Divided We Fall

by Gareth Mottram

  Crowded in amongst the warriors, trying to stay next to Rowenna, Will heard the zip of arrows flying overhead. Too close behind him, wolves yelped and snarled but he didn’t dare to look back.

  The gate loomed up ahead, lobbers shooting arrows furiously over their heads from the parapets. A section of shield wall lined up to either side of the gates, spears bristling forward between raised shields.

  The king’s party suddenly crushed tighter to cross the narrow bridge and the little Pict girl was knocked to her knees. Heavy, leather boots and thick spear shafts pounded down all around, and shields and huge bodies buffeted her as she desperately tried to stand again. As one, Will and the Pict boy stooped down, grabbed an arm each and yanked her to her feet.

  And then, in a mass of heaving bodies, bashing shield edges and poking sword hilts, they were somehow through the gates and stumbling into the courtyard.

  ‘Crescent moon,' Cenhelm yelled and the survivors turned about to join the mass of warriors in the square to form a four-row thick, semi-circle of shields and spears facing the gates.

  Will and Rowenna were ushered behind the back rows with the Picts. Will span around to watch, rubbing his arms back to life. Good – back to Godric’s plan.

  The trap wasn’t needed. On top of the walls, the archers switched to their javelins and throwing axes and concentrated the heavy weapons on the narrow bridge as the fans of light swung down and focussed to blind the leading wolves. The last of the Shields sprinted in through the gates and Brant and the other huscarls slammed them shut.

  Yelps, growls and snarls rose up from beyond the thick wood as the missiles rained down from above. Then the high-pitched "yipping" sounded again.

  Moments later there was nothing but silence.

  Chapter 8

  Have a Drink

  'Enough!' roared King Godric, his deep voice echoing around the feast hall. ‘I have decided – I will hear no more whining from anyone.’

  About time, Will thought but he kept quiet. He needed to be even more invisible than usual for a while.

  Low rumbles of discontent bubbled up again, but everyone knew the discussion was over.

  ‘Now eat,’ Godric said, ‘while I decide who travels with the princess. This will be your last proper meal for days.'

  The kitchen doors flew open right on cue and the apprentices on serving duty hurried into the Anvil's feast-hall. The fort’s stores had been raided by the Picts, but they had left the ale, wine and a few barrels of salted meats and vegetables – maybe too heavy to carry for a lightning invasion. Cook had mixed this with some of the dwindling travel rations they had bought with them, but it was hardly the welcome feast they had been expecting.

  It was late at night but following the Varg attack, no one could sleep. After the guard had been set, the fort’s great hall had been respectfully cleared of leavings and then its fires and torches set to blazing. As cook brought the kitchen back to life, the king had led the discussion on just what they should do next.

  Donal had been called first. Standing in the centre of the hall, he’d forced his head up and explained in his halting Angalsax that four Pictish clans had joined together and stormed the wall two nights ago and marched south. The vargs were druid creations –grey wolves they had mutated and controlled using their dark blood-magic. One or more druids must have been lost in the attack and so their vargs would have been freed of all control and gone feral in the surrounding forest. That was probably why the invading Picts had barred the northern gates behind them.

  ‘Why are your people uniting and invading us?’ Alphage, Wyatt’s master, had asked.

  ‘Not my people. Druids push northern clans to war – my father is chief of Selgovae, in south, close to wall. He says no war and they… attack us. Many die for Effie and me to escape and hide. We…’ Donal had begun but Osbert had cut him short.

  ‘You’re all the same – savages – don’t pretend your stinking clan’s any different. For all we know, you’re here to spy on us.’

  The hall had erupted with calls to throw the two children back over the wall or worse. Finally, King Godric had managed to regain control.

  ‘Spy for who?’ the king asked once he could be heard. ‘All the tribes who want war slipped by us last night while we were distracted by a few raiders and are two day’s march south by now. They’ll be at the gates of Yeavering in four days and your answer is to kill children and leave their bodies here to turn the rest of Scotia against us?’

  That had quieted the room enough for Godric to carry on. ‘I know this lad, Donal, from meetings with his father – the Selgovae clan were decent enough – they had kept the peace with us for over ten years and traded fairly. I’m sending the boy south with Rowenna – he can tell Yeavering everything he knows about the invasion… his sister will stay with us to make sure he cooperates.’

  More grumbles and curses but they quieted quickly enough when Godric had laid out his plans.

  The capital had to be warned what was coming – they couldn’t risk it being taken by surprise like The Anvil. Rowenna would lead a small, elite band along the Romani wall to the River Fort and then boat downstream to Yeavering. If everything went well, they should be there well inside a day and a half – beating the main Pict army by at least a couple of days and getting the princess safely inside the city.

  Although short of one warband, Yeavering should still be able to hold against four clans – the largest of which would have no more than two hundred warriors. Godric would lead the two warbands on a five-day forced march back to Yeavering – possibly trapping the Picts against the capital walls if they hadn’t already given up and run off to raid easier targets.

  All that remained was for Godric to decide who was going with Rowenna.

  Will didn’t think anyone would class him as “elite” after his performances in battle so far, so it was the forced march for him. Then again, no one would want him in the warband either.

  He hunched down over his end of the lower benches. He looked behind him at the kitchen doors for Bridget – he could do with a friendly face, even hers. Talk of his lasting approximately three seconds in the shield wall had spread like wildfire through the Angalsax. The reactions ranged from scornful laughter to…

  Fists slammed down on the table and knocked his water over him.

  Will jumped and twisted back around to find Bragg’s face in his and Randolf’s bobbing behind like some bodiless puppet.

  ‘You nearly got us all killed out there, nithing. I said it would happen and it did.’

  You finally got something right. Will took a breath. ‘I saw a gap that wasn’t closing and stepped into it. That’s what we are trained to do, isn’t it.’

  ‘Not when you make a pathetically weak link in the line.’ Bragg hissed. One hit from one varg on you and the wall was wide open again with the beast a foot away from ripping out the princess’s throat.’

  ‘I stopped…’ Will began but Bragg grabbed his tunic and twisted it to constrict his neck.

  ‘Stay – out – of – the – wall.’ He punctuated each word with a shake. Heads turned to watch, eyes narrowed, cruel grins on every face.

  ‘Got it?’ Bragg said, his face even closer, his bad breath filling Will’s nostrils.

  Will knew he wouldn’t be able to break Bragg’s double-handed grip, but the oaf had laid himself wide open for a seax strike between the ribs. He forced himself to relax and nodded once.

  Bragg held him for a moment longer then pushed him back with the look of someone shovelling steaming horse manure away. His piggy eyes flicked to the side and he straightened up.

  ‘It looks like your only friends have come to play – we should throw you all back over the wall together.’

  Will didn’t turn to see who he was talking about until Bragg backed off, taking the shoulder slaps Randolf gave him and nodding haughtily at the grins and congratulations from the lobbers and skirmishers seated at the lower tables.

  Such a hero, Will thought, may
be you’ll be chosen to escort Rowenna and I won’t have to have another six days marching with you.

  He shook his head and turned to see Donal, the Pict boy, with his little sister, Effie in tow. They stood near the wall a few feet away, eyes defiant but keeping their distance from the hulking warriors. As Bragg left, they sidled along the wall towards him.

  The huscarls had quickly taken their seaxes and slings after the attack and they had been locked in a storeroom until called into the great hall. The warriors all around glared at them and swore – they didn’t care if Donal’s clan had not been part of the Anvil’s massacre. All that protected the children from a beating was Godric’s order that they were not to be harmed.

  Will detested the behaviour but if he said anything, it would alienate him even more from the very warriors he was desperate to join. It was so unfair - Donal had tried to warn them about the vargs and stabbed at one of them with only a seax.

  Will glared back at the lobbers and skirmishers – when had most of these Angalsax ever worried about being fair.

  Donal pulled Effie beyond the reach of a backhanded slap from one of Hrothgar’s lobbers and crossed the last few feet to stand by Will.

  'You help Effie before,' Donal said, planting himself a couple of inches from Will. 'Tell king it wrong to take her from me now.' The boy's face burned almost as red as his hair and his Pictish accent was even heavier as he visibly struggled to hold on to his temper.

  Will nodded. 'I think it's wrong as well, but the king won’t listen to me.' His lips set in a hard line. Donal was ten, Effie, only seven and they’d seen their whole clan wiped out. They didn’t deserve to be treated like this.

  'Tell king,’ Donal repeated. 'Everyone needs to run fast, hide. Druids say bad things come. They catch Effie and slow-walking warriors. Walls and gates not stop them. Tell king.'

  Will nodded again. 'I know you’re worried about Effie but, well, the bad things are probably just stories the druids made up to help drive the clans to war. Besides, King Godric never changes his mind once he’s said he’s going to do something.'

  Will poured them both a cup of water. Effie glanced up at her brother and at his nod, grabbed the cup and downed it. Her determined brown eyes peered over the rim, scanning the enemies all around her.

  Donal's fists clenched as he stared over at the high table.

  'Listen… Donal,' Will tried, 'Effie will be safe – she’ll have over six hundred shields, skirmishers and lobbers all around her. She can stay with me if she likes, or my friend, Bridget. We’ll keep an eye on her.'

  Will smiled to himself. Bridget’s such a warm and friendly soul - she’ll love looking after a child.

  Effie glanced across at Will, studied him for a moment, then returned to watching the room.

  So, you do understand some Angalsax.

  Donal started to speak but Will cut in. ‘She’ll be a lot safer with us than with you anyway, no matter which “elites” end up in Rowenna’s party.'

  Oh, that’s maybe not very helpful.

  Will coughed and looked away from Donal’s intense gaze. Bridget came out of the kitchen, struggling with two huge ale jugs. She caught his eye and nodded him over.

  Will stood up and pointed to his bench. ‘Take a seat, some sort of food will get passed down here eventually. Try not to worry.'

  Donal stared at him for a moment then sank down onto the hard bench. Effie plonked herself down beside him. A young lobber, who was the person sitting closest to Will, grumbled something about savages and stink and shuffled even further away.

  Will attempted an encouraging smile towards the young Picts. 'I'll be back soon.'

  He walked over to Bridget who immediately shoved the two frothing jugs at him. She nodded towards the high table. 'Cook says she needs more apprentices on kitchen duties. They'll be needing a top-up at the high table any moment now.'

  'Great, why do I have to be the one to go up there?' Will asked.

  ‘I thought you might like the chance for one more gaze at you-know-who before she trots off for her boat ride.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Will mumbled. His cheeks started to burn.

  'You're welcome.' Bridget grinned and scuttled back towards the kitchen. She looked back over her shoulder, her big brown eyes flashing in the flickering torchlight. 'Glad you didn't die out there, by the way.'

  Will gripped the heavy jugs, took a deep breath and started towards the high table. Halfway there, he glanced back to the Pict children to check they were okay.

  ‘Will Foundling,’ boomed a powerful voice, ‘your princess tells me you deserve a drop of that ale, yourself.’

  Will immediately turned to the speaker – none other than King Godric himself. He bowed low as best he could with the two jugs. The nearby warriors, all Shields this close to the king’s table, quieted a little at the king's addressing such a low-born apprentice in public.

  Will hurried onto the dais and along the front of the high table towards the king. His foot caught on something and he tripped. Quick as always, he caught his balance by slamming one of the jugs down on the heavy table. Foaming ale slopped onto the wood.

  Laughter filled the nearby tables as Will straightened himself up - the hard men of the shield wall liked nothing better than to see outsiders fall. Will tried to ignore it but a particularly harsh jeering rang out from a middle table. Bragg, sitting with the other Shield apprentices, was pointing at him through the torch smoke and forcing big belly laughs whilst slapping his cronies on the back. Will took a calming breath, straightened up and turned back to the high table. He tried not to look at Rowenna, seated on her father's right.

  ‘Watch where you put your clumsy feet, urchin,’ said a weaselly, sneering voice. 'Now I have ale all over my table.'

  Wyatt – of course – the drink had to spill near him.

  Will forced a polite face and turned to the acolyte of Wotan in time to see him waddle one stretched-out foot under the table then slowly pull it back.

  'Don’t just stand there, nithing - it’s going to drip on my holy robes,' Wyatt snapped.

  Will made a tiny bow. Your master has let you drink too much again. Wyatt couldn’t hold his drink – he quickly became loud, lewd and even more cruelly elitist. All the serving boys and girls knew to avoid him at mealtimes.

  Thanks for sending me up here, Bridget.

  Will concentrated on showing no emotion and resisted tipping both jugs over Wyatt's thin head. The acolyte was important in court, powerfully gifted in calling for and channelling Wotan’s power and possibly destined to be the next High Cleric one day. Will would be whipped for disrespecting him.

  Wyatt’s small dark eyes narrowed even further as the dark pool spread slowly towards him. ‘Wipe it up with those rags you’re wearing, boy. Now.’

  Will waited a moment longer. The liquid was seeping towards the table’s edge where it would drip onto Wotan’s holy vestments.

  Will slowly began to take off his tunic.

  Laughter suddenly burst out again as Puck, the king’s jester, mimicked Will's trip at the other end of the table. His long, willowy body flowed into a roll and then flipped back up almost on top of Will.

  With a flourish, Puck presented Will with a cloth that just seemed to appear in his hand.

  Will felt his cheeks burn as laughter rang out. The jester was a full head and shoulders above Will, gangly like a puppet. He looked down at Will with a big, stupid grin on his face, but his eyes held Will's in a serious stare.

  ‘Hurry, you useless orphan,’ Wyatt hissed. The acolyte couldn’t lose face now by moving back from the table.

  Will took a slow breath and gave the slightest of nods. He took the cloth and dabbed up the ale just as it was about to bulge over the lip of the table.

  Puck patted him on the head then bowed to the hall.

  With the entertainment clearly over for now, the warriors refocussed on talking too loud and raucous laughter. Despite the fate of the garrison here, they needed to relax after the varg at
tack and before rushing south to battle with the Picts.

  Will finished cleaning, picked up the second jug then pretended to lose his grip on both.

  Wyatt jumped back in his chair, but Will stopped just before anything actually spilled.

  Wyatt glared at him, one hand dropping to where a battle hammer hung at his belt.

  ‘Now, now, young acolyte,’ said an old, bald-headed man next to Wyatt. Alphege, High Cleric of Wotan and Wyatt’s master, placed one wrinkled hand on his apprentice's shoulder. ‘Calm yourself – an honest accident and there's no harm done; your robes are clean.’

  Wyatt gripped his hammer shaft a moment longer then reluctantly let go, shrugging away from his master's hand.

  Will nodded his respect to Alphege and then couldn’t help a small smile as Puck took one jug from him with exaggerated care. The jester quickly steered him along the table towards the king with his free hand.

  'One day, you will go too far, and Wyatt will burn your eyes out,' Puck whispered in his ear as he ushered him forward.

  Will started – it was the first time the jester had spoken to him privately. He struggled for something to say back. 'At least I wouldn't have to see his greasy face anymore.'

  Then they were in front of the king and Puck carefully handed the ale back to Will and bowed himself away.

  King Godric was a big, powerfully built man with deep blue eyes that stared fiercely over a thick, blonde beard. Although he was now over fifty, he made sure no one was in any doubt that he was still fighting-fit. That, and a desperation to escape court life as often as possible, was why he always led these "changing of the guard" trips up to the Romani wall.

  ‘Not like you to trip over your own feet, boy,’ the king said, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘No, Sire,’ Will said, bowing, ‘I’m sorry. Just a long day, is all.’

  The king nodded. 'Well, anyone can fall - it’s how hard you try to get back up that counts and who helps you… or not.’ He glanced at Osbert sitting on the other side of Rowenna, then turned back to Will and spoke a little louder. ‘Despite the gossip, I know you've done Brant proud today. My daughter tells me you held off a varg with fire when it came for the two of you.'