by M J Porter
“It’s good when you can’t be arsed to cook anything,” Rudolf agrees, and by then, others are following his example. Rudolf, because sometimes he can do so, merely enjoys the spectacle without ridiculing the others. Not that everyone has the same success.
“Fuck,” all eyes turn to Leonath. He’s up on his knees, a thin twig in one hand, seax in the other, as he tries to scoop his rapidly burning bread from the heart of the fire he sits around.
“Bollocks,” he further exclaims, a thoroughly blackened square of bread at his feet.
“I can’t eat that,” he complains, looking at Rudolf as though it’s his fault, face set in a glower of frustration.
“Here, have some of mine,” Siric offers, hastily dividing his food. I’m aware of Rudolf moving so that he isn’t visible to Leonath and shake my head at his folly. Prepared to play with the big boys until one of them might want a piece of him.
“It’s not going to stop snowing,” Pybba’s words are mournful, as he holds his handless arm as close to the fire as possible. His face is edged with pain, the leaping flames making him appear both white and shadowed, almost hallowed. I swallow at the sight of him. Am I seeing an image of the future at that moment? I cough, ground myself back in the immediacy of our situation.
“It hurts as though the hand is still there,” he explains softly, and I nod in understanding. I look at my men. What scars we all carry. We’re all battered and bruised, and not just physically.
We’re all evil fuckers, when we need to be. It doesn’t mean we take pleasure in it. Well, not all the time. Of course, it depends on who our enemy is.
We wear our actions in more than just the fine lines around our eyes, the plethora of long-healed cuts and nicks taken in battle or training, from the brawls that can happen when any man has drunk more than his fill.
And it’s far from done.
And then Edmund begins to speak. His words somehow both mournful and prideful.
“A man of the Hwicce,
He gulped mead at midnight feasts.
Slew Raiders, night and day.
Brave Athelstan, long will his valour endure.”
Silence greets the words, but not bitterness, my memories tumbling down paths I’ve not considered since Athelstan’s death on the day the Raiders first tracked me down. It feels like years ago, but it isn’t, not at all.
“Beornberht, son of the Magonsæte.
A proud man, a wise man, a strong man.
He fought and pierced with spears.
Above the blood, he slew with swords.”
Beornberht had been one of my favoured comrades, just as Edmund and Icel, his voice a counter to their most virulent complaints.
“A man fought for Mercia.
Against Raiders and foes.
Shield flashing red,
Brave Oslac, slew Raiders each seven-day.”
I know I’m not alone in gazing into the fire, in seeking out memories of my lost men. Only then Edmund offers new words, not those he composed for Icel, but fresh ones.
“Hereberht was at the forefront, brave in battle.
He stained his spear, and splashed with blood
A thousand and more before Halfdan’s men
His bravery cut short his life.”
Somehow, no matter how eloquent the scop had been, Edmund’s words cut the deepest.
“A friend I have lost, faithful he was,
After joy, there was silence
Red his sword, let it never be cleansed
A friend I have lost, brave Eoppa.”
Edmund speaks so coherently, more able to voice my thoughts than any other. But then, with a quirk of his head, a smile on his lips, he rouses us to greater cheer
“Sturdy and strong, it would be wrong not to praise them.
Amid blood-red blades, in black sockets.
The war-hounds fought fiercely, tight formation.
Of the war band of Coelwulf, I would think it a burden,
To leave any in the shape of man alive.”
“We’ll honour them all by killing Jarl Halfdan and the scum who flock to him,” Icel’s voice rumbles around the fire as he appears before us from his watch duty. He eyes Edmund thoughtfully, even as the rest of my warriors cheer, offering their promises to the dead. I watch my two warriors, aware Hereman does the same, Gardulf too. Two men, sizing one another up. They’ve made their peace, I thought, but perhaps not quite yet.
Icel nods, Edmund accepting whatever silent communication passes between them, and then the moment’s broken, a snap of a dried twig, and we’re all reaching for our weapons. It isn’t as though we’ve made a secret of our hideaway, not with four fires, not with the number of men.
“Sorry,” Lyfing calls, his voice high and edged with laughter. “I went to piss,” he erupts into the firelight, his lips parted in laughter.
“Fucking branches,” he objects, sagging down beside the fire, even as Rudolf explodes to his feet with no effort at all.
“I’ll take next watch,” Rudolf announces jauntily, while others, now the threat has gone, turn to roll themselves in cloaks and any other clothes they might have. It’ll be a bitter night, the howling of the wind penetrating our warm space as though from far away.
“I’ll relieve you,” Lyfing calls, an apology in his words. I shake my head, my mind still on my lost men and the need for vengeance. I need to temper it or risk losing all because my rage is too great. I’m not going to allow that to happen. Angry warriors make mistakes, overreach themselves, think of vengeance before practicality.
I’ll ensure Jarl Halfdan never returns to Mercia again if he even manages to fucking leave.
Chapter 18
We break into a world changed overnight.
The promise of the Trent is visible; how could it not be, but between us and it, lies a swathe of white more impassable than the river in flood.
“Fuck,” I gaze at it in dismay. Yes, we walked through the blizzard close to London, but this is something else entirely. I want to turn northwards, to where I hope Jarl Halfdan and his cronies will be, but with the trees at my back, I just can’t see far enough.
“Fucking wonderful,” Pybba’s words drip with scorn.
The path we’ve taken to the shelter of the trees is entirely obscured, not even a pattering of bird or animal prints visible in the thick snow that reaches well beyond my knees, and I’m a tall man.
“It’s bloody impossible.” Edmund, never slow to share his dire predictions.
“It can’t be,” I huff, his words more than anything, forcing me to admit that even if I wanted to shelter by the fire until the snow melted, I can’t. Not with Mercia threatened.
“If we can’t move, neither can fucking Halfdan,” Edmund interjects. I don’t turn to look at him, my eyes on the impossibility of yet another task that must be completed.
“The weather is doing us a favour. We can’t not take the opportunity it offers.” Icel speaks with resolution. Sometimes I believe he can make men stronger just with the right words offered at an opportune moment. He need not even heft his sword or war axe. Certainly, I stand taller.
“We need to get on as best we can,” I confirm, not about to debate it, reaching to rub my hand along Haden’s nose. I’ve checked his wound. It hasn’t erupted after yesterday’s excursions. I can hear the sound of my warriors preparing mounts and themselves for what will come. It’s going to be another fucking hard day.
“The sky’s clear. There’ll be no more snow today,” Pybba admits begrudgingly.
“And the wind’s dropped,” Rudolf adds helpfully. He looks altogether too fresh for someone who’s spent a good portion of the night wide awake while the rest of us slept. At least Gardulf has the good graces to yawn. I notice Hereman ruffling his hair, but Edmund’s still all but ignoring his son. Damn fool.
“We need to make our way to the riverbank,” I decide, hoping it’s the right decision. “There’s more chance of the snow being swept into the river there. It should be
easier going.” Silence greets my words. I take it for agreement.
“Then, My Lord, I suggest you go first.” Edmund holds out his hand, but I could happily punch him in the face. Sardonic bastard.
“We’ll walk there,” I determine, trying to convince myself, as I lead Haden beneath the heavily boughed branches. I can smell the cold, the bite clear and cold in my throat, my tongue throbbing with the sensation.
“Fuck,” I settle my cloak closer, ensuring it completely covers my scar. It’ll hurt like a bastard. I spare a thought for Pybba and his missing hand. At least my neck’s still there, and I can massage it when it hurts too much. What can Pybba do to ease his pain?
After all of ten steps, my legs ache, my old wounds throbbing with the action. I grit my teeth. I don’t risk looking back or even forwards more than I need to for assurance that I’m going the right way. It’s going to take a long time to retrace the steps we took last night. And every single bastard step of it’s going to ache.
And it does. Despite the jovial words of my warriors, that boom in the still air, the journey’s torturous. The snow’s uneven, one step up to my ankles, the next almost up to my waist. Haden’s forced to step high or cleave a path with the front of his body.
I’m sweating, frustrated and aching from head to toe by the time the sound of the river becomes immediate. It isn’t in flood, but I’m sure it’s risen from the day before. I grunt, aware it could make it that little bit more difficult for ships to counter the currents.
Indeed, the elements are doing all they can to cast back the unwanted attentions of Jarl Halfdan. Pybba’s right. We have to take advantage of every bit of help we’re receiving. I’m relieved to see the snow lies less thickly on the river banks. The journey should be more manageable if my warriors ever join me.
Heaving cold air into my lungs, both enjoying and regretting the sharp sting and the feeling of my numb lips and thighs, I check on the progress of the others.
At least, I consider, everyone has left the shelter of the tree line, but it’s a motley collection of warriors who come towards me. Rudolf, just behind me, is none the worse for wear, although he breaths deeply. Dever looks at me with resentment, his nostrils rimmed with pieces of ice. I feel a moment of pity for him, which he counters by neighing loudly, the sound causing Rudolf and me to swivel, hands on weapons, looking for the cause of his concern.
His nicker assures me that there’s nothing. Damn the fucker, laughing at me like that. I cast aside all pity. He’s a hardy horse. He might not be as fast anymore, but he makes up for it in sheer stubbornness.
Pybba’s next, and I encourage Haden to walk along the river bank, mindful of the hidden pitfalls of clumps of dead grass hanging on until the warmer weather and holes left by burrowing animals. It won’t do to make it this far and then twist an ankle. I don’t mount up, not yet. I’m going to be waiting for a good long while yet.
“I’ll ride on,” Rudolf announces, hand above his eyes to shield them from the bright sun. “See what’s what.”
“Stay where we can see you,” I caution, thinking it a good idea, all the same.
“I’ll go with him,” Pybba proclaims, mounting Brimman. “I’m not standing around getting cold all over again,” he huffs. I arch an eyebrow, realising he speaks the truth. There’s little or no wind. Yet, the sun offers no heat, only brightness. I’m already starting to lose the feeling in my feet.
“Fucking bollocks. Why can’t the bastard have stayed by his hearth for the winter?” I carp, but my words are unanswered. We all know the reason. The Raiders are contrary fuckers. All of them.
The sooner they’re as cold as the weather, we can sit by our hearths, sharing tales of how we killed them all or sent them tumbling back to their ships, like rats leaving a burning building. We’ll grow bored with the telling.
My belly rumbles, and I snatch the cheese left in my saddlebags. It’s the wrong time of year to have excess food to spare, but all the same, my Aunt has managed to cobble together enough for us all to be able to eat for at least seven days if it takes us that long to get to the north. At this rate, it might just do that.
I squint into the distance, aware that despite my words, Rudolf and Pybba are fast reaching the extent of how far I can see. Not that I can see anyone else about, not on a day like this.
And then I gasp, grateful that none of us is by nature skilled with a bow and arrow because before me, close enough that its inquisitive brown eyes are clearly visible, a stag appears, fleeing through the snow with an effortless I admire. It’s alone and all the more majestic for that.
I point, words failing me as I absorb the magnificence of such a creature, my heart swelling to see something so beautiful when I’m so filled with rage and fury. I feel Haden raise his head only to dismiss the creature entirely. When I swivel my head, none of my comrades is looking.
“Oye,” I call, aware my reaction will scare the animal away.
Rather than the eyes of Icel, or Hereman looking where I point, hands rush to weapons belt, and I sigh. Why have I even bothered?
“What?” Icel calls chin on his chest, hand fumbling.
“The stag,” I retort, an edge of fury to my voice. “I’m trying to show you the damn stag,” but of course, the animal is long gone. I can feel Icel’s eyes on me.
“You call us to arms because of a stag?”
“I didn’t call you to arms. I wanted to show you the animal.”
“Well, you’re shit out of luck,” Edmund snarls, coming closer to me. “We’re hunting Raiders, not fucking stags.”
“I’m sure,” I breathe slowly. “There must be time each day to appreciate the beauty of our surroundings, of what Mercia is?”
“There’ll be time for that when the fuckers are all dead. Now, come on, those two are getting too far ahead. We need to catch them.” Rushing beyond Haden and me, Edmund forces Jethson through the more thinly lying snow. I watch them, mouth twisted with fury.
“He’s such an arsehole, sometimes,” Hereman muses, no hint of apology in those words, even while Gardulf’s young face flashes with fury. Edmund’s making no friends today.
“I saw the stag,” Gardulf mollifies as Hereman careers after his brother. “It was a beautiful creature. Surely a sign of our success in the coming days.” The words startle me. I haven’t realised that Gardulf was akin with the more archaic of Mercia’s religions. Not that it concerns me. I’m surprised my Aunt allows such things, but then, she’s learned her herb-craft from somewhere. Perhaps it was from those, like Eowa, who eschew the church, preferring to convene with nature instead.
Slightly placated, Haden picks a path behind Gardulf. In allowing the other horses to go first, it makes it easier for Haden. He doesn’t need to lift his leg so high or push as much snow aside with each step. Not that he likes it, not at all. In no time at all, I find myself in the firing range of Kermit’s constant farting. The smell ripples through the air, my nose turning upwards, as Haden endeavours to slide past him.
“What have you been feeding him?” I demand to know.
Gardulf meets my question with furrowed brows.
“Just the usual stuff, oats and grasses.” But there’s hesitation in the words.
“And perhaps some things he shouldn’t have been eating,” Gardulf admits reluctantly.
“It’s not going to make you many friends,” I admit, laughing now that I’m out of the firing line, a backwards look assuring me that Leonath had just got a whiff of the same. His eyes are crossed, and his mount looks anything but happy.
“It’s always the same when he’s trotting. It’s better if we flat out gallop.”
“That’s not likely to happen today,” I indicate the pile of snow.
“Then people are going to have to learn to enjoy the smell,” Gardulf retorts, even as Leonath speeds in front of him.
I grin, moving on, ensuring that ahead Rudolf and Pybba stay within sight. The reflection from the snow is blinding, but there’s no heat to it. I can feel
the coldness of the water reaching me to add to my woes. All I need to see now is a Raider ship, and the day would be about fucking perfect.
I wanted to make it to Torksey at the minimum, but I don’t think that will be possible, aware we still need to follow the river back on ourselves. It would have been easier to come by ship, I muse. But, with our skills, we’d have been more likely to end up in the Humber than Torksey. I smirk at the thought. We’re horsemen, not shipmen.
We managed well enough last time, but that was in the heat of summer. A dunking might not have gone amiss. Now, it’ll probably kill us.
Haden trots beyond the point where I’ve seen the stag, and I glance at the snow, hoping to see some hoof prints, but if they were there, I can’t see them. But then, the animal leapt so high, perhaps it barely touched the snow. I shrug. I know what I’ve seen. Whether it’s an omen or not, I don’t know.
Others quickly follow Leonath, Gardulf struggling with his flatulent mount over the treacherous footing. I might have felt some commiseration for him, but the smell’s terrible, like an overripe body left out in the summer sun. I’m not willingly going to endure that again.
And then, ahead, I see that Rudolf and Pybba considerably slow, and I urge Haden on. What have they seen in the rippling waters of the Trent?
Nothing in the water, so it seems. No, their eyes are lifted upwards, a pall of smoke darkening the horizon.
It seems we’ve found the Raiders.
“But what’s burning?” It’s not the first time Rudolf asks the question, and I still have no answer for him.
“Something,” Pybba grumbles, perhaps in the hope Rudolf will be happy with that. But he’s not.
“We won’t know until we get there,” I speak through thin lips, my heart steady in my chest, even while thoughts of revenge drive me onwards.
The smoke is coming from our side of the river. That’s good. The rest of the Mercians under Turhtredus have travelled along Ermine Street and will meet us at Littleborough. And then our combined force can attack the Raiders. I can’t see that any of the bishops will send men out in this weather. It’s going to be Kyred’s men, and mine, and those who serve Turhtredus. If there are ten ships worth of Raiders out there, it’s not going to be enough. Only, I’ll ensure it is enough.
