The Last Sword

by M J Porter

  “Aye, My Lord King. We will.”

  Tatberht accepts that he must remain behind in Northampton. Oda doesn’t. That leaves me with a conundrum. I do consider asking my Aunt to give Oda some of her herbs to make him sleep so that we can go without him. But I’d kill anyone who did that to me. Oda will simply have to manage as best he can. And if he can’t manage, then he’ll be left behind in one of the settlements along the way. Hiltiberht looks at me in hope, but his smile quickly drops away, and he nods in understanding. I won’t risk him.

  And so we sleep. Well, my warriors' sleep, first I have to speak to my Aunt, and of course, Edmund hovers behind me.

  I would pierce him with my gaze, but it wouldn’t do any good. All I need now is for Rudolf to stick his beak in as well.

  “I’ll hold Northampton for you.” Once more, I speak to someone forged from the same stuff as Ealdorman Ælhun and I. Although, she lacks the impurities that stain me and the ealdorman.

  “Good, I assumed you would.” Edmund’s mouth is entirely open, shock written into his features. I quirk an eyebrow at him. I’m keen to see how this plays out. Did he genuinely expect me to gainsay my Aunt? He thinks I’m braver than I am. And equally, my Aunt is the right person to hold Northampton. She has the men who are mine to command, but who in reality, are loyal to her. She has the authority of being my Aunt, and she doesn’t even need that.

  As I’ve said before, if she’d been taught to fight with sword and seax, spear, axe and shield, the Raiders would have been felled years ago – no need for my involvement at all.

  “I don’t foresee the Grantabridge jarls moving from their shelter until the weather turns, but if they do, keep safe behind the rampart and walkway. Taunt them, but don’t start an outright attack, not until I return from the north.”

  “And London?” Bloody London. I grit my teeth.

  “If Bishop Smithwulf makes trouble, you have my authority to deal with him. I would like a messenger sent to Bishop Wærferth. He should be the one to reprimand him for such disloyalty, as you advised.”

  A gleam enters my Aunt’s eyes – a threat she appreciates. I’m happy for Smithwulf to be handled with diplomacy. If that fails, I have no qualms about turning my weapons on him. I’ll give him a chance because my gaze is directed northwards.

  “And Edmund, you’ll travel with me this time,” I say it just to make sure he knows my expectations. He nods. At least he’s been expecting that order.

  I lay a kiss on my Aunt’s cold cheek.

  “Stay safe and stay well,” I caution her. She grips my forearm.

  “It’s more imperative that you do the same,” and I turn aside. She and Edmund have words to exchange, and I don’t need to witness them.

  Turhtredus and his men will escort me north. I would hope to be joined by others along the way, but with Kyred already north, and with my men and Turhtredus’, with Ealdorman Ælhun ensuring the hinterland of Mercia is guarded, I feel as well prepared as possible.

  I roll in my cloak, welcoming the thought of deep sleep, only to be roused by a commotion at the door when the grey light of night still covers the interior of the hall.

  “My Lord,” an arm on my shoulder, roughly shaking me, and I grip it fiercely, only releasing my hold on the yelp of pain.

  “I’m awake,” the two words are spoken slowly, my eyes open on the scene before me. “Who disturbs my sleep?”

  “An urgent message from Bishop Burgheard of Lindsey.”

  “Fuck,” I’m on my feet before the words have left the lips of the Mercian warrior’s. Evidently, he was on guard duty.

  I make my way through the sleeping forms, littered this way and that, and then out into the cool night air. The promise of a hard frost glitters in the area visible in the flames from the braziers.

  The man waiting for me still holds his horse, although Hiltiberht hovers close by, waiting to take the animal. I can see why he doesn’t. The man will fall without such support.

  “My Lord King,” his breath hitches, as though he’s the one who’s been galloping and not the horse.

  “Tell me.”

  “Bishop Burgheard demands your assistance against the Raiders. The ealdorman does nothing to prevent the incursions.”

  “Incursions. I understood Jarl Halfdan remained on the far bank of the Humber.”

  But the man, chest still heaving, shakes his head.

  “No more, My Lord King. They’ve been sighted on the Humber. At least ten ships, perhaps more.”

  I nod, my lips tight, my expression grim.

  “We’re leaving as soon as the sun gives us enough light,” I confirm, hoping that it might bring the messenger some relief.

  “You must travel with all haste. Bishop Burgheard has sent his warriors to the Trent, but they will be overpowered if it comes to a battle.”

  “Nothing like some confidence,” I smirk, trying to take the edge of derision from my voice.

  “So there are what, a thousand Raiders?”

  “It would seem so, yes, My Lord King.”

  “Go inside, get some sleep. By the time you wake, we’ll be gone. Where is Bishop Burgheard?”

  “He remains in Lincoln.”

  “Return to him when you’re able. Now, release your horse. The animal needs looking after, not leaning against.” The messenger’s eyes flash with surprise. Perhaps he’s not even realised he hangs on his horse quite so tightly.

  “My Lord King,” he bows his head low, swaying, as Hiltiberht finally claims the animal.

  “Thank you. One more thing. Is there snow on the ground?”

  “No, the thaw has melted most of it. It’s icy in some places, but the roads remain passable.”

  That will at least allow me to move with all haste. And it seems I must ride faster than the wind.

  Fucking King Alfred. If not for him, I’d be in the north already. Jarl Halfdan skewered on the edge of my seax.

  Chapter 16

  I considered leaving Haden behind; only Hiltiberht has saddled him, made him ready for what can only be described as a sprint to the north. I eye the wound, noting that it seems much healed from whatever my Aunt has ministered to the horse.

  I also note the stubborn stance Haden has adopted. Like my men, I get a distinct impression that he’s coming whether I ride him or not.

  So now, with some problems crossing the Nene without the aid of a bridge, I head north, the clatter of hooves the only sound to permeate my senses. Everything else is drowned out, even conversation, by the rush of icy wind through my hair and the sound of horses over the stone road. It’s bastard cold, but my fury warms me.

  I know we won’t make the journey in one day, and yet, I’m determined to get as far as possible. In no time at all, we leave Watling Street behind us, a solitary rider peeling away to travel to Warwick with Ealdorman Ælhun’s instructions to his men there. And then we reach the Foss Way. I spare a thought, reminded of my dash to Repton when the Raiders claimed it as their own. I hope Eowa’s well. I’d have gladly welcomed him into my war band, but he’s not a warrior and never will be. Perhaps he’s lucky to have no greater concern than the forest he calls his home. Certainly, he doesn’t have the weight of a kingdom to shoulder.

  Ealdorman Ælhun and the remainder of his men leave us there, their destination Repton, along Watling Street, where Ælhun is to inform Bishop Deorlaf of what’s happening. I know Deorlaf will send warriors, perhaps to Repton, but more likely, along the Trent. He’s not one to shy away from any sort of altercation.

  I look behind me. My warriors are close, the remainder of the Mercians under Turhtredus less tightly packed, their horses perhaps flagging from the unexpected speed after a winter spent indoors. I’m not surprised.

  I only call a halt when an early sunset darkens the way ahead. I’ll take many risks, but not at such speed with our mounts. And if we’re not travelling at speed, we may as well stop for the night. I’d hoped to find the Trent before dark, but the sound of the wide river doesn’t fill my ea
rs.

  “Set guards,” I call to Edmund, dismounting from Haden, appreciating that my legs and arse don’t ache as they did the day before. I inspect his wound, Rudolf beside me, squinting in the rapidly fading light.

  “We need fires,” I command over my shoulder as well. Some might say a fire will only allow our enemy to find us, but no fire will mean death for someone on a cold night like this. The heavy clouds are obscuring the moon and stars, promise rain, or worse. We need to keep warm. We require good food. We must be in as good condition as possible when we face Jarl Halfdan.

  “It looks good,” Rudolf speaks with amazement in his voice.

  “What does she use?”

  “I don’t dare ask,” I mutter. Rudolf vigorously nods.

  “One day, she’ll have to share, or we’ll lose the knowledge.”

  “I imagine the monks know,” I offer, not wanting to consider a life without my Aunt. She’s my father’s much younger sister, not quite my age, but certainly not as old as the title perhaps implies. I imagine I’ll be dead long before her. Especially if I have to keep fighting the bastard Raiders with such regularity.

  “Well, it looks really good, and I didn’t notice him favouring his other leg, so there’s no harm done.” Haden turns his inquisitive nose at Rudolf’s words. I notice the grin on the lad’s face and suppress mine as Rudolf speaks to my horse. The pair of them are as daft as the other. It just shows how deceiving looks can be. To anyone watching the interplay, you could be forgiven for thinking Haden was a passive beast of burden, Rudolf no more than the ploughboy. I’ll pity anyone who has to come up against them.

  “Rudolf, we’re on the first watch,” Pybba’s words cut through our conversation. Rudolf grins ever wider.

  “Leave some food for me,” he taunts, almost skipping away.

  “I wish I had his damn energy,” I complain to Haden, wiping the sweat from his withers with a strip of cloth, having removed his saddle.

  “I’m glad you fucking don’t,” Wærwulf interjects. I’d not appreciated I was speaking aloud. “You’d still be on the road, despite the dark.” He’s removed his helm, his head gleaming in the reflected light from the fire being brought to life under the expert hands of Hereman.

  “How’s your nose?”

  “Hurts like a bastard, but it’s healing. Now all I’ve got to do is not pick the scab. That’s more of a challenge.”

  “Well, it certainly, enhances your… looks,” I try the word. It doesn’t do justice to the angry slice that will forever mar my warrior.

  “I’m not going to worry about it. I don’t have to fucking look at it,” and he moves aside, cackling, leaving Cinder to pick at the stray grasses poking through the flat patches of undergrowth. There’s little else to show that winter could be on the way out. Certainly, the fields we’ve ridden by have been dark and uninviting, any crops well-hidden beneath the piles of mud and horse manure.

  Without the aid of Rudolf, it takes me longer than I think to see to Haden’s wound, following my Aunt’s strict instructions regarding washing it and applying a fresh layer of herbs to the wound site. Not that Haden complains much beyond a nip on my hand. I’m just all fingers and thumbs. I’m not a natural nurse. Eventually, Icel takes pity on me.

  “A hand, My Lord?” His tone solemn.

  I risk a glance at him.

  “You alright about this, Icel?” I’ve noticed that Edmund is subdued as well.

  I wish I’d killed Jarl Halfdan when I had the chance.

  “Aye, My Lord. It’ll be better when the fucker’s dead.” I hope we both speak of Jarl Halfdan. “I’d beg the boon of ending his life myself, but I appreciate that you’ll want the honour.”

  For a moment, my movements still. Again, I’ve not considered that either.

  “I can’t swear I won’t do it if I happen upon him.” Icel nods, his hair shimmering with the dancing flames.

  “I can’t swear it either,” and he chuckles, a rare sound these days.

  “I imagine Edmund can’t either.”

  “No, in fact, My Lord, you might find yourself doing more than trying to kill Jarl Halfdan. You might need to keep Edmund and me apart as well.”

  I grunt at the words, appreciating this is Icel’s way of warning me.

  “We’ll just have to look after one another,” I confirm, meeting Icel’s hooded eyes in the semi-darkness. “There’s no fucking point in injuring one another when we all want the same thing.”

  “Aye, My Lord, you have that right,” Icel confirms. I wish I could see his face, but it’s impossible.

  I work in silence then, until the smell of the cookpot drives me to hurry.

  “My thanks,” I offer, tidying away the supplies into the saddlebags lying on the floor.

  “And you have mine,” Icel responds mercurially, walking away. I watch him, lips twisted. I’ll seek out Hereman and perhaps Pybba. It comes to something when my warriors don’t appreciate what’s best for them, but then rage and a desire for revenge does that to even the most staid of warriors.

  I take the last watch, having slept through much of the night. It’s bastard cold when Gardulf wakes me with a firm shake of my shoulder.

  “Sorry, My Lord,” he suppresses a yawn. “It’s your watch.”

  “Aye lad, thanks for waking me.” I stretch and move silently, well, as silently as I ever can, to the outer rim of our makeshift camp. I notice the frost on blankets and cloaks, the breath of the horses and shiver inside my cloak, stamping feeling back into my feet by stalking around the perimeter.

  I pull ice crystals from my hair and rub my nose to remove the hard snot that’s formed there while I’ve slept.

  Damn the fuckers. It’s too fucking cold for war, and yet, I’ve already killed men while the snow lay thigh high on the ground. I’ll do it again if it brings me Jarl Halfdan’s marbled body.

  Revenge warms me. I should have been wary of that.

  We find the Trent early that morning. It’s not quite a raging torrent, but it’s not far from being one.

  I turn to assess my force. Without Ealdorman Ælhun and his warriors, it feels pitifully small, even with my Aunt’s Mercians under Turhtredus. I know Bishop Deorlaf will send more men and that Kyred’s already to the north. I hope Bishop Burgheard will have men ready and willing as well.

  A thousand of the fuckers. From where does Jarl Halfdan get the men? What does he promise them in exchange for their services? Certainly, I don’t appreciate the allure, far from it.

  “I recognise this place,” Edmund confirms, riding beside me, Jethson’s coat flashing in the bright sunshine. It doesn’t promise any heat. And I curse its deceitfulness.

  “I do as well,” I confirm. “We can’t be far from Swarkeston. We can cross at Newark and avoid getting wet.”

  “Yes,” is the only response I receive, my eyes seeking out Icel amongst my host of men. Some of them smile, others laugh, and a few look mournfully at the river. It seems we all have memories of this place. I curse then, for I’ve not had the opportunity to speak to Hereman or Pybba.

  Icel is one of the few who looks unhappy. I should have left him in Northampton, I know it, but equally, I appreciate it would have been cruel. I would have felt uneasy with the decision, and sure as shit’s shit, I know Icel would have followed my procession anyway. Easier to have him where I can keep an eye on him. I hope.

  “From here on,” I call to my warriors. “We need to be more alert. Our news is days old. I can’t see that Jarl Halfdan will have made it down the Trent, not yet, but I can’t be sure of that. Ride ready and armed.”

  Hereman nods to me as I speak, his hands reaching to ensure weapons are in easy reach. Gardulf, Leonath, Lyfing and Siric, those who were absent last time, eye the Trent with mild interest. They’ve heard the stories countless times, but that means nothing, and they know it. Their experiences of the river will be different and have yet to make themselves evident.

  “There’s a bridge at Newark,” I reiterate so all can he
ar. “We’ll cross there.” I have no intention of splitting my small force. Not this time. I’ll keep everyone where I can see them, and for as long as it’s possible.

  Splitting my force has done nothing but cause me problems in the past. Edmund has been wounded, Icel was lost. It’s more down to luck than anything that they ride beside me now.

  I pause to glare at Turhtredus. I don’t doubt his loyalty, but last time I was at the Trent, Lord Osferth played me for a fool. The same won’t happen this time. I’m convinced of that.

  With a gentle knee to Haden’s side, sparing my heels because I don’t want to remind him of his hurt, I encourage the men to greater speed.

  The winter hasn’t been kind to the track that leads beside the Trent. I’ve pulled clear of the Foss Way. It’s still there, almost shadowing my actions, but I want to be as close to the riverbank as possible. I’m searching, and so are my warriors.

  I can see where trees have lost their footing on the riverbank, tumbling forward or held at odd angles, the flow of the water forcing leaves and then branches to part with the tree. I can also see where floodwaters have thundered far up the sides, the tell-tale marks of heavy stones and discarded jetsam and flotsam jarringly out of place.

  But there are no bodies and no sign of the Raiders. That pleases me but not enough to ride carelessly.

  I’ve sent no one ahead. We ride together, in tight formation, not one behind the other, but in some semblance of order, Pybba with Rudolf, Edmund beside me, Hereman with Gardulf. I’m not sure when that happened. Hereman has never been accepting of others too close to him, but his nephew doesn’t seem to count.

  Further back, Lyfing and Goda ride side by side, Ælfgar and Beornstan, Ingwald and Gyrth, Siric and Leonath. It’s always struck me how my men had one ally they will trust to fight beside them above all others. I don’t much mind, as long as someone has my back.

  I need to commission some repairs to the riverbank and the Foss Way. The Foss Way hasn’t endured by neglecting it. If the people of Mercia want me to ride to their assistance at great speed, I require decent roadways.