The Sword of Wayland

by Gavin Chappell

  * * * * *

  The downs were green and rolling. The open grasslands surrounded the four riders as they cantered down the Ermin Way. Darkness was creeping up towards them, and the Sun hung like an orb of fire over the hills at their backs.

  The four fugitives had crossed the border with few problems. Once the guards on the Wessex road had searched their belongings, and assured themselves that these northern visitors had nothing worth taxing, they soon allowed them to ride on across the rolling downs.

  It was a new landscape to all of them, even Oswald, who was the most far-travelled of them all. In his father Osnoth’s day, war had flared along the border between Offa and the people of Wessex, but the new king had made peace. Oswald’s military service had chiefly taken him to Wales.

  A sense of great antiquity hung over these hills. Here and there rose strangely regular earthworks like the ancient fortresses of forgotten peoples; perhaps the work of those who had built the first roads, back in the dawn of prehistory.

  The open countryside swept away towards the edges of the sky, bleak and barren, empty except for occasional herds of sheep and the odd village. Once or twice Oswald saw stone circles and burial mounds rearing on the skyline.

  But an uncanny sense of emptiness hung over the land, an impression of something that mourned past glories now buried beneath the sheep-cropped turf. Something anticipating a future when these hills would once more bring forth a race of kings.

  To the south lay Winchester, Axminster, and other bustling towns; here dwelt King Bertric and most of his folk. Among the downs, the only sounds of living things to disturb the silence were the cries of circling birds.

  They had abandoned the Fosse Way in Cirencester, and now followed the road across the downs known as the Ermin Way. The Sun set behind them, throwing their shadows longer and longer down the road ahead. Oswald kept an eye out for the turn-off. A few miles back, they had passed through a small village, and a lazing peasant had told them they would find the Ridgeway in this direction. But so far they had seen no sign of it.

  ‘There!’ Oswald cried suddenly. He pointed towards the track that snaked down from the ancient hills to cross the road ahead of them, and wind up again into the downs, flanking the side of the vale through which they rode.

  ‘Is that the Ridgeway?’ Edwin asked.

  Oswald nodded. ‘One of the ancient roads of Lady Godda’s people,’ he replied. ‘It leads across the downs from the great stone circle near Woden’s Dyke for many miles.’

  ‘We don’t have to follow it all that way, do we?’ Alfrun asked.

  Oswald shook his head slowly.

  ‘Our destination lies a few miles to the east,’ he said. ‘Just beyond the White Horse.’ He spurred his steed, and together, they rode down the track.

  The Ridgeway made something of a change, after the long, straight, well-paved road they had been following. Although the people of Wessex had failed to keep up Ermin Way as well as Offa’s subjects maintained the Fosse Way, the road was nonetheless well planned and straightforward. The Ridgeway, however, wound and wended across the downs in a seemingly arbitrary fashion, its surface no more than earth compacted beneath the feet and the hooves of three thousand years of traffic.

  It curved away around the hills, skirting the southern edge of the Vale of the White Horse. In places, it was overgrown with turf. Oswald thought that they might as well have struck out across the downs regardless, if not for the fact that the road led straight past Wayland’s Smithy.

  The Sun had almost set over the western hills when they turned a corner and saw the great white form of a horse-shaped hill carving in the hillside ahead of them. Abstract and flowing, at such an angle that it could only be viewed adequately from the heavens themselves, the White Horse seemed to canter across the slope as the four companions rode past.

  A kind of awe seized their hearts, and they reined their horses to gaze at the wild, weird figure.

  ‘Who put that there?’ Alfrun asked, turning in her saddle to gaze at Oswald.

  ‘I’ve heard different stories,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘Some say it was carved to mark Hengest’s victory over the Welsh, when our forefathers came to this island.’

  ‘It reminds me of the Red Horse of Tysoe,’ remarked Edwin. ‘They say our heathen ancestors carved that, too.’

  ‘But other stories say the White Horse was made by the fathers of the fathers of the Welsh. Perhaps even by the people who first tramped the road we follow.’

  Edwin turned to him. ‘The old people?’ he asked. ‘The ones who built the stone circles, and the long barrows?’

  ‘Who knows? Perhaps Lady Godda would have the answer…’

  Dusk was sweeping up around them as they spoke. Soon the White Horse was no more than a pale blur against the darkness of the hillside.

  ‘Come,’ Oswald added. ‘We must find Wayland’s Smithy.’

  The White Horse was out of sight behind them when a stand of trees swam up out of the darkness. Beneath the trunks, a long, low hump rose from the ground, a construction of earth and stones trailing away from the road. The eerie glow of a will-o-the-wisp floated above the long mound.

  Bork reined his horse, and the others copied him.

  ‘In my country we would say that that light marks treasure,’ he said.

  ‘And it may do indeed,’ Oswald replied. ‘If my reckoning is right, that barrow beneath the trees is Wayland’s Smithy.’

  Hardly had his words left his mouth when a hideous yell rang out, and the roar of combat shattered the silence of the night. It came from the eerily lit burial mound.

  ‘Come on!’ shouted Oswald. ‘We must see what’s happening!’

  Oswald led the others at a run towards the long barrow. The clash of weapons rang out through the darkness, from the stone walled arch at the end of the burial mound, a dark maw apparently leading into the depths of the Earth. In the air above it, phosphorescence hung like mist.

  ‘Into the mound!’ Oswald called to his companions.

  ‘Is Wayland under attack?’ gasped Edwin. ‘Could it be the goblins?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Oswald asked, as they passed under the trees. ‘Who...’

  He broke off as a group of small dark figures burst from the darkness on either side. At first, Oswald thought that more woodwoses had ambushed them - but these new attackers had none of the bestial smell that characterised their earlier opponents. In fact, there was something almost reptilian about them...

  They came bounding down from the top of the mound, swarming across the path to the entrance. At their head strode another, even smaller than the others, but who held himself like a king. On his head, he wore a goat-skull.

  ‘Halt there, human!’ the leader of the things hissed. Its fellows spread out to encircle the companions as they stumbled to a halt.

  ‘Let us past, little man,’ Bork rumbled. The sound of fighting was still echoing up from the tunnel into the barrow.

  ‘No one will pass while we are negotiating with the elven smith,’ said the leader with a sneer. ‘We wish to carry out a transaction with him.’

  ‘Then this is Wayland’s Smithy?’ Oswald asked.

  ‘What did you think? What fools these humans are!’

  ‘Should we kill them, Puck?’ one of the others hissed.

  ‘Silence!’ the leader snarled.

  ‘Puck?’ Edwin gasped.

  ‘Yes, Puck,’ the goblin king sneered. ‘What is it? Aren’t I puckish enough for you? The stories your bards and old wives tell are so amusing.’

  Oswald drew his sword. The others seemed paralysed with indecision, but it was clear to him that here was their chance to end their problems. He attacked Puck.

  The king of the goblins ducked lithely. His followers rushed forward, and Oswald swiped at them as they came. Then Puck clicked his fingers as Oswald raised his blade again. The night air hummed, and a searing pain lanced through his sword-arm. His weapon clattered to the earth. He turned to stare at the arro
w sprouting from his forearm.

  ‘Kill them!’ Puck yelled. The goblins surged up to attack.

  Bork produced his axe, and swung it around him dangerously, sending dark little figures flying. The others retreated behind him. Oswald was weaponless, while Edwin and Alfrun seemed to have no ability to defend them.

  Goblins surged around the berserker, and stabbed at the companions with spears. Oswald, gritting his teeth against the pain in his arm, seized a fallen branch from the ground at his feet, and belaboured the closest attackers.

  ‘Do you have any water?’ Alfrun demanded suddenly, as she began to rummage in her pack. Oswald glanced back briefly, startled by the unexpected request.

  ‘I have a waterskin,’ he yelled, swinging back to fend off the attacking goblins. ‘Why?’

  ‘Give it here!’ Alfrun commanded.

  Oswald despatched another goblin, and flung the skin to Alfrun.

  ‘Protect me!’ she said, as more goblins surged forward.

  ‘Bork!’ Oswald bellowed. The two warriors moved to either side of her. She produced a rune-carved piece of bark and began to mutter words over the water.

  Meanwhile, Edwin was grappling with two goblins that had seized him. One of them tripped him, and forced him to the ground.

  ‘Help me!’ he squealed. The other goblin raised an axe to smash in his skull.

  Alfrun concluded her invocation, and unstoppered the waterskin. Alerted by Edwin’s cries, Bork stepped forward, but Alfrun said; ‘No!’

  Bork turned to her indecisively, as she began to sprinkle the water on the four humans.

  ‘What are you doing, madwoman?’ demanded Edwin from the ground. Then the goblin brought the axe slashing down.

  ‘Hey! No, no!’ he shouted.

  The axe hit Edwin’s forehead, and bounced off. The little thief gulped, surprised out of his wits. His attacker was equally bewildered. The goblin stepped back, turning uncertainly towards Puck.

  ‘What have you done?’ Edwin heaved himself up and turned to Alfrun.

  But it was Puck who answered him.

  ‘The witch has used her magic,’ he called. ‘You are invulnerable to our weapons. But too late!’

  They turned to see him standing at the entrance to the barrow. A group of goblins were staggering up out of the gloom, with a tall, crippled elf held firm between them. The leader held a sword in his hands.

  Puck laughed.

  ‘Behold, foolish humans!’ he said. ‘We have Wyrmbane, the Sword of Wayland! Now Lady Godda’s pathetic plots are foiled - Oh yes, we knew of them in our mountain fastnesses. Nothing escapes our spies and spaewives...’

  ‘Puck!’ the elf spat. ‘Your plans are insane! If you call up the dragon, it will begin centuries of war. You will achieve nothing by your plans, nothing but chaos!’

  Puck sneered. He seized the sword from the goblin’s grasp.

  ‘As long as my people are avenged upon our ancient foes,’ he said, ‘what of it?’ He turned to the humans. ‘You are invulnerable, thanks to your witch companion, so I shall not trouble my men to make a futile attempt to slay you. But be warned! Do not meddle in the affairs of your betters, or you will suffer!

  ‘Coblynau - to me!’

  The small dark figures scurried across the glade to join their king. Oswald and his companions stood speechless. Bork made a move towards the king, but at that second, with a series of sudden, lizard-like movements, they vanished into the night. Bork stared after them with regret.

  Only the elf remained, slumped against the barrow entrance.

  ‘Well, that’s that, then,’ Edwin said, with a note of grim finality. ‘There’s no way we can keep up with them.’

  ‘At least they didn’t kill us,’ Alfrun pointed out. ‘They would have done, though, if it hadn’t been for my witchcraft, you know. I’ve never cast that spell before, but...’

  ‘Yes, we thank you, Alfrun,’ Oswald said. ‘We would have lost our lives as well as the sword if it hadn’t been for you.’ He turned to face the silent elf. ‘Who are you, friend?’

  The crippled elf looked up sadly at them. A thousand lines of grief and care wrinkled his old face, and his hair shone silver in the starlight.

  ‘I am Wayland,’ he replied.

  ‘Then you are the elven smith?’ Oswald asked. ‘Your name resounds through all our legends!’

  Wayland smiled bitterly. ‘So I should hope,’ he murmured. ‘I have suffered enough. I have known grief and sorrow. I have toiled for heroes and for gods with meagre reward. And even now, in my advanced years, I find my home and workshop raided, and my greatest work stolen by goblins!’ He halted suddenly. ‘But who are you, then? Why came you here? Did you come to gloat? You made no attempt to stop Puck.’

  Oswald frowned. From the tales, he knew that Wayland had suffered much, but it had never occurred to him that the smith would be such a sour, suspicious old man.

  ‘Lady Godda sent us,’ he said. ‘We were to foil Puck’s plot. I was going to kill the dragon with your sword. But that’s impossible now.’

  As he said this, he realised the truth of his words. He turned to the others. Edwin looked subdued, Bork was scowling grimly, and Alfrun seemed bewildered by this turn of events.

  ‘We’ve failed,’ Oswald said simply. ‘Now nothing will halt Queen Cynethryth’s plans. Our quest is lost.’

  They stood silent in the darkness. Bitterness welled up in Oswald’s heart. He realised that now he would never return to the side of his king; never regain his lands.

  Never marry his beloved.

  Amongst the dark and threatening trees, the night wind moaned quietly.

  9 OFFA’S DYKE

  ‘Nonsense!’

  Wayland’s voice was gruff. ‘We’ve lost the battle,’ he added, looking at each of them in turn, ‘but not the w ar.’

  ‘Wyrmbane is in Puck’s hands,’ Oswald said despairingly. ‘We are weaponless.’

  ‘I’ve got this,’ Bork remarked, producing his axe.

  Oswald shook his head vehemently. ‘Against a dragon?’ he asked. ‘And who knows what else? We hardly even know what we’re up against! All we know is that Puck has the sword we need. Unless you have any other dragon-slaying sword,’ he added with more than a tinge of sarcasm, turning to Wayland.

  ‘That’s right, lad,’ said Wayland blandly. ‘Never give up. I didn’t, not even when the King of the Swedes had me hamstrung and forced me to slave for him.’ He pushed himself up, and stood tottering. ‘Help me,’ he ordered. ‘Take me down to my smithy, and I’ll give you all the weapons you need. Other than Wyrmbane.’

  Bork strode forward and took the smith by one arm. After a second’s hesitation, Oswald took the other. With Alfrun and Edwin following them, they took Wayland through the rock archway and down into the depths of the Earth.

  The tunnel led down at a gradual incline, cutting straight through the bedrock. A distant red glow threw shadows around them as they descended further, and after a while, the tunnel opened out into a red-lit cavern.

  On the far side from the entrance, a massive anvil stood before a forge, from which came the red glow. Tools, armour, and weapons lay scattered carelessly about the cavern floor.

  Wayland directed them to one corner of the cavern, out of the direct light of the roaring forge. Here a few rock-hewn chairs stood around a stone table. A pair of crutches lay beside one chair.

  Wayland seized these, and used them to hobble round to the other side of the table.

  ‘I have little to offer by way of hospitality,’ he said quietly. ‘Few come to visit me in these latter days, and those who do seek my skills rather than my company.’ He indicated the chairs. ‘But take a seat if you wish.’

  They sat down on the rock chairs. Privately Oswald wondered if the smith might have had more visitors if his furniture was more comfortable. But he banished that thought and leaned forward.

  ‘You spoke of weapons,’ he said directly.

  ‘True,’ said Wayland. ‘But you also spok
e of ignorance.’

  Oswald was startled. ‘Ignorance?’ he asked.

  ‘Concerning that which faces you,’ Wayland replied. ‘Lady Godda is a fine woman in her own way, but full of wind when it comes to speaking. She told you no more than Puck’s plot to raise the Red Dragon, correct? And that I could give you the means to defeat him.’

  Oswald nodded. ‘I didn’t know that anyone knew any more than that,’ he replied. ‘Except for the Queen’s part in this.’

  ‘There is more,’ Wayland replied. ‘The dragon will rise only at the appointed time - the night of Yule. If he awakens then, he will rampage unchecked across the island, unless he is defeated. But if he is slain beforehand, or even just after waking, then Puck’s plot will be defeated.’

  Wayland reached up to a shelf on the wall behind him, and produced a roll of parchment. Unrolling it, he spread it out on the table.

  ‘This map shows the location of the dragons’ cave, and the nearby entrances to Puck’s underground kingdom,’ he announced, as they crowded forward to look at it. ‘Here are the mountains of Snowdon that surround the area. To the north, by the sea, the king of the Welsh has his chief palaces and his richest lands... You are familiar with Wales?’

  ‘Only the lowland areas,’ Oswald replied, ‘the lands we reconquered. The English are seldom welcome in the mountains.’

  Wayland nodded grimly.

  ‘It will be hard going for the English in the hills of the Welsh,’ he said. ‘Much as it would be for my people in Puck’s kingdom.

  ‘But if it is possible for you to reach these valleys before midwinter, then you will be able to enter the cavern of the dragons with little difficulty - unless Puck’s people stop you. However, there is always the chance that you will need to fight your way in and out. So I will allow you to take your pick of the weapons and armour in my smithy.’

  ‘But Wyrmbane,’ Oswald said patiently. ‘You expect us to kill the dragon, but Lady Godda said that only Wyrmbane can do that. Was he lying?’

  Wayland grumbled to himself.

  ‘Lady Godda never lies,’ he said. ‘Though at times she is prone to exaggeration. But no. You will have to find some way of regaining the sword. There I cannot help you, but bear this in mind. Nothing can destroy the sword except dragonfire...’

  ‘Wonderful!’ exclaimed Edwin. ‘Considering the sword is supposed to kill dragons.’

  ‘Dragonfire destroys all things,’ Wayland replied gravely. ‘But Wyrmbane will kill all dragons.’

  ‘Unless they melt the sword,’ Edwin said sardonically.

  ‘You must find out where Puck has taken it,’ Wayland continued relentlessly. ‘If you do that, you will be able to face the dragon.’

  ‘That’ll be difficult,’ Edwin said. ‘But I think I can help here. Me and Bork, we’re good at finding things out.’

  ‘If it’s anything to do with elves,’ Alfrun said, ‘maybe my witchcraft could help.’ Then she scowled, and added, ‘But only if it’s really important.’

  Oswald smiled. What invaluable companions he had, rogues though they might be. Things were starting to look up.

  ‘Well, it’s no more than two months until Yule,’ he said. ‘If we can get up into the mountains before the first snows of winter, we might have all this completed long before Yule.’ And then he’d be able to return to Godiva, safe in the knowledge that the kingdom was safe. Maybe even King Offa would be willing to listen to reason.

  Bork’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘Let’s have a look at these weapons, then,’ he said. Wayland nodded his assent, and the Dane rose, and went to root through the heap of objects on the floor.

  ‘I’m afraid the goblins made something of a mess,’ Wayland said dryly. ‘I refused to give them Wyrmbane, even under torture...’ He glanced sadly at his red and blistered arms. ‘But there was nothing they could do that could compare with the sufferings of my youth.’

  Bork produced an ornate boar-crested helmet and placed it on his head.

  ‘What d’you think?’ he asked them. ‘Suit me?’

  Edwin shook his head with mock despair. ‘The berserker’s in his element,’ he grumbled. ‘I suppose I’d better find a few things myself. But I hate fighting.’

  He seized a sword, testing it like a master. Oswald took up another from nearby, and marvelled at the balance. He tilted it, and in the firelight, it seemed that serpents were crawling up the blade.

  There was a flash of steel from the air beside him, and he instinctively brought up his blade to parry Edwin’s unexpected blow. Grinning, he tried a thrust at the little robber, and Edwin knocked it away wildly.

  ‘More control,’ Oswald said authoritatively. ‘Come at me, man.’

  Edwin attacked with a flurry of blows. Oswald parried each calmly, until Edwin was gasping.

  ‘You tire yourself out too quickly,’ Oswald said. ‘Don’t attack as if you’re angry - be calm.’ He thrust suddenly. Steel rang, and Oswald was startled to find his sword whipped out of his hand by Edwin’s circular parry. The blade clattered to the ground at Alfrun’s feet, and she jumped back like a cat.

  ‘And here’s another piece of advice,’ Edwin said. ‘Don’t underestimate your opponent.’

  Alfrun was tapping her foot. ‘If you two oafs have quite finished showing off,’ she said. She picked up the sword and immediately dropped it. She shot a vicious glance at Wayland.

  ‘Don’t you have anything lighter?’ she complained. ‘That thing weighs a ton!’

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ said Wayland. ‘Many of my customers were women, back in the old heathen days, when women fought alongside men.’ He searched the floor with his eyes. ‘There!’ he said at last. ‘Next to the Dane who is donning that outsize mail shirt. That blade.’

  Alfrun picked it up, and tested it, then nodded. ‘I think I could make use of this,’ she said.

  Oswald laughed. ‘Perhaps it would be better if you stayed at the back,’ he said heartily. ‘Stick to your witchcraft. Fighting is men’s work...’

  He broke off suddenly, as Alfrun swung at him. He parried her blows one after another, but found himself backing slowly across the cavern floor under her onslaught.

  ‘Now you’re trapped,’ Alfrun said, as Oswald reached the cavern wall. He shrugged, and bowed. ‘You should have fought back,’ she added. ‘And there’s my advantage. How many men would feel easy about being set upon by a woman?’

  Oswald looked embarrassed.

  ‘True,’ Bork rumbled. ‘Women still fight in the North, and they often have the advantage for that reason.’

  Oswald turned to reply, then stopped at the sight that confronted him.

  There was an ornate helm on his head, a mail coif covering his hair; his beard flowed down across his mail-clad chest. A finely worked shield in his left hand, a heavy axe in his right, Bork stood before them like some ancient hero of old times, a Siegfried, a Theodoric, a Hengest. As if some pagan warrior had risen from his barrow where he had lain, surrounded by his possessions, for centuries.

  And for a moment, Oswald felt a strange kinship with the heathen, going beyond the aping of their clothes and customs that was often fashionable among the young men about court; a feeling of true fellowship. Bork’s folk represented all that remained of the ancient way of life that all men had once followed. All men and all women, he thought, glancing at Alfrun.

  Yet, were those days truly over? Here they were, like warriors of old, on their way to fight a dragon and vanquish the forces of evil... The Age of Heroes would never end when men like Bork walked the earth; when even men like him were ready to face evil with steel in their hands and a song on their lips. Undying fame would be theirs!

  Edwin prodded Bork in the chest.

  ‘You sound like an ironmonger’s,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘Are you going to wear that all the way to Wales? Puck will hear us coming miles off!’

  ‘It is a bit heavy,’ admitted Bork. ‘But I think I’ll wear it.’

  Os
wald shook his head. The mood was gone. He turned away, and went to find himself a sword.

  They left Wayland’s Smithy the next morning. The smith hobbled up the passage on his crutches to see them off from the entrance. He had given them saddles and other accoutrements for their horses that they had ridden bareback from Stow-on-the-Wold, and they thanked him gratefully before mounting and riding off down the Ridgeway with many a backward glance.

  They cantered past the White Horse and made good speed down the Vale, returning to Ermin Way within a couple of hours. The road was busier than it had been previously, and they passed many lumbering ox-carts as they rode towards Cirencester. Vaguely, Oswald wondered what had happened to Wilfred since they left him so hastily.

  He got his answer a few hours later, when the ramparts of Cirencester stood outlined against the skyline. They had paused at the roadside to water their horses and discuss the route ahead, when they became aware of a train of ox-carts across the meadows, coming up the Fosse Way from the south. Edwin narrowed his eyes suddenly.

  ‘That looks like Wilfred!’ he exclaimed. Bork looked up. He had the best eyes of them all. He peered at the wagon train, then nodded.

  ‘Aye,’ he said shortly. ‘Wilfred.’

  ‘The man you came south with?’ Alfrun asked. ‘Perhaps we can rejoin his caravan, and slip back over the border with him.’ They had been discussing the difficulties they would face on returning to Mercia.

  Oswald was staring broodingly across the meadows.

  ‘Where was it he said he was going?’ he asked. ‘Glastonbury, wasn’t it? I wouldn’t have thought he’d have the time to get there, sell his goods, and get this far north again.’

  ‘Maybe he was very quick,’ Alfrun said impatiently. ‘Look, why don’t just go up there and ask him if you can join him again? Maybe he won’t be too happy about you ending up in the lock-up with me, but he’ll still need guards, won’t he? And...’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ Oswald replied testily. ‘We’ll head across the meadows and cut him off before he reaches the town.’

  As they rode towards the wagon train, it slowed and came to a halt. This seemed odd to Oswald. If they needed to stop, why not wait until they were safe within the walls of Cirencester?

  The riders soon reached the road where they reined their horses beside the stationary wagon train. A distraught figure leapt down from the leading cart.

  ‘We have nothing you could want from us!’ it cried. Oswald recognised Wilfred. ‘All we have are our oxen and our carts. Besides, you risk your lives attacking in broad daylight, and within sight of a town! Surely, we can come to some arrangement?’

  Oswald raised his helmet. ‘Has the Wessex sun turned your mind, Wilfred?’ he asked heartily. ‘It’s us - your companions of before!’

  Wilfred squinted at him in startlement. ‘Worse and worse,’ one of the wagoners said. Wilfred frowned at the man.

  ‘But we heard that the abbot had imprisoned you,’ he said. ‘If only he hadn’t!’

  ‘That was all a misunderstanding,’ Oswald said hastily. ‘We were innocent - well, most of us.’ He gave Bork a glare. ‘But why are you returning so soon? Did the bargaining go well? Were the monks in need of your querns?’

  Wilfred spat. ‘We never got there!’ he cried. ‘We hired new guards, in this very town behind us - but no sooner had we got out of sight than they turned on us and demanded we give them all our goods. I’m ruined!’

  ‘They took your querns?’ Oswald asked, rising closer. ‘Didn’t that slow them down?’

  ‘They had it all planned,’ said the merchant bitterly. ‘We were near a river. They forced us to take our goods down to the bank where they had barges waiting, and then they rowed away. Doubtless to Glastonbury.’

  ‘What a scam!’ Edwin murmured admiringly. Oswald gave him a disapproving look.

  ‘So you are returning to Lincoln?’ he asked the merchant.

  ‘When I get back, I’m selling the business,’ Wilfred declared. ‘There’s no money in the quernstone trade anymore. I’m selling up and then I’m going to join my cousin in London. He’s expanding his shipping fleet and could do with a man with a head for business. Now all I need do is get back home,’ the merchant added.

  ‘So you’ll need guarding again?’ Oswald suggested. ‘Especially through the hills. We’re on our way to Wales now, but we could accompany you as far as, say, the turn-off for the Ryknield Way?’

  Wilfred sat silent for a while, staring suspiciously at the well-armed warriors before him. Then he flung up his arms.

  ‘What do I have to lose?’ he said. ‘Nothing, that’s what! Very well, but mind you keep your heads down when we pass through Stow-on-the-Wold!’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about that,’ Edwin said with a grin.

  The journey was uneventful, although the hours spent hiding in the carts, while they passed Stow-on-the-Wold, were far from pleasant. But soon they reached the edge of the hills and the Vale of the Red Horse lay before them.

  ‘This is where we go our separate ways,’ Oswald said from his horse. The caravan had halted by the great oak that overshadowed the junction of Ryknield Street and the Fosse Way. He and his companions were ready to depart. ‘Your way lies northwards, ours northwest.’

  ‘You are sure you won’t stay?’ asked Wilfred suddenly. Oswald laughed.

  ‘Haven’t we caused enough trouble for you?’ he asked.

  Wilfred frowned. ‘My standing among the Hwicce will never be the same again,’ he said. ‘But always look to the next deal, as my old father used to say. It was about time I gave up the quernstone trade. Perhaps if you hadn’t joined us when you did I’d still be trailing up and down through robber-infested forests at the age of seventy.’

  He folded his arms. ‘Go on, be off with you, you rascals. If I ever see you in London, I’ll call the Watch.’ But he was laughing to himself.

  Oswald raised an arm in farewell. The ox-carts began to creak as the wagoners whipped up their oxen. Then Oswald and the others turned, and rode up Ryknield Street, towards the far blue horizon beyond which rose the distant hills of Wales.

  The last leg of their journey lay before them.

  A day later, they were all crouching in the undergrowth at the edge of a forest glade. The trees beyond them rang with the sound of horns, the thunder of hooves, the merry cries of huntsmen, and the desperate crashing of a fleeing stag.

  ‘Elmund goes hunting,’ Oswald said with satisfaction. ‘Now we can speak with Ediva.’

  ‘I still don’t think this is a good idea,’ Edwin said. Oswald frowned.

  Their journey across Mercia had taken them as far as Cannock Chase, north off Watling Street, and west of Tamworth - and, as Oswald had to admit, more than a little out of their way. Ryknield Street joined Watling Street just south of the forest, and here they should have turned left, towards Pengwern in the Wrekin District. From there, it was no more than fifteen miles to Offa’s Dyke and the border with Wales.

  But Elmund’s estates were on the edge of the forest of Cannock Chase, and something was troubling Oswald. It would never leave him before he got some answers.

  ‘Well, are we going to do this or not?’ Alfrun grumbled.

  ‘Wait a while,’ Oswald said. The horns of Elmund’s hunting party still echoed in the far distance.

  ‘He won’t be back in a hurry,’ Edwin said. He tilted his helmet uncomfortably. ‘I think we can risk it.’

  ‘Is she still there?’ hissed Alfrun.

  Oswald raised his head cautiously above the bushes.

  Twenty feet away, the trees stopped abruptly, and beyond them lay the fields of Elmund’s estate. A manor house stood in the middle of the meadows, a high-roofed building surrounded by smaller cottages, and a solid-looking palisade.

  In the meadow beneath the wall were three women; two dressed as maids-in-waiting, the third richly clad. Oswald’s heart ached. Ediva looked so much like her sister, he though painfully.

  ‘Best if I go
alone,’ he murmured.

  ‘Won’t she just run off?’ Alfrun asked. ‘I would, if I saw a warrior approaching. And call the guards!’

  ‘I have to know what Godiva was doing in that abbey,’ Oswald said darkly. He rose to his feet and forced his way through the undergrowth.

  Ediva was playing catch with her two maids, flinging a brightly-coloured ball back and forth. Although her sister was four years older, the resemblance was remarkable.

  Oswald stepped out of the trees.

  One of the maids caught sight of him, and she gave a high-pitched scream. Ediva whirled round and spotted the warrior. She seized the maid.

  ‘Run to the house and get help!’ she commanded. ‘Tell Sabert that there’s an armed man in the meadow.’ The maid picked up her skirts and fled towards the manor house, while Ediva turned to face Oswald.

  ‘Run, mistress!’ the other maid urged her.

  ‘No,’ said Ediva. ‘If I am to be a lady, I must learn to be dignified. That’s what Father says. Since my sister has retired from the world. You there!’ she called imperiously, while her maid dithered beside her. ‘What do you want? Don’t try anything - I’ve sent for help.’

  Oswald approached uncertainly. He removed his helmet. ‘Don’t you recognise me?’ he asked.

  At that, the maid shrieked, and fell to the grass in a dead faint.

  ‘Silly girl,’ said Ediva coolly. ‘Yes, I recognise you,’ she added. ‘Oswald the Outlaw. Your treatment of my sister was shameful. Have you come to give yourself up? The king has threatened to have you burned at the stake if he catches you.’

  ‘It’s all a misunderstanding,’ Oswald said feebly. ‘I am innocent!’

  Ediva raised an elegant eyebrow. ‘From what I have heard,’ she said, ‘you have assaulted the queen, attacked a monk, evaded arrest after being involved in a tavern brawl, and you are suspected of killing the followers of the king’s son. Do you deny this?’

  Oswald was silent. After a while, he spoke again. ‘Ediva...’ He said. ‘What’s got into you? You were always such a carefree girl.’

  ‘That was before my sister’s betrothed betrayed her,’ said Ediva icily, twisting the knife. ‘Because of you, she took holy orders. Now I am betrothed to Edbald of Warwick. I must learn to behave like a lady.’

  She looked over her shoulder. Oswald followed her gaze, and caught a flash of armour from the gates of the manor.

  ‘Ediva, I don’t have much time,’ he said urgently. ‘I am innocent of the worst of these charges, and the rest come from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Please, you must tell me - was it because of me that Godiva became a nun?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ediva, her eyes flashing. ‘Because of the way you have treated her!’ She paused, suddenly doubtful. ‘Except...’

  ‘Yes?’ Oswald prompted her.

  ‘My father... He said something strange, when we heard that Godiva was entering a religious house. He said that she had been against the idea when the queen first proposed it...’

  ‘The queen!’ Oswald snarled.

  ‘But then my sister changed her mind entirely,’ Ediva added. ‘Lost her mind, almost. It was as if she was possessed. And it isn’t just she who has changed. Ever since, the queen has been different, they say. She has been ordering the king about like a shameless old shrew, demanding he introduce harsh new penalties for the smallest of crimes.’

  ‘Maybe you won’t believe this,’ Oswald said slowly, ‘but Queen Cynethryth is behind this all. I was innocent. It was she who tried to seduce me.’

  ‘After the queen began acting so strangely, King Offa changed his orders about you,’ said Ediva. ‘Now it’s been cried through every town and village that you should be cut down like a dog, no quarter given. The nobles are in uproar about this, they say that you are still of high blood, and no nobleman should receive such treatment, whatever his crime. Rumour says that the queen is responsible for the change.’

  ‘She wants me dead,’ Oswald said. ‘She doesn’t want anyone to know the truth. Ediva, I’m leaving the kingdom now...’

  He broke off at a shout from the direction of the manor. Turning, he saw a group of armed men pelting across the field towards them. ‘Tell your father what I’ve said!’ he added urgently. ‘I must go now!’

  He clasped her hand for a second, then turned and ran for the woods.

  ‘The horses!’ he cried to the others as he came running through the undergrowth. Behind him, the armed men were still pursuing. ‘We ride for Wales!’

  After some hard riding they shook off the hue-and-cry, and they lost their pursuers in the depths of the forest. Not long after, they were riding down Watling Street, into the west and the reconquered lands around the Wrekin.

  The countryside began to change. Large hills appeared on the horizon, rising from the rolling fields like craggy islands in a sea of grass. Here and there, they saw villages, many of them deserted. Until the previous spring, this land had been the scene of fierce warfare, in which Oswald had played no small part.

  Twice they saw small groups of mounted warriors patrolling the fields and woods, and now and then they passed cowed-looking natives toiling in the fields. This land had been won with fire and the sword, and an uneasy peace hung over the countryside.

  But they had no problems while they remained on Watling Street. They left it at the little village of Wroxeter, where walls built by giants still towered over the fields, and rode on through the failing light towards the town the Welsh called Pengwern, but the English knew as Shrewsbury.

  The first sign of trouble came when they rode unchallenged through the eastern gate.

  ‘That’s odd,’ Oswald said. He halted his horse in the middle of the empty street, where the descending sun threw long shadows eastward.

  The others reined their mounts and turned to look at him.

  ‘What is?’ Edwin asked. ‘No gate-guard, you mean? Yes, very odd. Especially in unsettled lands like these.’

  ‘And where is everyone?’ Alfrun asked quietly.

  Oswald looked non-committal. ‘Maybe there’s a curfew,’ he suggested vaguely. ‘It’s not unusual in occupied territory - and dusk isn’t far off. Where the guard is, I don’t know, however. But I think it would be best if we find an inn and get inside before there’s any trouble.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ Edwin asked. ‘We’re wanted men, after all.’

  ‘Dressed like this,’ Oswald said, ‘even the sister of my betrothed failed to recognise me. We bear no resemblance to the people the king’s men would have described.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ the little robber replied.

  They rode up the winding street, their hooves clattering on the cobbles.

  An inn swam into sight through the murk, as the street widened to reveal a deserted market square.

  They dismounting in the eerie silence, and tied their horses to a hitching post. A noise from further up the street caught Oswald’s attention, and he looked up.

  In the failing light, the three corpses that hang from the creaking tree at the edge of the square were dark and indistinct, sinister in the gathering gloom. Oswald shivered. Something was not quite right.

  The church-bell broke the silence, as it began to toll vespers.

  ‘Hurry up, Oswald,’ Edwin urged. He glanced at the gallows tree. ‘It looks like justice round here is as rough as it was in the Cotswolds.’

  They turned, and entered the inn.

  The moment they stepped into the crowded common room, all conversation ceased. Oswald halted inside the doorway, gazing around him, reflecting that here was one mystery solved: it looked as if the entire town had crowded into the inn. Dark, suspicious faces peered up at them in the firelight.

  Oswald cleared his throat.

  ‘Good evening,’ he tried. No one answered. He spoke again. ‘Do you have any rooms for the night?’

  A sullen-faced innkeeper shoved his way through the crowd.

  ‘No rooms for the likes of you,’ he said, and his Wels
h accent brought back bad memories for Oswald. ‘You’ve been outside - you’ve seen how we treated your Saxon friends...’

  ‘How did they send reinforcements so quick?’ said another man wildly. ‘We’ve been betrayed!’

  Another fellow said something harsh in Welsh, and the assembly roared in agreement.

  ‘Silence!’ barked Oswald. ‘Where is the governor of this town?’

  ‘We hanged him with the other men,’ a Welshman snarled. ‘With his guards who robbed our men and ill-treated our women! What do you say to that? You’re a king’s man!’

  With sinking heart, Oswald realised that this was the root of the mystery, an ill-organised coup against the English overlord. What bad luck for the four travellers, that they should be caught up in this turn of events.

  ‘I think we’d better be going,’ he said to the others.

  ‘Why should we?’ Edwin asked. ‘We’re not king’s men.’ He stepped forward. ‘We don’t serve the king,’ he called. ‘We are outlaws. I am the man they call Edwin the Lawless.’

  The innkeeper nodded. ‘We have heard of you,’ he said. ‘A robber and a rogue, but any enemy of the king is our friend. Who are your companions? Who is the pompous man who spoke first?’

  Oswald realised with mounting horror how unwelcome he would be here, regardless of whom he owned as lord. He opened his mouth to silence Edwin, but it was too late.

  ‘This is the outlaw thane Oswald of Westchester!’ Edwin declared loudly. ‘He is King Offa’s greatest foe!’

  The inn went silent again. Uneasy, Edwin stared at his audience, startled by the impact of his words. Then an ugly murmur began.

  ‘Oswallt?

  ‘He slew Rhys, King Catull’s champion...’

  ‘He harried our lands for two years...’

  ‘Oswallt of Caer Gorllewin? His men burnt my barn last summer...’

  ‘Kill him! String him up!’

  ‘Aye, kill him!’

  ‘Kill him!’

  ‘Kill him!’

  ‘Thank you, Edwin,’ Oswald murmured sardonically. He turned, and dodged out of the door.

  The others burst out after him, with the mob at their heels. Alfrun ran towards the horses to untie them, but Oswald seized her arm.

  ‘No time for that!’ he yelled. In the time that it would take them to untie their horses, the mob would be upon them. ‘Get to the church! Seek sanctuary! We’ll need it.’

  Some of their pursuers had axes, others clutched spears. The innkeeper and another man had swords of English design. As Oswald and his companions fled past the gallows, the thane guessed that the dangling corpses above them had provided these weapons.

  Oswald battered on the church door.

  ‘Will we be safe here?’ Bork rumbled. ‘This doesn’t look like a good position to me.’

  ‘It’s a holy place, a sanctuary,’ explained Edwin. ‘They won’t follow us.’

  The doors swung open abruptly, and they caught a glimpse of a tall, cadaverous priest silhouetted in the gloom of the arch.

  ‘Sanctuary, father!’ Edwin gabbled.

  Oswald glanced over his shoulder to see the mob bearing down on them, some with flaming torches.

  The priest ushered them in. ‘Hurry!’ he told them, in a Welsh accent. ‘They are almost here.’

  The four companions rushed into the church, a small square stone building with an altar at the far end. Two candles burned dimly on its surface, throwing most of the nave into shadow.

  ‘Aros!’ the priest shouted over the rumbling mob outside. Oswald mentally translated it as “Halt!”

  Someone from the crowd spat a stream of abuse at the priest. The four companions exchanged doubtful glances.

  ‘Will they respect this sanctuary, then?’ asked Bork.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Edwin said confidently. ‘The Welsh are a very religious people.’

  The priest was shouting a reply. The mob began to roar ‘Bradwr! Bradwr! Bradwr!’

  ‘What’s that they shout?’ Alfrun asked worriedly.

  Edwin had gone pale. He glanced at Oswald. ‘It means “traitor”,’ he murmured.

  The priest whirled round, and shouted at them. ‘Get those doors closed, Saxon!’ he barked. ‘That lummox there’ - he indicated Bork - ‘you be holding them!’

  Ignoring the insult, Bork rushed over, and slammed the doors in the face of the angry mob. Immediately, someone began to pound on them, followed by many more. The doors shook under their assault.

  ‘Help me with this,’ the priest ordered Oswald, seizing a wooden bar. Together they lowered it into position over the doors. The mob battered against them, their muted shouts still audible.

  The priest dusted his hands, and nodded at the companions.

  ‘They’ll settle down later,’ he said calmly. ‘Until then, they can batter on those doors till kingdom come - they won’t break them down. My parish is all in a pother since one of the Saxon guards insulted a maiden of this town, and everyone resolved to rise up and hang all the invaders. It’s a shame you came here at such a time, since Pengwern is a lovely place in the right season...’

  ‘We’d have been fine if Edwin hadn’t revealed my identity,’ Oswald said angrily.

  ‘Well, what was all that about, then?’ Edwin demanded. ‘I thought we were going to get away scot-free - if that’s the right expression - until I told them your name. I said you weren’t a king’s man, Oswald!’

  ‘Oswallt, is it?’ said the priest, suddenly hostile. ‘Well, I don’t blame them!’ He raised his hand. ‘No, I’ll shelter you here until they stop trying to batter my bloody door down. But only because it’s my Christian duty...’ He glowered at the outlaw.

  Alfrun folded her arms, and studied Oswald.

  ‘I get the distinct feeling that you’re not too popular round here,’ she said. ‘I heard them shouting after us. They don’t like you in this town, Oswald.’

  ‘Of course they don’t,’ the thane snapped. ‘I helped King Offa conquer this region.’

  ‘He slew Rhys, King Catull’s champion,’ said the priest venomously. ‘And after that, we just fell apart. All resistance here in Goddeu crumbled, and now no one fights the Saxon oppressors, except the rebels who hide up round Dinlleu Guricon...’

  Oswald sighed. ‘It was war,’ he said tiredly. ‘It was my duty to my king. I did nothing that your own people would not have done in the same position.’

  The priest made a face. ‘This is true,’ he admitted. He shook his head. ‘And now I’m to give you sanctuary, am I...?’

  He broke off suddenly, and sniffed. Oswald frowned, and copied him.

  ‘I smell smoke,’ he gasped. He looked up, and his eyes widened.

  The roof was burning!

  ‘They’ve fired the church!’ the priest exclaimed. He glared at Oswald. ‘This is your doing!’ he roared. ‘My flock would never have stooped to this if not for you!’

  ‘I think they were in the mood to do anything, the moment we rode into town!’ Alfrun said. ‘You can’t blame Oswald. What he did was his duty to the king.’

  ‘This isn’t helping!’ snapped Oswald. He glanced up again, and was dismayed to see the roof timbers beginning to catch light. ‘That roof will be down on us if we don’t do something!’

  Edwin turned towards the door indecisively, and then back.

  ‘But we can’t get out!’ he said, raising his voice over the growing crackle of flames. ‘They’ll cut us down! Unless -’ He turned to the priest. ‘You! Priest... What’s your name?’

  ‘My name is Cadwallader,’ replied the priest. He glared. ‘You want me to help you escape?’

  ‘Yes!’ Edwin said. ‘Is there any other way out of here?’

  ‘Why should I help the slayer of my own countrymen?’ demanded Cadwallader. ‘The baby-killer, the ravisher of nuns?’

  ‘I have never raped anyone!’ Oswald bellowed. He swung his fist at the priest. Cadwallader’s words had touched a nerve.

  Edwin’s hand flashed out, and he s
eized Oswald’s arm.

  ‘Stop this!’ he yelled, but anything else he had to say was lost in a roar of fire and falling timbers as the roof at the front of the church caved in.

  Sparks and embers exploded across the nave as they scrambled away.

  ‘That’s it!’ Edwin exclaimed. ‘You’ve got to help us!’

  Cadwallader’s eyes were wide.

  ‘Help us!’ urged Oswald. ‘Your own people are trying to burn you alive! We are the only friends you have!’

  Cadwallader nodded slowly. His face was pale.

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ he said. It was a tough decision. ‘We must forget our differences,’ he added. Then he spun round, his robes flowing around him.

  ‘Quick, the altar!’ he shouted. ‘Fling all that rubbish off it and prop it against the wall.’

  Bork started forwards, then halted, glancing at the others. Edwin frowned, eyeing the chalice and candlesticks.

  ‘The things on the altar?’ he asked, amazed. ‘Isn’t that sacrilege?’

  ‘Those trappings are nothing,’ said Cadwallader dismissively.

  ‘They’re gold,’ Bork remarked.

  ‘They are nothing,’ the priest insisted. ‘The Lord God made us in his own image. Our own bodies are worth far more than that chalice!’

  Edwin coughed. The smoke was swirling around them.

  ‘Persuasive argument,’ he wheezed. ‘Bork?’

  ‘I’m already there,’ the Dane said. He flung the chalice and candlesticks to the ground, then seized hold of the altar. He looked askance at the priest.

  ‘That wall,’ Cadwallader commanded, pointing to the left. He broke off to cough. ‘And hurry!’

  With a roar, half of the remaining roof fell in behind them.

  As the smoke billowed around them, Bork hurried to the wall while the others bunched together in the corner. The Dane propped the altar against the wall, then turned to Cadwallader.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Get up there!’ the priest replied, pointing towards the roof. A small hole in the thatch was visible amongst the burning rafters. ‘It’s been leaking for days,’ he added inconsequentially. ‘But I haven’t been able to mend it.’

  ‘Heaven be praised for leaking church roofs,’ Oswald said, helping Alfrun to scramble up the altar. She reached the level of the roof, coughing in the smoke.

  ‘Heave yourself through it, girl!’ called the priest. ‘Quickly!’

  Her legs vanished through the thatch.

  ‘You next,’ Oswald told the priest. ‘Then Edwin, then Bork.’

  ‘I’ll go last,’ the Dane said, as Edwin started helping the priest climb. Oswald shrugged. He wasn’t going to waste time arguing.

  Edwin followed the priest. Oswald turned to Bork. The berserker was wreathed in smoke.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to do anything foolish,’ he said. He heaved himself up the altar.

  The hole in the thatch led out into smoke-clouded air. Beneath him, he could see the muddy graveyard at the side of the church. The roof was blazing mere inches to his left, - and in the market square beyond he could see the dark mass of the mob, shouting and hooting, occasionally flinging more torches at the thatch. They hadn’t seen him. He leapt down.

  Landing in the graveyard with a thump, he paused, and looked around him. There was no sign of the others.

  ‘Quick!’ Alfrun hissed, poking her head round the corner and beckoning. He hurried round there to find his comrades sheltering at the back of the church, where the graveyard sloped down the hillside towards the town wall.

  ‘Where’s that fool Dane?’ Edwin demanded.

  ‘He was behind me,’ Oswald replied.

  There was a thud from around the corner. Oswald glanced round to see Bork rising from a crouch by the church wall, where he had clearly jumped down. Over his shoulders, he had a bundle. Oswald recognised it as the altar cloth.

  ‘This way!’ the thane called.

  ‘Not so loud,’ Edwin hissed, as the Dane saw them and hurried towards them.

  ‘What?’ Oswald demanded.

  But before Edwin could answer, they all heard a shout from the other side of the church.

  ‘They’re escaping through the roof!’

  Oswald glanced round the corner to see three or four men at the far corner staring across the churchyard towards them.

  ‘Clever, Oswald,’ Edwin said. ‘Now they’ve spotted us.’

  ‘We must run!’ cried Cadwallader, evidently not looking forward to such exertion.

  Oswald scowled. He had spent too much time running from angry mobs in the last few months.

  ‘Hurry!’ Alfrun urged.

  They pelted round the far side of the blazing church, the panting priest leading them at a run through the graves and towards the fence, beyond which lay the backyard of an adjacent house. To the right, the townsfolk were surging across the churchyard, their blood-mad forms dark shadows in the flickering firelight.

  The fugitives vaulted the fence, and slithered across the muddy yard beyond. Then they made their way past the backs of the houses that fronted the market square, with their pursuers struggling to keep up. Oswald’s heart was pounding in his breast. He caught a glimpse of the street.

  ‘This way!’ he shouted. ‘To the horses!’

  As the others turned to follow, the mob burst round the far corner, flooding into the fire-lit area behind the houses, baying for the foreigners’ blood. Ignoring them, Oswald led his companions through an alley and out into the street, leaving the mob to slither on through the mud.

  Up ahead, Oswald saw the tavern where their horses till stood at the hitching post, whinnying and turning nervously as the church blazed in the near distance, and the mob roared in the darkness. The fugitives untied the horses, and leapt astride them quickly. Cadwallader stood uncertain in the middle of the street.

  ‘Up here!’ shouted Edwin, as townsmen charged out from behind the houses. He seized the priest, and heaved him up on the back of his steed.

  ‘Ride!’ Oswald yelled, and galloped down the street, most of his companions spurring their horses after him.

  He glanced over his shoulder to see that Bork was sitting in his saddle taunting the mob with contents of his bundle. The light from the blazing church glinted golden from his loot. Then the Dane spurred his horse and followed his companions down the hill.

  ‘What did you take from the church?’ Oswald asked grimly, riding beside Bork. They had been riding for a while, and there was no sign of pursuit yet. But Oswald felt uneasy.

  Bork grinned, looking pleased with himself.

  ‘These!’ he replied, unfolding the altar cloth to reveal the chalice and candlesticks. ‘These, and honour! I’m not running away from peasants without getting something out of it. Besides, no one seemed to want them, so I thought I might as well take them.’

  ‘Oswald!’ Edwin shouted. ‘Behind us!’

  Oswald turned in his saddle. Through the murk, at least a score of Welshmen were riding towards them. Their angry cries floated across the night air.

  ‘Ride!’ Oswald bellowed. The Dane’s pursuit of honour had worsened an already bad situation.

  As they increased their speed across the dark landscape, Edwin and Cadwallader rode closer. The priest leant over to speak to Oswald.

  ‘It’s not like my flock to pursue foes so grimly,’ he shouted over the thunder of hooves. ‘Usually they are glad to rout thieves as far as the parish boundary, then leave it up to the people in the next town to deal with them.’

  ‘We’ve stirred them up,’ Oswald said darkly. ‘And they know Bork looted your church...’

  ‘Looted my church?’ Cadwallader squawked, less sanguine about the altar furnishings than before. He glared at Bork, riding nearby, hair and beard streaming in the night wind. ‘You heathen thief! Why am I riding with any of you?’

  Bork flashed him a grin, and rode on.

  ‘Because otherwise your own people will lynch you,’ Edwin shouted over h
is shoulder. ‘Be quiet! If we can cross Offa’s Dyke, the chances are that they won’t follow us.’

  Oswald thought this more than a little optimistic.

  ‘They’re after the altar pieces!’ he yelled. ‘Maybe if we return them, they’ll let us go.’

  ‘Don’t be naive,’ Edwin replied. ‘They’ll take them, and kill us!’

  ‘What if Bork just throws them away?’ Alfrun asked from her horse, as hedges and woods flashed past them. ‘Won’t that at least slow them down?’

  ‘I’m not leaving my spoils!’ Bork roared. ‘They’re all that I’ve got out of this mess!’

  Oswald shot a glance over his shoulder to see the Welshmen grimly riding onwards, getting closer and closer. Pengwern had vanished over the dark horizon long ago. He turned back. Ahead, the black slopes of the mountains loomed against the glittering stars. They could be no more than a mile from Offa’s Dyke.

  ‘Alfrun’s right!’ he called. ‘Drop the gold! And make sure they see it!’

  Bork rode on in a sullen silence. After a while, however, he held a candlestick out and dropped it in the middle of the field they were crossing. They rode on.

  ‘And the rest!’ yelled Oswald after a while. He twisted back to see the Welshmen riding up to surround the fallen gold. One man leapt down to seize it. The other riders galloped on.

  ‘Very well,’ the Dane sighed.

  He turned in his saddle, pitched the chalice at the oncoming horsemen, and sent the second candlestick after it. As the Welshmen behind them reined their horses and dived to retrieve the raining gold, a dark wall reared up before the fleeing outlaws.

  ‘Offa’s Dyke!’ Edwin cried.

  Beyond the palisade that loomed blackly before them, the deep ditch cut its way through the earth, winding away in either direction.

  As they rode closer, Oswald saw a gate in the wall, and caught a flash of moonlight on armour from the parapet.

  ‘Hold!’ shouted a hoarse voice from above them. ‘Who goes there?’

  ‘Honest subjects of King Offa!’ Edwin cried. ‘And behind us ride Welsh marauders!’

  ‘The beacons haven’t been lit,’ said another warrior. ‘We’ve received no word that the Dyke had been breached. Where are they from?’

  ‘There’s been an uprising in Shrewsbury,’ called Oswald. ‘They hanged the guards and attacked us when we rode in peaceably. Now they’re after us!’

  After a brief pause, they heard the sound of men descending a ladder, followed by the frenzied clang of an alarm gong. Confused shouts burst from a barracks hut dimly visible beside the gate. Soon the space before the wall was swarming with warriors, and two men hurried to set ablaze the beacon on the tower above them.

  ‘Where are these rebels?’ demanded the warrior who seemed to be captain, running up to Oswald’s horse. The firelight danced on his burnished armour.

  ‘Behind us,’ Oswald replied. ‘Approaching. You have just enough time to prepare yourselves.’

  That moment a beacon fire sprang up in the darkness a mile north, followed by another to the south. Soon fires were twinkling all along the dyke.

  ‘Good,’ said the captain grimly. ‘The other garrisons have been alerted. Follow me!’ He led them within the fort.

  The area behind the palisade that the beacon illuminated was walled with turf in a rough square about twenty feet across. The barracks hut lay to one side, and another hut opposite, with the gate between them. The warriors lined the turf wall to the east, with spears at the ready.

  ‘You can stable your horses over there,’ added the captain, indicating the other hut. He went to rally his men, leaving the outlaws in the middle of the square.

  ‘What now?’ Edwin asked. ‘Do you think...?’

  Before he could finish, the night burst into life with shouting and the clash of arms, as Welsh rebels began to pour over the turf walls. The English warriors fought back, and soon a fierce struggle was raging before the outlaws’ eyes.

  ‘I think we can leave them to it,’ Edwin said. ‘They seem to be getting acquainted.’

  Oswald nodded, and they led the horses to the unguarded gateway.

  ‘Bork,’ he said, jumping down from his horse. The Dane followed him, and together they unbarred the gate. It swung open to reveal a wooden bridge that spanned the deep ditch beyond; the dyke that marked the boundary between the kingdom of Offa and the savage, unsettled land of Wales.

  Oswald and Bork remounted. Oswald glanced back to see the English and Welsh still locked in a death-struggle. A pang of guilt shot through him at the sight of motionless corpses scattered across the turf, but he quelled it. He turned his horse towards the gate.

  ‘Ride!’ he cried, not for the first time that night. They thundered across the bridge and rode on into the darkness of the Welsh marches.

  10 THE MISTY MOUNTAINS

  The banquet had reached the third course when Cynethryth saw Grimbert’s ghost.

  She was glad to be back in Tamworth, after months of travelling between the king’s provincial estates. Her husband was leaning across the high table, talking with the chamberlain, and she had been listening in on their conversation beneath the hubbub of the banqueters since first she saw Elmund’s lips form the name Oswald.

  ‘This fails to fit with the reports we received from the Hwicce,’ Offa was saying, as he thoughtfully stroked his long white beard. ‘They said that Oswald and his fellow rogues had escaped into Wessex. I’ve sent a missive to King Bertric requesting him to hunt them down and return them to me, dead or alive.’

  ‘It would seem they have already re-crossed the border,’ Elmund replied. ‘And in no time, they have got as far as my own estates in Cannock Chase.’

  ‘You say your daughter spoke to them?’ asked the king. Cynethryth leaned forward a little. Daughter?

  ‘My younger girl, of course,’ Elmund replied. ‘Though it is curious that Oswald was previously sighted close to Godiva’s monastery.’

  ‘If only we could know what the rogue is planning,’ Offa murmured. ‘And you say he headed in the direction of Wales?’

  Cynethryth stiffened beside him, and the king looked at her, startled.

  ‘My dear,’ he said. ‘Are you unwell?’

  Cynethryth cast a hand to her brow. ‘I’m fine, my lord husband,’ she said shakily, then broke off. Her eyes fixed on the archway on the far side of the hall.

  ‘Are you sure you’re alright, dear?’ the king asked worriedly. ‘You’re very pale. As if you’ve seen a ghost.’

  Cynethryth shook her head weakly, keeping her eyes fixed on the dim figure that stood in the archway, apparently invisible to the two guards. Cold, slanted eyes gazed inscrutably across the bustling hall.

  Cynethryth tore her own eyes away. She glanced at her husband.

  ‘I feel a little faint, lord husband,’ she said thickly. ‘Perhaps if I could have some air...’

  Discreetly, and with a minimum of fuss, the king arranged for a guard to escort the queen to the doors. The assembled nobles rose for her, some looking askance, but they were too well-bred to show any real surprise.

  Cynethryth paused before the arch.

  ‘My lady,’ said the nearest guard. ‘Do you not wish to step outside?’

  ‘What?’ murmured the queen vaguely, her eyes fixed on a spot directly before her. ‘Oh... Yes...’ Her lips moved soundlessly. Then she paused, and gave a nod. She turned to the guard. ‘Yes, my man,’ she said imperiously. ‘You may lead me outside.’

  In the dark courtyard, she moved a little apart from the guard, who stood watching over her. Ignoring him, she turned to the dark figure of Grimbert, who silently followed them outside.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she hissed. ‘Why can only I see you? Are you invisible?’ A thought struck her as Grimbert failed to answer. ‘By the saints, you’re not dead, are you?’

  ‘What is that, my lady?’ the guard called.

  ‘Nothing!’ replied Cynethryth. She turned back to Grimbert. ‘Answer me
, damn you! Are you a ghost?’

  ‘I have not died,’ whispered the eerie figure. ‘My body lies as if asleep in the hall of Caradawg, King of Gwynedd. This is no more than my fetch.’

  Cynethryth sighed with relief. ‘When will the dragon rise?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘On the night of Yule,’ Grimbert replied. ‘But this is not why I sent my spirit out to speak with you. The Pwcca has returned from the expedition to Wessex. With him, he has the sword of Wayland.’

  ‘Then now no one can defeat the dragon!’ Cynethryth exulted.

  ‘That is so,’ replied Grimbert. ‘It is now in the safekeeping of King Caradawg, whose rise to power this summer was aided by myself.’

  ‘What of Cynan and Hywel?’ hissed the queen, referring to the two brothers who had shared the throne of Gwynedd.

  ‘They were not amenable to my suggestions,’ replied Grimbert’s spectre. ‘I was forced to engineer their downfall. Now they hide up in the hills, while Caradawg controls all the halls of the Welsh King. But none of this is why I cam to speak to you.’

  ‘Why, then?’ Cynethryth demanded, glancing briefly at the patient guard. ‘Get to the point, damn you.’

  ‘The goblin king tells me that his mission to Wayland’s Smithy did not go entirely to plan,’ Grimbert murmured.

  ‘They got the sword, surely?’

  ‘Yes, they did. But they were forced to fight for it.’

  ‘What?’ Cynethryth said incredulously. ‘With a crippled elf?’

  ‘Thane Oswald and his companions appeared out of the darkness,’ said the spectre.

  Cynethryth’s heart missed a beat. ‘Of course,’ she murmured. ‘They were last seen in the Cotswolds. But no - now they have been spotted in Cannock Chase.’

  ‘The goblins fought them, and managed to take the sword regardless,’ said Grimbert. ‘But if what you say is true, then Oswald is heading towards King Caradawg’s realm.’

  Cynethryth was silent.

  ‘It is worrying,’ she admitted after a pause. ‘But Oswald lacks the sword. Why should we fret? What can he do against the Red Dragon? He is powerless.’ She glanced at the guard again. ‘Now go, before you make these fools suspicious.’

  Grimbert’s apparition drifted slowly into the darkness. Cynethryth took a deep breath and turned towards the guard, catching him giving her a pitying look.

  ‘What are you smirking for?’ she demanded, then cut through his protests with: ‘Take me back inside! Don’t look so worried! You have nothing to concern you.’

  That lie spoken, she swept back into her husband’s palace.