The Last King

by M J Porter

  Rudolf’s patience, cunning and deceit, far outweighs mine. Soon, he’s going to be challenging to contain.

  “In the reign of King Wigstan, I learned the true nature of being a warrior.” Damn the shitting fool. His riddles are unbecoming in one so damn, bloody old. That he enjoys my frustration only adds to it.

  “Keen for their death, these lot. They aren’t always,” Icel’s voice rumbles. He’s so big that if my eyes were closed when he speaks, I’d think he was a troll from the legends and not a man at all.

  “They always are. I would have thought they’d have learned not to take on the Mercians by now. There’s never any guarantee of victory for them. And if it’s us they encounter, then there’s no chance of victory at all.” Icel continues to comment on our success, his voice showing neither pleasure nor dismay at such an attack.

  “I think we need to build on your reputation. This lot almost laughed when they saw us. I’ll not have it.”

  It’s Edmund who speaks, his voice querulous as he slumps to the ground beside me. I look behind him, but I see no sign of the man he was supposed to bring to me from the field ditch. Edmund shrugs with his ‘what can you do,’ attitude, and I growl in frustration.

  “We need to find us a scop. A skilled one, and not a shit one who can’t get the name of the Goddodin right. Damn outrage.” This is one of his constant complaints. Why he believes the names of those long-dead warriors can have been kept in the correct order after all these years is beyond my ken. I can barely remember the names of my warriors, and I’m forced to speak to them every damn day.

  “A scop? Why? To tell of Coelwulf’s battle skills? It’s not as though there aren’t many warriors capable of such feats.”

  “No, I know that.” I try not to listen to another tedious argument, but I do, all the same, as I check Pybba is well, if unconscious.

  “No one kills the way he does. It’s so smooth, so assured, never any doubt that he’ll win. It’s as though he dances with the fuckers who try and kill him. Others should hear of that. I’ve never seen anyone else do it that way.” Edmund’s voice is filled with enthusiasm.

  Icel chuckles darkly at the laudatory comment.

  “In the reign of Beorhtwulf, you would have met a man who danced like our lord, here. Lord Coelwulf is not unique.”

  “Well, he’s alive in the reign of Burgred. No one kills the way he does. And when you’re dead, there’ll be no else to say there ever was a man who killed in such a way. We need a scop.” The final four words are spoken with the decisiveness Edmund hopes will end the conversation. I hope it does as well.

  “What’s a scop?” Of course, I’d forgotten young ears.

  “You know what a bloody scop is,” Icel grumbles with irritation. “You’ve listened to enough of them.”

  “Do you mean the stinky old bastard who fell asleep in his ale having recited about three lines, and then slept himself to death.”

  This statement stumps Icel, and I feel a tight smile on my lips, as his mouth hangs open in surprise.

  Rudolf has proven that he hasn’t, in fact, ever heard a scop perform. He’s usually the one asleep after three sips of ale.

  “Well, now, see, we need a scop because young Rudolf has no idea what one is. It’s a bloody outrage.” Edmund persists with his tedious argument, as he works to clean his blade, interspersing his comments by drinking from his bottle. His young squire stands smartly to attention. How that boy keeps his clothes so clean, I’ll never know.

  More of my men are migrating to where I sit and drink my water. Some of them come with treasures clutched in their hands, others with the trace of old tears on their faces. I’ve not yet asked for the final body count, content to spend some time thinking that all of my warriors have survived this attack. The time will come soon enough when we have to dig another grave and say our farewells to yet more men who would have lived longer had it not been for the bloody Raiders.

  “We don’t need a scop, and I don’t need you sucking up and trying to make me feel as though I’m different in some way to the rest of you. All men can fight and bleed, die if they choose too. I don’t do anything that the rest of you don’t do.” And yet, even as I say the words, I know I’m lying.

  I’ve watched other men in battle. Their movements don’t flow as I feel mine do. And I’m never sure who’ll be the victor. Apart from when Icel fights. He always wins. If not with the blade, then by forcing their faces into whatever stinking puddle he can find, and holding them tight until their bodies stop convulsing.

  He’s a dirty fighter.

  I like it when he stands at my back. Between the two of us, I’m sure that we’ll both live to fight another day.

  “We need a scop,” I hear Edmund’s muttered response, but refrain from replying because I’ve realised that someone important is missing from our group. I stand, surveying my warriors, seeking out his dun-coloured horse, noting that his small squire is stood alone, his lower lip trembling, snot dripping from his nose.

  “Fuck. Where the bloody hell’s Hereman?”

  I direct the question at Edmund, and he startles, his complaints forgotten about.

  “Damn the bastard,” they’re brothers. Or so they say. But this is the greatest concern I’ve ever seen Edmund show for Hereman in the many years we’ve fought together.

  I’m surveying the field of slaughter, the realisation that he’s dead and gone from me, already starting to percolate through my body.

  He’s been my warrior for over a decade. The thought of going into battle without him is unsettling. Not, I admit, that he’s overly skilled. But he’s reassuring and can be relied upon whereas some of the other men can be unpredictable.

  Edmund is striding amongst the detritus of the battle site, looking, I know, for the brightly coloured shield that Hereman has always insisted upon. Why he’s always wished to make himself a target, I don’t know, but it works. Or it has. Until now.

  “The daft bastard’s not here,” Edmund’s strained voice reaches me clearly, even though I’ve not moved from my position close to the horses, and he’s at the edges of the churned grass.

  The young lad, aware of my scrutiny, is trying to stop his tears from falling, attempting to look brave, and I feel a twinge of pity for him. If Hereman is dead, then the lad will lose his place amongst my warriors. No one else will have any use for him, and certainly not Edmund.

  What will become of him is not my concern.

  “He’s here,” the voice that reaches my ears is that of Rudolf’s, and I turn to where he points.

  The first thing I realise is that Hereman is very much alive. His face is glistening with sweat, a perplexed expression playing on his lips, his helm held in his hand alongside his sword and brightly coloured shield. Over his shoulder, he carries a limp form, and now I feel a flicker of annoyance.

  Who else is fucking missing? I thought my men would have taken better care of each other than to be pillaging and drinking after the battle while we should have been mourning.

  “My Lord,” Hereman inclines his head as he lowers his prize to the ground.

  Edmund slaps him angrily on the shoulder as he returns as well.

  “Where the fuck you been?” Edmund demands.

  “This little shit. He’s still alive. He shouted some things while I fought him that I thought you might want to hear?”

  It’s not like Hereman to show any sort of initiative, and that more than a desire to talk to one of the Raiders sparks my interest. His behaviour, for once, is entirely unpredictable. That’ll teach me to have such thoughts.

  “What did he say then?” I finally ask when silence falls amongst the milling men and boys.

  “He says King Burgred’s surrendered the kingdom, gone to that holy place, Rome, and that the Raiders claim all of Mercia for themselves.”

  “Fuck that.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “Total arse.”

  All ears are alert to Hereman’s words, and the responses are many but
all on the same theme.

  “King Burgred might not know a seax from a shield, but he wouldn’t do that to Mercia. He’s been fighting the damn Raiders for two decades. He wouldn’t just give up now.”

  “That’s what I thought, but the little fucker was adamant. He kept asking me why I was fighting him now that the Raiders are in charge. He threatened me, the little tit, with all sorts of revenge. Little fucker.” Hereman sounds as furious as I’ve ever known him. I’ve never seen him lose control, but now he verges on it.

  The man is lying on the floor, his face a welter of blood and forming bruises and it looks as though Hereman has taken out his irritation on him.

  “You should have left him conscious if you wanted us all to hear his truth,” I say, voice filled with annoyance.

  “Gobby little shit wouldn’t shut up, even when I head-butted him. I didn’t mind bringing him to you, but I wasn’t putting up with the verbal diarrhoea.”

  “Give him some water,” I state, and Rudolf scampers to do as I ask. When he returns, Rudolf eyes the stranger critically, fascinated as always by the marks that seem to cover many of the Raiders bodies, and which show on his exposed shoulder. Hereman must have ripped his byrnie while dragging him. The black ink can’t be removed once applied. Only then does Rudolf force the man’s head upright and pour water over his sore looking lips.

  The man does nothing, and then abruptly chokes, as his eyes flicker open in panic.

  Edmund is there to give him a helpful whack on the back, as cloudy blue eyes survey the scene.

  “Fuck.”

  “Indeed. Now, tell me who you are and what’s all this crap about King Burgred.”

  The man’s head bobs from side to side, and I almost think he’ll pass out once more.

  “Give him the rest of the water,” I instruct Rudolf, and he hands over the water bottle carefully, as though the Raider carries a contagion.

  The enemy is covered in blood and mud. It’s almost impossible to see any skin tone, other than on his face, for the mass of brown and red from the battlefield, has intermingled. His byrnie is shredded, held together by a thin strip of fabric, and only one of his feet remains covered by a boot. I wonder where the other one is, peering along the path that Hereman has just taken, but not seeing it.

  The enemy’s lips seem to pulse, swollen by his fight with Hereman, and although silver arm rings snake their way along his left arm, they too are clogged with mud.

  If he were one of my warriors, I’d send him to the river before I’d ever feed him, but I’m curious to hear these lies about King Burgred.

  “Mercia belongs to us now. Your damn king has given Mercia for his life, the weak bastard. You’ve just killed your new lord’s son, and I look forward to seeing you punished for it.” He speaks with a sneer of contempt, and I don’t miss that it’s English, not Danish.

  “When did this happen?” I still can’t believe it. Mercia has been embattled for decades, why would Burgred have chosen now to turn traitor?

  “A month ago, at Repton. King Burgred and his wife left for the Holy City immediately.” He’s swallowed all of his water and takes the time to take in his surroundings, recognition flickering on his face.

  “Lord Coelwulf, my men and I were sent to bring you to Repton. You have oaths to give to your new rulers, in the royal hall there. Lords Halfdan, Guthrum, Oscetel and Anwend are keen to meet the man who claims to keep Western Mercia safe. Although Oscetel may be less keen now.”

  I turn aside and spit. I never expected to hear such words, even as muffled as they are by the Raider’s puffy lips. I’ve done nothing but fight for Mercian independence since I could swing a sword. His mocking tone infuriates, and I think of my seax. How easy would it be to just kill him now?

  “Fuck that.” I don’t speak, but I certainly share Edmund’s murmured sentiment.

  “You don’t have any choice,” the Raider comments and a stunned silence falls between us all. And then we laugh, all of us. It’s laughter only found after a battle has been won. It’s relief and grief and the last vestige of the battle joy that all good warriors need to live through each attack.

  “And you and what army are going to take me to Repton?” I chide. The Raider looks around wide-eyed, perhaps only just becoming aware that he’s not only captured but also alone.

  “Well, the one I came with.” His voice trails off, as his eyes rake the battlefield, noticing the fallen men, realisation dawning.

  “Food for the crows, I’m afraid. As you might be. If you don’t watch what you say.” The Raider sneers at me, no doubt forgetting how exposed he is.

  I watch him, an uncomfortable awareness starting to take hold.

  I can’t allow this man his freedom. Neither do I want him as a member of my war band. I have no time for prisoners, either. That means he must die, and I’ve never enjoyed taking the life of an unarmed man.

  “Here,” I grunt, handing him a sword. He clutches it, a furtive look in his blue eyes.

  Does he realise what this means? Certainly, the remainder of my men do. They turn aside, or watch, or walk away, as I grip my seax.

  I respect the religion of the Raiders. No man must be in peril for his soul, or whatever it is that they possess.

  I stand before him, the movement effortless despite the day of fighting behind me. With no time for thought, I swing my seax, aiming perfectly to slice open his throat with the sharpened blade.

  The man, still examining his sword, almost doesn’t seem to notice the action, until the river of crimson collects on his hand gripped around the pommel of the seax. He turns to look at me, eyes already losing the sparkle of life, but a grimace touches his cheeks.

  I take it as thanks for ensuring he died with his weapon in hand.

  It brings me no peace, but neither do I think much more about it, as I walk away and Rudolf rushes to pilfer the body.

  My thoughts are elsewhere, as I peer into the glowing gloom of night.

  If the man spoke the truth, my kingdom is in ruin.

  If he spoke the truth.

  Quickly, Edmund joins me as I walk the place of slaughter.

  I rode here with twenty warriors, and perhaps half as many young lads who didn’t fight. The force that faced us was double that, as far as I can tell. And they came with horses. Rudolf and his ilk have found the mounts, and are slowly bringing them to join our beasts, picking a path through the detritus of the dead.

  My men can take a spare mount, the young lads as well, although it’ll be expensive to keep them all fed. Perhaps I can sell a few, to afford the grain to feed the others? Or, maybe I’ll just keep them all. I’m sure Edmund can tell me how much each horse is worth. He has a way with numbers.

  I’ve abruptly become rich in horses and responsibilities both.

  “What will you do?” Of all my men, only Edmund would ask such a question. The others are always keen to follow my orders. What they rarely concern them.

  “We carry on fighting,” I rumble. But I know that’s not what he means. He’s not alone in wondering what I’ll do in light of the news I’ve been given. I wish I knew too.

  “If they have a base in Repton, they’ll be more organised than in the past, and they have control of the dead Mercian royal family, which is something they didn’t have in Torksey.”

  “Yes, but they’ll be no less lacking in skills.”

  I can feel the smile touching his cheeks, although he holds his tongue. We know each other well.

  “Western Mercia has always been our concern, Worcester, Gloucester, Hereford. Does it truly matter if the north and east have fallen?”

  Edmund’s continued silence tells me more than any words could.

  It convinces me, as well.

  “Fuck it,” I growl, turning to walk back toward the impromptu camp. “We’ll go and find out the truth for ourselves. And hopefully, kill a lot more of the damn bastards along the way.”

  Edmund nods, although I only hear it as a rustle of his beard over the byrnie he
wears.

  “Then we’d better get those weapons cleaned,” Edmund confirms, striding out in front of me, keen to be about his task.

  I watch him go.

  I’ve fought for Mercia’s freedom all my life. I’m not about to stop.

  Chapter 2

  Come the morning, there are sore heads and angry voices. Too much ale and grief will do that to a man.

  Last night I was reluctant to leave, more concerned with the burial of my two dead warriors, Athelstan and Beornberht. And caring for the injured Pybba, Ingwald, Oda and Eahric. But now I feel desperate to be gone.

  “Get up,” I move around my men, kicking stomachs and backs when they seem insensible to my words.

  “Get up you worthless fleabags.” Rudolf rushes around behind me, offering me hunks of days old bread we purchased in Gloucester when we were last there, and a flagon of freshwater. I swig it gratefully, watching his dancing eyes. If he ever develops any muscles to aid him in his warrior skills, he’ll be the sort of man who looks forward to each battle.

  “Clean your face,” I demand of him when his good cheer has become too much to tolerate. “You filthy bugger,” I continue, but still he grins. I’d slap the smirk from his face, but it’d only get wider.

  His excellent cheer has never faltered. I almost fear the day that it does, while knowing that that day will come. Probably far sooner than I’d like it to.

  The decision I have to make is how to get to Repton.

  I’m close to Gloucester, which is close to the Welsh kingdom of Gwent. I expected to face a force of Welshmen from Gwent, not the Raiders when the enemy was sighted. Sometimes the Gwent Welshmen skip over the border, and then, forgetting the purpose of their expedition, get carried away. I’m sure many Welsh warriors brag that they’ve seen the River Thames rather the Severn.