by M J Porter
I must speak with Bishop Burgheard, ensure the Lincoln quarry can supply what’s needed. If not, I’ll seek elsewhere. I know fine stone isn’t uncommon throughout Mercia. Some might think the best way to use it is to build with the stuff, but there’s no fucking point in having fancy buildings if no one can travel to see them.
Haden flicks his ears beneath me, perhaps alert to my contrary mood. I’m tired and angry, and I know the only thanks I’ll be getting at the end of this journey is a bloody great big battle. I smirk. I don’t mind the battle. I just need it to put a stop to these Raider incursions. I can’t fight everywhere at the same time. I’m just relieved that the fragile alliance with the Welsh Gwentmen seems to be holding.
Rudolf gradually moves Dever in front of me. I eye the horse critically. Rudolf needs a new mount, I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, but the pair are well suited. And Rudolf’s light and agile. Dever probably doesn’t even notice the weight of him. I don’t look forward to the conversation. I can’t put it off indefinitely.
Above my head, clouds move slowly and sullenly. The sun’s there, but it’s not offering heat or light. My breath plumes before me. It’s getting colder. It smells like snow, and the further north we travel, the more convinced of that I become.
At Newark, startled eyes meet our approach until Denewulf and Eahlferth appear from across the bridge.
“My Lord King,” Denewulf offers, eyes taking in my appearance and the strength of the force that follows behind.
“Jarl Halfdan threatens to return to Mercia,” I inform everyone there, wishing I had better news to share with them. “You’ll have seen some of my warriors come this way.”
“Yes, My Lord King, we have. It’s not news to us. We’ve prepared to meet the enemy, should they travel this far south. We have piles of stone to throw on their ships, and we’ll destroy the bridge if such is required.”
Prior knowledge accounts for the lack of shock at my announcement. I share a smile with those who’ll meet my eyes.
“If the Raiders get this far, then I’ve failed. Send word to the bishop, to Repton and Northampton. There are more warriors who’ll protect you.”
“You won’t fail, My Lord King,” Eahlferth assures me, and I confess, such confidence bolsters me. I would never think I’d need it.
“Turhtredus,” I beckon him close. He knows what’s coming.
“We’ll travel on this side of the river and then towards Torksey.”
“Stay safe, and stay well,” I instruct him. I’m splitting my force, yes, but I’m keeping my men at my side.
“Until we return then,” and I encourage Haden across the long wooden bridge, being careful not to look down. I’ve never been good with being high up. I don’t want to be mesmerised by the rush of the water down below. It’s too fucking cold for a swim.
On the far side of the river, landmarks become more familiar to me, perhaps to Haden as well, as he increases his speed, wariness gone. Still, I search for the Raiders. Will they have made it this far? Have they already over-awed the strength of Ealdorman Aldred and Kyred? I hope not. Has Kyred already killed Jarl Halfdan? Equally, I hope he hasn’t. I want that prize just as much as Edmund and Icel lust for it.
And then, between one heartbeat and the next, the sky turns a malevolent grey pink, and it starts to fucking snow.
“Marvellous,” I growl, fat flakes landing on my cloak, turning Haden’s neck all to white, the river, the track, the way ahead, obscured almost beyond all recognition.
Chapter 17
Not that I call a stop. No. I’ve seen what the weather can do. It will both be an advantage and a hindrance. Certainly, I doubt Jarl Halfdan will have such qualms.
But, my thoughts return to my young guide from my last journey to Torksey. I immediately regret his absence. He would have known where to go even as I find my view of the way ahead being obscured.
It’s not yet night-time, and yet it might as well be.
“Fucking bastard weather,” Wulfred’s words echo to me through the strained silence that only snow can bring. Every hoofprint muffled, every laboured breath too loud. It’s as though we walk beneath heavy boughs, the ground beneath our feet absorbing all sound, the sky above us out of sight, the light muted to frustratingly little. We might as well be blind.
“Well,” and Rudolf’s youthful voice follows Wulfred’s, a direct counterpart to the other’s boom, “this is marvellous,” and he laughs. The sound soft, dampened. Yet, it brings a grin to my face as well.
“Wrap up warm, watch where your horse steps,” I call the instruction back to my men and then face Edmund.
“Are you able to see?”
Edmund’s incredulous expression tells me all I need to know about my solicitous request.
“I can see fucking better than you,” he mutters, encouraging Jethson to lead the way. I allow it, forcing Haden to my wishes more easily than I might like, falling back to ensure others are in a better mood.
“These Raiders bring their bastard weather with them,” Pybba complains. I can see he’s flung another cloak over the one he already wears, his breath billows before his face; his handless arm smothered inside both cloaks.
“Does it hurt?” I ask him, thinking of the aching menace around my leg, the slice Hereman inflicted twinging in the cold.
“Aye, it does. The cold gets into it, saps my energy,” and I watch him shiver. “Don’t even suggest it, My Lord,” are his next, strained words. I snap my mouth shut as Rudolf arches an eyebrow at me, his face appearing pale and wraith-like from beneath a cloak that’s been made for a man twice his size.
“Make sure you don’t get lost in there,” I offer, attempting to make light of our unfortunate situation. At least in the south, it snowed after we’d killed most of the Raiders. Well, that’s how I try to remember it.
“I can see why most people refuse to attack in the winter,” Sæbald words drip with frustration. It’s impossible to see where we’re going. Without the river at our right side, we’d be lost already. I consider calling a halt, trying to find a building, or the treeline to shelter within. But speed’s essential.
If the snow falls, and falls, lying thickly on the ground, it’ll be difficult, but not impossible, to reach Gainsborough. In our absence, I can only imagine the damage that Jarl Halfdan could inflict. I can’t allow him to gain admittance to the settlement, to potentially force up defences to ensure he remains safe inside.
The Grantabridge jarls are bad enough, and they’re locked up tight on the very periphery of Mercia. Some might even argue they’re truly in East Anglia. I’m not about to allow Jarl Halfdan to potentially reclaim Torksey.
“In the reign of King Wigstan, we fought the Gwent Welshmen while a winter storm ravaged in the hills. There were three hundred of them at the beginning. In the end, there were only three.” Icel’s words resonate around my warriors. Heads snap up at the words. Icel has a fucking funny way of raising morale.
“And who was that against?” Ah, Rudolf. He’s as prepared to be distracted as Icel. It heartens me. It’s cold, and it’s only going to get colder. At least if the Raiders hear us and attack, it’ll be a sure way of warming our bones.
“Some Welsh king,” Hereman booms, but Icel ignores him, his words appearing out of the snow.
“Idwallon or Ithel, it’s impossible to remember them all in the right order. They had as many kings as Mercia did at the time. Always killing each other, or dropping down dead in the heat of a battle.”
“How old were you?” I grin at the persistent questioning.
“Old enough,” Icel retorts, unperturbed by Rudolf’s question.
Some of my men ride in silence as I direct Haden to walk amongst them, checking everyone to ensure they’re well covered from the snow. Others mutter one to another while Gardulf moves forwards more quickly, his head up, his horse stepping smartly. It seems, like Rudolf, that he’s not heard all of Icel’s many, many, many stories.
Edmund, I notice, is susp
iciously quiet. He leads from the front, or at least, that’s where I left him.
“We met in a deep valley, the hills stretching to the sky, not that we could see them. Everywhere I looked, there was merely snow and then more snow. The clouds met the land, and the horses shivered despite being covered in blankets and riders. We lost men that day, and not because they died on the edge of a bloody blade.”
Even I shudder at the words, almost opening my mouth to tell him to shut up. I don’t need my warriors worrying about freezing to death. But there’s no need.
“But I mean real snow and a wind that left you feeling naked and exposed as it funnelled between the two hills. Not like this,” there’s scorn in Icel’s words, and I almost choke with outraged laughter.
Damn the bastard. His stories are always meant to inspire or frustrate. Frustrate most of the time. Today he’s trying for scorn. Icel will get the men to Jarl Halfdan one way or another. He has revenge on his mind, just as much as I do. And, of course, there’s Edmund as well.
I consider the last time I laid eyes on Jarl Halfdan, pleased to feel the familiar roar of outrage as then, tempered only by the knowledge that since our previous encounter, I’ve beaten back the three other jarls. Halfdan will be no match for my warriors and me. Doubt doesn’t even enter my mind about that.
“It’s impossible to see anything,” Edmund’s voice is edged with frustration as it floats back to me, his words reminding me of his uncharacteristic silence. In the short time since the storm began, the visibility has reduced to little more than above Haden’s head. It’s dangerous to be out here, or at least it would be, if not for the river and the horses own initiative.
“We need to find shelter,” Edmund’s words chill me more thoroughly than the storm, and yet, he’s right.
“There should be trees to the north,” Rudolf offers. I agree with him, but right now, north is merely a wall of driving snowflakes, so thick it should be possible to count the delicate pattern on every single one before they join their allies on the ground or on my cloak or in Haden’s hair.
As quickly as I can, I make my way back to Edmund’s side. He scowls at me, his eye fierce, his displeasure written into the lines of his rigid body.
“I didn’t make it fucking snow,” I feel stung into stating.
“Did I say you bloody did?” His tone could freeze me if the snow and the wind weren’t already doing so.
“Right, we’ll stretch out in a line, heading inland. If everyone keeps the person in front of them insight, we shouldn’t lose one another while the lead horse seeks out shelter.” It’s the best I can offer, and my warriors know it.
“I’ll go first,” Rudolf calls, his cheery voice a counterpart to the grumbling of the older men. “I’ve been this way before.”
“Go on then. Pybba, follow him. Icel, follow Pybba, Hereman follow Pybba.”
“My Lord, with due respect, I think we can form a line without you ordering us to do so,” Sæbald’s words aren’t quite the criticism they sound.
“Just don’t get bloody lost,” I caution, swallowing down my unease. The only advantage to our current predicament is that no one else can fight in this. They’ll be sheltered beneath a roof and with a roaring fire in the hearth, or at least I hope they will be.
Oh, the life of the warrior king of Mercia. It’s filled with comfort, fine wine, and thick furs—my arse.
Eventually, I direct Haden to follow the swaying backside of Cinder, aware that only Edmund lingers behind me, close to the river. We still walk northwards but in one single line, abreast, not one behind the other.
“I hate this fucking river,” I hear Edmund whinge but don’t reply. I understand why. I feel the same, but the Trent hasn’t always been how the Raiders infiltrate Mercia. Once, long before my birth, it was merely a river, teeming with fish and offering the hazards of a flood to rejuvenate the over-worked fields close to the river, even if it’s a disaster at the time.
I cower deep inside my cloak. I’m not one for misery, but my nose is aching from the cold, and I can feel my cheeks burning beneath the onslaught of the brisk wind and driving snow. Not even the thought of a cheery hearth can delude me into feeling warm.
Head down, we press on, Haden’s gait steady and slow beneath me, as though he tries each step before allowing any weight to rest on his leg.
“You see, I bet you wish for a warm stable now,” I mutter, thinking of his earlier fury at being caged. I’d welcome a stable now. I’d even welcome a drafty ruin if only it allowed me to kindle a fire and warm my aching hands.
“We’ve found the treeline,” Wærwulf calls, turning Cinder, but waiting for me to follow him first.
“Excellent,” I shiver, the word, only just making it through tight lips.
“Edmund, follow me. We’ve found the treeline,” I lift my voice, pleased it sounds firm.
“About bloody time,” ricochets back to me, and he’s soon beside me, Jethson now a white horse, nose down. Everyone’s exhausted, cold and frustrated. We’re hardly the all-conquering force come to wreak havoc on Jarl Halfdan. I’ll have to change that, but only when we’re warm and safe, beneath the trees.
If we need to ride out again, it’ll have to be when the storm has abated. Right now, we can ride through the Raiders without knowing they’re there. Such a thought isn’t reassuring.
It’s an effort to force a path through the rapidly increasing snow. Even though the other horses have preceded us, the snow’s falling so quickly, their hoof prints are quickly obscured.
And then I duck, beneath a low hanging branch, and the world changes from white to one of dulled browns and greys.
“Fucking bollocks,” Wulfred grumbles, stamping his feet while moving to brush the settling snow from his cloak and Cuthbert. Cuthbert looks as disgusted by the turning weather as his rider. I almost smile at his attempt to dislodge the snow stuck in his mane by rubbing it against Wulfred’s back in the places he’s already cleared the snow from his cloak.
“Ah, you daft bastard. Wait,” Wulfred cautions, noticing his intentions.
Haden noses his way into a space, Jethson behind him. Rudolf is grinning as he meets my gaze.
“Welcome to your residence for the night, My Lord King,” he sweeps a bow, and even the grumpiest of my warriors barks with laughter. And by that, I mean Edmund.
It isn’t dissimilar to where we’ve sheltered so many times before. The only real difference is that it’s much lighter under the trees. That makes no sense to me, but I’m grateful all the same. Better to be able to see than to fall over one another before a fire can be started. It’s also much, much warmer, the thick branches, heavy with pines, shielding us from the worst of the wind.
“Fuck, I hate the winter,” Hereman grouches, rubbing his back even as he stretches it, arcing his body. “It makes every little injury, from a slice on a finger to a hoof in the back, ache like a bastard.”
I’m not about to disagree with him, and neither are the remainder of the men.
“Watchmen?” Icel asks me, his deep rumble disguising his true feelings on the matter.
“Yes, but everyone needs to stay beneath the trees. I can’t imagine anyone attacking us, but well, it pays to be vigilant.” I think back to all the times, even the most recent when I thought we were safe but weren’t.
How the night goes will depend on how far Jarl Halfdan has penetrated Mercia. I’m not convinced that Kyred and his men will have allowed him far, not if they can prevent it. The snow will stop further advances unless they come by river. I have high hopes that the crossing at Littleborough will have been suitably strewn with items to stop that happening. Certainly, I know such precautions will have to be taken at Swarkeston. But that’s further south than we are.
It’s a consolation that the inhabitants of Newark haven’t seen the Raiders on the Trent. That means they must still be further north than we currently are. Unless, of course, they’ve simply ridden down Ermine Street. But that’s not Jarl Halfdan’s intention
, I’m sure of it. He wants to be at Repton.
Repton calls to him in a way nowhere else within Mercia can. No doubt, the thought of controlling the royal mausoleum appeals to him. It doesn’t appeal to me, but the dead have a power that evades the living. Of that, I’m convinced. Although, Mercia’s dead include the usurper kings. I’d happily have them thrown out. Perhaps I might in the future when there’s peace and not war.
“I’ll take first watch,” Icel announces, already striding back the way we’ve come, a lingering hand on Samson’s back. The horse watches him go mournfully; no doubt reminded of their last journey along the Trent.
“I’ll send Rudolf to relieve you,” I call after the hulking shadow of Icel. No doubt he wants to be alone with his thoughts.
I remove Haden’s saddle and tack, carefully checking his wound as I do so. His breath, and that of the other horses and my warriors, quickly warms the space we’ve sheltered within so that by the time I sit before one of the four small fires, I’m sweating.
“What are you doing?” I ask Rudolf, a foul stench in my nostrils. His good cheer is infectious.
“May as well toast it. It’ll taste better, and it’ll be warm. Here, I’ll do yours if you want,” I shake my head, listening to the sizzle of a piece of cheese as it falls into the fire off his piece of bread.
“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, blowing on the toasted bread and bubbling cheese. My stomach growls at the same time.
“Fine, but I’ll do it.” We haven’t travelled to cook meals each night. We have bread, cheese, and cold meat, but I confess, his idea appeals to me.
Edmund glowers at me as I bite into my slightly black bread. His expression only darkens as I bite into the too-hot cheese, reaching for my water bottle at the same time.
“Daft sod,” Pybba offers mockingly. I find myself grinning as widely as Rudolf. Fuck, it feels good to annoy everyone else while enjoying myself.
“Good idea,” I speak around my mouthful of melted cheese and warm bread.
