The Last King

by M J Porter

  “I think it more likely your reputation is known to them.” As the bishop makes his pronouncement, his mouth curdles into a line of displeasure.

  “I kill warriors, and protect the borders from Welsh incursions, and I ride, with my men and horses. That’s all I’m ever going to do.” I try to deflect him now. I don’t want to be any more than that, even if I know it’s not right.

  “I don’t think it is,” Bishop Wærferth says persuasively.

  “It is. I’ve come here, to ensure Gyrth heals and to collect those other wounded men who can ride.”

  “Why, where are you going?” His lips are pursed as he stares at me. Again, I don’t appreciate his scrutiny.

  “To face the Raiders, to Repton. Someone needs to drive them from Mercian lands.”

  “So you’ve already decided to act as a king should?” Such delight fills his words that again I’m surprised by the emotions the bishop is revealing to me.

  “Now, I’ve chosen to attack rather than be attacked. They’ve sent over three hundred warriors to find me, to take me to Repton, or to kill me, whatever must be done. I’ve only killed under a hundred of them. There’s still two hundred plus to find on my way to Repton.”

  Bishop Wærferth smiles at my words. I don’t like the look of it. I’m sure he’s never smiled at me before. I can’t see how it makes his face appealing, but rather menacing.

  “I have warriors who could assist you,” Wærferth offers. “They’re well-trained, and have good weapons and horses.”

  “Why would you give me warriors?”

  “If you were the king of Mercia, it would be my obligation to do so as the bishop of Worcester.”

  “But I’m not the king of Mercia. The witan hasn’t been convened, no one has been elected as king. Who even knows if there’s a kingdom left to rule over?” I know my words are worthless. They were before I even tried to deny Bishop Wærferth’s reasoning.

  “No one will accept me as king of Mercia. I’m a warrior. I have no son, either!”

  Bishop Wærferth continues to watch me, his eyes softening, but resolved all the same.

  “Mercia needs a bastard warrior right now. Her kings have failed her. Her allies have failed her. But you haven’t failed her. You’ve always fought for Mercia and the Mercians. I’m not the only one to think so.”

  I scoff then. I can’t help it.

  “No one else thinks anything of me at all. I’d be amazed if the ealdormen and bishops even know who I am.”

  Bishop Wærferth’s chuckle is not reassuring.

  “Shall I name those who know who you are? Who speaks of you with respect, even if it’s always been in soft whispers so that King Burgred didn’t become aware of the high esteem they all held you within?”

  “My family was discarded. Our honour demanded we continue to protect Mercia. It doesn’t require that I make a fool of myself by asking to become Mercia’s king.”

  “You’ll not need to ask,” Bishop Wærferth is deliberately ignoring the words I say that deny what he asks. I feel my temper beginning to fray.

  Before I can storm away, Bishop Wærferth grabs my arm, his grip stronger than I expect it to be. He holds me in place, his gaze filled with understanding.

  “You and your family have been badly used by Mercia, or rather, by men who were foolish enough to think they should rule instead. I’ll never deny that. And how have they fared for such impudence? They’re all dead, or nearly so, their dynasties snuffed out as though they never existed. Yet you remain, as the final member of a dynasty from which great kings have come in the past. And that means far more than you imagine.”

  “I know you’ll not have it said that Our Lord God favours you, so I won’t say that. But chance and happenstance favour you. You can’t turn your back on Mercia, not now.”

  I want to yank my arm away, but I don’t.

  “I haven’t said I’ll turn my back on Mercia. I’ve said I won’t be her king.”

  “You may not have the choice in the matter that you think you will.” Such ominous words, from the bishop, and then he drops his hold on my arm, an arch of his right eyebrow emphasising his words.

  I want to say more, to deny his words, his inferences, and his damn interference.

  But perhaps he’s right. Even if I don’t want to admit it.

  “Mercia needs warriors, not kings,” I try, grudgingly.

  “Mercia hasn’t always received what she needs. She’s been burdened with fools who couldn’t see the Viking menace for what it was. Now, I fear, it is about to become the greatest it’s ever been. King Alfred, in Wessex, holds on by the smallest of margins. Mercia however, stands proud and independent, but only if men and women fight for her.”

  “Who then speaks of me?”

  “Ah,” Bishop Wærferth’s delight is evident in just that one sound. “The ealdormen, and the other bishops, as well. And not just from eastern Mercia, but from the west as well.”

  I’m shaking my head. I can’t believe it. Whenever I’ve encountered these men in the past, they’ve dismissed me. No one has ever liked the fact that I roam western Mercia with my warband. I don’t think that those I’ve helped have ever thanked me. Not that it concerns me. I just note it to myself.

  “Bishop Eadberht of Lichfield and Deorlaf of Hereford have men they’ll pledge to you.”

  “They’re holy men.” I can’t quite keep the squeak of surprise from my voice.

  “As am I. Holy men know just as well as the secular lords that someone must wield weapons against an enemy who threatens to extinguish the life of everyone they administer to.”

  “Ealdorman Ælhun of central Mercia.”

  “Hates me,” I interject quickly.” Ælhun is the most influential of the ealdormen who helped King Burgred rule Mercia. The land he governs is close to mine. He resents me. He hates me, and I know all this without him having spoken to me even once.

  His gaze has always spoken most eloquently for him.

  Bishop Wærferth has the decency to look abashed.

  “He does hate you, that can’t be denied. But desperate men will overlook such small matters of love or hate to survive.”

  “Ealdorman Alhferht.”

  “Doesn’t much like me either.”

  Bishop Wærferth holds his hands to either side, a shrug of his shoulders telling me that the same applies to Ealdorman Alhferht as to Ælhun.

  “Ealdorman Æthelwold.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.” I look in surprise at the bishop. Has it really been so long since I attended the witan that a new generation of men has begun to rule?

  “He’s newly come to his position. You may remember his father, Æthelwulf.”

  “He fucking hated me,” I confirm, respectful all the same. The man at least had the honour to die protecting Mercia. A pity really. He might have hated me, but he hated the bastard Raiders more.

  “And now his son has taken his place and doesn’t hate you. Yet. Of course, there’s always time for that to happen,” the bishop’s flippant tone almost makes me smirk.

  “And you believe these men would support me?” I demand to know.

  “I know these men would have no choice but to do so. They can agree on only one thing, and if it’s that they hate you, then at least Mercia can be saved.”

  I want to argue with Bishop Wærferth. I want to tell him that he’s wrong. That Mercia doesn’t need me. But I know that Ealdorman Ælhun, Alhferht and Æthelwold lack the skills I possess.”

  “Then what of Ealdorman Beorhtnoth?”

  After King Burgred and Ealdorman Ælhun, Beorhtnoth is the next most influential man in Mercia.

  “He will be brought round, eventually.”

  “That’s far from reassuring. The bishops will tolerate me, and the ealdormen will hate me. There’s still Beorhtnoth who will definitely refuse to acknowledge me.”

  “I didn’t realise you were wary of what others thought of you.”

  “I’m not,” the words rip from my mouth befo
re I can stop them.

  Bishop Wærferth grins at me, his triumph souring my mouth.

  “It’ll not come to that,” I complain.

  “I would suggest that you either do as I say, or those men will join the Raiders in trying to kill you. At the moment, you have just over two hundred warriors trying to kill you, and all of them are strangers to this kingdom. If the ealdormen add their numbers, it’ll be another, what the same number again.”

  “I don’t know how many warriors they can supply.”

  “I think you do.”

  Again, I want to deny the bishop’s logic, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult.

  Frustrated, I return our conversation to my primary concern.

  “I need to go to Kingsholm, retrieve the rest of my warriors from my Aunt. Can Gyrth, Sæbald and Pybba remain under your care until my return?”

  “Of course they can. They’re not the ones with a bounty on their heads.” The response is not reassuring.

  “And while you travel to Gloucester, with your handful of men, think about what I’ve said to you. You may have the command of the ancient Hwiccan kingdom, but you can’t secure it. Not alone.”

  Unconstrained, I finally manage to stride away from the bishop. But as I go, my eyes flicker all around me. The bishop’s church is well protected. Worcester is well defended. But, it’s still a river that sits at the rear of the defences, and the Raiders have ships. Lots and lots of fucking boats.

  A shiver of dread runs down my spine. I try to ignore it, keen to see Pybba, Sæbald and Gyrth. Eager to know that the number of men killed in the recent attacks has stalled at two.

  I’ve eighteen men left to me, but not all of them can fight. Not at the moment.

  At Kingsholm, there are a further fifteen warriors I can call upon.

  There are the young lads as well, but I don’t believe any of them are yet ready to face our deadly enemy.

  The kingdom of the Hwicce has had many great kings, but none since my grandfather was deposed. Since then, if anything, an attempt has been made by my family to keep out of trouble, even to hide behind who we were and what we could do. No doubt, I would have continued to do the same. If it hadn’t been for the increasing frequency of Raider attacks.

  Inside the monastery building, the smell of the river is still strong, but bunches of fresh herbs hang from the rafters, and they go some way to keeping the odour at bay.

  My men are seated around a table, Rudolf amongst them, discussing the events since we last met. Rudolf rushes to my side.

  “This way,” he states blandly, and I follow him, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. There’s no mirth in Rudolf’s voice. I’ve never known it to be missing in the past. What’s happened to Pybba and Sæbald?

  Then he begins to speak.

  “We were set upon, not far from Worcester. It was a scouting party, nothing more, but the five men were handy with their blades.”

  “Did everyone survive?” I ask.

  “Yes. Pybba fought again. That man will not stop fighting. I think you could take his head, and he’d fight on.”

  “And Sæbald?”

  “He couldn’t fight. By then he’d lost too much blood.”

  “And did you fight?” The lengthy pause tells me all I need to know. But his silence again worries me.

  “I killed a man,” Rudolf turns to look at me, the horror of his actions reflected in the dullness of his normally bright eyes. “I killed a man.”

  I swallow thickly. I hadn’t wanted that. I should have been there for him. The others might not have realised the importance of such an act to Rudolf.

  “How do you do it?” Rudolf asks then, jutting out his chin, as though he doesn’t want to ask, but must do so.

  “I do it because there’s no choice. I do it because it’s what will save Mercia and more importantly, because it saves my friends, and my warriors, and keeps the few people I care for, safe.”

  “It hurts me,” Rudolf says. “In here,” and he taps his chest where his heart would be, his voice cracking.

  I reach out, wanting to shake his shoulder, to offer him my strength, but he shies away from me.

  I had worried about this.

  The joy of battle is in the killing, but the killing is not the joy it should be. For those who’ve never killed before, who can’t imagine doing so, it’s a strange realisation to discover that others can do something that pains you so very, very easily.

  Instead, I grab his chin, force him to look into my eyes. I have to use more strength than I’d like to in order to keep his eyes on mine.

  “If you want peace of mind and forgiveness for your action, then seek out a priest and perform your penance. For anything else, remember that if you hadn’t killed that warrior, then he would have killed you, or worse, your friends and brothers in arms.”

  I hold his gaze. I wish I could somehow gift him with my experience and reconciliation to who I am and what I am. But he’ll only be as good as I think he can be if he learns his own lessons.

  Rudolf lowers his lashes, and I see tears have settled there.

  I want to drive away those tears, make him as impervious as I can be.

  “It will get easier,” I assure him instead, a consolation I’ve never shared with even Edmund.

  “But it never gets easy. Now, take me to my wounded.” Abruptly, I release Rudolf from my hold, and I think he might fall, but he staggers and regains his balance. For a moment longer, he glances at me, and then he seems to shake all over.

  “Pybba is filled with complaints. Sæbald sleeps a great deal of the time.” Rudolf has searched for who he used to be and summoned a shadow of his previous cheeky ways. I appreciate that he makes an effort. Perhaps there’s a realisation that I’m not quite the impervious bastard Rudolf takes me to be. Maybe he respects me more. It certainly couldn’t be any fucking less.

  “Then I hope you’ve been seeing to Pybba. He’s to be esteemed.”

  “He’s a pestilence to be born with patience,” Rudolf comments, skipping in front of me to avoid the cuff I would give him around the head, while a wry smirk tugs at my cheeks.

  “As are you,” I confirm, and Rudolf turns to glance at me, his tears dry, but his face still white with his worries.

  “As are you,” he retorts, and then I fall silent because I’ve been led to a small building outside the main hall of the monastery and far away from the river. Rudolf holds the door wide for me, and the stench of the river is overridden by something even less pleasant.

  I cough against the astringent smell as I lower my head to enter.

  There are a handful of monks inside, walking amongst no more than ten beds. A body lies on every bed, some of them still, others bucking against whatever ails them.

  Rudolf leads me to Pybba. Pybba is sitting beside the small hearth that burns at the centre of the room, peering gloomily into the flames.

  His face is purple with bruises, but my eyes seek out his wound first.

  As before the linen that covers his stump seems clean and clear. I almost dread to see it when the linens are no longer needed.

  But Pybba doesn’t sense my presence, and Rudolf hovers anxiously.

  “Pybba,” I say the name softly, and while his head turns to me, it seems he’s not aware of who I am.

  “Pybba, it’s me. Coelwulf.”

  This time, there’s more of a response on the lined face, but no recognition.

  I turn to Rudolf, but it’s one of the monks who speaks to me.

  “His arm is recovering well. But he’s taken a heavy blow to the head. It’s to be hoped he’ll recover. In time.”

  “What happened?”

  “In the battle. He was knocked down, by one of the Raiders. The one I killed.”

  Ah, so much suddenly makes sense. I’m beginning to understand more of why Rudolf is so worried by the man he killed.

  “You have my thanks for caring for him.” Into the hand of the monk, I press some of my silver pennies. They carry th
e head of King Burgred, but until there’s a new king, they have value in Mercia. These pennies used to mean a great deal for me than they do now. Now I have horses, and each one is worth a hundred and twenty of these silver coins. Ten for the monks is really too little, but it's a great wealth for them.

  The monk inclines his head.

  “Where are Sæbald and Gyrth?”

  The monk leads me toward another bed. On this one, lies the still figure of Sæbald.

  I’ve always thought Sæbald a perfect warrior, the correct size, height and weight. He seems small and shrivelled beneath the furs that cover him.

  “He lost a great deal of blood.” Sæbald seems to be myriad shades of blue, green and black, his right eye bulging, although not open.

  “Will he recover?”

  “It’s to be hoped. He can remain in such a state for a few days more before it becomes worrying.”

  I reach down, rub my thumb over Sæbald’s arm. His skin feels dry and desiccated. I swallow around my sorrow to see him in such a state.

  “And what of Gyrth?”

  The monk leads me towards another bed. On this one, Gyrth lies, awake, and sweating, his finger unbound so that the air can get to it. I examine the cut I made. It’s neat and tidy. And, despite my worries, it might well have been enough to ensure the wound-rot didn’t set in. But still, he fights a high fever.

  “The sweating is good. It should remove the contagion from his body. I believe, provided he recovers from the fever, that he’ll be well.”

  Gyrth turns to meet my eyes, a hint of his fiery desire to live clear to see.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he all but whispers.

  If only it were that easy.

  “I’ll be back for you,” I inform Gyrth, my plans forming as I speak.

  “In no more than a week. If you’re not healed, I’ll leave you here. If you’re well, you can come with me.”

  The monk startles at my side for my voice has dropped low, filled with foreboding.

  Gyrth surprises me by grinning, his teeth flashing yellow in the dull light.

  “You’ll have to kill me from coming with you.” I grin then. Damn the fucker. He better be alive this time next week. I need him.