by M J Porter
“Will you hurt me?” the voice is neither young nor old.
“Provided you have no other weapons then no.”
“You startled me,” the boy I face is younger than Rudolf, and his clothes are in poor condition. I don’t think he’s a threat, but then why does he have the sword?
“Where are you from?”
“In there?” the lad, longhaired but free from any facial growth, points deeper into the woods.
I reach for the sword, noting the runes that run down the side of it.
“A bit of opportunistic pillaging?’ I ask, but the lad is shaking his head, about to deny my words.
“It’s only what we’ve just done,” I confirm, already leaning to return the sword to him. “Keep it, you found it.” Grubby hands grip the blade eagerly, a look of desire quickly quenched.
“Were you here when the attack took place?”
“Nope, I just came this way today. I was looking for fish, but I caught the shine through the tree trunks. I went to explore.” A wistful expression covers his youthful face then. “I could have taken much more, and sold it, but you arrived on your horses.”
“Who do you live in the woods with?”
“No one,” he deflects, but I reach out and grip his arm.
“You’re not in any trouble, but there are Raiders in Mercia. If you need more swords and seaxs to protect those you live with, then I want you to take them.”
The twin desires to have more weapons but to protect his fellow settlers, wars on his face.
“Really. My men and I have enough swords and shields and leather byrnies. We’re going to fight the Raiders, to the north of here. If those you live with could use the weapons, you must take them.”
“Well, I could do with a few more then,” he eventually admits, and I nod.
“My name is Lord Coelwulf.”
I’m met with a blank expression, respectful, but blank.
“You’ve never heard of me then?”
“No, My Lord.”
Edmund has joined me by now, and so too has Ælfgar.
“What’s your name, lad?”
“Eowa.”
“Then Eowa, come, decide what weapons are required, take as many as you need, and then go back to your people. Warn them of the Raiders. Tell them to take care and to hide in the trees if anyone comes with iron and shields.”
With a final lick of his lips, Eowa steps forward, and I walk with him, keen to ensure my men don’t menace him. The youth is nervous, evidently not used to being around so many people. I don’t want there to be any accidents or misunderstandings.
The eyes of everyone in the camp watch me emerge from the treeline, but on seeing me with the lad, they quickly return to their tasks.
“Over here. We’ve buried the warriors but taken what we can from them.”
Again, Eowa licks his lips, and as he bends to examine the finds, a flicker of silver around his neck shows me that Eowa took more than the sword.
But I hold my tongue. I’ve no need for any more riches.
“You can eat with us before you go,” I offer, but Eowa shakes his head, looking longingly into the trees.
“Perhaps next time,” I say softly. Eowa’s hands are now filled with five swords, a war axe and three seaxs. But he’s chosen not to take a shield. I imagine it wouldn’t be much use in the heart of the woods, with so many hiding places and trees to climb.
“Can you manage?” I ask. I don’t want him to drop anything. “They’ll be sharp.” Eowa nods again, but I know he wants to be gone.
“If you ever have the need, you’ll find me at Kingsholm, although you can also ask for me in Worcester or Gloucester.”
Eowa has clearly never heard of any of those places, and as I watch him go, I fear for him. But, he managed to evade my men and me for long enough. I’m sure the Raiders will be even less observant.
The fish, when it’s cooked, is succulent, if too hot, and I burn my tongue and then swallow all my water to put out the fire. With the trees at my back, I feel more sheltered than usual, and so I determine to only set two guards and have them changed three times during the night.
Then I call Edmund and Hereman to my side.
“Tomorrow we ride north. The hoof prints are far from clear, but I think they came via Foss Way, not Watling Street. I want to find them, see if there are any more of these roving warbands out for my blood. As Edmund pointed out to me earlier, two thousand eight hundred warriors are standing between us and ejecting the Raiders from Repton. If we can shave that number further, then we should.”
“That will take us north of Repton?”
“Yes, it will. I don’t want to meet them head-on.”
“But Icel is already going to Repton?”
“He is, and he offers peace, but he doesn’t know where we’ll appear from either. I would sooner everyone suspected us of travelling along Watling Street. I want the element of surprise and apprehension intermingled.”
I see Edmund bite back his response to my intentions, and I admire him for that.
“Tomorrow,” I confirm, and then I turn away and selecting a piece of likely looking ground, roll myself in my cloak and close my eyes. My men can keep watch tonight, I need to sleep.
Chapter 14
But of course, I don’t get to sleep for as long as I would like.
When the day is little more than a hint of bruised purple to the east, Hereman’s hand on my shoulder roughly wakes me.
“Raiders,” he hisses, and I blink, trying to clear my vision and stand all at the same time.
“From which direction?”
“The north.”
“Ah, wake everyone,” I instruct, reaching for my weapons. I’ve laid them beside me during the night so that I don’t cut myself while I sleep. Now I slide them back into position on my weapons belt. I’ve slept in my byrnie. There’s not enough time to hustle into one of those when caught unawares.
“Fuck,” I can hear the men complain, as they stand and stretch and groan.
“No rest for you bunch of bastards,” I confirm, striding to Haden’s side to slide his harness over him. I don’t foresee fighting on horseback, but it’s better to be prepared.
“How many?” I demand to know, as Hereman joins me in trying to decide the best place to stand and wait for the enemy.
We could ride away, of course, we could evade them, but why? I’m hunting these warriors. I want them dead, and they’re about to make it sodding easy for me.
“Not quite fifty. Maybe the remnants of the last group, or perhaps another group entirely.”
“You hear that men,” I state, walking amongst them, checking they’re all well-armed and that sleepiness hasn’t made them do something stupid, such as forgetting their seax. “Not quite fifty, two each, if we’re lucky. It’ll be like all the other times. The fuckers will think they can beat us because they outnumber us, but we’ll show them that skill counts more.”
My men are slowly coming to, rousing from their sleep, and a few ragged cheers greet my words.
“I think you can do fucking better than that? I complain. “A few Raiding bastards, before you break your fast, I’m sure some of you must be fucked off about that.”
“Damn right,” Edmund complains. His face is pale as he rubs his slick hand over his byrnie. When that fails to dry his sweating hand, he bends to run it through the tall grasses that have evaded our temporary campsite.
“Sodding gits,” Hereberht agrees, and the rustle of annoyance becomes more a river in spate. I nod, meeting eyes and making the same vow my men and I make before each battle. We fight together, we mourn together, and then we fight some damn, fucking more.
“Form up,” I command, and the clash of shield hitting shield fills the air. I take my place, not at the centre, but rather to the right a little. People always expect the leader to be at the centre. I don’t like to do what’s expected.
We’re facing north. In the distance, the woodlands continue to our left, but to th
e right, there’s open land, fields of crops nodding in the summer heat, as early as it is. I hope that no one comes to check the plants before the battle is done.
A thunder of hooves reaches my ears.
“Stand,” I order, Edmund, repeating my words, Hereman taking the place of Icel and doing the same from the right.
Lyfing is beside me, Ordheah to the far side. I turn to grin at them both, and mad eyes meet mine.
“Fuckers,” Lyfing grunts.
We hold our shields before us, interlocked and ready but they’re lower than usual, so we can see who comes against us.
I expect it to be near enough fifty horsemen. I’m not disappointed.
The lead rider casually reins his horse to a stop, hand raised to advise those who follow him to do the same. I watch him. I don’t know this man. Neither can I determine who rides with him because everyone wears a helm, more than halfway covering his or her eyes and chins.
Immediately, something feels wrong.
“Lord Coelwulf.” The man speaks English, and it’s evidently his first language, missing the heavier accent the Danes use when they’ve learned to speak my tongue.
“Who’s asking?” It’s Edmund who calls, and the lead rider’s head swivels from the centre of the line to the outer reaches. As he does so, I try and peer around him, keen to determine more about those he rides with.
“My name is Ealdorman Wulfstan of Mercia. I’ve come to join my force with yours, to attack the Raiders at Repton.”
I feel my eyebrows lift at the words. For a moment, I feel a flutter of triumph to know that the ealdormen of Mercia are finally prepared to unite behind me. Only, I pause, I’ve heard of Ealdorman Wulfstan, and I know that he served King Burgred. I also know that he ruled lands to the north of Repton, closer to Torksey than anywhere else.
That disturbs me.
“How did you know where to find me?” Hereman shouts the question and confusion wars on Ealdorman Wulfstan’s face at being addressed by different people.
“It’s widely known that you mean to stand against the Raiders.”
It’s not a satisfactory answer. Far from it.
“How many warriors do you have?” Edmund this time. I’m silent, watching and considering. The riders directly behind Ealdorman Wulfstan are uneasy, the mounts trying to sidestep rather than wait quietly. These men are not skilled riders. I would expect such behaviour from the Raiders, not from Mercians.
“Forty-four,” the answer is more a gulp for air than an announcement of the intent to murder the Raiders.
“So who told you this ‘widely’ known news?” Hereman once more. Ealdorman Wulfstan’s hands are lax on the reins, and I try and peer around them. He remains face on, making it impossible for me to see more than his head and upper body above the head of his horse.
His horse at least is docile.
And so is the ealdorman.
I try and catch his eye, try and determine the truth of what’s happening before me. Only Lyfing inclines his head toward me, speaking with his lips barely moving.
“Hereman says the ealdorman’s hands are tied.”
Ah. This makes a great deal more sense of what I’m seeing.
I’ve had enough of the bollocks.
“Ealdorman Wulfstan,” I state, erupting from the shield wall, and causing the man to jump. He’s nervous as fuck, and he has good right to be.
“We welcome your warriors. Tell me, who here is your second in command.” I hear my shield wall close up behind me, and I also make out Edmund’s oath of frustration at breaking from the ranks. No doubt he’ll have some harsh words to share with me later. Or perhaps not. It’ll depend on whether my suspicions are confirmed or not.
A flicker of panic over Ealdorman Wulfstan’s face as I step ever closer. The riders behind him also shift uneasily, and I take the time to note how well armed they are, how much they carry with them, and whether they ride as though to war.
They do.
I smirk, pulling my seax loose so that I have it ready for when I need it.
Ealdorman Wulfstan still struggles for an answer. I’m close enough now that I can see the ealdorman’s hands are tied together, his hands looped through the reins, rather than holding them.
His terrified eyes seek me out, but I make no effort to offer reassurance.
“You have no such warriors? Here, I’ll show you, I have Edmund, over there,” and I point with my seax, “and also Hereman over there. The pair of them can kill fucking anyone and more than anything, we hate traitors.”
I can see Ealdorman Wulfstan’s throat bobbing as I speak. He’s an older man, a firm ally and favourite of King Burgred, his chin showing the hoariness of his age. Perhaps he’s as pissed off as I am at Burgred’s betrayal, or maybe he encouraged his old friend to leave Mercia for the Raiders. Perhaps he even told the Raiders to take Repton, a calculated move on their part, bound to rouse the fury of the Mercians. I don’t like the fact that the Raiders have control of the Mercian royal dead. I don’t like it one fucking little bit.
I don’t much care for Ealdorman Wulfstan’s motivations, and I’m not about to find out, either.
“My warriors, all sixteen of them, are good men, fighting for Mercian independence. They're determined to drive back the fucking Raiders, and add more kills to our tally of over a hundred and fifty already.”
Just as I hoped, a flicker of unease betrays the riders behind Ealdorman Wulfstan. The horses shift because their passengers have startled and I know I’m right to suspect as I do.
Ealdorman Wulfstan is struggling for a suitable answer, as I turn my back on all of the riders attracting the attention of my men. We have no tell for them to know that the allies we face are really an enemy, but I’ve tried my best.
With barely time for more thought, I flash through the air, turning sharply as I do, aiming my seax at Ealdorman Wulfstan’s throat. In the final moments, as he still fights to find answers to my questions, he determines my intention. Rather than anger in his eyes, a stray tear falls, a word forming on his lips that I take to be ‘thank you,’ and then the air is shimmering with an arc of escaping blood. I angle my seax once more, ensuring that as the movement is complete, a hail of blood covers the lead riders.
Ealdorman Wulfstan slumps over his horse’s head, his body convulsing, as I whack the animal’s backside, the scent of blood already turning it wild. Although I didn’t plan it, the animal backs up, turns swiftly, the burden tied to the reins, as it races through the riders waiting behind.
I expel my pent up breath and meet the eyes of my enemy.
“You damn fuckers,” I bellow, and then I’m racing, not back to the shield wall, but amongst the churning mass of confused riders. These warriors, like all the others before, have little control over their mounts.
I narrowly avoid more than one horse hoof, more than one angled blade, and more than one fool slipping from his saddle at his mounts unexpected movement, and then I’m where I want to be.
The leader. Never at the centre of the attack. Only on this occasion, the wrong decision has been made.
I can hear my men begin their surge against the enemy. I hope they don’t all fight mounted warriors. I hope the Raiders have dismounted as the attack comes. They might be skilled with blades but not with horses. I don’t want any of my men to die, defeating those who would trick us.
The leader of this warband is easy to determine. He wears his helm, like all the others. But it isn’t the usual everyday item, built for a single purpose, but rather an elaborately decorated one. I almost expect feathers to curl up from the cheek plates, but they don’t.
I grin when I see him.
He rides a horse large enough for Icel or me, but he’s a smaller man, his legs dangling from the high stirrups, as though a child on their father’s horse.
“My Lord,” I call to him because I don’t know his name. His reaction is immediate, as he attempts to dismount, only I’ve stepped close, turned his horse with just the weight of my ars
e, so that where before he was facing forward, now I get the side of him. And he’s exposed.
The movement is slick and quick, the cut made before the jarl even notices that I’ve managed to take the time to plan my attack carefully. Already, his trews are staining dark, and not with piss. I turn to move away, rather than continue the attack, and the leader, confusion in his black eyes, tries to take aim at me with his war axe.
It’s a heavy object and yet one he must clearly have been able to handle with ease.
Now, as he strikes out at me, his grip slips, and his reach falters, and then he’s falling from the saddle, arms flailing feebly. He’s dead before he hits the ground.
I find myself in a melee of discarded horses, and with no one aware that their leader has fallen.
“Fuckers,” I complain, trying to decide the best way to make it back to my men. With barely a moment’s thought, I replace the seax on my weapons belt and mount the horse that recently carried the leader of the group of Raider scum.
With more luck than judgement, I leap, from one discarded saddle to another, and as I get closer to the line of fighting, I pause, eyeing up my men.
Unlike me, they’ve shown real discipline, and meet the enemy, shields interlocked tightly to protect everyone.
Those they face are clearly skilled and could be lethal, but the battle has gone from being a slow infiltration of my force to one of ferocious fighting. They’ve been caught unawares, and already a number of them lie, festooned in the leaking fluid of their bodies. I decide my involvement is not really needed.
Only then a high voice grabs my attention, coming not from in front of me, but from behind.
I imagine the words are something like, ‘you fucking bastard,’ but they’re garbled by the heat of rage and fury and by the effort being put into trying to attack me.
I jump to the ground, shove a few horses to one side, and wait for the attacker to reach me.
The youth, I imagine the jarl’s son, is slight of build, like the youth of yesterday, only wearing the best of equipment. The toughened leather of the byrnie flickers darkly, the sun’s rays yet to penetrate so deep into the confused mass of moving horseflesh, and the edge of the seax glistens only with the shimmer of iron.
