The Last Sword

by M J Porter

  “What?” the news unsettles me, and the little fucker grins. He still takes great pride in knowing everything.

  “Lady Cyneswith gave him the task, as did Ealdorman Ælhun,” he continues.

  “Did you know about this?” I demand of Edmund, turning slightly, so they know who I ask.

  “Aye, My Lord,” it’s Pybba who answers mournfully.

  “I’ve heard him practising,” Edmund admits, and there’s no indication of what he thinks about the scop from such a bland statement. “Muttering phrases beneath his breath. I hope his performance is worthier than what I’ve heard.” I consider complaining. Edmund’s the one who’s always wanted a damn scop. But I don’t.

  A companionable silence falls between us, little more than the sizzle of the fire in the brazier and the crack of water freezing hard, reaching my ears, just audible beneath our breathing.

  Before me, I see the battles I’ve fought since the summer, the ones outside Northampton coming clearest to mind, but all of them there, hovering. A feeling from one, a remembered action from another; my emotions from them all.

  “You’ll recover yourself,” Pybba speaks once more, despite no one asking. “You’ll recover, and the rage will return, and if it teaches you to take a little more care, then that’s all to the good. Sure as anything, you won’t fucking take that risk again.”

  Now my smile broadens. Fuck it. I should have convened this meeting before now. I should have realised how well they knew me. I’ve not become any less in their eyes, just because of my injury. And why would I have done so? I’ve never thought that of them before; one-eyed, one-handed, shredded down half their body, cut around the throat; it’s always been evident to me that they were still lethal bastards just as I am.

  “Right, can we go the fuck inside now?” Rudolf breaks the companionable accord that’s settled over us.

  I’m almost about to say yes when Edmund startles beside me.

  “What the fuck is that?” He points, not out on the battlefield behind us, but rather behind us. No doubt he’d already been turning to climb down the stairs when he glimpsed whatever disturbs him.

  “What?” I demand to know, but before the word’s out of my mouth, I’ve seen it too.

  “Well, that’s not a good sign,” Rudolf offers, the joy drained from his voice, once more the serious warrior he’s become of late.

  There’s a spark of light out there, just erupting from behind the shadowy woodland to the other side of the Nene. I can’t determine how fast it’s moving, but I think it’s quick.

  “A rider,” Edmund complains, mouth downcast.

  “It’s got to be bloody urgent to be out in this foul weather,” Hereman concurs.

  I want to rant and rave. I want to stab at them with my words, explain it’s this ill-feeling of unease that’s been adding to my frustration and apprehension about my wound. But it’s none of those things. I knew peace wouldn’t last.

  I did think it might make it beyond the Yule feast.

  But apparently fucking not.

  Chapter 2

  They all make it to the gateway before I do. In fact, it if weren’t for Heahstan and Beornfyhrt’s assistance, I’d probably still be stranded on the bloody rampart.

  Any sense of serenity from our impromptu meeting has erupted long before I can see the rider being allowed access to the inner workings of Northampton. Brands have been lit, more braziers as well, and yet the snow remains deep enough to flounder in, and of course, I fucking do.

  I don’t recognise the voice of the man as he disappears inside the hall, Hiltiberht scampering to take care of his tired horse, head hanging, chest heaving. There’s a sense of anticipation that all but erupts as I stride into the sweltering heat of the hall once more, trying not to show my fury at being abandoned.

  Rudolf casts me a long look, a hint of apology in his keen eyes. I don’t get the same from the others, as they crowd around the hearth, my Aunt with them, Ealdorman Ælhun as well, none of them noticing that me, their king, isn’t with them. Damn fuckers.

  Only then, the rider, shrugging free from his snow and ice-encrusted cloak, so it looks as though he’s clothed in the pristine night sky, spots me, and takes to his knee.

  “My Lord King.” I watch, almost amused, as realisation dawns on the face of Edmund and Hereman, Pybba as well, although Icel doesn’t seem to be concerned either way.

  “Stand, man, stand. Take your cloak from your shoulders and warm yourself before the hearth.”

  I can see the affronted expression on the face of the scop. He’s been upended from his spot beside the hearth, shoved to the side, and he’s none too pleased about it. I almost pity him. He thinks he’s found himself good food, a warm hearth and a captive audience to get himself through the dark months.

  He might still have. But probably not while I’m in residence. Not if the expression is anything to go by on the rider’s face. I’m impressed he can convey so much emotion with his eyebrows frozen, eyelashes glinting wetly, and his nose brighter even than the fire, where it burns red at the edges.

  “Ealdorman Aldred sent me, My Lord King. From Gainsborough. My name’s Æthelgar.”

  I’d quite like to know what Ealdorman Aldred is doing at Gainsborough, but I don’t ask. There’ll be time for recriminations when I know what’s happening.

  “Tell me,” I demand.

  “Ships, My Lord King, on the Humber Estuary. A force, massing North of the Humber, under Jarl Halfdan.”

  The name brings a genuine smile to my face. I thought he’d fucked off to Northumbria, and I’d never see him again because the king of Mercia can’t ride into another man’s kingdom.

  “In this weather?” It’s Edmund who asks, his eyes high in his hairline, disgust in those words. He’s never been one to enjoy the cold.

  “Aye, My Lord.” Æthelgar directs his words to Edmund, opting for the address because he’s not sure of the correct title to use. I notice that Edmund doesn’t deny the title. Interesting.

  “The snow’s deeper in Gainsborough. I’ve only made my way here by staying on the Foss Way and never veering far from the drainage ditches.”

  “A cold ride then. And when did you leave?”

  “Four days ago, My Lord King. And the Raiders were noticed a week ago now. It took two days to return to Gainsborough because of a blizzard.”

  “At least the Raiders can’t move in this weather either,” my Aunt thinks to interject, but I shake my head. Nothing dissuades the Raiders. Not fire, or ice, flood or tempest. The only thing that deters them is my warriors and me.

  “Did you see any ships on the way here?” The Foss Way doesn’t run all the way to Northampton along a river, but it might have been visible in places.

  “None, no. I don’t think they’d risk it. Not at the moment.”

  “And what does Ealdorman Aldred expect me to do? What were your orders?”

  A flicker of uncertainty on Æthelgar’s chapped face, and I can imagine the scene all too well.

  “To inform you and ask for instructions as to what to do.”

  “I understand. My thanks. Tell me, how many were seen?”

  “At least ten ships. It was impossible to be more specific from such a distance.”

  “Eat, drink, get warm. We’ll care for your horse. I’m not sending you out in this weather anytime soon.”

  I can feel eyes on me, some nervous, others assured, and then the scowl of the scop as well. He’s fiercer than my Aunt with his silent protest.

  “Now, I believe the scop will entertain us,” I stride back to my place on the dais, aware that everyone follows my movements in that hall. My warriors, those I’ve not been with outside, have fallen silent, all apart from Wulfhere, slumped over the table, snoring loudly, the sound reaching my ears despite the mass of bodies in the hall.

  I consider smiling as I settle myself, discarding my cloak with a flourish. I also consider growling at them. But neither response is the correct one.

  No, I need
to listen to the scop. Hear his song, see if it genuinely honours me or not, and then, well then, it seems I need to decide whether I’m going to fucking war again. Just the thought makes me shudder with cold.

  “You’re going nowhere,” my Aunt hisses at me as she reclaims her seat beside me, head bowed as she fusses with her skirts to hide the words. “You can’t risk your wound in this weather, and you can’t risk your neck with that wound.” I nod and offer nothing else. I haven’t considered all of my options yet. They’re more varied than they might have been this time last year and equally narrower as well.

  I swallow my cold water, enjoy the sharp, clean taste, and then the scop, centred once more around the hearth, bows to me, his hand above well-covered head, twirling end over end, in an elaborate gesture that makes me squirm. It reminds me of who I am far more than the pulsing cut at my throat ever could.

  I catch sight of Hiltiberht slipping back into the hall, Tatberht speaking with him, no doubt ensuring all is well before dismissing him back to the others. I glance at Tatberht. He meets my gaze evenly, impossible to decipher his true thoughts. Then the scop opens his mouth, and from his miserable-looking mouth emerges a voice rich with flavour and warmth, with honeyed tones to entice fair maidens to their bed, despite their desire for innocence. And I confess, my mouth drops open in shock.

  I hear a dry chuckle from my Aunt.

  “He might look like he slept in a hedge, has never seen a comb in his life, and chews his nails to satisfy his hunger, but he is quite skilled.”

  I focus on his words then, trying not to fidget.

  “We tell you tales of Coelwulf, king.

  Man of Mercia, honourable above all other.

  A hero of our times. A hero for all times.

  He slays Raiders, sends empty ships home;

  Nothing but creaking wood, and the silence of the grave,

  To women and kings, none shall return from Mercian shores.

  Mead cups overfloweth, for lack of drinkers.”

  “Did you make him say those things?” As transfixed as I am, I can’t help but offer the aside to my Aunt, being careful to lift my hand so that none can read my lips.

  “There’s no need for me to tell anyone anything. Your antics speak for themselves.”

  I note the use of the word ‘antics’ considering that she means to belittle me, but her vivid eyes assure me she’s only too well aware of how she speaks.

  Damn the woman.

  Rudolf sits, eyes alive with the tale, Hiltiberht beside him, while Edmund is still, only Icel showing his amusement at the way the scop speaks of a man they’ve watched vomit on their shoes and shit on a molehill. A man who almost died on the blade of someone who wasn’t even trying to kill him.

  “What will you do about Jarl Halfdan?” My Aunt uses the distraction of the scop to demand an answer.

  “I’ll have to send someone north. I can’t go myself; I accept that. But, there are many men I can rely on now. Proven men.”

  “There are, yes. But what of Jarl Halfdan himself? I know you crave his blood.”

  “I’m not alone in that,” I mutter, not wanting the scop to realise that my attention has waned. Not because he’s unskilled, but because this is altogether too much to be subjected to for one man. I would wish he’d turn to my warriors. No man acts alone. No man saves a kingdom without the aid of others.

  I marvel at the scop’s leathery face, the way his hands beat time on the drum, the inkings that cover his long arms before the skin is covered by a tunic, purposefully cut short, just over the shoulders. It would do him no good on a day like today. No wonder he needs a warm hearth and someone willing to feed him. His hair is a wealth of bright curls, his eyes half-closed so that I can see more inkings on his eyelids. I can only imagine how much that fucking hurt.

  “Kyred. Send Kyred,” my Aunt instructs me. I want to tell her to stop her discussion, remind her of who’s king here, but I intended to send Kyred anyway. This way, she’ll believe a victory has been scored against me.

  “I’ll not send men into this weather. I’ll dispatch him, but not yet. Only when the thaw comes.”

  “And what if Jarl Halfdan has had his triumph by then.”

  “I doubt he’ll have been able to crack the ice over his water butt. I’ll trust that there’s time, yet.”

  Her grumble of disquiet is lost beneath the scop’s soaring voice.

  The scop spellbinds every man, woman, and the few children within Northampton. He paints a story of someone, not me, who knows no defeat, only success, who quakes at nothing, has no fear, believes only in his actions' righteousness.

  I feel like halting him, pointing out the jagged scar on my neck, the healed wound down my neck, the cut on my leg from where Hereman almost hobbled me. But I don’t. Instead, I listen, intently, swept along in the battles he brings to life, the tale of the way I tricked the Raiders, the story of how I killed so many of my enemy, defeated the jarls, even when they thought they’d won. I appreciate the scop and his power in a way that Edmund has been desperate to impress upon me for many years.

  I might just send the scop with Kyred.

  But no, that would be cruel. Maybe there’s another way, though.

  I’ve fought, and killed, and bled and wept for Mercia. Now, I have the means to ensure others know that truth. Now, I just need to find a suitable candidate for my purpose.

  Will I truly rip apart my family of warriors and send one of the youngsters into the bitter north winds, where the enemy waits to take their next strike? Perhaps I won’t, after all. Neither will I send Edmund, although, no doubt, he’d like to know the tricks the scop employs to keep his audience’s attention.

  “In Repton, Coelwulf king, tricked the men of the North.

  He went before them, bound and gagged.

  And then he bathed our church in their blood.

  In Repton, our king slays all Raiders,

  Even a man twelve feet tall.”

  He was not, I believe, twelve feet tall, but the tale seems to grow with the telling. I roll my eyes at the exaggeration, at the omission of those who helped me kill the bastard.

  I focus on the fire, memories of the battle clear before my eyes, seen in the collapsing logs, burning to ash, in the fiery flames, leaping over and above the fuel. A slither of satisfaction enters my heart, but I throw water onto it.

  The deed is far from done, as my messenger has just shown me.

  I can’t take pride in an unfinished job.

  I vowed to protect Mercia, as the great scop is telling all who will listen.

  My vow is not yet complete. For less than a heartbeat, I allow the devious thought that it might never be, and then I dash it out with the depth of fallen snow, watching the smoke of the flames as it ebbs away.

  I’ll not doubt myself. I’ll not allow the worry of my most recent wound to hamper my actions.

  I’ve always fought. I’ve always risked my death. Stepping that little bit closer to it has merely firmed my resolve that I’ll risk all for my kingdom. If I must die for Mercia to be free from the Raiders, then I’ll happily do so.

  But not fucking today or tomorrow. Or anytime soon. Not while it snows. Jarl Halfdan will have to fucking wait.

  Chapter 3

  “Steady there, My Lord. I fear your head might not fit through this door.” Edmund’s voice is laced with derision. It seems he’s not happy with the scop’s work.

  I roll my eyes at him.

  “You should have regaled him with less fantastical tales if you didn’t wish to hear them embellished beyond all reason and practicality.”

  “Fuck,” Edmund mutters, turning his flushed face away from me. It seems I wasn’t to know of Edmund’s involvement in the elongated scop’s praise-song from the previous night.

  It’s bitterly cold outside. I’ve only rushed out to empty my stream into the pit, and Edmund has caught me on the way back inside.

  Outside it’s icy, everywhere. Even the snow cleared paths are slippery, a
nd I’m not the only one to have nearly slid into the cesspit. It’ll not be a pleasant way to die beneath the yellowed ice that’s formed over it. The smell has been just about extinguished in the deathly temperatures. I’m sure the same can’t be said beneath the ice.

  “I found it a pleasant listen,” I jibe, determined to have my fun with him. The more furious he looks, the more I smile. It seems my humour has been restored to me.

  Yes, my neck itches beneath the cloak and the skin is puckered and tight, but I already feel more confident. The truth of my survival seems only to add to the legend growing around me. I don’t much want the legend, but last night, I learned a valuable lesson. That legend will do me far more good than harm. It might make young boys piss themselves with fear if it leaks beyond Mercia’s myriad borders. It’ll certainly ensure those who wish to claim my kingdom will do so with more wariness than ever before. Like fear, wariness is an insidious thing, undermining confidence and making men weak when they should be strong.

  “Then my work is accomplished,” Edmund mocks.

  “No, not yet,” I caution. “But it is begun.” Edmund fixes his perplexed eye on me, and I shrug. All will become clear in time.

  “Bollocks, it’s cold,” Hereman’s words are too loud, echoing in the enclosed space. Overhead, the sun is a watery brightness. We’ve been slow to rise this day. It’s a day for feasting, and drinking, if so inclined. But, I have much to consider. I seek out Kyred amongst those men who’ve decided the only way to cure their pounding heads caused by drinking too much ale is to strip to their skin and face one another in the confines of the dubious shelter provided by the stables. The occasional whinny speaks of unhappy horses. No doubt, they wish they could do the same. Anything is to be preferred to being trapped, not by the walls, but by the weather.

  “You’ve got cold bollocks?” I direct to Hereman. He grins at me, running his hand through his rough hair.

  “I’ve got a fucking cold everything,” he retorts. He, too, has stripped to his waist, and I can see the jagged scars of his wounds. Some might look away from them, but as Pybba said on the ramparts, these scars tell the story of our lives. We should never dismiss them.