by Joanna Bell
I expected him to beg or plead, but he did not. All I could do was watch as the archer advanced and then, when he was about 5 feet away, loosed his arrow straight into the cowering man's left eye.
I cried out and turned away – too late, I'd seen everything – and began to retch into the dirt, sobbing with fear. It was real. I could smell the blood and, very soon after, the shit of one or both of the dead men. I don't know how I knew the iron tang in the air was blood but I did, some part of me did. I had to get away. All concern for Emma Wallis and Paige Renner died instantly next to the possibility of never seeing Ashley or my mother again. I got to my feet, shaking and crying, as the archer left me behind to advance deeper into the woods, and began to make my way back to the path.
But the path was full of men, full of metal clashing with metal and screams and bodies. My way back was blocked. There was nothing to do but hide. So that's what I did, crawling over a fallen log and pressing myself tightly into the little hollow that had formed behind it and praying that no one would notice me again.
No such luck. Less than 10 seconds later I found myself lifted almost completely off the ground by the scruff of my neck and dragged away, trying to scream but thwarted by the fact that I was being strangled by my own t-shirt.
I tried to reach up and pull the fabric away from my throat but whoever had me was jerking my body back and forth, preventing me from getting a good grip. My vision began to darken and I knew I was on the verge of passing out when I was suddenly let go. I collapsed to my knees, heaving breath into my lungs and looked up. I was surrounded by men - men wearing leather armor with odd looking, almost circular crosses imprinted on their chests. Not Ivar's men.
"Please," I begged at once. "I'm not with the others – I'm not with Ivar, he took me from –"
A blow landed on my left cheek and I tumbled backwards.
"Shut your mouth, whore."
I was surrounded. Hostile eyes glared down at me. There was nothing I could do.
"She's with them," one of them – the one who had dragged me through the woods – said. "I saw her at the back with the archers. The Northmen killed Eidig and Osric. We should –"
Before he could finish, one of his companions reached forward and ripped my t-shirt, which was already half hanging open, the rest of the way off me. After my t-shirt, my bra followed quickly. I tried to cross my arms across my bare breasts, half aware of what was coming, but men's hands pulled them away. In front of me, one of them began to fumble with the leathers he wore wrapped around his waist and once again, Ashley's face flashed in front of my mind's eye.
You just have to get back to her. That's all that matters. Don't give these men a reason to kill you.
My veins stung with fire as I clenched my teeth, fighting the urge to fight, to scream, to kick and scratch and bite. I swallowed the river-water vomit that rose up in my throat as someone began to yank my jeans down my thighs, and then I rolled my eyes upwards to the blue sky, so I wouldn't have to look into the shining hyena-eyes of the men.
"She wants it," one of them laughed as I told myself, over and over without stopping, that it would soon be over and if I didn't fight, I might even remain alive.
"She's a Northwoman," another commented. "She knows she'll never have better than an East Angle's prick up her c–"
"Tolan!" A voice suddenly bellowed and I looked up to see another man, in the same uniform as those who surrounded me, arrive. "Wyne! Call off your men – the King wants her!"
"Her?" An astounded voice replied. "Surely the King has enough –"
The man who had just arrived was stood over the others, over all of us. And before the speaker could finish protesting, the newcomer punched him hard in the mouth, and reached out to me.
"Take my hand, woman, or you'll be torn to pieces. The King wants you."
I took the hand offered to me, knowing full well what was going to happen if I didn't. I was in a bit of a daze by then, not even bothering to cover my breasts as I followed the man back through the woods and then out, onto the path.
Two groups of men faced each other, and there weren't many on either side who weren't smeared with filth and blood. I spotted Ivar at once, and just behind him the man who had offered me his water by the river. But between me and them stood more of the fighters in leather armor with crosses on their chests. And at the head of their group, in a deep red tunic fastened at the back with what looked like a gold clasp, was the leader of Ivar's enemies – the King.
Ivar had a lot more men than the King, who, when he turned his head to the side briefly, I saw was bleeding from the cheek.
"Give me the woman," Ivar commanded. "Give me the woman, your horses, and your pledge of loyalty, and we'll let those who are left live. Know that some of my men will stay on with you, Edmund, to make sure you keep your word."
The man in red turned, then, to look at his companions. He had a long, thin nose, thin lips and an expression of defeat written across his face.
"The Kingdom of the East Angles is the first of many Kingdoms we will take," Ivar spoke again, his blue eyes coldly determined. "The Mercians will make acquaintance with my warriors soon, and then those to the north and south. Think, Edmund –"
Someone near to the King suddenly spat onto the ground and stepped forward, towards Ivar. "Address my King as a commoner once more, savage. Once more and –"
Ivar dismounted his horse easily – almost casually. I had thought, from his body language, that he was merely going to push the man, or make fun of him for his obvious powerlessness when it came to carrying out his threats. But as he got close, he reached to his left hip and unsheathed a bloodied dagger, which he promptly buried in the chest of his opponent. I felt my eyes widening, and my mouth falling open. Ivar withdrew the dagger and the man staggered forward a few steps, making an awful gurgling sound. Once again bile rose in my throat and I quietly placed a hand over my mouth.
When his man finally fell, the King looked up at Ivar, who stood less than 2 feet away from him then.
"He was the son of my father's most trusted thane," he said, looking down at his dead friend, and I noticed that he was being careful not to allow any note of challenge into his voice. "I spent the days of my childhood playing in the woods with Ceolwulf, battling each other with swords made of wood. You do not need to convince me further, Jarl Ivar, for anyone with eyes can see I have no choice but to accede to your demands. My horses are yours, my fealty is yours, my estates are yours. All I ask is to be allowed to take Ceolwulf's body back to Iken, so he can be buried in the place where he was born."
"You can take this fool's body where you like," Ivar replied, as a vein at the King's temple throbbed. "I accept your gifts, as little choice as you have in giving them. The woman too, I ask, must be returned."
The king turned back to the men who stood on either side of me and gave them a nod. I took a tentative step forward, testing to see if I was really free to go – and then when I saw that I was, and that no one was going to stop me, I ran forward towards Ivar and his men, hiding myself among them as quickly as I could, out of sight.
"Get her something to cover herself with," Ivar commanded, "and tend to her wounds."
I found myself led away, back through the mounted men and the archers, back further until all that surrounded me was dead bodies – and those soon to be dead – and a few women.
The women tended to the wounded and dying, not flinching as horrific screams of pain arose from some of the fallen, binding bloody wounds with cloth. A sharp, almost medicinal smell filled my nostrils, not quite concealing the scent of the battle.
"Are you hurt?" A young girl, still in her teens, asked me and I shook my head.
"No. I – I'm not hurt." I reached up and rubbed my throat as my last word came out as a croak. "Not badly, anyway. My throat just –"
The girl reached out and took my hand, and as jumpy as I was I snatched it back at once before looking down to see what it was she was peering at so intently. I was bleedi
ng. Was I? I turned my hand over, convinced it was someone else's blood – there was no pain – and there it was on my inner arm, a slash wound. And as soon as I saw it, the pain arrived.
"Damnit," I cried, brushing the girl away before she could apply some of the salve that was so sharply scenting the air. It was probably going to need stitches, I recognized that right away. It was going to need washing and sterilizing, too. At least it was my left arm. I slumped down onto the ground, as far away from any bodies as I could manage, and once again waved the girl away when she tried to approach.
"It needs to be cleaned," I told her, knowing she was trying to help and grateful for the kindness.
"Let me dress it at least," she implored, drawing a length of linen from a decidedly unsterile-looking roll she carried with her in a leather bag.
"No," I repeated. "I said it needs to be cleaned. That cloth is filthy – I hope you're not dressing wounds with that. You need to get some –"
Another woman approached then, much older, with silver-grey hair and the wizened face of someone who has spent many years in the sun. "Away, Runa," she said gently, addressing the girl. "I'll see to this one – there are many men who need your attentions."
She turned to me, taking my arm into her hand and shaking her head. "It bleeds," she said, showing me. "We need to stop the bleeding before we do anything else or you're –"
"No!" I repeated, a little more forcefully that time, when she pulled her own wooden pot of salve out and opened it. "I don't want you to put that on –"
"Why?" The woman asked, peering at me curiously. "It will keep the wound from turning to rot."
I doubted that, but what choice did I have? I was with a bunch of savages in the middle of nowhere, with neither a hospital nor a pharmacy in sight.
"Will it?" I asked, skeptical. "It might need stitches. I need to get to a hospital."
The old woman was looking down at my injury, and although she did not look up as I spoke, her entire body tightened suddenly. It was so obvious that I myself flinched, thinking she'd heard the arrival of some new company of sword-bearing men who wanted to rip our clothes off and have their way with us in the woods.
But she said nothing. She just kept her eyes down on my injury, prodding the skin around it in an attempt to stop the bleeding which, while it was not heavy, was still enough to warrant attention.
"I'll clean it when we get back to the camp," I said. "With boiled water."
"It needs to be bound now," the old woman replied, still not making eye contact. "Who knows how long it will be until you can get to a – a hospital."
In the end, I allowed her to apply some of her salve and wrap my forearm with linen. I could worry about sterile dressings and antibiotics later, when the blood had stopped running down my wrist.
"Where is it you're from?" The woman asked quietly, handing me a length of the linen she used to bandage my arm. "Cover yourself up with this, girl."
"River Falls," I replied, wondering how exactly I was going to cover myself with the length of flimsy linen. "Can you help me with this? I need someone to hold the –"
I stopped talking halfway through my sentence when I saw the expression on the woman's face. It looked like shock at first, her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide. But then a tear slid down her cheek and she leaned forward quickly, burying her face in her hands.
"I'm sorry," I started, confused. "Are you OK? Do you need help with, um, something?"
But she kept weeping, the tears spilling ever more copiously down her cheeks and her shoulders shaking with emotion even as she made very little sound. I reached out awkwardly and put a hand on her shoulder, trying to offer some kindness.
"I'm a police officer," I whispered, leaning in so no one would overhear me. I knew that abused women or women in unhealthy relationships were often terrified of the consequences of leaving. "I can help you get away from here if that's what you want. I won't mention it to your boyfriend or husband if you –"
"My husband is dead," the woman replied, wiping her face with a very wrinkled hand. "And you need to listen to me, girl."
She looked up at me and took my face in her hands, staring intently into my eyes. Mental illness. It was a common thing, especially in people who had dropped out of normal society. Still, she'd been kind to me.
"OK...?" I said, smiling in what I hoped was a comforting way. "I'll listen to you. I'm Sophie by the way. And you are?"
"I'm Eltha. Now tell me – do you know your way back?"
I hesitated slightly before replying. "Yes, I think so. Yes, I do. Back to the camp, and then the beach, and then down the coast – I marked a tree with hiking tape so I knew what path to follow back inland."
"Go, then!" Eltha urged, scrambling to her feet quickly and pulling me up with her. "Go now, Sophie. Leave, right now. You're on the path, follow it back to camp and then back to the woods. Now, girl!"
I stepped back, not sure where the madwoman's sudden urgency was coming from. "I will go," I told her. "But first I need to talk to someone – not Ivar, the other one, the one who seems to be second in command. It's about his wife. I want to talk to her, if I –"
"No!" Eltha whispered sharply, taking me by the shoulders and digging her fingers into my flesh hard enough to make me yelp. "No, Sophie! You don't understand, you must go now. Right now. You don't know what this place is, you don't know what kind of danger you're in! Do you have a family? A husband, children?"
Mental illness or not, her words were getting to me. It was the strangeness of the place, the situation. If she'd been ranting at me outside the pharmacy in River Falls, reeking of alcohol, I would have ignored her. But we weren't outside the pharmacy in River Falls. We were in a forest in an undetermined location, and I'd just narrowly avoided being raped by a group of men whose existence didn't really make any sense.
"Y-yes," I stammered. "I mean, no, I don't have a husband. But I have a daughter, and my mom –"
"Do you want to see her again?" Eltha asked, staring directly into my eyes. "Your little girl, Sophie – do you want to see her again?"
"Of course I want to see her again," I replied, swallowing hard against the wobble that threatened to creep into my voice. "And I will see her again, just as soon as, um, as soon as –"
"You won't!" Eltha insisted. "I see the way you're looking at me, girl, like I'm a crazy old woman. And maybe I am – but I'm telling nothing but the truth when I say you need to go at once. You need to follow this path back to the camp, and the beach, and then to the place that brought you here. The longer you stay the more likely it is that you'll never find your way back. Please, do as I say. Listen to me!"
The problem with Eltha's nonsensical warnings, there in the woods that day, surrounded by dead bodies and injured men, was that they didn't feel so nonsensical. The warning in her eyes was real. No matter how I tried to reassure myself that she was sick, that she needed medication and therapy, part of me simply believed what she was saying. Part of me believed it so much I found myself standing in front of her, ready to turn straight towards the path that would take me back to camp as she was advising me to do. Not 5 minutes later, or when the men decided it was time but then, right that second.
"What's all this?"
Eltha and I turned around in unison. It was Ivar, mounted on his horse and leading what was left of his men – although there had been losses, it was clear that one side had suffered more than the other on that count.
"Why do you two look so guilty?" He asked, addressing us both. "Come, Sophiefoster, you are wounded. Ride back with me."
Ivar nodded at one of his men and he came to me, preparing himself to help me up onto the horse. I turned to look at Eltha, seeking a signal, my body twitching with the possibility of running. But Eltha's head had dropped low, she refused to speak or acknowledge me. It was too late to run – I hadn't been able to outrun Ivar when he was on foot – what chance did I have against a horse?
I gave in, allowing the man, whose hands were smeared
with a mixture of soil and blood, to lift me onto the back of Ivar's horse. And then, without noticing that it was happening, I fell asleep against the warrior's back, slumped against him, too tired for the fear of falling to keep me awake.
Twelve
Ivar
We rode back to camp without a sense of hurry. My men were quiet – because we had lost many of our number, although not as many as Edmund the Fisherman King of the East Angles had done – but pleased with our victory. Behind us we led enough horses to ensure that our push inland would be even stronger, in spite of our diminished numbers. 1 man on horseback is worth 3 on foot, as my father was always saying – and I had not once known my father to be wrong on matters of combat.
Along with horses, we had the King's fealty, his promise that neither he nor his people would interfere with our plans any further. I did not know the King of the East Angles to be a good-hearted man – I did not know the King of the East Angles at all – but what I did know was that both he and his people held more fear and hatred in their hearts for the Mercians than they did for anyone else – including Northmen. I made sure that Edmund knew of our intention to push on, far beyond the borders of his Kingdom and deep into the east and north, Mercia and Northumbria. It was that, in the end, that would keep him from rebelling against his oath too soon. Threaten a man and create resentment. Threaten a man's enemies and create an ally, even if you have just done him an injury.
Edmund's loyalty was no real matter, as it stood, because I'd left enough of my men with him as to be able to make sure the wily King had no choice but to keep his word.
I had horses. I had the King's surrender. I also had the woman Sophiefoster nestled against my back, the one I had intended to offer to the King as incentive.
