The Last Sword

by M J Porter

  “But the same can’t be said of London?” She taunts me.

  “The same can’t be said of King Alfred. I’ll not have it. I’ll not bloody have it at all.” I weigh my words, hoping she’ll understand.

  “And who’ll hold Northampton in your absence? Ealdorman Ælhun has gone.”

  “You will,” I make the decision without thinking it through but immediately know it’s the right one. Who better than my Aunt? Should the whipped Raiders decide to make a return to Northampton’s walls, she’ll spare no thought for their health. In fact, she might well step outside and slay them herself, and not necessarily with a weapon. Her tongue will be just as fierce.

  But Edmund’s eyes bore into mine, even as my Aunt glows with triumph.

  Great, I’ve pissed off Edmund, even as I’ve won my Aunt’s agreement for a journey to London.

  “Tomorrow,” I announce, refusing the opportunity to change my mind. “Provided it’s not pissing it down like this,” and I indicate the roof around us, and the sound of the rain almost drowning out all sound, “we travel to London. We’ll deal with King Alfred or the seven ship-loads of Raiders and then make our way to Gainsborough. I can’t fight on two fronts.”

  Pybba grunts with acceptance; even Icel seems mollified. Rudolf is almost skipping from foot to foot. Perhaps I’m not the only one struggling with the confines of this bloody weather.

  But Edmund doesn’t step aside, even as my Aunt lays a warning hand on his shoulder, before stealing away.

  “What? I can’t make every decision based on whether it’s going to piss you off or not.” I wait until we’re alone to respond to him.

  “No, you can’t, but I can’t protect your back and hers at the same time. I’ll remain in Northampton. You can face the Raiders or King Alfred without me. And don’t try and convince me otherwise.”

  “I wouldn’t bloody dream of it.”

  “And Gardulf remains behind as well.”

  “I think you should ask him before you make such a demand. He won’t appreciate it. Not now he’s recovered from his wounds.”

  “I’m his father,” is his hot reply.

  “And I’m his king, and he serves me, not you. And while you might not realise that, he certainly does.”

  I stalk from his side then, outside, into the darkness that assures me I’ve been woken far too early, and there’s an entire day to get through until I can legitimately reclaim my bed.

  “Fuck,” I complain, wrapping my cloak around me as I make my way to the stables. I’ve been trying to avoid Haden, and he knows it, just as surely as I do.

  “Hail,” I call softly. With the hall as full as it is, there are some, not many, who’ve taken to eschewing the heat of the hearth in favour of some privacy. It seems they’d rather share their night time excursions with the knowing eyes and snorts of horses than with the men and women of Northampton. I would envy them because it’s warm inside the stables, the press of so many bodies ensuring that despite there being no hearth, it’s still almost pleasant, but the smell sets my eyes watering. So much horse shit, in one place. It could kill a man or a woman.

  No one responds to my call, apart from one sharp kick on a wooden door.

  “Morning,” I make my way to Haden’s side. His black and white head is hanging over the stable door, intelligent brown eyes watching my approach, the sign of reproach evident in how his head is held away from my questing hand.

  “Suit yourself then, you grumpy git,” I retort, shoving my hand back inside my cloak, unsurprised when his nose immediately tries to follow it. He thinks I bring him a tasty morsel, and I do, but it’s old and so wrinkled, I can’t think it’ll taste pleasant. But he takes the apple, if you can still call it that, all the same. A flicker of satisfaction assures me that we’re allies once more.

  I open the stable door, slink beside him, reaching for the brush that’s kept there for my use. Or rather, it’s replaced there whenever anyone else borrows it. It’s not entirely mine. But it almost is.

  I consider it, pulling the few stray brown horse hairs from it, almost smirking to realise how much care has been taken to ensure I don’t know it’s been borrowed.

  “Tomorrow,” I start conversationally, and Haden’s nose whips up, almost colliding with mine. “We’re going for a pleasant little ride,” I assure him, knowing it’ll be far from pleasant. I should have used a better word.

  “London,” I inform him, although he has no idea what the word means. He just watches me as though we might be about to leave, now. “To visit the bishop, and perhaps, find ourselves some Raiders to slay.” Now he settles. Maybe Haden does understand the word Raider. Maybe he thirsts for blood, just as I do.

  “We’ll travel along Watling Street,” I continue, the words more for my benefit than his. “And when we get to London, we’ll have decisions to make.” I hear a rustling from somewhere and realise that others might find my conversation amusing or worrying. Should a king converse with his horse?

  I lower my voice.

  “It’ll be wet and horrible, and we’ll have to cross the river at Passenham again.” Perhaps, I should order a bridge built there. It would certainly keep my feet drier.

  “Hopefully, you won’t have to swim it.” Ah, so Edmund seeks me out once more. No doubt he’s been sent here by my Aunt.

  “Fuck off, Edmund.” I don’t wish to continue our earlier argument.

  “She said that’s what you’d say.”

  “Then she knows me better than you. And she wouldn’t have said ‘fuck,’ she never does.”

  “What she does and doesn’t say behind closed doors might surprise you.”

  I feel my face wrinkle in disgust. It’s as though he speaks of my parents, enjoying one another in the comfort of their bed. I don’t need that image in my mind.

  “What do you want?” I resolve to be more conciliatory, just to prove my Aunt wrong.

  “Gardulf wishes to accompany you.”

  “As I said.”

  “I’ve forbidden it, so obviously, he’ll come regardless.” Edmund’s voice is bleak.

  I hold my tongue. I’ll make no promise to keep Gardulf safe.

  “Penda will remain behind as well. He wishes to learn from the scop.”

  “I have no argument with that.” Such news will thrill Tatberht. And speaking of him.

  “Tatberht will accompany you. He’s made that clear, in no uncertain words.”

  “I’ll be pleased to have him.” And then there’s silence between us. The matter of Hereman hovers there. But I won’t prompt him. He can tell me in his own sweet time. I run the brush over Haden’s flanks, finding comfort in the regular movement, in the feeling of being useful, even as my wound not so much aches, as tears. Every so often, I’m forced to touch it, check the skin is still tightly sealed because it doesn’t feel like it is. There have even been instances when I’ve been convinced blood floods down my chest.

  I wish the sensation would go away. It wakes me in the night. Other times, my neck is so hot and sweaty, I feel as though I bleed again.

  I should be grateful to be alive. I should revel in knowing that I’m healing. But it’s taking too long, and I know I’ve lost strength while I’ve been unable to practise and exercise with my men. I might blame the weather, but that’s not the only part of my disgruntlement.

  “If Kyred returns in your absence or sends for more men, what should I do?”

  “I’ll send word to Ealdorman Ælhun. Tell him we need Wulfsige, either way.”

  Edmund’s face twists at the news.

  “He’s becoming more tolerable by the day,” I chide him, almost enjoying the immediate means of revenge for remaining in Northampton.

  “And what of Grantabridge?”

  “If we see those fuckers this side of midsummer, I’ll be amazed. Just keep the gate shut, and don’t repair the bridge. You’ll be safe.” I order, and he nods. I don’t want to leave him behind, but he’s made the decision. It seems he cares for my Aunt more than
me.

  That should probably annoy the fuck out of me.

  But I’ll ensure we part as friends, not enemies. He protects my Aunt. That should please me.

  I reach across Haden’s back, hand extended, and he grips it, a faintly embarrassed expression on his face. His grip is firm, reminding me of my frailty. But I keep a grin on my face. I’ll not have him see me weak. Never that. Or rather, never again.

  Chapter 5

  “Fuck this weather,” Sæbald stares mournfully from the stable door. It’s not raining. It really can’t be called that. It’s more as though someone throws bucket after bucket of water from the glowering skies overhead.

  “At least the snow’s melted,” is Gyrth’s less than helpful reply, even if it’s cheerfully stated.

  I share Sæbald’s dejection. Yesterday, it was impossible to stay upright, the temperature plummeting overnight and freezing all the water. I didn’t want to risk the horses. Now, if I mean to leave, I’m going to be subjecting every one of us to the deluge. Can I truly be arsed? Is London that important? But I know it is. So does Sæbald.

  “Well, the sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll get there,’ Rudolf chirps, and I’m not the only one to groan. Pybba seems shrunken beneath a billowing cloak, the edges treated with fat to ensure the water slicks easily from the edges. He stinks. Well, his cloak does. But we all stink. My Aunt set the youngsters to treating the cloaks yesterday, hardly seeming to notice the task's rankness.

  Those poor youths. They won’t get rid of the smell for days, if not weeks, no matter how much they wash and scrub at their hands. Still, it might make them less attractive to one another, which would put paid to the frequent fistfights between the women, not the men. Rudolf has learned to keep himself to himself. Hiltiberht hasn’t yet, and because of his closeness to me, and not, I think because of his good looks, he’s become the lad they all want.

  Even that can become too much for one lad. I remember the experience well. Much easier to keep himself to himself. He doesn’t want a litter of children claiming him as their father in every settlement throughout Mercia.

  “Really, My Lord, in this?” Pybba’s voice reflects his dismay, his missing stump of a hand wrapped tightly in sheets of the cured fabric. At least he’ll only have one drenched hand, not like the rest of us. But that’s not the point. I’d sooner he had the two about which to complain.

  “Aye, London beckons us, and we can’t shy away from the contrary bitch.”

  With that, and despite my misgivings, I encourage Haden out of the stable. His enthusiasm has long since waned, and I’ve still got to get him over the makeshift bridge that crosses the Nene.

  Edmund waves to me from where he shelters in the doorway of the great hall, my Aunt beside him, Penda as well. They look a motley group, but they’re warm and dry, the overhang of the thatched roof ensuring the only danger of getting wet is from a stray drop of rain making its way through the matted mass.

  “Come on, you stubborn git. You’ll enjoy it. In time.”

  “My Lord,” Pybba persists in arguing. “Will we even make it over the ford at Passenham?”

  I almost stop then, the perfect excuse to delay once more, nicely presented to me. But, well, I can’t stand another day playing games and listening to the scop. There’s only so many times I can hear my praises sung without wanting to throttle the man. I’d be surprised if he even knew one end of a sword from the other.

  “Come on.” I urge Haden, hiding from view the wrinkled apple I carry to tempt him. Haden whiffles into my hand. He knows what I’m about. It remains to be seen whether he accepts my bribery or not. I don’t even think he’s decided. Not yet.

  One hoof at a time, Haden emerges into the torrent. I’m already standing in it, the heavy thud of rain threatening to drive my hood back from my face, to allow water to pool down the back of my neck. I feel sweat forming around my covered wound. My Aunt has wrapped it, warning me not to expose it, not yet. Her words weren’t a comfort.

  “If one of the Raiders sees that, they’ll simply work to slice it open once more. This time, I’ve no idea how it’ll heal if it does heal. Keep it covered, even from your allies, in London.”

  Her dark tone spoke of Bishop Smithwulf. I thought she admired the man, but evidently not now he’s paying homage to King Alfred of Wessex. She hates the Wessex ruling family, always has.

  And then Haden stops, his front hooves in the wet, his black and white head there as well, and his brown eyes glare at me with disgust.

  “An apple for your pains,” I try again. The bastard nips my fingers as he takes it, and I know he does so purposefully.

  “Well, let’s be having you then,” and he stalks into the rain. He’s covered in a cloak as well, treated with the same fat so that he smells of both burned flesh and the stables. It’s disconcerting, and I spit aside my distaste.

  Behind Haden trail the others. Samson dips his head low, accepting the benediction of the rain, Dever’s sigh reaches my ears, but I turn my back firmly on the stables. I can’t have Raiders at both the north and south of Mercia. I’ll have to contend with those in the south. As well as with King Alfred.

  Perhaps I should have gone north, in place of Kyred. I’m sure Kyred would have the slick manners to counter King Alfred’s pretensions. When Alfred faces me, I’ve not yet decided how to approach him. I’d like nothing more than to wipe the confidence from his smug face. The fucking bastard.

  And, in the North, I’d have the long-overdue opportunity to kill Jarl Halfdan. I’d like that. He owes me a debt. But I didn’t know about Alfred when I sent Kyred. I wish I had.

  At the gateway, four drenched Mercians wait to assist us across the divide of the river. There are another four men on the far side, just in case any Raider attacks while the horses are led across the stick-thin bridge that we’ve constructed for such an occasion. I hope we don’t have to make an abrupt return to Northampton. It won’t end well. Not without a permanent bridge in place.

  Already, it’s impossible to see much beyond my nose. I do consider turning back. But no. My intentions have already been delayed by a day. I won’t allow any further postponement.

  I expect Haden to refuse the bridge, and indeed, he stops, stamps his front hoof, covering my legs in a thick brown sludge that speaks more of the latrine pit than a ploughed field. But then he sniffs the air and confidently places a hoof on the wooden bridge, and then another. I lead him onwards, proud of him, despite it all.

  “My thanks,” I incline my head to the Mercians. They’re not just saturated; they look more fluid than flesh. But they’ll be inside soon enough. Unlike me.

  One of the men grins; another grimaces. And the third mumbles something unintelligible beneath the thud of the rain. A host of fifty Raiders could appear right now, and I’d not hear them.

  I mount Haden, grimacing at the wetness between my legs, despite the leather that coats my trews. I encourage him away from the bridge, eyes peering into the woodlands, noting the stream of smoke billowing from the great hall behind me, waiting for the rest of my men.

  It doesn’t take long for every one of them to cross the bridge. I pause, just to ensure the Mercian guards make it safely back, the bridge dismantled once more. Only then do I head towards the road. If we can find it, that more than any great skill, will guide our steps to London, well, to Passenham. What we find there might put an end to this ludicrous quest.

  Gregory leads the way, coming from behind my warriors to direct Haden’s steps. I allow it. It’s better than having to try and decipher where we are. Well, I’ll allow it until we reach Watling Street. Once there, I’ll decide on my next action.

  If it weren’t raining, we could make it to London in little more than a day. But it’s not just raining; it’s a biblical deluge. If I questioned a priest, no doubt, they’d inform me that this was God’s way of keeping the Raiders at bay. I’d set him straight on a few things. How the fuck can we counter the Raiders while it rains like this?

  But,
once we make it to the old roadway, it does become a little easier. Not that the rain eases, far from it. Instead, the road still carries its drainage ditches, and not all of them are clogged with filth from the winter storms we’ve endured. It makes it slightly easier going, the puddles less than I expected.

  I lift my head, try and gaze around me, but it’s impossible to determine where the sky ends, and the landscape begins. Everything is wet, a few stubborn patches of snow visible on the few peaks, but it’s as though the blizzard that coated the land was nothing but an illusion.

  I hunch inside my cloak. Haden’s breath puffs in the air before us, but he’s keen enough to canter alongside Gregory’s horse, a long-limbed dappled animal. I don’t miss that Gregory allows his horse to go where he wants. It might be a competition, but of course, Haden and I are above such things.

  Instead, I settle into the misery of the journey. I can’t hear the complaints of my warriors. Thankfully. Not that I would disagree with them. But, at least they have someone against whom they can direct their vitriol. I have only myself to blame. Well, apart from the fucking Raiders and bloody King Alfred.

  I’m trying to get all the facts ordered in my mind. It seems to me that the Wessex king has fought no more than three hundred and fifty Raiders; perhaps, if I’m feeling generous, I might increase that to four hundred.

  What have I faced since the summer? Not just hundreds of the fuckers, but thousands of them. Thousands upon thousands of them. Speaking of biblical, they’re like a plague on this land. They seem to live only to die on the blades of my warriors. If that’s what they desire more than anything in this life, then so be it. I’m happy to oblige.

  But the Wessex king has allowed them to escape him and travel to London. I confess I have my suspicions about King Alfred. Has he done this on purpose? Has he joined forces with the Raiders in an attempt to steal London from beneath my nose? If he has, how does he mean to hold it? London is on the northern side of the Thames River. Yes, there’s a wooden bridge to the southern bank, but it’s certainly not how I’d think to hold a trading site of such size. Has he then managed to turn Bishop Smithwulf? Has he used the archbishop of Canterbury’s power over the diocese of London to bring Smithwulf to his side?