by M J Porter
I bark a laugh then. When the fuck did I learn about diocese and archbishops? My Aunt’s endeavours to make me more civilised might just be working. Damn her. And damn Edmund. I need him here with me, not in Northampton.
“’ Ware,” the cry comes from behind me, and I swivel my head, peering into the greyness, hand already inside my cloak and reaching for my seax. Perhaps that’s what I need. A bloody good fight! Maybe then the slither of worry I carry will dissipate.
But I can see nothing. Although, I can’t see Sæbald either, and he’s the one that shouts the warning from the line of men that disappears into the gloom behind me. Fuck, it’s a grim day. I can hear the jangle of the horses’ harness and the soggy impact of hooves on the stone-lined road, but little else.
“What is it?” I demand to know, coughing away the silence of our journey. Only, I get no response. None at all. Frustrated, I bring Haden to a stop, turn him and make my way back along the line. Pybba looks miserable, his reddened nose peeking from beneath his cloak. He makes no move to follow me as I try to find the source of the disturbance. Rudolf, of course, encourages Dever as an escort, and so too does Hereman with Billy.
But that’s about the extent of support I receive from my grumpy looking warriors. I’m almost tempted to reprimand them, but I don’t. I’m drenched, even beneath my cloak, and that of a drying horse can only best the scent of a wet horse. I pity the stable hands when we arrive where we’re going. If we ever arrive.
“What is it?” I demand to know, riding through what can only be described as a low-lying cloud. I finally catch sight of Sæbald. He’s left the safety of the road, so too has Gyrth, and now they peer upwards, and I swallow bile.
“Poor fucker,” Wulfred mutters, and now we all look upwards. There’s a body there, dangling from the end of a rope as though little more than a leaf clinging to the branches of the tree. But this corpse has long since breathed its last.
“Bloody bollocks.” It’s impossible to see much of the body. Water runs over it, distorting the shape of what remains of the face and lank hair, and I turn and spit.
“We’ll have to get the fucker down,” I acknowledge, although Sæbald has already moved to examine the creaking and twisted rope that holds the body upwards. It’s tied tightly to a lower branch in the tree, the rope fraying.
“They’ll be down soon enough if we just leave them.”
“No, I need to see whether it’s a Raider or a Mercian.” I’m already angry. We’re too close to Northampton. This body might have been here for some time, but if it’s a Mercian, it could mean that there are Raiders somewhere close. That’s not what I want to discover, not when I’m riding away.
“Well, stand back,” Sæbald calls, and with a sickening noise of cracking bones and oozing mud, the body lands before me.
Haden shies away, rearing from the unexpected appearance of the dead person.
“Fuck’s sake,” I rebuke Sæbald, even as I turn Haden, battling with him to prevent him from landing, front hooves first, onto the desiccated remains.
“Sorry, boy,” Sæbald calls, appearing from behind the tree. I suppose it’s my fault, really. I shouldn’t have taken Haden so close.
“Who is it?” I call over my shoulder, bringing Haden under my control with my knees, ignoring the jolt of pain and the ripping sensation that emanates from my neck wound, my healed leg wound making itself felt because of the cold and the damp. I wanted a battle, not a reminder of my frailties.
“It’s impossible to tell.” Rudolf, never one to be offended by gore and defilement, has slipped from Dever’s back and crouched down close to the broken body. His voice filled with interest, and I find myself shaking my head at his insatiable curiosity.
“The eyes have been pecked away, the lips as well. I can’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. There’s no beard, but it might just be someone who didn’t grow one or someone too young to have one.” He meets my gaze evenly.
“There are no weapons. I can’t even say whether they died on the noose or some other way. There’s too much skin missing. It’s bloody grim.”
“What about their clothes?”
“I’m not putting my hands in them. There are all sorts of wildlife inside the carcase. We should just bury the poor fucker and move on.”
It’s not the answer I want to hear. I make as though to dismount only for Rudolf to caution me.
“It’s not worth it, My Lord. There’s nothing to see here. Nothing. It’s just decomposing flesh, and quite frankly, I can’t tell one body part from another. It was far from a gentle landing.”
“Sorry,” Sæbald offers once more, a smirk on his face for the devastation he’s caused belying those words.
“We can’t dig in this. Hunt around, find some stones or something to cover the body. Poor bastard.”
Rudolf is quick to leap into the shadows of the tree line from which the body had been suspended. I startle as he disappears into the darkness, peering all around me, trying to determine why this place would have been chosen for such a gruesome scene.
“Watch Rudolf,” I instruct Hereman and Sæbald when no one jumps to assist him. I stay on Haden, but turn him and direct him along the treeline, first to the north and then to the south. I gaze into the undergrowth, my senses alert to anything unusual.
Haden is jaunty beneath me, a sign of his unease. But I see nothing.
“It’s done, My Lord,” Hereman’s voice reaches me just as I’m about to turn back.
“We’ll catch up with the others,” I order, still waiting, tense. This seems so wrong, and yet, whatever happened here was months ago, certainly long enough for the body to be unrecognisable. Could it have been one of the Raiders we fought, or was this before that? Perhaps this was even someone who was murdered by the jarls in Grantabridge before I came to stand against them.
I swallow, meeting the eyes of Rudolf. He’s running grimy hands down his cloak, the green lichen from the meagre collection of stones he’s found, evident in the streaks that stain his garment.
“Thanks for your bloody help,” Rudolf calls to the others with wounded pride.
“Coelwulf, I found this just now.” I go to his side and take hold of whatever it is. I squint at the shimmering object; my heckles thoroughly roused now.
An owl is depicted in the delicate silver wire.
“A Raider then, or killed by one of the fuckers?”
“Aye, that’s what I think,” he confirms. It’s not enough of an answer, but it’ll have to do, especially as at that moment, the rain begins to fall even faster. The drum of it sounds all around, making it impossible to hear anything, not even my breathing.
“I think we should be building a fucking ark, not travelling to London.”
“If only we had that fucking option,” I retort to Rudolf’s comment, and then, we’re back on the road once more. He’s been speaking to my Aunt’s monk. I’m sure of it.
I risk lifting my head, scenting the air, looking for even the slightest break in the impenetrable grey that surrounds us.
There’s nothing. It’s going to be a long fucking journey.
But, at some point in the late afternoon, the sky finally wrings itself out, and a thin wedge of blue sky appears, far overhead, in the direction we’re travelling. Of course, it’s all too fucking late by then.
“How much further?” Pybba grumbles to me as he brings Brimman alongside Haden. The two horses ignore one another, although I notice that Haden begins to increase his pace, just enough to stay in front of the white horse. Not even the foul conditions can thwart his need to be first.
“I recognise this place, I think. Not much further to Passenham.”
“And then what?”
“We’ll find somewhere to dry out and begin again tomorrow.”
“Couldn’t we have waited until tomorrow?” His petulance is starting to frustrate me.
“No, we fucking couldn’t,” I cut off his complaints as Gregory hails me from the front of the line of mounted
warriors.
“Passenham, My Lord King.”
My face falls. I knew the river would be in flood. I hadn’t thought it would be this full. The river not so much runs its natural course but spills out all over the lower-lying landscape surrounding it. The river is at least three times as wide as the last time Edmund and I traversed it.
“Great,” Pybba turns Brimman aside, his fury evident in the hunching of shoulders and the way he seems to disappear beneath his cloak.
“Was it like this when you came this way two days ago?”
“No, My Lord King, it wasn’t. Although, well, I confess, they did warn me this was likely to happen.”
“Fucking wonderful.” I allow the words to settle. I can see the light that spills from beneath the closed doors of the houses in the settlement, some of it visible in the imperfections in the wattle and daub smeared wooden beams.
“There’s another way. Well, a narrower stretch. They told me to use it if the rain didn’t let up.” This cheers me as Gregory moves his horse around the growing patch of boggy ground, heading to the higher-lying ground.
“Come on, follow Gregory,” I order the rest, and to the loud objections of everyone there, they slowly obey me. I don’t take the comments to heart. I feel the same way. Perhaps it would have been better to build an ark, or certainly, to bring a damn ship to London. But no, it would have taken too long to traverse East Anglia.
I raise my hand, hail the one interested face that peers from the doorway of one of the homes. I recognise the man I spoke to when Edmund accompanied me. It’s evident he knows who I am because he directs me to where Gregory is already going. This, then, must be a common problem for the people of Passenham. I spare a hope that none of their homes flood. But, they’re built above the rush of the water, on the far side, unlike here, where the cultivated land is much flatter. I catch sight of a school of fish, swimming where the wheat should grow, and I grin.
Darkness is upon us by the time Gregory encourages his horse down a steep embankment. I can see why the river doesn’t flood here, but equally, I can hear the rush of water. It’s going to be deep, even if it’s a short journey.
“Here it is,” but Gregory’s voice is no longer confident.
“See,” Rudolf has noticed first. “There’s pieces of rope across the water. They must use this all the time.”
Rudolf, of course, is correct. Three lines are running into the churning water, held on either side around the trunks of sturdy-looking trees. The lines flap wetly in the force caused by the water.
“Bloody bollocks.” I knew we were wet. Now, we’re likely to be drenched.
Hereman, with his usual confident swagger, approaches the ropes first, Billy stepping carefully. It’s as though there are steps cut into the river bank, only these are much longer than usual steps, rather small platforms, stretching out.
“How deep do you think? Feet or thighs or arse?”
“Fucking arse,” Pybba mutters sourly.
“Feet,” Icel confidently states as though he knows that for a fact.
“Thighs,” Rudolf suggests. As Hereman plunges into the water, it becomes apparent that they’re all wrong.
“Fucking bollocks,” Hereman gasps as the water reaches up to his chest but then stops.
“There’s flat stone beneath the water,” he calls as Billy erupts from the far side, water streaming from his sides. I hardly dare watch, and already my thoughts turn to Dever. How will the old boy get across this raging torrent? It might cover his head, and I certainly don’t think he’ll be able to swim against the current.
And then a flaming brand appears from behind Hereman, the light settling over his drenched face. He’s dropped from Billy, and they both shake themselves as though dogs. I can’t see that it’ll do them any good. Not when they’re as wet as they are.
“Do you need some help? Not the best time for such a crossing, as I told him, yonder.” The man juts his chin towards Gregory as he calls to me, his words loud and well-practised. I nod.
“Aye, it’s not, but we’re needed in London.”
“Then we’d best get you across,” is the resolute response.
Another two brands emerge from the gathering gloom, and I become aware of men, and women, shouting, one to another. Their movements are well practised.
I watch, surprised, as more ropes are laced through the ones already in place, others wrapped around trunks, and flames leap from what must have been a waiting pile of logs. It warms me, even from this side of the riverbank.
“Come on, let’s be having you.”
I knee Haden forwards. Billy might have gone first, risking it all without the aid of the people from the settlement, but I go next. I want to show the others how much easier it’s become now we have help.
A man stands in the water, back to where the river tumbles toward Passenham, wedged in place between two ropes, his eyes watching me. It seems he’s there to catch hold of any wayward people, horses or animals. I can’t think that he stands there unaided. There must be something to assist him. Perhaps his feet are held in place by some pieces of stone; no doubt placed there when the river is barely a trickle above the rock.
Haden falters when he realises I intend to cross the fast-flowing water, only for Billy to whinny. Before I can prepare myself, water is making its way up my legs, and then continuing, higher and higher, the icy cold driving the air from my lungs. Fuck, it’s cold.
But Haden’s steps are firm, as I hold tight to the ropes to either side, arms outstretched, ready to release myself from the stirrups if I must. Not that I’ll abandon Haden. The deepest part of the river is only narrow, and in no time at all, water sloughs away from me, and hands are there to help Haden as he struggles up the slick bank. I can see that some steps have been cut into the fluid-looking bank, but they’re waterlogged now and no use to anyone, even with the wood chips placed upon them.
“My thanks,” I call to those at the waterside, but my words are lost as the next horse makes his way to the water. For a moment, Rudolf meets my gaze, and I almost caution him against coming any further, but I strangle my worry, watching instead.
Dever is the smallest of the horses. He might even be the oldest. Not that he’d ever allow that as an excuse.
“Come on, lad,” the man in the water encourages. Dever takes the final step down to impact the flat stone of the river bed. Immediately, I tense. This whole thing is too reminiscent of when we had to get Rudolf across the Trent. I fear to look, even as I jump from Haden’s back, preparing to dash to their aid if need be.
“Stay back,” one of the villagers cautions me harshly. “We know what to do. It’s better if you don’t even try to help.” I feel stung by the words; even as I vow I’ll not heed them.
But then Dever is beside me, Rudolf’s teeth chattering, one of the women coming towards him with a beaker that gently steams.
“Here, drink this. It’ll drive the cold from your innards. Mind, it’s fiery.” She hands the same to me, even as others move, hands filled with straw, to wipe the water from our horses. It’s an impressive arrangement.
I swig the fluid, not even thinking what it might be.
And then I choke as Hereman’s gurgle of delight rumbles all around me.
“Puts hair on your chest,” the woman laughs, and I glare. They could have warned me. Still, the resultant fire in my belly is appreciated, as I warm my backside close to the fire, Haden being offered tasty morsels as well.
“Does this happen a lot?” I ask the woman who nurses the cauldron embedded into the heart of the flames.
“More than you’d think. We need a damn bridge, but, well, it’s also a fierce deterrent for those we’d rather not allow any further into or out of Mercia.” She chuckles while filling another beaker, this one-handed to Icel. I notice then how the surface of the substance bubbles violently.
“What’s in it?”
“Ah, old family recipe. I’m allowed to tell no one but my son or daughter as I lie dying.
Always been that way.”
Icel sniffs his beaker carefully, and I fully anticipate him reeling off the ingredients, but he doesn’t. Instead, a pleased expression touches his cheeks, and he offers a bow to the woman. She curtsies, giggling, only then there’s a roar of outrage from the river, and I rush back to it.
“Fuck.”
Wærwulf has come off the saddle, Cinder struggling to stay upright, and I don’t want to look and yet can’t tear my eyes away.
“Come on, you daft beastie,” the man in the water grabs a fistful of harness, and muscles straining, holds on to the flailing horse.
Wærwulf has wedged himself between the two ropes, walking one hand over another as he makes his way slowly, but surely, to the far riverbank. But it’s Cinder that concerns me. I see his nose go under the water, and my legs are already moving, even as the men, in some well-practised movement, beat me to it. One of them flings a rope toward the man in the water. Quickly, he lopes the reigns through it, and then a chain of men and women, all straining on the rope, begin to pull Cinder to safety.
If I weren’t witnessing it, I wouldn’t believe it possible. But first Wærwulf, and then Cinder stagger up the riverbank, Cinder sheepishly, Wærwulf with fury.
“Fucking beastie, get yourself here,” he orders, and Cinder does as instructed, eyes filled with reproach.
“How did you do that?” I demand of no one.
“As long as you have the reins, it’s quite easy. It’s when we lose the reins that we struggle.” Satisfaction laces the voice, and I nod, all but speechless, as Sæbald is the next to make the crossing.
Before the moon has fully risen, all of the horses are on the river's far bank. The villagers have ensured we’re all revived, providing warm drinks and hunks of cheese, even as others slick the backsides of our animals clear of the water.
“I can’t thank you enough,” I state when the final person, the man from the river itself, has made his way back to dry land.
