Divided We Fall

by Gareth Mottram

  Bridget stepped over to open the door for Will.

  ‘He doesn’t need your help, girl,’ Cook shouted, ‘he’s spoiled enough as it is. There’s pots aplenty for you to scrub if your hands are idle.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Will whispered, ‘better get back to your pastries.’

  ‘I’ll steal you one,’ Bridget whispered back, glancing at Cook.

  Will grinned, deftly hooked one foot around the door to close it and stepped out into the cool dark of the clearing.

  He shivered. Although it was only just into autumn, it was rarely warm this far north, right on the very borders of Caledon. Now the sun had set, he could almost feel the cold flowing down from the distant Pictish mountains and streaming through the thick forest all around him.

  The hunting longhouse was built in a huge clearing and a circle of burning torches lit the perimeter. Guards patrolled between the flames, staring into the silent dark of thousands of close-packed trees creaking in the wind.

  Will stopped to give his eyes a moment to adjust then started towards the fires burning to the west of the longhouse. The soldiers were camped a hundred paces away – far enough so they didn't disturb the king's peace but close enough to be there quickly if needed. A full-strength warband consisted of about two hundred Shields, sixty lobbers and forty skirmishers. Every season, the king travelled this route to change two of the four Romani Wall warbands with fresh ones. As always, one warband was from the capital and another drawn from one of Bernicia’s inland thegns – the coastal regions had enough on their plates with the Scandian raiders.

  The second warband for this autumn watch were mustered by Thegn Hrodulf and led by his son, Hrothgar. They were not particularly overjoyed at having to serve at the wall for three months but all warriors in Bernicia had to take their turn.

  Will stopped and gazed due north – trying to imagine what the Romani Wall looked like from all the stories and military histories he’d read. Unlike Hrodulf’s war-shy warriors, he wouldn’t moan about guarding their border against the Pict savages when he was a Shield in one of the king’s own warbands. He would be honoured to…

  There was a soft tread to one side.

  'Isn't that venison getting cold?'

  Will recognised the refined voice immediately.

  ‘Yes, I'm sorry, Princess,’ Will said, turning and trying to bow whilst holding the piled-high tray. ‘I was just...’

  The quiet, carefree laughter that Will loved to hear, tumbled over him and he straightened up from his bow.

  Rowenna, only daughter of King Godric, moved closer but was careful to stay in the shadow of the longhouse walls. She smiled and her perfect, white teeth caught the faint moonlight. She wore her leather travelling breeches and jerkin, her golden hair tied up and covered by a flat riding cap. Will remembered to breathe. Rowenna could wear anything and still look every inch a folk-tale princess to him.

  'It's okay, we can talk freely, Will – no one followed me out.’ Rowenna quickly stepped through a patch of flickering window-light and joined him in the dark.

  Will stood up straight, trying not to show any effort as he held the heavy tray. ‘Should you be out here alone at night, Princess?’

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ she cut in again. ‘Call me Rowenna... when no one else is around. You’re my favourite escape from being a stuck-up princess.’

  ‘Well, favourite after your horse,’ Will said.

  Rowenna nodded. ‘True.’ She smiled, and her whole face seemed to light up. ‘And I do like my swordplay, I suppose.’

  Great - sinking fast down the favourites list.

  Rowenna touched him on the shoulder. ‘But you are my favourite person - much more fun than those princelings I have to be nice to. And clever too – you know more than father and I combined about war history.’

  Can you stretch to handsome and a fantastically skilled warrior as well? Or everything I need in a husband, maybe?

  Will smiled back and tried not to think of Rowenna being married off to some prince in a couple of years. He knew Bernicia needed to make strong alliances with neighbouring kingdoms to help throw back the Pict and Scandian raiders, but she was only two years older than him. Seventeen was far too young to be thinking about marrying anybody. Besides, she had befriended him almost as soon as Brant Ivenson had taken him on as a warrior apprentice at twelve. She had found moments to catch him alone ever since. He half hoped, if he proved himself in the shield-wall and became a huscarl – a royal bodyguard like Brant - then maybe they would…

  'What happened to your face?' Rowenna cut into his thoughts.

  ‘It’s always been this handsome… the gods have blessed it.’

  ‘No, I mean the cuts and bruises.’

  ‘Oh… just training and stuff.’

  ‘Training shouldn’t do that to you.’

  ‘A Shield has to be able to take a hit and stand firm.’ Will raised his head, wearing his cuts, swellings and bruises proudly.

  Rowenna moved in closer to peer at him in the dark. Her face was just a seax blade away from his, her sweet breath warm on his face. ‘It was Bragg and his devoted dogs again, wasn’t it? They always go too far with you.’

  Oh gods, what if she saw - Bragg knocking him down so easily and Bridget having to save him?

  ‘It’s just training.’

  Rowenna laid a hand on his forearm. ‘You know… there are lots of other ways you could help… the crown. With your military knowledge and intelligence—'

  ‘Sorry Princess, but I'd better get on,' Will mumbled, ‘the meat’s getting cold.’

  Will bowed and carefully pulled away.

  Even Rowenna doesn’t believe I’m good enough to get into the wall.

  ‘Just think about it, Will,' Rowenna said. She tentatively touched his shoulder again but checked to either side to make sure no one was near. 'I can help you. I can start by doing something about that oaf, Bragg.'

  Just what he needed – a princess, even a trained warrior princess like Rowenna – fighting his battles for him. He was meant to be impressing her with his heroism.

  'Please don’t do anything – I need to fight my own battles.’

  Rowenna stepped closer to him again, her startling blue eyes shining as she was caught in a sliver of moonlight. Quickly, she stepped back again.

  Will shoved his dreams about Rowenna away for about the thousandth time. Even if he did get into the shield wall, he had no family and hardly a coin to his name. He'd never be allowed to get close to the king's daughter, even if she wanted him to. That's why the two of them had to hide in the shadows to even just talk to each other.

  ‘You'd better get back to the table or Osbert will be volunteering to check you’re safe,' Will said. Bragg’s master, the king’s champion and First Shield of this warband, had made no secret of his affection for Rowenna even though he was a at least ten years older than her. Will bowed stiffly and turned towards the soldiers’ camp.

  Rowenna's hand slipped from his shoulder as he pulled away, but her quiet voice followed him. 'I'm staying out here – to talk to my horse rather than to be anywhere near bigots like Osbert.'

  'As you please, Princess,' Will said quietly. He turned to make another awkward bow just in case any of their perimeter guards could see them in the shadows, then hurried towards the light of the campfires.

  That went well.

  Careful of his footing in the dark whilst carrying the huge tray, Will approached the warband camp. He breathed in the clean, crisp forest air. This was where he belonged – amongst the Shields, not serving the needs of stuck-up Angalsax nobles or skulking after a princess too ashamed to be seen talking to him.

  Oh, snap out of it, moaner. Will straightened up and began to walk quicker. With his background, he could have ended up as a serf, little more than a slave to any freeman who was “kind” enough to take him in. Instead, Master Tolan had taken him off the street to train with his many scribes-cum-messengers and then even allowed him to switch to w
arrior training under an apprenticeship to one of the king’s own huscarls.

  It was everything he could have wished for – almost.

  'Hold,' demanded a voice from the dark.

  Will jumped and nearly dropped the platter. He silently cursed himself for day-dreaming – he was normally far more alert. In the wilderness, even more than in a court full of drunken warriors and petty bullies, he knew he needed to have his wits about him all the time. Out here, it could be a Pictish claymore taking off his head rather than Bragg merely punching it.

  'Peace – I’m Will Foundling – bringing meat from the king's kitchens,' Will said, loud and clear whilst standing perfectly still.

  Most of the soldiers had become increasingly wary over the last day or so. The experienced ones had, anyway – they knew what lay beyond the old Romani Wall which was now just one more day to the north. The tension was made worse because Thegn Hrodulf’s warband came from the far southwest of Bernicia – furthest from the Picts and the Skandian sea-raiders. Their leader and his son were not great fans of King Godric’s slightly more open views on outsiders and new battle tactics – the traditional Angalsax ways served them very well in their sheltered corner of the kingdom.

  'I know it’s you, you no-brain,’ the young voice said. A figure rose up from sitting on one of the many tree stumps left from forming the clearing decades ago. 'I've been watching you since you left the longhouse. Besides, I could almost smell that venison from the moment you opened the kitchen door.'

  Oh gods, did he see me talking with Rowenna?

  The figure drew closer and Will managed to make out who it was in the faint light of the quarter moon.

  'Guthrum – well met.' Will relaxed a little. Guthrum was new to the king’s Shields and stood in the very back line. He was still at the stage of being proud of himself rather than being massively arrogant. Also, he was only three years older than Will and it was his first trip to the Romani Wall as well. He was one of the few Angalsax who treated Will like a human.

  The tall, blonde warrior drew closer, the smell of oiled leather and chainmail reaching Will before he did. ‘Was that a girl you were meeting in the shadows, then? Is there anything I should know?'

  'Oh, uh it was just Ethel, one of the kitchen maids…'

  'Oh, her,' Guthrum said, grinning and pinching a bit of partridge. 'Pretty, but damn unfriendly. Is that why you were bowing to her like she was a princess? Don’t tell me you’ve managed to hook her with flattery.'

  'Some hope,’ Will said, shrugging his aching shoulders. ‘My wonderful charm was entirely wasted. She was just nagging me to hurry back as Cook has more plates to bring.'

  'Typical,' Guthrum said. 'Come on, 'I'd better walk you in. Hrothgar’s lot are in an even worse mood than usual and I don’t want the job of pulling you off one of their spears like a pig from a spit.'

  Nice image.

  Will waited while Guthrum picked up his own fighting spear and a big, round shield which were leaning against the stump. A small throwing axe hung at his waist on one side and a sword on the other. He was young to have his own sword of course, but he came from a rich and high family and had been gifted it on his elevation to the shield wall.

  The two of them walked towards the camp, chatting loudly about what the high table were eating so as not to surprise any guards. All around were campfires circled by men in blankets. A few were lying flat on the ground, their covers appearing to billow in time with their snores. Most warriors, however, were eating and drinking, talking quietly or dicing. Everyone was weary after their five-day march through the northern forest, weighed down with chainmail, heavy shields, helmets and weapons as well as their own camp equipment and rations. They still had one more day to go with only three months stationed in the freezing towers and forts of the Romani Wall in winter to look forward to.

  The towers were haunted, some say, by the ghosts of the ancient Romani who died keeping the savage Picts out of this, the furthest reach of their Empire.

  Guthrum led Will and his plate of venison over to a circle of small cook-fires. Mouth-watering smells hung in the night air. The flames were already sizzling with a variety of birds, rabbits and other small game no doubt brought down by the lobbers. Two men and two women sat at the closest fire, each with a full plate on their laps. Even from behind and in the flickering light, Will immediately recognised the grey ponytail and massive shoulders of Cenhelm, the captain of the king’s First Warband. Rumour had it that this was his twentieth tour of duty on the Romani Wall.

  The older of the two women looked up from her meal and smiled. She was Mildred, the female mistress at arms. Many of the other Angalsax kingdoms did not allow women to become warriors. They thought they were too weak to be any use even as skirmishers or lobbers. Will would bet none of them had seen Mildred tear into an opponent.

  Luckily, King Godric thought differently. Bernicia was charged with guarding one of the biggest valleys into Caledon as well holding a long stretch of coastline facing the land of the Scandian sea raiders. Bernicia needed every able-bodied person to have some military skill – like scribes being trained as messengers in battle. Not many women made it into the shield wall, but many could fight just as well as men with the thrusting spears, javelins and razor-sharp seaxes of the skirmishers or the short bows, javelins and throwing axes of the lobbers. Will had seen Mildred hurl a frank – a small, heavy throwing axe – hard enough to split through thick wood with terrifying ease. He didn’t like to think what it would do to a human skull.

  Mildred was in charge of training the women and men not deemed tall, strong, skilled or ruthless enough for the shield wall.

  That, for now, included Will.

  'Well met, Will Foundling,' Mildred said in her strong, rich voice. She stood up to take the tray of meat and place it by the fire. 'I hope you haven't eaten half of this venison on your way over he…'

  Mildred stopped dead as a scream ripped through the night.

  Chapter 4

  Rescue

  "Kings’ Shields – marching square on me! ' Cenhelm shouted, his booming voice filling the entire clearing. ‘Skirmishers and lobs form a perimeter. Hrodulf's warband – half guard for the camp, half follow on!

  Where do I go? Will leapt out of the way as Cenhelm strode passed him into an open space. His heavy round shield and spear were already in one hand and his faceless helmet swung in the other.

  Scores of the king’s warband grabbed their weapons and rushed from the surrounding campfires to begin slotting into a phalanx. They did it all without saying a word.

  Further back, Thegn Hrodulf's warband had erupted into shouting disarray. Hrodulf and his captains were feasting in the longhouse which left the second-row leader struggling to organise the whole warband over their shouts and clattering weapons.

  Gods, was that Rowenna screaming? Will couldn’t think straight with the noise and warriors pushing past him. That scream had come from near the longhouse - where Rowenna was in the stables at the back, all alone.

  Over half of Cenhelm's two hundred Shields were already in place, but then they would start marching slowly in close order.

  He couldn’t wait. Will took the first step of a run towards the longhouse, but a strong hand caught hold of his shoulder and yanked him back. Randolph, Bragg's best friend held him fast. ‘Running to hide, nithing?' he hissed, 'the wall’s right here.'

  Will gritted his teeth. He couldn’t tell that he knew Rowenna was alone outside - they weren’t supposed to have secret meetings in the night.

  He twisted out of Randolf’s grip and sprinted past the shield wall into the dark.

  ‘No, no, Hrodulf’s men – two bloody walls – one stays at camp!’ Cenhelm roared behind him but his focus was on the stables.

  Light suddenly flared out of the front of the longhouse as the king and his huscarls burst out of the door, shields up and spears out.

  As if that were a signal, all the perimeter fires went out as one and screeches ripped through the
dark from every direction. Thuds rattled through the air as arrows and sling-shot hit the longhouse walls and huscarls’ shields as they tightened the ring around King Godric. There was no way they would get to Rowenna in time, even if they knew where she was.

  Will yanked out his seax. Gods, don’t let it be too late.

  As he sprinted through the long grass, the blades whipping at his legs, a man crashed backwards out of the stable’s split doors. A throwing axe was driven deep into his chest. The man staggered to a halt in the faint moonlight, barely able to raise his sword and small buckler shield. It was a Pict warrior

  Will gripped his seax tighter. A nine-inch blade against a Pictish sword would not have been his first choice.

  A huge man strode out of the stables after the Pict – Osbert. The king's champion grabbed a fighting spear left in the shadows and without pausing, thrust it through the dying Pict's heart. The warrior shuddered off the spear as Osbert yanked it out.

  The body fragmented into black dust, swirling skywards and away. The warrior’s clothes and weapons fell onto the grass in a muffled clatter.

  The greedy Pictish god had snatched the dead body before it even hit the ground.

  Will skidded to a halt a few feet away as Osbert's spear tip whipped around to face him.

  ‘It’s me, Will Foundling,’ he shouted.

  Bragg came out of the stables, his sword and shield up and ready. Will hated to think it but he looked every inch the young warrior.

  Bragg heard Will’s shout and grinned. ‘Bad choice of hiding place, nithing.'

  Will didn't reply as Rowenna stepped out of the stable, her sword in hand, blood running down its blade. His breath slumped out of him in relief.

  Osbert suddenly dipped down, snatched up his throwing axe from the Pict's fallen possessions and hurled it at Will.

  Will dived to the grass and heard a grunt behind him. He twisted just in time to see another Pict knocked backwards, die and be whipped away by his god.

  The Pict wasn’t alone.