"I'm all right," Wynflaed cried, scrambling out from beneath the table. She brandished a small boning knife and forced a pugnacious smile. "They'll get some of this if they touch me."
Uhtred chuckled and held out his sword arm to encircle her as she joined them. "That's it then," he said, hugging the two. "We're ready. Let 'em do their worst."
Turning to his household, he summoned them to follow him. Flames now barred escape by the door, so he led them to the broken wall, his shield held aloft to fend off flaming gobs of thatch and pitch dripping from the burning roof. Buhe followed then Wynflaed and the other servants, jostled into line by old Luffa the senior house woman. Gasping for air in the smoke and heat, they clung to each other like a string of blind beggars at a harvest fair.
Outside in the chill night a ring of cruel, eager faces, lit as bright as lamp-drawn moths, confronted them. Uhtred rushed at the nearest man and felled him with a single blow. Astonishment still showed on the dead raider's face as Uhtred advanced over the corpse.
Coughing and choking, Wynflaed struggled out blindly. She stumbled over smouldering debris, gasping as fresh air drenched her face, stripping stinging threads of smoke and heat from her eyes and lungs. Her ankle turned on something round and hard as her bare feet probed for safe footing. It was the head of a corpse, almost severed from the neck. Trying to focus, she peered with tear veiled eyes and recognized a friend. Her legs faltered. She swayed on the brink of collapse. Instinctively she reached for Buhe's arm. "Look what they did, Buhe," she sobbed. "They killed Quiet Eadie."
Buhe caught her hand. She was sobbing, her sooty face riven with tear-washed lines. She clung to Wynflaed's hand as the pair gazed about the longhouse garth, seeing for the first time the bloodied corpses of Uhtred's ingas, his slaves, servants and tenants; friends and neighbours she had been raised with. At the far side of the enclosure, huddled in the smith's compound, the few who had so far survived, mostly women and children, cried out to their master as they saw him.
The raiders had begun wrenching open the doors of Uhtred's great barn. Others were driving his oxen, horses and mules from their stalls and harnessing them to carts, yokes and pack-harness to haul away their plunder.
Wynflaed watched them, the true worth of all that the barn contained impressing itself upon her. Years of work and planning had yielded a good harvest. The villagers had thanked the gods and feasted around a bonfire. They had sacrificed a sheep to Nerthus the Earth Mother, and placed flowers and fruit on the little shrines to Frigg in the fields and lanes, to thank her for the magic of fertile seed. In Thunner's glade virgins had danced naked around his oak, praising him for restraining his anger and granting them soft rains and fine weather. Now it was all to be lost in a single night. There would be nothing left - and nothing to replace it.
Desperately wondering what she could do Wynflaed gazed around her. She saw two raiders squaring up to the old thegn. Others milled around him like snarling dogs, eager to jump in should their comrades fail to cut him down. The hopelessness of their situation struck home even deeper, bathing her in cold sweat. Something snapped like a bowstring inside her brain. She found herself running, blind to danger. She leapt between the posturing men and threw her arms around Uhtred's neck, placing her slim body between him and his attackers.
"No - no stop! Please don't hurt him," she cried. She had not an idea in her head, except that she must stop them killing Uhtred. She would not allow it. She would not let them slaughter this kind old man, her father in all but blood. Twelve years earlier Uhtred had saved her, a helpless orphan no more than three-years-of-age. Now she would save him. It was not bravery. What she did was pure impulse, the blind reaction of one much loved and loving.
Despite being a widower, the old thegn had brought her up like his own. Whatever his daughter Buhe had, so had she. The girls had studied, eaten, slept and played together. Each had borrowed clothes and toys from the other. Never was there a hand-me-over, or make-do-and-mend that they did not both endure. Uhtred had never done a thing to make Wynflaed feel unwanted. She would not see him killed.
The lightning slash of a knife flashed from the hand of one of the raiders. Uhtred spun away, following his out-thrown shield as though borne up by a powerful gust of wind. Blood spurted from his neck, salting Wynflaed's lips. She turned on the attacker. "Stop! Stop!" she screamed, flinging herself to her knees and wrapping her arms around the startled raider's legs. The man gaped down at her, an odd look of embarrassment and confusion smoothing the murderous creases from his brow. His comrades too seemed baffled. For a moment they lowered their axes, glancing nervously at each other and laughing in bewilderment.
An officer approached and stood between his men and the wounded thegn. His eyes flicked from one to the other. In all the chaos and sickening confusion, a strange calm enveloped them. It was as though Wynflaed, by some magic in her actions, had drawn an enchanted circle around them driving out chaos and violence.
The silence spread to the horde, honouring the officer's raised hand and his steady gaze along their churning ranks. In the enjoining quiet, Uhtred's groans and curses seemed harsh above the crackle and hiss of burning and the choral murmur of quieting voices. Buhe fussed beside her father, overlooked by old Luffa, fat and wheezing tearfully. Wynflaed watched the officer, her heart pounding, stomach sick with anxiety.
He was tall and broad at the shoulder. His chest was heaving from exertion beneath silver studded armour of dark red leather. Blood bespattered his scarred, muscular forearms. He wore brecs of dark green wool and boots of soft leather, bound to the calf. Wynflaed returned his gaze, annoyed to see that he seemed to find the situation amusing. "I'm commander here," he said, his sword seeking out a silver trimmed scabbard at his belt.
"I trust you find nothing to be proud of in that."
Her boldness surprised him, though he tried not to show it. "Is he your granfer?" he asked, nodding in Uhtred's direction.
She took a step towards him. "No, your honour," she said, and pushing her red hair from her eyes went on. "He is my lord Uhtred Bergredsunnu, master here. I am his bonded seamstress."
The commander looked thoughtful for a moment, his gaze switching from her, to Buhe and her father, then to his men pressing about him. "I know the rebel's name," he said dismissively. "I meant to know who you are."
"Wynflaed," she said, adding as an afterthought, "Alfwalddohtor." She cursed herself inwardly for trembling as the full realisation of what she had done began draining her strength. "May I know your name?" she asked, summoning boldness from somewhere.
The officer smiled and cast a jocular look at his men.
Despite everything Wynflaed could not help noticing his smile. The faint hope that he might not be the cruel killer he had seemed flashed through her mind.
"You're a strange one," he said, with a chuckle. "You say you are bondswif here, a seamstress, yet you demand my name and look me in the eye like any freeman of rank ..."
"I am of family," she said. "I told you ..."
"Yes — yes. Alfwalddohtor," he said, mocking her, and grinning at his men. "I'm sure we all heard you. Yet here you are in this nest of traitors."
With anger surpassing her fear, she watched him remove his battle helmet and push a hand through his mop of light brown hair. His face was pleasant, if rather roughly hewn, when not squashed between the silver cheek plates of his helmet. He was younger than she had expected, perhaps not more than twenty, yet he bore the scars of many battles. One, a faint blue line running from his right eye to his ear, intrigued her. It tugged at his eyelid, lending his eye a mischievous glint. His nose, which had clearly been broken more than once, showed him capable of much more than simple mischief. Still, she told herself, as her hope rekindled, it was not the face of a brutal man.
"Well, daughter of Alfwald," he said smiling, his clear blue eyes mocking her, "as you demand it, I shall tell you." He saluted her with an extravagance intended to amuse his men. "I am Wulfric Aelricsunnu of the Cenwulfingas.
I come to this rebel's house for supplies. I serve Lord Cenwulf. He marches to join King Penda. I don't suppose your rebel master cares that our lord Penda and the Wealh king, Cadwallon Gwynedd, march to face the Northumbrians. He's obviously content to hide here in this house of women while loyal men fight and die."
Resisting the urge to rise to his mocking, Wynflaed pulled back her shoulders and looked him in the eye. "Your men have already stolen all they can carry," she said. "Killing us will neither swell their packs, nor help them carry what they have." She eyed him haughtily as she went on. "Or do you simply want an old man's blood on your swords for sport?"
Wulfric bristled, but made no reply. He crammed his helmet on, tied its straps beneath his chin and turned to his men. "Put the rebel and his whelp in the smith's yard with the others. Let's get out of this traitor's midden."
An officer at his shoulder relayed the order. Buhe and her injured father were led away. Luffa and the other servants followed. Wynflaed alone remained, held there by Wulfric's gaze. His anger was clear, yet he seemed torn by indecision. She glared at him, wondering what sort of man he could be. How could he do what he did? She felt confused and angry. Part of her wished she was a man, wished she could strike him for his violence. He should suffer for what he'd done. Yet he raised feelings inside her such as she had never experienced.
Wulfric turned and strode away towards the main body of his men. Wynflaed remained, a small, solitary figure in the bright, hot space before the burning hall. She watched him go, wanting to hate him but unable to take her eyes off him. Just before he vanished into his crowding warriors he turned and looked back at her. She knew there was something about that glance that she would never forget, but harder to accept was that she feared she would never want to.
All around her raiders rushed about loading carts and mules, gathering up all the copper and bronze, and stripping precious iron from plough and hearth. She scanned their faces expecting to see evil, but saw only ordinary men, working and sweating like field hands, their swords and axes encumbrances now, slung across their shoulders.
Wynflaed wandered about the burning village as if searching its ruins for the hatred and anger she expected. What she saw was certainly distressing, but she was denied the hatred she wanted to feel.
Later, as the fires died and the noise and chaos subsided, a grimy faced youth approached leading a skittish white mule. Skinny and dressed in torn tunic and cow-skin brecs he kept his eyes lowered in the manner of a slave. His unkempt hair blew across his face. As he neared her, he stopped and waited, as if for permission to speak.
Wynflaed was puzzled. "Do you want me?"
The young muler nodded and looked up through his tangled hair. Now he saw clearly the young woman he had seen only from a distance, boldly standing up to his master. She was every bit as beautiful as he had thought. She had long, coppery hair that fell about her face and neck in the deep, glossy remnant of linen-bound braids. Her large, green eyes were bright and haughty. They shone at him like lamps from beneath thick, coppery eyebrows and dark lashes. Even through the soot and grime of her ordeal he could see her skin was clear and smooth. She wore a shift of wool held at the waist with a belt of plaited, holly-green leather. Her small, maiden's breasts pushed gently at the faded green. A plain circlet of gold at her wrist reflected the light of the fires around them. Otherwise, her soot-marked arms were bare to the shoulder. She was about his age, he guessed, certainly no more than sixteen, though her manner lent her maturity beyond her years. No wonder his master wanted her.
"What is it?" Wynflaed resented his searching gaze.
"My master commands me to say ..." He stopped and gulped for breath. "And I'm to say exactly these words, my lady ..."
"You needn't address me so," she interrupted. "I'm a bond-servant like you."
"Lord Wulfric was precise, my lady," the youth insisted. "I am to say that you are free to travel where you wish. But my master wants you to know that his wish is that you will travel with him. Me and my mule are to ..."
"Travel with him?" she cried. "Huh! In what capacity I wonder?"
The muler dropped his gaze and took a step back. "I — err — I'm to say that you'll be well cared for ..."
"Huh! I don't doubt it," she said. "I expect your master is well used to caring for such — travellers." Her clenched fists beat slowly on her thighs as she tried to contain her mounting fury. "Tell your master — tell him, that if he were the last man on middle earth, I would rather prick out my eyes than ..."
***
When Wynflaed reached the blacksmith's yard, Buhe greeted her with tearful relief. "Oh thank Thunner you're safe," she cried. "We thought — well — we didn't know what to think. You are all right aren't you? I mean they didn't ..." Buhe's facial acrobatics told a fearful story.
"I'm fine," Wynflaed said. "How's father?"
"Oh, they say he'll be all right." She threaded her arm in Wynflaed's. "That commander sent us his healer. He's in there now." She nodded towards the smith's cottage. "Where were you? Gods, Flaedy!" she said. "You saved our lives. We'd all be dead but for you. You were so brave. I don't know how you could do it — just stand up to him like that."
"Neither do I, but maybe I didn't save us at all - just postponed our deaths. We'll likely starve over winter," she said, her eyes sweeping the destruction around them. "They're taking everything, even the bell from its pole."
"But we're alive," said Buhe. "And you did it. At least we've a chance. And if father's not too badly hurt, he'll soon think of something."
Setting Wynflaed walking, Buhe snuggled close and squeezed her arm. She was half a year younger than Wynflaed, and although they shared the same clothes, somehow on Buhe they seemed always to be in delightful disarray. Wynflaed was groomed and shining by comparison, and where she was calm and deliberate, Buhe was giddy and excitable. Buhe giggled a lot, often for no apparent reason, though she had the most infectious laughter. When Wynflaed laughed however, men noticed her, much less her laughing. The two were best friends, seldom seen apart. Accomplished in many skills from farming to music, they both worked hard. Buhe was a fine needlewoman, though she could not match the artistry of Wynflaed's work. She lacked patience, Wynflaed often told her. She could seldom sit for more than half an hour at anything. If her work went badly she would fling it down and become unbearably bossy. Throughout these outbursts, Wynflaed would remain serene, something Buhe found exasperating.
"Of course, father's been expecting this for a long time," Buhe said, her eyebrows shooting up in a gesture of bored inevitability. He always said they'd come for him one day." Then, frowning, she whispered, "Let's face it, he's said some pretty harsh things about King Penda."
"Is that the healer?" Wynflaed interrupted, on seeing a dark, solemn faced man emerge from the smith's hut.
Buhe nodded, eyeing the figure in flowing black cloak and large floppy hat. "I heard them call him Crowman," she whispered, with an elaborate shudder. "Gods! He looks like old Grim his-self, doesn't he?"
"I've got to speak to him," said Wynflaed, rushing off, leaving Buhe bemused.
The healer saw her running towards him and paused. He was tall and thin. His black clothes flapped about him like great black wings. His long, sad face wore a distant, weary look. At first Wynflaed thought his expression reflected Uhtred's condition and she wondered if his injuries were worse than Buhe had told her.
"What is it? Is he dying?" she asked.
The Crowman studied her for a moment. "We are all dying child, but your master no sooner than most of us."
"So he's all right" she asked, flustered by his answer.
The Crowman nodded.
"Oh, thank the gods," she said, and then checking herself smiled gratefully.
He nodded and started to move off, but she grasped his arm. "Don't worry," he said, patting her hand. "He'll recover. In a week or so he'll be fine." He peered into her face, wondering at her reluctance to release him. "Is there something else, daughter?"
&n
bsp; She nodded with a grateful urgency. "I — I wanted to ask ..."
Crowman frowned impatiently. "Well Child?"
"I want to know about — your master."
"My master?" he queried. "I serve only Wyrd. Only by the whim of Wyrd may we serve even the gods. We are the dolls of Wyrd to be danced and toyed with."
"No, I mean Lord Wulfric," she said.
Crowman shrugged. "You know his name. What more would you know that cannot be seen in his eyes?"
"I wondered - what sort of man he is."
Crowman prized her fingers from his arm and squared up to her. She fell back a step, bracing herself. He was gazing deep into her eyes. She felt as if her soul was being laid bare before him. "In time, child, you will know everything," he told her. "You have a long journey ahead; far beyond a place of streams and lime trees. I see your chains broken by sunlight where there is no sky."
"Journey? What journey? What chains? I'm not going anywhere."
He turned away and set off towards the woods beyond Uhtred's smouldering fields. "Your journey starts soon, daughter of Alfwald," he called back.
"No. No, you're wrong. I'm not going anywhere. This is my home. I'm staying here. I'll never leave."
Buhe joined her, slipping an arm about her. "What's wrong? You crying. Is it father? What did he say?"
"No, it's not that," Wynflaed sobbed. "He's wrong, Buhe. I'm not going on a journey. I'm staying here. I don't want to leave."
"Of course you're staying. We all are," Buhe said. "What are you getting so upset about?"
"He said that I'm going on a journey, and something about sunlight where there is no sky breaking my chains. What chains? I have no chains. I'm free and I love Uhtredstun and you and your father."
"Sunlight without sky?" queried Buhe. "That's silly!"
….…
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Dance Floor Drowning Page 30
