by M J Porter
“What did you fucking do?” I direct my question to Haden. He turns his head slightly as he chews contentedly on a handful of oats offered by Pybba.
“I think he fought the bastards and then killed this fucker here,” Wulfred appears his words a welcome summation of what’s been happening.
“Are the other horses injured?”
“Not as badly as Haden. They’ll be fine.”
I scurry for my saddle, remembering all the items stored in my saddlebags, hoping they’re still there.
“We need to stitch it,” Rudolf’s voice is filled with gloom. “If we don’t, it’ll just keep weeping, and he’ll get weaker and weaker, especially out here.”
My mouth hangs open in shock at the words.
“How would we do that? Who would do that?”
“I can do it,” Rudolf confirms, nodding firmly to convince himself that he can. “I just need something to use as a thread.”
“And a needle,” I half-taunt.
“I have a needle,” he immediately replies. “You can’t be a lord’s squire without knowing how to repair his oft torn trews,” Rudolf’s eyes blaze into mine. “But my thread won’t hold. Not against his movements.”
Rudolf grips a handful of snow, clearing away the dried and crusted gore from the black part of Haden’s leg.
“Would this work?” Wulfred has returned to his mount, and now he stamps back through the snow, gripping a ball of something in his fist.
“I use it for fishing. Well, I would if I ever had the fucking chance.” I laugh, the sound bubbling from my throat in relief and disbelief that Wulfred might ever have the fucking patience to tickle a fish from the river.
Rudolf takes the twine eagerly, stretching it between his two hands. I’ve not noticed, but Pybba has been away and returned as well. He holds Rudolf’s saddlebag, and he’s pouring through the contents.
“What else do you have in there that I know nothing about?” I ask, aware I’m on the cusp of either laughing or sobbing. Haden’s flesh is cold beneath my hands. Too cold, even with the blankets from the other horses, and they’ll be getting cold as well.
“Where the fuck are we?” I ask, apropos of nothing. No one answers.
“Hold him steady,” Rudolf barks. I move to Haden’s head. Wise eyes greet mine, a promise in them that I’ll hold the fucker too.
“I’ve no idea how much this will hurt,” Rudolf mutters to himself. “Everyone stand clear or remain alert. I don’t want anyone knocked out by a stray hoof if he rears.”
“Haden, Rudolf will help you,” I find myself talking to him, suddenly self-conscious because others listen.
“Ah, you can do fuckin’ better than that,” Wulfred complains. “It’s not like we don’t all talk to our mounts. Call yourself a fuckin’ king.” He spits into the snow, staining it with his foul breath, but I appreciate his words, all the same.
“Haden,” I feel his entire body flinch, and although I can’t see what Rudolf’s doing, I have to assume he’s begun. “You have to let Rudolf work on your wound. Stay still, and don’t,” but my words are cut off as he whinnies shrilly, trying to escape me, backing away from my scrutiny.
“Hold him fucking still,” Pybba speaks for Rudolf, annoyance in his voice. “He nearly stabbed himself. Bloody horse,” but Rudolf doesn’t complain, so I take that to mean he’s okay.
“Don’t do that again,” I caution Haden, infusing my voice with iron. I can hardly keep track of who I am and what I’m doing, relief making me giddy and foolish, but I know Haden isn’t safe, not yet.
“I believe,” Sæbald speaks from behind me. “That we’re not that far from the woodlands of last night, and therefore from London. Although, everything’s relevant. There’s snow up to our armpits in places. We might as well be in Hereford for the amount of time it might take us to reach London.”
“Will it be quicker to return to Northampton?”
“No. Look, the snow hasn’t just fallen here,” and Sæbald has taken the time to assess our situation, and he’s right. From our position on top of this hill, we can see far into the distance, the clear, bright day, offering unparalleled views of the vista of purest white, the welcoming sight of the sullen Thames in front of us.
Haden huffs into my face, his eye pain-hazed and uncomprehending. He’s weak; that much is evident. I need to get him somewhere warm. I can only imagine how long he’s been under the snow before we found him, too exhausted to remain standing against the onslaught of the weather. I don’t allow myself to consider that he’d given up on his life; given up on being protected; given up on me.
“We need to go back the way we came,” Icel rumbles. It’s impossible to tell which parts of his beard are rimmed with snow and which with grey. But his eyes pierce me. They thrum with the desire for revenge. Surely, I think, we’ve done enough in killing all of the fuckers, but perhaps not.
They came to Mercia, they took command of the farmhouse steading, and then they stole our fucking horses and wounded my men. I know we’ve not killed enough of them to account for the seven shiploads we were led to believe were here.
Hereman’s crouched in the snow before Haden, more trusting than I would be in his current state of mind. But Hereman’s pushing aside the snow from the body I found. Some of the others, Gardulf leading them, assured their horses are well, have returned to the slashes of glistening red in the disturbed snow, picking their way through the bodies. There’s no way to bury them, not with the ground covered as it is, and not when the exposed soil is mainly rocks.
“Who are you, you fucker,” Hereman mutters to himself.
My arms are starting to shake from holding Haden so still. I also detect a tremble in his legs. Fuck, why did it have to snow so much? I don’t know how I’m going to get him to safety. Rudolf might be able to stitch up his weeping wound, but how will Haden cope with the snow, with having to constantly lift his leg, when he’s already so damn weak? The poor bastard.
“I think they tried to slap him on the leg with their sword, and the fucker turned it edge-on, evil cocks.” Pybba speaks conversationally, no doubt using his experience to ground Rudolf and me in what needs to be done instead of the worry of what’ll happen if it all goes wrong. “It’s a deep wound, but not overly long.”
“Then what’s taking so much fucking time,” I growl softly enough that no one but Haden hears. His breath huffs on my hand, and I know he’s thinking the same.
“Here. What do you make of this?” Hereman holds up his hand, something glistens wetly in it, and I grimace.
“Did you pull that from his finger?”
“No, I chopped his fucking finger off. He does not need it now,” Hereman’s words ring with amusement. He has a good point.
“It’s a bloody ring,” I retort, not wishing to take my eyes from Haden. I purposely adopt Pybba’s soft tone, not wanting to alert Haden or Rudolf.
“I fucking know that you arse,” Hereman’s reply ripples with frustration. “Look at the design on it.”
I don’t want to, but there’s something there that catches my eyes. It’s not a small item, far from it. Some might even determine it’s gaudy.
“Is that a bastard dragon?” I exhale, trying to keep the fury from my words.
“Aye, My Lord King, that there is a bastard dragon.”
Icel holds out his hand to examine the piece. For a moment, we can hear nothing but the pull of the needle through Haden’s flesh, a sound that makes me tense my arse and grit my teeth, and then Icel speaks.
“I’ve seen this before,” his words are ominous, with no thought to maintain the lighter tone of the conversation. “This is the Wessex Wyvern, and that means, My Lord King, that these fuckers either stole it from them or, and I think it much more likely, they’ve been paid off by King Alfred of Wessex or paid to do something.”
“Attack Mercia?” I menace.
“More than likely,” Icel confirms. His lips are tight, his shoulders tense, and then he thrusts the ring back towar
d Hereman and stalks away. I turn and watch him discreetly. His shoulders are tense, rising and falling too rapidly as he tries to bring himself under control.
“Would King Alfred do that?” I ask of no one, but Pybba replies all the same.
“Would you, My Lord? If it was the only option.”
The words reverberate in the still air, muffled by the snow, and yet flung far and wide by the clear sky, all the same.
“I would never have it as my only option,” I snarl low in my throat. “I wouldn’t sacrifice another just to save myself.”
“Then, My Lord,” and Pybba speaks with certainty. “You’re a better man than all the others, far better, but then, you have no problem in being up to your armpits in the entrails of another. I don’t believe that’s King Alfred’s way. Not at all.”
I nod, thinking of Icel as he tries to control himself.
If I think I’ve been fighting for Mercia all of my life, then Icel has been doing so for even longer, and not just against the Raiders. He’s had to fight the fucking Wessex warriors as well. If that ring's presence is anything to go by, it’s beginning to look as though we might have to do the same.
“Fucking bollocks,” Hereman has uncovered more of the body, and now he steps back, revulsion on his face.
“What?” I demand to know, eyes still on Haden, urging him to remain still and calm.
“All done,” Rudolf calls, the stress in his voice impossible to ignore. This means a lot to him, and he wants it to work. So do I. But, it does mean that I can step back from Haden, release him from my hold, and look at what’s forced Hereman to scurry backwards in the snow, away from the body.
“What?” I ask, but Hereman can only point.
I glance into the cleared pit. It should be nothing but snow and rocks and frozen grass, with a body nestled there, as well.
“Bloody bollocks,” I expel, words almost beyond me, and I just happen to glance upwards, meet Haden’s eyes. They speak of triumph. And I laugh.
“What the fuck did you do to him, Haden?” I call, as his front hoof paws in the snow.
“Well, it looks to me like he aimed one hoof through his skull, and one through his chest,” Pybba speaks with the cold detachment of someone who’s managed to dismiss the object before us as ever having breathed and lived; as ever having fucked and swined; feasted and drunk.
“Well done, boy,” Pybba speaks with pride in his voice, and I laugh, the sound too high, too filled with emotion, but I’m not alone. Rudolf joins me, the worry on his face evaporating insight of what Haden has achieved.
“Looks like you won the fight, boy,” and then he collapses to his haunches, and I go to him, place my hand on his shaking shoulder, and just hold it there. I need his strength just as much as he needs mine. And this is far from fucking done.
Chapter 10
“How will we fucking do this?” I’m asking the question, gazing at the assorted bodies before me, even though I’m the one who’s supposed to know everything.
Rudolf hasn’t joined Gardulf and the others in pilfering the dead, but all the same, there’s a small pile of baubles before him, coins showing the faces of kings I’ve never heard of, let alone where they rule. It seems Rudolf’s been paid a tribute for tending to Haden. Not that Haden is entirely free from danger. Far from it.
My horse shakes beneath the furs, his brown eyes pain-hazed, and I know we need to get going as soon as possible. We need to get him out of the frozen air and somewhere warm. But it’s not going to be easy, far from it. And first, we need to contend with the dead.
“Burn them,” I decide. “I’m not leaving them, and neither can we take the time to bury them. It’s too fucking cold for that shit.”
“There’s nothing to fuel the fire,” Hereman grumbles.
“Their clothes will have to bloody do.”
I could send men to the far distant treeline for branches and dried pine needles, but I’m not going to do that, not for our enemy. Not when it’s so fucking cold, and Haden’s life is far from assured.
“Pile them all together. As long as one of the Raiders burns, the others will catch as well, soon enough. There’s enough fucking hair for them to go up quickly, and they hardly lack meat and fat.”
No one argues with me. It’s always the worst part of any battle, deciding what to do with the dead.
Pybba thrusts a piece of torn tunic into the embers of one of the fires the men kept the previous night. The promise of warmth almost undoes me, but I’m not staying here, roasting myself on the pyre of my enemies.
We’re all surprised when the fabric ignites, flames greedily licking over its surface. Hereman thrusts his spear into its heart and rushes to where the majority of the Raiders fell. Behind us, one or two of the horses gives a startled whinny, the scent too reminiscent, no doubt, of the previous night.
“This fat fucker will be perfect,” Hereman huffs to himself. He jabs his spear into the blue-veined flesh of an exposed belly, whiter than the snow. I grimace at the wet sound and sizzle of hair leading beneath his trews. I’d turn aside, but I want to watch these bastards burn.
They took my horse, they wounded him, and while Haden might have had his revenge, I haven’t.
As soon as the man is ablaze, we move as one to bring the other bodies closer, lie them one atop the other, in a loose but tighter circle to the one they fell within when they tried to protect their stolen mounts.
The flesh of the dead is little colder than the icy wind blowing up the hillside. We need to be gone from here, and not just because I risk Haden with every breath that I linger.
Not that I can ride him. No, that would injure him further and risk undoing the neat stitches that Rudolf has used to draw his severed flesh together.
“Bring me Wombel. I’ll ride him.” With Tatberht left behind in the woodlands, Wombel is riderless. Not that Haden will like it, not one bit.
“We’ll walk down the hill, aiming back the way we’ve come.” Our footprints are easy enough to find as we crest the embankment, mindful of the deep ditch. Their presence allows us to retrace our steps. And I don’t think there’s any chance of the snow thawing. Not for a long time. There might even be the promise of more snow to come in the pink haze that hovers, far to the east, from where the bastard wind blows.
I’m leading Wombel, with Haden walking at my side, head down, movements far from flowing. Ælfgar’s mount, Poppy, has the added weight of Haden’s abandoned saddle added to her own, but she doesn’t seem to mind, as Rudolf guides her alongside Dever. The two horses resemble old men, drinking their mead and putting the world to rights. Every so often, their noses touch in camaraderie.
Not that we’re first, far from it. Icel and Samson lead the way, Icel able to ride because it’s almost as though no snow has fallen beneath Samson’s long legs. Hereman and Billy follow on behind, although Hereman walks beside his horse, as do most of us. We’re not taking the risk, not now we’ve been reunited.
From the top of the hill, the smell of roasting flesh pollutes the clear, bright day. I don’t look back. We’ve done what we can for the dead. If they don’t burn to ashes, aside from the missed pieces of metal on their bodies and the odd bit of bone that doesn’t quite catch, then the starving animals will be able to feast; the birds as well as the wolves and other residents of the woodlands.
It’s a fitting end for the bastards.
“But there were only twenty-five of them,” Rudolf seems to have returned to his favoured past-time of counting the dead.
“Yes, there were,” I confirm. I find I might not mind his attempt to distract.
“So, how many did we encounter at the riverside?”
“No more than forty, maybe fifty.” Icel’s voice rumbles from in front, our voices audible above the crunch of the snow and the jangle of harness.
“So where the fuck’s everyone else? They’d have needed to be pretty handy with an oar to manage seven ships with so few of them.” I’d been thinking the same, and evidently, I’
m not alone.
“These bastards might not even have been with the ship-warriors,” Wulfred’s words are a truth I don’t need to hear.
“If that’s the case, there was no more than a ship-worth of Raiders at the steading. And there were seven ships, weren’t there?” This Rudolf directs to Sæbald. After all, Sæbald would know. He ensured they all burned.
“Just the seven, but not all of them were water-tight. I’m sure of that.”
“So seven ships, and, depending on their size, we can account for no more than one, at best two, of the contingent of ship-warriors. Then where the fuck have they gone?” Rudolf’s words are muffled. He’s finally stopping Dever, and mounting up now we’re down the hill and free from the accumulation of snow at the base. I cast a baleful look at Haden, unsure how he’ll respond to what I’m about to do.
“It’s for the best, lad,” I offer, mounting Wombel from the wrong side, for me, just to ensure Haden can’t interfere. I’ve not missed that his gait is laboured, his nose flecked with sweat, and we’ve only just started. All the same, I don’t think he’ll like it.
As soon as I’m upright, I risk looking at Haden. His eyes are filled with remorse and defiance, a heady combination if ever I’ve seen one. I’m almost grateful then that the snow makes it difficult for him to walk. If it didn’t, I would bet my seax on the little fucker skipping out of my reach, determined to prove he’s quite capable, despite his wound.
But, all of the horses are tired. We rode with haste from Northampton for two days, and we didn’t stop until we found the enemy. And then they were forced to ride all night again, through the growing level of snow, and under the instructions of men they didn’t or want to know. And now, there’s no choice but to retrace our steps. I’m tired, and so are the horses, even if they much prefer the gentler hands of their warriors.
At least the sun is warm on our faces. While it might not be hot, every so often, some heat works its way into my cold face. I could eat. I really could. And nothing small and delicate; maybe an entire hide of venison or boar. I don’t think I’d be that picky.
