injuries, and hopefully to think of the good advice he had been given.
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