The Warrior with the Pierced Heart

by Chris Bishop

  THE WARRIOR

  WITH THE

  PIERCED

  HEART

  Also by

  Chris Bishop

  The Shadow of the Raven Series:

  Blood and Destiny

  The Final Reckoning

  THE WARRIOR

  WITH THE

  PIERCED

  HEART

  CHRIS BISHOP

  Published by RedDoor

  www.reddoorpublishing.com

  © 2018 Chris Bishop

  The right of Chris Bishop to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Cover design: Patrick Knowles

  www.patrickknowlesdesign.com

  Map design: Joey Everett

  Typesetting: Tutis Innovative E-Solutions Pte. Ltd

  For James and Abi

  A glossary of some of the terms used in this story can be found at the back of the book

  Our longest journey on this earth is from the cradle to the grave

  Fools and heroes complete it soonest

  Prelude

  Must my conscience be burdened for ever by all that transpired that first day after we left Chippenham? Am I to be blamed for all those who perished simply because I did as I was ordered? If so, then I must crave forgiveness even though I contend that I was not at fault – my only sin was one of undue haste and that I’ve freely acknowledged before God. Even though I might well have been counted among the number of those who were slain that fateful day, all that occurred still weighs heavy on my soul and thus I would now relate my account of those events – and all that followed – and will do so as faithfully as my memory allows.

  You will recall that I, Matthew, christened Edward, third born son of the noble Saxon Edwulf, had forsaken my commitment to the Holy Church and declined the chance to become a warrior. Lord Alfred, in recognition of all I’d endured and achieved on his behalf, then offered to let me serve at his court as he sought to secure and restore his kingdom. He even agreed not to oppose my marriage to Emelda, the girl I loved, even though she was, in his eyes and that of many others, both a whore and the daughter of a traitor.

  My first mission was to march ahead of Alfred’s army and prepare for his triumphant entry into Exeter to mark his great victory at Edington. Thus, with an escort of a dozen men together with Edmund, the boy I’d offered to adopt and whose father my brother had slain, I set off across our still troubled land knowing full well that bands of restless Vikings still roamed free, armed and intent on vengeance. Even so, it should have been a journey of just five or perhaps six days but, as I was to find to my cost, in life the road you’re given to travel is seldom what you wish for – and never what you expect.

  Chapter One

  Even as we left Chippenham things did not bode well for our journey. One member of my escort was unwell and had to turn back, little knowing that the pains in his belly would serve to save his life. The weather then turned against us so that we struggled through the wind and rain until forced to seek shelter, thereby losing several hours of precious daylight. Little wonder then that when I saw the chance to make up lost time I was tempted to take it.

  Perhaps I should have known better than to make haste through such hostile terrain but I was far from being reckless. I sought only to ensure that we reached Exeter in time so, rather than skirt around the forest when we reached it, I ordered my men to follow a trail which led directly through it. The trail was wide with a small stream running beside it and trees steeped high on either side. I knew that these offered the perfect cover for an ambush and was prudent enough to order my men to keep their rank and walk side by side, each of them raising a shield so as to offer protection from both flanks. As Edmund carried no shield I gave him mine then shared the cover of those behind me, walking with them to make a less obvious target.

  At first everything seemed as it should. There was no sign of any Vikings and I knew that such a large group of armed men had nothing to fear from robbers. Even so, we remained wary as we pushed on hard for the rest of that day hoping not to have to make our camp for the night whilst still within the forest. Perhaps in our haste we grew careless or perhaps we were just unlucky. Either way, we walked into the Viking trap like a linnet flying straight into the talons of an eagle.

  It was Edmund’s young eyes which saw them first and he at once drew his sword and raised it as high above his head as he could manage. I was not sure what had riled the boy but then caught sight of a glint of light as the rays of the setting sun struck the brightly burnished blade of a sword or perhaps a spearhead. I cannot say which but, like Edmund, I recognised at once what it meant. I turned to give the order to close up, but even before I could speak I was struck by an arrow which took me full in the chest. For a moment I remained standing, shocked by the sudden pain and by the sheer force of the strike. Then I staggered a few paces before falling, stunned and helpless. Although desperate to get up and relay my orders I found that I couldn’t move for I was pinned to the ground like a beetle stranded on its back.

  Had I breath enough to shout anything it would have been for the others to save themselves. In truth, there was nothing they could do to aid me, and, in any event, they reacted exactly as they were trained to do, turning to defend themselves back to back with their shields raised and their spears poised.

  Thereafter all I could hear was the dreadful din of battle. I guessed that the Vikings had come down upon us in force. Men were shouting and calling as they locked in combat, some screaming in fear or from whatever madness they find in battle whilst others acknowledged their wounds with groans or shrill cries of pain and anguish. As I listened to all this I was surprised not to feel more pain but then recalled being told that the full agony of death comes only as the end draws nigh – as if some last, dreadful spasm is needed to force the soul to actually leave the body.

  With my hand, I reached up and found the shaft of the arrow. I couldn’t see it clearly as my vision was blurred but I could feel it well enough. There was blood from the wound but not as much as I expected, the arrow having blocked the flow of it. Even so, I judged that the arrowhead was embedded deeply enough, though I could not be sure exactly how far as part of the shaft had broken when I fell. From all I could tell it had pierced my heart or was so close to it as to make no difference; death would come as soon as it was pulled from my chest, or sooner. Certain that I could not survive the wound, I was tempted to pull it free myself and thereby hasten any final agony and be done with it; but to take my own life thus was against my Christian creed. In deference to my former calling as a novice monk I therefore lay back and prepared to endure what I was sure would follow.

  During all that time the battle raged around me. I desperately wanted to see how my men fared but all I knew was that which I could hear. There was little comfort in that. Their screams seemed to echo from the trees and I knew that with such numbers set against them they would all be slain or taken soon enough. Even as I listened I kept seeing again that image of young Edmund with his sword held high and I prayed he would be spared even though I knew it was a futile hope; surely none would survive the blood fest which would follow such a crazed attack.

  It was then, in what I thought to be my final moments, that my spirit seemed to leave my body. I found myself floating over t
he frenzied battle and looking down upon the slaughter.

  What I saw saddened me beyond words, as my men were being slain and butchered. Like me, two of them had fallen to arrows as the Vikings attacked and they also lay dead or dying whilst the rest fought back against overwhelming odds. The Viking warriors numbered perhaps thirty or more and even having taken so few casualties seemed inclined to show no mercy. For them it was about vengeance, not stealing our supplies or looking for plunder, therefore only blood would serve to satisfy their cravings. Having split my small force, they had only to run the few survivors to ground to complete their slaughter. I watched as a man named Eagbert, whom I had chosen personally for the mission, ran towards the cover of the trees but was caught and skewered by spears from two sides at once. As he fell to his knees they twisted the shafts to increase his pain. Athelstan, another fine warrior, was slain with an axe blow to his forehead which all but cleaved his skull in two, whilst his brother, Aethelred, had been strung up against a tree and was being disembowelled, screaming as they pulled the entrails from his body.

  I was helpless to assist but watched as the Viking warriors made themselves busy probing the bodies of the fallen with their swords and spear points to make certain that none still lived. Then I noticed that young Edmund had indeed been spared. I was at once grateful for that small mercy and could only assume that he had perhaps been recognised by one of his Viking kin.

  Still looking down on them, I watched as the Vikings then started to strip the bodies, taking jewellery, weapons and anything else worth stealing. In my case they roughly turned my body over and removed my still sheathed sword ‒ the one Edwin had given me and which had once belonged to our beloved father. They also took my birth ring, my gold crucifix and my purse before stripping away my fleece jerkin and my shoes to leave me naked but for my undershirt and leggings. They would have taken all except that my shirt had been soiled by blood and the leggings by the fact that I’d loosened my bowels as I fell.

  I recall looking down on two men who were standing over me at that point, but they didn’t finish me. Either they thought me dead already or reckoned that I couldn’t hope to survive such a dreadful wound and would die more slowly if left for it to take its course. Instead, they kicked my ribs then spat in my face before leaving me to my fate.

  * * * * *

  I cannot now say how much of what I recall after that is true. Possibly it was just a dream or a manifestation of my tortured mind yet, if pressed, I would swear that I was engulfed in a pool of utter darkness through which I seemed to swim as though in the deep dark waters of a lake at night. There I saw the faces of many men I recognised but knew to have died, some of them many years before. Edwin was among them, as was my father, their arms waving as if to welcome me. I moved towards them, struggling to pull myself through the darkness, but, as I drew closer, I realised that they were not beckoning me as I’d thought, rather they were ushering me away, imploring me to turn back.

  After that I seemed to wake. My limbs had grown cold and numb by then but the pain in my chest was much more intense. I shivered and convulsed in a way I’d seen dying men do and wondered how long it would take for me to die. I hoped it would be soon as all was quiet by then and I was probably the only one still living, the Vikings having gathered up their spoil and gone. Next would come the crows and the wolves and the other wild beasts of the forest intent upon feeding on the corpses which were still strewn across the battlefield. To be taken thus whilst still alive would test my faith to the limit. It was a terrible way to die and I had the means to avoid it by simply pulling the arrow from my chest.

  As I lay there I recall that I could hear my own breathing, which was rasped and hoarse, sounding like a chain being drawn across a pebbled courtyard. I felt again for the shaft of the arrow and calmed myself when I found it, certain that when removed it would rip my heart from my breast so that death would then be instant. Thus reassured, I uttered a few short prayers before closing my eyes and prepared to surrender myself to God.

  * * * * *

  I awoke to find myself in a very strange place. It was not at all as I imagined either heaven or hell to be. In fact I gradually began to realise that it was nothing more than a cavern, open wide at the front and dimly lit with candles. There were many jars and pots wedged on to makeshift shelves formed within the fissures of the rock and others which had been placed upon the ground, several of them stacked one on top of the other. I was laying on a small cot, naked but covered with a single fur and with my head rested on a soft pillow that smelled of wild flowers, herbs and fresh cut bracken. I looked around and although too weak to move, gradually realised that I was not alone. My vision was still too blurred to see clearly beyond the fact that the person who was with me was a woman.

  ‘W-where a-am I?’ I managed, my voice not much more than a whisper as I struggled even to breathe.

  She seemed to hear me and came across to feel my brow with her hand. ‘You’re with one who would help you,’ she said softly.

  I looked at her with eyes half closed. As such I could not make out her features.

  ‘I am called Ingar,’ she said as if knowing what I wanted to ask. ‘I’m a healer and will restore you if you’ll let me.’

  As I stared up at her I realised that although still in pain, it was no longer quite as intense as it had been. ‘H-how…?’ I tried to ask, my voice failing before I could finish.

  ‘Try to recall for yourself all that which has befallen you,’ she urged. ‘That’s the only way you will fully restore your mind as once it was.’

  As I thought back I did seem to remember a hooded figure who’d appeared from the darkness and gathered up what remained of me. ‘The d-demon!’ I blurted out, so terrified at the prospect that I reached out and grasped her wrist tightly with my hand.

  She laughed aloud. ‘There are no demons in this forest,’ she assured me. ‘Spirits perhaps, though all of them benevolent and kind. The man you saw was as mortal as you are and no more a sinner than any other. He meant you no harm but found you and gathered you on to a litter then brought you here to me.’

  I realised that made more sense than my being carried off by demons and such like. ‘B-but I d-died…’ I stammered.

  ‘Perhaps you did,’ she said softly. ‘Perhaps you died but the Gods saw fit to send you back to us. But we shall speak more of that when you’re well.’

  I reached up to touch the arrow as if to check it was still there, then shook my head thinking that if she meant to remove it I needed first to make my peace with God.

  Once more she seemed to know what I was thinking. ‘You must trust me,’ she said. ‘I have already given you something for your pain, but we must act before the wound festers.’ So saying, she lit a small taper which was set in wax and floated in a bowl of clear liquid. She held it just above my chest and using her hand, wafted the fumes towards me. ‘Breathe deeply,’ she urged. ‘Let the vapours take their course.’

  ‘But this…this is p-pagan c-craft!’ I said accusingly, then tried to push the bowl aside. As I did so another spasm of pain shot through my body. ‘My God w-will not c-countenance t-this!’ I protested, grimacing though, by then, too weak to stop her.

  She placed her hand on my brow once more. ‘Healing has no borders,’ she said calmly. ‘It is not confined to one God or another and my ways are those of the earth. They are the old ways, as much needed now as they ever were.’

  ‘W-what are y-you?’ I demanded, trying without success to raise myself up as a strange feeling of helplessness seemed to engulf me.

  ‘As I told you, I am a healer as was my mother before me and her mother before that. I am neither a pagan nor a witch; I simply have the gift of the knowledge which was once shared by all. You must trust me in this, otherwise you will surely die before your time. And if you do that then you should know that your soul will never rest.’

  I stared at the bowl, not sure what I should do but knowing that already the fumes were having an effect, making
me feel distant and drowsy.

  ‘Breathe deeply,’ she urged again. ‘For we must make all haste before your flesh cleaves to the shaft. Once it does the arrow cannot be removed cleanly.’

  I had no choice but to do as she instructed for my will was no longer my own. As I lay my head back against the pillow I began to feel completely at ease as the fumes, which had a slightly sweet, almost sickly smell about them, seemed to fill my head and soothe my whole being. Then I began to drift into a strange trance during which, although awake, I felt an emptiness I can scarce explain. It was as though everything I saw was happening to someone else. Thus at ease, I watched as Ingar gently bathed the wound to cleanse it. Then, rubbing her hands together to warm them, she gently cupped them around the shaft of the arrow where it had entered my chest. As she closed her eyes she seemed to fall into a deep and intense contemplation before slowly but gently easing the arrow free using just her thumbs, stopping every few moments as if to rest. All I felt at that point was the intense heat from her hands as I watched as the arrow seemed to rise almost of its own accord from my chest until, at last, it was fully withdrawn.

  When it was done she checked the bone arrowhead to ensure no splinters had been left within, then she wiped away the blood from my chest before applying some sort of balm. That done, she sealed the wound with beeswax, firmly pressing it into the hole made by the arrow before allowing me to fall into a deep and much-needed sleep.

  Chapter Two

  I cannot say how long I slept though I recall a few waking moments during which I watched this strange woman as she went about her work. She was certainly very striking to look at, being tall and slender and with long red hair that reached almost to her waist. Unlike most women she made no attempt to conceal it with a cap, nor even a shawl, but rather she let it hang loose and free. She wore a long white shift which was tied at the waist with a girdle on which had been embroidered the shape of many serpents, all of them entwined so that it was hard to tell where one began and another ended. She also wore a thin but richly patterned torc around her neck that I took to be of gold. All this I noticed between fitful bouts of sleep during which I endured many terrible dreams about all the men who had died on my account. Often I would wake sweating and full of remorse, sometimes even weeping but, mercifully, on such occasions Ingar never allowed me to remain awake for long before wafting yet more of her soothing vapours towards me.