Aeva The Wild

by Claire Marion

  “Nothing?” Ælric asked, aghast.

  Wulfram jerked his head in a short, sharp nod. He looked ready to explode. “Something is not right,” he growled, “and I will find out what it is.”

  “Okay, this is very similar to yesterday, Æva,” she experienced a little thrill when Ælric said her name. It fell easily from his lips, as if she belonged. “All you’re trying to do is hit me. This time, however, I’m going to attack you.”

  Æva nodded nervously, facing Ælric on the white sand, smoothed to silk again by the night’s tide. In her right hand she held the same stick from yesterday. Her left clutched a small circular shield. It was made from wood and covered with leather, a thicker hide rimming the edges. A gleaming iron boss sat in the centre of the circle, and around this had been carefully painted a green dragon. The beast was both beautiful and terrible; a vicious face, with blood-red eyes, turned back to consume its own tale. The shield belonged to Idin, and when he held it the two leather straps on the back fitted snugly to the contours of his arm, one tightly encircling his forearm, the other at perfect distance to allow his hand to curl securely around the grip.

  Dangling on Æva’s arm, the shield was bulky and unwieldy. The wood was heavy, and she had to balance the bottom curve against her hip to protect her body, where it dug into the bone. The strap for her forearm was too far from her hand, cutting into her elbow; the leather gripping strap was too wide, and her hand could not close around it. The shield made her lopsided, made it harder for her to handle the large stick.

  However, she held on firmly. Opposite her, Ælric held a stick of similar width and length to the axe handle, cut and fashioned from a sapling tree that had dared to grow in the sandy dirt of the dunes. He was going to come at her, and she did not dare drop her only protection. She knew he would not really hurt her, but she doubted that his idea of gentle teaching would match with hers.

  “Ready?” he called, his eyes bright and eager. She knew he was going to enjoy this.

  “No,” she answered back, a pleading look on her face.

  Ælric smiled grimly, like a hunter stalking its prey. He took a step towards her, and she shuffled backwards. He took a pace to the side, and she moved in tandem. Their footsteps raked a wide circle in the sand as they moved. He was herding her, she knew, but she was powerless to change the terms of the engagement. She did not know how to move from defence to attack.

  Suddenly Ælric blasted forward, raising the stick. Æva watched the movement as if in slow motion. At first, she was unable to move, pinned by instinctive shock and fright. Still the stick came towards her, rough edges giving a jagged silhouette against the backdrop of clouds. Abruptly Æva realised that Ælric really intended to hit her. Panicking, she dropped the stick, and with a shriek tried to hide as much of her body as possible behind the small shield. One naked elbow peeked out of the protective disk. Ælric aimed carefully and rapped it sharply with the weapon.

  “Ow!” Æva howled, dropping the shield and dancing away from him, her hand clasping her elbow, which throbbed and smarted.

  Laughter echoed across the small beach from all three men. Unperturbed by her furious expression, Ælric picked up the stick and shield and handed them back to her.

  “Try again,” he told her.

  Chagrin in her eyes, Æva pursed her lips and accepted the weapons. She held the stick aloft, and before Ælric could lean down into an attacking crouch, she advanced on him. Surprised, but pleased, he moved against her actions. He did not allow her to herd him, however. As she moved him, he would dance away, returning with a move of his own, pushing her backwards. She would move again. He responded, but then urged her back.

  “Attack,” a voice called from the side. Æva was so focused she wasn’t sure if it came from Wulfram or Idin. She tried to follow the advice, rushing in and swinging the stick. Ælric responded immediately, raising his own his stick to meet hers in the air. The two pieces of wood collided with a sharp clapping sound which reverberated through the air. In his hands, the stick was completely unyeilding, solid as stone. Æva’s axe bounced backwards, the force of impact almost wrenching it from her arm.

  Sensing weakness, Ælric pounced. He swung his stick through the air with purpose. Æva managed to haul her stick up in time to meet him mid-swing, but he was much too strong for her. Somehow he turned the stick, twisting her wrist until she had to drop the weapon. With his shoulder he pushed the loosely held shield aside and thrust her down into the sand, pinning her with his body.

  Æva gasped as the air was driven from her lungs. For a moment her heart stopped as she felt the length of his body against her skin, his face inches from hers. But an instant later he was gone. Blinking, she realised he now stood over her, one hand reaching out to help her to her feet. She took it, lurching upright. The impact had left her momentarily shaky.

  “You need to move faster,” he told her. “Again.”

  They practised for what seemed like hours to Æva. Time and time again, Ælric overpowered her, landing small, stinging blows wherever she left him an inviting target, or stepping in and disarming her before throwing her to the ground. Æva ached, and she was getting nowhere. She had learned only that she could not fight a man: too weak to stand against such strength and sharp skill. She complained about it to the three men during a brief respite, stabbing her fingers viciously in the soft, yielding sand, glad at least something would bend to her will.

  “You are looking at this in the wrong way,” Wulfram told her. “You cannot match Ælric blow for blow, you need to use your assets to their best advantage. You have other weapons at your disposal than a shield and an axe.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked. The only other weapon she had was the short knife that Idin had given to her. By the time Ælric came close enough for her to use it he would overpower her, grabbing her fragile wrists in his mighty hands.

  “You are small, light, agile,” he told her. “You can move much more quickly than he can. You need to be in constant motion, do not let him pin you down.”

  “I can’t,” she asserted, shaking her head. “The shield is too heavy.”

  “Then don’t use it,” Idin told her. “But you will leave yourself more open to attack.”

  At that moment Ælric stood, ready to begin again. With a tired sigh, Æva hoisted herself up, her muscles groaning in protest. She picked up the stick and then weighed the shield in her hand. It dragged her down, pulling her off-kilter as it tried to return to the ground. Surrendering, she dropped it back to the sand with a soft thud and turned to face Ælric.

  Now that she was used to having the shield as a defensive screen between her and Ælric’s huntsman’s scrutiny, she felt very exposed. His stick looked much more threatening as she thought of all of the places it could now more easily connect with. They began the dance, shuffling, stalking. Æva tried to keep her footsteps light, bouncing on the balls of her feet, legs tensed. But Ælric was patient, waiting for her to tire as she waded in the deepening sand. He gave one, small testing shot, letting the stick whip forward, concentrating more on speed than power. It lashed out, and Æva sprang back. The jagged end just scraped along her thumb where her hand curled around the shaft. She hissed in pain as the skin gleamed pink for a second before blood starting to seep out of the shallow wound.

  Ælric was about to stop, concerned when the blood trickled down her hand, dripping onto the sand, but Æva seemed barely aware of the cut. She moved forward, then backwards two steps, lulling him into believing she was making a retreat. As he straightened up, she sprung at him. She swiped at his ribcage as she darted part, missing her initial target but landing a smack on his arm: the first time that she had hit him through her own accord, and she let out a yelp of triumph.

  Annoyed but thrilled, Ælric twisted round, following her body as she rushed past him, and aimed a stinging blow at her left buttock. She gasped, whirling to face him and he laughed. Her face pulled up into a half-smile, as if she wanted to laugh back, but then her ey
es were caught by something behind him.

  “There’s a rider,” she said, surprised, pointing with one pale, slender arm.

  Ælric spun round as Idin and Wulfram leapt to their feet. All three watched the rider keenly. He came from the direction of Babbanburth, and rode his horse at a full gallop, bent low over the neck of his steed to urge it faster. He travelled lightly, carrying no saddlebags or weapons. As they stared, he suddenly slumped forward in the saddle before sliding off. He vanished from their sight into the long grass. Confused, his horse carried on for two more paces before stumbling to a stop and beginning to crop grass, unconcerned.

  Wulfram and his men darted towards the rider, their long strides taking them far ahead of Æva. She ran after them, her feet sinking first in the rough sand, then in the boggy marsh behind the dunes. By the time she reached the road they had surrounded the man, Wulfram hunkered down in a low crouch at his head. As she approached, she realised the man lay face down on the ground, the shaft of an arrow protruding from his back.

  “Is he dead?” she asked, loitering behind Idin’s elbow, curious but repulsed.

  “Yes,” Wulfram replied, his hands delving into the man’s clothing, searching.

  “Who is he?” her voice was a quaver, her eyes glancing around, looking for the man who had released the arrow.

  “I don’t know,” Wulfram’s eyes lit up as he removed a scroll, but as he examined the tightly coiled velum, his face darkened to a black shadow. “He carries a scroll with the seal of the King.”

  “To be killed this close to Babbanburth, carrying a message from the King. What can this mean, Wulfram?” Ælric’s voice was saturated with confusion.

  “I don’t know,” Wulfram sighed, turning the scroll over in his hands. He tapped it against his palm lightly. “We might find the answers in here, if we could read it.”

  “I can read,” Æva said quietly.

  All three men stared at her, incredulous.

  ᛀ

  “You can read?” Wulfram asked, standing up to face her, his eyes intent.

  “Yes,” Æva nodded. “I learned at the nunnery.”

  Wulfram stared at her, thinking hard. To read a sealed letter from the King was a serious crime, carrying the death penalty. He would be putting all of their lives in jeopardy if caught. But he was suspicious, his palms tingling as he fondled the cylinder. Some sixth sense told him to open it. He glanced around, eyes searching the empty landscape. At the same time, his fingers fondled the wax, then deftly broke the seal. He handed it to Æva.

  “Read it to me,” he said.

  With trembling hands Æva took the scroll, unravelling the velum to gaze at the flowing Latin script.

  “It’s addressed to someone named Gunnlaug,” she began.

  “Gunnlaug Snake-tongue,” Wulfram nodded grimly.

  “What is the King doing writing to Gunnlaug?” Idin asked, his eyes tight with suspicion.

  “Read it, please, Æva,” Wulfram gestured at her to start.

  Æva stared down at the velum, then began to speak.

  ‘Now is a time of great possibility for our two mighty lands. I know you have your men at Deira, that the city is within your grasp. I offer it to you as a gift, a bequest to seal our fledgling relationship. I will allow none of my soldiers to march against you. May its many riches satisfy your thirst; from its fertile lands, to its beautiful women, and the precious luxuries that lie within its walls.

  Our greatest threat comes from the east, from the Mercians. They would seek to steal and destroy all that we have accomplished. Together we can defeat them, driving then back into the shadows of hell where they belong.’

  Æva looked up, dumbfounded.

  “It is signed with an eagle,” she pointed to the crude drawing with shaking fingers.

  “My God,” Idin breathed. “The King is offering to align with the Vikings.” He shook his head, astonished. “What should we do?”

  Wulfram gazed at the letter in Æva’s hand, staring down at the jumble of meaningless symbols.

  “I don’t know,” he confessed. “We must be careful.”

  “Wulfram,” the grave, urgent tone of Ælric’s voice alerted the leader at once. “Company.”

  A second rider approached, closing the distance between them at a canter. Wulfram knew it would be pointless to hide; they had been seen. He waited as the rider drew nearer, his keen eyes picking out the expensive clothes and ornate saddlery. A noble. In one hand he carried a short, curved bow, a quiver full of arrows slung over his back. The green and blue of the flights was an exact match to the one sticking out from dead man’s back.

  The stranger stopped just short of them, his horse prancing and snorting.

  “Who are you?” he asked. The question was not rude, but inquisitive. The rider recognised Wulfram’s status, saw the sword slung through his belt.

  “I am Wulfram,” he replied. “I am the leader of the army of the Lord of Bernicia. Who are you?”

  The rider nodded respectfully.

  “I am Bayan, son of Ælle, Lord of Deira.” His voice was deep, and strong.

  “My Lord,” Wulfram responded, bending his neck in reverence.

  “You read it?” he asked Wulfram, his eyes flickering back to Æva who still clutched the letter.

  Wulfram shifted, uncomfortable. Reading and writing were strictly controlled. Only monks and nuns learned the secrets, along with the most important nobles sent to study under their tutelage. It would arouse suspicion to admit to being able to read the letter, even more so if he confessed the girl - supposedly a servant - had done so. He watched Bayan’s eyes flit suspiciously between the scroll and Æva, connecting the dots.

  “We have read it,” Wulfram admitted. He took the letter quickly from Æva and passed it to Bayan. For a moment silence hung loud in the air as Bayan scanned the words. When he reached the end, his eyes blazed with indignation as they returned to Wulfram.

  “Come with me,” he said. “Take the traitor’s mount.”

  He waited just a moment for Wulfram to clamber astride the dead man’s horse and then took off like a bolt of lightning towards Babbanburth.

  Idin gave a low whistle as he watched them disappear.

  “Going to be a big palaver now,” he said, exchanging a glance with Ælric.

  “Well, let’s make sure we’re in the middle of it,” Ælric replied, clearly relishing the thought. He glanced back at Æva. “Æva, come.”

  They headed towards Babbanburth at a vigorous jog, feet pounding on the hard dirt road. That summer had been unusually dry, and the earth had compacted, solid as stone. Only tough grasses survived in the rough heath land around them, the late autumn flowers unable to thrive in the barren climate. Babbanburth rose, splendid and strong, a mighty fortress.

  They were admitted almost at once after Ælric glared, knuckles cracking menacingly, at the door guard, and went straight to the Great Hall. The doors were shut fast and guarded as with the previous day. Today, however, a vast throng gathered outside. Men, women and children, soldiers neglecting duties, all stood in a loose semi-circle at the base of the steps. Idin, Ælric and Æva joined the crowd. The people waited in silence, whispered conversation shushed immediately. From inside the Great Hall, raised voices could be heard. Æva strained, but she couldn’t work out what was said.

  “What’s happening?” she murmured to Idin in an undertone. He shrugged, but a man standing nearby turned and answered.

  “Lord Bayan and a warrior stormed inside just minutes ago. Lord Bayan shouted something about treachery. The doors were closed immediately.” He seemed thrilled at the intrigue.

  Lord Bayan. The man with the cobalt eyes. Æva had been astonished when she’d recognised the archer as the man who’d stared at her so intently in the Great Hall. What was going on in there? She looked back at Idin.

  “Can we not go in? Wulfram is in there.”

  He shook his head at her. “We must wait,” he told her.

  As she stood, watchi
ng the doors that wouldn’t open and the sentinels who never moved, Æva realised that she was still in the breeches and boy’s tunic she had been training in. She glanced about her nervously, hoping no one would notice.

  For a long time, they waited. The wind picked up and the rain fell in a drizzle until it was extremely unpleasant in the square. Despite this, no one in the crowd melted away. Quite the opposite, the number of people appeared to swell as the tense afternoon drew on until it seemed to Æva like the whole town must be standing waiting. At last, the door burst open. Several men walked out onto the small platform at the top of the steps. As the crowd processed the faces before them, a buzz broke out. One man stepped forward, raising a hand for silence which fell at once.

  “That is Ælle,” Idin whispered to her. “He is the Lord of Deira.”

  The Lord of Deira made an impressive figure. Although not tall, he was stocky with a broad chest and strong legs. He dressed in finery; a green linen tunic embroidered around the edges. A fox stretched across his ribcage in a deep shade of russet brown. The cuffs and neck of his tunic were lined in blue silk, his hose in a matching colour. His face was lined with creases, his hair greying at the temples, but for that Æva thought his expression appeared strong, determined. He began to speak, and his voice rang with authority.

  “King Osberht has betrayed you all. He refuses to act against the swell of the Viking barbarians across our lands. He has grown too fond of power and money. He would befriend the Viking, grovel at his feet. He is not fit to rule this kingdom. As such, he has been deposed.”

  A ripple of shock wove through the crowd as they gasped as one. Æva knew almost nothing of politics, but she felt the gravity of the moment. From behind Ælle, a noble stepped out. He held his arms out to the crowd, and commanded, “People of Babbanburth, kneel before your new King, King Ælle!”

  On mass the crowd dropped to their knees. Æva, startled, was slow to move. Idin grasped the sleeve of her tunic and yanked her down. Copying him, she dipped her head in servitude, peeking up at the stage. Behind the King stood his son, Bayan, the man with the cobalt eyes. She found it hard to look at him, her breathing accelerating each time she dared. He stood tall and proud, his expression solemn. He intimidated her more than Wulfram, who stood in the background, directly behind Bayan, declaring his allegiance to the new King.