by Merry Farmer
The leader?
… He rubs its nose and ears, seems to speak with it, then plants a foot into the stirrup and mounts.
It is a huge beast; far larger than the few stocky ponies in our village, or those which I have occasionally seen with the passing traders. But of course, such beasts are pack-animals, bred for a long day and hard work. This animal looks as much a king of its kind as does its rider. Its coat is glossy. Its head is held high as it champs at the bit, and it dances and skips, eager to be off. The bridle and saddle too, are lovely things, the leather glossy and brightly studded.
Its rider… Yes, their leader is tall and handsome; a striking man; a striking sight on his prancing mount.
How can something so beautiful be so deadly?
The Sea Wolves move so fast. Spilling onto the shore, they race over the land. Up the hillside, towards my home.
It can’t be real…
The Wolves draw ever closer. Carrying Jeffrey, I cannot reach the safety of the stockade in time. The church bell tolls and cries echo out. And so do the shouts, then the demands, that the gate be closed.
Nonetheless, I run as hard as I can, hoping that what I see, what my mind tells me is so, is not real….
My mother stands with Acca at the gate now, staring up the hill, arms outstretched, pleading with him…
… that the gate remains open just a little longer…
She is screaming to me as, at the last moment, with the Wolves a bare hundred feet away, men swing the gate closed, barring and reinforcing it against us.
And before we are seen by the invaders, I throw Jeffrey down to the ground, behind the gorse, then myself after him.
Crouching behind the bush, we watch and listen, the sounds of terror ringing out. Jeffrey turns away, hiding his face behind his knees, covering his ears with his hands.
Our men shove wives and children and the old folk into the shelter of the hall. A couple of the older lads break out from inside to join the fighting men, armed with whatever they have that will pass for a weapon.
But already, people are falling. Even before the attackers reach the stockade, their arrows are flying, cutting down my folk. Brogan drops, an arrow in his throat, blood gushing. So does Almund, the shaft piercing his chest even as, shrieking, he tries to pull it free.
The front rank of the Wolves is at work on the stockade. The villagers launch their own arrows; flight after flight, but a group of the invaders, in a move seemingly pre-arranged, raise their shields, locking them together in a continuous wall, sheltering those behind. And now, protected from our attack, they set to with their axes on the timbers.
Fire rises from the base of the gate, the crackle of burning wood carrying up to our fragile hiding place. And the smoke from our village is no longer pale and blue, but black and reeking.
In too short a time, the Wolves raise a cry, triumphant and elated, shoving at flaming planks and supports. The gate groans then crashes inwards…
… and our attackers flood in. Twenty men; heavily armed and trained, bent on destruction.
It’s horrible to see, but in a kind of mesmerised fascination, I can’t look away. The attackers swarm over our men-folk, slaughtering most, beating back the rest to the hall.
The Wolf leader rides in, his mount prancing and eager, as though it were a joyful thing, this breaching of defences. But his sword arm is already swinging, slashing out. Our men rush up, wielding their own swords and scythes and spears. I see two, no three, blows strike his mail, only to glance away.
Odi tries for the stirrups, I think trying to unhorse the Wolf leader. But armed only with a knife and wearing a loose woollen tunic, when the Wolf swings, Odi falls to his sword, his throat slashed.
Gareth is next, trampled under the hooves of the warhorse. The beast is clearly trained to its master’s work, kicking out at any who come close,
Then I see him; my father. Fighting two of them at once. They come at him from both sides, one swinging with his axe, and as my father ducks, tries to dodge, the other stabs forward with a long blade.
As he falls, I can’t help myself. In pure reflex, I stand, shrieking a warning, trying to prevent what has already come to pass.
It is useless of course. My father gasps and convulses, clutching at his side, then lies still. And with his cooling body on the ground, blood pooling in the dust, my cover is broken. Faces swing my way, eyes of blue and grey fixing on me.
The leader looks to me as though I were some game bird flushed from cover. He gestures at a nearby man, a negligent wave towards me. The warrior says something, seeming to argue, then shrugging, looking disgusted, turns my way.
Hauling my little brother to his feet, I shove him towards the woodland edge. “Run, Jeffrey. Run!”
He streams tears. “Mercia… What do I…?”
I’m gabbling at him, waving him away, back towards cover. “Run!” But Jeffrey hangs around, shifting from one foot to another.
Screeching at him, I try to make him obey me. “There’s no time. Go! Head for the woods. Get under cover. And when you can, run like the wind for the next village. Warn them. Warn our people.”
He sobs the words. “What about you?”
“Never mind. Run!”
And finally, he turns and flees, pelting towards the cover.
Will I ever see him again?
The warrior has already covered half the distance to me. Although I’m uphill of him, he seems to tower over me, striding casually, an expression of cool disregard for this small task. But he’s not holding his sword, seeming set to capture me rather than kill…
They want the women and children?
Slaves?
What would they do to me?
I am not yet a woman, but I have heard the lurid tales of atrocities committed on captive women by this race of monsters.
I risk a look backwards. Jeffrey is running, hard, as fast as his short legs will carry him. As he reaches me, the giant makes to brush past me in pursuit of my little brother, but I throw myself at him, screaming, blocking the path between the huge warrior and the small boy.
The Wolf barely looks at me, humour creasing around his eyes at the ragtag child facing him. He doesn't bother trying to deal with me, instead making to move around me. But again, I step in front of him, obstructing him as best I can.
Snorting, he brushes an arm at me, as though to swat some small buzzer. If the blow caught me, my head would be ringing, but I dodge, ducking his swing and darting behind him. He’s still moving, carried by his own momentum and I throw myself at his feet, wrapping my arms around his legs.
With a yell, he falls, landing with a jarring thump. There’s no real harm done to him on this springy turf, but his tone turns from casual and surprised to a roar of fury. Dimly, I’m aware that from below there is the sound of laughter, but as I dart a glance to the line of the forest, I see Jeffrey vanishing into the trees.
Scrabbling on all fours, I snatch at the man’s belt, grabbing his knife, tugging it free of its sheath. Blood stains the blade, long and curved, and holding it, I feel a little braver.
The Wolf grunts in alarm, leaping upright, and now his expression is anything but casual. His gaze passes over me and down the hill to his companions below, laughing and pointing. His eyes narrow and his lips whiten as, drawing his sword, he advances on me.
The knife in my hand is suddenly a puny thing, a mere spike. The Wolf’s reach is so much longer than mine. And he has the better of me in height and strength. But if I slow this man just a little, Jeffrey will be safe.
The invaders already have the village.
Will they bother about one small boy?
Perhaps…
If they think he will warn the next settlement…
Which he will…
What can I possibly do against this huge man and his terrifying sword? And even more terrifying expression…
He steps toward me, blade outstretched and I dodge, then duck, then dive, reaching with the knife in my hand. La
nding hard, I roll, both hands clasped around the hilt of the knife and I stab down as hard as I can through the leather of his right boot. My reward is a roar of outrage and pain, and the spurt of blood.
But now he grabs me at the top of my tunic, hauling me upright and away from him, before holding me to one side in a giant ham hand. I’m struggling and screaming, but the sword-point is raising.
Is this where I die?
So what’s to lose by fighting back?
Kicking out, I land my foot on his shin and he barks a protest, dropping me. But as I try to wriggle out of his range, scrambling crab-like over the grass, he grabs me again, this time by the front of my tunic. But my hands are still free. Clutching at his forearm, I sink my teeth into his flesh. Blood blooms over my tongue, trickling down my chin. A small victory, but now the sword is at my throat and I have nowhere left to go, and no way left to fight…
What am I supposed to say?
Into thy hands, I commend….
From somewhere comes a shout and the sound of hooves on turf.
Steel grazing my skin, something inside says I should be afraid, that death is coming to take me. Instead, a red tide swims behind my eyes…
BJORN
Erling is hardly covering himself in glory. Stabbed in the foot by a barely-grown girl and now dripping blood from the bite on his arm…
Who’d have thought she was a Saxon?
And all but a child…
In any case, she’s proved herself, and in the defence of that small boy she flushed off into the undergrowth.
A brother perhaps?
She has courage enough…
She should be permitted to live…
Apparently, Magni thinks much the same. Erling’s sword about to open her throat, he charges up, the sound of hooves on turf oddly loud now against the quiet of the village. “Erling! Give her to me.”
For a moment, Erling scowls and I think he will ignore our leader…
She’s made him look a fool…
But Magni barks the order. “Get after that boy before he raises the alarm. I’ll take this one.”
Giving the girl a black look, Erling puts her down and she stands, quivering as she faces up to Magni.
But it doesn’t look like the tremble of fear; more like the shudder that takes one in the heat of battle, when the blood is up. Her chin is raised, jutting, and she glares up at him, holding his eye.
Yes, a brave one…
From the saddle, Magni looks down on her. “So, girl, you’re a scrapper are you? You put up a better fight than most of your milk-sop kin.”
She shows no sign of understanding his words, but her eyes widen a little. Leaning down, Magni offers his hand. She stares, then tentatively accepts it.
He hauls her up into the saddle before him, then horse and rider take an easy walk to re-join us before he unloads her again, shoving her towards me. “Collar her and put her with the others.”
I set to binding the women and female children, Hjalli herding them back to the ship. But I leave the fighting girl until last. The one or two remaining men are being put to the sword. Gunhalf strolls through the fallen, finishing off any that still move or look as though they are feigning death.
The girl watches him, her mouth working.
The collar in my hand, “What’s your name, girl?” She shows no sign of understanding. Why would she? I slap my chest… “Bjorn…” Then point to her.
Her head hangs. “Mercia.”
Mercia…
She’s a scrawny little thing, just beginning to fill out to a woman’s shape, but she could be pretty as she gets older.
Perhaps I should claim her as part of my share? While she’s still not worth much…
I fit the iron collar to her neck then, with a jerk of my head, I gesture her to follow me.
Chapter 2
PRISONER
MERCIA
They move us along, shackled at wrist and ankle; me, some of the more attractive women and girls, a few of the younger men and older boys. All the oldsters are dead, their bodies abandoned.
Some of the corpses are unrecognisable, but I see one, familiar, lying crumpled in the mud.
Surely, they would not have killed a priest? A man of God…
But his blood lies spilled and his brains dashed across the stones in a blur of grey and red.
To one side is old Agnes, her face almost peaceful despite her gaping throat and the blood drying over her clothes. She was ancient; her knuckles swollen and her legs painful. Perhaps she was ready to meet God. But like this?
High above, ravens wheel and caw, awaiting their feast. A trader told me once that the ravens belong to Sea Wolves’ war god and that, for them, this slaughter is a sacred sacrifice.
What can I do?
Nothing?
Nothing…
The man called Bjorn turns, waving me along the path as he makes his way to the ship in great, ground-eating strides. Now that I look at him properly, he seems younger than the rest, perhaps not so much older than I am. And unlike the rest of his fair-haired people, he has red hair.
Picking up my skirts, obediently, I trot after him.
Seeing it close, the ship is intimidating; the narrow lines, the gaping dragon at the fore, painted in shades of blood and darkness. Its golden eye follows me as I am herded on board, then roughly pushed to the far end by the tall, grimly handsome butchers of my people.
One of them grunts something at me, gesturing me to sit. He looks about the same age as Bjorn and I don’t like the way his eye runs over me. Working with another man, he runs a chain through the irons at my feet, shackling me and my companions to the vessel.
The ship…
What if there is a storm?
Chained to the timbers, if the ship went down, so would I.
Are they not terrified?
But these men of the sea seem unconcerned.
Why have they taken me?
A foolish question. As if any of us did not know the fate of women claimed as prizes of war.
Where are they taking us?
Their own home?
Or to some slave market, who knows where?
That prospect appals me even more than the idea of being carried away to the land of the Sea Wolves. It’s strange how quickly the new becomes familiar. I find that I would prefer to go to the home of these known-unknown people rather than face the uncertain fate of being sold on.
The home of the Sea Wolves… They say it is cold there; a land of snow and ice. As the ship pulls away, I cast back to the soft green shores behind me.
Goodbye…
Bjorn watches me. But although his eyes are measuring, he doesn’t speak.
How best to survive?
What will earn me better than the lot of a common slave?
Huddled in the bottom of this grim vessel, its dragon ravening at the prow, so unlike the small fishing boats I am accustomed to, I have time to think.
How to survive?
Chained next to me, Wynflaed weeps and moans, hugging herself. Older than me, already a woman, what will be her lot? She’s pretty, growing to be beautiful, but as Bjorn’s glance reams her, I see nothing there but contempt.
Who survived?
Who did they take rather than slaughter?
?
Those who put up a fight but are not actually dangerous to them…
And as the red-haired warrior once again looks my way, I lift my chin and meet his eye.
No tears…
I approach our helmsman. “Magni…” Then I realise Hjalli is already talking with him. I don’t particularly care for Hjalli…
And I saw you looking at her…
…but since he is the son of our helmsman, I must be polite.
Magni turns to me, lays his hand on my shoulder. “Bjorn… I saw you fighting. You did well. Your first raid and you’ve more than earned your share.”
“Thank you, lord. I was wondering…” I hesitate, mindful of Hjalli… “… if I cou
ld claim part of that share now?”
His forehead creases. “That depends. I can hardly put you in front of other, more experienced men.”
“No, I don’t expect that. But… the girl who fought back. The one who…” I look down to hide my smile… “… who bit Erling…”
Magni holds up a palm. “If you’re asking to claim her then, no. In fact, Hjalli here also wishes to have her…”
Hjalli scowls…
“… but in fact, I’m taking her…” He looks askance at my expression… “… on behalf of Úlfar. She may be a slave, but after the fight she put up, she deserves better than to be used by whichever man takes her while she’s still too young for it.”
Hjalli breaks in. “She’s old enough now.”
Magni cocks a brow. “No, she isn’t. If she was some cowardly Saxon trash I wouldn’t argue. As it is, she’ll make a useful servant. Úlfar asked me to look out for a likely prospect. Ísleif needs some extra help.”
Hjalli’s lips press white. “And later? Or if Úlfar doesn’t want her?”
“Then…” Magni shrugs. “… we’ll see. For now, if you want a woman to warm your furs until you get yourself a wife, go find another. There’re plenty down there.” He jerks his chin to the end of the ship where our captives sit chained together. “Pick one.”
BJORN
I lose track of time in what seem like endless weeks of nothing but the sea in all its faces: calm, stormy, clear and blue, dark and turbulent. Some days the sun beats down, scorching skin and parching throats. Others, the wind snarls in from the North, gnawing at fingers and faces while we huddle together for warmth.
When the wind drops, the male captives are put to the oars, rowing for long hours. Most of the other slaves spend their time bemoaning their lot, weeping, or simply staring blankly into nothing.
What good does weeping do?
I watch. And I listen.
And I form a clearer idea of our captors.
I find I am picking up the words of the foreign tongue more easily that I expected. It’s not so alien as I thought. Setting out firstly to learn the names of the men, then I try to attach their speech to what they are doing.
