The Amber Treasure

by Richard Denning

  Part of me could understand how appealing that must have been. To have left behind the past, full of anger and rejection and taken on a new life would have seemed intoxicating. Yet, almost two thousand people had died these last few weeks. How much of that blood was on Hussa’s hands, I wondered.

  “Very well, I judge that you are guilty of treason and will be executed by hanging. Your body is to be left to rot in the open, as a warning to others.”

  As Aelle declared his fate, Hussa visibly paled, but still he glowered defiantly back at the King.

  In the hall, there was now utter silence. Then, next to me, my father stirred. He glanced at me then he moved forward to stand beside Hussa. I stared at him, wondering what he was doing.

  “Sire, I wish to claim the right to pay weregild for this man, in lieu of his punishment.”

  The lords in the hall gawped at my father they, like me, shocked by this unexpected statement. From the expression on his face, Hussa was as stunned as the rest of us and just stared in confusion at his father: the father who had never acknowledged him, who had repeatedly rejected him and who thought him a traitor and yet now stood by him − a condemned man, guilty of treachery.

  What did my father hope to achieve by this?

  Sabert coughed, breaking the silence. “Cenred, why do you do this, what is this man to you?”

  Father did not hesitate to answer. Until now, only a few men knew − or had realised − that Hussa was his son. Of the Lords of Deira, only Wallace had been aware. Now, he chose to confess to them the truth.

  “Hussa is my son,” he said simply.

  Sabert’s eyebrows went up in complete surprise. Harald’s expression was that of a man who had just heard the answer to a riddle and now realised that he really knew it all along. Aelle, on the other hand showed no reaction. Had he known it after all, or was he just very good at hiding his reactions? My father looked at the King and spoke again.

  “His mother and I ... had a brief relationship one summer seventeen years ago. She was beautiful and I was weak. It was ... intense, for as long as it lasted. But then I realised it could not go on. In the end, I was forced to choose between my wife and the family I had made with her and Hussa. I realise now that this was the wrong choice and I was weak: I should not have been made to choose between them. I should have recognised Hussa years ago. Then things would have been different ...” He paused and I knew he was thinking of my mother, who had insisted he make that difficult choice.

  Aelle sighed.

  “A man makes his own choices, Lord Cenred. Hussa made his and nothing that you say excuses what he has done.”

  “Perhaps that is so, Sire. But, he is still my son.”

  Aelle nodded.

  “Weregild though ... it’s for murder, theft and so on. The law and our customs do not allow it for treason.”

  Weregild was blood money. If a man killed or harmed another or caused damage to property, he could prevent punishment by compensating the victim. Our kings defined, in various codes of law, how much it all cost and the lords then enforced it. But, as Aelle said, treason was never included in these lists.

  “The King decrees the law, Sire. You can decide if it may be included and if so, how much.”

  Sabert spoke again.

  “Cenred, even if the King chose to allow this, how can you value the safety of a kingdom, how do you define its worth?”

  Aelle nodded.

  “Lord Sabert speaks truthfully, Lord Cenred. To dissuade offenders, the fine must match the crime. It would be a fine of the order of thousands of shillings.”

  “But, you will allow that the kingdom needs such money, at a time like this: to repair the damage of the war and to rearm and equip the Fyrd,” my father suggested and Aelle nodded.

  “There is no denying that.”

  “Then, for treachery to a kingdom, I offer as weregild a kingdom’s treasure.”

  With a flourish, he pulled out my mother’s jewellery.

  Aelle looked at it and pursed his lips, staring at the amber treasure for a long time before speaking.

  “I once gave that to your brother as reward for saving the kingdom,” he said at last.

  “Then let me give it back in payment for his nephew’s wrong doing,” my father answered.

  Aelle was silent again, but this time his eyes were not focused upon the jewellery, but somewhere else and just as on the day of the great council in his own hall, weeks before, he seemed to be thinking back over the years to another war: another battle. Finally, he nodded.

  “So be it, but I will not permit a traitor to remain in my kingdom. Hussa, I commute your sentence to exile from Deira during my lifetime. My heirs will decide if that sentence prevails after my death. You will leave Deira within two days. If after that time you are found within its bounds, you will be declared an outlaw and any man can kill you, lawfully.”

  Hussa was shaking now and seemed to be in a mix of conflicting emotions. He was staring at Father as if he did not know what to make of him.

  “You may escort your son to the border,” Aelle said softly, “this council session is ended.”

  I went to join my father, but he shook his head and then held up his hand, bringing me to a halt.

  “Wait here for me,” he said and then turned away, glanced at Hussa and pointed at the door.

  Hussa shuffled that way, escorted by two warriors and followed by my father. At the door my brother turned and looked at me for a moment and then nodded briefly, just the once. What did that look mean? Was it an apology, or was it a threat that the next time we met, I would not be so fortunate.

  Then, he was gone and I was left staring at the door, not sure if what had happened was right or wrong. Right for Father, perhaps, but maybe wrong for everyone else. Aelle passed me and glanced at my face.

  “Don’t blame yourself, Lord Cerdic − for Hussa, I mean. A man makes his own choices and he made his,” he said. “You and your father have served me well and I am sure you have many future battles to prove your worth,” he foretold.

  So there it was, a prediction about my future: Cerdic as a warrior lord. There was a time when Lilla’s poems had set my soul aflame, when all I dreamed of were the glories of battle and of winning a name and land, of slaying the kingdom’s enemy and becoming a hero of the sagas. As I thought back upon them, I realised they were not visions I wanted anymore. No, the events of the last few weeks had changed all that.

  If I was honest, I had been terrified when we got into battle. A lot of young men from both sides had died on Catraeth field. Only a few days before, they had been alive and probably full of the same dreams I had. Like them, my dreams had died and I had simpler ones now. Now it seemed that a hero’s heart did not beat within my chest and I realised that all I really wanted was to return home and settle down to domestic life. Whatever Aelle said, I believed my fighting days were over. It was time to go home to the Villa, to my family and, I thought tentatively, to Aidith.

  Father and Hussa had departed Eoforwic within minutes of leaving the council. They had ridden north, out of the city and up Dere Street. Father was gone for a couple of days and when he did return, all he would say is that he had seen my brother to the border at Catraeth, where Hussa crossed the bridge. Of what they spoke on the way, or how they had parted, he never said a word.

  When he did return, he clapped me on the shoulder and I could see the tension finally draining from him.

  “Now it is, at last, over!” he said with smile, “let’s go home.”

  Yes, it was over and the next day we left Eoforwic. Firstly we went as far as Wicstun, with the rest of the company. Now the cost of the war came home and showed itself in the anguished sobs of mothers who had lost sons, wives who had lost husbands. In all, of the eighty-five who had belonged to the Wicstun Company, sixty still lived, though many were badly wounded. Twenty-five, including Wallace, were dead and those losses hurt the small town and all the villages around it. Numbed by the deaths and exhausted by th
e weeks of raids and war, there was relief rather than joy over the victory. So it was, with polite acceptance rather than celebration, that the townsfolk welcomed Father as the new Lord of Wicstun. I think we were all glad that there was no suggestion of feasts or days of ceremony. We stayed just the one night in Wictsun, then father summoned the villagers, Mildrith and me for the final journey home.

  As Father led us down the road from Wicstun, we came over the last rise and could see the Villa and the village. He stopped a moment and then laughed out loud and I realised that it was the first time I had heard him laugh since my brother Cuthwine had died. We all halted and looked at the sight that greeted us and I felt my heart suddenly fill with joy. For there, ahead of us, was the little world I was born into. Those fields, woods and cluster of buildings were so familiar to me that they were like parts of my body. Now, after all the blood and horror there it was, at last: home − we were home.

  Father had sent ahead word of our coming, so Mother had learnt of our return a day before and the villagers had hurled themselves into frantic preparation. The last of the spring blossoms were all used up in great garlands decorating the barn. A bonfire roared on the ground outside it and strips of bright cloth streamed from all the huts.

  We rushed down the path towards the barn but, when we arrived, we were surprised to see no one. In fact, the entire settlement seemed deserted. Then, I heard a giggle from one of the village children hiding in the barn and a moment later the doors were flung open and all the village women and children burst out, laughing and smiling.

  Sunniva almost knocked me over as she hugged me, then she rushed on to embrace Mildrith. Mother was just behind her, laughing and crying at the same time. Mildrith came back and moving past me, she surprised Cuthbert with a kiss on his cheek. My friend went red with embarrassment. He glanced to see if this had been noticed and saw Eduard and me watching him intently, grinning like idiots, as well as Aedann whose face was wrinkled into a puzzled frown. Then, I felt someone kiss my own cheek and I turned to see Aidith standing there, her hair braided with ribbons and wearing a dazzling yellow gown and looking simply stunning.

  “Welcome home, Cerdic,” she whispered. I could find nothing to say and just stood there nodding stupidly.

  Suddenly, in the barn, music could be heard: a jaunty little tune played on a lyre. We all went in and found that it was Lilla playing. The smile on my father’s face at that moment was priceless.

  “I thought you said you had to play at a feast in your favourite hall,” Father said to him.

  “Yes well, I do get so very bored at councils. Besides which, Hrodwyn sent a message to me, asking that I be here when you arrived ... and I decided to come early and practice ... this is, after all, my favourite hall,” Lilla said, gesturing with his hand at the barn.

  My father beamed and reached across and pulled my mother to his side. Then, laughing, he waved us all into the barn for the feast.

  To all men, just like nations, there are golden times. Moments that for all their lives they will think back to as an ideal. To some it will be their earliest memory, to others it is times of their glories and triumphs and others still, their first love. For me, looking back through the haze of the long years through times of sorrow and hardship, it was nights such as these, filled with joy and music and surrounded by friends and family whom I loved, that are my golden times.

  Of course, I may be a little biased, for on the night of the great feast, Aidith found me after we had all drunk far too much mead and ale. She had listened with a mixture of horror and pride at Lilla’s tales of my battles and even though I denied most of what he said, it was clear to her that I could so easily have died and that I might have been one of those poor souls who now lay beneath the soil of Catraeth field. That night, she took me to a dark corner of the hayloft behind the great barn, from where laughter and music could be still heard coming through the night air. Then, having both learnt just how fragile life was, feeling a desperate need to simply enjoy the moment and with any inhibitions relieved by the mead, she pulled me down on to her - and it has to be said that I offered no resistance.

  A few weeks before, the last spring of our childhood had ended with a night of horror and blood that made the children we were into man and woman. This summer night ended in warmth and pleasure and we celebrated the fact that we were still alive and young by giving ourselves to each other.

  All my life, I had wanted to become a warrior, inspired as I had been by the poems of Lilla and the stories about my uncle. Yet, my dreams of glory had turned into the blood and ashes of a battlefield. I realised that I did not find joy in the fighting or the victory: rather, it had all seemed horrific beyond words. I still honoured my uncle, but I had been glad to get home and I now assumed that I was destined to be a farmer. I believed that I could live out my life in obscurity, farming the land and filling my free hours with Aidith’s company.

  This though is where this story started. I said then and I feel it now, that looking back from old age, when the faith of Christ has replaced the old religions of my fathers, I can recall many times when my friends and I appeared to be at the whim of powers beyond our understanding. Today, we talk of the will of God. In those far off days it was the machinations of the gods or a man’s ‘wyrd’ or fate that affected his destiny. A man prayed to the gods, put his trust in fate and life would go well: unless of course he was fey − unless he had been chosen or doomed to follow some other path.

  I still am not entirely sure I agree with all that. It implies that nothing we do has any effect, that in the end we are all merely pieces on the game board of the gods; just pawns pushed around by Loki. I will accept that most folk just live and die with little impact on and little affected by the world about them; but some of us, at least, are more than that. We become part of the world, help to shape it and mould it. You can tell we lived, because the world changed whilst we were alive.

  Whatever the truth: the will of man, the plans of the gods or the chances of fate, I was a fool to believe that the world had finished with me just yet. No, Loki had not cleared away my piece from his board.

  Not me, nor my friends Cuthbert, Aedann and Eduard. Not the bard Lilla or the teacher Grettir. All were still in play, as was Aethelfrith and Aelle.

  Then, Loki laughed ... and put one more piece back on the board.

  His name was Hussa ... and he was still in the game.

  The End

  Historical Note

  The period of history following the departure of Roman troops from Britain in about the year 416 and lasting until the reign of Alfred the Great almost five hundred years later, represent the most poorly documented in the history of Britain. Enormous changes overtook the Island. Large parts of the country passed from the domination of one race to a completely different one. Place names, history, culture and language were swept away. Invasions, battles and wanton destruction raged across the land as never before, or since.

  In this time, there would have been heroes and villains. Legends would have arisen. Folk would have spoken with familiarity of battles and warlords, as we today talk of celebrities and sports teams. Amongst all this, normal people lived normal lives. People were born and died. They lived and loved, as we do today.

  And yet, we know almost nothing of this time. Most records that do exist date from a period decades or even centuries after the events they record. The greatest record of the age, The Anglo Saxon Chronicle, was probably started by Alfred the Great. Some of the events mentioned in it occurred five centuries earlier. That is like a modern man writing an account of the Battle of Bosworth or the Spanish Armada. Clearly, the monks who wrote the Chronicle referred back to earlier manuscripts that do not now exist, but we have no idea how authentic they were.

  In short, researching this book has led me to conclude that no one can write a fiction on this period without a great deal of guesswork and improvisation. Deira, Bernicia, Pennine, Rheged, Elmet and the other realms mentioned did exist and d
id interact, by and large, as I have written. Aelle was king of Deira. Aethelfrith was certainly a powerful and ambitious king of Bernicia, as was Owain of Rheged. If I have made any of them harsh and merciless, this is probably fitting for the times.

  I have simplified the succession of Bernicia. Dependant on which source you read, three of Aethelfrith's older brothers or uncles were kings before he suceeded or possibly he succeeded directly from Aethelric. Maybe Aethelric was "Firebrand" who fought on Lindisfarne, or maybe it was his son or brother. I took the view that if I was confused, so would a reader be. In any event, I wanted to use one of the names for a major character: Hussa.

  Looking at Catraeth there seems no doubt that a battle of some sort did occur around the year 597 or maybe a little earlier. Surviving records imply that it was a counter attack by the British against land newly conquered by the Saxons. It seems certain, that Aethelfrith and his Bernician army was involved, although Deira’s part in the battle is less well recorded. As for the battle itself, the only event that is documented is the charge of the Goddodin Cavalry. This does appear in the poems of Aneirin but I have to confess that I have paraphrased the bard's words a little. The rest of the battle is purely guesswork. Stanwick Camp does still exist and it is possible to walk along the earthworks and to get a feel for the size of the structure.

  The existence of the England we know today is strongly and rightly linked to the victories of Alfred the Great and his Kingdom of Wessex over the Vikings in the ninth century. Yet, three hundred years before Alfred’s time, it was the creation of the powerful kingdom of Northumbria and its emergence as the dominant power in Britain for about a century, where we can see the roots of that England.

  This was the Kingdom of Bede, the great chronicler of the late 7th. and early 8th. centuries and author of Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum: ‘The Ecclesiastical History of the English People’. It is also the land of the great kings, Edwin and Oswald, as well as the location of the Council of Whitby that established the form that the Christian Church in England would take: a form that lasted − more or less unchanged − until Henry VIII broke away from Rome some 900 years later.

  One day, the Vikings would sweep it all away, but by then the mark left on the history of England by the golden age of Northumbria, could not be erased. The journey to that golden age started at Catraeth, but there are many dangers, many battles and times of terrible peril before that era arrives.

  It will take heroes like Cerdic and his friends to make sure it all happens.

  Further Reading

  Kings and Kingdoms of Early Anglo Saxon England: Barbara Yorke/ Routledge

  Anglo-Saxon Food: Ann Hagen/ Anglo Saxon Books

  Childhood in Anglo-Saxon England: Sally Crawford/Sutton Publishing

  The English Warrior: Stephen Pollington/ Anglo-Saxon Books

  Anglo-Saxon Weapons and Warfare: Richard Underwood/Tempus

  Warriors of the Dark Ages: Jennifer Laing/Sutton Publishing

  An English Empire: N.J. Higham/ Manchester University Press

  The Age of Arthur: John Morris/ Phoenix

  The Anglo Saxon Chronicle: Various publishers

  Places to Visit

  Sutton Hoo, Woodbridge, Suffolk. This is an ancient Saxon Burial Site.

  West Stow, Bury St Edmunds. Recreated Saxon Village

  I would recommend attending events where Regia Anglorum appear. (www.regia.org)

  Regia Anglorum strives to re-create an accurate live image of the life and times of the folk who dwelt in and around the Islands of Britain during the Viking centuries - mostly from Alfred the Great to the reign of Richard the Lionheart. They perform re-enactments throughout the UK . More info on their website.

  The Northern Crown Series Book Two

  Child of Loki

  A divided land ... a divided family.

  The Battle of Catraeth has been won and Cerdic's homeland is safe ... but for how long? The Northern British were crushed but yet more enemies have risen to replace them.

  Soon Cerdic and his friends must go to war again - against the Scots and Picts north of Hadrian's wall. He goes to help his country’s allies - the Bernicians - under their great warlord, Aethelfrith.

  But what is Aethelfrith's true design? How ambitious is he and how far will he go to fulfil his dreams? And what is Cerdic's treacherous half brother, Hussa up to in these fierce wild lands?

  All Cerdic wants is to be left to live out his life in peace.

  But Loki, it seems, has other ideas.

  Read on for a sneak peek at Child of Loki

  Loidis

  Loidis was in flames. It was the price Elmet must pay for choosing the losing side. I, Cerdic, once heard Abbess Hild talk of forgiving one’s enemies: she said that a man should pray for those who curse you and bless those who mistreat you. These were Christ's words and we should heed them, she implored us. For, they were words of love and words of peace.

  But this day was not a day for peace or love. This was a day for vengeance and blood. Elmet chose to back Owain and his great alliance of the Northern British tribes. Together they attacked my land and my people - the Angles. They raided Deira, killed my brother and kidnapped my sister. Then they took their army and joined Owain at a place called Catraeth. There they hoped to destroy my land and my race for ever.

  But it was we who prevailed. We Deiran farmers and townsfolk from the Wolds and Moors and the lands along the River Humber held on against the odds until our brothers - the Angles of Bernicia - had marched from the North and fallen upon the enemy.

  There, at the great Battle of Catraeth, we destroyed them. The tribes from Rheged, Strathclyde and Manau Goddodin had been crushed. So now we returned to our neighbour - to Elmet to make them pay for the hurt they had done us.

  That at least was what Aelle - our king - had ordered. He wanted recompense from Elmet's King Ceredig, and punitive steps taken to ensure he could not easily attack us again. For my part I had seen enough blood and death at Catraeth to last a lifetime. I would have been content to stay at home with my family and Aidith, my woman. But Aelle was our King, and my father, Cynric, was Earl of the Southern Marches. Our family’s lands around the village of Cerdham lay in his domain so when he called out the Wicstun Company that spring, a few months after Catraeth, he expected me, the Lord of the Villa to obey the summons.

  So we went - ten men and boys from the village - led by myself. Amongst them were my three friends: Eduard - tall and broad-shouldered, a fierce warrior, utterly loyal and a true friend; Cuthbert, my other boyhood companion - short and delicate, yet agile and as much a master with the bow as Eduard was with his axe; and Aedann, the dark-haired, green-eyed Welshman, who had once been my slave and was now a freedman sworn to my service. With us went the rugged old veteran Grettir - our teacher once upon a time and still full of the wisdom of a man who has seen many battles.

  We left the village of Cerdham with its hovels and huts and left too the Villa - the decaying old Roman house that my grandfather had captured and made into our family’s home. Off we went with the rest of Aelle's army - six companies from the South of Deira - and invaded Elmet. We marched hard and fast, striking deep into the Welsh land and, before he knew we were coming, their King, Ceredig, was staring down at us in horror from the wooden palisade around his city of Loidis.

  Aelle's orders had been strict and Earl Harald commanding us followed them to the letter. There was no offer of peace from Harald, no olive branch held out and no chance of reprieve. Not yet. Not until we had smashed our way through the city gates and burnt the houses that lined the main street.

  I am an old man now and I have been in many battles and many fights, but despite all the sights I have seen, I will never get used to the screams and cries for mercy from the innocent. The gods blow their trumpets and the Valkyries ride forth to choose who is to be slain and lead them to Valhalla, and men cheer and do battle for the sake of glory or wealth or honour. Yet it is the children and the women who suffe
r while we men wallow in blood.

  So it was that day. Vengeance might sound a fine thing to demand when you stand over the grave of your brother and smell the smoke of your own home burning. But see how you feel when it is someone else's brother, son or daughter who lies at your feet, their home burning whilst you stand nearby, holding the torches that kindled the flames.

  Yet it had to be done, did it not? They must be made to regret their attack and be prevented from doing it again. It was us or them; and frankly, when you have seen hundreds die you can harden your heart to the cries of the innocent. Or at least you can try to....

  A little later, Eduard, Cuthbert, Aedann and I stood with our men amongst the Wicstun Company in a square at the heart of the city. Smoke from the smouldering hovels and the stench of burning flesh wafted across to us, but I tried to ignore it. In front of us was a long hall: Ceredig's royal palace. Lined up between us and it were two hundred Elmetae warriors, shields held high and spear points sharp and glowing red in the firelight. They were the King's last defence and we and two other companies were forming up in a shield wall to attack them. The rest of the army was elsewhere, ransacking the city and putting it to the torch.

  "This is it, lads. One last attack and the campaign is over," Harald shouted. "One last attack and then we can all return home and forget about war."

  "If you believe that you will believe anything," I heard Eduard mutter, but loud enough that many of us heard it and chortled wryly. Yet, we all hoped it was true. It was what gave us the strength to carry on. Maybe Harald was right. After all, the armies of Owain and his allies were scattered or dead. With Elmet suppressed too, who else was there to threaten us? I gripped my shield tighter, checked the balance of the spear in my right hand and waited for the order to advance.

  Harald blew one sonorous blast on his horn and we were off. Behind us my father and his huscarls followed and over our heads our company’s standard flapped in the gentle spring breeze - the running wolf visible through the drifting smoke.

  A few arrows flew back and forth above us - but not many for apart from Cuthbert we had brought few archers along with us and the Welsh had only a handful themselves. Nevertheless, one arrow found its mark somewhere amongst the company for I heard a curse over to my right. Glancing that way I saw a man from Wicstun tumble out of the shield wall, blood streaming down his chest and an arrow shaft protruding from just above his collar bone. He slumped onto the ground and sat there, face screwed up in agony, each breath laboured and painful. Then he was forgotten as the army moved forward.

  We were thirty paces from the enemy, who now locked their shields together, each one overlapping the next. Then they brought their spears down so they pointed towards us and with a clattering of ash staves on oak boards, we copied their move.

  Twenty paces away now and my gaze fell upon one Elmetae spearman directly in front of me. In truth he was barely a man and from the faintest wisp of a beard on his chin and the gangly thin arms and legs I surmised that he could not have been above fourteen years old. His dark green eyes looked haunted and his gaze darted this way and that. I had seen that look before at Catraeth on a hundred faces and knew without a doubt that today he was in his first battle. Next to him and older was a gruff veteran with scars down his cheeks and bulging upper arms. His eyes showed none of the fear in the young man's eyes. Instead hatred and bloodlust lingered there.

  Ten paces away and the spears of both armies interlaced each other like the fingers of a man bringing his hands together. Then the shields crashed together. The shock of the collision sent a judder up my left arm and it was all I could do to keep hold of my shield. Unbalanced, I stepped back just as a spear point lunged at me, missing my throat by only an inch. Recovering my feet, I thrust back, realising as I did so that my spear was aimed at the young boy's neck. Maybe I hesitated for just a second, for it never reached him: the grizzled old veteran at his side hacked down at my ash stave with his sword, snapping it in two and leaving me with a useless stump. He then brought the sword round aiming to take out my throat with the fearsome edge. I was saved by Aedann who, standing on my left, took a step forward and drove his spear into the veteran's left shoulder. The enemy gave a roar of pain and recoiled. The youth, meantime, drew back his own spear preparing to thrust it forward again. In his eagerness and his panic he fumbled, dropped it and then bent to recover it.

  Panting hard, I took advantage of the reprieve and reached down to my baldric, grasping the hilt of my short stabbing sword. I had taken this blade from my first foe, whom I had slain during the raid on the Villa. It had served me well: it was with this sword that I had killed Owain, the golden king of Rheged and it was in honour of that battle that it earned its name: ‘Catraeth’.

  I dragged Catraeth up above my shield just as the youth advanced again, screaming as he thrust his spear at me. I leant to one side, letting the spear point go past and then following up, hacked over the top of the shield and felt the edge cut through tendon and bone deep into the boy's arm. He let out a howl of agony and fell to the ground, shield and spear abandoned as his hands reached up to stem the flow of blood from the wound.

  To his right the veteran roared in anger and then hurtled forward, his own wound forgotten, slamming his shield against Aedann's own, knocking my Welsh companion back through the rear ranks. Without pausing, the enemy stepped over to me and kicked hard against my shins. With a shout of pain I too tumbled to the ground.

  Above me the light was blocked by the huge figure of the grizzled veteran standing astride me, his face a mask of rage, his shoulder pouring blood that dripped down onto my upturned face. Yet there was something in his features that reminded me of the young man I had just cut down. It was then I realized that the youth must be his son. Thirsty for revenge and consumed by anger, the old man swung back his sword and prepared to finish me.

  "One last attack and then we can all return home," those had been the words of Earl Harald just minutes before. They resounded in my head; hollow now. But then again, maybe he was right. But if so I would not be returning home to live in peace.

  No, instead I would be going home to be buried ...