by M J Porter
‘Send your family with the messenger. Worcester has Roman walls. The bishop will protect them.”
Ealdorman Ælhun doesn’t like the idea, that much is evident from the way his eyelid flutters, but he isn’t a stupid man either.
“I will do as you say. My wife can speak for me with the bishop.”
“And I’ll expect to see you close to Tamworth.”
Ealdorman Ælhun swallows heavily but then grunts an agreement.
“I’ll not be called a coward, like King Burgred.”
“I wouldn’t ever call you a coward,” I confirm, and then I smirk. I’m not good at lying, not at all.
I extend my arm to the ealdorman, and although he stares at it for a long moment, he leans forward and returns the gesture, our hands gripping arms. Mine, I note, is much tighter than his, my arm muscle much more developed.
“Our accord is sealed,” I confirm.
“It is. Do you need supplies?”
“No, we have everything we need. For now.”
“Lord Coelwulf,” I’m turning Haden away, already thinking of what awaits me as I get closer to Repton.
“Yes, Ealdorman Ælhun.”
“Thank you,” I’m unsure what I’m being thanked for.
“For this, for making me do more than cower behind my half-built walls and even smaller ditch.”
“I’m always keen to make men prove themselves in battle.”
His half-smile drops quickly. Only then he forces it back on his face.
“Then I’ll prove myself, Lord Coelwulf.”
There’s no further need for conversation, and I’m keen to be away from Warwick.
I knee Haden through the mass of horse flesh and ride at the front of them all.
From here on in, I have a feeling that it will not be easy to get to Repton. Not that it’s been easy so far, but closer to Repton, there will be more warriors foraging and hunting for me.
I breathe deeply.
Now’s not the time to second-guess myself.
My decision is made.
I will die, or I’ll prevail. I can’t do anything further.
The day already feels as though it’s been too long and yet there’s still time to get closer to Repton. I encourage Haden to greater speed, aware that I lead my men. I hope that Edmund has sorted out who rides at the rear. Not that I don’t trust Ealdorman Ælhun and our spoken agreement, but the path through Warwick could easily be taken by the enemy. I don’t know if Ealdorman Ælhun would have the courage, alone, to stop them.
And when his wife goes to Worcester, Warwick will be all but abandoned. I should have considered that and told the ealdorman to burn it down when he left.
We ride to the side of the thick woodland that stretches to the west. It would be an ideal place for the Raiders to lay an ambush. I ride with half an eye to the west and the rest to the north. At some point, I hope we’ll find the place that Ealdorman Ælhun’s men fought the Raiders. I’d like to know the track they took, so I can avoid it, if possible.
Watling Street should appear soon, but also, so should the Foss Way, where they cross giving every person who travels the roads a decision to make, north or south, east or west.
I expect the Raiders to have used those ancient roadways to get to Gloucester, but it’s possible they didn’t.
“Will he do what he said?” Edmund as always comes to question my decision. I almost wish it were Rudolf and not Edmund. Rudolf’s enthusiasm would be preferred to Edmund’s reasoned questions and arguments.
“I don’t think he has any choice, not now.”
Edmund’s pensive silence tells me of his unease.
“What?”
“Well,” and Edmund pauses. “How come he didn’t know about King Burgred?”
This has given me some cause for concern, but I imagine the answer is simple.
“No one expected an attack, and, I think we’ll find, that no one actually respected King Burgred. Ealdorman Ælhun probably took the extended silence as a good thing. The same charge could be levied at all the ealdormen and bishops, not just Ælhun.”
“I would think you’d be concerned at facing three thousand men more than whether Ælhun has decided upon treachery.”
“I was trying not to think of the three thousand warriors. So thanks for reminding me.” Edmund’s tone is sharp. “How,” he asks, “do you plan on defeating them?”
“No fucking idea, not yet.”
“So we’re just riding to Repton in the hope that you’ll be struck with fucking inspiration?”
“Yes, that’s about it,” I confirm. I don’t have an idea, not yet. “Bollocks.”
“What?” Edmund explains, hand going to his weapons belt.
“I should have told Ealdorman Ælhun to order the Gwent Welshmen sent north. I’m going to need them sooner rather than later.”
“Send someone back to pass on the message.”
“Um,” I consider carefully. “I don’t want to split the force, not here. We’ll just have to hope that Bishop Wærferth uses his intelligence and sends everyone to Repton.”
“You do know that this is sodding madness, don’t you?”
“I do, yes, but you’ll still ride at my side, won’t you?” I fix him with my sternest stare.
“You know, I will. But I would sooner live than die.”
“I don’t plan on fucking dying,” I mutter.
“Then I would suggest that twenty warriors against three thousand aren’t good odds.”
“There’s not three thousand any more. We killed nearly two hundred of them.”
“Fine, then twenty warriors against two thousand eight hundred is not good odds.”
“That’s better. I’d prefer accurate calculations when contemplating the battle that must be fought.”
Edmund hisses at me, and I turn to meet his eyes.
“Why the fucking questions now?”
“Because these fuckers will follow you anywhere, no matter how slim the chance of success, but for once, I don’t think they appreciate just how slim that chance is. You’ve always won in the past.”
“They’re not fools to follow me quite so blindly.”
“No, but they are fucking men who believe the legend you’ve created for yourself.”
I rein in abruptly and turn to look at him, incredulous.
“You were the one that said I needed a bloody scop!”
“And you do, to sing your legend before it ends.” Edmund’s face is flushed with unease. I’m not used to seeing such unhappiness there, or to hear such words being spoken.
“If you’re too damn scared, then you can go back to Kingsholm, and I’ll never speak of this again.”
“I’m not fucking scared,” Edmund all but moans. “But I am realistic. You’re not.”
As angry as I am at having my decision questioned, I reach across the gap between us and grip his arm.
“This is what we’ve been doing all of our damn lives. This is what my brother died doing, the man you served before me. Just because the stakes have been raised doesn’t mean we shy away from it. Think of those young children. What did they do wrong in this life? Fuck all, and yet the Raiders killed them for sport. If my men and I, you included in that, have to go down fighting, then we will. Someone has to stand up for Mercia. Wessex won’t. Her own damn fucking king won’t. But we will.”
“Fuck,” Edmund snatches his hand back, trying to avoid the too interested gaze of the warriors who make their way past us as we debate.
“I know it’s fucking terrible. But it’s what we fucking do. And you have to believe in that, and in our success. Or we will fail before we’ve even started.”
“But there’s so few of us.”
“Yes, but more will come. Ealdorman Ælhun will send his men, and the others will follow suit. It might not be a force of thousands, but the Raiders think we’re puppies who just want to roll over and have our tummies tickled. They see no threat from us, not after King Burgred fucked off to Rome. It
’s their complacency that’ll kill them all.”
Still, Edmund looks dismayed, and a cold fear enters my heart that he must just ride back to Kingsholm. I don’t want to do this without him, but I will if I must.
“Fuck it,” Edmund announces, kneeing his mount forward. “But we still need a bastard scop.” I watch him ride in front of me, suddenly as pensive as he was. Only I shrug it aside.
It’s always been my destiny to give my life to Mercia.
Facing two thousand eight hundred Raiders might not have been quite how I imagined the end coming about, but at least I’ll be remembered for such foolery if I do meet my end on the edge of a Raider’s blade.
Chapter 13
Eventually, the daylight does start to leave the sky, the calls of the summer birds high with excitement as dusk falls. On the ground beneath us, the passage of many, many hooves finally makes itself known in the rich dirt.
“Here, Coelwulf,” Hereman calls me forward, and I grimace.
The Raiders aren’t as tidy after a battle as my men, and I are. Mercian bodies are lying in tangled agony, and the scent of decay is strong, as is the buzz of flies.
“Fuck,” I complain, slipping from Haden’s back all the same to walk amongst the detritus of battle.
“They didn’t even bury their own dead,” I complain, kicking a body with my boot to disturb the horde of flies that covers the back. The area is sticky and black. A mortal wound.
“Tell the men to stay back, unless they can stomach this.”
This then is why we always bury the dead, even if we don’t want to. No one should come upon such a scene unprepared. Even I feel bile rising in my throat, but I swallow it away.
Edmund has joined me, and together we walk among the dead, swatting the flies away, and trying not to see where the woodland animals have thought to feast. I appreciate that the dead feel nothing, but all the same, I’d sooner not see such ruin.
“Thirteen of Ealdorman Ælhun’s men,” Edmund helpfully offers. I turn to glare at him, and he raises a shoulder at me as though to ward off a blow.
“When did you become a fucking mathematician?” Edmund grins without apology and continues to bend over the dead.
“They didn’t even pillage the bodies.”
“No, they didn’t.” I stand, hand on my hip, surveying the battle site.
We’re still close to the woodland that covers the landscape here, but ahead, I can detect it growing less dense, and both the Foss Way and Watling Street must meet sooner rather than later. This area has been cleared by one of the ealdormen’s forestry workers, and I imagine, new shoots will be planted soon to replace those taken. We’ve already ridden beside carefully managed woodlands, young trees in various stages of growth. I can’t imagine it’ll be any different here.
“It seems opportunistic, far from planned,” I muse. Neither force must have known that the other was there. They were both hunting blind. And yet. The imprints in the hard soil show only that a few warriors escaped this way.
“Perhaps they had a fire or something,” Edmund offers.
“I don’t see any sign of it. Maybe they were being hunted after all, and this is where the Raiders decided to take a stand.”
“But how would they have found them? If they were using Watling Street.”
It’s a mystery to me, and one I know I can’t ask the dead men to answer.
“We’ll have to bury them,” I sigh heavily, but behind me, I can already hear some of my warriors digging at the hard-packed earth with axes. I turn to watch Hereman, Wulfred and Ælfgar, beginning the process as close to the trees as possible.
“We should make camp for the night, but I’d rather not be so close to the dead,” Edmund grumbles under his breath at my words but makes no other comment.
“We better make two pits,” I holler. My men know me well. Already Lyfing, Oda, Eadberht and Eahric have taken up defensive positions blocking the way we came, and the obvious way forward.
“Well, shall we?” I ask Edmund, and he grimaces.
“I hate touching the fucking dead.”
I agree, but it’s not the time to show any squeamishness. The sooner the sixteen bodies are disposed of, the better.
I almost miss Rudolf, picking through the dead for treasure, for I find I have no enthusiasm for the task. It feels wasteful to consign so much iron and good leather to the soil. But equally, I don’t relish the task of doing more than committing the slippery bodies to the earth.
Ordlaf and Wærwulf join Edmund and me in dragging the bodies to the growing grave. Then, as the bodies are lowered into the earth, Hereman bends and takes what he can quickly grab. By the time we’re ready to close the ground over the sightless eyes, the pile of weapons belts and leather has grown more rapidly than I would have thought possible.
“They were well provisioned,” Hereman mutters. His face is rimmed with muddy streaks as he gazes at his hands, perhaps considering how he could have taken to the task so well.
“They were the ealdorman’s sworn warriors, not the fyrd. Of course, they were well-provisioned.” But even I can see that the iron they carried was expertly forged.
“Take what you want,” I tell Hereman. “You were the only one who could touch the dead. You get the first choice of everything.”
But Hereman is shaking his head.
“I didn’t do it for the prize. I just don’t like iron to be put to sleep beside dead masters when there’s so much more fighting still to be done.”
I nod and smirk at his growled words. I understand what he’s saying. Weapons are made to be used, not discarded.
“Such a way with words,” I thump him on the shoulder, while he nods, his head angled so that he looks both infinitely wise and impossibly stupid. He grins, his white teeth flickering for a moment in his dusty face.
“I think I need a good dunking,” he confirms, ineffectually brushing at the ingrained mud on his tunic and trews.
“There’s running water, in the woodland,” Lyfing calls, hearing Hereman’s words. “Take your horse with you. Poor creature. Look at it.”
And Hereman and I do, but of course, the animal is not suffering at all, but rather eating happily, tugging at the long grasses that spill from beneath the tree canopy.
I become aware that Lyfing’s not the only man to have discovered the stream, and although I didn’t want to make camp here, a small fire has been lit, and Ordheah is fussing with it. My stomach gurgles loudly.
Beornstan erupts from beneath the trees, a broad grin on his slight face as he carries two handfuls of fish in front of him.
“Daft fuckers have clearly never been hunted before. They swam into my damn hands.” His incredulity brings a smile to my face, as he tries not to drop the slippery creatures.
“Now you just need to determine how to cook them,” I offer, making my way to Haden and leading him toward the stream as well.
It’s quiet by the stream, despite my men and their horses coming and going. I hazard a thought that I could live somewhere like this if the wars ever came to an end. But of course, they never will. They haven’t yet.
I shake my head, angry at my melancholy hope for a future that will never happen. Unless I am a king. And if I’m king, then I can never have such a quiet life.
Growling under my breath, I turn to make my way back to my men, but suddenly I realise I’m being watched. I slow my steps, try and sense where the eyes are coming from without alerting them to the fact I know they’re there.
I don’t feel as though I’m watched from behind, and certainly not from the front. I listen carefully, breathing as quietly as I can, pretending to fuss with Haden’s hoof, as though I clean the muck from the day’s riding, to prevent him from going lame.
Of course, Haden has no time for silence, and the damn horse huffs more impatiently than all the men combined. All the same, I decide I’m watched from my left. When I straighten myself, I peer into the undergrowth, hopeful that whoever watches me has become complacent an
d given him or her away.
But there’s no such luck.
Frustrated, I make my way back to the camp, and gesture for Edmund to join me. He’s not yet been to slack his horse’s thirst.
“There’s someone in there. Watching.”
“Fuck,” Edmund complains, peering at the rest of the men, biting his lip and considering what we can do.
“Send Ælfgar to aid me, casual like.”
“I’ll send a few others as well,” I confirm, and Edmund lingers, as though looking for something lost on the ground. I make my way to Ælfgar, and tell him of the problem.
“Bastard,” Ælfgar confirms, going to join Edmund slowly, as though their meeting is unintentional. I take Haden back to the horse picket and gesturing for Eahric and Ordlaf to assist me, creep back into the woodlands. They’re the smallest of my men, and I’m counting on them being the quietest. I don’t go straight in at the same opening I exited, but rather twenty paces up.
The undergrowth here is sparser, and the going easier. I look all around me, searching the ground for signs of footprints or hoof prints, but find nothing.
Eahric is to my left and Ordlaf to my right. They follow my lead. We’re not stalkers by nature, but every man must be able to hunt to stay alive.
We begin to make our way toward where Edmund and Ælfgar can be heard talking to each other, voices not overly loud but echoing under the thick canopy. I realise then that we might have attracted the attention of anyone making a home of the wood. I must remember that in the future.
Ordlaf looks at me and then indicates upward, and I follow his eyes. There’s a figure up there, not really high up, but high enough that a casual observer might not see them.
“Circle the tree,” I confirm, and both men move with me to do just that. Only then do I make my presence known.
“What you looking at, you fucker?” the body startles, and there’s rattling. Then a sword embeds itself into the ground, no further than a body length behind me.
“Get down here,” I bellow, furious at such a close call. For a moment, there’s nothing but silence, but then the leaves rustle again, and I watch as the figure comes quickly into sight.
