by M J Porter
The Last King
M J Porter
Copyright © 2020 M J Porter
Copyright notice
Porter, M J The Last King
Copyright ©2020, Porter, M J Amazon Edition
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
Cover design by MJ Porter
Cover image by © 134992944 Tomert Dreamstime.com
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Historical Notes
Cast of Characters
Meet the Author
Acknowledgement
Prologue
Summer AD874
My hands are bound too tightly. I’ve told the fuckers that, but they’ve ignored every word I’ve said since my capture.
My wrists, I know, are red-raw from trying to work my hands loose. The bastard who tied me up did far too good a job.
And yet I’m tied to the horse more by luck than any great skill. It seems they don’t mind if I fall off, as long as my damn hands don’t come untied.
It’s about how it looks, I know that, and yet I’m fucking furious all the same.
Ahead, the settlement of Repton is coming into view far too quickly for my liking. Not that I like any of this. That emotion couldn’t be further from what I’m experiencing right now.
Inside my trews, my legs are slick from trying to grip the damn horse’s sides. And it’s not even a bad horse, but without my hands on the rein, I can only use my knees, and he seems particularly stubborn about taking such half-hearted commands.
He’s a fucking bastard as well.
I’d use my boots, but they’ve been taken from me, and my heels lack the impact they need to convince the damn brut to follow my instructions.
The warriors who escort me are dour-faced and sheeted in their battle gear, complete with helms, and weapons close to hand.
I’ve tired myself out trying to talk to them, and now I await my fate. I hope it won’t be long in coming.
In the far distance, I can see the sails on the ships as they bob on the River Trent that the Raiders have used to infiltrate to the heart of Mercia. They flash in all shades of colour, from bleached white to vibrant red, a reminder that the four men I’m about to face are allies by chance, and not by choice.
If only I could exploit that.
Beneath me, the horse stumbles, and a cry rips from my throat, fearing I’ll fall and land head first on the hard-packed earth we travel over.
The summer has been hot, the threat of drought a persistent problem, although so far the crops have survived. The people will be fed come the winter. I’m not sure that I’ll be here to see it.
I angrily shake off a hand on my shoulder that attempts to right me, aware that the fingers bite too deep for it to be a kindness.
Hard eyes greet mine, and I refuse to offer any thanks, even a muffled one. I refuse to even think it.
I do not like this. Not at all.
The church at Repton, St Wystan’s, houses the Mercian royal dead. I hope I won’t soon become an addition.
It’s not a huge settlement, but at the moment it stretches long beyond the splattering of defences and canvasses crammed with the Raiders, that spill beyond the makeshift ditch that now surrounds the church. There are thousands of them, and the jeering has only just begun.
They sent three hundred and more men to bring me to Repton. It was supposed to be a peaceful endeavour, but I ensured it was none of those things.
Now they bring me, bound and gagged, my tongue stuck to the linen rag in my mouth, and if I could, I’d kill the fucking lot of them.
My escort raises their heads, still helmed in iron, daubed black to look even more menacing, and with leather encasing almost all of their bodies. Only a flicker of flesh shows here and there, and mostly where chinstraps hold helms in place. They look fearful, but take the acclaim with heads held high, as though it’s all to be expected.
The fuckers.
A gloved hand reaches over and grips the harness of my horse. I refuse to meet the eyes that belong to the hand. I do prepare for my horse to come to a halt at the barricade that blocks the entrance to the interior of Repton. Many warriors watch our progress with suspicious eyes.
Smoke erupts from the fires behind us, but inside Repton, only three tendrils of smoke drift toward the sky, one from the monastery, one from the church, and I would suspect the third from a forge where a blacksmith labours to keep the enemy in the weapons they require.
“Jarl Sigurd,” the voice of the gate warden speaks Danish, but I understand the intent all the same. I’ve been listening to the Raiders for almost all of my adult life. “I see you’ve found him. The other jarls were becoming concerned.” I don’t hear the rest of the conversation, my eyes raking in the scene in Repton itself.
Few people are walking about, but it’s early, daybreak a myriad selection of oranges and mauves on the distant horizon behind me. I stare into the darkness of the night not yet touched by the sun, and I don’t like what I see. Not at all.
My heart pounds in my chest, my breath coming shallow around the rag in my mouth. I wish it hadn’t been needed. I feel my head pounding, my breath growing ragged, and then my horse lurches forward and once more, a hand reaches to steady me in the saddle. Fuckers. Maybe I would rather fall here, splinter my head on the well-trodden ground and never know anything ever again.
But I’m not given the option, and then I’m through the barricade, and being forced from my horse by eager hands, their breath too hot on my face.
I wince. My eyes bulge, and I start to choke.
In one swift movement, the rag is ripped from my mouth, and liberal water poured into my parched mouth. I swallow with the hunger of a starving man, beckoning for more, dismayed when the rag is once more thrust into place, and I’m being led to the next set of defences.
This one includes the ancient church, beneath which the royal families of Mercia have buried their dead for centuries. More warriors stand guard here, similar to those who escort me. They don’t have helms, and I can clearly see eyes, moustaches, beards and the inkings that mark them as Raiders and not Mercians.
Fucking bastards.
There are more derisive cries from them as they scamper to open the wooden door that allows me inside the most heavily protected area of the compound. There’ll be no escape once I’m inside, and I struggle against my bonds again, uncaring of the fact that blood drips down my fingers, and that each movement is agony.
Two hands on my shoulder force me through the open door, my feet walking over the rough terrain before finding the smoothness of well-worn stone. Bastard cold stone as well.
I shiver, the hands lingering on my shoulders for too long. I think to dislodge them off, but what’s the point?
The interior
of the church is dark, and only a handful of candles blaze where the altar stands. There are no priests and no monks. I bow my head, mourning their loss.
All of my escort crowd into the church. I’m pushed deeper and deeper inside, blinking to try and acclimatise my eyes to the half-dark. The scratch of leather boots on the stone almost makes me wince, as does the vast quantity of weaponry on show, on the weapons belt’s of my guards, and in a holy church no less.
It’s not fucking right, and I’m not even overly religious. But there’s no respect, and that boils me again.
Rough hands clamp over my tied hands, and I wince at the touch. If I wasn’t gagged, I’d had cried out in pain. Fuck. I mustn’t appear weak, even here, and even as surrounded by the blank faces of the warriors as I am.
More and more warriors surge into the church, seeming to come from openings I didn’t even know existed, and not just from the main door I’ve travelled through.
The men, sodden with sleep and no doubt ale as well, barely perk up at the sight of their much-longed-for prisoner. I hear mumbled comments, as I swivel my head around, trying to see all that I can.
There are shitting hundreds of Raiders, all wearing similar equipment. These, I deduce, must be the sworn men of the four jarls of Repton. Jarl Guthrum, Jarl Oscetel, Jarl Anwend and Jarl Halfdan, brother of the Ivarr who caused so many problems for the Wessex kings before his death.
I watch all of the men, making a note of how they line up, as though used to such summonings and wait, expectantly.
A large space remains around me, and my abductees despite those coming to witness my humiliation. It’s as though none of the others wishes to get too close to Jarl Sigurd and his men. I wonder then what sort of reputation the bastard has? Maybe he’s a mean fighter, a terrible drunk or just a bloodthirsty bastard known for being cruel to the men who take him as their master.
I’ll never know. Not now.
A hush falls.
In the distance, I can hear strident footsteps over the stone floor. From the door leading into the area between the church and the River Trent where the ships are moored, four men emerge.
They’re all shapes and sizes, the lead a large man, a wicked scar gleaming in the suddenly growing candlelight as more and more flames spring up, as though lighting the path for him. I take him to be Jarl Halfdan. He looks as mean as his reputation. That he comes without his byrnie or weapons speaks of a cocky fucker. The Raiders never lack for stones.
Behind him comes a smaller man. I know him to be Jarl Anwend, although he doesn’t know me. Surprised eyes rake me in from behind a long nose, and elongated chin. Not an attractive man, but he seems to make up for that with his warriors build Here’s a man who can fight, and probably very well. I’m not surprised to find his weapons belt in place.
He can both fight and has learned to plan for all eventualities. I might have respected him had we met elsewhere.
Two men follow him, and I don’t know which is Guthrum and which Oscetel. They could almost be brothers. They share many of the same features and walk like men who know the reach of their influence and power. Yet, they follow the two other jarls, and I think that must mean they’re less powerful. At least, here, in the strange little collective they’ve decided upon to rule Repton.
I’m shuffled forward by booted feet, hands on my shoulders, one digging in far too deeply, as though I’m their anchor and not vice versa.
A silence falls as the Raider bastards seek chairs and settle at the front of the church. It affronts me, once more, to see such men when a priest should stand there, wearing only his holy robes, his hands raised to praise God.
Jarls Guthrum and Oscetel mirror Halfdan in coming unarmed. Cocky arseholes.
Although I reconsider, there are near enough a hundred armed men in the church. Perhaps they’re right to rely on them for protection.
Candles have been lit behind the backs of the jarls, and a fire blazes on the floor. I’d not noticed it before. Fuckers. The church shouldn’t have had a fire in it, and it accounts for the thick air. I can almost taste it rather than smell it. For a moment the stench fills my nose, and I think I’ll choke again, only then I’m distracted from my panic.
“Jarl Sigurd,” it’s Halfdan who speaks. His voice is rich and commanding, and again, I understand him even though he speaks Danish.
Jarl Sigurd, now standing close enough to me that I can smell him, inclines his head.
“Jarls, I have your prisoner for you.” If the accent is less thick, and the words muffled, I’m sure that everyone will blame the swollen chin and cheeks that Jarl Sigurd has earned himself in capturing me.
I wait, as does the entire church, expectant eyes on Jarl Halfdan as he gazes at me.
“Jarl Anwend, bring forth your son, I would know if this man is truly Lord Coelwulf. He certainly doesn’t look the part.”
I bristle at the words, even though I anticipate them.
A youth I know to be Anwend’s son rushes forward to stand by his father, an awed expression on his face as he looks from Jarl Sigurd to me.
“Yes, yes, that’s him,” Anwend Anwendsson splutters in Danish. The tension in my shoulders doesn’t abate, not one bit, because someone else is being thrust through the crowd at the instigation of Jarl Halfdan.
“Fuck,” my head all but explodes, because I can’t get the word beyond the rag.
Goda, beaten and bloodied, his head hanging at a strange angle, turns pain-filled eyes my way, and startles, horror on his bruised face.
“Yes, it must be, take him away.” Jarl Halfdan watches Goda’s reaction carefully and dismisses him as quickly as he’s had him brought before him. I try to reassure Goda with my eyes, but I know I can’t convey everything he needs to know.
Two large men drag Goda from the hall. His eyes never leave mine. The black-clad warrior at my side stiffens, his stance no longer as casual as it should be.
I can’t even hiss at him because of the rag in my mouth and the hundreds of eyes that watch everything I do.
“So Lord Coelwulf, you have, at last, accepted my invitation to join me in Repton.”
This isn’t my idea of an invitation, but I’m powerless to say anything. Not bound and gagged as I am.
“I expected someone with better clothes,” Jarl Halfdan laughs as he speaks, the rest of the warriors in the hall joining in, for all the jarl taunts me in Danish.
I can’t reply, and he doesn’t expect one.
“It appears that you don’t wish to willingly pledge your oath to the new rulers of Mercia. We had, obviously, expected some resentment.” Jarl Halfdan has switched to English, perhaps worrying that I won’t understand him. I need only look at his eyes to understand his fucking intent.
“We allowed King Burgred to leave here, go to Rome to live out the last of his days,” his tone is filled with false compassion, and I struggle against my bonds, for all I’ve come to hate King Burgred.
“But of course, the agreement could only be reached after he’d informed us of all who might object to the change in …. leadership. Your name was offered immediately. I can see I should have sent Jarl Sigurd to retrieve you first of all. My mistake,” Jarl Halfdan speaks as though he’s the king here, and I can see unease on Jarl Anwend’s face. His son speaks frantically into his ear, and I curse.
I should have realised the lad would be here.
Yet Jarl Anwend holds his tongue, uncertainty on his ugly face. Perhaps he’s pleased he came armed to this impromptu meeting.
“Now, the choice is yours. You can still pledge your oath to my fellow jarls and I, or we can simply end your life. I’d sooner the latter. I don’t believe you’ll be a good ally after all, and if you’re here, then I imagine your men are dead, and that means you’re the lord of no one and fuck all.”
I incline my head, as though accepting the point. I can’t reply, and the unease amongst the men, who captured me, seems to prove the point as well. What more should I say?
“So what will it be the
n?” Jarl Halfdan laughs, sitting forward eagerly on his chair. He flicks his eyes over the other jarls he says he rules with, but who’ve not been consulted before he speaks.
I remain still. I want to rip my bound hands free and grip them tightly around Jarl Halfdan’s throat, but I can’t. I feel small and insignificant, my hands covered in blood that I’ve spilt trying to fight my way free.
I don’t fucking like it, not at all.
“As you will,” Jarl Halfdan leans back, a satisfied grin on his face.
“We should do this immediately,” he exclaims, standing, as though about to take a sword and swipe my head from my shoulders without further thought. Only then he pauses, glancing at Jarl Sigurd and the black-clad warriors who surround me.
“You found him. You shall have the honour, for exhibiting such restraint until now. Jarl Halfdan nods to himself, pleased with the solution he’s proposed.
I turn aside from him, instead taking in the interior of the church, and looking for a chance to escape, even now. I count, in my head, the number of enemies arranged against me, and I begin to appreciate just how overwhelming the odds are.
There’s a flurry of activity around me, men pushed aside, and others coming closer, as though to get the chance to see me, before my death.
I would grin at them all, and show them my bloodied teeth, but the fucking rag is still in my mouth.
Do they fear me so much that they must kill me both bound and gagged? Is my reputation really so massive?
I hope so.
Yet my guard remains close, fending off those who become too inquisitive none too gently. I’m theirs, and they mean to ensure everyone knows that.
Leering faces swim in and out of my vision, and I stand tall, despite my appearance. I’m a Mercian warrior, a man of royal birth, a warrior who’s fought all his life for Mercian independence, both from Wessex and from the Raiders. While I face my death, I’ll show them what that means. I don’t believe they understand at all what it means to be Mercian.
Too soon, the Raiders are forced back, as Jarl Sigurd approaches me with a sharp blade in his gloved hands, a small smirk on his tight face, his blond moustache gleaming in the reflected glow from the fire.
