by M J Porter
Sæbald swigs more ale, as though a man dying of thirst, and I consider what to do next.
“Did Gyrth say anything about where the other war bands were?”
“No, just that there were six of them. I take it that one three days ago was one of them. And this the second. So there’s another four somewhere.”
I turn, gazing at the mess of my campsite.
I’m down to seventeen men, and four of them are injured, while Gyrth is missing. I can’t leave him in the woods to die.
Neither can I take all these fucking horses with me.
If only I could arm the horses. Then the number of warriors at my command would just about equal those who are coming against me.
“We need to find Gyrth,” Sæbald is trying to stand, even though he winces, and his wound weeps at the action.
“Stay on your arse,” I instruct him. “You can’t go anywhere like that. Stay here.”
“Rudolf, see to his wound. Get Wulfhere to aid you. And Sæbald, listen to me, stay fucking still, or you’ll bleed to fucking death.”
I turn and beckon Edmund to join me. He’s been listening carefully to everything that Sæbald has told us.
“Fuck,” I share the sentiment, but don’t comment.
“How do we find Gyrth? We can’t leave him.”
“Neither can we go hunting with this bloody rabble.” Edmund indicates the men and horses, the lads as well. I swallow heavily. I left Gloucester five days ago with a healthy number of men, to fight a roving warband of men I’d assumed were from Gwent.
Now I’m a master of nearly a hundred fifty horses, but only eighteen warriors and one of them is missing. I sigh heavily, washing my face in my hands, noticing for the first time the dried blood and cracked knuckles.
“Give me Icel and Goda. We’ll find Gyrth, and bring him to wherever you’re going.”
Edmund knows me well. But not quite as well as he thinks.
“No. I’ll send Hereman to Worcester, to lead the wounded and the extra horses to Bishop Wærferth. We’ll have to hope the Raiders haven’t turned him yet. I’ll send nine of the men with him, including Pybba, Sæbald, Oda and Eahric and all of the lads. That stupid fucker will kill himself if he keeps trying to fight with his arm like that.”
“Then you’re coming hunting with me?”
“Yes, and then when we find Gyrth, Goda and Icel can take him to Worcester as well.”
Edmund nods along with me, no fear as he absorbs my intention.
“What about this lot?”
“We bury them, as usual.”
He sighs heavily.
“We’ve always buried our kills.” I remind him.
“I know, but there’s not normally thirty of the damn bastards.”
“Well, did you have something else to be getting on with?” I ask, and he shakes his head while rolling his eyes at me.
Edmund is bloodied from our battles, but it appears to be nothing too serious.
“We’ll bury the dead, and then move on. I’m not stopping for the night here.” I grimace at the thought of sleeping with so many dead.
“Fine,” Edmund complains, moving off quickly, snapping his fingers to attract the attention of six of the men, including his brother and Goda. The lads have retreated from the bodies. Anything anyone wanted is gone, but they’re still dressed. All of them. I consider ordering them stripped. There’s good fighting equipment on all of them. I already have the horses, milling around, and being brought under control by a limping Ingwald. He should be resting as well. I fucking despair of this lot.
“Coelwulf,” Ingwald’s voice is a slither of its typical robustness, but I hear him all the same.
“What?” I demand to know, my temper frayed enough as it is. He nods, as though understanding, but still waits for me, holding a horse I recognise far too well.
“Gyrth’s?” I ask, noting the sandy colour and the one white hoof.
“Aye,” Ingwald bows his head low, as though accepting his friend is dead. I refuse to do the same, focusing instead on all the bodies still wearing battle equipment.
It’s a waste to bury it all, but too much effort not to.
I peer, both north and south suddenly aware that I’m being watched, and yet it’s impossible. Everyone is either dead or one of my warriors.
Unease prickles along my neck, and I walk to the side of one of the packhorses, yank a wood axe from the saddle pack, before joining the gravediggers.
Rudolf wisely stays out of view, Pybba as well. I try and force the unease from my body with each and every swing of the heavy weapon.
It doesn’t work.
Chapter 5
Only because of the long summer’s day is it possible to break camp.
Pybba, although unhappy at being sent to Worcester, holds his tongue. Rudolf, his silence only lasting for the time it takes us to mount up, proves his youth with his steady litany of arguments as to why he should stay with me.
I let him witter away, occasionally grunting, as though I listen, even though I don’t.
“For the love of fuck, will you still your devilish tongue,” Hereman’s comment brings a wry smirk to my face. Rudolf looks outraged, and I reach over and pat his shoulder, noticing as I do so that he winces, and making my touch softer in an instant.
“You’re going to Worcester, you daft shit.”
His abrupt silence makes me hear all the sounds of our party. The excess of horses, now linked together by their harnesses, making the most noise. Anyone coming the other way will think they face an army. I find the irony amusing.
While Sæbald is the most severely wounded of the men, Eoppa also has a long slice along his left arm, and Hereberht has a leg wound, that keeps oozing fresh blood, as he rides. Ingwald might have decided he’s recovered, but Eahric and Oda still wear their wounds, and now Rudolf must be added to that number.
I rode out of Gloucester with my best men. More than half of that force is going to slink back to Worcester, and half of them are wounded.
Apart from Rudolf, no one has voiced a complaint about my recent decision to split the force. Worcester is less than half a day’s ride from our current position, although it will mean finding a means to cross a river. Once we go our separate ways, the men will ride as hard as they can. I’m hoping that none of the four forces has yet made it any further east than the two warbands I’ve encountered. It’s not much, but I can’t be in two places at once.
Hereman has permission to abandon the extra horses if he must. I can’t see them going far without a rider. I can’t see the enemy wanting to encumber themselves with more of the animals they already struggle to ride.
“Here,” Sæbald’s reedy voice calls out close to the spot where I first saw a collection of deep hoof imprints. “I came out here.”
It makes sense, but it doesn’t really give me any more of an idea as to where Gyrth might be. But, we’ve not yet come upon him, and so I take it as a starting point.
“Right men. Here’s where we divide our small force. Hereman is leading those going to Worcester. He speaks for me in everything he now does.” I lace the words with force. I don’t honestly think I need to, but I do all the same. We’re in an unusual and unexpected situation. I don’t want any of my warriors to panic.
“Hereman, you have permission to abandon the horses if you must and to offer Bishop Wærferth whatever you must to gain admittance. He’s my ally. I hope he continues to be. And I charge you all with waiting for me in Worcester.” I meet the eyes of Rudolf and Pybba with my final comment. The two have proved themselves to be unexpected allies, and the two I currently trust the least to follow my commands.
Rudolf still looks mutinous, his face shaded in blacks and purples, his two eyes pinpricks of white amongst the ruin. He’s lucky he didn’t break his nose or his jaw.
“Follow the trackway until you come to the first clearing that allows you to go east. Be alert and watch out for each other.”
I’m abruptly worried I might neve
r see Rudolf or any of the other men again. But unlike the unease I felt earlier, this is just a flicker of fear. The warbands, if they are to the east of my current location, have no interest in my men. They won’t even know their names.
“And lie, if you are attacked. Tell them you’ve never met me, or heard of me, or whatever you think will work. Tell them you found the horses on a battle site. Tell them everyone was dead, and send them south. Always south.”
Without pausing to reconsider my decisions any further, I turn towards the woodland, allowing the darkness caused by the tree canopy to cover me. I don’t watch the men and horses ride away although I hear them well enough.
They’ll be heard from bloody Gwent!
I listen carefully, assuring myself that my orders have been carried out before I consider the best way of searching for Gyrth.
Do we stay together, or spread out?
We need to cover a great deal of woodland. Gyrth could be anywhere. He might even have crawled out of the woods. It’s impossible to know.
The growths here are all bashed and broken, showing the passage of the thirty-five warriors who came after us. It’s impossible to decipher anything from the mass of hoof prints and footprints.
“We’ll have to do this on foot,” I announce unhappily. “Spread out, in a long line, so that you can see the man to your left and to your right. We’ll have to adopt a systematic approach.”
I expect complaints, and I’m surprised when my instructions are carried out quickly, and without comment. I don’t much like the subservience. It speaks to me of frightened and worried men.
“When he’s found, shout to everyone. Then the man to your left and right needs to make sure the man next to them knows, and so on until we all know. Keep track of who is to either side of you. I don’t want to lose anymore of you fuckers.” I try and end the comment with a lilt to my voice, but it falls flat, and I swallow unhappily.
It seems they’re not the only ones to be concerned.
Icel takes the position to my left, and Edmund to my right. Beside Edmund is Goda, and beside Goda is Ingwald. To the left of Icel is Ordheah and Lyfing is the final man. It’s not many to search such a massive area, but it’s all I have. Gyrth better be easier to find than I fear he will be. I hope that like an animal that knows its death is coming he hasn’t curled up somewhere, hidden, prepared to die.
I lead my horse, the animal breathing reassuringly in my left ear. It’s been a long day, and yet Haden, his fierce eyes intelligent, as he seems to scent the air, shows no fatigue. I rub my hand along his nose as I search for any signs of an injured man in the undergrowth. The actions calm me just as much as it does Haden.
Yet, for all that, I can sense the frustration in his steps as our slow progress continues. I might have thought he searched with me, but he doesn’t. His ears flicker but mostly lie flat.
The woodland grows quieter and quieter, before erupting in a cacophony of cries. I turn, startled, and gaze upwards, to where a flock of black rooks has abruptly taken to the skies. Whatever has disturbed them remains unseen.
I notice that the day is slowly drawing to a close, the bright blue sky fading, as though a bruise forming around the clouds, and still Gyrth hasn’t been found.
I can’t have my men searching in the dark. We’ll trip, or the horses will trip, or we’ll be consumed by the dark and unable to find each other.
Only then Icel shouts to me.
“He’s been found.” The sound reverberates.
“Ordheah has him.”
“Thank fuck for that,” I mutter, and turn to move left, only to remember my instructions.
“Edmund,” I holler. “He’s been found. Ordheah has him.”
I see a flicker of movement far to my left.
“I’ll tell the others,” Edmund responds, and I hear him bellowing to Goda. He takes up the cry to Ingwald, and the sound of horse’s hooves and feet grows, disturbing a busy squirrel in a tree close to me. I watch it scurrying away, wishing I had somewhere safe and secure to dash away to when I felt threatened.
I wait for the three men, aware that if I don’t, we might still all lose each other. Only then do I mount up, tried of walking, and allow my horse to take me to Icel. Together, the five of us make our way to where Ordheah and Lyfing have left their horses tied to a low branch.
I’ve not asked the question that makes the silence between us oppressive.
But then I can’t put it off anymore.
“He’s in a bad way,” Lyfing hisses, his eyes focused on where Ordheah is crouched down next to Gyrth.
I focus on Gyrth. He is, as I feared, curled up in a depression made by one of the tall oak trees that surround him, his eyes barely open, and his face a mass of bruises and shades of drying blood. His hand is wrapped tightly in a strip of tunic I recognise as belonging to Sæbald, and he’s shivering.
Despite the heat, his entire body is convulsing, violently, his teeth chattering, and yet I feel the heat that emanates from him.
“Fuck,” I growl, jumping from Haden to land close to Ordheah.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I complain, unsurprised to find Ordheah and Lyfing waiting for me to take control.
“He’s not going to die,” I growl, feeling the truth of those words.
“Gyrth, wake up, you sod. Wake up you crazy bastard.” I’m crouched beside him now, considering what to do for the best. Darkness will fall soon, even if only temporarily because the moon has been bright of late. But, all the same, I know we can’t leave here now. It would be too high a risk, even to make it from this spot back out to the trackway. And, of course, we’ve killed thirty-five warriors, from a group of fifty. Where those other fifteen have gone, I don’t know.
If they come upon us now, they’ll outnumber us two to one, and with Gyrth lying as he does, we won’t be able to ride away.
“Fucking bollocks,” I complain. But Edmund, crouching beside me and peering at Gyrth is already standing, viewing the area around us.
“We make camp?” he asks, and I nod, unwillingly.
“We’ll have to. We need a fire as well, and as many cloaks and furs as can be spared. Here, help me get him out of the hollow.”
Edmund moves away, to order Ingwald and Goda while Ordheah and Lyfing crouch as low as I am, preparing to carry Gyrth to where the fire will burn. Already, I can hear Icel tramping through the forest, picking up sticks and other fallen pieces of wood that he hopes will burn quickly and fiercely.
No one becomes a warrior to learn how to heal an injured friend. And yet, in time, we all learn some rudimentary ways of stopping blood flow, of closing wounds, and of trying to counter battle rot before it takes the life of a man, rather than just a hand or an arm.
The irony is never lost on me.
Gyrth is an ungainly and awkward weight to move. He’s pulled his legs tight to his body. Now, although I feel the heat of him, it’s as though his body has succumbed to the rigour of death.
“Fuck, he’s a heavy bastard,” Ordheah complains. Gyrth’s body seems to release from the hollow with a rush of sound, and then all three of us stumble, almost dropping Gyrth as we do so.
“He stinks,” Ordheah wrinkles his nose. I sniff, not enjoying the overripe smell, but need to determine whether he’s just fouled himself, or whether the wound has already festered.
“He does,” I confirm. “But it’s a healthy stink,” I confirm, and then we’re by the small flickers of flame Icel is coaxing from the twigs he’s found.
Edmund and Goda are tending to all of the horses’, the harsh smacks of horse flesh a reassuring sound as they move amongst the animals. They loosen harnesses but don’t entirely remove them. We might need to ride out in a hurry.
With Gyrth on the ground, the flames rising ever higher, and Edmund and Ingwald moving to stand a guard around the impromptu camp, I begin the grisly task of trying to fix Gyrth.
“Ordheah, help me with his trews.”
Quickly, we peel them from his body, and then Or
dheah moves away, keen to fling the offending objects as far away from us as possible.
Pale and marbled flesh greets my eyes, and I curse softly.
Gyrth may be beyond saving, I admit it to myself, but not to anyone else.
“I need hot water, and ale,” I state, lifting Gyrth’s hand and unwrapping the offending bandage.
The smell of corruption hits me immediately.
“Fuck,” I complain, noticing that the entire hand feels flaccid, and the finger stump is mottled. “I’ll have to cut more away. Here, put my knife in the flames.”
I’ve not had to sear so much flesh before. First, it was Pybba and now Gyrth.
I’ll kill all the Raider fuckers when I get to them.
Ordheah moves more swiftly now, taking my knife, and returning from his horse with his winter cloak and the blanket customarily used to cover his horse. I rapidly cover Gyrth’s nakedness. I need to remove his tunic, but my knife is turning orange in the flames.
“Give me your knife,” I demand from Icel. He does better than to hand it to me, but rather steps close, and slices through the linen, so that Gyrth’s chest is exposed.
Only now do I see the welter of bruises, and burn marks that reveal the extent of his injuries. If I wasn’t already angry, now I wish I could rush from here, find the damn fuckers, and slice their balls from them.
“Bastards,” the resolve in Icel’s voice assures me that I’m not alone in such thoughts.
I stand then, keen to resolve the problem with Gyrth’s finger. I slip my leather glove onto my hand and grip the knife.
Ordheah hovers at Gyrth’s feet, Icel at his head, just in case what I’m about to do rouses him from his stupor. I hope it does, just as much as I wish it wouldn’t.
I pour some ale over the wound site, and then lift the hand, critically examining where Gyrth has lost the middle finger on his left hand. They’ve taken the tip of the finger only, and I pause, head to one side, considering how much further to go. This might need doing more than once if I don’t take enough.
