by M J Porter
“Bollocks,” I complain, laying the hand on the ground, and making a neat cut as close to the mass of his hand as I can. The finger doesn’t snap cleanly off but instead breaks free with a reluctant sucking sound. It might not be enough. Even now. I place the end of my knife over the wetly pulsing wound, unhappy at the lack of blood.
The scent of burning flesh fills my nostrils, but Gyrth doesn’t stir.
“Fuck,” I complain, gripping the clean linen Icel hands to me to bind the wound.
“It won’t be enough,” Icel comments, and I nod.
“It’s to be hoped it is. I don’t want two men with only two hands between them.”
The words mask my sorrow, and Icel speaks as he finds. This isn’t the first such wound we’ve tended. The men who lose their limbs often lose themselves as well.
There’s a reason my Aunt cares for my warriors so well at Kingsholm. Not all of them will fight for me again.
“What now?”
“We need to get water into him and keep him as warm, but cool, as we can. Tonight he sleeps, tomorrow we ride for Worcester whether he can keep in his saddle or not.”
My words aren’t comforting. I know that.
When the water has boiled, I return to Haden and my saddlebags. Amongst them, I keep a selection of herbs, prepared by my Aunt. I know which ones will assist Gyrth now, and quickly, I steep the mixture, only just allowing it time to cool, before I drip it into Gyrth’s mouth.
His skin still shimmers with sweat, while Ordheah waits anxiously at his side.
Beyond our intimate circle of light, the sky has leached of all colour, and although I hoped for a full moon, a thick layer of cloud has formed, making it more challenging to see than I’d hoped.
We eat, but only cold rations from our saddlebags. The hot water is used to steep a herbal concoction for all of us, to drive away the fatigue. I gag on the sour drink but welcome the warmth. Despite the summer heat, I feel almost as cold as Gyrth’s dead finger was when I severed it from his body.
I’m not one for portents or foreboding, but I feel too exposed in the haze of light. And there’s nothing I can do. Not until the morning.
Every woodland sound prickles at my senses. By the time I relieve Edmund from his post, my senses are so attuned, I swear I can hear the breaths of every one of my seven men, as well as my own. His eyes are bright pinpoints in the gloom as he hears my steps.
“Will he live?” Edmund hasn’t asked the question yet, and for that, I’m grateful.
“I can’t promise. Tomorrow, Worcester, and the bishop’s monks. They have more skills than I do.”
“I doubt that,” Edmund complains. “They don’t fight our enemy, but rather pray for our success. It’s a different thing to curing an infected wound gained in combat.”
“I know,” I state, the words wrenched from me. I don’t want to believe that Gyrth’s best chance is if I tend to his ills. I’ve got other things on my mind.
“Do you think they tracked us?” Edmund asks, just before he walks back to the small campfire, no more than thirty paces away.
“I can’t tell. We weren’t quiet.”
“I’ll sleep with my sword then,” he responds. It won’t be the first time. I hope it won’t prove to be the last either.
After the rustle of his departure, I make myself as comfortable as possible. I lean against the trunk of an oak tree, peering around me with so much fierceness, I almost feel as though the darkness dissolves when faced with my fury.
I shiver, wrapping my cloak around me with pleasure. I try and clear my thoughts, focus only on what must be done. I’ve done this many times in the past. Guard duty is a tedious business, and it’s a skill that must be mastered. There’s a key to appearing somnolent while being hyper-alert to every flicker of wind and patter of bird wings.
It’s almost like sleeping, but with my eyes wide open.
When the first out of place noise reaches my ears, my hand is already on my seax.
We’ve been hunted. I suspected as much.
I call, the sound of a barn owl. It might pass for an actual owl to those not used to hearing them. I hope it wakes my sleeping men.
Not that we can move yet. We need the enemy to get closer before we attack.
They’ll be able to see us, because of the campfire, long before we can detect them.
If these are the lost fifteen warriors, then we stand some chance of beating them. If they’re another of the six gangs of fifty warriors sent to find me or kill me, depending on who you ask, then I think we stand no chance at all.
Not that it’s going to stop me from trying, of course.
The horses’ move uneasily from where they should sleep but evidently don’t anymore. I bite my lip, adjust the grip on my seax, and shuffle my shoulders so that the cloak falls behind my arms as opposed to covering them.
Do they mean to use stealth, or will they come at us in a great rush?
It’s impossible to tell, but the silence of the woodland is no longer that of night, but instead of heavy, and enforced silence.
It seems I’m not the only person waiting.
I detect movement in front of me, a figure, trying to move silently. But with the flicker of glinting iron from the distant fire, they come harshly into focus. I wonder how I couldn’t have seen the enemy before.
And then I can pick out more of them. Not quite fifteen, but equal to my numbers.
It seems we have yet another battle to fight.
I’m unsure if they’ve seen me, and so I wait, tense but hidden until a foot nearly lands on me.
Only then do I erupt from my place of concealment, cloak flung to the ground, seax already reaching for the warrior. My reach is not quite what I would like it to be, but I make contact all the same, with the warrior’s arm. My blade doesn’t hack, but it slices across an exposed lower arm.
A squeak of protest comes from the warrior’s open mouth, his eyes flickering nervously in the darkness for who attacks him.
My seax bites deeper on the second attack, and finally, the warrior reacts.
His blade flashes toward my left arm, his right arm pulled back, as though to stab, but I’ve already moved backwards, and his reach falters anyway, perhaps as a result of my first attack on him.
Other warriors are streaming towards the campfire, and I wish I’d thought more carefully about who should protect Gyrth if we were attacked. What point is there in risking our lives by staying here if Gyrth is the first to fall victim to this fresh wave of violence?
My worry makes me reckless, and I rush the warrior, my seax to the side of me so that I can use my weight against him. Only as he stumbles backwards do I realise his blade was in front of him. As he falls to the ground, I slice my seax across his chest, not quite reaching his neck, aware that he too has drawn blood.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, using my feet to keep him down, as I twist my grip and finally get a cut on his neck, as it flashes white with the impact. I turn, satisfied he’s dead and rush to join my fellow warriors.
Someone has already fallen into the flames of the fire. A whoosh of yellow and orange temporarily blinds me so much so that I stumble into two warring bodies before I even realise.
“Fuck off,” Edmund grunts, whether aimed at the warrior he faces or me, I don’t know. Regardless, I raise my seax and run it the length of the man’s back.
The metal coat bursts open at the touch, as though severing a joint of meat, and I repeat the action. The man groans in pain, and Edmund’s blade flashes. A wave of crimson covers me, and I spit, glaring at Edmund over the collapsing body of our enemy.
“What the fuck?” I demand, only to be ignored. There’s heavy fighting elsewhere. Out of the corner of my eye, with the after-image of the erupting fire on the periphery of my eyesight, I see that Ordheah and Lyfing are protecting Gyrth. Icel battles two warriors. Goda and Ingwald have one a piece.
Edmund has rushed off, something catching his attention, and I watch, always amazed by just how
quickly human flesh burns.
The warrior in the fire is not quite dead, but neither can he move.
I stride to the fire, mindful of the heated flames, and reach in, slicing across yet another exposed neck. It’s a mercy killing, nothing more.
By the time I’ve done that, an eerie silence has fallen.
I turn, there’s the sound of heavy breathing, and the flicker of flames consuming the dead man. Other than that, it seems the attack is over.
“How many?” I demand to know.
“You had one, I took two, Icel took two, and Goda and Ingwald took one each.”
“Only seven then?”
“So it seems.” Edmund’s voice holds neither rancour nor pleasure. Being attacked while sleeping is the work of the lazy or feeble. Our enemy does not deserve the swift deaths we’ve given them.
“There might be more,” I call, considering whether such an admission will bring the snakes slithering from hiding places or not. While the body burns, we’ve become an even bigger target than before, flames leaping higher, gobbling up the fatty tissue of flesh.
“Shit,” I complain, bending to find some part of the burning man I can yet grip and drag from the fire. I don’t expect the touch of his hand on my arm, and I jerk, horrified by the blackened shell that reaches along my sleeve, threatening to pull me into the fire as well.
“You’ll die, Lord Coelwulf.” The voice is stained with flames and smoke, the eyes flashing red and ruined, the tongue a slither of burnt meat, and yet I hear the words clearly all the same.
“So you fuckers keep promising me,” I complain, dropping low, to whisper into the blackened remains of his ears. “But I still stand.”
Only the echo of death greets me as the grip drops away.
I drag the body away from the fire, keen to have it far from sight, eager to leave it as a mark of what I’ll do to the next bastard who tries to end my life!
Only then do I turn to face my warriors. I don’t miss the flicker of horror on all those faces other than Icel.
Icel cackles.
“Fuck that,” he offers, pointing with his bloodied blade to where I’ve left the body. “We need to bury the bastard, or he’ll come back again. Some of them are devils to kill.”
Icel’s voice sounds too loud in the quiet that’s fallen since the fighting ended and the flap of a bird taking to the air seems to recall him to the need for quiet.
I look back to the blackened body, and then I shake my head.
When I’m with my warriors once more, I speak.
“He’s definitely dead now. Trust me. But where are the other sods?”
“They may have split up?” Edmund comments hopefully.
“They may yes, but I doubt it. A force of seven is too small to be travelling alone.”
“Then what do you suggest?” fatigue worries his tone, and I agree with him.
“Rest, we can’t leave now, no matter what. I’ll remain on watch duty, and there should be someone else as well. Let’s hope we make it through the night.”
While the men eye each other up, all hopeful that another will take on the onerous task, I make my way back to my previous hiding place.
The woodland settles back to its nighttime activities. After only a brief burst of argument, Ingwald takes the other watch duty. I grimace. I would have preferred Edmund to do it. He has the gift of far-sight and quick wits. And everyone knows it. Perhaps though, he realises that as tired as he is, he’ll do no good.
I make myself as uncomfortable as possible, keen to ensure I remain awake. I’ll sleep tomorrow while I ride. Or perhaps another day.
Not that my mind wishes to allow me to rest. Far from it.
A great deal has happened in the last few days. I’ve lost good warriors. I’ve nearly lost even more. Mercia is genuinely threatened, and more importantly to me, the ancient kingdom of the Hwicce, part of Mercia, seems overrun by warriors out to kill me. Whether their leaders truly hold Repton or not, the imminent threat is here, where people look to me as their war leader.
I sigh. The weight of responsibility no new thing. I’m not fool enough to realise that I’m not suddenly a considerable part of the problem.
“Fucking bastards,” I mutter continually, the words forming time and time again on my lips, as I wait for the daylight to arrive.
I need to get Gyrth to Worcester.
Chapter 6
Bishop Wærferth himself comes to meet our ragtag collection of men and horses.
Gyrth moans loudly as soon as his horse comes to a stop, and I think it’s that cry, more than anything that makes Wærferth allow us entry.
It’s been a difficult journey, and I’ve been forced to linger longer than I would have liked. The entire distance, I felt exposed. I’ve not enjoyed it, and my temper is foul to match to mood.
I know Wærferth of old, although he’s only held his position in Gloucester for the last five years. He’s a sprightly man, his intelligence evident in his hands that never stop moving, even when he’s silent, and the rest of his body is so still, I might think him sleeping.
Now, as the monks take Gyrth away, on a stretcher because he can’t walk unaided, those keen grey eyes seek mine out.
I slide from the back of Haden, more relieved than I care to admit on seeing Rudolf’s cheeky face, with its shading of black and green, coming to care for my horse. The two greet as though they’ve been apart for years, and not the handful of days it’s actually been. Haden almost licks Rudolf, and I turn away, trying not to snipe at them. Daft sods. The pair of them.
“I have news you must hear,” Wærferth’s tone surprises me. I’m not entirely sure how I’d expected to be received by the bishop. It seems, dare I say it, as though he’s actually pleased to see me. This doesn’t bode well. Not if my past experiences are anything to go on.
I follow him, to the rear of the monastery buildings, to where the River Severn flows below us, the steep cliff acting as a source of defence far better than a ditch and earth mound. The air is ripe with the stench of stagnant water, and I wrinkle my nose. I’m not sure I wish to drink anything from that.
“It’ll clear,” Wærferth’s comments, noticing my disgust. “It always does it at this time of the year. Too hot and too still. It’ll disperse with a storm from the hills. But it’ll clear.”
I nod, surprised that he’s repeating himself.
Bishop Wærferth is a man who uses words sparingly. He never repeats himself.
I feel unease prickle my neck. What does he know?
“King Burgred is gone.”
I growl, low in my throat. “Craven,” it’s as polite as I can be, taking into account the bishop’s sensibilities.
“It’s not quite as bad as it sounds, although it’s not good. The Raiders killed Beornwald. Everyone knows King Burgred and his wife couldn’t breed. Burgred claimed his nephew instead, as the ætheling of Mercia. With his death, what point was there in the king continuing to fight?” There’s no sympathy in the bishop’s voice, but there might be understanding. I’m not sure yet.
“Another could have taken ætheling Beornwald’s place. If King Burgred could make the witan acknowledge Beornwald as his heir, then he could have done the same with another man, however distantly related.”
“There was no other male in the family line. This line of Mercian kings ends with King Burgred, and he’s dying too.”
There’s a hint of compassion in Bishop Wærferth’s voice.
“Then he should have stood in the shield wall and taken his death as a warrior king.” My words are filled with bile. There’s always someone worth fighting for, even when your family are dead. And certainly, Mercia shouldn’t be given away in despair.
“King Burgred had a responsibility to keep fighting and to hold the Raiders at bay.”
“I’m not going to disagree with you.” This is the closest to criticism I’ve ever heard from Wærferth. My eyes widen in surprise, not just at the disapproval. Bishop Wærferth and I never agree abo
ut anything.
The bishop believes the Raiders can be beaten with prayer and good deeds. I know they can only be stopped with cold iron and hard men and women.
“Wessex should never have abandoned their ally. This all stems from that.”
Now I know my jaw hangs loose, and Bishop Wærferth has the good grace to look contrite at the effect his words are having on me.
“A man can learn to change his mind,” he explains.
“I don’t deny that, but I’ve never encountered a holy man capable of doing so.”
His laughter surprises me even more and puts me on alert. The man has never been this congenial before. What does he want from me?
“Mercia needs a king,” the words astound me.
“Yes,” I say slowly. “It does.” I’m not sure what Bishop Wærferth has been conjuring in his mind, and I don’t like the fact he shares his secrets with me. “Is there a bastard son somewhere, or a forgotten half-brother?” It wouldn’t surprise me. Not at all.
“No, the family line is ended, as I said. The ætheling had fathered no children. A disappointing end to that family.” Bishop Wærferth’s mouth is a thin line of disapproval. All the same, I can decipher where his thoughts have taken him, and I don’t like it.
“My grandfather was deposed fifty years ago,” I interject before the bishop can mutter the words I can see forming in his mind. “No one made a fuss back then about it. They were content with the bastard who claimed the kingdom.”
The bishop is watching me closely, his eyes trying to seer into my soul. I feel uncomfortable under his stern gaze, and yet I can’t make myself walk away.
“Your grandfather was not the warrior you are. The people of Mercia didn’t realise there was a greater enemy than themselves.”
“Neither of those two facts are anything to do with me. I will protect western Mercia, as I’ve always done, my brother before me. I can’t do more than that.”
“They mean to kill you.”
“I know they do. Fucking King Burgred must have told them about me.”
“Why would he do that?” Wærferth all but snaps, and any illusions I might have had about anyone but the bishop remembering my family line dissipates. That’ll teach me to think of my predecessors so much.
