The Last Sword

by M J Porter

  I lost sight of him last night as the scop regaled the hall with the stories of how the greatest king Mercia has ever claimed held back the Raiders. I confess, I felt some pride and then quickly chased it away. I can only hold such acclamations when the job is complete. And right now, it isn’t.

  “Where’s Kyred?”

  “Vomiting all over himself in the corner,” there’s no sympathy in Hereman’s words as he points to where he means. “He took a mighty blow to his belly. Poor fucker’s can’t stop being sick.”

  “Who did that to him?” Kyred is a mean fighter. I wouldn’t expect anyone to get the better of him.

  “Heahstan. Foul bastard took the punch when Kyred was distracted by Haden trying to eat his hair.” Hereman’s chuckle assures me that I’ve missed a great deal of hilarity.

  “Thanks,” and I make my way to Kyred. He’s wedged against the wooden wall, and it looks like if he tries to stand, he’ll tumble over. Hiltiberht hovers close to him, as do others of his men. But, the conversation is light-hearted.

  “Kyred.”

  “My Lord King,” his bleached face startles at my words, and I wrinkle my nose at the sour odour of ale brought back up.

  “Are you well enough to speak, or shall we talk later, when you’re fully recovered?”

  “No, no, now is fine,” there’s a flicker of understanding on his face. I imagine he’s already deciphered what my next words will be. He’s no fool.

  “Help me,” and two hands clasp his forearms. With only so much shuffling, he’s on his unsteady feet, a brief flicker of pain on his face attesting to his injury. He takes the jug of water Hiltiberht holds and throws it over his head, shaking his hair from side to side as though he’s a dog. I step back, and I’m not alone.

  “Fuck’s sake,” I complain while Kyred’s eyes wobble in his head. Not the wisest of moves, but I appreciate the desire to seem keen.

  Kyred grabs his tunic from one of his men, a cloak from the other. It makes sense now why the men have stripped to the waist. Better that than have nothing clean to wear. Who in their right mind wants to be cleaning clothes on the banks of the Nene when it’s so damn icy?

  While Hereman battles one of Ealdorman Ælhun’s men, the rise and fall of cheers making it unnecessary to watch the battle, helped by Icel’s vocal commentary, we make our way outside. A gust of wet wind covers my head, no doubt sheeting the stuff from one of the roofs overhead. I’m pleased my cloak covers my head.

  Together, we walk in companionable silence to the gateway that leads to the bridge that once crossed the Nene. The bridge remains in pieces. Those who wish to enter must first wait for the wooden planks stored on this bank to be shoved into place. But it does mean that the gate can be kept open, only two guards on duty, for now, and even then, their eyes peer towards the raucous noise coming from the stables.

  “I can’t go North. Not at the moment, and no matter how much it pains me.”

  “Aye, My Lord King. I appreciate it as much. My men and I can leave before nightfall.”

  “No one can leave until the thaw begins. I’ll not risk losing men in the snow and blizzards which might yet rage.”

  Kyred’s lips pull down at my words. I detect the hint of a scar on the left side of his face, only visible with such a movement. I imagine it’s a childhood injury. It’s too small to have been inflicted with an adult-sized weapon. Or, he was just a lucky sod to miss a larger wound.

  “But Jarl Halfdan might take advantage of the weather.”

  “He might, yes, but I’d rather a contingent of warriors able to meet him in battle than the straggling remains of such a group, battered by the cold, snow and ice. It’s the wrong time of year to be laying a siege, for spilling blood, for trying to traverse the Humber and the Trent. But, Ealdorman Aldred doesn’t have our experience. I’ll provide him with the support he needs, but he’ll have to wait for now.”

  “Perhaps,” Kyred admits, but I see the tension in his hands, visible beneath his cloak. He wants to be gone, now that I’ve given the order.

  “And don’t think of leaving without my permission. There’s a time for fucking heroics, and it’s not in the midst of the worst snow I’ve seen for years.” I pitch my voice, infuse it with just enough menace that Kyred bows his head, capitulating to his king. It’s a feat I can only accomplish with those who aren’t my particular warriors. Edmund, Icel and Pybba would ignore my words and risk it all anyway. Rudolf wouldn’t even think he should obey my order.

  That’s why I’ve chosen Kyred.

  That, and it’ll stop any disagreements forming between Edmund and Icel. The two still need their heads banging together on occasion to remind them of just who is fucking king and who isn’t.

  “When you get to Gainsborough, you’ll have the command of the warriors, not the ealdorman. You’ll decide what needs to be done and if you need reinforcements. Don’t stand alone against Jarl Halfdan. A mean bastard like that can scent an easy victory.”

  “Aye, My Lord King. I know what to do,” and Kyred bows smartly, inclining his head towards me. My gaze settles on the water beneath us. The surface is frozen in places, but not everywhere. The water in the centre of the river continues to flow if slowly, trying to forge a wider path, sheer the ice away, make its course that much easier. I know how it feels.

  “So, what did you think of the scop?” I hardly notice Kyred bowing his way from my presence, his face shimmering with the sweat of unease. Rudolf’s voice fills the space he’s left behind.

  “You tell me?” I ask, almost pleased to be distracted from my darker thoughts.

  “Well, I mean, he described me just about fine, but you, well, I don’t know who’s been telling him such stories.”

  I grin. I can’t help it. Damn the fucker.

  “It seems I have a reputation to live up to, that’s for sure, and you need to build one yet.”

  “Well now, My Lord, I’m not sure about that. I think I sounded pretty good. Certainly, some of the women have been eyeing me this morning and last night.”

  “No doubt wondering if you’ve got the stones to live up to your reputation.”

  “I assure you, My Lord, that I certainly do.” His voice is dark with menace, an illusion spoiled by his delighted chuckle at the end of it.

  “Let’s hope it stops Edmund’s bloody moaning,” and then he too leaves my side. I remain a while longer. The cold bite is a welcome change to the smoky heat of the hall. There are too many of us inside Northampton for it to be truly comfortable. Anyone walking into the hall at night would find it difficult to find somewhere to place their little toe, let alone their whole body. Still, we’re getting by, somehow. And food is in plentiful supply. I suppose I should thank the Raiders for that, but I won’t.

  Finally, I realise I’m shivering and turn to head back inside. The stables remain a writhing mass of shouting men, and I avoid it, mindful that my Aunt stands on the extremities, waging her bets with Edmund. I don’t want to intrude on whatever that is.

  It does mean that the hall is nearly deserted. Gardulf lingers by the fire. His eyes are hollows. The wounds he took have taken too long to heal. If my Aunt hadn’t been at Northampton, I don’t know what would have become of him. Well, I do. I don’t like to think about it.

  “My Lord,” he bows his head low, and I walk to his side. I’ve put this conversation off for long enough already.

  “Gardulf. How do you fare?”

  He looks surprised by my question.

  “About as well as you,” is his reply, and in that, I realise he understands better than others might think.

  “The wounds we carry mark us as the men we are,” I state flatly, recycling the words once more.

  “Then I must learn to welcome less of them. I’m fucking fed up of feeling like this.” I nod, a knowing smile on my lips.

  “They tell me it won’t last, but they’re not the ones who feel sluggish and feeble.”

  A companionable silence falls between us.

 
“I suppose I should say thank you for supporting me against my father.”

  “There’s no need. Edmund is a pig-headed bastard. Anyone would do the same.”

  “They might, yes,” he admits with a slither of amusement in his voice. “But, you’re the only one to whom he’d ever actually listen.”

  “Just do me a favour, and try and avoid those blades, as you say. I don’t want to have to answer for any other wounds you might take.”

  “Will you go north?” he asks then, no doubt thinking that he’ll miss another battle.

  “No, Kyred and his men will. It seems I’ll be staying here for a while longer yet.” The thought unsettles me more than it should.

  Chapter 4

  “My Lord?”

  The insistent voice rouses me from sleep. I turn aside, try and find the peace of sleeping once more.

  “Get up, you lazy fucker,” of course, it’s Edmund who speaks to me with the respect he shows the latrine ditch.

  “What?” There’s little light in the hall, and Edmund leers so closely that I can smell his breath. I choke, bat him away and struggle upright, careful not to knock my healing wound.

  “There’s another fucking messenger from the south this time?”

  “What?” My mind is too sleep-sodden to function. Kyred and his men only left yesterday, as did Ealdorman Ælhun, both parties taking advantage of the sudden thaw to escape the confines of Northampton. I don’t envy Kyred. The Nene runs too full, and I know there’ll be water lying in any dip or hollow as he travels north. He and his warriors are in for a wet ride to Gainsborough.

  “There’s a messenger from Bishop Smithwulf. You’ll want to hear what he has to say.”

  “Pestilent fucker,” but I’m becoming more and more alert, able to make out the shape of the messenger as he huddles close to the fire. I can hear the steady stream of rain from outside, drumming onto the roof, accompanied by the steady trickle of water falling somewhere. I hope it’s off the roof, and outside the hall, and not in a puddle somewhere.

  “Hand me my tunic,” I demand of Edmund. He’s dressed and shaved. I’d ask him what he’s been up to, but it’s not necessary. I don’t want to know the details of what happens behind the door in the room my Aunt has taken as her own, into which Edmund is an almost exclusive visitor. I don’t even want to ask why he’s taken to shaving.

  “What the fuck does Bishop Smithwulf want.”

  “Come and listen. I’m not going to face your wrath.” The words are far from comforting. What have the Raiders done now? I thought I’d driven them back from Mercia’s borders for the comfort of a warm winter indoors. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  “Good man,” the messenger is thin-faced, hands busy as he spoons pottage into his mouth. Long hair snakes down his back, a thin beard and moustache, thick eyebrows as well, meaning there’s almost no skin to see on his face. But that there is blacker than the night, teeth flashing starkly in a mobile face. His eyes are intelligent if shadowed. For a moment, I think he must be one of Bishop Smithwulf’s monks, but his hands are far too rough to do nothing but pray.

  “My Lord King, my name is Gregory. Bishop Smithwulf sent me to inform you of developments in London. He begs me to remind you of the words you spoke at your coronation and to advise you that he recalls your first meeting after all and all its unfortunate consequences.” His words carry a hard-edge, and I know he speaks another tongue with more ease than mine.

  “The Raiders?” I demand to know, face already downcast, trying not to wince at the memory of that meeting with Smithwulf. It was almost good that he didn’t recall it, for him as well as for me.

  Gregory’s hesitation in replying speaks of something else.

  “King Alfred of Wessex and the Raiders,” he responds eventually.

  “King Alfred? What does he have to do with fucking London? London is Mercian.”

  “I know, My Lord King, but the Raiders threaten the safety and security of London, and King Alfred has approached Bishop Smithwulf, offering to keep her safe because the Mercian king is incapable of doing as much.”

  I know now why Edmund didn’t speak these words to me. It’s all I can do to hide my temper before this stranger. But I do. Alfred can speak. He’s hardly a warrior of great renown.

  “How many Raiders?”

  “Seven ships. King Alfred faced them in Wessex, and they’ve retreated to London. Only, he’s followed them.”

  This is hardly devastating news—seven ships, against the might of Mercia. But Alfred’s intentions are unsettling. Does he mean to take advantage of Mercia’s plight to his advantage? Damn the bastard. And, has he followed them or chased them? I’d like clarity on that point.

  It’s not the first time the Wessex kings have shown an interest in London. It’s a valuable possession. I’m sure they’d profit from it, but it’s Mercian and will remain so for all time.

  “Bishop Smithwulf isn’t inclined to make any agreement with King Alfred, but he does beg your assistance.”

  I’m sure he does, I think ruefully, entirely awake now, mind busy considering the best course of action.

  “I confess, My Lord King, that I’ve been delayed on my journey here. The snow, as I’m sure you can imagine, blocked the way for six days, and I’ve rushed here with the thaw.” He doesn’t need to mention the rain. We can all hear it.

  “Then it’s urgent that I make a decision now?”

  “Not urgent, My Lord King, no, but perhaps, lingering would not be beneficial.” His words are enough of a warning.

  “My thanks. Eat, drink, rest. You’ve arrived early?”

  “I travelled all night, My Lord King. Better to get here before the next snow falls if we’re to have more snow. The bishop is convinced it’ll be a harsh winter, with an early summer. I hope he’s right. This cold gets into my bones. I’d sooner feel the sun on them.”

  “Then sleep as well. I’ll have a response for you when you wake.”

  I turn aside, aware that my Aunt has overheard much of what’s been said, although most people still sleep. It’s far too early to be thinking such thoughts.

  Icel joins our small group beside the hearth while Gregory gratefully finds a corner to spread his cloak and sleep. I note how he moves far from earshot. He won’t hear what we’re saying and won’t be forced to relay our words to Bishop Smithwulf or even King Alfred of Wessex.

  For a moment, I consider what I’d like to say to Alfred if I ever met him. All these years, his family have been undermining Mercia, ensuring the Raiders never went further than the Mercian kingdom when they were evicted from Wessex. The news that he chases a group of only seven ships from Wessex to London is no great accomplishment. His sister escaped to Rome with her husband, King Burgred of Mercia. For a moment, I consider that Alfred means to fill that void left by Burgred. I’d like to see him fucking try.

  Or, perhaps that’s not the point.

  “Explain King Alfred’s motives?” I demand of my Aunt. She has more experience in politics than I do.

  “He’s as ambitious as the rest of his family.” Her voice is filled with disdain. I almost smirk at her hatred of the House of Wessex. “But ambition doesn’t always transfer into skill.” Perhaps, if I do ever meet Alfred, I’ll take my Aunt with me. That’ll make him reconsider his actions without having to open my mouth.

  “Perhaps,” and Pybba speaks. I’ve not even realised he’d joined the group. “He wishes to become an ally, as in the past.”

  Icel spits into the hearth at the words. His drawl adding a menacing sound to the comfort of the crackling logs. We all know what he thinks of that idea.

  “Has he even heard of you?” Edmund demands to know, and I snap down on my sarcastic response. After the scop's words, it seems to me that everyone in Mercia and Wessex must have heard of the great King Coelwulf of Mercia, but perhaps not.

  “I imagine King Alfred believes Mercia has no true king and is instead under the command of the jarls.” My Aunt speaks with consideration. I
can listen to her without interrupting, although I have to caution Rudolf with my eyes to prevent him from flapping his mouth. Who the fuck woke him? I have no idea.

  “And so he’s as rapacious as the Raiders? Seeking to profit at the expense of Mercian men and women.”

  “I would imagine so, yes. As you say, the Wessex kings have long coveted London. His father was the same, his older brothers as well. After all, Æthelwulf married his daughter to Burgred. That spoke of his intentions towards Mercia’s most profitable port.”

  “And he’d sooner allow the rest of Mercia to fall under Raider control than keep his bloody thieving little fingers from it.”

  My Aunt’s steely eyes hold my gaze. Perhaps I spoke with too much fury, but it boils me. I can’t deny it. A fine form of repayment. I’ve spent six months fighting off the Raiders, and now fucking King Alfred moves to make a pact with Bishop Smithwulf to protect London from such a small force.

  London will hardly be threatened by it. It’s not as if it’s the three hundred and fifty craft that tried to take London over twenty years ago. I still remember the repercussions of such an attack. They’d been felt, even by my father, as estranged as he’d been from King Berhtwulf’s court; even by me, as removed as I’d been by anything to do with politics.

  Mercia and Wessex had worked together then. It didn’t appear that Alfred would welcome such close assistance this time.

  “We don’t know his intentions.” Pybba offers, but his heart’s not in it.

  “Oh, but I think we do,” I reply heatedly, and he dunks his head. Not an apology, but an admission that I’m probably right.

  “You can’t go to London. If you sent Kyred to face Jarl Halfdan, then you can’t travel to London to counter King Alfred.” I glare at my Aunt. She’s both right and also wrong.

  “The weather will be worse in the North. It means we have time yet.”