by Peter Fox
‘Then tell me why he turned up at my forge out of nowhere, barely alive, not six months ago. A Dumnonian, who was educated in the minster of Escanceaster, who has a younger brother, and who was taken as a slave in the year of our Lord eight hundred and eight. Remember that year, Eadwald?’
‘Of course I remember it,’ the soldier snapped. ‘Thousands died, thousands more ended up as slaves. Mael is a cruel despot. We made a bad choice, but it makes no difference now. Dumnonia is vassal to Wessex. We did our job. Our King is happy.’
‘I’m serious, Eadwald!’
‘And so am I,’ the general replied angrily. ‘I’m not an idiot. I know what you’re thinking, and you are right not to give voice to it. This is the stuff of fantasy; a tale woven by a second-rate journeyman storyteller. There is no resemblance. He is not who you think he is. They’re dead.’
‘Then who the Hell is he, Eadwald?’ Heremund shouted back. ‘I’ve never seen anyone like him before. For all I know he could be Azrael, Angel of Death, untouchable by any mortal weapon. He has come to hear my confession!’
‘Stop talking nonsense!’ the Saxon argued. ‘You’re a soldier for God’s sake. You know more than anyone that no man is immortal. That’s blood on his bandages, which tells me he is a man like you and me.’
‘He killed five armed men with a ploughshare, choked another on his own whip, and would have gone on to slaughter my two huscarls, and just as likely me and the Bishop too, had Cara not intervened.’
‘And that’s my point,’ Eadwald snapped. ‘Have you not paused to take that in? How many were there?’ The ealdorman tapped his temple. ‘You’re not thinking. What you should be asking yourself is what was such a large party of well-armed thugs doing on that stretch of road, at the exact time that Leo and Saeric happened along. That’s what’s got me worried, Heremund. That’s what’s out of the ordinary.’
Heremund frowned at his friend, suddenly realising that the general was right. Now that he mentioned it, it was highly unusual. The north road was a safe thoroughfare, as were all the roads in Heremund’s shire, especially during broad daylight. There’d not been so brazen an assault in these parts for many years. So why now? What were those men doing there? Gerard had said something about them going after Leo. But why kidnap her? And why then kill her? The only possible outcome would be the mobilisation of Heremund’s fyrd to seek out any surviving culprits.
Eadwald nodded, seeing that his challenge had sunk home.
‘But why?’ Heremund asked. Yet as soon as he posed the question, he remembered: Hunlaf had explicitly asked for Saeric. The same Hunlaf who had laid into Saeric with his lash. Saeric had killed the yeoman for it. What had passed between them? Heremund frowned down at his apprentice, a cold realisation settling on his heart. This was not about Leo at all, and nor was it mischance. It had been planned all along.
‘It was her,’ Heremund said, shocked by his insight, and appalled at the extent of her animosity and reach.
‘Her?’
‘I don’t know her name, but she is the one who did that to him.’ The smith nodded at the marks and scars on Saeric’s torso. ‘He has lived in fear of her ever since he arrived here, and I dismissed his worries. I’m a fool! I should have pressed him,’ he growled at himself. ‘I should have followed this up. Someone who is depraved enough to do that to a person obviously wouldn’t give up her plaything so easily. Saeric told me so himself. He warned me, and I did not listen.’
‘What woman?’ Eadwald demanded.
‘I don’t know. He won’t tell me her name.’
‘Well, I think it’s time he did, especially now that your niece has died on Saeric’s account. I will begin making inquiries myself, starting with Hunlaf’s kin. We’ll soon learn whether this was more than an opportunistic ambush.’
‘Aye, and when we do, we will march to wherever that witch lives and burn her house to the ground, with her inside it.’
‘She may have her own fyrd, or at least her family will.’
‘It will be no match for the King’s army.’
‘The King is a little busy elsewhere, Heremund.’
‘How fortunate, then, that he left one of his best generals behind with a sizeable army to protect his realm during his royal absence.’ Heremund crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows at his subordinate.
‘Well, from what you’re telling me, you won’t need an army. Just take your boy along.’ He glanced over at the bench by the wall. ‘Was that really what he used?’
‘What?’
‘The plough thing.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘I’m amazed it didn’t come apart in his hands.’
‘This is no joking matter!’ Heremund snapped.
‘Oh come now, Heremund. He must have picked up one of the swords and used that. How do you even wield something that awkward?’
‘They’re actually quite sharp. It’s a plough blade: designed to slice through the earth. Works just as well on a person, it turns out.’
‘Then perhaps I need to order some for my garrison?’
Heremund threw him a black glare for that.
‘Listen Heremund, you said he was half-dead when you found him, and that you and Carwyn saved him? Dare I say, brought him back to life?’
‘We did.’
‘Then I don’t see what you have to worry about. I hardly think he’s your enemy. He is just repaying his debt to you, and soon you’ll be able to help him some more.’
It made perfect sense when put that way, but Heremund was left with the feeling that Eadwald was wrong. ‘He communes with the Devil,’ Heremund reminded him.
Eadwald slapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘You’re seeing darkness where others see light. Saeric sounds like a useful fellow to have around. Perhaps you should promote him to huscarl? If he really did put down five men with a ploughshare and earned himself little more than a scratch in return, I want him in my garrison. He’s just the kind of fighter I need to defend us from the heathen scourge, which, I might add, is what you should be worrying about. It’s thanks to them I’m stuck here and not fighting beside the King right now. They came as far inland as Winburne last month, you know, and they’ll be here before long since they seem to have a liking for monastic houses and their treasures. So, if Saeric turns out to be a terrible blacksmith, send him straight to me.’ He paused and looked around the smithy, a smile forming on his face. ‘What on earth possessed you to choose this as your retirement hobby? Why not fishing? And I know a retired sergeant who owns an orchard and makes outstanding cider.’
Heremund’s eyes narrowed. ‘I like using my hands, and it wasn’t just a scratch. It should have killed him.’
Eadwald threw his friend a good-natured smile. ‘I must return to my garrison. Please accept my prayers and condolences for Leofwynn, and also for Saeric’s and Gerard’s full recovery. It is a terrible thing that Leo died, but stop overthinking it and be glad to have a warrior of such calibre at your side. What you need to do is find out who this woman is and stop chasing phantoms. He’s not who you think he is. That’s just your guilty conscience speaking.’ He patted his former commanding officer on the shoulder and left.
Heremund watched Eadwald climb upon his warhorse and ride up into town, not at all certain his former second-in-command was right. Saeric’s arrival was too great a coincidence for there not to be some higher hand at work, no matter what anyone might say to the contrary. He took a long swig of his ale, downing the remainder of the mug in two gulps. After contemplating refilling the empty tankard, he put it aside and set about opening the smithy instead. What if you’re wrong, Eadwald? he wondered as he hoisted up the shutters. What if the boys survived after all? And what if, somehow, this woman knows it too? Is that why she is so keen to get him back? Or is it merely as Eadwald says: Saeric is just one of a thousand British slaves who, in his case, was unfortunate enough to have been bought by a disturbed individual who didn’t take kindly to his escape?
&
nbsp; Heremund heard a noise behind him, and he turned to see that Saeric had awoken. His apprentice sat up and looked about him, confused. He lifted his hand to push the hair from his eyes, but he grunted in pain when the movement troubled the cuts in his back and shoulder. He frowned, then his expression changed to surprise when he realised that his left arm was strapped in a sling. ‘What?’ he muttered. He hauled himself to his feet but immediately took his weight off his left foot, hopping onto his right and wincing in pain.
‘Saeric,’ Heremund cautioned, lifting his hand from his sword hilt and moving to steady the young man. ‘You’ve injured your ankle again. You need to sit down.’ He kept his eyes fixed on his apprentice, watching for any hint of ill intentions, but it seemed that Saeric had returned to his normal state. ‘You should let me look at your shoulder, too.’
Saeric settled awkwardly onto the bench, stretching his injured foot out in front of him. His face showed conflicting emotions, as he seemed to struggle to understand what was happening and how he had come to be back here, in the smithy.
‘Why are you wearing your sword?’ Saeric asked, frowning at his mentor.
Heremund crouched down in front of Saeric and saw that the ankle was quite badly swollen. ‘We’ll have to put a splint back on it,’ he said, ignoring the other’s question.
Saeric frowned at him. ‘Heremund?’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘What the Hell happened?’
14. A thrall’s crown
Smithy of Heremund, Scirburne
Saeric waited for Heremund to answer, blinking away a bout of dizziness. He felt as though a herd of oxen had trampled him, and any movement made him feel instantly queasy. Saeric tried to recall the events of the past day, but only received confusing flashes of an improbable assault with the ploughshare. Why is my ankle hurt again, he wondered, and how did I get this wound in my shoulder? And why do I feel so weak? Then a worrying image burst into his head.
‘I was carrying Leo?’ His heart froze. ‘Where is she? What happened to her? Did I hurt her?’ He tried to get up again, but his back erupted into a blaze of pain and the room span in a nauseating blur.
‘Saeric, stop!’ Heremund said, holding his apprentice down. ‘You were attacked by brigands on the road. You’re badly injured, and you’ve drained nearly every drop of your blood. Here, drink this.’
Heremund handed his apprentice a small bowl of thick soup, but Saeric gagged at the powerful smell and pushed it away.
‘Drink it. You need to replenish your strength. You nearly died, you know.’ Heremund pressed the bowl back at Saeric. ‘There are those who wonder how you didn’t,’ he added, frowning at his charge.
What does he mean by that? Saeric wondered, taking the bowl and drinking reluctantly. Whatever it was, it tasted disgusting, and he nearly vomited it all back up.
‘There’s another one to drink yet,’ Heremund warned. ‘Carwyn says it will help you recover. It’s mostly oxblood, I think, to replace what you lost. How are you feeling?’
‘Terrible,’ Saeric replied, steeling himself for the second bowl. ‘Actually, I don’t think I can drink this,’ he added, peering into the dark fluid.
‘Show some backbone lad, or do you want Carwyn shouting at you?’
Saeric managed a grin, unable to recall a time when Carwyn had shouted at anyone.
Heremund poured a mug of ale for Saeric and held it up. ‘Your reward,’ he said.
‘I’ll be lucky to fit it in,’ Saeric grumbled, wincing as he swallowed Carwyn’s foul-tasting concoction. As soon as he’d taken his last gulp, he snatched the tankard from Heremund and downed a third of it to wash away the taste.
‘I’m afraid Carwyn says you will need more of that over the coming day or two,’ Heremund said, smiling at his apprentice’s reaction to the remedy.
Saeric closed his eyes for a moment, and then he put his hands up for help. ‘I need to pee,’ he said.
Heremund handed him one of the quenching buckets. ‘Better you don’t do too much standing and walking for the time being,’ he said. He waited for Saeric to relieve himself, then he took the bucket and tipped the contents into the burn that ran alongside the smithy. He gave it a quick rinse in the water, then came back inside.
‘You still haven’t told me what happened.’ Saeric said.
The smith returned the pail to its place under the workbench, and then he sat on a stool opposite his apprentice. ‘You were attacked while out on a delivery for me. You fended off the robbers and saved at least four lives, including Gerard’s and your own. You remember the ploughshare?’
Saeric nodded, then saw the very same implement lying on the bench opposite; its blade streaked with dried blood.
‘You used that.’
Saeric blinked, and again saw flashes of a man’s head parting from his shoulders, and blood; lots of blood. Saeric realised with horror that it hadn’t been a dream after all. Did I really do all of that? he wondered. He shuddered, looking first at his hands, then up at his master.
Heremund nodded. ‘You killed all five of them.’
Five? Saeric thought, shocked. How?
He told you: with the ploughshare, the Devil observed, his timing immaculate as always. You are most accomplished with it.
‘You also dispatched a yeoman who mistook you for a Dumnonian rebel,’ Heremund went on. ‘He’s the one who made the mess of your back. Your response was understandable, but I fear your treatment of him may cause us a little trouble.’
‘The whip?’ Saeric whispered, vividly remembering the huscarl choking to death now.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘And that’s why you’re wearing your sword; because you’re worried about what I’ll do next?’
Heremund tilted his head, evidently searching for the right thing to say. In the end, he just nodded and said, ‘yes.’
‘What am I?’ Saeric asked, horrified.
Heremund gave it some thought before answering. ‘Honestly? I don’t know. None of us does. Most think you are harbouring a demon of some kind, whereas Carwyn, Gerard and the Bishop have decided you’re a warrior angel.’
Saeric looked back at him, his face a picture of disbelief. ‘An angel?’
‘So they claim.’
No, definitely not an angel,’ the Devil said.
‘But you’re not so sure?’
Heremund shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea what to think, Saeric. To be honest, you scare the shit out of me. There are two sides to you: this reasonable fellow sitting before me now, and another, altogether more terrifying version.’
‘Terrifying?’ Saeric asked again, staring at the smith, on the one hand unable to believe it, but on the other realising now that at least some of his ‘dreams’ were in fact recollections of past acts of brutality. How many other horrible things have I done?
You do what you must, said the Devil.
But at who’s bidding?
Yours. You made a vow in my name to avenge your family. I am ensuring you keep your word.
‘You’ve been through a great deal, Saeric,’ Heremund said. ‘Perhaps it’s a way for your body or soul to set the balance right.’
‘Balance?’ Saeric got to his feet and hobbled over to the forge, moving slowly to avoid setting off another dizzy spell. Heremund rose too, following his apprentice to stand on the opposite side of the forge. The stones were still warm to the touch.
‘You don’t need that sword, Heremund,’ Saeric said. ‘I won’t hurt you.’
‘I’m not so sure about that.’
‘Why?’ Saeric asked, feeling hurt that his mentor no longer trusted him.
‘All you ever talk about is vengeance, Saeric, and it turns out you’re a very efficient killer, who, I might add, is not altogether in control of himself.’
‘I know I get angry sometimes, but I’m not angry at you.’ He paused, then went on. ‘I stopped myself hurting Leo at Easter.’
Heremund threw him a look of scepticism. ‘You may be surprised
to hear that I don’t find that especially comforting. I was this close to shoving my sword into your belly last night.’ He pinched his thumb and forefinger together, leaving the barest of gaps between the two.
‘There are plenty of Dumnonians who want justice,’ Saeric said, remembering his outburst and feeling defensive now.
‘No, there aren’t Saeric, not anymore, and certainly none with such a burning desire for retribution as you. But then for you, it’s personal, because this is about more than just your family, isn’t it?’
‘You know what they did to me,’ Saeric responded, growing angry now, jabbing his own neck. ‘Of course I want them to pay.’
‘I need to know what your intentions are for me and my family.’
‘I’ve told you. I don’t mean you harm! I saved Gerard, didn’t I?’ An image of the huscarl sitting slumped against the wall, his face alarmingly pale, flashed into Saeric’s mind. ‘Will he be alright?’
‘He was badly wounded in the fray, but yes, he will live, thanks to you. He says he has never seen such courage as yours, which is high praise from one with Gerard’s battle experience. He is very much in awe of you.’
‘And what of Leo?’ Saeric asked, his heart tightening in his chest. For some reason, he was struggling to remember what had happened to her.
Heremund didn’t answer straight away, and Saeric noticed that the smith’s hand had moved to his sword hilt.
‘No,’ Saeric whispered, realising what it must mean.
Yes, said the Devil.
Heremund shook his head slowly. ‘You did everything you could, Saeric; more than any man, but her wound was too severe. She is in God’s hands now.’ Heremund crossed himself, but not once did his eyes leave Saeric’s.
‘But it is my fault,’ Saeric said, distress rising as he recalled more of the attack and the young woman’s deep wound. How or when had she received it?
