by Jayne Castel
There was much on Penda’s mind tonight. For the first time in years, he thought of his older brother – Eafa. They had never been close. Eafa had been too wary of Penda as a possible threat to the throne to ever befriend him. He had always known that Penda was cleverer than him, and a far better strategist. In fact, Eafa’s attempt to butcher the East Anglian royal family nearly five years earlier – an attack that was as badly planned as it was executed – had resulted in Eafa’s death and had cast shame upon the Mercians. Penda had stepped directly into the breach left by his foolhardy brother and had barely thought of him since. Yet now, after defeating the East Anglians in battle, memories of Eafa resurfaced. Not particularly pleasant ones, since Eafa had been cold and bullying towards his younger brother.
“I succeeded where you failed dear brother.” Penda murmured, raising his cup to the firelight. “I’ve taken back dignity and pride for our family.”
“Milord.” A voice behind Penda caused him to turn sharply from the fire. His instincts were still battle-honed, and had he been carrying his sword he would have raised it. He relaxed slightly when he saw it was one of his ealdormen. “We have brought the prisoners, as you asked.”
Penda nodded, before finishing his mead in one gulp. “Thank you, Aldric. Bring them in.”
Five men, bruised, bloodied and battered, were herded into the tent. A tall, blond man with sea-blue eyes led the group.
“Annan of the Wuffingas,” Penda acknowledged their leader. “Wyrd did shine upon us today. I never thought to catch the nephew of the great King Raedwald himself alive.”
Annan’s face darkened at this observation. It was a terrible insult to a warrior not to let him die a warrior’s death on the battlefield.
“We fought and you bested me,” Annan ground out roughly. “You could have killed me then but chose not to. If I stand here before you it’s because you chose to let me live. We both know it was not mercy that stayed your hand. What do you want Penda?”
The King of Mercia smiled. He was sharp this one; far cleverer than that oaf Sigeberht had handed his kingdom over to. Yet, despite his brave words, Penda could see that Annan was in pain from his injuries. Penda’s blade had sliced him across the ribs and cut deeply into one shoulder. The wounds had been tended to and bandaged but Annan’s skin was ashen in the firelight and covered with a faint sheen of sweat. The other East Angles who had survived the battle, looked on, hollow eyed. They could see that Penda was playing with Annan.
“What do I want?” Penda sighed, warming his hands in front of the fire and pretending to ponder the matter. “I think you know exactly why you’re still alive Annan. I want you to take the East Anglian throne and, in gratitude for keeping your life, you are to bend the knee to Mercia.”
A cold silence followed Penda’s words. There was no surprise on Annan’s face. He had known this was coming. Yet, his face twisted savagely.
“No.”
Penda’s smile broadened. “I don’t remember phrasing that as a question. ‘Tis not a request, but an order.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I kill each of these men, one by one in front of you.”
“Nithhogg take you!” Annan snarled. “I will not rule as your puppet!”
Penda turned calmly to his ealdorman and inclined his head. “Aldric – if you please.”
The warrior struck so quickly that none present had the chance to react. One minute, the young, injured warrior beside Annan was alive, the next his throat was cut and he writhed on the ground, clutching his neck as his blood flowed out onto the rush matting.
“We have all night,” Penda said quietly. “And I assure you that they will not all die as easily as this one. We will kill each man slower than the last. I’ll make sure the last one begs for his mother before I kill him. Now what is your answer?”
Penda had seen anger in many forms – but never had he seen such pure, killing rage as that in Annan’s eyes. For a moment he paused, on the brink of reconsidering his decision to place Annan as ruler of the East Angles; a king who would do his bidding. Perhaps it would have been wiser to have killed him on the battlefield after all. Yet, Annan was the right choice. He was of Wuffinga blood and that mattered to the East Angles. The people would be suspicious of a ruler they did not know. They would not suspect that Annan was Mercia’s puppet.
“I’m still waiting Annan,” Penda’s smile grew thin. “What is your answer?”
Annan’s gaze dropped to the body of the warrior who was still twitching at his feet. Penda felt a thrill of victory as he did so. He had known that Annan would not want these men’s death on his conscience.
“Very well,” Annan ground out finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I will be king.”
***
The small campfire crackled as Hereric added some more twigs to it. Edwin edged closer to the flames and warmed his hands. Although the wreathing fog meant that there would be no frost, it was a cold night and the damp seemed to drive straight into their bones. After the horror they had witnessed that afternoon, shock settled over the companions in a chill shroud, making their limbs shake and their teeth chatter.
They had managed to carry Aidan some distance from Barrow Fields, and were now in the heart of the strip of woodland between the village of Barrow and the Fields. They would not be safe in Barrow Woods long, but Freya guessed that for tonight at least, they could linger.
While the boys lit a fire, Freya took a close look at Aidan’s wounds. They were serious, although not immediately life-threatening: a nasty gash to the ribs, two arrows piercing his left shoulder and a wound to the back of his head. The years Freya had spent tending the sick and wounded at her mother’s side, meant that she knew exactly what to do now. With the boys’ assistance, she removed Aidan’s leather armor and cut away the linen tunic underneath. Using water from the bladder she carried, she gently washed the wound on his ribs. It needed stitching but she had left her bone needle back in Beodricesworth. She left his head wound for now. The matt of bloodied hair was at least providing some protection and she decided to leave off her inspection until she had better light. With Hereric’s help, Freya snipped off the ends of the two arrows and slowly drew them out of Aidan’s flesh. She then instructed Edwin to boil a little water in the small iron pot Hereric had stolen from the hall. Once the water was bubbling, she poured a little over Aidan’s shoulder and chest wounds to cleanse them properly and stave off infection.
Freya’s eyes stung with fatigue as she ripped Aidan’s tunic into bandages. She would use them to bind his wounds tomorrow morning. For now, they lay Aidan as comfortably as they could near the fire and covered him with the blood stained cloak they had used as a makeshift stretcher to remove him from the battlefield. Bone-weary, Freya sat next to Aidan and gratefully took the hunk of bread and cheese that Hereric passed her. All three companions ate in silence; the only sound was the crackling of the fire and the rustling of night creatures in the undergrowth nearby.
Aidan’s breath was a little deeper than earlier and his pulse stronger. After her supper, Freya gently dripped some water into his mouth and took a sip herself. Her water bladder was now empty.
“We’ll need to find a stream tomorrow morning,” she told the boys. “We won’t be able to travel far without water.”
“There’s a brook outside Barrow,” Edwin replied, speaking for the first time since he had found his father and brothers dead on the battlefield. “We can fill up our bladders there.” Edwin paused for a moment, his face, hollowed and gaunt with grief. “I can also get us a cart for Aidan. We won’t be able to travel far, or fast, if we have to carry him.”
Freya nodded, giving Edwin a tired smile. Bercthun of Barrow had under-estimated his youngest son. Edwin may have been small for his age, and not as rough and ready as his brothers, but he had a quiet, sure strength and maturity, rarely seen in a boy his age.
“Freya.” Hereric poked the fire with a stick and fixed her with an earnest gaze. “How far is
it to Woodbridge Haven? Will Aidan make it?”
Freya sighed and tried to force her tired mind to calculate how long the journey would take.
“Seven days at the least,” she said finally, “although with Aidan it may take us longer. We’re still wearing our slave collars, which might draw unwelcome attention. As such, it’s best we keep off the roads unless absolutely necessary.”
Hereric nodded, taking it all in. “I have my slingshot,” he told them. “I can hunt birds and rabbits on the journey, once our food runs out.”
Freya smiled at the boy’s eagerness. This was his first taste of freedom and he did not intend to waste it. Despite her misgivings earlier, she was glad Hereric was with her.
***
They packed up at daybreak. Freya bound Aidan’s wounds and replaced his leather vest over the bandages on his chest and shoulder; it would give him a little extra protection. She bound his head carefully, wary of winding the bandage too tight as she did not yet know the extent of his injury. Then, carrying their unconscious patient between them, they made their way towards Barrow.
The sun was just beginning to rise over the treetops to the east when they reached the fringes of Barrow Woods. As promised, a small brook babbled its way past them. Smoke wreathed from the thatched roofs of Barrow and a rooster crowed. Freya wondered if the villagers knew what had happened on Barrow Fields. Surely they would have sent someone to scout for them.
“Wait here,” Edwin whispered. “I’ll be back soon.”
Neither Freya nor Hereric had a chance to say anything before Edwin slipped away, his thin figure wraithlike in his long woolen tunic and ankle boots. They filled their water bladders and waited in breathless silence.
Freya was beginning to worry that someone had seen him, when Edwin returned pulling a small wooden cart. It was a similar cart to the one Freya had used to collect supplies at Rendlaesham. It was light and well-made, and would make transporting Aidan much easier.
Carefully, they lifted Aidan onto the cart, and made a pillow for his injured head with some sacking. Then they covered him with the blood-stained cloak.
“I must leave you now.” Edwin turned to Freya and Hereric, his thin face set in determination. “I’m staying here.”
Freya stared back at Edwin for a moment, confused. Then, realizing that this had been his plan all along, she nodded. She had not really expected Edwin to accompany them to Woodbridge Haven. His family was here.
“So you won’t go back to Beodricesworth? You know you’d be safer there.”
Edwin shook his head. “I didn’t mind my time there; Sigeberht was good to me and I enjoyed learning. Yet, life with Felix will not be the same. I might be safer in a monastery but my mother and sisters have lost all their men. I am all they have left. Soon the Mercians will come. Whatever happens, my kin need me.”
“You’re right, they do.” Freya embraced Edwin and kissed the top of his head. “Keep them safe Edwin. Keep yourself safe.”
Hereric looked on the verge of tears as he hugged his friend. Life as a king’s theow was a lonely existence. To most within the Great Hall he had been invisible. Most highborn children had either ignored or bullied him. His friendship with Edwin had been the first of his life.
“Live well Hereric,” Edwin told his friend, his eyes brimming with tears. “I will never forget you.”
Wiping away tears of her own, Freya turned and picked up the cart’s handles. Hereric fell in next to her and took one of the handles. Together, they lifted the cart and towed it forward.
Edwin stood at the edge of the woods, with the shadowy outline of Barrow behind him. When Freya had gone a few paces, she glanced back over her shoulder and looked upon the boy one last time. Edwin rewarded her with that fey, wistful smile that she had come to know so well. Then he raised his hand and waved farewell.
Chapter Twenty-three
The first day of their journey was a nerve-wracking game of cat and mouse. They were within easy reach of the Mercian army. Freya hoped that Penda would spend the next day celebrating his victory, rather than sending his warriors out to raid villages and hunt down any stragglers. Yet, she had a gut feeling that their escape from the area would not be so easy.
As soon as Freya and Hereric left Barrow Woods behind, they were able to move quicker through sloping meadows, towing the cart behind them. Freya did not like being out in the open. It made her nervous. She kept getting an odd, tickling sensation between her shoulder blades, but when she turned to look over her shoulder, she could see nothing but grass and trees. Still, her intuition warned her that they were not safe here.
Despite her hopes, she knew the Mercians would be combing the land around Barrow Fields.
They were not far from Saxham now, and the surrounding woodland that stretched down to the upper reaches of the Lark Valley and Beodriceworth. Freya intended to cut behind Saxham and bypass the valley before heading south-east. Her plan was to make for the upper reaches of the River Deben. It was an ambitious and slightly foolhardy choice. Unlike the land around Woodbridge Haven, which she knew intimately, this stretch between Beodricesworth and the Deben was unknown to Freya. It would have been a safer, albeit slower, option to retrace their journey towards Rendlaesham and then veer south, but Freya decided against this. If the Mercians decided to ride to Rendlaesham, they would be taking the same route. It was too risky.
They had almost reached the line of trees behind Saxham when Freya skidded to a halt, causing the cart to buck behind her.
“What’s wrong?” Hereric looked on in concern as Freya dropped to her knees and placed her palms on the ground.
“Feel the ground,” Freya urged, her heart starting to pound. “It’s shaking!”
Hereric followed her lead. His eyes widened. “Horses!”
“Run!” Freya leaped to her feet, grabbed the cart and took off towards the woodland. They crashed into the trees like hunted deer. Hereric had just finished helping Freya pull the cart into a thick matt of bracken, when the sound of thundering hoofs reached them.
Freya peered cautiously through the bracken and saw a band of warriors galloping towards the woods.
“Saxham,” Freya whispered. Her voice caught as she remembered that friendly village and the Winterfylleth bonfire.
“But if they’ve come this far that means they’ve already sacked Barrow,” Hereric whispered back. “What about Edwin?”
Freya shook her head. “I know not. We can only hope that Edwin was spared.”
“Will they sack Beodricesworth too?”
Freya glanced over at the boy and realized he was terrified. She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, even if her bowels felt as if they were turning to water.
“Perhaps not,” she ventured. “Even if Penda is pagan, he may still respect a holy place. He may spare Beodricesworth.”
Once the warriors had crashed through the woods, making no attempt at stealth, Freya got to her feet and yanked the cart out of the bracken.
“Come Hereric. We need to move quickly while they’re in Saxham. If we delay they may cut off our escape.”
They skirted the woods close to Saxham; too close for soon the screams of the villagers reached them. Shortly after, smoke wafted through the woods.
The Mercians had set fire to the village.
Freya and Hereric fled, pulling the cart behind them and trying not to think about what the Mercian warriors were doing to the folk of Saxham. Aidan, still in a deep, injured sleep, was being jostled about during the bumpy journey. Yet, they could not risk slowing their pace.
A short distance from Saxham, they passed through a leafy glade. Freya’s breath stilled when she realized where they were. This was the place where she and Aidan had stopped on their way back from Saxham; where they had stripped naked in the moonlight and made love. The memories of that night rushed back. The memories warmed Freya’s soul but brought with it a sweet pain. It had only been one night ago, but it felt as if weeks had passed.
Still, thing
s could have turned out much worse. Aidan could have died like all the others. He may only be half alive, but at least he has a chance!
The sight of the glade, and all it represented, galvanized Freya’s resolve. It also helped her get their bearings. Instead of heading south, towards Beodricesworth, like she and Aidan had done just a day earlier, Freya angled the cart east.
She and Hereric fled through the woodland and out into open grassland. On and on they raced, with the cart bumping behind them, until their chests burned. By the time they could run no more, the sun hung high in the sky, signaling that it was about noon. They had been on the move, almost entirely without rest, since daybreak.
Freya unstoppered a water bladder and took a couple of gulps before gently giving some water to Aidan. While Hereric took his turn, she leant against the cart and looked up at the sky. She had been so intent on fleeing that she had paid little heed to the weather. It was a grey, damp day; a colorless sky stretched from horizon to horizon. All color appeared to have leached from the world.
Hereric had sunk down into a sitting position, his back braced against the wheel of the cart. He was still gasping, and looked about to collapse. Freya sat down next to him and they remained there for a while, unspeaking, until they caught their breaths and rested their limbs. They sat in the middle of wide, flat grasslands that appeared to stretch away into eternity in all directions.
“Which way are we travelling now?” Hereric asked when he had recovered sufficiently to speak.
