by C. R. May
THE SCATHING
KING’S BANE
C. R. MAY
Contents
The Middle Lands
Glossary
Frontispiece
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Afterword
Characters
Places/Locations
About the Author
ALSO BY C.R.MAY
Bloodaxe
The Raven and the Cross
Sorrow Hill
Wræcca
Monsters
Dayraven
Terror Gallicus
Nemesis
Fire and Steel
Gods of War
Copyright
This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on real figures, are purely the work of the author’s imagination.
It is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the writer’s prior consent, electronically or in any form of binding or cover other than the form in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Replication or distribution of any part is strictly prohibited without the written permission of the copyright holder.
Copyright © 2017 C. R. May
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 1547238518
ISBN-13: 978-1547238514
The Scathing is for Ioan
ychydig tywysog Cymreig
Glossary
Cantrefs - A lord’s personal bodyguard. The Brito-Welsh equivalent to the English hearth troop.
Duguth – Doughty men, veteran fighters.
Ealdorman – A provincial governor.
Eorle – A hero.
Fiend – The enemy.
Folctoga – A leader in war, the ancient English equivalent to a General or Field Marshal.
Gesith– The king’s closest companions, a bodyguard.
Guda – A male priest/holy man.
Scegth – A light warship.
Scop – A poet/word smith, usually itinerant.
Snaca – Snake, a larger warship, forerunner of the later Viking period dragon ship, the ‘Drakkar’.
Thegn – A nobleman with military obligations.
Wyrd - Fate.
In this year pagans came from Germany and occupied East Anglia, that is the region which became known as the kingdom of England, some of whom invaded Mercia and fought many battles with the British; but, since their leaders were many, their names are missing.
Flores Historiarum. 527AD
1
‘So, this is it then Huwel. Your last days of freedom.’
The rider shared a look and a smirk with his companions as the horses walked on. The harsh screech of a badger call floated across the lea, away to the east the moon had risen to sheen the southern hills. Owain added his voice to that of his friend. ‘It sounds like even old Broch is telling you to keep riding, boy. Sensible animal the badger. Not given to hasty decisions.’
Huwel snorted, turning his head to flash them a grin. ‘That must be why they live in a dampish hole and eat slugs and the like. Where is the sense in that?’ He chuckled along with the rest as a ripple of laughter rolled around the group. Their hearts were as light as the mood as the long journey neared its end, the metallic thrum of horse shoes unnaturally loud in the still airs of the evening. The Briton shook his head in wonder, his voice trailing away as his thoughts turned to home. ‘She’s the one,’ he said as his companions exchanged knowing smiles. ‘Always has been: sturdy, she is. You know,’ he continued with a dreamy smile. ‘My Branwen can carry two sheep up the hillside, one under each arm, and come straight back down for more.’
‘I seen that,’ a voice piped up from the gloom. ‘So, you are telling me now that all that hair I saw sprouting from her armpits was not her own?’
Huwel ignored the jibe. The men were his friends and neighbours, they knew the bond between the pair was stronger than iron, always had been, ever since the days not so long ago when they had all romped together defending the old hill fort atop Mam Tor from imaginary invaders. The carefree days of childhood were behind them now and the spearmen of Powys were pressing down on the little kingdom of The Peaks for real. Now they had the bodies of men and the responsibilities which went with them. Still they had been heady days, the best he now realised, and the memory caused a flutter of happiness within him as his mind drifted back over the years.
Ahead the long grey line of irregular sets, polished smooth by the footfalls of centuries, rose slightly as it neared the dark outline of the earthwork they had sweated to repair last summer as the first attacks had harrowed the land. The moon had risen enough now to pick out the place where the old Roman roadway, storm grey and arrow straight, cut through the dyke on its way to the head of the valley and the fort which was to be their home for the next few weeks. Huwel allowed himself a smile of satisfaction as the good natured banter swirled around him. Handfast men were excused from militia duties unless the kingdom came under serious attack. The raids of late, both here in the south and in the north along the border with the kingdom of Elmet were little more than pinpricks. Let the others freeze their balls off staring into the dark, night after night. Be the last man to laugh and you laugh the longest, his old da used to say.
The column passed through the great earthwork, and spirits lifted as they entered the final few miles of their journey. Within the hour the walls of the fort came into view, the lime washed ramparts shining in their nighttime brilliance.
Cair Luit Coyt stood perched on its bluff above the river, the brooding sentinel straddling Watling Street as it had ever since the walls had echoed to the hobnailed sandals of the Empire’s legions, and conversations trailed away as thoughts turned to a hot meal and a warm bed. High above ragged clouds moved away to the east, the torn edges haloed silver as the moon cast its wan light upon the earth. The end of their trek in plain sight, the little war troop instinctively put back their heels and increased the pace.
The tumbledown walls of the old Roman town of Letocetum stood off to one side, the timeworn remains testament to the years of strife which had plagued the borderlands over the course of the previous centuries, and Huwel saw to his surprise that men were moving among them. At the head of the column Cadwr had seen it too, and Huwel snorted at his leader’s caution as he raised an arm, slowing his mount to a walk as he ran his eyes over the strangers. A voice carried from the rear as the men there peered ahead to see the cause of the sudden drop in pace. ‘The boys we are relieving are coming out to meet us, all friendly like, Cadwr. Anyone would think that they were eager to be away.’
To Huwel’s surprise the big warrior, usually so jovial despite the militiamen’s unsoldierly ways ignored the comment, and he sensed the first feelings of unease spreading through the group at the change in their leader’s demeanour. As the horses slowed the riders instinctively bunched together, hands moving from rein to spear shaft as they exchanged worried glances. With a squeeze of his knees Huwel urged his mount alongside the toug
h veteran.
‘Who do you think they are, Cadwr?’
The big man raised his chin and pointed along the valley. ‘That may well be a welcoming party lad, but not the kind we were expecting.’
Huwel looked up ahead. Horsemen were beginning to emerge onto the roadway, the pale moonlight reflecting dully from helm and spear blade as they came. He cast a look at his leader as the others caught the mood and moved forward to fill the width of the track. ‘Men of Powys?’
Cadwr gave a curt nod. ‘That is my guess.’ As shields were hefted and spears couched, he raised his voice to carry. ‘It looks like we are going to have to fight our way through, boys. Keep together, hit them hard and keep riding. If you break through, don’t stop. Take the road east and make your way back home as best you can.’
Owain looked along the line, all the earlier mirth driven from the shepherd as the seriousness of their situation became obvious. ‘What about the men in the fort? They will see us approaching, won’t they make a sally to help us through?’
Cadwr cast a look at Huwel as he answered for him. ‘Dead men can’t mount attacks, Owain.’
‘What about moving back to the Grey Bank? We can hold them at the earthwork, that’s what we laboured all last summer for. There’s a ditch in front and a palisade on top. All we would have to do is throw a line of shields across and block the roadway.’
Cadwr shook his head sadly. ‘It’s too late for that, Owain. There are horsemen behind us already.’
The men in the group craned their necks as one, peering back along the ancient stones before turning back with sullen expressions as they saw that their leader was right.
‘Remember,’ he said as the Powys’ horsemen began to fan out into a skirmish line to bar the road ahead. ‘Go in full tilt. Stick to the road if you can and form a wedge on me. Hit hard and ride hard.’ He gave them a final smile of encouragement as the horses picked up the change in mood, tossing their heads and skittering excitedly.
‘Time is against us boys,’ he cried, ‘and there will be none left over for rescues. If a man goes down, leave him; he will be as good as dead already. Hit them hard,’ he smiled savagely, ‘and you will live to see your loved ones again.’
Lupine howls cut the night air as the men of The Peaks dug in their heels, urged their mounts forward and hunkered down into their shields. Huwel kept pace with his leader as the group picked up speed, raising his eyes to search the gloom as the tide of horseflesh thundered on. A hundred yards to go and the Powys’ horsemen were still hurrying to form their wall, and Huwel felt the first surge of hope build within him as he realised that Cadwr’s plan could work. If they could hit the enemy before their defences were complete their own horses would find a way through, barging horsemen and spearmen aside in an irresistible tide. The enemy quickly grew to fill the youth’s vision, and a heartbeat later the peace of the valley was shattered as men and animals came together in a bone jarring crash. Cadwr’s horse was bred and trained for battle and it knew its work; snaking this way and that it carved a path through the Powys’ barricade as Huwel clung on in its wake. Pale columns flashed by, as white as old bones in the moonlight, and Huwel knew that they had broken through to the ruined walls of the old Roman mansio and bath-houses.
Several spearmen were gathered at the entrance to the old stone bridge, craning their necks to see the cause of the commotion which had drawn them from their watch fires, but the pair were past them and clattering across before the guards had time to react. As they gained the eastern bank the men of The Peaks could see for the first time that the meadow on the far side of the stream was a field of light, a hundred campfires mirroring the star speckled sky above. Made overconfident by their numbers the invaders had left the way clear, and Cadwr led Huwel eastwards along the old stone sets of Watling Street itself as they plunged back into darkness.
Out beyond the campfires the dome of Oak Hill dominated the skyline, the crown of trees which had lent the mound its name painted white by the ascendant moon, and soon they were leaving the ancient road behind them as Cadwr took a dusty track towards the lower slopes. Within a mile they had breasted a grassy knoll and Cadwr drew rein, hauling his mount around as he peered back to the west. Breathless after the ride Huwel came up, but all sense of elation at their escape was driven from him as he saw the concern still etched on the big man’s face.
‘What’s wrong?’
Cadwr spat in disgust. ‘There are riders following, that’s why we left the road. I had hoped to give them the slip but it would seem that they are determined to nab us.’
Huwel’s face lit up as a thought came to him. ‘They could be our boys? They may have got through!’
‘No,’ Cadwr replied with a sour look which crushed the younger man’s hopes, ‘they are not. Come on lad,’ he said sadly. ‘There is only one thing for it.’
Before Huwel could question him further Cadwr had hauled the head of his mount back to the east, the big warrior urging the horse onwards as the clatter of hoofbeats carried to them on the wind. A mile further on a spur of land came down to pinch the path and Cadwr raised a hand to slow his friend as he slid to the ground. Huwel curbed his own mount, looking across in surprise as the great ribcage of his horse moved like bellows beneath him. The warrior recognised the militiaman’s confusion and explained. ‘We can’t outrun them, our horses have been travelling all day, theirs are fresh. Our only hope was that they would prefer the delights of the fireside to puncturing our sorry hides. Take yourself off,’ he said with a jerk of his head as he unhooked his shield from the crupper. ‘Follow the valley of the River Mease northwards and tell Sawyl Penuchel what you have seen. You saw the size of the army of Powys, the people in The Peaks need to know what is happening down here as soon as they can if they are to stand any chance of surviving the onslaught.’
Huwel made to argue, but the worries of the ride finally caught up with the man and Cadwr cut him dead. ‘Get away boy and do as I say.’ Huwel’s face fell, and Cadwr regretted his tone instantly, throwing the youth a paternal smile as he explained his reasoning. ‘God gave us all a task to perform in life and the means to do it. He made me a warrior, to bring light where before there was only darkness,’ he said as a look of pride came into his features. ‘And I was good at it, He will be pleased. He had other plans for you Huwel, plans involving a strong woman and a hut knee deep in little ones I am thinking. Now, get yourself away from here and let me do God’s work. Powys’ horsemen hold no fear for me, lovelorn shepherdesses scare me shitless!’
Huwel smiled despite the grimness of the moment, and a nod came as he saw the sense in the big man’s decision. He hauled at his reins as the clatter of hooves grew louder in their ears, turning to fix the warrior’s face in his memory. ‘I will name a son in your honour, Cadwr,’ he said proudly as the warrior bestrode the track and drew his sword. ‘May the good Lord receive your soul.’
‘Good hit!’ A covey of rooks rose into the cool spring air, the shrill clamour building as they gave voice to their outrage at the act. Wihta laughed, clapping his son on the shoulder as the dog bounded away. Swinna beamed at the praise as he fished inside the bag for another pebble. ‘It’s just a matter of practice, father,’ he said with a self depreciating shrug. ‘You could have done just as well.’
Withta laughed again. Modesty was the least of the boy’s virtues. Fourteen winters had passed by in a flash, he would have to give more thought to a wife for the lad. ‘You know full well that I would have been lucky to hit the tree from this distance. I never could master the sling. How many is that now: three?’
Swinna slid his foot across, lifting the edge of the leather sack with the toe of his boot to reveal the broken bodies within. ‘Five, including that one.’
‘That’s enough, then. Take them back to your mother and sister when the dog gets back, I am going up to the top field to check on your brother. That ploughing needs to be completed today, one of Gwynfor’s boys will be here in the morning to take the ox away.
’
Giving his son an affectionate pat on the shoulder, the Engle started back up the slope as the air about him echoed to the cawing of angry birds. Wihta’s mind wandered as he paced the hillside. The spring sunshine fell upon his face as he left the shadow of the trees, and he allowed himself a smile of contentment as he found that the warmth reflected his mood. Treading the dewy grass he considered his life and found that it was good. The gods had blessed him with two strong sons and a daughter of elfin beauty, a sturdy wife and a smallholding which served to fill their bellies more often than not. True, he mused, he had had to hack the fields from the ancient greenwood and build a hall where none had ever stood before, but he had been a young man then, newlywed, and his own father, neighbours and friends had pitched in to help set the couple on their way.
