by Peter Fox
The man shook his head in dismay when he saw the full extent of Saeric’s injuries, his eyes wide with shock as he took in the layer upon layer of marks and scars on his chest, back and arms. Frowning, he piled the fire as high as the little nook allowed, then nodded at Saeric to sit on the stool by the flames. The older slave handed the younger a piece of cloth with which to dry himself, but Saeric put it aside, preferring to feel the heat of the fire on his bare skin. He was starting to hurt now, a lot. Many of his scratches and cuts still bled, the rain having aided the flow, but here, in the warmth of the herdmaster’s little hovel, most would dry up soon enough. I did it, he thought, elation swelling as the realisation that he had finally managed to escape Baldwyn caught up with him. I’ve got away!
The tears came from nowhere, and his body let out first one sob, and then another. Within moments he was crying freely, and the herdmaster draped a grimy blanket around Saeric’s shoulders and watched him anxiously, unsure what else to do. Saeric struggled to get a grip of himself, surprised and annoyed at this uncharacteristic loss of self-control. He clenched his mouth shut and took a long breath through his nose, forcing the tears back. No, he told himself. I am far from free. I cannot afford to rest. Much stands before me and liberty; I don’t even know where I am. I think I am heading west, but in the rain and darkness, I could just as easily be fleeing deeper into Wessex. Worse still, I could be going in circles and tomorrow I’ll find myself back at Baldwyn’s.
There was a bump at his elbow, and he self-consciously wiped his face with the back of his hand before turning to see the older man holding a bowl of warmed broth for him. Saeric took it and muttered a quiet thanks. They sat in silence as he ate the weak soup, grateful for its warmth and sustenance, however meagre.
‘Who is your Lord?’ Saeric asked quietly.
The man shook his head and touched his lips, leaving Saeric confused for a moment. Is he telling me to keep quiet? he wondered. If so it’s a funny way to do it. The realisation came in a flash. The herdmaster smiled, seeing his guest’s expression change, and he opened his mouth to confirm Saeric’s conclusion. The man’s tongue had been cut out, leaving a grotesque stump at the back of his mouth. Jesus Christ, Saeric thought, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. So that’s what they do to their slaves on this estate then?
He was about to offer words of condolence when the older man threw a panicked glance at Saeric, then he stepped out through the curtain, grunting in acknowledgement to an unseen, unheard master. Saeric barely had time to act before he heard someone enter the outer byre. He quickly backed away from the fire and huddled into the corner nearest the curtain. He pulled the blanket over his head and drew himself into as tight a ball as possible, hoping that if the master came looking, he would not turn his head. He held his breath as he heard footsteps approaching.
‘Are you deaf as well as mute?’ came a gravelly, unpleasant Saxon voice. A sharp slap and a pained grunt followed. ‘Well? Should I cut off your ears too?’
There was another grunt in supplication; if such a thing were possible.
‘What are you up to?’ the huscarl asked, suspicion clear in his tone.
Saeric heard the panic in the herdmaster’s urgent grunting. The fool is giving me away! Saeric realised, hearing swift footsteps coming towards him. A cold rage swept over Saeric, and the voice that had urged him to escape from his bondage burst into his head.
Get up! We will not be enslaved again!
Saeric threw off the blanket, hopped over to the little table and snatched up the knife he had seen there. He spun on his right heel, weapon raised, just as the curtain was wrenched aside. Saeric found himself face to face with a burly Saxon huscarl. Without a thought, Saeric thrust the knife into the Saxon’s chest and shoved him backwards into the byre. As they both fell, Saeric wrenched out the blade and plunged it in for a second time, but to Saeric’s amazement, the Saxon managed to heave Saeric aside. The huscarl staggered towards the doorway, shouting for help. Saeric regained his balance and went for the Saxon again, shoving him onto the ground and straddling him. He stabbed him in the chest a third time, holding the knife with both hands and gritting his teeth as he turned it.
Die, Saxon filth.
The knife grated on bone. The huscarl coughed once, then slumped beneath Saeric, dead. Saeric released his grip on the bloodied knife and pushed himself off his victim, looking for a path to escape. He saw that the herdmaster had backed into the far corner of a stall, his brown eyes wide with terror, clearly fearing he would be next.
Saeric returned to the little room, hopping on his good foot. He was spattered with the Saxon’s blood, and he used the blanket to wipe himself clean as best he could, then he snatched his damp clothes from beside the fire and pulled them on. As an afterthought, he wrapped one end of the blanket around his hand and pulled a burning log from the fire. He hopped out of the room and went for the herdmaster, who stood quivering in terror, awaiting his death at that hands of this monster. Saeric grabbed the slave by the arm and dragged him out of the building, surprised that he did not try to resist in any way. It was still raining outside, so Saeric quickly turned and threw the log back in onto one of the neat piles of hay near the entrance. Despite the damp air, the feed caught fire instantly.
He shoved the herdmaster in the back. ‘Run, numbskull. You’re free!’
But the herdmaster stood rooted in shock, shaking his head at Saeric. He backed away towards the hall, letting out a loud, guttural grunting of alarm that sounded like a frightened cow in the slaughter-yard realising its throat was about to be cut. Saeric abandoned the herdmaster and turned and fled. He hobbled off up the roadway that led from the farmstead as quickly as his injury allowed, hoping that without a master, the household would blunder about in confusion long enough for him to make good his escape. He looked over his shoulder and smiled at the flames shooting out of the blazing byre. He felt strangely invigorated by his actions; most notably the brutal murder of a man he had never before met, yet hated with all his heart.
I truly am a servant of the Devil, he thought, but curiously did not find that an altogether terrible prospect. So, is revenge my purpose after all?
You know it is, came the Devil’s voice. You made a promise, remember?
Saeric grunted at that. I was just a boy.
It was a promise sealed with the blood of your sister, the Devil reminded him, murdered by the Traitor in front of your eyes. And have you forgotten your brother, mother and father?
I will avenge them, Saeric agreed.
He stayed on the paths and roadways, figuring that few people would be out in the rain on this dark, cold night. His left ankle burned with excruciating pain now, and he wondered how much further it could carry him before it gave way altogether. He looked for a place to hide when the skies began to lighten, settling for what appeared to have once been a traveller’s resting house of some kind, but that now lay in ruin. He made his way to the far end of the building, where the roof and second storey had collapsed, forming a half-decent hiding place. He saw that others had used it in the past; a sleeping place had been made up in the driest corner, and two ragged, moth-eaten blankets lay on the floor. Saeric shook them out, draped them around himself, and settled in for the day.
He drifted in and out of a fitful sleep; cold, pain and fear of capture preventing any real rest. He woke every time he heard noises on the nearby roadway, but thankfully no one paid any heed to the ruin. At one point when he awoke to loud voices, he cursed his stupidity for not bringing any form of weapon with him. But the shouting soon abated, and the travellers moved on, leaving Saeric in peace.
The rain had eased to drizzle by nightfall, and Saeric crept from his hiding place and carefully checked that no one lay in wait for him. Word would likely have spread by now of his attack on the Saxon huscarl, but at least the only other person who could describe Saeric had no tongue.
Let’s hope he’s not much of an artist, Saeric thought, remembering one of his own m
aster’s huscarls – too severely wounded to speak – using charcoal to draw a picture of his assailant. It had been a terrible sketch but had contained sufficient detail to identify the man responsible, who had subsequently been caught, then drawn and quartered and his remains fed to the Lord’s hunting dogs.
Stupid cowherd, said the Devil. You should have killed him too.
Satisfied he was safe, Saeric set out but immediately fell over when his ankle collapsed under him. A searing flash of agony burst from his foot and shot up his leg, crashing into his chest and ripping the breath from him. He swore roundly and tried to get up, but the pain was so intense that he fell back onto the ground. He lay in the middle of the road, exposed and helpless. No, he thought, stunned by his incapacity.
Get up, snapped the Devil.
I can’t.
Get UP!
‘Easy for you to say,’ Saeric gasped, screwing his face up in agony. He forced himself to crawl back over to the ruined building. He propped himself up against the wall, tears running down his cheeks as he struggled to force his shattered body to obey him.
Stop wailing!
Saeric gripped a protruding beam and hauled himself onto his undamaged foot. I must keep going, he told himself, gritting his teeth. He hobbled into the building in search of a suitable length of wood to use as a crutch. He found a plank amongst the fallen timbers and shoved it roughly under his left armpit, and then he shuffled back out onto the gravelled road. He made slow progress, half walking, half hopping. As the night wore on, his distress grew. His body began to shiver and shake of its own accord, and Saeric knew he was done. Soon he would succumb to a horrible death due to overlong exposure to the cold. He was barely aware that he had come upon a large town, nestled in a broad, shallow vale that was surrounded by marshland. He would normally have stayed well clear of it, but such was his desperation that he no longer cared about capture; anything to ease this terrible pain and the chill that gripped his heart and lungs.
Weakling.
He almost missed the smithy, perhaps because its initial outward appearance wasn’t what Saeric had been expecting. But a smithy it was. Following custom, the workshop with its dangerous heat, fumes and embers was located at the edge of town, and by a stroke of pure luck, the road along which Saeric had hobbled ran right past it. The smithy appeared to be that of a prosperous craftsman because the sizeable building was constructed of dressed stone with a slate shingle roof and finely-carved wooden floor-to-ceiling shutters. Saeric felt a surge of relief on his unlikely discovery.
A dog barked nearby, and Saeric froze in the shadows, preparing to defend himself from attack. None came. Aware that this hope-fuelled flush of energy would be short-lived, he crept up to the workshop, and when he tested one of the shutters, it opened without resistance. He spotted the booby trap just in time and managed to deflect the iron bolt that fell from somewhere above, away from the metal bowl left on the floor.
That would’ve made quite a racket, he thought, relieved. The same dog let out a half-hearted growl, but it appeared to be away in another yard somewhere, so Saeric took his chance and hopped inside. To his night-accustomed eyes, the interior seemed lit by a hundred torches, and he instinctively froze, searching for the warden who must reside here. He had no hope of dropping down to the floor in his condition, let alone run away if spotted. As his eyes grew used to the light, however, he realised that the workshop was empty and that the illumination was cast by a solitary oil lamp hanging on the opposite side of the room. It was supplemented by a dull red glow emanating from the central forge, whose heaped coals and stonework still gave off a goodly heat despite the late hour.
Perhaps he has gone out to relieve himself? Saeric thought, wondering if he might be able to arm himself before the warden returned. He spotted a bed-place adjoining the workshop, but it appeared empty and undisturbed, and upon closer inspection, unused.
Frowning, Saeric crept over to it, alert to any sound or disturbance, but he heard nothing but the occasional crackle from the hearth embers. The bed was a surprisingly good quality pallet with a comfortable mattress and rag pillow. A jug stood on one of the workbenches nearby, and Saeric sniffed it. Cider. He gulped down the contents greedily, unaware until now just how thirsty he was. Ironic given he was soaked through from days of rain and his swim in the river. The potent tonic had an immediate effect, and after the life-sapping chill of the misty night, the lush warmth of the smithy cast its spell on Saeric. He felt a sudden rush of dizziness as exhaustion overcame him.
Get out! yelled the Devil. Get out now!
No, Saeric thought, struggling to maintain his focus as his eyes rolled in his head. I need to rest. He sank onto the soft, dry mattress and closed his eyes. Just a little nap, then I’ll do what I need to and be out of here.
Just a little nap.
✽ ✽ ✽
Saeric woke to rich smells of stew and a pungent, burning tang that he didn’t recognise. He blinked, confused. Then he realised that he was nestled in a deliciously warm featherdown bedcover which had not been there last night. Last night? he thought in panic. Where am I? What have I done? I have to get out of here! He sat up with a start, but he was far, far too late. Where last night a wooden wall had been, there was now open air, and bright daylight filled the room. Three paces away stood a huge man with blue eyes and spiky grey hair; undoubtedly the smith, and a Saxon for sure.
Saeric sprang up and made a dash for freedom. He got only one step before his ruined ankle collapsed under him, and something grabbed his right ankle and pulled him up. He fell flat on his face, only this time it hurt because the earthen floor was as hard as stone. Swearing in alarm and pain, he rolled over and tried to yank his right foot free and scramble away, but to his horror, he saw that a thin but strong cord had been tied to the trailing end of his chain, and this in turn was attached to an iron ring fixed to smithy wall.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
He looked up to see the blacksmith standing over him, hands on his hips and shaking his head.
‘In a hurry to leave?’ the smith asked. ‘You haven’t eaten your breakfast.’
7. Capture
Smithy of Heremund of Scirburne, Kingdom of Wessex
Saeric glanced again at his foot and the rope that bound him to the wall, but it quickly became apparent that he was trapped back into slavery. He let out an involuntary curse at that realisation, furious mostly at himself for his weakness in succumbing to his pain and tiredness the previous evening.
No, he thought, refusing to accept this fate so readily. I will get these bonds off me and escape. I’ve done it before, and if I must kill this man to escape, then I will. By habit, he put his hand up to adjust the heavy leather band around his neck, but to his surprise, his fingers found only skin. The collar had gone.
‘You should eat,’ the blacksmith said. ‘You look like you need it.’ He turned and went back to his work.
Saeric stared at the Saxon craftsman, not quite believing it could be possible. Did he remove my collar? I must be dreaming, he realised. But if I’m in a dream, why do I think I’m dreaming?
The blacksmith carried a handful of shiny black lumps of what looked like rock and dumped them onto the fire. A light brown smoke filled the space, all but asphyxiating Saeric, who coughed at the horrible odour that smelt like a cartload of rotten goose eggs.
‘Sorry,’ the blacksmith said. ‘I don’t much like the smell of it either, but without rock-coal, we can’t produce enough heat to make the best iron. You really should eat, and yes, I did remove that abomination. I found you curled up by the hearth yesterday morning. I expected you to awaken when I fastened the cord and cut off your neckband, but you slept through it all. In fact, you slept solidly for a whole day and night.’
How long? Saeric thought, shocked. After all that I’ve been through, here I am, not even a week of freedom gone, a slave again. How can that be?
Because you are an idiot, said the Devil. An idiot and a weakling who doesn’t d
o as he’s told.
‘God has not been kind to you,’ the blacksmith observed. The burly man held out a bowl of still-warm stew. ‘Eat. You will feel the better for it. Once your belly is full, you can tell me who you are and how you came to be here.’ He reached behind him and lifted a tankard from the edge of the workbench and placed it down on the floor beside Saeric. ‘This is cider. Quite strong, but I think it will help.’
Don’t touch it. That man is your enemy!
Saeric gave the smith a cold, hard look, then he hobbled over to the wall and relieved himself onto the roadway outside. When he was finished, he hopped as far as the rope would allow and sat down with his back to his captor, staring out at the countryside beyond, ignoring the food and cider. You’re right, he thought angrily, struggling to contain his distress. I am an idiot. How have I allowed myself to be captured again? He put his hand up to his neck. And how did I manage to sleep through all this? He was also aware of a dull, throbbing pain in his left shoulder, and whenever he moved that arm, it brought a sharp stab of pain that told Saeric things were not well up there.
Despite his distress, he soon began to regret his petulance when his stomach growled with hunger, as the delicious aroma of the stew tortured his overstretched senses. How long has it been since I last ate? he wondered. He let out a sigh, then hobbled back to where the bowl and mug sat on the earthen floor near the bed-place. I might as well eat and drink, he told himself, for who knows when the next meal will come, if at all?
The cider was strong – that Saeric knew from his first night – but he gulped it down nonetheless, and within a short time he felt lightheaded and the better for it as the blacksmith had suggested. No wonder I didn’t hear or feel anything!
