The Last King

by M J Porter

  Dark eyes watch me, the resentment an indication of Anwend’s youth.

  “My father will pay for my return. He has all of Mercia to gift now.”

  “Surely he has a quarter of Mercia to gift if there are four jarls?”

  “Well, if there are still four jarls.” Unexpectedly, I laugh.

  “You’re a feisty shit, aren’t you. It’s a pity you can’t fight as well as you talk.”

  “My father should have led the attack. Fucking Jarl Halfdan claimed the victory from him, but he lost many more men than my father did.”

  “So there was a battle then?”

  “Well. Sort of. A few Mercians against the might of the Danes. It was never going to end well, was it.”

  Snot is dripping from Anwend’s nose, and he raises his bound wrists to wipe it away. I watch him, aware my men are unsure why I’ve not killed him yet. I’m not sure either. But then I make a snap decision.

  “Icel,” the tall warrior ambles his way to me, a keen look in his eye, as though he already understands my intent.

  “Take him back to Repton. If they try and attack you, kill him, and try to escape. Find out what you can about events in Repton and how many warriors they lay claim to.” I’ve turned aside, to speak quietly to Icel, but Edmund is of course listening.

  “Goda will tail you, and we won’t be far behind. I would know all I can.”

  Icel nods slowly, no hint of fear for being given such a difficult task.

  “I take it I don’t have to listen to the fucker speaking for the entire journey.”

  A grin touches my cheeks, my eyes meet Icel’s evenly. He accepts the task.

  “You can do what you want to him, as long as he arrives back at Repton alive, or dead if the enemy tries to attack you.”

  “Are you still going to Warwick to find the ealdorman?”

  “Yes, I am, but I’ll ride quickly. My plan is to follow you to Repton only a day later.”

  “Then, I hope the little fucker knows when to keep his mouth shut, and when to open it.” With nothing further spoken between us, Icel strides away, beckoning for Goda to join him.

  “Why?”

  I expect Edmund’s question.

  “With the fucking jarl’s son at his side, Icel will be able to scout better. The warriors from Repton won’t want to risk losing their jarl’s son, not when he’s so nearly home.”

  “But why risk Icel?”

  “Icel will know what to do. I’d send you, but your reactions are not always the best, and you do tend to lash out without thought when roused.”

  Edmund opens his mouth to complain but then changes his mind.

  “A fair point, I suppose.”

  Icel sighs heavily, and I notice that he favours his left leg a little.

  “Are you wounded?”

  “Bashed, nothing more. I can ride and fight and whatever the fuck else I need to do to get to Repton.” Icel sounds fierce, and I hold back any concerns I might have. I must trust Icel to know himself well enough not to exert beyond his level of endurance.

  I stride from his side, mingle with my men to assure myself that there’s nothing but bruises and shallow cuts to attest to our latest battle. Ingwald has gone on ahead, and comes back leading horses.

  “More!” I exclaim. He grins and nods yes.

  I turn and fix Anwend with a glare.

  “Who’s fucking horses were these?”

  “King Burgred’s.”

  “And he gave them to you.”

  “There wasn’t much choice in it,” Anwend confirms jauntily, and I nod again.

  King Burgred has been caught with his arse out, as so often is the case. Why he was Mercia’s king, I’ll never know.

  Why King Burgred was so unprotected, I’ll never know.

  But, perhaps, I will.

  “How did you make it to Repton?”

  A furtive look covers Anwend’s face. Perhaps he knows better than to share such information with the enemy. Maybe he realises there’s no choice.

  “Ships, down the Trent, from Torksey.”

  So, King Burgred made peace with the enemy, thought the job done, and then allowed himself to fall victim to a peace that he believed in, and they didn’t.

  “How many?”

  “Fifty.” Anwend spits the word and my eyes narrow.

  “Fifty ships?”

  “Fifty ships.”

  “And how big are the ships?” Anwend shrugs, and I menace forward, my hand raised to slap his face. When he winces away, I hold my action in check. I know his kind. The answer will come from the threat, not from the actual act.

  “There are near enough three thousand warriors. My father commands eight hundred of them.”

  “So he’s not the most powerful then?”

  Frustration sweeps over Anwend’s face as he realises his mistake in boasting.

  “Jarl Anwend is the second most powerful jarl of the four. Only Jarl Halfdan has more men.”

  I turn my back on Anwend. That number is massive. How can I, with only just over twenty men, hope to halt a force of so many?

  “King Burgred fought, but his defence wasn’t good. But still, some of the warriors fell, and several boats sank on the Trent in a storm.”

  “So there aren’t three thousand now then.”

  “No, but more may come.”

  I nod and turn to meet his eyes.

  “Know this, young Anwend. I’ve already killed many Raiders. I’ve gained two hundred horses for my stables, and I’ll add more to that number before this is done. But, I’ll allow you to be returned to your father, for a price.”

  Anwend looks concerned now. Whether he’s realised who I am or not, I’m not sure, but after encountering Ealdorman Ælhun’s warriors, I’m keen for him to appreciate that Mercia does have warriors who’ll fight much harder for her. Anwend must realise that.

  “My father will pay anything.” I don’t think he would, but I’m not going to worry the boy with that.

  “When you return to Repton, encourage your father to go back to his ships, and to leave Mercia.”

  “He’ll never agree to that,” Anwend is staunch in his defence of his father.

  “Then Icel may as well take your head now.” Icel, a hand on his seax, leers at the youth, who screams. I can’t say it’s anything but a scream.

  “I. I will speak with my father and convince him of your intentions toward our force.”

  I grunt. I know the lad will have no success with his father, but I don’t want to kill him. Not after what the Raiders did to Lady Eadburh’s villagers. I’m not better than any warrior, but today I want to be. Tomorrow, I’ll rue that decision. But not today.

  The warriors who died on the riverbank have been hauled up the steep bank, and I point toward them.

  “Was one of these men this Ragnar you speak about?”

  Anwend swallows heavily, his mouth pressed tightly together. But I’ve seen his look, and I’ve noticed how well equipped the first dead man is. His face is bleached now, turning grey where it blends into the long blond hair that’s been tied back in a myriad of braids, all topped with some small charm or other. A thin line of water trickles from his open mouth and staring eyes, and Anwend can’t take his eyes away from the body.

  With swift movements, I stand beside the body and then hack down with the war axe I’ve taken with me. It’s not a clean strike.

  But the second one is, and I hold it up using the hair braids to keep the severed flesh from my fingers.

  “Ugly fucker,” Edmund calls, and I smirk at him. Edmund can always be relied upon.

  “Bring a horse.” I don’t know if I’m cruel, but I understand how important it is to be seen to be ruthless to your enemy.

  Eahric walks with a suitable mount toward me. The animal steps well and has a build that will suit such a youthful and sprightly passenger.

  “Here you go,” I indicate with my eyes that Eahric is to pick Anwend up and place him on the horse’s back.

  “
Secure him tightly.”

  While Eahric works, his fingers nimble, I’m busy to the other side of the horse. I don’t want to scare the animal, but I do want to scare Anwend.

  I step away from my grizzly work, and only then does Anwend realise what I’ve done.

  “There, you’re in charge of him now,” I offer, my tone ripe with condescension.

  “Make sure your father know that I personally arranged this and that if he doesn’t leave, I’ll make sure I find him in the battle. I take it the family sigil is that of a one-eyed raven. Anwend opens his mouth to disagree with me, but snaps it shut as I point at his clothing.

  The raven is everywhere, stitched into the tunic he wears; seen in the silver charm tied around his neck, to name just two places.

  Anwend bows his head low, while Eahric turns the horse, preparing to hand the lead rope to Icel.

  “Lord Coelwulf,” the voice is too high, and yet its evident Anwend is proud of his deduction.

  “There’s no one called that here,” I comment, fixing him with a firm glare. Anwend’s confidence slips and then he’s being led away. Icel is in front, mounted on his horse. Anwend doesn’t realise that Goda is preparing to follow on behind. I would send more men, but I need them if I’m going to get fucking Ealdorman Ælhun to ride with me to Repton.

  Edmund smirks at me, the sound of the headless body being dragged to the side of the trackway loud in my ears. No burial, but a pile of rocks will cover the three dead we’ve managed to catch. The body on the far side will have to remain there, perhaps a grizzly reminder to any who take this track. At least until someone steals the wealth from the body and thinks to hide it away.

  “Right,” I state, mounting up myself, Haden unhappy at being dragged away from cropping the river grasses. “Let’s see if we can get to bloody Warwick without encountering anyone else. Hereman and Ælfgar, will you scout at the front. I’ll take the rear, with Edmund.”

  I take a last look over the site of yet another battle

  How many more of the damn fuckers do I have to kill before I make it to Repton?

  Too many.

  Chapter 12

  Warwick comes into view as a haze of grey smoke. It’s the worst thing about so many people living together in one space.

  We’ve encountered no more Raiders, but the track is busy with the indentations of hooves, and I don’t think it’s because there aren’t more Raiders. Instead, they’ve taken different routes to the one I’m using. It would be much easier for them to take the Foss Way to Gloucester, especially when they don’t know the landscape well.

  I imagine it depends on who leads them. Some of the groups show more caution than others, but even then, it’s not a great deal of caution.

  Warwick is on the same side of the Avon River as we are, and I’m hoping that accounts for the lack of scouts we encounter. Either that or Ealdorman Ælhun is entirely blind to the peril he’s in.

  But just in sight of the settlement, riders make an appearance, their intention to block the trackway.

  I ride forward then, allowing Haden his jaunty steps, and taking an agonisingly slow time about it.

  “Another came this way, earlier, he led a horse and a captive.” The words are barked at me. It seems there is a great deal of unease. Maybe Ealdorman Ælhun isn’t unaware of the danger after all.

  “Yes, he’s my man. He’s gone to return the runt to his father in Repton.”

  “He had the head of a man on the horse.”

  “Yes, well, it was better to take just a part of the body,” I state, considering why the men haven’t asked who I am.

  “Ealdorman Ælhun would know who you are.”

  “Then tell Ealdorman Ælhun that Lord Coelwulf is being denied entry.”

  The lead warrior looks temporarily confused, only to turn it to belligerence.

  “You’re not welcome here.”

  “I’d rather Ealdorman Ælhun made that decision. Tell him that ten of his men are sheltering at a settlement close to where the Stour meets the Severn. They’re the survivors from a meeting with the Raiders that decimated his force. Tell him, I’ve killed the rest of the Raiders for him.”

  The lead warrior, no doubt sent more for his massive size than his quick thinking, looks confused. But the rider at the back quickly turns his mount and gallops across the short space of land being cultivated outside the settlement defences.

  I relax on Haden, content to listen to the Avon rushing along its merry way to the side of me. If Ealdorman Ælhun denies me admittance to Warwick, I’ll ignore it. If he refuses to let me ride around Warwick to reach Repton, I’ll attack his warriors and forge myself a path.

  I lick my lips. Without Rudolf, and the young lads, left behind either at Gloucester or Worcester for safety, I’ve been neglecting myself. I reach for my water bottle and empty the contents into my mouth. The water is tepid, but refreshing all the same.

  I note my fingers in the bright daylight. They don’t even have a scratch from the last fight.

  In front, Warwick waits for me. It seems similar to Gloucester and Worcester in that it has encompassed the riverbank in its design. Still, it seems to lack any Roman fortifications. It seems an odd choice for Ealdorman Ælhun to decide to shelter within. Perhaps, I consider, he realises it wouldn’t cost too much to rebuild, or even abandon altogether.

  While I consider all this, five horsemen begin to make their way toward me. One I recognise, the others I don’t until my eyes settle on Ealdorman Ælhun himself.

  I incline my head toward him. His face is flushed red, probably with fury.

  “Give him access,” Ealdorman Ælhun’s voice carries the taint of command across the divide, and the four remaining men slowly move their horses from blocking our path.

  I encourage Haden to ride forward, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on Ealdorman Ælhun.

  “My Lord.”

  “Lord Coelwulf. I didn’t expect to see you so far north.”

  “I didn’t expect to find your stray warriors so far south, so it seems the day is full of surprises.”

  “Were they your men who passed by?” Ealdorman Ælhun redirects my strike, and I shrug my shoulders.

  “They had a prisoner he was returning to Repton. The second shadows him.”

  “You should have killed him.” I hope he speaks of the prisoner.

  “Probably. But I was feeling magnanimous in light of what the Raiders did to the children of a settlement on the Stour. I’m not the monster that they are.”

  Ealdorman Ælhun searches my face, as though looking for deceit, and I meet his eyes keenly. He’s dressed for war, and his eyes are so strained that I almost think they might pop from his face. His beard is rimmed with frost, his hair almost non-existent. He’s not an attractive man, and neither does he have the build of a warrior. I would expect to find him conducting a church service, not a defence against the Raiders.

  Not that he is conducting a defence. Not really.

  “The Raiders took the Foss Way, or so I understand it.”

  “And you did nothing to stop them?” My tone is mild.

  “They weren’t looking for me,” he counters defensively. “It’s done you no harm, I see.” As he speaks, his hand sweeps up my body, and I wonder what he sees.

  Does he see me as a warrior, or as a petty lord, or does he see me as no more than an annoyance. I reconsider. I don’t want to know what he thinks of me. It’s not necessary, I just need his warriors.

  Ideally, I want to strike his head from his shoulders. But whatever Ealdorman Ælhun is, or isn’t, he is most assuredly the ealdorman of this area, and I need his warriors to attack Repton. It would be fitting for me not to antagonise him.

  “And you sent your men north?”

  “I did, I needed to know what was happening in the wake of Bishop Wærferth’s messenger.”

  “So he did arrive here then?”

  “You know he did, and you know I turned down the bishop’s offer. But, well, that was before I knew
what I know now.”

  “And what do you know?”

  “One of my warriors made it to Repton. He died, a short while ago, but he told me of the Raiders. Over three thousand of them, and fifty-odd boats clogging the Trent, and warriors imposing the will of their new lords over the people of Mercia.” I’m surprised that Ealdorman Ælhun sounds so choked, but then, he is an ealdorman of Mercia. This land provides his wealth and gives him his influence.

  If the Raiders claim control over his people and his land, Ealdorman Ælhun will have nothing. Just like when my grandfather was deposed.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I bow my head low, I never like to hear of a man being killed defending Mercia, although I would honour him.

  “He was a good man. His actions aren’t in vain. But it does put me in a difficult position.”

  “Why does it?”

  The rest of my warriors have joined me now. They mill around, unsure what to do while I talk to the ealdorman.

  “I turned down the bishop’s suggestion. But it is no doubt the correct one. Fucking King Burgred is gone, my man confirmed that there were no Mercians at Repton, other than those they’ve captured from the monastery. Tamworth is in the hands of men and women who once served the king and his queen, but no one is in command.”

  “Then you would elect me as your king?”

  I almost can’t believe I’m asking the question.

  “Yes, I would, and I’ll ensure the other ealdormen do the same.”

  “A shame there’s no time for the witan to be called now, and I’m halfway to Repton.”

  Ealdorman Ælhun twists his lips in thought.

  “I’ll send word to Bishop Wærferth and accompany you north.”

  His words astound me.

  “I didn’t think you liked me?” I can’t help it. I have to ask the question.

  “I don’t like you. I hate you, Lord Coelwulf. Everyone does. But I know that you can fight and I’ll stand behind a man who can beat the Raiders.”

  “Hardly a glowing approval, but it is a time of war. I’ll take what I can. But I ride north now.”

  “I’ll follow you, in the next day, and I’ll bring all of my warriors with me. Well, apart from those who must protect my dwelling here. It’s hardly built at all.”