Bloodline

by Katy Moran

  “What’s tha game, lad?” called one of them.

  “Funny time of day to be out with tha hunting-dog,” said another, laughing. “What’s tha hunting? The moon?”

  Essa put out his hands palm first, to show he had no weapon. “Is the trader-ship coming?” he asked.

  “Sighted up the coast this afternoon, she was. What’s it to you?”

  “I need passage out to her.” Essa held up one of the gold sceattas and the men whistled, lifting their eyebrows with mocking admiration.

  “What’s a stripling like you doing with coin like that?”

  “Run away, hast tha?”

  “Stolen goods, I’m guessing, or worse. And he wants us to send him safe on his way! Shameless.”

  “Got some girl in trouble, I reckon.”

  “We should take you into the hall, and hand you over to our man.”

  “Do you listen to me,” Essa said, as forcefully as he could. “I’m not running away. I’m trying to get back. My lord’s Egric the Atheling, and I must reach him – he’s at Bedricsworth, down the coast.”

  Four of the men laughed, disbelieving, and turned back to their nets and ropes. But one, a white-haired ancient, stood looking at him, shaking his head. “Nay, I believe the lad. I’ve heard of Egric, he was fostered at the big hall ten winters back or more. I recall he were brought out here by old King Edwin, God bless him, so he could have a look at the boats. I say we take the lad out – the colour of his money’s good, any road.”

  “Thank you!” Essa put one of the sceattas in the old man’s age-knotted hand. He winked, as if he was assisting Essa in some youthful prank. I wish it were a game, he thought, trying to picture what life had been like before Egric’s gold ring slid down his finger, so cold against his skin. He glanced down at Fenrir.

  “My dog must come as well.”

  They stared at him, then at Fenrir.

  “She’s half the size of a dray-horse!” They all laughed again, shaking their heads, so he held out another gold sceatta and they shrugged. “All right,” said the white-haired man. “I wouldn’t part a lad from his dog. Bring her in, then.”

  Essa helped carry one of the skiffs to the water, and had to stop to take off his boots and tie the straps so they could hang over his shoulder with the leather saddlebag he’d taken from Grani. The fishermen jeered as he caught them up, wading out up to his knees, the water shockingly cold against his legs. The old man gestured at him to climb in one of the boats; he did, wobbling like a child as another fisherman stepped nimbly in over the side.

  “Sit thee down, lad – if we’re to take tha, we don’t want to drown tha!” said the fisherman, a thick-necked, freckled man with an amber bead hanging from his left earlobe. He laughed loudly, and Essa sat on a bench before the mast, drawing Fenrir close to him till she lay down in the bottom of the boat, flattening herself against the side. He felt useless and awkward, watching the fishermen as they drew long, narrow oars from beneath the benches and fitted them to the sides of the boat. They sat down, the old man in front of Essa, the younger behind, and dug their oars into the water without a splash, in long, graceful movements. The skiff leapt forward in the water, following the other boat. A feeling of freedom unfolded in Essa as he listened to the waves foaming about the prow.

  He would be home soon.

  “What about the sail?” he said, staring at the bunched-up cloth lashed against the mast. The wind suddenly seemed to get up, his hair whipped into his eyes. Long cowhide ropes hung down from the cross mast, flapping in the breeze; he had to keep ducking out of their way.

  Amber-earring laughed again. “Where’s the wind, lad?” he said. “Sail’s no use less the wind’s behind us. And we’re gan across it, so it’s the oars for us.”

  “Lord, he’s an inlander, all right,” said the old man. He turned, glancing suspiciously at Essa over his shoulder. “Thought tha said tha was Egric’s man? He’s no inlander.”

  “I’m not from his hall. He came to mine, and took me.” What does it matter? he thought. You’re happy enough with the gold. He felt the other coins, heavy in his belt-bag.

  The old man said something, but Amber-earring cut him off. “Trader-ho!” he shouted, and Essa turned to stare where he pointed. Off to the east, something came into view on the lightening horizon. The fishermen turned the boat to face it, dipping their oars deep on one side and lifting them clear out of the water on the other so the skiff’s nose swung round.

  Essa stood up, clutching the mast, hardly noticing the skiff wobbling beneath him or hearing the fishermen telling him to sit down, for he was naught but a useless inlander. The dark thing on the horizon grew bigger: a long, lean shape, low in the water, huge sail billowing out in front. Dawn was breaking: back in the great hall at Ad Gefrin, Godsrule would soon know he was gone. He whispered a prayer, sending it to the horse-goddess, to Jesus Christ, and Eostre, goddess of the dawn, because it would be her moon on the rise when this one died, begging all three to save Roe, the old man, and the Fox from Godsrule’s rage if they were ever found out.

  “She’s running with the wind, lad,” said Amber-earring. “Less she changes, tha’ll be in Gipswick in four days, and then it’s only a day or so’s walk to Bedricsworth, if tha doesn’t dawdle around getting girls in trouble.” He laughed again, slapping his hand down hard on the bench. Then both fishermen started hailing, and Essa shouted with them, yelling for his life.

  Four days. Three nights. Four days and three nights, and he would be with Egric, back by the side of his lord. Back by the side of his mother.

  From Northumbria to East Anglia

  ESSA spent days sitting up on the prow with Fenrir curled up beneath him: she was just as tired as he was. Boots off, he dangled his legs over the side, gazing at their long shadow on the green water moving fast below, his whole body singing, thrilled, when the boat cut across a large set of waves, and his feet were splashed with cold water. Dazed, leaning back against a barrel of salted cheese stacked as ballast, he watched the endless movement of the sea. Dark patches would appear on the surface, wrinkled with choppy waves, and when the boat reached these places, she leapt forward, her square sail billowing and tugging the boat through the water.

  The traders gave him a fishing line to hold, and he sat waiting for the twitch at the end of the line, heedless of the sun marching through the sky above him. They were going too fast for mackerel, and it was early in the year for them, but a few times each day he caught one, and broke its back, whispering a silent apology to the fish’s quick, silvery soul as its red gills cracked open.

  Every now and then, one of the four traders would call to him in their strange, crackling tongue and gesture for him to grab a rope, or hold the rudder steady for a moment while the steersman took a piss over the edge. They smiled and were friendly enough, especially at the sight of his gold sceattas. They pressed dried figs on him, and flat, stale bread, and wine. One of the traders was hardly older than Essa, and he cooked the fish over a fire lit in an iron bowl wedged in the stern.

  Essa wondered how Wulf fared now, riding back to his father as if evil spirits were on his tail. They would have to change horses at every village they found. Anwen would be sorry to lose her mare.

  And what’s to stop them buying passage in a trader-boat? They might be a day’s sail behind him, but they could land at the coast north of Wolf Folk territory and miss out riding through enemy marches. Wulf was clever. He would find a way to get back to his father quickly.

  And when he did, Penda would ride out.

  If he hasn’t already. The words played in Essa’s mind over and over again, until they drowned all other thought. When he slept, he saw the village burning.

  In the end, the journey took six days. By the time the traders put him ashore at Gipswick, the moon had died.

  They landed on the dawn tide, after rowing up the long, silver elbow of the river Orwell. Essa had taken an oar and his back and shoulders were hot with pulling against the water. The traders had
laughed at him every time he missed a stroke, but he barely heard. He was home, back in the land of the Wolf Folk.

  The harbour in the bend of the river was peppered with trader-boats, quiet in the thin, silvery light of early morning. When they got to the waterfront where the riverbank was fortified with a wall of slime-blackened woven wattle, the younger of the traders leapt out and tied the bow line to an iron ring set into the earth. Essa scrambled out and took the stern line thrown to him. Following the trader boy’s pointed finger, Essa kneeled and tied it to another iron ring a few paces apart from the first. Standing and stretching, he saw a small hall nestling below a rising sweep of heath land, surrounded by outbuildings and a couple of long store-sheds. He heard goats calling, a tinny clang as someone dropped a pot. The sound of people, of ordinary life, was strange after being cast out on the whispering sea with men he could not talk to.

  Fenrir jumped out after him, walking stiff-legged, then leant forward on her front paws, stretching out her back, easing her cramped limbs. Essa helped unload sacks heavy with amber collected from the frozen beaches of the north, bales of fine sheepskin, and the barrels of salted cheese. He bade the dark-skinned traders farewell, and stood watching them, waving as they rowed out against a tide in flood. The women who had come to trade were loading the sacks and barrels on to a cart while their ass stood waiting, flicking its tail at a fly. Overhead, thick white clouds scudded across the sky. They were arguing about one of the sacks, but Essa was not listening, although the familiar accent was like tasting honey after eating nothing but bitter roots.

  He was back. He was in Wolf Folk territory.

  His throat tight with misgiving, he lifted a sack of knotted amber, and turned to the two women on the jetty. “Hey.” He loaded the sack on to their cart, the amber pieces clinking together musically as he wedged it next to the barrel of cheese. “What’s the news from the border?” They turned to glance at him: one looked but a few years older than Essa, the other older still, as though she could be her mother. They both had round, freckled faces and thick fair hair hanging over their shoulders in fat plaits. They were just a couple of Gipswick traders who knew nothing of kings and spying and betrayal.

  He half wanted this moment to last for ever. Not knowing.

  “I must get on my way. Bedricsworth. What’s the news from the border?” He held up his ring finger. “I’m Egric the Atheling’s man.” He felt a thrill of danger – as if they would know he was in fact wearing Wulf’s ring – Mercian gold, and would have him dragged off to their lord, a proven traitor to the Wolf Folk.

  The older woman raised an eyebrow. “You are, are you? Well, he’s at Bedricsworth – and the only news from the border is that there’s no news. My man and our young lad have been sitting it out for days, waiting for the word. Not right, is it? They could’ve stayed at home longer, instead of—”

  “For the Lady’s sake, Ma, do you just tell him!” The young girl rolled her eyes, grinning at her mother. She reached out a hand and played with Fenrir’s ears. “She’s always going on! Lovely hound you’ve got here. She’s a real beauty, aren’t you, girl? Look, if you want to know, Egric put out the call to muster near on two weeks back, but they’re all waiting by the abbey till he gets Seobert out to fight. And he won’t.”

  There was still a chance.

  “On account of being a Christian!” said the older woman darkly. “I always said they’d be trouble. And Penda won’t wait for ever! If they don’t do something, those Mercians’ll be lording it over everyone, emptying our barns to feed their greedy armies and taking their pick of the young girls. They’ll be having us eat dogs’ heads and newborn babies! They’re like monsters. I don’t—”

  But Essa wasn’t listening. Grabbing her daughter’s arm, he said, “What’s the quickest way to Bedricsworth?”

  “More than half a day’s walk,” said the girl, round-eyed. “Sun at your right shoulder.”

  Then he ran.

  He slowed to a walk, ran again, Fenrir beside him, slowed again, ran. Now he was so close, it felt as if an unseen hand had him by the tunic and was dragging him along. He could not stop. He could only go on. He was spent; he hadn’t slept properly since the bothie. His sword slapped at his left leg as he ran, and he was so hungry that his stomach was gripped by a solid, dull ache. But he could not stop.

  He heard Bedricsworth long before he saw it. Passing through a wood, scattering old pine needles as he ran, a low, rumbling hum grew louder and louder: voices, many voices. The thick white smoke of campfires misted the sky above the woods, and he could smell the sour stink of men sweating out their fear. Egric had mustered an army.

  The pine trees began to thin out. He loped with long strides through the last of the trees, and that was when he saw the first of them. More men than ants in a nest, as far as the eye could see, all gathered in the fields surrounding a jumble of buildings he could just make out in the distance. Some were slumped around the embers of last night’s campfire, talking, others playing knucklestones. Horses stood in groups, cropping the grass. Men lay sleeping, some wandered around in tense little groups, others just sat by themselves, sharpening swords that had hung for years on the wall, without a taste of blood. Many were Essa’s age, boys really, and a few even younger. Walking past a group sitting by a grey-embered fire, he heard one of them say, “What’s the use anyway? Our own king won’t even fight along with us. We’ve not got a chance.”

  He saw an old man fletching an arrow, feathers scattered on the ground beside him as his bent fingers shook and struggled with the arrow-shaft. He saw a fair-haired boy running by with a parcel wrapped in an old tunic. They had mustered everyone.

  This was it – Egric’s army.

  Essa had tried to stop this, and he had failed. Soon, Wulf would be back in his father’s compound with the west secured, and Penda would strike. Essa smiled grimly to himself – the west was not so tight as Penda thought. He tried not to listen to the small voice that whispered it was the Mercian people who would suffer, not Penda himself: Mercian women and children who would flee as the Magonsaete attacked their homes.

  All Essa could do now was fight.

  He broke into a sprint, Fenrir at his side, ignoring the shouts of anger as he knocked over a cup, barged into someone’s shoulder, and scattered the embers of a fire. There were guards at the gate. He bent low to catch his breath, sucking in great gasps, pushing the sweat-soaked hair from his face.

  “Come a long way, have you?” asked the younger guard sarcastically. “There’s no hurry, my friend. Seobert’s still not coming out, and there’s not a man who’ll fight without him.”

  The older guard, a man with long, greying hair and a string of glass beads around his neck said, “Shut your mouth, Frica – where’ve you come from, boy? Is there news from the border? Has the mad dog attacked?”

  Essa shook his head. “I’ve not come from the border. I’m Egric’s man.”

  He held up his right hand so they could see the ring and said, “Is he here?”

  They nodded and stepped back to allow him in.

  “Has he been here long?” Essa asked, taking deep breaths, heart pounding.

  He could feel a thick stream of sweat running down his spine, pooling in the small of his back, soaking through his tunic. His hair was sodden, sticking to the back of his neck.

  The guards looked at him mistrustfully.

  “Nearly a whole month – but should you not know that, if you’re his man?” said the older one.

  “Come to that, I’ve not seen you before,” said Frica.

  “I’m from the Wixna,” Essa said. “He sent me away to do something and I—”

  “All right, all right. Save your excuses for Egric, I should!” said the guard with the glass beads, and they both laughed.

  “Do you take my dog for a bit?” Essa said. He was desperate for Fenrir not to be there when he first saw Egric – the last thing he needed now was the hound leaping to his defence. “I know it’s not your task, but
she’s come a long way and she’s hungry, and—”

  The older guard raised his eyebrows, sighing. “Go on, then – Frica, take the wretched hound to the stables and get the boy there to feed her.”

  Essa kneeled down beside Fenrir, resting his face against her neck. Thank you. I can’t ever repay you for this, my honey. She whined, licking his hand.

  “Let’s get on with it then. I haven’t got all day to be looking after your cursed dog.” The younger guard looked at Essa resentfully as he led Fenrir away across the yard, but Essa hardly noticed.

  It was time to face his lord. It was time to see Elfgift.

  The courtyard was quiet and still. It was another world, far away from the sweating, noisy throng of men outside. The shadows of fear in their eyes did not matter here: this was God’s hall. The hot trickles of sweat gliding down his back grew cool, touching him like icy fingers.

  Off to his right he could see gardens: rows of winter greens and leeks tucked into the dark earth, beyond them an orchard of apple trees, pale blossom sprinkled among new spring leaves. He could smell rosemary, and it reminded him of Anwen: there was a herb patch somewhere, maybe beyond the apple trees. The faint sounds of clinking pottery drifted across the garden and someone was humming a tune. They were baking bread; he could smell the hot sweet warmth of it. Spittle pooled in his mouth.

  The god-house reared up before him, huge, silent, with images from Christ’s life carved into the high oaken walls. Off to the side were more halls, two large, one smaller, and Essa guessed Seobert’s god-people must live there. A woman in a grey dress hurried across the far end of the courtyard and went into the big god-house by a side door. The sound of her sandals slapping the wooden floorboards receded. Then the singing started. High, clear notes rang out, rising and falling. It was a language he did not understand – what was it called? Latin, that was it: they were singing vespers – the early evening prayer, like they did at the great god-house down in Kent. He could not move; the music froze him where he stood, because it meant that everyone here was in the god-house, singing vespers.