by M J Porter
“Lord Coelwulf.” Cadell inclines his head to me.
“Lord Cadell,” I confirm, following his example.
“Now,” and I drop his hand. “Do you want a ship to take you across the Severn, or will you be swimming?”
Lord Cadell swallows heavily, perhaps unsure of the correct response.
“A ship,” he squeaks. “If possible.”
“A ship,” I confirm, already turning to find someone of authority in Gloucester to organise it.
“A week,” I say. “You have a week to be back with your labourers and warriors. If I’m not in Gloucester at the time, my warriors will be, and they’ll know where to find me.”
“Of course,” Lord Cadell is keen to be gone, I can tell from the way he bounces on the balls of his feet.
“Until we meet again, then.” And I turn my back on him entirely, keen to be back in the saddle and back on the way to Worcester.
“Fucking mad bastards,” Icel rumbles, and I nod, not yet giving into my amusement.
Only when we’re once more riding free from Gloucester, through the gates, closed tightly behind us, do I give into my glee.
“Did you see his fucking face?” I aim my comment at Icel. Edmund is riding with us once more, but he’s sulking far behind me. He might not forgive me for my deal with the Gwent Welshman, but he does understand the necessity of it.
“Daft fuckers. If they didn’t spend so much time fighting each other, they’d accomplish much more.”
“Then let’s hope they never stop fighting amongst themselves. It’s easier to handle them like this. But still, did you see their faces?”
My laughter takes me beyond the sight of the attack from the third group of warriors, and on so that we’re once more at the spot where the two rivers converge, the Severn and the Avon. Worcester is waiting in the distance, and so too, I hope, are my warriors.
They better still live.
If they don’t, I’ll kill them myself.
Chapter 8
The closer we get to Worcester, the more concerned I become.
The trackway is a riddle of horses’ hooves. Only the lack of smoke rising in the air assures me that Worcester hasn’t fallen to a Raider attack. Yet.
“Is there to be no damn peace today?” Edmund has recovered from his anger, and rides beside me, his eyes peering into the distance. I rely on that long-sight to tell me all that he can see.
We’ll not speak of affairs in Gloucester. It would be impossible to do so without wounding each other. Our acceptance of what the other thinks will be enough to keep our friendship strong.
“I can’t tell. It certainly doesn’t look besieged,” Edmund complains, resting back on his saddle. His horse is docile that day. I consider the randy sod might have serviced some of the mares back at Kingsholm. I can’t help thinking it would do Edmund some good as well.
“Let’s hope Worcester remains intact.” I don’t hold out much hope, and I’m surprised when we’re quickly admitted inside Worcester and through the earthwork defences. I cast a glance at them. Would they survive an attack by the Raiders? Would they survive an attack by the bloody Welsh? Damn bastards, and bloody fools.
Unlike my previous arrival, Bishop Wærferth doesn’t come to greet me personally, although Wulfhere does.
“The men are well, all of them. It’s what the bloody bishop’s up to that will boil you.” Wulfhere sounds so much like Rudolf, I turn, just to be sure that Rudolf is still mounted. I’ve forced him to exchange his small pony for one of the new horses. They’ve not yet made allies of each other.
“Why?” I demand to know, sliding from Haden’s back and pausing to rub his nose and ears before leaving him to the care of one of the other young lads.
“He’s been a busy little sod,” Wulfhere complains, and while I want to slap him for the disrespect, I refrain. Wulfhere isn’t yet Rudolf. Not quite.
“He’s been sending his minions to all the ealdormen of Mercia. Well, all those they can reach without encountering the Raiders anyway.”
“Already?” I gasp, trying to recall how many days I’ve been gone. Not enough, that’s for sure.
“What have the responses been?” I ask. I don’t actually know if I want to hear or not. I’m content knowing that the ealdormen all hate me. It’s never concerned me in the past.
“Not good,” Wulfhere mutters, but before he can say more, Bishop Wærferth makes an appearance. He eyes me with a quizzical look.
“More Raiders?”
“There’s always more of the pestilent fuckers,” I reply, Edmund’s snort of laughter at my tone, turned into a hasty cough. I’m pleased his good humour has been restored to him. Bishop Wærferth doesn’t seem quite as happy to see me as last time he was.
“Your men are healing well. Pybba has been causing trouble. That man will not do as he’s told,” a flicker of frustration crosses Bishop Wærferth’s face.
I nod. In all honesty, none of them ever do. As soon as Sæbald and Gyrth are up from their sick beds, the same will apply to them.
“I’ll take him with me as soon as he’s well enough to leave.”
“That would be for the best,” Bishop Wærferth admits. His rapidly moving eyes tell me there’s something he wishes to speak with me about, and not in front of the audience I currently have.
“Come, Bishop Wærferth, I would speak with you, alone.”
With that, he gladly follows me to the same spot at the rear of his monastery, where we spoke a few days ago. The stench of the river is still ripe, and the fleet of four ships wallowing upstream, by the quayside draws my eyes. I have the hint of an idea rooting in my mind, but I don’t need to discuss it. Not yet.
Bishop Wærferth sighs deeply, as though wishing he didn’t have to speak.
“Went well, did it?” I prompt him. Consternation fills his intelligent grey eyes.
“Stubborn fucking bastards,” his explosion of bile startles me so much that I take an involuntary step back before I start to laugh. I warned the daft sod. One day, people will listen to me when I explain how much others revile me.
“Well, in that case, I shall brag that I’ve secured a temporary alliance with Cadell ap Merfyn. He’ll provide me with fifty warriors, as well as a new damn bridge for Gloucester.” Confusion wars with respect on the bishop’s stunned face.
“An alliance, with the Gwent Welshmen? Who’s Cadell ap Merfyn?”
“Well that’s the joy, he’s only bloody Rhodri Mawr’s little mentioned brother. Daft sod got hemmed into Gloucester. Seems he doesn’t quite have the political clout of his brother.”
“So, you have an alliance with him?”
“For the summer, at least. After that, it’ll be fair game again. So tell me, what did the ealdormen have to say about your suggestion?”
“Well, Ealdorman Ælhun doesn’t believe that King Burgred has gone to Rome. He sends word that he’s going to investigate for himself.”
“Good, once he’s dead, his heir will be untried and untested and will have no choice but to do as he’s told.”
“Lord Coelwulf!” Bishop Wærferth’s explosion of shock alerts me to the fact the bishop has decided to re-exert his usual demeanour.
“Well, it’s true. Without the older generation and their refusal to move on, it’ll be much easier to react to the Raiders attacks. Tell me I’m wrong?” The sudden silence is all the answer I get.
“If Ealdorman Ælhun has any sense, he’ll have sent scouts on in front of him, and he’ll avoid the danger,” I say the words as a consolation. Ideally, I hope no such thing happens.
“Ealdorman Æthelwold was the only one to agree.”
I arch my eyebrows at Bishop Wærferth. He’s just proved to me that I’m right with that statement.
“Then Ealdorman Beorhtnoth and Alhferht are not receptive to the idea either?”
“No, they’re not. But the bishops are.”
“Well, bishops don’t make a king.” I pause then, risk a glance at Bishop Wærferth. He d
oesn’t say it, but I know what he’s thinking. The bishops do make a king. Well, they perform the service that makes men kings anyway. I smirk at myself. Damn fool.
“So none of them have seen Raiders on the roads?”
“Not that they’ll admit to. Although Bishop Eadberht has since sent a further messenger to tell me that the royal palace at Tamworth does lie deserted.”
“And what of Repton then?”
“I believe the scout was too terrified to venture that far.”
“I’d be surprised if he couldn’t sodding see Repton from bloody Tamworth.”
Bishop Wærferth wisely holds his tongue at my exasperation.
“What of Bishop Deorlaf then? Is there no sign of attack in Hereford either?”
“Apparently not.”
“So they really are just coming after me then? Fuck.”
“Yes, they want you, Lord Coelwulf, and I know why. They know that you’re the only one who could defeat them. The other ealdormen will realise in time.”
“Probably when I’m bloody dead,” I grumble.
The Mercians, just like the Welsh, are too damn keen to argue amongst themselves.
King Burgred has managed to keep his ealdormen aligned until now. The treaty with Wessex helped, but Alfred is king there now, not his brother, and I don’t really think he’s the man for the job. I hear he doesn’t even fight his own battles.”
“Now, now,” Bishop Wærferth works to appease me, but I don’t really need it.
“So, with your aid, and that of the other bishops, I have far more warriors than I did when I rode in here a few days ago.”
“Ah.”
“What?” I demand to know, beyond frustrated.
“That’s not quite what they said.”
“Great, so they’ll support me when I’m bloody dead as well. Fucking Mercian cock-suckers.”
Bishop Wærferth’s face flushes with horror at my words, but I’m beyond pretending that his fucked up plan isn’t entirely fucked up.
“What will you do?” the bishop finally asks me.
I’m pacing, measuring the space between the monastery and the cliffside. I have an idea forming. I don’t believe it’s a good one. But it might do. I just need time to think about it.
“I came for my warriors. I’ll take them. If they’re well enough to ride.”
“But what then?” worry laces his words, and in them, I hear the voices of every terrified man and woman, child and beast within Mercia.
“I’ll think of something,” I offer with a shrug of my broad shoulders.
The bishop laughs.
“How bloody reassuring.” He stalks from my presence. And I can’t help it, the words tumble from my mouth before I can stop them.
“At least I’ve killed a hundred and fifty of the damn bastards. What’s anyone else done?”
My voice echoes too loudly, but I don’t much care.
I stride toward the quayside upriver, curiosity getting the better of me.
Of course, I’ve been on a ship before, but not for any significant length of time. I remember it being an uncomfortable experience. I didn’t like the motion even on the river, and the ship’s captain laughed at me.
“You should feel her when she really starts to roll, far out to sea and far from here.”
I declined that offer. But, the Raiders use ships. All the damn time. In fact, riding a horse seems to be a weakness. And my weakness is being on a boat.
“Hum,” I make the noise out loud, only then aware that Edmund and Icel have joined me.
The two seem to be having some sort of internal battle as to who should always stand by my side. I leave them to it. I’m not settling an unnecessary argument.
“Sæbald is healing well. Gyrth more slowly, but he did seem to hear me when I called his name. Eahric and Oda are keen to re-join us.”
“Good. And Pybba? Is he really as much of a problem as the bishop implies?”
The silence that greets my question has me turning, first to gaze at Edmund and then at Icel. It appears I’ve found something that unites them.
“Well spit it out.”
“Pybba is not doing well.”
“Well, I didn’t expect him to.”
“No, but it’s worse than that.”
“Just bloody tell me before I go and find out for myself?”
“Wulfhere’s done his best,” Edmund’s excuse has me round on him in frustration.
“I blame no one, not even Pybba. Just tell me?”
“He’s had Wulfhere attach a blade to the end of the bandages on his stump. Anyone who tries to speak to him gets threatened with blades in both … well, hands, I suppose is the right word to use.” Edmund offers the explanation, his eyes flashing at Icel for forcing him to speak.
“So Pybba’s feeling vulnerable, and probably scared.”
“If that’s what we’re calling it, then yes, vulnerable and scared. I’d call it murderous and unmanageable.” Icel’s rumble of words has me squaring my shoulders.
“Fine, I’ll deal with the stupid sod.”
“I’d take your shield,” Edmund unhelpfully calls from behind me, and I don’t even favour him with the foul words tumbling through my mine,
No wonder Bishop Wærferth’s so pleased to see the back of Pybba.
“He’s not in the hospital,” Icel offers more helpfully. “You’ll find him in the stables.”
I smartly change direction, shaking my head as I do. Why I consider, is he with the horses? He should be keeping his wound clean, not mingling with the horse manure.
It’s Wulfhere I encounter first as I enter the stables. The creak of the door opening, brings him rushing from one of the stalls, worry etching his young face. Seeing me doesn’t ease his concern. I sigh heavily. I’d expected something from Pybba. That it’s only just happened doesn’t surprise me. A man can convince himself losing a hand won’t be a problem. The reality, when it hits, can be starkly different.
I resist the urge to ruffle Wulfhere’s unruly hair as I pass him.
“Leave us. It’ll be fine.” The look in his eyes is far from reassuring.
“Pybba, you daft fucker, I’m coming in.” I pitch my voice loud enough for him to hear, but not loud enough to terrify the horses stabled there. I don’t need to be in the middle of a stampede.
I hear no response, and so round the stall, Wulfhere emerged from.
There’s no horse inside, but there is a wide-eyed man, his clothes awry, his face sheeted in white.
“For fuck’s sake. What are you doing in here?” I keep my eyes on Pybba’s face, although I’ve already noted the two blades. The one on his stump looks as though he’ll do more damage to himself than anyone else.
Pybba licks his lips, his tongue is small and reedy. He looks dry. Clearly, he’s dehydrated as well as sodden with grief for his lost hand.
“Those monks kept lying to me.”
“So you what, threatened them? That’s always my preferred option for obtaining the truth.”
“No, I protected myself.” Pybba’s eyes search behind me. It seems he doesn’t catch the sarcasm. “Who did you bring with you?”
“No one. Why did I need to bring someone with me? You planning on attacking me?”
“No,” Pybba vehemently denies. And then in a smaller voice. “No, I won’t hurt you.”
I nod my head, stepping to slide down the wall beside Pybba. The place smells of horse and oats.
“What you doing with that?” I ask, pointing at his stump and the blade that shimmers there. “Trying to lose an eye as well as a hand.”
Pybba has the good grace to look bashful.
“I was vulnerable. Those damn monks lied and couldn’t have protected me from the damn Raider voices I heard.”
This makes me sit up straighter.
“What here? In Worcester?”
“Yes, or no, I don’t know, I heard them all the same, looking for you.”
I look at my hands, noting that my scrapped
knuckles are nearly healed.
“Do you think you might have been dreaming?” I ask, trying not to condescend to him.
“It felt real enough to me,” Pybba argues angrily.
“Aye, I know it can feel like that when the battle fever grips you.”
“I don’t think it was the battle fever. I think Bishop Wærferth is helping the Raiders.”
“Bishop Wærferth? He’s more bloody Mercian than I am.”
But Pybba refuses to be convinced.
“There was definitely something. I heard it, and I came here, with Wulfhere. He’s a good lad.”
“Yes, I know he is.”
I’m pulling a long piece of straw between my hands, trying to straighten it, only it’s bent and won’t do my bidding. I consider Pybba’s words seriously. I owe Bishop Wærferth nothing. And likewise, he owes me nothing. I’ve always been the unmanageable ealdorman of the Hwicce. A necessary evil, or so I believe.
I fight the battles no one else will, and I keep my lands secure. Or at least I did.
“Well, we’re leaving tomorrow, so, take that damn blade off, or have Wulfhere do it, and for fuck’s sake, have a bath! You stink. Now, show me your stump.”
Reluctantly, Pybba lifts his arm so that I can see the stump is bound tight, and clean. He winces as he does so.
“I’ve heard warriors say they can still feel missing limbs, even though their eyes tell them they’re gone.”
His stricken face flashes at the words.
“It’s only natural, or so they say,” I further comment. I’m not going to feel sorry for him. That would do Pybba no good. He needs to accept who he is, not what he was.
I go to stand as I speak, reaching out to grasp Pybba’s complete arm. First, though, he has to attach his seax to his warriors’ belt.
“That’s going to need adjusting. You can’t take that long, not in the shield wall.”
“I can’t be in a damn shield wall,” Pybba complains, “unless someone holds my shield for me or my weapon. I can’t do fucking both.”
“I thought Pybba attached the shield to your arm back on the road.”
“Yes, he did,” Pybba complains. “But it was painful and hurt like fuck.”
“Then what of Rudolf? He’s taken a kill, and he’s ridden his horses into the Raiders we met on the way to Gloucester. Do you want him?”
