The Edge on the Sword

by Rebecca Tingle

  Flæd looked behind her. She could see no one approaching from any direction on the trail, but something pale shone on the ground. Silently she went to it. Reaching out her hand, she grasped at the white shape and found herself holding a piece of parchment spattered with drops of fresh blood. The injured raider had dropped the page his leader had thrust back at him.

  In the shadows of the path Flæd could only make out a few shapes drawn on the crushed vellum. She folded it and tucked it into the pouch she had tied around her waist beneath her rags. After a moment’s thought, she unsheathed the dagger hidden there and kept it in her hand as she moved swiftly back toward the place where she and Dunstan had entered the camp.

  “Lady.” She whipped around at the word spoken softly in her own language, but it was only Dunstan, who was emerging from a new hiding place close by.

  “We agreed you would wait there,” she hissed, pointing with her knife back to the spot where she had left him.

  “We agreed you would not approach so many men at once,” Dunstan countered, The two of them glared at each other, until Dunstan broke the silence. “You left our gift?” Flæd nodded, unwilling now to speak of it. “Then we will wait to hear how it is received.” Together they stole through the trees to the outskirts of the camp.

  “That man in the cloak, the one who is their leader,” she said when they had reached a prudent distance, “I think …”

  “I know him,” both of them said at once, then stopped to stare at each other again.

  “He led the men who took me in the spring,” she told her thane.

  “I last saw him one year ago, at the Danish surrender,” Dunstan said. He glanced around, assuring himself that no one had followed. The two of them sat down in the darkness where a little moonlight came through the branches.

  “He is one of Guthrum’s men?” Flæd asked.

  Dunstan nodded. “Once he was a jarl, a Danish nobleman with much the same rank as our aldorman Ethelred, and a person with great authority in the wars,” the thane replied. “His name is Siward.” Dunstan paused, his young face wrinkled with worry. “I will tell you what I know of him,” he said at last.

  “King Alfred had decreed that the Danes must be baptized as Christians when they pledged peace. Siward was forced to come with Guthrum’s other generals, but at the place of surrender, he resisted. Two other Danes held him when the priest brought the holy water. He fought, screaming out in his own language and in the words he knew of ours. He cursed the English and Alfred, calling on his own gods for vengeance.”

  “He refused to submit?” Flæd asked.

  “He did,” Dunstan said, “and Guthrum was ashamed that one of his commanders would not obey him. He ordered that Siward be taken away and held, but that night the dissenter disappeared. The Danish guards, it was thought, felt sympathy for him.”

  “My father said in the council room that not all of Guthrum’s people would be governed by the treaty,” Flæd reflected.

  “Siward would not,” Dunstan agreed. “He hates your father, and it seems he has found others who share his feeling.”

  “Or perhaps he has bullied them into joining him,” Flæd said, shaking her head. “I saw him punish one of his men for little more than raising his voice beside the fire. See what that raider dropped after Siward stuck him with a dagger.” She pulled out the piece of parchment she had found and opened it where a beam of moonlight fell across her lap. Flæd could not read the characters she saw, but as she followed the wriggling line near the parchment’s edge, she realized what she held in her hand.

  “This is a map,” she murmured. “Look! Here is the Welsh coast, the Humber River here, and beyond it the Danelaw.” Her eye paused at what must be the border between Mercia and Wales. “Dunstan”—she pointed to several scattered markings—“these are the places where attackers struck the border outposts.”

  She tried to think. Why would Siward’s raiders, lurking in the heart of Mercia, know anything about such distant assaults? Anxiously, Flæd surveyed the map another time. When she looked up, she thought she had found an answer.

  “If these are all Siward’s forces,” she said slowly, “then he has sent only a few troops west, perhaps to confuse us. The main host waits here”—she touched the map in a place dark with the marks she thought must indicate raiding parties—“in the Danelaw, around Eoforwic, just as Osric guessed,” she added in a faint voice.

  “Weren’t the attacks at the border made by Welshmen?” Dunstan asked skeptically.

  “By riders who dressed like Welshmen, but who were larger men, like Danes, we were told,” Flæd replied. “And the men who attacked me carried weapons made to look like the work of Welsh craftsmen, although the knife we took bore a Danish craftmark.” Flæd gulped back sadness—her warder had shown them that mark. She tried to concentrate. “If Siward can remain hidden here in the country of his enemies, he is not a careless man. The Welsh weapons, the disturbance at the border—I think these things were meant to make my father and Ethelred look to the west.”

  “And if you disappear now,” Dunstan joined in, beginning to understand, “your father and the aldorman will look west. They will take their troops and go west, while Siward brings his horde down from the north!”

  The two of them fell silent, stricken by their discovery. It was Dunstan who finally spoke.

  “Lady Æthelflæd, you must reach Lunden,” he said emphatically, “nothing must prevent you. You and I may be able to reach the river tonight, alone—”

  “Dunstan,” she stopped him. It was the second time he had tried to convince her to leave the others, to protect her by asking her to desert the men. She could see the special need now for Ethelred and Alfred to know she was safe. But to disappear, leaving her people waiting for her with their preparations half-finished? “There must be something else we can—”

  A cry from the camp silenced them, then more shouting. They could see raiders running along the pathway Flæd had followed, gathering near Siward’s fire.

  “They have found it,” Dunstan muttered unnecessarily. The awful token Flæd had left seemed to be spreading fear through the camp, as they had hoped. “May Siward’s men vex him now like a flock of sheep with one dead in their middle.” He turned back to Flæd. “And we should go. Will you do what I have suggested?”

  When Flæd and Dunstan left their hiding place in the wood, Flæd had a heavy feeling in her chest. She mulled over the compromise she had reached with Dunstan. What other choice did I have, she wondered as they stealthily approached the fort’s secret entrance.

  “We worried when you were gone so long, Lady,” said the thane who waited for them inside. “We have made the preparations you ordered.”

  “Show me,” Flæd told him. “And afterward, gather the rest of the men. We will discuss our plans, and then”—she pulled off her leather cap and rubbed her eyes—“some sleep.”

  The sound would always terrify her—that thud of boots in the night. Flæd was dreaming of the room she shared with her sisters in her father’s burgh. Dove and Ælf laughed, running around the wooden floor with small pounding feet No, they were screaming, running away from something. She jerked awake as the heavy footsteps came closer, and was already pulling her shirt of ring mail over her clothes when he burst into the dirt-floored room where she had gone to sleep.

  “Lady!” The young retainer hissed in a strangled whisper. “A new attack! They will breach the wall!” Æthelflæd considered this news as she jammed on her boots and reached for her heavy leather cap. She issued two curt commands which sent the man scurrying back down the corridor, and then strode out after him looking for her horse.

  We are not ready yet…not yet. A low noise of men and horses filled the air as she emerged into the yard at the center of the fortress’s defenses. She swung up onto Apple, already saddled for her, and quickly glanced around the torchlit space. The enemy forces had chosen the least secure part of the wall for their assault. Could her trick with the helmet have b
rought on this early attack, she wondered with horror. They had meant to unnerve and confuse their enemies, not spur them into action! The gate—by morning we might have made it stronger.

  “How many outside?” she demanded.

  “As many as forty, Lady,” came the answer from Dunstan. That must be nearly every one of Siward’s men, judging from what she had seen in their camp. Steadying her anxious horse, she cast a rapid glance over the riders gathered around her—all eight of them looked haggard for lack of sleep, two were wounded, one badly enough that he sat bent with pain in his saddle. Why won’t he wait inside with the wagon and the other driver? He will be the first to die. Without another word, she motioned toward the secret passageway opposite the place where the attackers had massed, and sent her own mount into the lead with a little leap.

  Coming out of the tunnel ahead of her front riders, she pushed swiftly through the brush which choked the forgotten exit. She could still hear the shouts of the enemy, but now another rhythm had joined those sounds….

  With a shock she recognized the echo of a ram pounding against the fortress wall. She twisted in the saddle to look back—the half-ruined defenses could not possibly withstand such an assault for more than a few blows. The driver who stayed inside, will he be ready? Will any of it work as we planned? Time, she thought blindly as she kicked her horse into a gallop, we’ve run out of time.

  And they had. Flæd heard the old bridge they had used to block the entrance give way with a creaking and snapping of wood. She and her riders had all left their secret exit now, and were circling around to the other side of the fortress, where the path led up the hill to the main entrance. The girl leaned into the swerve of Apple’s gallop as she and her riders burst onto the path. The horses slowed a little as they began to climb toward the gateway, where the enemy would have massed, and Flæd gathered her limbs to urge Apple forward. She could almost see the entrance of the fortress. Suddenly Dunstan was beside her, clutching at her horse’s bridle.

  “Lady,” said her second in command in a strained undertone as he fought to calm their two horses while the rest of the company raced forward and passed them, “we agreed that you would not risk yourself in battle!” But I brought this on all of you! I brought us here! I stirred the raiders like a nest of wasps! I should ride first to save us, or be punished! But Dunstan was right, Æthelflæd forced herself to acknowledge, reining in her horse. They had agreed, yesterday, as he said. Remembering this did not make it any easier to stop, while her little band stormed into the fight.

  “Go,” she hissed. “I’ll meet you when it is done.” Dunstan wheeled and charged after the others. I will meet you if any of you …if any of us live.

  Flæd turned Apple off the path, heading for the stone outcropping she and Dunstan had spoken of when he made her promise not to fight if the raiders attacked. Both of them remembered noticing a massive ridge of rock as they looked down from the top of the fortress. It jutted out of the ground just ten paces or so away from the main route up the hill, Dunstan had explained, and Flæd had nodded. She knew just the spot. It was surrounded by small trees and other growth, and Flæd and Dunstan had judged it a place where a horse and rider could stand unseen. At the same time, a person hiding there could stay close to the path for a quick escape, if needed.

  Sliding off her horse, Flæd led him into the shadow of the rocks where she had agreed to wait. Almost immediately the smell of smoke surrounded her. It had begun. She closed her eyes, picturing the scene inside the fortress.

  The driver we left behind has set fire to the brush we piled in the entrance and splashed with my dowry mead. The raiders are burning and afraid—they forced their way into the middle of our flimsy barrier and met flames when they had expected a group of frightened thanes and a girl, easily taken. They panic. Some struggle back through the entrance, where my men are waiting to cut them down. Then—what? A more equal fight for her men, she hoped, still closing her eyes and hugging her arms around her body. A serious blow dealt to the Danish raiding party, and maybe survival for the West Saxons. Something better than helpless death like cornered animals.

  Flæd listened to the rising sound of battle at the fortress. She still felt fear at these noises. But those are my men, who followed my instructions to the end of their strength, who rode out wounded and tired and few, because I ordered it, and because they think they will save me.

  And I am useless, Flæd thought to herself. This could not have been what Red meant when he spoke of preparing herself, could it? Even when the world around her was not what she wanted, Red had said, it was her duty to remain polished, sharp, and strong—to be a shield at the ready, a point on the spear, the edge on the sword. Now she stood, ready in her place, and that place was in a shadow behind a rock.

  Flæd cringed as an awful cry split the air above the shouts and clanging. One of the raiders? One of my men, even Dunstan? The sounds were so close, but there was no way to know unless she could see. Flæd beat her hand against the stones that hid her.

  She waited, racked, as the fight went on, until at last she could bear it no longer. I have to look. With fumbling fingers she looped Apple’s reins up close around a branch, and pushed his big body as close to the rocks as he would go. It would be very hard to spot him as long as he stayed still. She left her sword and shield hanging on the saddle, taking only her knife. They would catch in the undergrowth as she tried to go stealthily, and she was only going to look. She crept toward the path.

  A hellish light glowed over the fortress walls—the brush was still burning inside. There was chaos at the gate, where the raiders had bridged the trench with rough poles. As she watched, a few of them stumbled out of the gate, coughing and struggling with the difficult footing of their bridge. Those who did not fall into the gap disappeared into the brawling mass of mounted fighters and men on foot at the other side of the ditch.

  Flæd lay there on her belly, trying to make out her own men in the moonlight, wondering if this was the time to flee to the river, as she and Dunstan had agreed she must. Dunstart said it was my duty to save myself, that I must live to save Mercia and Wessex from Siward’s pillaging. But she stayed, and strained to see.

  Someone was running. Flæd groped forward for a better view. Were her people in retreat? No, these looked like two raiders straggling off toward the woods. She turned back to the battle site. A small group of fighters had clustered together. They were stooped close to the ground and no longer raised their swords to meet the blows that flashed in the surrounding crowd. As Flæd watched, another man knelt with them, and another. What was happening? All around the battlefield weapons began to clatter to the ground—the kneeling men must be raiders, Flæd realized as their numbers surpassed the pitiful tally of her own thanes. Mercy, they were asking for mercy!

  Æthelflæd’s elation died away as she counted the figures standing and on horseback. Only five? There might have been nine if the driver who had stayed to light the fires had been able to join the skirmish. She thought there were at least a dozen kneeling raiders. Would they still submit when they saw that they had been routed by so few? Her men needed her—she could join them and seize one of the dropped swords. Careless of the branches that snapped around her, Flæd stood and ran into the road, heading up the hill.

  Without warning her body collided with something dark and moving. Thrown backward, she hit the mud, thudding so hard it knocked the breath out of her. With a wheeze she forced a tiny amount of air into her lungs as the black shape heaved up off the road and came toward her. An excruciating grip closed upon her arm.

  “Alfred’s daughter,” said a ravaged voice. A hand grasped Flæd’s other arm, and she was yanked against the body of the figure who held her. The moon showed singed hair, hard eyes, a face twisted with the pain of a fresh burn across one cheek. An acrid smell of smoke rose from her captor’s clothes. “My men say the spirits turn against them, but look, they smile on me.”

  Siward. Flæd kicked against his legs and tried
to shove herself away from his chest. She cried out as the man wrenched her arms violently behind her.

  “Quiet, Alfred’s daughter,” he rasped, bringing the burnt-hair stench of his face nearer. “I have you. Now that doesn’t matter.” He jerked his head to indicate the battle at the fort.

  Flæd gave a little moan. She understood more than Si-ward realized. He would summon his northern forces while her father and Ethelred rode to Wales in search of her. Unless her band’s battered survivors were able to bring this news to Lunden, Siward was right: Nothing about tonight’s fight would make much difference.

  “You have a horse,” he said with a vicious tug that sent her to her knees. Bent down so that her face almost touched the mud, she nodded. “Show me,” he ordered, allowing her to stand, but never releasing his hold. Flæd shuffled forward. Apple was only a few lengths away—she must think. With a show of reluctance she turned off the road and began to tromp through the brush. A limb slapped her in the face and she flinched aside, but Siward pulled her back in front of him. “Go,” he said, propelling her onward.

  As erratically as she could, Flæd wound her way toward Apple’s hiding place. In the darkness she tried to choose the roughest footing and cross through the densest snarls of undergrowth, hoping Siward would falter. But his step remained sure. Soon they had almost reached her horse—she would have to try something else.