by M J Porter
“I precisely know what it does and doesn’t do. I also know what you can and can’t do. Now, leave it alone, or it’ll become infected, and then they might as well have taken your head off and had done with it, there and then. Much better than listening to all this continual complaining.” Although a faint smile touches her lips as she watches the rest of my men, her voice is sour. I don’t miss that her eyes linger on Edmund’s back.
I should be with them. But I’m not. No, she’s made me sit at a table, as though I’m a lord or some such, and all I can do is watch. It’s not the way I usually celebrate the feast of Christ’s birth. I might not drink, but I would usually be in the heart of the conversation, tears rolling down my face at whatever antics Edmund or Hereman were performing because they’d taken their fill. But not today.
I don’t know what fucking irritates me more; the damn hot skin that rims my neck or just how ineffectual I feel.
I’ve been weak as a mewling child, more unsteady on my feet than a newborn foal, and angrier than a boar in flight. I don’t know, from one day to another, and sometimes, from one meal to the next, how I’m going to feel or what I’m going to feel. The pain has rumbled on, occasionally agony, but generally just infuriating, every movement, no matter how small, setting off yet another avalanche of strange sensations prickling over my body.
“Here, drink this,” and she offers me her beaker. I sniff it unhappily as I palm it into my hand.
“It’s fresh, cold water, nothing else,” her nose high in the air, pretending to offence. I know her better than that.
I eagerly swill it, all the same, the sharp bite of water that’s no doubt been cracked clear from the water barrels, restoring the alertness of my senses that I’ve been missing.
“Better?” she demands to know, deigning to speak to me, although I’ve offended her. To the far side of her sits one of the monks from Gloucester. I don’t know why we need such a figure here in Northampton, but my Aunt insisted on having the man dragged here for the Yule feast. His facial expression fluctuates between horror and understanding, revulsion and a fierce desire to be involved, as he watches the Mercians and my warriors cavorting around the hall.
We’ve eaten well, and now they drink too well. I can do nothing but watch and feel excluded. I never believed myself capable of such pettiness.
From outside, there’s no sound. None at all. Well, not that I can bloody hear. A thousand men could assault the walls of Northampton, but I’d not hear. No. Outside it snows, the white stuff coating the landscape, muffling all sound, obscuring all but the largest objects. If I were known for having deep thoughts, I’d almost think it held the promise of a fresh start. But I know fucking better. When the thaw comes, and the water pools in any and every crevice, pit and puddle, the mud coming slick off my boots, threatening to topple me at any moment, I know it’ll just be the same old shit, just that much more unpleasant, stinking of damp and cold and, well, shit.
“Grrr,” I growl low in my throat. I feel enclosed. I feel hobbled. I feel as frustrated as Haden in the stables. It’s a fucking Yule-time miracle that I can’t hear him kicking the wooden walls from here.
I want to be gone from here, and it’s more than just the snow, lying as tall as a small child’s waist, that keeps me trapped.
“You must calm yourself,” my Aunt offers, but it’s half-hearted. She might be able to prevent me from scratching and pulling at my neck wound when she sits beside me, but she can’t tell me what to do or how to do it.
Furious, I push myself up from the table, determined to do something. Anything.
“Bring me my cloak,” I demand from Hiltiberht, who’s scrambled to my side, his eyes never far from ensuring I have all I need. I wish Rudolf had been this bloody attentive when he was my squire. But then, Rudolf had other skills.
“My Lord,” a quick bow and he’s already back, as I weave an unsteady path between the detritus of the feast, ensuring I don’t tumble over discarded stools or slip in the slime of spilt ale. My aunt sips her wine. I can feel her gaze at my back, but wisely, her tongue is still.
I could almost weep for that small piece of understanding.
“Here you go,” and Hiltiberht offers the warm cloak. The fur collar, I know already, will bedevil me, but at least outside, I’ll be cool, if not downright frozen. My neck will stop itching so that I can think clearly for longer than a heartbeat.
“Shall I come with you?” he asks, voice both hopeful and filled with resentment at being pulled away from the feast. I wish I had the skill to be so expressive with just five words.
I force a smile, aware it almost cuts me deeper than a knife.
“No, stay here. I’m just going to check on Haden.”
“I can do that,” he offers brightly, perhaps trying to be helpful.
“No, no, stay here, enjoy the singing and dancing. The scop is yet to perform.” I see the excitement in his body then. He’s desperate to hear the scop, as is Rudolf and the other youngsters. I don’t even know where Edmund managed to procure the man’s services.
Tatberht eyes me from his post at the door. He asked for it. No, he demanded it. It seems he didn’t want to get involved in the reckless behaviour either.
“Damn fools,” he spits, forcing the door open, mindful of any snow that might tumble from above his head with the movement. We need to be careful not to get snowed inside the hall.
“You sure you’re alright to go alone,” Tatberht checks, perhaps one of the few who’ll question me. I nod, immediately regretting the action as yet another shard of pain shudders from my neck wound.
“I know, I know. You just need some air. Watch where you go. It’s deep in places you might not expect,” he continues. Again, I’m fucking thankful that he doesn’t say anything further.
“Thank you. You should have a drink.”
“I should, but I ain’t going to. Too old for my head to ache for days afterwards.” He grins with the words to take the sting from them.
Outside, the snow reflects brightly under the crisp, clear sky. There’ll be no more snow tonight, I notice, to my surprise. It’s been snowing all bastard day. But, it’ll be cold, the stars winking overhead as though priceless gems, worth more than I could ever imagine, and I’m the damn king. I shiver into my cloak, forcing it tightly around my body, wishing it wasn’t necessary, but appreciating that if I don’t control my ill-humour, there might well be blood shed this night.
I don’t fucking want that.
There are a few braziers, bravely battling against the wind that seems to cut with a knife, but it’s the moon and the snow that makes it possible for me to see my way to the stables. A wry smirk touches my cheeks, which have grown too used to looking glum in recent weeks. I can hear that brute, even from here. His hooves sporadically kick against the stable door. He wants out. I want out. Fuck it, we probably all want out.
A semblance of a path has been forced through the thick snow to allow easy passage from one place to another. I eye it warily, noting the shimmer of water that speaks of icy patches, and press on, not towards the stables, but rather towards the rear of Northampton. I have a mind to climb the ramparts, look out over all I can survey, assure myself that the entire landscape is covered in snow, and not just Northampton itself. This weather isn’t a punishment, even if it feels like fucking one.
The cold tugs at my throat, and I wrap my cloak around it ever tighter, even if it now risks overheating. Stepping carefully, the sound of good cheer dogging my unsteady shuffle, I make it to the stairs that lead to the rampart. There’s a light up there, just one, the flames beckoning me, even as I eye the steps warily. I don’t need to slip and injure myself further. I don’t need to fall, knock myself backwards, jolt my barely healed wound, and be forced to start all over again.
But fuck it, I need to see more than just the interior of Northampton. The craving burns my skin, even as I shiver against the cold.
“Hail,” I try and call, hoping to garner some advice from the m
en on guard duty. But my voice is thin and reedy, speaking of frailty and broken promises.
Fuck it. With one hand on the wall, brushing the icy surface, I place my first foot on the step. I pause then. Expecting some sort of outcry, but there’s nothing. A tight smile touches my cold face. I anticipated the voice of my Aunt, recalling me to the reality of my situation, but she’s in the hall. She’s warm and amused and no doubt listening to the scop. Although, perhaps not yet. I can still just about hear Hereman’s bellow as he laughs and jokes.
They’ll all make damn fools of themselves tonight. But, while they’re doing that, they can’t watch what I’m about to attempt.
My left foot lifts from the ground, and then I’m committed. I either go back to the floor or continue upwards. I know what I should be doing, but bollocks to that. I need to see.
With shaking knees, cursing my enforced weakness, I gingerly make my way upwards. They’re slippery, I can’t deny that, but they’ve been cleared of snow. Care’s been taken to ensure that they’re not as slick as they could be. It’s a job with no great sense of accomplishment. No sooner have they been made passable than the snow falls once more.
My breath is harsh in my ears, a great pluming cloud before me, temporarily blinding me. The men on watch duty will see my expelled breath first, and then only me, emerging from behind it.
And then my left foot slips, completely missing the next step, and I reach towards the expanse of uneven wall with both hands. If I fall now, it’ll surely be to my death. I’ve no idea what lies beneath me, but I doubt it’s enough snow to cushion a fall from such a height.
Not that the vertical surface is much help. My left leg wavers, my right forced to take all of my weight. My heart hammers in my chest, my legs weak. Fuck.
“Who’s that?” The words are fraught with terror, but I’m scrambling to maintain my balance, desperate not to be found in a heap at the bottom of the steps.
“Here, you daft bastard,” and I feel hands on my arse from behind me.
“What you doing coming up here?” There’s outrage in the words, but they stabilise me, just as much as the hands, and then I’m heaving air into my chest, unaware I’ve even been holding it.
“It’s the bloody king,” this comes from above me. I stare into perplexed eyes and a wrinkled forehead.
“I must see beyond the fortifications,” I state, trying to infuse my voice with some sort of menace, but it’s impossible. I’ve scared myself, and now my legs feel weak, my voice even frailer than when I started.
“Well, it’s a bloody good job that Beornfyhrt was there to catch you,” is the slightly mollified response.
“There’s a knack to it. See, you have to place your feet close to the wall. That’s the part that’s easiest to keep clear of the snow and ice. Now, come on, up you come. You can’t bloody go back down, not in the state you’re in.”
With Heahstan before me and Beornfyhrt behind me, I stagger up the remaining half of the steps. I feel sick, the cold cloying at my skin, even while it burns. Each step upwards, I expect to feel once more my traitorous foot slip.
“Closer to the wall,” Heahstan urges me, every second step, and I shuffle to do his bidding, aware that behind me, Beornfyhrt has removed his hands from my back but no doubt waits to offer his support once more.
I pity the fuckers, stuck out here while everyone else is ripe with ale and good food.
“There you go, safely does it, at last,” Heahstan states, moving into the light from the brazier so that I can finally see the strain on his face. There are two pink spots on his white cheeks, no doubt caused by my actions, and I bow my head to them both.
“My thanks.”
“Well, don’t thank us yet. You’ve got to get the fuck down later. It’s a bastard. I can assure you,” Beornfyhrt, his hood covering all but his nose, speaks as though from beyond the grave. There’s no understanding to be found in his words. But why should there be? No doubt, he’d be content if he was confined to the hall, as I was.
“Well, there’s your view,” Heahstan sounds more conciliatory, as he indicates the vast area beyond the fortifications.
“My thanks, again.” I feel more in control, more assured of myself now that I’m so close to achieving my intention.
“Just thank us by watching where you’re fucking going, and let us know before you attempt to leave. We’ll help you.”
A brief wash of heat touches my clammy skin from the brazier that keeps the guard men on duty warm, and I consider huddling beside it. But no, I didn’t come here to feel warm.
Then, I step toward the wall, the view over the fortifications slowly coming into focus—the crisp whiteness of the landscape flickering beneath the bright moon, massive in the sky. The bite of cold is more severe. I welcome it as it dries my frightened sweat, my heart slowing in my chest.
Beyond the walls of Northampton, the landscape stretches far into the distance, untouched by any but the occasional hooting owl and the pitter-patter of animals about their business. They should be in their dens, shielding from the snow.
Certainly, there’s nothing to show what happened here so recently. Yes, the remains of the Raider camp can be determined as a jagged assortment of lumps and bumps beneath the white, easier to decipher from the shadows than the snow, but there’s nothing to speak of the men I ordered slaughtered, by spear or by arrow, when I first recovered.
I didn’t come to the rampart for forgiveness. I don’t seek some God-given right to have killed my enemy. No, I came here to check, to see with my eyes that the fuckers haven’t thought to return using the snowstorm to cover their actions.
The view comforts me, even as it worries me. If they’re not here, those that still lived, then where the fuck are they? Are they, as I hope, nursing their wounds in Grantabridge? Are they, as I suspect, perhaps considering a return to their northern kingdoms. I fucking hope so. But I know I won’t get my wish. I never do.
A sudden shudder runs through me, and I shelter deep inside my cloak once more, the sheen of sweat gone, the wound at my neck pulsing, as though it has a life of its own.
That’s why I came here.
I feel weak. I feel useless. I feel fucking lucky to be alive, and I’ve never lived by luck. Did my skill desert me in the woodlands? Did I nearly die because I put the life of one of my warriors before mine? Did I care more for him than for Mercia?
These thoughts have plagued me, even while my Aunt has nursed me, an accepting look on her face. It seems she knows me better than I know myself.
So lost in my ruminations, I startle when a gust of air close to me informs me that I’m no longer alone.
“It makes you contemplate your life like you never have before,” Pybba speaks softly, his words a counterpart to my thoughts. Is this what this is about? Am I contemplating my mortality when I never have before?
“Some fuckers have no understanding of what it’s like to see your life flash before your eyes.” I hold my tongue, keep my eyes firmly forward. I’ll not give him the satisfaction of watching me wince at the harsh rebuttal of the way I treated him. He bloody needed it. I won’t apologise for that. He thought to curl into a ball and die just because a Raider took his hand.
“The wounds we carry mark us just as much as every life we take to protect Mercia. We never lose them. They’re just more obvious reminders of the burdens we carry.” Pybba speaks with his years of wisdom, and I should probably thank him for following me from the hall and up to the blast of cold air that shudders over the parapet. But I’m not feeling thankful for his words. They’re harsh. And they fucking hurt.
I believed myself impervious to blades and axes. But I wasn’t. And I nearly died for an arrogance I would never have claimed to own. Is that how Pybba felt when he lost his hand? I don’t want to ask.
“All we do, is vow to take the life of the warrior that did this to us.” Fuck, I startle. I’ve certainly not heard Edmund arrive. His voice is bitter with resolve. I always thought he coped well with
the loss of his eye. But I never asked. I just assumed. “Add another to the list of those who’ve fallen beneath our blade. They take our blood and some part of us, but never all of us. We can’t be broken. Not like fucking that.”
I feel Edmund step to the right of me, Pybba already to the left. What a sight we must make. Pybba, missing his right hand, Edmund, missing his left eye, and me, with my neck slit as though I could have been decapitated with just a bit more effort; if the blade had just been a little bit wider.
“For every fucking ache and night of pain, I vow to kill another of the bastards,” Hereman’s heavier tread beside his brother’s, is somehow, only to be expected. The wounds he gained were multiple and painful. They’ve taken a long time to heal. All I need now is for Icel to join us.
“In the reign of King Wiglaf,” Icel’s rumble begins, and I groan, I can’t help it. I peer along my row of warriors, noting the gloomy expressions on them all, the spark of amusement in Rudolf’s bright eyes.
“When did you fucking get here?” I ask, cutting off Icel, not that he seems to notice.
“I took a wound that festered and took half a year to heal, here, on my belly,” and Icel points to where he must have been injured. “I see that scar every time I remove my tunic. It reminds me of why I do this. Of why we do this.” His tone brokers no argument, and still Rudolf smirks, a glint in his eyes, the moon catching the brightness as though a summer’s day.
I nod at him, aware my cheeks begin to tug in amusement. I feel like I’ve not smiled for days, too caught up in my misery. I really should have been less self-centred.
“Why aren’t you listening to the fucking scop?” I demand to know. None of my warriors turns to me with surprise. They know to whom my question is directed.
“Boring old fart, drawling in his ale. Anyway, he won’t share his new ‘finest work’ until the Lord King is there to listen to the tale being woven for him, and even Lady Cyneswith refuses to order you back to the hall.”
