by Martin Lake
BLOOD ENEMY
BOOK 2 OF THE LONG WAR FOR ENGLAND
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © Martin Lake 2017
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express written consent of the publisher.
Martin Lake has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Cover Design by Jenny Quinlan, Historical Fiction Bookcovers.
For Steve
BOOKS BY MARTIN LAKE
NOVELS
The Flame of Resistance
Triumph and Catastrophe
Blood of Ironside
In Search of Glory
Land of Blood and Water
Blood Enemy
Wolves of War
Outcasts
A Love Most Dangerous
Very Like a Queen
A Dance of Pride and Peril
The Artful Dodger
Mr Toad to the Rescue
SHORT STORIES
For King and Country
The Big School
Mr Toad’s Wedding
The Big School
DRAGONSHIPS
Mideltun, Kent, March 883
Ulf stared across the creek towards the river Swale and beyond that to the Isle of Sheppey. The first time he saw it he thought that a sprinkling of snow had fallen there but now he knew that the white dots were the countless flocks of sheep which grazed there. They were safe from predators, save the occasional fox cunning enough to clamber onto a floating log and cross the river, and because of this their numbers had grown without check. They provided a rich bounty for the people of the island.
Ulf’s gaze returned to the source of his own wealth, the numerous oyster beds which stretched along the coast. One of the largest belonged to Hunsige, He was a large, brute-faced man, ever ready with a sneer and an insult. Ever ready with his fists also. The villagers avoided him when he had drunk too much of the rough ale he brewed. His wife, Siflaed could not avoid him so easily and was often seen with bruises and the occasional black eye. People smiled to themselves when they saw that sometimes Hunsige also bore such marks. Siflaed had learnt how to fight back.
Sometimes Ulf found himself hoping she would leave the man and seek his protection. He would be a better husband to her than Hunsige ever could. Yet he knew this was not a likely future for him. He was a King’s-thegn, and must, at Alfred’s command, be ready to go anywhere at any time, to dare any risk, to fight any foe.
A grin of delight lit up his face. He could have ended his days like his father back in Somerset, eking out a poor living, tending sheep, hunting fowl, planting crops. Instead he was a lord, a warrior, beloved of the king. Sometimes, when he woke, his breath caught at the enormity of it. He was a King’s-thegn and he was determined to be the best.
He turned and headed back to the village. He recalled the events which led him here. Five years earlier, a band of Alfred’s warriors had descended on his family’s home, treating them with vicious cruelty. When Alfred proved reluctant to punish them his father took revenge so grim it resulted in slavery for his sons and him. Only the intercession of the King’s friends had saved them.
He gave a huge grin. Soon after, Alfred won such a decisive battle the Danes were forced to seek peace. He had done great service in the battle and it earned him the rewards he now enjoyed.
Still congratulating himself, he headed back to the village.
As soon as he arrived he made his way directly to the smithy. His horse had injured her leg and he had to journey to Winchester in a few days, a long journey. He was concerned the mare would not be fit enough to make the journey and he would have to find a replacement mount.
He found the smith, Cuthred, examining the leg.
‘How is she?’ he asked. ‘Will she be strong enough for me to ride?’
Cuthred did not answer. Despite his trade, his hands were gentle and dexterous and the horse did not shy as he explored the injury. At length he straightened, and stroked the horse’s neck.
‘She’ll be fit to ride in a day or two,’ he said. ‘But you’ll need to go gently with her.’
‘I will,’ Ulf said. ‘I’m meeting my friend Holdwine at Lambehitha, half way to Winchester. I can rest her there for a day.’
‘Make it two days,’ Cuthred said.
‘If you say so.’ He clapped the smith on his shoulder. ‘Cuthred, you’re the best smith and the best horse-healer I know.’
Cuthred gave a wry smile. He guessed that, despite Ulf’s youth, he already knew a great many smiths. One of the King’s own thegns would.
A sound of quarrelling reached their ears.
‘Hunsige and Siflaed again,’ Cuthred said.
Ulf groaned and stepped out into the sunlight.
Hunsige and Siflaed were standing by their cottage, screaming at each other. Their neighbours paused in their work to watch and listen. It was one of the best entertainments in the village.
Lilla the priest, an earnest young man, rushed towards the couple, his hands held out in a placating, calming gesture. Hunsige and Siflaed ignored him, trading insults like the doughtiest of warriors.
The priest stepped between them, Hunsige gave him an angry look and punched him in the eye. Then he slapped Siflaed across the face, sending her sprawling in the dirt. She struggled to her knees, eyes blazing, her own fists raised, then fell back in a daze.
‘That’s enough,’ yelled Ulf. He strode towards them, uncertain that he had sufficient authority to be heeded in such a heated situation.
He never found out.
‘Northmen,’ came a cry from the fields. ‘The Northmen are coming.’
Ulf stopped mid-stride and turned towards the river.
Five Viking Dragonships were speeding towards them.
Ulf stood open-mouthed in astonishment. Since the defeat of Guthrum’s army no Danish ships had sailed a river south of the Thames.
His mind whirled. Perhaps they had been sailing from East Anglia and got lost. No sooner had he wondered this than he doubted it. Northmen never got lost, their paths were always intentional. It meant they were spying out the land. Or even worse.
He observed the ships as they got closer. They were certainly not knarrs, the Viking trading craft. These were longer and leaner; dragon-ships, stallions of the sea, with space for only warriors and weapons. He calculated that each ship would take forty warriors.
‘Get my sword,’ he cried to Cuthred.
The Longships crashed against the river bank and two hundred armed warriors leapt to shore.
‘Find some weapons, men,’ Ulf cried. ‘Axes, knives, hammers, scythes.’
He raced across to the priest who was staring at the ships in horror.
‘Gather the women, children and old men,’ Ulf said. ‘Lead them into the forest. We’ll try to hold them off.’
‘There’s too many of them. You won’t be able to.’
Ulf swallowed hard. ‘So, hurry.’
Men raced into the village from their work in the fields and joined those who had darted into their homes for anything they could use as a weapon.
Ulf glanced at the little band, a score of terrified peasants without a sword or spear between them, preparing to fight two hundred savage warriors well-armed and ruthless. Every man knew they would be cut down in moments. But those moments might just give their loved ones time to flee and hide.
Ulf smelled the familiar stench of piss and shit as the men’s
bowels and bladders opened where they stood.
Cuthred thrust Ulf’s sword into his hand and shouldered his heavy hammer. ‘We’re dead men,’ he said.
‘So are some of the Danes,’ Ulf said.
And with that he leapt to the attack.
The Danes had been so eager to attack they did not come in one compact body. They came in a long line with the fastest leading the way, yelling and whooping with excitement.
It gave the villagers a brief opportunity to fight.
Ulf struck the foremost Dane, his sword piercing the man’s throat, killing him instantly. He pulled out the blade and slashed at the second warrior, hacking his arm to the bone and felling him to the ground. Cuthred appeared at his side, his hammer struck and a third Dane fell, his skull crushed into a hideous shape.
Ulf feinted to the left and plunged his sword into a fourth warrior’s guts.
He heard a roar of fury as the villagers charged. The nearest Danes slowed, a handful of men, realising that they were outnumbered. In an instant, the villagers fell upon them.
It was a brief and frenzied attack.
‘We’ve killed ten of them,’ Cuthred said with joy.
‘Only two hundred left then,’ Ulf said.
He looked towards the river. The Danish captain had halted the headlong charge and now gathered his men into a long shield-wall stretching to either side of the village and beyond.
They began to beat their spears upon their shields, a thunder of noise which rose across the village like a taunt and a threat of destruction.
Ulf glanced towards the forest. The priest, Lilla was on the fringes of it, shepherding the last of the women into the trees. Or not quite the last. Hunsige’s wife Siflaed, still groggy from his blow, remained on her knees in front of her hut, unnoticed and forgotten.
There was nothing he could do about her, no means of protecting her. But he could try to save the rest of the village.
‘Run, men, run,’ Ulf cried.
The villagers turned and fled towards the forest. Ulf hoped against hope that the women and children had gone far enough to be safe. He pushed Cuthred away and turned towards the Danes. He was lord of the village. He would remain and hold off the Danes alone.
The Danish shield wall had all but engulfed him when a loud, gruff voice ordered them to stop. The Danes halted within a few steps of hearing the command, a sure sign they were well disciplined.
But not all of them. One man leapt from the shield wall, screaming a taunt. He turned towards his own line, eager to see how they would admire his challenge.
Ulf seized the chance, hurtled towards him and sliced open his neck while his gaze was still turned.
A rumble of anger came over the Danish wall and three warriors, friends of the fallen man, strode out to put an end to the fight.
Ulf watched the three Danes as they approached.
Edgwulf, Alfred’s Horse-thegn, had taught him that if two men attacked he should seek to kill the strongest first. If it was three men then he should go for the clumsiest.
Without taking his eyes from the advancing Danes, he bent to the man he had just killed and picked up his sword with his left hand.
As he stood upright he felt a sudden anger at the cowardice of the Danes. Three against one. Contemptible.
His heart hammered and his breathing raced. Everything in the world seemed to recede from his awareness. Except the three Danes. His focus fixed solely on them, noting their movements, their readiness for battle, their state of mind. Everything in the world seemed to slow except for his thoughts.
The Danes charged. The man to his right seemed clumsiest, body swaying, feet ungainly, so he stepped towards him. The Dane cried in triumph and swung his sword. But Ulf did something the Dane had not anticipated. He crouched.
The Danish sword swept harmlessly above Ulf’s head and he stabbed upward, gouging deep into the man’s belly. He leapt from beneath the falling body and turned to face his two remaining foes.
They hesitated for a moment and then charged. Ulf tore the helmet from the man he had just slain and flung it at the Dane on the left, catching him on the head and stunning him. Then he used the sword in his left hand to feint at the second attacker.
The Dane blocked this move but Ulf struck with his own sword, hacking into his adversary’s neck, opening the artery. Blood surged swiftly from the wound and the man sank to the ground, trying in vain to stop the terrible blood loss. Ulf swept past him and thrust his sword through the neck of the Dane still reeling from the blow from the helmet.
He had slain four men in minutes and he exulted. He turned towards the rest of the Danes and yelled. It was a terrible sound, more like a wolf than a man.
The Danes stared at him in horror.
Ulf took a deep breath and his heart and breathing began to slow. He would die now, he knew this. But he had saved the villagers.
Still the Danish warriors stood silent and unmoving.
At last, one man pushed through the shieldwall and regarded Ulf. He was tall and broad of chest, though his legs were long and spindly. He was a little older than Ulf but his face was hard as if it had seen many more years than the rest of his body. His hair was so fair it was almost white and he had no beard. Eyes as grey as a mere in winter stared bleakly yet with cool consideration.
‘You’re a brave man, Saxon,’ he said. ‘Or a fool.’
His voice was like stones tumbling down a mountain, the voice which had earlier commanded the Danes to halt.
‘Neither a brave man nor a fool,’ Ulf said. ‘Just someone protecting his village.’
‘A young whelp like you holding a village?’ the Dane said. ‘You must have a very rich father.’
‘My father is poor. But my lord is King Alfred.’
The Dane’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re a King’s-thegn?’
Ulf nodded.
The Dane pondered this for a moment, then pointed his sword at Ulf’s breast. ‘I have no quarrel with a King’s-thegn.’
‘But Hrólfr,’ cried one of the Danes. ‘He killed six of our men.’
‘Yet still I have no quarrel with him,’ Hrólfr replied.
The Danish warriors turned to one another in confusion. Their voices rose in angry dissent.
‘I said I have no quarrel with him,’ Hrólfr said. His voice was quieter now but it silenced his men. And it struck a chill into Ulf’s heart.
He gave a cold smile to Ulf. ‘You’re free to leave, King’s-thegn,’ he said.
Ulf nodded once, slowly. He was suspicious but knew that this gave him the one slim chance of survival.
‘I thank you, Hrólfr the Dane,’ he said.
‘I’m Norse,’ Hrólfr said. ‘I was born in a land gripped by ice for most of the year. My ancestor was a Frost-Giant.’
‘I thank you then, Hrólfr Giantson.’
Hrólfr’s face looked uncertain for an instant but then he laughed. His men watched him for a space before joining in.
‘I like it,’ Hrólfr called. ‘I have been named anew by a Saxon.’
‘Hrólfr Giantson,’ yelled his followers.
Hrólfr bowed his head, a mixture of mirth and condescension, and then waved his sword in a sign for Ulf to leave.
Ulf turned and strode away. He knew that the heathens would ransack the village and that they would find little of value beyond ale and a few hidden coins.
He did not see that one of the warriors had discovered Siflaed and carried her back to the ships.
CHASING THE NORTHMEN
Cuthred met him on the edge of the forest. He stared into Ulf’s face as though he had never seen him before.
‘You did great deeds of battle, today lord.’
Ulf smiled. ‘You’ve never called me lord before, Cuthred.’
‘I have. Perhaps you never noticed.’
‘Perhaps.’
The smith examined him swiftly. ‘You’re not hurt?’
Ulf looked at his chest, legs and arms with growing surprise. ‘Not a scra
tch.’
‘You’re a true warrior, then. And you had a good sword and the blessing of Wayland.’
‘Wayland?’
‘Wayland the Smith. The armourer of the gods.’
‘You sound like my sister. She believes in fairies and goblins and the old gods.’
Cuthred nodded. ‘They watch over us still.’
Ulf shrugged. ‘Be sure you don’t let the King hear you say it.’
‘He never will. He doesn’t come to these parts. Always skulking in the west.’
Ulf opened his mouth to remonstrate but kept his counsel. The men of Kent still thought themselves different from the Saxons of old Wessex. They remembered when they had been a powerful kingdom with their own king, before the Mercians and then the Saxons exerted lordship over the land. Alfred and his forebears recognised this yearning and were careful to treat Kent differently from the rest of their kingdom, seldom flaunting their power. Cuthred called it skulking in the west. Alfred, no doubt, called it diplomatic.
Cuthred groaned and nodded towards the forest.
Hunsige was marching towards him, his face set and angry.
‘They took my wife,’ he said before he had even reached them.
‘Who took you wife?’ Ulf asked.
‘The Vikings. I was watching from the woods. They found her and carried her to their ships.’
He stepped closer to Ulf. ‘Call yourself a lord? You should have protected her.’
Ulf’s hand tightened into a fist but he managed to restrain his anger.
‘You dare to criticise your lord?’ said Cuthred. ‘You should blame yourself for attacking her and leaving her defenceless.’
‘I thought she was following me. She should have done.’
‘So now you blame her,’ Cuthred said, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘It is ever the same with you, Hunsige. Stir up trouble and then sneak away.’
Hunsige’s eyes flashed angrily but he knew better than to anger the smith.
He turned instead to Ulf. ‘So, what are you going to do about it, lord?’ He dipped his head to appear humble but his tone was insolent.
