by M J Porter
Weary eyes greet mine, rims of blue still evident on nose tips and ears. It’s been fucking cold. We’ve been stuck in a blizzard, we’ve had our horses taken from us and fought to get them back, we’ve been hungry and cold, if not thirsty, and yet every eye there shows the eagerness of men who anticipate a much bigger fight yet.
“Fuck it,” I exclaim. “Eat, drink, sleep, in the morning we’re heading to Northampton, and then, onwards. It seems we have an old enemy to kill, once and for all.”
Not that I sleep. I stay awake, peering into the depths of the fire. The innkeeper has happily piled it high with wood and charcoal, eager to show my warriors all the hospitality he can. He’s fed us well, even it was far from appetising, but my thoughts are on what I’ll find in the north.
That bastard Jarl Halfdan.
He once taunted me. I thought he’d killed my friend, Icel, and under his auspices, he sent Raiders to hunt me down, right into the heart of my land, around Gloucester, even before I was proclaimed king. He’s hunted me, and I’ve stalked him back. I thought I’d never have the opportunity to face him again, but like a boil that must be scratched, it seems he’s as desperate as I am to try his luck one more time.
“So, Jarl Halfdan has cast aside his previous allies?”
“Yes, there’s no mention of Jarls Anwend, Oscetel or Guthrum.”
“Wonderful,” I huff with annoyance. And yet, can I be angered by that? Maybe Halfdan has been turned down by the Grantabridge jarls? Perhaps he wanted them, and they told him where to go. I just hope Halfdan hasn’t found allies who are stronger than the Grantabridge jarls. Or even, weaker than they, resolved only to take commands from Halfdan. If the Raiders ever learn to work together, to unite in any way more than with half-arsed oaths and alliances, broken with some perceived slight, Mercia might genuinely be in trouble.
“Are any other names mentioned?”
“Not in the message received in Northampton.”
“And we can believe the message? It’s not some sort of trap?”
“No, I knew the rider, so too did Wulfsige, returned from Warwick. It’s no trap.”
“Any idea of numbers?”
“It’s impossible to know from such a distance. Kyred rode out and looked. He doesn’t believe as many as were at Repton, but he can’t be sure of that.”
“Fuck. I’ll need to gather the ealdormen then and their warriors.”
“So it seems,” there’s no enthusiasm for such a task from Edmund or me.
“We have the men under Turhtredus and the warriors who protected Northampton. Won’t that be enough?” I shrug at the suggestion. I don’t know the answer to that.
If there’s to be a pitched battle, then the more warriors I can call to arms, the better. But if this is to be sneaking assault, more undertaken by stealth than outright defiance, I would be better with men who’ve fought with me since Repton. Those who know what to do without running to me for instructions all the time.
“Bishop Deorlaf will send those he can, as will Bishop Ceobred of Leicester, and of course, Burgheard of Lindsey will be praying for your arrival.”
I nod, agreeing with those statements.
“But, I don’t have the time to go and petition them.”
Edmund looks at me, a perplexed expression on his face, both eyebrows high, for all only one eye peers back at me.
“You’ve just told the old wind-bag that you’re Mercia’s anointed, God-given king. Why the fuck do you need to petition anyone? Send out your orders, summon the warriors you need. There’s nothing to be gained by delaying or by seeking a conference about it all. Every ealdorman, and bishop, acknowledged who you are, giving you an oath.”
“Have you discussed this with my Aunt?” I ask darkly. Edmund sounds so like her.
“Perhaps,” he counters, already defensive. I change the subject.
“Gardulf fought as a warrior. Be proud of him. Tell him you’re proud of him.” My father didn’t live long enough to tell me anything like that. Admittedly, I wasn’t an honourable man when he died, so he could hardly have done so. All the same, I still feel the ache of that loss. Edmund’s lips clamp shut.
“You’re a daft shit, most of the time,” I inform him. I don’t have my Aunt’s eloquence. Perhaps, I’ll repay his devious ways and tell my Aunt that Edmund is lacking with regards to his son. She’ll certainly not allow him to get away with it. The thought makes me smirk.
“Why are you smiling?” Edmund is right to be suspicious. I merely shake my head.
“You had to be there,” I evade, and we’re at a stalemate.
Bishop Smithwulf has been escorted back to his home. I’m pleased he’s gone. I’m half-minded to leave Edmund behind to make sure Smithwulf does as I’ve commanded, but no, I need all of my warriors.
“Did you kill all the Raiders?” Edmund asks, his words soft, as he leans forward on his knees, eyes gazing into the glowing embers, just as I do. Damn the fucker. He gives me the opportunity to be less than accurate with the truth, and yet I don’t take it.
“We killed the ones we saw, we killed the ones who stole the horses, and we killed the ones that tried to overpower us in the woodlands. The weather killed yet more. Those who we spoke to assured us that there were never seven shiploads of Raiders. I can say no more than that.”
I notice that he nods at my words as though I’ve merely confirmed what he suspected.
“What if there are more, and they come for London?”
“Then Bishop Smithwulf can crow about it all he wants, but if he makes a treaty with King Alfred, I’ll personally shove his golden cross up his arsehole.”
“So, you’d leave London defenceless rather than admit to Bishop Smithwulf that the Raiders might not all be dead.”
“The Raiders are all dead,” I say with certainty. I hope that I’m right.
Edmund says nothing in return. He doesn’t even turn to look at me to judge the truth for himself.
I can’t leave anyone in London. I need them all to defeat Jarl Halfdan. If I’m lucky, and I don’t like to rely on that, then the Grantabridge jarls will stay before their fires, while the London Raiders are all solid on the frozen ground.
If not, well, I can’t be in two places at once, and Halfdan is the priority. London is a crumbling ruin the Raiders have already defeated once. Twice won’t do much more fucking damage.
Chapter 15
We leave with the light. It’s a thin and reedy thing, more hinted at than anything else, but I’m not the only one awake and ready to go.
We’ve eaten, we’ve slept, we’ve drunk, and we’re warm. What else do we need?
Well, I need a horse. I’m still not prepared to risk Haden, and Cinder needs to be allowed to travel alone as well.
But it seems there’s an easy answer to that. Edmund hasn’t travelled to London alone, but in the company of a handful of Ealdorman Ælhun’s men, well, Wulfsige is their commander, apparently on the orders of my Aunt. I’d taunt him for that, but I don’t want a black eye to go with all my other aches and pains.
We take two of the mounts, the Mercians eager to assist their king. I smirk at them, clasp their forearms, and then abandon them to the innkeeper and Bishop Smithwulf. I’m sure by the end of the day, they’ll have sourced horses with which to return to Northampton. Fuck, I would.
My mount is an energetic creature who immediately earns Haden’s enmity in allowing me to saddle and mount her without any fuss at all. I don’t grin at Haden. Now isn’t the time for one of my lessons. All the same, he nips my ear when I get too close to him—damn brute.
Tatberht insists on travelling with us, as does Oda, somewhat restored to his usual self with thanks to some decent food and ale. The ale helped more than the food.
Outside the crumbling gate, I hesitate and turn back to glance at London. It’s not a magnificent place. I’m not entirely sure why the Raiders and King Alfred, and the Wessex scum who ruled before him, are so enamoured of the place. But it’s part of my kingdo
m. I need to have defences built. I won’t deny that. Once I’ve dealt with Jarl Halfdan, London and Bishop Smithwulf will require my attention.
I can hardly fucking wait.
Edmund rides beside me, Jethson his usual arrogant self. Despite the layer of watery snow that remains, hiding the damp patches, he steps high, swishing his long tail. Haden plods beside me, the weak sunlight flashing on his wound. Even to my eye, it looks much better than when we arrived in London.
I reach out, attempting to pat his neck, an apology in the action, but he moves aside. I hear Rudolf laugh at the sight. I’m not surprised when Haden allows Dever close to him. I roll my eyes, and Rudolf merely laughs harder. But, it just reinforces the fact that Haden is slow with his wound. Dever has never been the fastest of mounts.
And that brings me to my next problem. I want to travel quickly, almost too quickly to the north. I know how fast we could get there, but I have slow horses, wounded horses even. Do I risk Haden? Do I risk Dever? Do I risk any of the other horses? It’s not that they wouldn’t strive to do what I commanded. It’s just whether they would survive it. I have no problem ending the lives of the Raiders, but with horses, I’m not such a callous bastard.
It would be quicker, perhaps, to surge along Ermine Street to the Humber, but I’m not going that way as it would mean by-passing Northampton. Instead, we head north along Watling Street. We’ll travel along Watling Street from Northampton until it meets the Foss Way and until the Foss Way joins Ermine Street. It won’t be much further, so I reassure myself.
The day is cold but clear. I push onwards, half an eye to my compromised mounts, the other half on the terrible condition of the roadway. The snow has melted in most places or turned to ice, indistinguishable from the wet patches. The fact no one else travels the road assures me that it’s not the weather to be out and about.
I spare a thought for the river at Passenham, hoping that the initial surge from the snowmelt has subsided or not appeared yet. I don’t fancy another wet crossing with injured mounts.
We stop around midday, the sun as warm as it’s going to get on our faces. It feels pleasant, fuck, it almost feels as though it burns my skin after the cold conditions of a few days ago. I chew contentedly on the cheese and bread offered by the innkeeper as I walk amongst my men.
“Tatberht,” his face is bleached, but he grins at me.
“I’m fine, My Lord. Not much further now,” there’s more than hope in his voice.
“Aye, we’ll get you tucked up in a nice warm bed soon enough. My Aunt will see to your wound.”
His cut has been variously cleaned and packed with moss and honey. He smells well, perhaps a strange observation to make, but a much-needed one all the same.
“That’ll be pleasant,” he offers, trying to smile. He’s stayed on his horse, easier that than dismounting and trying to get on once more. It’s an effort with his wound. But he’s a stubborn bastard. Nothing will stop him.
“How is she?” I demand of Wærwulf. He’s riding a dun-coloured horse while he leads Cinder. Cinder has none of the reproaches of Haden.
“Better than I expected, to be honest.”
“That’s good, but we’ve got a way to go yet.”
“We certainly do,” Wærwulf confirms. I’m distracted by Oda. He’s swaying as he empties his stream into the undergrowth. I try not to notice the shocking yellow colour of his piss, but it’s hard as it splashes into a pile of snow.
“Here,” I thrust my water bottle at him. “Drink this. You need more water and less ale.”
“The ale helps me see straight,” he tries to joke but grips the water bottle eagerly enough.
“How’s your head?”
“It jolts with every missed step by my horse, but I can live with it, for now.”
“Be wary. Head wounds are nasty, and you don’t always know what damage has been done.”
“Thank you, boss,” he grunts, and I slap his back and turn aside.
I can tell that my men are eager to be on their way, but I hold them until even I’m desperate to feel the distance disappear beneath the hooves of my horse. My thoughts are of Jarl Halfdan. King Alfred of Wessex owes Halfdan a debt. I’d never encroach on land that belongs to Wessex, but I’d certainly be preparing to act against his pretensions.
London will never belong to Wessex. He needs to fucking realise that.
Northampton appears out of the gloom the following day. We rode as far as we could yesterday, but, in the end, our excursions from the previous few days were too much. I made them sleep in the same barn we used on the way to London. My warriors didn’t argue half as much as I thought they might.
My Aunt greets me in the courtyard. There’s a flurry of activity from the returning riders, and yet we’re strangely isolated from it all, even where we stand in the middle of it.
“King Alfred is a weasel,” I begin. She nods, her keen eyes already noting the wounded animals and men in that order. Fuck, she’s a woman after my own heart.
I know she has no love for Wessex.
“He’s just like his brothers and father before them. They’re all unpleasant men.” She confirms, the tone of voice betraying her hatred of the Wessex scum.
“Bishop Smithwulf thinks altogether too much of King Alfred.”
Her lips purse, hand clasped before her.
“I’ll have Bishop Wærferth bring him into line. Bishop Smithwulf thinks himself only a step from becoming an archbishop, just like at Canterbury and York, but Mercia’s archbishopric has always been Lichfield, not London. The pope saw to that many years ago.”
I bat aside her words about bishops and bishoprics. I don’t care. I’m not religious, I just like believing, and that’s an entirely different concept. I know that the bishops would share my thoughts. They’re not half as pious as they think themselves to be.
“What will you do about Haden?”
“I can’t leave him,” I assert.
“Then I have tonight to heal him,” and she doesn’t even ask me about Jarl Halfdan. I’m pleased about that. I imagine she hates the bastard as much as I do. After all, it was on Halfdan’s orders that Edmund was injured, and Icel thought lost. But it’ll be Edmund that infuriates her, I would imagine.
Tatberht has finally managed to dismount, and he walks gingerly towards the hall.
“What of Tatberht?” I ask, but she shakes her head. She’s not even examined him, and yet she seems adamant.
“And Cinder?”
“She’ll be well, like Haden.” I don’t watch her worm a path through the men and horses. Instead, I focus on Ealdorman Ælhun, returned from Warwick, no doubt on my Aunt’s instructions.
“Walk with me,” I ask him, making my way through the cleared pathway. Snow still lies in some places, but it’s mostly water now. I don’t speak to him until I’ve mounted the walkway, trying not to groan because my legs ache, my arse as well. My substitute horse wasn’t Haden. I’ve spent some time deciphering whether the beast was too narrow or too wide, and I still don’t know. I sat as I always do, and yet my thighs ache, my feet as well.
I’ll be pleased to have Haden back.
“Tell me?” Of course, Ealdorman Ælhun will know more than Edmund’s informed me, I’m sure of it.
“There’s little else, other than what Edmund knew. A messenger arrived yesterday, more urgency than substance to his message. Kyred is fearful of Jarl Halfdan, but only because Ealdorman Aldred is pissing himself in fright.”
“So there was no more information about numbers or intentions?”
“Not about the numbers, no,” Ealdorman Ælhun admits. His face is filled with tension. “I hardly need to expand on his intentions. He wants Mercia. The damn bastard.” Rage floods the ealdorman’s voice. It doesn’t surprise me, but his language makes me appreciate he’s spent far too much time with my men and me.
“I’ll need you to leave Northampton again.” Ealdorman Ælhun nods as I speak.
“I’d expected as much. Do you want me
in Warwick or Repton?”
Again, these words show just how far our relationship has come since the first time we met. I’m glad to have Ælhun as such a steadfast ally and proponent of my rule.
“Repton. If Jarl Halfdan slips beyond our reach, he’ll want Repton back. He ran from there with his trews around his ankles. He’ll want to forget that humiliation.”
“You can rely on my warriors to do what must be done. Sooner death than being ruled by a Raider. But what of Northampton? Surely the jarls from Grantabridge will take advantage if we abandon it?”
“Northampton is strong and secure. The walls and rampart will protect her.”
“And your Aunt?”
And here is my worry. Will she leave Northampton? Will she want to return to Kingsholm? Where will she be safest?
“I’ll speak with her. She must remain either in Northampton or make her way west.”
“And London?” I sigh at the reminder of the place.
“Bishop Smithwulf would rather have King Alfred of Wessex as his king than I. But, we’ve hunted down the Raiders. Killed them all. London is safe while we look north. Right now, the biggest threat comes from King Alfred of Wessex, not the Raiders.”
A flicker of emotions over Ealdorman Ælhun’s face, causing the frost of his beard to twitch, and I don’t know what he truly thinks of Alfred. He better share my feelings towards Alfred. I should hate us to come to blows about the Wessex king when our thoughts are so aligned with regard to Mercia itself.
I reach out, gripping his forearm, feel the iron of his muscles, even though I once thought he was no warrior.
“We’ll beat the fuckers,” I reiterate, perhaps because I need to hear the words, but really because there needs to be an acceptance that we face almost insurmountable odds. But that’s never stopped me in the past.
Ealdorman Ælhun nods, the dome of his bald head shimmering beneath the sun that offers more light than heat.
