by M J Porter
“I’ll do it,” Hereman brings Billy close to me. Billy’s black coat shimmers as though the liquid night.
“Do what?” My tone is far from friendly, as I note the wince of pain again even while he speaks.
“Take Jarl Halfdan in one to one combat. I’ll hunt him down and find him. It’ll be my fucking pleasure.”
“How would you do that?” I demand to know. “You’re a big man, Hereman. It’s not as though you can hide behind others. And, you’re quite unmistakable.” Hereman shrugs, reaching his hand towards his beard to crack an icicle from amongst the mass, lips tight with pain.
“I can do it,” he merely repeats, his stubbornness making me smile, despite it all.
“I don’t doubt that. The question isn’t if you can, but how you can. We don’t even know where Jarl Halfdan is. He might be surrounded by a hundred of his thousand warriors. How would you get through them?”
“Well, that would be for you to organise. I only promised to kill the fucker.” Hereman’s voice holds no humour, even though I turn aside, a grin on my tight lips.
“I thank you for your offer,” I bow my head before him when I’m confident of not laughing. Hereman would do it. I know he would. Equally, I can’t think of a single one of my warriors who wouldn’t offer to do the same. We all want Jarl Halfdan dead, some more than others, admittedly, but all of us, all the same.
We just need to find a way to do it.
I consider Jarl Halfdan then. So far, he’s not struck me as a charming man, not that anyone needs to be nice to bring warriors to their side. But there should be something about a war leader, some charisma that makes it impossible not to fall under his spell, to believe the outrageous claims that tumble from his lips. He has a lot of men. I can’t deny that. He had many at Repton. He’s recruited yet more to replace the number that died.
Some even risked their lives to rescue him from Littleborough. But why still evades me.
Is it merely the allure of his brother? I doubt anyone within Mercia, Wessex, East Anglia or Northumbria is ignorant of who Ivarr was. But Ivarr is dead, and Jarl Halfdan isn’t living up to his brother’s reputation. Far from it. Yet, the jarls Anwend, Oscetel and Guthrum joined with him. And now, he has the men of Northumbria sending their sons to fight in their place.
There’s something about Jarl Halfdan that I fail to understand but which others notice, until, of course, they no longer do.
“What’s at Gainsborough?” Rudolf asks the question. Dever’s eyes are busy on the ground beneath his feet. It’s getting colder, not warmer, as the night drags on. The patches that have been cleared are both easier going than virgin snow but also more dangerous.
In the places where man or beast have relieved themselves, the water has long since frozen, and who wants to slip on someone’s piss? The steaming heaps of horse shit are more welcome. They’re easier to see and easier to avoid, the smell overwhelming the sharp scent of winter.
“Fuck all,” Edmund has brought his sourness back to my side, leaving the leading of our group to Goda. I nod in greeting, noting that Edmund hasn’t removed the slashes of blood that cover his exposed skin. They flash darkly against the blue pallor of the cold. It’s not an appealing look. His old eye wound is starkly illuminated, his rage evident in his posture. Jethson snorts at Haden, not an unwelcoming sound but hardly friendly. His head hangs low. Jethson has grown tired of forging a path through the snow.
“Have you been to Gainsborough?” I ask him, surprise in my voice.
“No, but I know Mercia. Gainsborough is smaller than Northampton, smaller than Grantabridge. It’s hardly somewhere for which I’m keen to die.” His words drip with disdain.
“Jarl Halfdan has a thing for small places,” I muse. Repton might be a Mercian mausoleum, but it’s tiny. Torksey was little more than a temporary camp, and now he’s set his sights on Gainsborough. The only thing these places have in common is that they’re all on the Trent. It’s the Trent that gives Jarl Halfdan his opening into Mercia, as though the kingdom wants to be invaded.
Without his ships, Jarl Halfdan would be nothing. But of course, it’s ships that Mercia doesn’t have, not in great numbers, only for trading. What Mercia has is oak for building boats and horses to race to counter the Raiders.
“Jarl Halfdan is a small thing,” Edmund all but spits. I hold my tongue. Edmund is entitled to his hatred. I just need to hope that he puts it aside when we face the enemy in battle. An angry Edmund might make mistakes.
“I don’t think so,” I eventually counter. “Without Jarl Halfdan, Mercia wouldn’t be endangered. The Raiders to the south only came because King Alfred enticed them from Wessex. The Grantabridge jarls, equally, are only in Mercia because of Halfdan.”
“Then,” and Edmund’s single eye blazes so bright I think I might burn, “we must kill Jarl Halfdan.”
“I agree.”
“I imagine you mean to do it?” Edmund’s scorn is more potent than Pybba’s prohibition.
“I do, yes.”
“Then you’ll die a fool, and Mercia will be broken apart, split between Jarl Halfdan and whomsoever his new allies are.”
“Without Jarl Halfdan, his alliances will crumble, at least, splinter, as happened after Repton.”
“Yes, they will, but how do you mean to reach a man who will stand at the back of a thousand warriors, watching and never taking part? He won’t stand forward, as you would, My Lord King.” Again, disparagement, but Edmund has given me an idea, and so I grin, allowing it to roll around my head while my men pass ideas back and forth, far from quiet, far from cowed by Halfdan’s persistence.
I have my warriors and those that have followed me from Northampton.
Jarl Halfdan has ten times that number.
It was never going to be a fair fight, but then, I’m not known for being fucking fair.
Chapter 21
I’m not happy about it, but there’s someone amongst our number who can and will be able to make his way to Jarl Halfdan’s side without being noticed. Rudolf.
My heart almost quails when the realisation hits me as we make our way over the ford at Littleborough. The place is heavy with memories; this is where I discovered Edmund’s injury and where I believed Icel dead. Even though Icel now rides in front, and Edmund is none the worse for his loss of sight, the recollections are strong. Not that the conditions could be any more different.
It’s cold enough for my beard to be filled with particles of ice, for the same to have formed in Haden’s tail, and for the comfort of my warm boots to be wanting.
We rode for much of the night, but I did call a halt, allowing men and beast to sleep where they could, the dubious shelter of a long-abandoned building ensuring some protection from the cold, even if it lacked a roof. I allowed fires to be lit. It’s not, after all, a secret that I hunt Jarl Halfdan. He knew enough to send warriors to try and kill us on the other side of the Trent. It might surprise him that I yet live, although probably not. We’ve circled one another before. We both survived that.
And now, almost within sight of Gainsborough, I pull Rudolf to my side. Pybba is incandescent with rage, and others in the group are complaining as well. Why they ask, would I send the newest recruit? It seems none of them can appreciate that sending a sprightly lad, with no visible wounds to his face, hands, or body, will attract no suspicion at all. Or at least, much less than sending a one-eyed, one-handed, or giant of a monster to infiltrate Halfdan and his warriors. Not to mention those missing fingers, pieces of an ear or just those plain hobbled by old wounds that I see when I look at them, but which they’ve forgotten about because that’s what we do.
We take our wounds, we learn from them, we heal, and then they become so much a part of us, we don’t consider them anymore. We don’t see them. Not unless the cold reminds us.
“You know what to do?” My voice is harsh, and he winces before swallowing heavily and then nodding.
“You know to be careful, to keep yourself safe and to c
ome back alive?” These words are softer, as Rudolf pats Dever. “Dever won’t move without you,” I caution, hoping that such a check on his ambitions will stop Rudolf from being overly foolish.
“Stop worrying,” but his words are pitched too high. He clears his throat, begins again, a hint of surprise in his eyes at such a reaction.
“I know what to do, and I know what not to do. I know when to take a risk and when to realise it’s all pointless. But I won’t let you down. You have my oath.” His words are filled with conviction by the time he finishes, eyes blazing, chest heaving. He’s unrecognisable from the youth he was less than half a year ago. Well, apart from his continued tendency to too many elbows and knees.
“Then you need to go,” I state firmly, trying to deny my desire to hold him back, to cancel my instructions to him, to tell him it was all a big fat fucking mistake.
We’ve lingered during the day, although it’s been painful, the combined problems of too little sleep and too much cold weighing on us all. But Rudolf needs the cover of darkness to make his way into Jarl Halfdan’s camp, and my warriors need the distraction of dawn to assist them when our attack finally comes.
“Aye, My Lord,” Rudolf is already standing in the snow, Dever watching him with sleepy interest. Rudolf stifles a yawn, and I’m about to open my mouth, call him back when he grins and turns to scamper away.
The snow here is well-trodden, the path to Gainsborough easy to see. Horses have passed this way, many of them, the brown hue speaking of old blood. I don’t know whose. Neither can I tell how many went south and how many north. My fellow Mercians under Turhtredus haven’t yet joined me, a cause for concern, but we can’t wait, not because I’m impatient, but because it’s too fucking cold.
The river has been sluggish, ice threatening to coat it, even where it runs high and low, the far distant pull of the Humber tugging at it, or letting it go, with little or no rhythm. Any ships’ commander would know the answers to the Trent’s contrary ways, but I don’t. I know horses and weapons. I know the fucking Raiders. They’re welcome to the perverseness of the sea, and the river, and the complications of sails and oars and other such things.
Rudolf quickly disappears inland, reminding me of his agility and youth. I turn to face Edmund, Pybba and Hereman, Icel as well. Pybba’s furious, Edmund’s face downturned, Hereman’s faintly smiling, the promise of what’s to come making him forget that I turned down his offer of assistance. Icel. Well, Icel is Icel. He’s about as easy to disentangle as a ball of twine stretched and rerolled so many times it’s impossible to know which end is the beginning and which the end.
“This is a fucking stupid idea,” Pybba rages, turning Brimman aside, and taking Dever with him. I nod. I’m not disagreeing. Edmund grunts, returning to our small camp. There’s a campfire, warm meat cooking, the hare taken by surprise and easily caught. It might only be a mouthful each, but warm food in the belly can get a man through the coldest and darkest of nights, especially with the promise of a bloody battle with the sunrise.
Icel begins to speak.
“In the reign of Wiglaf, I was no older than Rudolf. I didn’t have his bravery, but I had his need to impress. I lived through it. So will he.” The words are meant to sound reassuring, and they both do and don’t accomplish that. I remain where I am, aware that the rest of my warriors stream away, keen to eat and sleep, to allow the horses some rest, to think their dark thoughts, to wonder at my decisions.
I thought Jarl Halfdan would send more warriors to hunt me down, but the non-appearance of the rest of the Mercians leads me to believe that he did and that they stayed to the east of the river, not the west.
I spare a thought for my missing men, hoping that Kyred has made it to Newark, that the bishops are even now sending more men, especially Burgheard of Lincoln. Soon, soon, I’ll need everything to fall into place. Soon, soon, I’ll leave my warriors to carry out my instructions in my absence. I know they won’t let me down, even if they spit and rant while doing so.
I’ve sent Rudolf inland, but I scamper along the riverbank. It’s bastard cold, the lure of the water almost enough to send me into its reaches. But I have things to do.
My warriors sleep, all apart from Goda, and I forced him to allow me beyond his guard and into the wilderness. He’ll face the wrath of his comrades in the morning. There’s nothing I can do about it. They’ll realise that they would have done the same.
My Aunt would curse me for my actions, but Rudolf can’t do this alone. I need to assist him, even if he doesn’t know I’m there.
Haden is with the rest of the horses, Dever as well. I move on foot, the ground threatening to trip me with every step I take. It’s frozen solid, even the swirls of the soil, which might typically yield beneath my boots, failing to do that. It only makes it even more difficult.
Night has long since fallen, the moon obliterated by passing clouds, only a slither showing in defiance of the ease with which it lit our path two nights since. In the distance, there’s a haze over Gainsborough, flickering flames reaching into the sky, but it’s the river that guides me. If I had to rely on the fires, I’d not find it. The river ensures that I do.
Rudolf’s task is to infiltrate the Raiders. I could have sent Wærwulf, but Magnus has alerted me to the very simple fact that Jarl Halfdan’s force doesn’t entirely comprise Raiders. There are boys, or rather young men, from north of the Humber, and Rudolf is confident and cheeky enough to pretend to what he isn’t.
And my task? It’s simply to ensure that Rudolf lives through this. I know Pybba, Hereman, and Icel would more than willingly have performed my self-imposed task had I asked them, but I can’t risk it. No. I’ve sent Rudolf to do this, and it falls to me to ensure he survives.
I can hear my Aunt in my head, cursing me for my misplaced sense of honour. Our imaginary conversation keeps me alert as I scamper along the river. There are ominous sounds of ice fracturing and water gurgling. Such gives me hope that there’ll be no ships on the river. I can’t imagine Jarl Halfdan wanting to risk his vessels with the obstinate nature of the frozen water. It would be altogether too easy for the ships to rupture. Then, he’d have no means of escape and no means of getting deeper into Mercia unless he took horses or retreated north of the Humber.
I don’t think he’ll do that, not a second time.
Jarl Halfdan has returned to Mercia, and his ambitions are as rampant as last time, and more, they’re riddled with the knowledge that last time, he failed when he thought to win. If he loses again, I can’t see that he’ll keep the loyalty of his warriors. After all, he’ll have nothing with which to buy their loyalty. No leader can send men to their death when there’s no treasure involved. Well. Most men can’t. Again, I think of my warriors. They fight for Mercia, not for wealth and gold.
Fuck knows what motivates the Raiders if it’s not pure greed.
“Fuck,” I slip on the river bank, the word escaping my mouth even though I’ve vowed to silence. I’m too close to Gainsborough to be making such mistakes. I can’t risk being discovered. Not now. Rudolf’s life depends on my survival.
I run all the arguments through my head, the ones about wounds and being instantly recognisable, and appreciate my recklessness. I right myself, hesitate to ensure no one has heard me and then continue along the uneven path I’m fashioning. Perhaps, I should just walk upright, straight into the enemy camp, all this scrabbling in the dirt and ice, the snow turning to water and freezing once more, making it even more lethal, but no. Jarl Halfdan would know who I was. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. I’m sure of it.
Eventually, I begin to hear the rumble of conversation, the dull murmur of voices trying to keep one another awake on watch duty. I pause, strain to listen to all I can. The glow of flames illuminates the space before me, but I don’t want to look at it. My eyes are accustomed to the dark. I’ll blind myself if I stare directly at the campfires.
Instead, I look along the stretch of the river. It runs remarkably strai
ght here. In the distance, just about illuminated by the slither of moonlight, I can see some ships, but only one of them lies in the water. The others have been brought ashore. I try and count them. Only it’s too dark until I work my way beyond them. Jarl Halfdan is very confident of his success if he’s raised the ships from the water. Although, well, that single ship assures me that he’ll run if needs be. It shouldn’t surprise me that he’s a craven bastard.
On my front, I work my way up the riverbank, eyes low, the sharp scent of cold in my nostrils. It’s cold, on the ground, the snow all but ice, but at least it’s not damp and sodden. That would be worse, sinking into my byrnie, trews and threatening rust for my weapons.
I’ve moved away from the voices. When I risk looking, the view before me is dark and uninviting. There are some shelters before me, and I have to assume that this is Gainsborough itself. Not that I can see much, but it looks to be little bigger than Repton, the promise of a deep ditch and a half-finished rampart just about visible, for all the Raiders surround it.
But, with the snow and ice, the rampart, half-built or not, is enough of a deterrent, for now. The very thing that has hampered my progress assists those inside. I imagine that Jarl Halfdan will assault the settlement as soon as the weather clears. For now, as far as I can see, he’s set a camp to the north and the south of Gainsborough. I don’t know if it extends to the east, but there’s not one by the riverbank, other than the two voices I heard earlier, close to the ships.
Once more, I’m surprised that the Raiders are so callous of their ships. I would expect them to mount a much heavier presence there, but no doubt, they don’t expect the Mercians. Not yet. If at all. Not when they’ve sent Kyred running.
Fuckers.
I continue my journey, boots pressed into the snow at an angle, feet flat, to drive me forward, my face barely above the covered ground. And then I reach my destination and sink into the ditch.
It’s deeper than I expected, the snow reaching to the top of my thighs. In no time at all, my feet will be as cold as my face, but I pull my cloak over my head and stand, forcing my way through the snow. If someone were to come and look, it would be easy to see that something passed this way, but I’m counting on the arrogance of the Raiders. They’ve proved themselves remarkably bad at understanding what their eyes tell them.
