by M J Porter
“What were you doing?” Rudolf’s question is a fair one, brought to me from where he turns his horse around. I have no real answer.
“Take me back. Ordheah was under attack.”
“Lyfing went to aid him.”
“Take me back,” I command all the same. The horses are milling around on a gentle rise. Unsure what to do with themselves, they pluck at the grasses beneath their hooves.
I’m dimly aware that a handful of the young lads are tending to them, trying to gather together as many as they can.
Without further argument, Rudolf guides his horse back the way we’ve just come. A stray white horse flees past us, red streaks on its flanks attesting to the battle that’s taken place.
I gaze forward, counting my men as I see them.
I look to where Ordheah was standing, and find Lyfing beside him, the pair slapping each other around the backs.
All is well there then.
Next, I seek out Edmund and find him disentangling himself from a thicket of summer weeds growing to the far side of the trackway. I keep my amusement from showing at his poor choice of places to wait out the stampede.
I’ve not yet found all of my men, although it seems that the only ones who walk amongst the ruin of the attack and the horses' stampede are men I recognise.
“Where’s Hereman?” I call, slipping from the horse at the same time.
“My thanks,” I meet Rudolf’s eyes, my hand on his arm, the pressure making him wince.
“I’m a warrior now,” Rudolf asks, and I nod, even though it hurts me to do so.
“The daft sods over here,” Edmund’s call fills the silence where before battle raged.
“Does everyone live?” I can’t afford to lose any more of my warriors.
A chorus of ‘yes’ reaches my ears, but still, I don’t count fourteen amongst them.
“Who’s missing?” I demand to know. Hereman erupts in front of me, Edmund at his side.
“What the fuck was that?” he calls, his face filled with fury, and worse, a slither of horseshit marring his clothes and weapons.
“A stampede,” I stutter, not wishing to get too close to him when he’s so noxious.
“You nearly fucking killed me?”
“It was my intention to kill our enemy, not my warriors.” Hereman vibrates with his anger, and I’m unsurprised when Edmund marches up to him. The next words are a complaint, and I tune it out.
Who is missing?
Rudolf is riding around the scene of destruction, his head hanging lower than his mount’s shoulders, as he looks amongst the dead.
There’s more than one cracked skull. Now, the heat of the battle dissipating from my limbs, my stomach rolls with disgust at the destruction.
“Oslac,” Rudolf’s cry reaches my ears, even above Hereman’s complaints. Rudolf is off his horse, on his knees, as I rush to his side.
Oslac is lying face down on the ground, and Rudolf struggles to turn him. I bend, ignoring the creak of my back, and add my weight to that of the slight youth’s.
I know, even before I see him, that Oslac is dead. No man alive would feel so damn heavy.
“Fuck,” I meet Oslac’s staring blue eyes, his lips dyed with the green of summer growth, the wound on his chest, nothing compared to the ragged slices of the skin near his throat.
Rudolf stumbles away, his choking sobs the only sound, other than the heavy footsteps of my warriors coming to join me.
I reach out, take the useless helm from Oslac’s head, rest it softly back on the ground, and then close his eyes. I don’t need to see the endless question that will always be unanswered on his face.
“Bollocking bollocks,” Edmund roars, speaking for everyone. Silence falls between us all, broken only by the sound of the loose horses munching on the riverbank grasses.
My head hangs low. Each death is a blow for me. My warriors are my family. To lose three of them in such a small space of time weighs heavily on me.
But, I can’t sit here mourning.
“Bring one of the horses, a sturdy one. We’ll take him back to Kingsholm, bury him there.”
“What about the dead?” Edmund prompts me. I always bury my dead. Today I don’t much feel like it.
“Pile them up over there,” I point to the hedge that Edmund emerged from.
“We’ll bury them when we’re back to full strength. I don’t want to risk lingering.” What remains unsaid is that I don’t want to have to face the bodies when I ride back this way. None of us does.
Rudolf returns, with Oslac’s mount. The animal is splattered with blood, eyes rolling, but he quickly calms him. Then, with the aid of Hereman and Edmund, I lift the body, secure it to the saddle. Oslac’s horse has one more journey to make with his master. It won’t be a pleasant one.
“Loot the bodies, if there’s anything of value.” I’m thinking of the man I killed, and the fine mail coat he wore. It seems Rudolf, for all he’s a warrior now, has had the same thought. While his horse crops the grass, he’s spidering his way amongst the dead, with the other lads.
Edmund stays beside me.
“More fucking horses.” I eye the additional animals apprehensively. There’s so many now, it’s ludicrous.
“Did Ingwald’s horse die?” I think to ask. Edmund shakes his head.
“No. The damn thing stepped on a thistle. I thought it was dead as well. It screamed enough.”
“It seems I should have a war band of horses, not men.”
The grief that threatens to overwhelm me is uncomfortable, and my complaint is half-hearted.
“He died doing what he loves. They all did,” Edmund’s voice is far from filled with the desire to reassure me.
I grunt. I can’t deny the logic of the response.
“Right. Let’s see if we can make it to Kingsholm without more fucking bloodshed.”
The bodies of the dead have been moved, the track way is clear again, the sounds of wildlife in the undergrowth resuming, the river running sluggishly behind us.
If it weren’t for the trampled grass, the pile of bodies and the buzz of inquisitive flies come to feast on the cooling, sticky blood, I could almost imagine that nothing had happened here.
“Mount up,” I command, taking possession of Oslac’s mount.
I’ll lead the animal. It’s my responsibility to do so.
Most of the horses have been recaptured. Each young lad is now responsible for four or five, not three. Above all the noise of horse and harness, I can hear Edmund and Hereman, their voices raised in argument, once more, as though nothing’s happened.
I grin. It's a tight thing.
Another battle. The loss of another man I hope called me his friend, even if he fought as I instructed.
There’ll be many more to come. Of that, I’m sure.
Chapter 7
We reach Kingsholm without further trouble.
But I can smell it in the air.
There are men out there, trying to capture me yet.
Over a hundred and fifty of them, if the enemy we captured spoke the truth.
The cry of Wulfred reaches my ears, although it cuts off, as he truly catches sight of us from behind the defences that make Kingsholm secure.
The mood of the men is both melancholy and jaunty. After a battle such as that there are too many emotions to know what to do with them all.
Edmund has sung his songs of battle prowess, stringing together the list of our dead, in the same way that the Goddodin are immortalised by the scops. He, of course, ensures all is said in the correct order. Pedantic bastard.
“A man of the Hwicce,
He gulped mead at midnight feasts.
Slew Raiders, night and day.
Brave Athelstan, long will his valour endure.”
“Beornberht, son of the Magonsaete.
A proud man, a wise man, a strong man.
He fought and pierced with spears.
Above the blood, he slew with swords.”
“A
man fought for Mercia
Against Raiders and foes.
Shield flashing red,
Brave Oslac, slew Raiders each seven-day.”
Hereman has finally stopped shouting at him to stop. And Rudolf has given me the hint of his former cheek.
But not all is well within our small group, despite the over a hundred and fifty horses we bring with us.
Wulfred’s outraged comment echoes my own.
“What the fuck we supposed to do with all them?” Only then my Aunt is amongst my men and me, and Wulfred scuttles back to his post, head down, keen to avoid my Aunt’s rancour.
She’s spent much of her life listening to the battle talk of filthy warriors. She doesn’t have to approve, though.
“What happened?” Her words cut through the air like lightning in a summer storm, recalling me to the here and now, dazzling my vision. I eye her, for once pleased to see the straight line of her thin lips, the harsh tilt of her chin, and the severe wimple that covers her long, grey hair. She looks like my father. The family resemblance has always been impossible to ignore.
“Aunt,” I incline my head, but her narrow hands swish through the air, dismissing my niceties. She wants news, not hellos.
“King Burgred has sold Mercia to the Raiders, in exchange for his life. Three hundred warriors hunt me. Or I was. Half of them are now feeding Mercian soil. I hope the resultant growths are long-limbed.”
I expect to see no shock on her face, and she doesn’t disappoint. Instead, her lips turn ever straighter as she appraises me.
“Are these the king’s horses?”
“I imagine they were.”
“And they’re yours now?”
“So it would seem.”
“Excellent.” With no further words, she strides from my presence, her faithful hounds either side of her, weaving an unwavering path through the hidage of horseflesh. I know the conversation is far from over. I’ll have to seek her out inside the priory.
I sigh, running my hand through my matted hair.
After all, I really could do with a hot bath.
“Stable them, where you can. They can graze, but only in the near meadows. I don’t want them far from sight. The Raiders might think to steal them back.”
Wulfred’s balding head bobs at my words. I can see his mouth trying to form a sentence, something that’s not the filth he spouts typically, but I walk beyond him, into Kingsholm, the place of my birth.
It’s a prosperous site. When my family were the kings of the Hwicce, this was one of their palaces. It’s all that’s left to my family now. But still, it’s magnificent.
Just as Gloucester itself, it’s built half in stone, quarried from the buildings of the Romans, and half in wood. The roof of the great hall sags a little sadly, and I recall that this was to be my task this summer until duty called me away.
My Aunt will be displeased to spend another winter with a dripping roof. I can already hear her sour complaints, little offered and holding more resonance because of that.
Wulfred guards the entrance to the enclosure, rimmed with a deep ditch that can fill with water from the River Severn when the tides are particularly high. A wooden walkway tops it, and from there, it’s said, my ancestors protected their people from the Welsh.
I think the river in the way probably helped a great deal more than is ever said.
Piles of seasoned oak are waiting, inside the enclosure, to replace the broken and exposed areas of the walkway. Another job I should have performed this summer. And it’s more critical than a saggy roof.
The space between the hall and I is blocked with horses. I can hear my warriors shouting for news from the returning men, and I also listen to exclamations of denial when they realise we’re not complete.
I sigh once more.
My lost men had families. I seek out the women amongst the hopeful faces, unsurprised to find that Edmund has taken responsibility for the task.
All the same, I don’t shy away from the women. One softly weeps, the other looks furious. I swallow down my sudden fear. Give me a wall of gleaming iron rather than a weeping woman.
“Ladies,” I bow before them both, Edmund’s sharp intake of breath the warning I don’t take.
And then hands are beating me, fiercely, bruising me as only hand-to-hand combat can. I allow it without trying to stop Athelstan’s wife. She’s always been fiery, and now, with her belly swollen against her dresses, I appreciate that she has every right to be angry with me.
Beornberht’s wife watches on, blue eyes wide with shock and horror. Her grief is slower to arrive. I’ve seen it before.
Edmund moves to intervene, but I shake my head, meeting his eyes, pleading silently with him to understand. And he does. This isn’t the first time that I’ve had to face angry women or bereaved children. It’s my responsibility to do so.
And then a slight girl is stood before me, hair so blond it’s almost blinding in the summer sun. Her lower lip trembles as she clutches a dirty cloth to her face. This then is Oslac’s daughter.
I finally grip the beating hands of Athelstan’s wife and lower them as gently as I can. I beckon the girl closer, the other widow as well, and throw my arms around them. I hold them all tight, pressing them to my chest, feeling them shake and twist with sorrow, trying to promise them my strength in place of their lost men.
“Your men died valiantly, fighting for Mercia and for their lord. You’ll be honoured as their wives and children.”
I have horseflesh aplenty, and also a handful of women who live under the harsh, if fair, gaze of my Aunt. I’ll never force any of them to leave, but they’re welcome to go if they ever feel the time is right. They’re also welcome to return if they ever have the need.
Eventually, as I hoped, the two women and the young girl, stand back, united in their sorrow and in hatred of me. I don’t expect anything else. But I do demand that they support one another. They turn, stride away, and I watch, my jaw held tight. Edmund’s hand on my shoulder is the strut that keeps me upright.
“And now for my Aunt.” The weariness in my voice surprises me. Edmund offers no empty words. It’s not our way.
As I suspected, I find my Aunt amongst the gravestones of my ancestors, to the rear of the small priory, the monks from Gloucester maintain, at my expense.
Her hounds appear to be sleeping at her feet, but I know better. They’re fiercely loyal and can be roused to snapping furies with just a word from her. One of the beasts growls at me, the sound more terrifying than iron being drawn from a scabbard.
“Down Wiglaf,” my Aunt snaps. I turn to meet the hound’s eyes, and I fear that we both feel equally quelled by her tone. The hounds are named after the men who ruled Mercia after her father was deposed. Not that she had the naming of both of them. I consider that it might pain her, but then dismiss the idea. My Aunt is not the sort of woman to fear to speak a hound’s name.
“King Burgred has always been a fucking coward.” Her coarse words shock me so much I feel my mouth drop open.
She turns to gaze at me, the hint of amusement in her eye, and I consider what she sees when she looks at me. No one has ever said that I resemble my father, but neither have I been told I take after my mother. My blond hair is a mystery to me, my build the result of my warrior skills.
“Did you think I grew deaf every time you and your warriors made Kingsholm your home?”
“I,” I stutter, but nothing else follows the words. She cows me as no one else ever has. Not even my father.
“King Burgred is a coward, and your father was a fool not to stake his claim to the kingdom.” My father could never have ruled. He was a weak man, tormented by the death of his father. I vowed to never be like him.
“You’ll be king now.” It’s not even a question, but a statement.
“How did Bishop Wærferth get to you so quickly? Did he sail here?” I turn, as though to seek him out or spy the hint of sails to the west.
My Aunt’s sudden laughter tak
es me by surprise.
“So he’s already suggested it to you. Good. At least I don’t have to force you to fulfil your duty.”
Again, my mouth opens, but no words sprout from it.
“The ealdormen will support you. All of them. The bishops as well.”
“I,” I try and speak, but she’s walking to my side, her hand stretched out to touch my arm.
“Mercia suffers because our line has been broken. You’ll heal it.”
“I.” I just can’t find the words to say.
“I know you never wanted this. But I always knew. I think your father and brother did as well.”
“I can’t be king,” I finally manage to force the words beyond my constricted throat.
“But you will be.” And she moves off, no doubt to find the bereaved women and the young girl. My Aunt has never shied away from the responsibilities she feels to the people of Mercia.
One of the hounds follows her, but the other one, the one she chastised, Wiglaf, remains, head low and whining softly. I reach out. Cup the hound’s muzzle, run my hand along his snout. His whining softens, dies away altogether.
Wiglaf was my brother’s hound before he belonged to my Aunt. That accounts for why she cares for it so well. He’s old now.
Only when we’re together, do we give in to our combined sorrow.
Together we walk to my brother’s grave.
It’s been over a decade since his death, fighting for Mercia. His hound is lined with grey and slow to move during the cold winter weather. Watching him struggle to his feet makes me realise how damn old I truly am.
I bend my head and rest my other hand on the gravestone that marks my brother’s grave.
These warriors I ride with were his men.
Edmund was once my brother’s closest ally, even closer than I was to him.
Coenwulf would have made a fine king of Mercia.
“Fuck it,” I complain, standing upright, shocking poor Wiglaf as he lies over my feet, and then struggles to stand.
“Fuck it, bugger it, arse it, shit it.”
There was never a choice.
There rarely is.
Oslac is buried close to the church. Not with my family. Instead, next to the other warriors who’ve fallen fighting for my brother and me, and for Mercia.
