by M J Porter
I don’t berate any of my warriors. They know what I think and feel, and they’ll have to live with the unease between them all. And they’ll have to resolve it. I’m not about to knock heads together.
In the absence of Rudolf, young Wulfhere hurries to hand me a bowl of the meaty pottage they’ve prepared. Wulfhere is younger than Rudolf and seems to idolise him. Rudolf, as much as he would never admit it, enjoys teaching the younger lad what to do. Wulfhere eyes me keenly. I ignore him, other than to thank him for the food.
I sit on the log Pybba rested against earlier. I barely taste the food as I quickly chew. Rudolf silently joins me, handing me a cup of fresh, cold water that I swallow and then ask for more. The camp is far from the happy place it can be. I ignore the shifting looks being passed from one to another, as though they’re waiting for me to resolve the problems.
Too much is unknown, and I’ll not make rash statements.
“Tomorrow we ride on, but Goda, Icel, Edmund and I will take the front. Hopefully, we’ll find our missing men. Everyone will ride armed, even the lads.” With my conversation exhausted, I hand Rudolf the empty bowl and seek out Pybba. He still stands on guard duty or rather sways.
“You need to rest,” I instruct him. The words are on his lips to argue with me, but then he shakes his head and steps away from his position. Eoppa moves closer, as does Ordheah. Only four men need to guard the area.
Pybba stumbles, and I reach out and grab him tightly.
“My thanks,” I whisper into his ear, the stench of his sweating body almost making me gag. “The battle-rot?” I accuse, but he’s shaking his head.
“No, I need to sleep. Look, the wound is clear.” He holds up the stump then, and in the flickering firelight, I can see that the white linen is clear once more. He thrusts it close to my nose, and I smell nothing but the sweetness of the honey. Before he killed a man, it seems he had the good sense to clean his wound.
“Good. I’ll not lose you. Now, what happened?”
“Oslac said Ordheah could rest and then the daft sod fell asleep at his post. The Raider got beyond him. He must have been looking to kill everyone who slept. Luckily, I was awake. The wound might be clean, but it hurts. Sleep is not my ally.” Pybba winces with the words.
“Ordheah blames himself for sleeping. Oslac has made himself scarce.”
“Rest,” I instruct my trusty warrior, as I support his weight as he tumbles to the ground. “Rest. Tomorrow will be full of surprises.”
“I’ll do what I must,” he confirms sleepily, as I walk to where Rudolf has laid out our small camp. He’s already curled up and snoring noisily. I’d like to do the same, but duty dictates that I arrange replacements for my men on guard duty. I’ll need to be one of them as well.
I stride back to Hereman, being careful where I step in the deep gloom of night. Above our heads, a few clouds obscure the half-moon.
“Sleep,” I tell him. “And send Eadberht and Lyfing to change with Eoppa and Ingwald.” I don’t excuse Ordheah. I know he won’t want to be deprived of his duty. Having failed in it once today, he’ll want to show he can do as ordered. I take my place at the front of the camp.
Silence falls amongst my men and followers, even the horses quiet in their picket. Horses. I never thought I’d have too many that it might become a problem. I think of sending them back to Gloucester or Kingsholm once more.
If I send them back, with a handful of men and young lads, then my Aunt would have responsibility for the horses, and I could summon more of my warband to my side. It’s a tempting possibility, to be free of the hassle, and to have fresh men at my back. But first, we must find Sæbald and Gyrth.
But the night is not the time to start second-guessing myself, and so I clear my mind, settle only on the sounds of the night.
Of course, nothing happens, and much later, it’s Edmund who taps me on the shoulder, indicating I should sleep. I go gratefully.
The following morning, my camp is awake and ready to move on as soon as the day has truly begun. The sun is already warm on my back as I slink into my byrnie with the aid of Rudolf.
“What happened while I was gone yesterday?” I wanted to ask him last night, but he was too soundly asleep to wake.
“Pybba killed the Raider. Oslac had fallen asleep. He got a mouthful of abuse after the commotion had died down.”
“Did you bury the body?”
“I helped. Yes. There was nothing good on it,” I hold back my amusement that the lack of treasure should be Rudolf’s greatest concern.
“Was it a man or a woman?”
“A man?” But I can see my question has sparked his interest.
“Edmund said you killed a woman warrior.” I thought the information might have been repressed in the wake of what was found on our return. But Edmund does like to talk on, especially when he’s had some ale, and he always has ale after a battle.
“Yes, the warrior happened to be a woman. I only noticed when I removed her helm.”
“Did she fight well?”
“She fought like a Raider would, one who’s not used to riding a horse.” My final comment is spoken with derision.
Rudolf’s keen eyes dim at my words. He wants more but knows I’m not about to indulge in the sort of information he wants.
“Here, I got this for you,” at the reminder I give him the weapons belt and his eyes round with delight.
“For me? From the woman?”
“I thought it’d be a good fit.” I can see he wars with himself. Why he should be bothered that a woman wore it, I’m not sure. Yes, it’s unusual, but not unheard of for a woman to fight.
“She was a bloody good warrior. Take her weapons. Make them yours.”
“My thanks.”
“Will you ride with Pybba again today? I need him cared for, and I trust you to do that for me.”
Rudolf nods, distractedly, already pulling the weapons belt around where his waist would be if he had one. The leather is supple and polished to a high sheen. There are three pockets attached, two filled with the war axe and short knife. The other is where the richly made sword must have sat. I’ve kept that for myself, keen to see how good a weapon it actually is in my hands.
Oslac has slunk back to the main camp, and I watch him work, his shoulders dejected. He knows he nearly allowed everyone to be slain. It’ll take time for him to earn back the trust of his fellow warriors, and even longer to be tasked with such again. I decide that’s all the punishment I need to give.
He knows he messed up. That knowledge will be enough for him.
“Remember, ride armed,” I instruct one final time, Haden weaving a path through the rest of my men and horses. I fix Pybba with a firm look, seeing how he struggles with the harness and his seax, but his return glare has me moving on. Rudolf is beside him.
I saw what I needed to see.
Pybba’s eyes remain clear and bright, fierce with the desire to live.
More importantly, the white linen that covers his wound is still that.
I dare the man to die when he’s survived for two full days. I just bloody dare him.
Satisfied, even with Oslac, who sits proudly and tries not to meet my eyes, I ride back to the front of the snaking line.
To the rear, Ingwald and Eoppa guard my men. Ingwald’s cuts earned in the battle two days ago are almost healed, already. He thanks no one for alluding to them. To the front, Icel and Goda are keen to be released to find the missing men. Edmund waits for me.
We’ll ride at the front today. Haden sidesteps beneath me, and I thwack him on the shoulder. The surly beast is feeling well used, and he has no love for Edmund’s randy mount, Jethson, who keeps eyeing the mares we’ve gained with interest.
Even that will add some excitement to the day’s ride, if more was needed.
“Let’s find the daft sods,” with my nod, Icel and Goda move out at a faster pace. They’re not my preferred scouts, but they understand their role today.
I’m vigilant as
we move, trying to hear below the noise of my force on the march. I’m not fool enough to think that Icel and Goda will fare better than Gyrth and Sæbald, but I’m now alert to the danger we face.
Should the fifty Raiders, well, five less now, come upon us, I’ll issue the order that the priority is protecting our horses and young lads as they make an escape back the way we’ve come. Rudolf knows the way to Gloucester, and if he and the rest arrive with the horses, they’ll know to take them to my Aunt at Kingsholm. What happens to them after that is not my prime concern, although I hope she’ll do the right thing. She’s never failed me yet.
Edmund watches the track keenly from behind his horse’s head. The ground hasn’t changed since yesterday, it was a rare, dry night, and the hoof prints can be clearly seen. All of them. It takes someone more skilled than I in tracking to hunt down a deer or a boar that’s gone to ground, but even I can decipher the layering, and which hoof passed by first.
I expect Goda and Icel to ride back to me with news of what they find by about midday. But as we spot the four cairns we built the day before, and travel further on, I don’t expect to see Sæbald coming toward me.
He’s festooned in blood. There’s no other means of describing him.
“What happened?” I demand to know, pleased to see him and his horse, and aware that Goda and Icel will have already encountered him.
“I tripped and fell,” Sæbald tries to joke, but the shaking movement of his chest, merely makes him groan in pain, and then he’s sliding from his saddle. It takes all of my speed to dismount and intercept him before his head falls on an unfortunately placed piece of stone.
“Help me,” I gasp. Sæbald is a heavy weight. Edmund grabs Sæbald’s legs, tangled in the stirrups and carefully we place him on the ground.
I’m looking for the sight of his wound, but it’s Edmund who finds it, lifting a piece of sodden fabric clear from his body.
“Here, on his leg. It looks like they tried to kill him in the same way I killed that fool in the thorns.” It’s an interesting observation. Have the warriors discovered their dead already? I’d ask Sæbald when and where it happened, but his eyes have fluttered shut. A hearty slap to the side of his face has no impact, and I shrug my shoulders.
“It looks like another early camp,” I peer back the way we’ve just come. We’ve been riding a good long while. The fact that Goda and Icel stay out in front assures me that no enemy has been seen. Not yet.
“Rudolf,” I call for him, and he appears, with Pybba, a complaint already forming on his lips.
“Stay here, with Pybba, the spare mounts and your friends, and the rest of the warriors,” I think the use of the word ‘friends’ upsets Rudolf more than anything else. Rudolf does think himself a little superior to the other lads. “Wulfhere will help you with Sæbald.” Only then do I raise my voice. “It’s an early camp again. Ensure it’s well protected.”
With the command given, I allow a few moments for everyone to sort himself out. Once more, there’s an area of clear ground to the left of the trackway. I can see that trees have been cut back from the spot and that some tree stumps remain. The wood has no doubt been used to build a fine hall by some aspiring thegn.
The damn fool should have planted saplings in his wake. I shake my head at the lack of proper management of such a vital resource.
“Stay close, and stay alert,” is all I offer to Edmund, as he hands a beaker back to Wulfhere. I swallow, tasting the dryness of my tongue, but I don’t want to need a piss while I seek out my final, missing, warrior.
Edmund mutters softy, and then we’re on our way again.
If there are forty-five warriors up ahead, I would sooner ride with more than just Edmund, but I need my wounded men to be protected more than anything. Those who can’t quickly mount up and ride away must be surrounded by those who can.
What matters to my warriors is that I won’t abandon Gyrth, or leave Pybba, Oda, Eahric and Sæbald to fend for themselves. That consoles them more than the thought of another battle might.
My back is slick from wearing my byrnie and the force of the sun, and as much as I’d like to remove it, I resist the temptation. I would wish that Sæbald had been able to tell me what happened, but until he wakes up, or Goda and Icel re-join me, I have no idea.
Was he injured by the Raiders, as Edmund assumes, or did something else happen?
“He still had his horse,” Edmund’s musings merge with mine. It’s a significant point to make, but I’m not yet sure I know what it means.
As the trackway opens out once more, the valley side melting away to merge with more gently rolling hills, I gaze toward eastern Mercia. I expect to see nothing but dirty smoke on the horizon, a sign of our enemy infiltrating the kingdom, and its lack surprises me.
“Here come Goda and Icel,” I swing my head forward once more. My two scouts are riding toward me casually. I’d even go so far as to say they chat with each other. They show no fear, and I force my hand loose on my seax.
“Where’s everyone else?” Icel asks first, craning his neck to see around me.
“I left them with Sæbald. He fell from his horse. Did he speak sense to you?”
The two peer at each other, eyebrows furrowed, and I fear their next words.
“We saw no one. We’ve seen no one, and certainly, no sign of the enemy.” Icel speaks in his low rumble.
“Fuck.” The news is unwelcome. But I don’t ask the questions I want to. Not now.
“We need to get back to them. Quickly,” I’m already turning and spurring my mount back along the track. I can only hope we get there in time.
I know the men follow me. I’m sure all of them have realised our mistake in thinking the Raiders travelled the same route we did.
Crouching low over Haden’s shoulders, I focus more on the hoof imprints below us than where we’re going. I curse when I see it, so obvious, and yet missed as we rode. I’m just about to turn my animal to the right, to crash through the undergrowth to where the wooded area truly begins, when I hear the sound I’ve been dreading.
“Hurry,” my voice is solid with the command, and I put my doubts and recriminations aside. They’ll be time for those. Later. If we live through this.
I can clearly see where many horses have ridden over the ground, as though my band of warriors and hanger-ons had come through here. Which of course, they haven’t. My eyes alight then on some bright splashes of red on green leaves. This is where Sæbald won free.
Somehow, Haden races ever faster, ears just as alert to the sounds coming from in front as mine.
I recognise the landscape keenly and abruptly rein in before we round the next bend. I want nothing more than to reach my warriors, but I need to exhibit as much trickery as the enemy if any of them are to live to see tomorrow.
“Dismount,” I call, turning Haden in a tight circle to take the speed from him. In a practised move I jump to the ground, grabbing my shield from the rear of the harness at the same time.
Edmund, Goda and Icel quickly follow my actions. The four horses eagerly take themselves to the side of the trackway, where a matt of green growth entices them more than the sound of battle up ahead.
I wish I shared the belief they exhibit that the battle would be easy and they’d soon be on the way again.
“I don’t know how many there will be, but we need to take as many as we can from behind. They’ll think that everyone is at the camp.”
I meet Edmund’s eyes, they’re filled with his usual fear, but I nod as he slips away. Next, I turn to Goda and Icel. I ask too much of my men. Always.
“Let’s kill the fuckers,” Icel bristles with his desire for vengeance.
Chapter 4
One by one, we work our way forwards, beyond the curve of the trackway, and only then do I see how truly stupid I’ve been.
There are probably thirty of them. None of them is mounted, although horses are muddying the scene. It seems that they arrived on horses, but will not fight on them
.
That’s sensible. For all of us.
But it’s what’s happening in the makeshift camp that horrifies me.
All of my men are up and standing shield to shield. At least they had enough warning to form up. It’s small consolation but nothing else.
I shouldn’t have left them.
My horses buck or shift uneasily, faced with the noise of the altercation. A few of the younger lads hide amongst the mass of horse flesh, as I’ve taught them to do if caught in the middle of a fight.
A swift glance their way, and I’m hoping the horses remember who feeds and grooms them, or my lads will be dead, as they mill around uneasily, their shrieks adding to the mass of confusion.
I can’t see who directs the defence. All I can see are shields, and I note Hereman’s the most easily of all.
But I can see who orders the offensive.
The warrior, I refuse to make an assumption as to whether it’s a man or a woman, is sheathed in battle gear. It’s impossible to tell, and more importantly, it doesn’t matter. All warriors must possess skill. It seems this opponent does.
Edmund has chosen to make his way to the far side of the shield wall my men make, making his way beyond the backs of our distracted enemy. They have shields, but rather than forming their own wall, they’re being encouraged to hack against my men’s shields, and the sound splits the air, as iron hits the wood. It’s a sound I’m used to, but today it feels different and filled with far more menace than I’d like.
Icel and Goda have made decisions about where they’ll attack as well. It just remains for me to decide what I’m going to do.
Rationally, I should just kill anyone I can, but thrumming through my body is a desire to make sure their leader dies first.
I’ve fought Raiders all my life. I know that without a leader, their offensive will falter. But, and I squint, trying to decide how well they fight, both individually and as a unit, I’m unsure.
I shake my head. Frustrated by my indecision.
From behind one of the shields, I abruptly catch sight of young Rudolf’s face, grimacing and streaked with blood, his eyes wild with delight.
