by Peter Fox
‘You must not blame yourself for this, Saeric,’ Heremund said firmly. ‘There were five armed men against you and your ploughshare. You acted with honour and courage, and no one holds you responsible for what happened.’ He softened his tone and lifted his hand from his sword. ‘This will be hard for all of us. She was my niece, and we all suffer from her passing. But although it is raw in our hearts, we must keep looking toward tomorrow. You avenged her, Saeric, and for that, I am glad.’
‘But it didn’t help her, did it? She’s still dead.’
‘If you had witnessed as many deaths as I have – and I wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone – you would know that we have no choice but to carry on, Saeric, because while Leo might have been released into God’s hands,’ and he pointed up to the rafters, ‘we’re still down here fighting our way through the shit and muck that is our mortal existence.’
Saeric glared at the smith, shocked at how easily he could put Leo’s death aside. ‘How can you say that?’ Saeric spat. ‘She was your family. I thought you cared about her.’
Saeric’s accusation struck Heremund like a blow. The smith’s eyes narrowed, and he moved out from behind the forge. Saeric took a step backwards, but Heremund followed him. ‘And there I was trying to be kind to you. I do care about Leo very much,’ he said, his voice trembling with fury. ‘You cannot begin to know how angry I am that she is dead, and the rage I must suppress for your part in it.’ He jabbed his finger into Saeric’s chest, so hard that Saeric stumbled backwards into one of the tool benches. Heremund’s eyes dropped to Saeric’s neck. ‘A moment ago you said you wanted vengeance. Well, so do I. Tell me the name of the woman who is behind this, or by Christ, I will drag it out of you screaming.’
Saeric stared at Heremund. Eanswith? How could she have had anything to do with the ambush? He swallowed, unable to escape Heremund’s furious gaze. He knows, he realised. He knows it was her. But how?
‘What is her name?’ Heremund growled, his eyes locked on Saeric’s. ‘You said she was the daughter of a powerful burgher. Who is he?’
Saeric had nowhere to go. He was already leaning backwards; his hands braced against the edge of the bench.
‘WHO?!’ Heremund roared, his spittle spraying Saeric’s face.
Don’t tell him, warned the Devil. She will give you away, and all that you have suffered will have been for nought.
‘You speak of vengeance a great deal, Saeric,’ Heremund said. ‘I am giving you the chance to avenge both Leo and yourself. Tell me her name and I will take you to her, only this time you will have a hundred men at your back. You will have nothing to fear.’
You have everything to fear! cried the Devil. Tell him nothing!
‘Tell me her name!’
‘No!’ Saeric shouted back. ‘Because if I do, then you will know who I am, and then you will stop me from doing what I promised. The vengeance I seek is far greater than her!’
‘What could possibly be more important than bringing justice to the person who killed my niece and did that to you?’ Heremund shouted back, jabbing his finger into the star-shaped scar on Saeric’s chest. ‘You’re a coward, Saeric!’
Saeric let out a roar and slammed his hands into Heremund’s chest, shoving the smith backwards. ‘You know nothing!’ Saeric yelled back. ‘I watched every one of my family slaughtered and hundreds more hacked and burned to death by my uncle, but I will never give up on my vow to avenge them, no matter how long it takes or what they do to me in the trying.’ He jabbed a finger at his chest. ‘That’s the whole reason I do carry on. I owe it to myself and Caelin because he hasn’t given up either!’ Saeric glowered at his mentor, furious at his own failure to act when he should have. I have been a coward, he realised, chastising himself for his indolence. Seeking comfort when I should have been seeking my brother. It took him a few more panting breaths to realise that Heremund was staring at him, his mentor’s fury having evaporated.
‘What did you just say?’ Heremund whispered from the other side of the room.
‘That I am a coward,’ Saeric replied.
‘No,’ Heremund said, shaking his head at him. ‘That name. You said a name.’
Saeric felt a flash of panic, wondering whether he had inadvertently uttered the witch’s name.
No, not hers.
Saeric’s heart skipped a beat when he realised to his dismay what name he had spoken.
Well now, this should be interesting, offered the Devil helpfully.
Saeric shrugged. ‘He’s dead.’ He tried to sound nonchalant but clearly failed, judging by Heremund’s face.
‘Don’t lie to me!’ Heremund snapped. ‘I know who you are, Saeric, who you really are, and why you have come here, to my forge.’
Saeric blinked at his mentor, shocked that his world had unravelled so suddenly. One moment they had been talking about Eanswith, and then… He shook his head, fighting back a rising sense of panic. I need to get away from here, he thought, but then a wave of dizziness struck him, and he clutched the lip of the forge to prevent himself from falling.
Heremund was about to say something, but he stopped himself on seeing Saeric waver on his feet. The smith took a deep breath to calm himself down, then he reached behind him for the ale jug and refilled his tankard. He took a hefty swig, and then he settled his gaze upon his apprentice.
‘Humour me with this tale,’ he said, his voice more level now, ‘and once I’m done, tell me that I’m wrong.’ He moved back to the fire and opened the flue to let in more air, then he picked up an iron rod and stirred to coals to coax the forge back to life. ‘Sixteen years ago, a Dumnonian nobleman, aided by the King of Wessex, returned from exile and overthrew his brother in a routing that was so bloody it shocked even us Saxons. He murdered the whole royal family and stuck their heads on stakes above the walls of Escanceaster for all to see. Yet despite King Mael’s claims to have eradicated Cadwyr’s bloodline, two heads were missing from that display. Mael’s reeve claimed that the two youngest boys had been burned to cinders in the flames of the great hall, but you and I know that they had, in fact, survived the sacking of Escanceaster. They fled westwards, pursued by Mael’s men, but they vanished.’ Heremund spread his hands. ‘Poof, like an alchemist’s trick. Gone. They sailed into the fog and never came out.’
‘Fog?’ Saeric asked quietly. How the Hell could he know that?
‘Aye, fog.’ Heremund held Saeric’s gaze, watching him as he spoke. ‘In the estuary by Sanctus Germanus. I believe you know it?’
Saeric swallowed, his chest tightening as he realised his secret had been exposed.
Kill him while you still can!
‘At first,’ Heremund continued, ‘those Dumnonians loyal to their deposed king believed the boys were biding their time, seeing as they were still fledgelings; indeed, the younger of them was just a bairn not six months old. His name was Caelin, by the way. But as winter followed summer and year followed year, no word came of their whereabouts, and people began to lose hope. Yes, a rebellion flourished in their name during those early years, and an army of sorts rose against Mael in the year eight hundred and fourteen. The rebels hoped, I suppose, that their actions might bring the boys out of hiding. We crushed that uprising – they had little hope of success – and yet nothing was heard from the supposed heirs. Mael’s army swept all the way westwards to the very end of Dumnonia, burning and destroying villages, towns and farmsteads as he went, determined to flush them out. By the end of that terrible summer, he stood facing the vast emptiness of the Mare Tenebrosum – the entirety of his kingdom at his back – and not a whisper had been heard, any glimpse seen, in fact any sign at all unearthed. And so Dumnonia finally came to accept that its time as an independent kingdom was over and that the only remaining heir to the Dumnonian crown was the man wearing it: Mael. More winters followed, and eventually, the King proclaimed that it had been a fiction all along, whipped up by the rebels in a desperate hope to cling to a past that had slipped through their hands. And so everyo
ne settled down and went about their business; all talk of lost princes a distant memory.’ Heremund took another drink from his tankard, downing the rest of its contents, then he slammed the mug down onto the bench and thrust his finger at Saeric. ‘And then you turned up at my forge.’
Heremund stepped around the furnace and stood face to face with Saeric, his eyes burning with anger. ‘A mysterious British slave who was taught to read and write in the minster of Escanceaster by a cleric who, my sources tell me, tutored the children of just one particular noble family; all of whom are meant to be dead.’
Saeric took an involuntary step backwards in the face of Heremund’s intensity. ‘How do you know all this?’ Saeric asked, shocked.
‘Because you and I share the same story, Saeric, but we stand on opposing sides. I think you know that, and I think you have come here with ill intent. Do you seriously expect me to believe that you don’t know who I am?’
‘You’re Heremund, blacksmith of Scirburne,’ Saeric said, genuinely having no idea what his mentor was talking about.
Heremund let out a long breath and returned to his side of the forge, evidently feeling safer with something substantial separating him from his foe. He poured the rest of the jug of ale into his mug and took another swig.
‘Shall we stop this fatuous game? What do you want of me?’ He pointed the firebrand at Saeric. ‘And stop calling yourself Saeric. That falsehood has grown quite stale, don’t you think?’
Saeric stared at Heremund, astonished that the smith had worked out who he was. How long have you known? he wondered. His overwhelming instinct was to flee, to get away from here as fast as he could, but another part of him warned him that would be the worst thing to do.
You should be asking yourself why Heremund is so afraid of you, the Devil remarked.
Afraid of me?
Petrified. Tell him your name, and you’ll see why.
Saeric frowned at the glowing coals in the fire, then with his good arm pulled on the bellows to bring the forge to life. The welts in his back sent shots of fire throughout his body, but he ignored the pain.
‘Most of the time I think it is all a delusion,’ he began, feeling uncertain about what to say and how to say it. ‘Then the Devil reminds me that it is not and that I may not rest until I have fulfilled my duty, to my family and my kingdom.’ He let go of the bellows for a moment and picked up an unfinished spearhead from his work tray beside him. He twirled it in the centre of his palm, feeling a tingling sensation as the rough iron point span against his skin. ‘And then I wonder why it matters any more. I was just nine when I made that promise. Then at other times, I feel so angry that I want to kill you all.’ He looked up at Heremund. ‘But you know all that.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’ Heremund asked, following the spearpoint with his eyes. ‘To kill me?’
Saeric frowned at the smith. ‘Why do you keep saying that? You saved me. I owe you my life, and I’ll do anything to defend yours. Why would I want to kill you?’
‘You spoke before of a brother,’ Heremund said, his voice still carrying uncertainty. Out of habit, he added a few lumps of rock coal to the fire.
Saeric pulled on the bellows gently, feeding the flames. He looked up at Heremund and nodded. ‘I dream of him sometimes. As you said, he was just a baby when we escaped. But he was taken too.’
‘By Mael?’
Saeric shook his head. ‘No, by heathens.’
Heremund drew in a sharp breath, and Saeric glanced up to see that his master was peering at him intently. Saeric returned his gaze to the glowing coals and the flames that licked up between them as the forge returned to heat. ‘You’re right. There was thick fog; I remember that. They ran us down. I thought it was some kind of sea monster at first, but it was one of their ships.’ He smiled with satisfaction at the memory. ‘It sank.’
‘And where was this?’ Heremund said, his voice barely audible over the crackling of the coals and the whoosh and roar of the bellows.
‘In the sea off Sanctus Germanus, as you said.’
‘Christ in Heaven,’ Heremund muttered.
Saeric looked up at the smith. ‘We were supposed to have been safe there, but the heathens had already landed, so we were left to wait in the fog while uncle Camus went ashore to find out what was going on.’ He pulled on the bellows, watching the blue-white flames flare up through the coals. He could feel the heat blasting from the furnace now. ‘He didn’t come back.’
After a while, Heremund broke the silence. ‘What happened then?’
Saeric dropped the spearhead into the coals and drew down on the bellows again. Soon the iron glowed red with the heat.
‘Their ship broke our little boat in two. I was thrown into the water. My brother and his nursemaid were taken onto one of the other heathen ships.’ He pulled harder on the bellows, and the iron glowed brighter and hotter.
Heremund said nothing.
‘They took what they could from their ship before it sank, then they rowed away and left me to drown. Lady Tegen screamed at them to bring me aboard, but they just kept on rowing. Bishop Mewan tried to help me, but he couldn’t swim.’ He let out a small laugh as he came to a realisation. ‘Actually, I think he was trying to save himself when he grabbed me. I suppose he drowned.’
The spearpoint glowed white-hot now. The heat from the forge was becoming unbearable, but Saeric pulled down again, revelling in the painful, stinking heat and fumes.
‘I grabbed one of their shields and tried to make for the shore. I got lost in the fog. In the end, I was so tired that I crawled onto it and let God do the rest. I think at the time I hoped I would drown. Instead, the tide took me out to sea, and I was swept eastwards along the coast. I got washed ashore eventually; I don’t know where it was exactly. I suppose I should be grateful because the man who found me took me in and kept me alive. He fattened me up then sold me to a slaver who took me further east into the Saxon borderlands. I was bought by a childless couple to be their labourer.’
‘Was it they who did…’ Heremund trailed off when he saw Saeric’s bleak expression.
‘No, they just treated me as you would any of the other livestock. I meant nothing to them. I grew up there, from a little boy to a man, without any love, friends or siblings. My only companion was a dog. It was much later that this got done to me.’
Suddenly he snatched up another unfinished spearhead and rammed it into the middle of the one on the hearth. The superheated iron bent in two but did not break, nor did the fresh spearhead pierce the other. Saeric tried again but to no avail. He let out a sigh and dropped the weapon into the fire alongside the other one. His hand tingled from the heat, and he smelt the reek of burnt hair.
‘For most of my life, I’ve been a slave, yet I have memories of a completely different childhood and a different name. Are they true or false? I don’t know any more.’
Heremund looked through the shimmering heat that blasted from the forge. ‘How long is it since you have spoken it?’
‘What?’
‘Your name.’
Saeric picked up a third spearhead and turned it over in his hand, inspecting his workmanship. ‘After my first master laughed in my face then beat me for lying when I told him who I was, I promised myself that the next time I gave anyone my name, it would be to the Traitor himself, right before I rammed my sword into his guts.’ He shoved the spearhead into the fire as he spoke.
‘You don’t have a sword.’
Saeric pulled hard on the bellows, watching the new iron glow bright red in the heat. ‘You’re going to help me make one, remember?’
‘And then what? You can’t just walk up to King Mael in his hall and stick your sword through him.’
‘I was pretty good with the ploughshare,’ Saeric said, a smile curling his lip.
‘What you propose will take thought and planning. They’ll cut you down on the spot.’
Saeric didn’t seem to be listening. He was staring at the spear-points, which glow
ed in various degrees of orange and yellow amidst the flames. ‘Heremund, what did the other man mean when he spoke of your guilty conscience?’
‘You were awake?’ Heremund asked, alarmed by that revelation.
‘For some of it,’ Saeric admitted. ‘Why was he here?’
‘You’re a complicated young man,’ Heremund said. ‘I was seeking advice on how best to help you.’
‘You demanded I tell you the truth, and I have done so,’ Saeric pressed. ‘What have you not told me?’ He let go of the bellows and reached into the flames to retrieve the spearhead.
Heremund flung out a hand and wrenched Saeric’s right arm clear of the fire. The two stood either side of the forge, glaring into each other’s eyes; Heremund still holding Saeric’s arm in a vice-like grip away from the heat.
‘If you’re sure I want to kill you, then why save my sword hand?’ Saeric asked. ‘Who are you, Heremund? What have you done that would make me want to hurt you?’
Heremund released Saeric’s arm. He said nothing for a while, dropping his gaze to the fire as he searched for the right words. The forge crackled and spat in the silence. Eventually, the Saxon spoke. ‘The reason my brother is lord of Scirburne, and I am not, is because I am master of a far greater dominion to the west of here,’ Heremund said.
‘West? How far west?’
‘We know it as Tottaness.’
‘But that’s in Dumnon…’ Saeric trailed off as his mind finally connected all the pieces that had been laid out in front of him all along: Heremund’s wealth, position and influence. He was a member of the Saxon aristocracy, the commander of a sizeable fyrd, possibly the largest in Wessex save for the King. And for what other reason would a Saxon nobleman own such a generous grant of land in Dumnonia? Land that had once been owned by Saeric’s mother’s family, no less. The realisation struck Saeric like a blow, and he took another step backwards in shock. ‘You were there!’
Heremund said nothing, but Saeric saw the guilt written across the smith’s face.
