The Last King

by M J Porter

  The ceremony is sombre, and difficult for the two widows who don’t have bodies to bury. The young girl is quiet, supported by my Aunt. When the service is over, my Aunt leads the women away to mourn away from the fierce sorrow of the warriors.

  Edmund joins me. I’ve taken the time to bathe and remove the muck of the dead from my body. Rudolf, despite his new status, has cleaned all of my equipment. Our parting is going to be difficult. On both of us.

  “She told you to do it, didn’t she?”

  I used to think Edmund and my Aunt shared some sort of regard for each other. I’m not so sure anymore, and yet Edmund speaks of her with great respect, always. He admires her. I think she adores him. I’ve decided to ask nothing further from them. I really don’t need to know that.

  “She did.”

  “And so you will, because of your Aunt?”

  “No, because she reminded me of my obligations.”

  “Ah.” Understanding fills Edmund’s voice.

  “She used your brother against you.”

  “No, she used my family against me.”

  “And does she know that you’re hunted?”

  “She wouldn’t care if I was. She believes in my talents more than I do.”

  “So how will you do this?”

  “I’ll allow Bishop Wærferth to arrange everything. I have no time for tedious conversations. I came for my warriors. I have Raiders to track down and kill.”

  Edmund grunts. He makes it impossible for me to decipher his true feelings on the matter.

  Only then he says something never spoken about between us before.

  “Your brother lacked your tenacity and genuine talent. He knew that. He didn’t begrudge you for having it. He was proud of you. He would respect your decisions now.”

  A hard lump forms in my throat.

  Edmund and I are warriors.

  We’ve fought in over thirty battles together, not counting the recent ones. Never once, in all that time, has he spoken to me of my lost brother, his greatest friend, and the man who should lead now, but doesn’t.

  It hurts to hear those words. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been waiting to listen to them for so many years, or because my brother and I were never close while he lived.

  “We ride out tomorrow, tell the men,” but even I hear the catch in my voice as I turn and stride away.

  My Aunt has ensured there’s ample food and ale that evening. I sit beside her at the front of the hall, trying not to glower, and failing. She remains silent at my side, although efficient. She has no qualms about ordering the servants as she sees fit, for all she leaves me well alone.

  I want to thank her for all she does for my men and me, but I know she wouldn’t appreciate the comment.

  Just as I have duties and responsibilities, I have no control over, so does she. They’re as much a part of us as breathing.

  When she stands to retire for the night, I stand as well, bowing to her. She comes behind me, pressing my shoulders down and forcing me back onto the wooden seat that used to be my father’s. I find it an uncomfortable fit. My brother filled the position better than I do.

  Her touch is firm, and I obey without thought, almost as though I’m a child once more.

  “You’ll do what must be done, and when it’s done, I’ll welcome you back to Kingsholm.” She says nothing else, and I know I’ll not see her when I ride out. She’ll be on her knees, praying for me in the priory. I’ve never considered her piety to be worthwhile in the past, but, with so many warriors trying to kill me, I reconsider my original thoughts. Perhaps it’s best if she prays for me, after all.

  When morning comes, I’ve hardly rested, and yet I feel invigorated. I’ve made important decisions, and I know what I must do.

  With my force added to by the men from Kingsholm, I once more have twenty men under my command. If my warriors in Worcester are well again, which I’m far from convinced about, my force will number twenty-four.

  We retrace the path of our journey to Kingsholm, riding quickly beyond the mass grave that’s been constructed while we’ve been gone to bury the dead, aware that others have ridden the path after us and cleared away the mess. I wish I knew if they were enemy or ally. But, I do know that Gloucester hasn’t been threatened. That makes me hopeful that the three remaining bands of warriors might not have infiltrated into southwest Mercia just yet.

  Perhaps the other war parties don’t have mounts.

  Perhaps the first three were just too damn cocky and thought I’d be easy to waylay.

  The thought is not the comfort I hoped it would be.

  Neither, it transpires was my thought about Gloucester remaining free from attack.

  The sound of rushing hooves fleeing over the ground reaches my ears almost within sight of the joining of the Rivers Severn and Avon. The small settlement is a haze of grey smoke in the distance.

  No sooner have I begun to turn Haden, keen to see what follows me, than I see Edmund, hand pointing into the distance.

  “Fucking bollocks.” I don’t really need the messenger, when he appears, sweaty faced and blowing harder than his horse, one of the new ones I notice. The lad is young, no doubt the son of one of my men. I don’t think I know his name.

  “My Lord.” He searches frantically for me, and I erupt from amongst my mass of warriors.

  “Is Gloucester under attack?”

  “Yes, My Lord. Your Lady Aunt sent me to bring you back.”

  “Right,” I call, sighing heavily. “We ride back the way we came. Gloucester can’t pay the price for the Raiders frustration at not being able to find me.”

  All of my warriors turn their horses, Edmund already riding on to bring back Icel and Goda to the body of the main force.

  We can be no more than half a morning’s hard ride from Gloucester, but it feels like too far as I turn my horse back toward home.

  The smoke rises thickly in the air, tainting the bright blue sky and I think this a new, but an old tactic, for the Raiders to use. So far, none of the three groups has advertised their presence to me. Perhaps they’re not as desperate as I thought they were.

  Or maybe, these lot have been sensible and made use of their fast ships rather than horseflesh to arrive in south-west Mercia. Did they risk the moody Severn estuary on a ship they could handle skilfully, rather than a difficult horse over hard-packed earth?

  Within sight of Gloucester, I rein Haden in, my warriors following my actions. I turn to Edmund, my confusion reflected in the wrinkles on his forehead, his mouth hanging open.

  “What the fuck?” His words speak for us all.

  “Am I really seeing that?” I demand to know. “Tell me I’m not really seeing that.”

  “You’re really seeing that,” Edmund replies, Icel beside him. His face mirrors Edmund shocked one as well.

  “Bollocking hell,” I shake my head, aghast.

  Of all the things. Well, this was not what I was expecting to see. Not in Gloucester.

  And not right now.

  “Stupid bastards,” Icel’s voice rumbles with his distaste, and I agree with him.

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Because they’re fucking arseholes.” Edmund’s voice is filled with part admiration and part outrage. I share his feelings.

  “Just what we need. Stupid bastard Gwent Welsh Raiders on top of everything else.”

  “What shall we do?”

  “Kill them,” I state flatly. I’ve fought the Welsh men of Gwent almost as many times as I have the Raiders. Admittedly, I’ve never had to fight the Welsh and the Raiders in the same week, or even month.

  The smoke that fills the air doesn’t come from the settlement of Gloucester itself, still seemingly protected behind its three ancient Roman walls. But on the quayside, the settlement is threatened.

  “Why would they burn the bloody bridge?”

  It makes fuck all sense, but then, the Welsh of Gwent make fuck all sense to me most of the time.

  “It
seems they mean to cut off their own noses to spite themselves.”

  Without the wooden bridge, that links Gloucester with the Mercian lands on the eastern side, the Welsh will have to use ships to cross the Severn if they wish to trade with the inhabitants.

  “Right, stupidity or not, let’s go and see if anyone needs killing on our side of the river.”

  Kneeing Haden, I steer him quickly inside Gloucester. It seems our return has been expected, and the wooden gates are quickly flung open, the street just about deserted as we ride through it.

  The town, like so many others in Mercia, is far from overpopulated other than by churches. In no time at all, my men and I are milling around close to the burning bridge.

  The heat is surprisingly intense as yellow flames lick their way along the wooden struts.

  I’ve nodded to those people I know as I lead my men on, the looks of relief on those faces, assuring me that Gloucester fears this new attack.

  Edmund joins me, his hand already on his seax, death in his eyes, as we reach the quayside. He hates the Welsh. All of them. No matter their king or place of birth. If I allow him to, he’ll kill all of the men marooned on this side of the bridge and not think twice about it.

  I watch with mild interest as the twenty or so Welsh warriors realise they’re not alone.

  The tongue they speak is a gabble of too many syllables. But I’ve not lived all my life so close to the Welsh borderlands without learning some of the language.

  A tight smile touches my cheeks.

  It seems that facing me today was not their desire.

  “Why?” I shout across the void, aware Icel has taken over the role of organising the men in light of Edmund’s seething hissing going on beside me. The man is quite unmanageable where the Welsh are concerned.

  One man steps forward. His long hair is tied back behind his neck, his beard and moustache trimmed close to his face. He wears excellent battle wear, but it’s not going to help him if he needs to swim the Severn, for all it’s much narrower here than downstream.

  The man’s Adam apple bobs, as he swallows heavily, his eyes widening with fear. I don’t know what Icel’s doing behind me, but I decide it’s probably Edmund’s wild features that cause so much concern.

  “My Lord, My Lord Coelwulf.”

  “Yes, and who are you?”

  “I am Cadell ap Merfyn.”

  “Well then, welcome to Gloucester, Cadell ap Merfyn.”

  His grimace almost makes me smile.

  “I.” He stops, and I wait, my hands still on the harness of my horse. The smell of the choking fumes of the treated, burning wood, is threatening to bring tears to my eyes. Any moment now, I think the flames will cover the twenty Welsh warriors, perhaps using it as a cover to slip back across the Severn.

  Maybe, I consider, there’s a ship waiting for them.

  But, Cadell’s nervousness speaks to me of an enormous fuck up.

  “I. Well we. Well, it was our intention to trade in Gloucester. It seems that our enemies thought differently.”

  Ah, now this I can understand.

  “Did they, by any chance, wait for you to cross into Gloucester and then set the bridge aflame?”

  Relief washes over Cadell’s face, making him almost handsome if I avoid looking at his too sharp chin and elongated nose.

  “How did you know? Did they tell you?” A touch of fury slips from Cadell’s tongue.

  “No, we didn’t know. But you know, we have enemies too.”

  From across the bridge, as the smoke blows clear for a heartbeat, I can actually make out a warband jeering at the enemy. Edmund growls, but I reach out and touch his hand, asking for a calmness that is never easily found where the Welsh are concerned.

  “Is that all of you?” I demand to know, jerking my head to indicate the warriors surrounding their spokesperson.

  “Yes, yes,” the head bobs too quickly.

  “No fuckers are hiding along the quayside, in the boats or storehouses.”

  The quayside could play host to five hundred enemy warriors, and I’d be none the wiser.

  “No. We are all here.” But he turns, hesitant to show me his back, and picks out the faces of the men who serve him.

  I shake my head, meeting Icel’s amused eyes to the side of me.

  “Edmund, do you want to fuck off somewhere else. I think I need to speak to this Cadell.”

  “Speak, to the Welsh scum?” The outrage in his voice is evident.

  “Yes, the Welsh scum. I have half an idea, and you won’t fucking approve of it.”

  Edmund’s eyes are wild with fury, but I can see some understanding as his eyes flicker from Cadell and his men to my men.

  “Well, yes, then. I think I’ll just make myself scarce.”

  “Find the portreeve. Make sure no one has been harmed. Take Hereman with you.”

  Edmund opens his mouth to argue but snaps it shut. I’ve done him a favour, and it would be churlish to press the point.

  With a jangle of harness, Edmund moves away from me, as Cadell abruptly turns his head, as though anticipating an attack while he’s distracted.

  I lift my hands clear from Haden’s reins to show I mean no harm, while Edmund and Hereman peel away from the group.

  Cadell watches Edmund keenly. I consider that they know each other. I consider that whatever is boiling Edmund’s piss might not just be because the Welsh are in Gloucester. I dismiss the notion quickly.

  Goda replaces Edmund. We’re still mounted. I see no reason to dismount.

  “It seems you might owe the people of Gloucester a new bridge?”

  “We.” “I.”

  “Well, you either do, or you don’t,” I press. Cadell’s eyes boggle from his head.

  “Perhaps an agreement could be reached,” Cadell eventually admits. He speaks my tongue as well as I do his. I approve.

  “And what would that agreement consist of?”

  “We could provide the labour force if Gloucester can provide the wood?”

  It’s a fair offer, after all, no one from Mercia would want Welsh wood on the bridge. Mercian oak is the best. And everyone knows that Welsh trees are a rarity. Not for them, the lush woodlands carefully managed and tended by the woods people.

  “And you would feed the workforce, and ensure they slept on the other side of the river each night?”

  “Of course,” Cadell is almost too keen to agree. I believe he thinks I’ll let him live.

  “And what will you do for me, if I allow this strange accord to happen?”

  “For you, My Lord?” This has surprised Cadell, and I can hear, in his squeaked response, that he thinks he’s already paid a high enough price for the deception foisted onto him.

  “Yes, for me. I’ve been dragged back to Gloucester to fight the enemy, and all I face is a rabble of lost Gwent Welshmen. It hardly makes for battle glory.”

  “No, no, of course not, My Lord.” I think Cadell takes offence, as do some of the other men, at being summed up as a rabble, and not the warriors they clearly are. Certainly, they’re all well-armed, especially for the Gwent men.

  “What can we offer Lord Coelwulf?” Cadell makes it almost too easy.

  “I need extra men to assist me, against the Raiders.”

  Swift comprehension leaves a pensive look on Cadell’s face.

  “So the rumours are correct?”

  “What rumours?”

  “That King Burgred has gifted Mercia to some of the Raiders?”

  How Cadell knows this I don’t know, and neither do I press.

  “Perhaps,” I confirm non-committedly. “But for you to leave here, alive, with all of your men, and no more ill-will once the bridge has been repaired, I want to know that you’ll provide me with fifty warriors, and yourself, if I need to fight the Raiders.”

  The Gwent Welshmen have no love for the Raiders. Their king recently won a great victory over a Viking horde. Cadell’s flitting tongue slides over his lips as he considers. I’m surprise
d he doesn’t turn, to ask the men who serve him their opinion. But he doesn’t.

  “It’s agreed,” Cadell states, almost too eagerly. “We’ll provide the labour for the bridge to be rebuilt, and while that work continues, fifty warriors will be available to you. Once the repair work is done, our brief accord will be at an end.”

  “And your fifty warriors will, of course, protect the settlement from the far side of the river bank. We wouldn’t want your little enemies trying to start another fight or a fire.”

  “Yes, yes, that as well. I’ll oversee the arrangements. But, my warriors don’t have horses. If you wish us to journey with you, deep into Mercian land, we must have horses, and an assurance that we’ll not be attacked just for being Welsh.”

  A fair deal, but I hold my tongue, considering before I agree.

  “And you will, of course, pay compensation to those people whose livelihoods you’ve destroyed while the bridge is unusable. The price will be determined by the portreeve, who knows the businesses of his people well.”

  “Agreed,” Cadell confirms.

  I nod, slide from my horse, and hand the reins to Icel.

  I stride toward Cadell seemingly unarmed, although my seax is fastened to the rear of my weapons belt should I require it.

  Cadell walks toward me as well. Just two men with many watching on. Either of us could give the command, some flick of the wrist, and blades could fly.

  A billow of smoke covers me, and I hear the tension in my watching warriors, as all of them must reach and grip a weapon.

  But Cadell reaches out his hand, as I extend mine. Then we’re clasping arms, one warrior to another, one lord to another, for I know who Cadell is, even if he’s made no mention of it.

  “Lord Cadell, tell your brother,” I offer, “of what’s happened here. Tell him to stay away from the Mercian borderlands, for now, or I’ll send every Raider horde toward his precious kingdom.”

  Cadell startles under my firm grip, dismayed to realise I’ve seen through his ruse, but he can’t respond because the smoke abruptly clears, and all can see two men, arm in arm, agreeing to something that might well be temporary, but is no less extraordinary because of that.