The Last King

by M J Porter

  I’m not disappointed as I trudge into the campsite that’s become our own now that the dead bodies have been buried, and find Ealdorman Ælhun. He turns to greet me, and then a smile touches his cheeks.

  “I always thought you had to take your clothes off to have a wash,” he offers, and I wave my hand as though to disrupt his thoughts.

  “Bloody horse,” I complain, as I slap Haden’s rump and he meanders away to join the rest of the herd. It’s quite large by now, but I’m aware that the horses my men and I ride, are not too keen on all the new arrivals.

  “More enemy?” Ealdorman Ælhun states, a grimace on his face.

  “They seem to be everywhere,” I confirm. “I’m hoping I can make the rest of the journey without being interrupted, but it remains to be seen.”

  “I’ve brought my warriors, and sent word that the rest should join us as soon as they can. I told them to follow the Foss Way and then take Watling Street west, if they don’t find us first.”

  “My thanks,” I incline my head.

  “What will you do with your injured? They can’t ride.”

  “I know. I’ve a mind to leave them here, and collect them on my return. Lyfing can’t ride, not without the risk of opening his wound again.”

  “I’m sure the forest dwellers will care for them. The lad is already doing a good job.”

  This stirs my interest. “You know of them then?”

  “Some of them. They keep to themselves most of the time. Sometimes they might make an appearance on a market day, but not often. They mean no harm, and so I’m content to allow them their obscurity.”

  We’ve settled close to the fire, and I can feel the heat starting to dry my clothes out. Perhaps I won’t have to change after all.

  “Is there any news from Repton?”

  “Nothing.”

  I fall silent, my thoughts busy.

  Perhaps, I consider, I shouldn’t have sent Icel and Goda to Repton. Maybe they don’t know I’m coming. But then I think of Jarl Sigurd. Maybe they do.

  “We’ll rest here overnight, and then tomorrow, I plan on scouting Watling Street toward Tamworth. I’m curious as to whether or not there are Raiders patrolling there. I can’t quite work out how they made their way to Gloucester.”

  Ealdorman Ælhun nods, as though in agreement, but he’s here as my sworn man. While I’ll listen to his arguments, the ultimate decision must be mine to make, or no one will have ultimate control of the men that Mercia sends to counter the Raiders.

  “Your man told me about Ealdorman Wulfstan. It doesn’t surprise me, although perhaps I’m being harsh. After all, Torksey was overrun last year. It makes sense that he might have divided loyalties.”

  “Perhaps,” is all I’m prepared to concede. Would I, in the same situation, act as he did? I bloody hope not. I hope I’d be fucking dead.

  Our conversation falls away then, my thoughts on what must be accomplished. For the first time, and despite my dismissive attitude to Edmund’s questions, I consider the impossibility of what I’m trying to do. Not that I’m not going to do it. Far from that. But there is a distinct chance that when we make it to Repton, we will be overwhelmed.

  How, I consider, can I stop that from happening?

  I’ve been to Repton on numerous occasions. It’s the ancient capital of Mercia. It housed the bones of many long dead kings and queens. I’m not convinced it still will.

  I’ve never seen it like this.

  The pale of grey in the distance that I interpreted as a rain cloud, is nothing of the sort, but rather the smoke from hundreds of cook fires.

  The leaders of the Raiders sent three hundred warriors to track me down.

  Those three hundred are dead, a few more as well.

  I doubt they’ll be missed, not with the horde that remains in Repton. I can see why they were content to squander so many on their fruitless task.

  Even from this distance, I think I can hear them.

  It feels as though I should be able to hear them.

  “Fuck me,” Edmund’s appreciative comment speaks for my men and I. I turn in the saddle, taking solace from the numbers who ride behind me. I might not have the same numbers as the enemy but I do have the reputation. That’s what truly matters.

  And a reputation that stems from having fought and killed many, many men, and never suffered a single injury in return.

  “Look at them. Like a stain on the river.” I follow where Edmund points. I’ve been assuming that the Raiders rode to Repton. It seems I might have been wrong. Or, if not, then they’ve received no end of reinforcements who have arrived by ship.

  The sails are a stunning array of colours. I can’t see the designs in detail from here, but I can easily see that every shade is represented.

  “How many of them did you say there were?” Edmund directs his comment at Icel.

  “I said there were at least two thousand of them,” Icel’s tone is ripe with annoyance. We’ve been arguing about the number, even though I fully expected to meet two thousand seven hundred based on my calculations.

  “How many do we have?” Edmund joins me in looking over his shoulder at the mass of men and boys behind us, out of sight of Repton.

  “Four hundred and ninety three.”

  “Four to one then, easy enough.”

  Edmund, always slow to want to start a fight, seems keen for once. I note that but don’t make reference to it, instead trying not to smirk at his instant dismissal of such huge numbers.

  “If we fight,” I lace my words with calmness.

  I’ve got my band of warriors, and also many warriors pledged to me from the lords of western Mercia who’ve elected me as their king, in my absence, and having turned me down first, now that King Burgred has buggered off.

  Ideally, I want a pitched battle against the Raiders, but Icel, having returned to me from Repton, has already warned me it might not be possible.

  I don’t want to make a treaty with them. But neither do I want to lose a single warrior on the edge of one of their blades. We have few enough as it is, and this is our fucking kingdom.

  “The fortification uses the church,” Icel repeats the information he’s already shared with me when he came upon my enlarged force not far from Tamworth. This time satisfaction fills his voice at finally being able to prove that he speaks the truth. I’ve doubted him. I won’t deny it.

  “And the river as well. They’re dug in like rats.” Without seeing it for myself, I’ve not been able to visualise what Icel meant when he returned from scouting Repton. Suddenly, it makes far more sense.

  “The church is at the front, there’s an earthen wall to either side, with a ditch, and it goes all the way to the river, at the back. The river’s rather full.” Icel makes the last statement slowly, rolling the words around his mouth, as though we’re unlikely to understand the importance of the statement.

  “So you’re saying we can’t take the horses across the river then from the west?”

  “Even if you could, there’s nowhere for them to land inside the structure. The riverbank side is just as well guarded, only without the ditch and earthen bank. They don’t need one there. Clever bastards.” The respect in Icel’s voice doesn’t surprise me. Not now I can see what they’ve done for myself.

  “But they’re still stuck in there,” Edmund’s voice is equally valid, as he points out that while they might have built a fortification, to use it, they need to allow thousands of men inside. I don’t see how it can be possible. Some will have to be sacrificed by their leaders, and that never goes down well with men who are still expected to risk their lives.

  “They ride out, under heavy guard, to hunt and menace the poor fuckers who are still alive in Repton and the surrounding area.”

  Icel speaks of the monks. There were nuns as well. There aren’t anymore. Evil bastards, to do that to women who’ve dedicated their lives to God. Even Edmund has been filled with condemnation, and he’s not always good at determining when a refusal is a r
efusal. They’re so rare for him that it comes as a shock. Luckily, Hereman and I have always been there to hold him back.

  “But what do they mean to do now?” This has been my main demand from everyone. The Raiders sent three hundred warriors to kill me, but other than that, and the attack on Repton itself, they’ve not moved from their temporary fort.

  “Daft sods probably didn’t expect King Burgred to agree to their demands in the first place.”

  “Then why make him leave? It’s not as though they’ve not reached agreements in the past.”

  “They just mean to wait there, long enough that you get fucked off and attack them.” Edmund’s comment is delivered flat, and I swivel my head to meet his gaze.

  “You could have just told me to shut the fuck up?” I complain, not prepared to say anything more. I could argue with him. I could shout at him. I could tell him he’s a damn waste of space. It won’t enable him to answer my question.

  “Could we attack them?” I direct the question at Icel. He shrugs his shoulders.

  “Of course we could, but I doubt we’d live to see the next day.”

  “So we can’t then,” I retort. He shakes his head, a tight smile pulling at his lips.

  “Why should we attack them when they’re not doing anything?” I grunt. Icel makes a good point.

  “The only people that I’ve seen leave the fort are those I mentioned. Other than that, the last people to ride out seem to be those who were sent to capture you. They’re waiting for you before they do anything.”

  I sigh heavily, running my gloved hand through my hair, and then patting Haden’s shoulder, more to comfort me, than him.

  I still don’t know what to do.

  They came for me, prepared to take me alive, only for it to become a killing spree, on my part, not theirs. Why do they want me?

  “King Burgred has given your name as their greatest threat.” I can’t deny that logic. And neither can I argue that I’m unimportant. I need only turn and see the warriors who ride with me now. They all owe pledges to their lords, and those lords have pledged themselves to me. That pledge is for me to rule over them, as their king. It’s not even dependent on me beating back the Raiders. Bishop Wærferth wanted all contingencies covered.

  Admittedly it’ll help if I do. But it’s not imperative.

  They’ll follow my lead. If I decide to attack the Raiders, their warriors will support me.

  In all honesty, I know I’ll struggle more if I don’t attack them.

  “And this Lord Anwend wasn’t too keen on receiving his son and then retreating?”

  “No,” there’s a whole word behind that one word, but I’m not going to ask. Icel is back with me. That’s enough. For now. Goda isn’t. That worries me.

  Into the silence, I muse about my position.

  “How many warriors do I have?”

  It’s not Icel who knows this, but rather Edmund. He’s good at keeping count, and has a far better memory for numbers than I do. I feel as though he’s been counting ever since we left Gloucester for the first time.

  “Four hundred and ninety.”

  The number sounds huge. But it isn’t.

  “Only twenty of those are your actual, blood sworn warriors.” Edmund’s lower lip turns as he speaks, but for once, he refrains from further comment. We all know, far too well, just what Edmund thinks of my current position.

  It’s not jealousy that makes him so unhappy. But fear.

  I understand that fear.

  It’s not of death, but of losing what we’ve always had in the past.

  I wasn’t meant to be a king, and yet in lieu of anyone else having the damn balls to save Mercia, I find myself in that position.

  “Tell me again who sent how many.”

  Edmund’s sigh is audible, but I ignore it.

  “Bishop Wærferth, the first man to suggest you seek the support of others, offered you sixty of his retainers, only thirty three of which can actually fight.”

  My glare of annoyance forces Edmund to his next emission.

  “Could fight, could fight. Now all the damn fuckers know which end of a seax is which.”

  “Bishop Eadberht, keen to emulate Bishop Wærferth, offered you the same advice, and sent thirty five warriors. All good warriors, I hasten to add.”

  “Ealdorman Ælhun sent the most, nearly ninety, but to be precise, eighty-seven.”

  “Ealdorman Æthelwold sent the least, only twenty-six.”

  “But all good warriors,” I prompt.

  “All excellent warriors and with equipment that makes me jealous.” The candid admission, brings a smirk to my lips.

  “Ealdorman Alhferht sent seventy-two. Some of them okay, some of them not so good.”

  “But they can all ride well.”

  “Yes, they’re good with horses.” Again, a sour admission.

  “And what of Bishop Deorlaf.”

  “He sent fifty-four.” When there’s no other comment about their worth, I turn to arch an eyebrow at Edmund.

  “All passably skilled, and I would be honoured to stand in a shield wall with them.”

  “You do them a fine honour,” Icel comments, sardonically. Edmund ignores him.

  “Ealdorman Beorhtnoth sent eighty-six. He was pissed he couldn’t find another two to outmatch Ealdorman Ælhun.”

  Edmund lapses into silence with his narration complete.

  “I don’t think that quite makes four hundred and ninety,” I prod. Edmund’s sigh is heartfelt as he reflects on who else has joined our venture.

  He’s not happy about it.

  But it’s not up to him.

  “The Gwent Welsh sent fifty.” Disgust fills Edmund’s voice.

  “We shouldn’t ally with our enemies to fight our other enemies.” This isn’t a new complaint, and Edmund is far from alone in being uneasy.

  “No, we probably shouldn’t. But we can’t have two enemies. Not at the moment.” I speak with the fierce resolve I feel. I’ve never considered allying with the damn Welsh before, but I can’t watch the east and the west. And I’d far rather have a Welsh ally than a Raider one. At least I can trust the Welsh to be deceitful fuckers.

  “So are we fighting them, or not?”

  This is the question, and despite Icel’s observations, I’m still unsure, and I hate being unsure about anything.

  “Maybe,” I muse. I’ve become king. I’d sooner not make the decision about such an enterprise though.

  I have four hundred and ninety men at my command. If those men are lost in a battle against the Raiders, who will replace them and continue to keep Mercia safe?

  I can’t make a decision based on my personal desire for revenge. There’s too much at stake.

  Edmund’s huff of annoyance almost makes me smile, but instead I grimace, showing him my teeth, and also beckoning him closer.

  Icel, Edmund and I peer at the encampment from our place of concealment. I wish I could see inside the St Wystan’s church that the Raiders have taken command of. I wish I could determine how many ships were hovering just out of sight.

  But I can’t and I don’t, and I must make a decision or we’ll lose the element of surprise we currently have. Jarl Anwend doesn’t think I’ll attack Repton, not even after Icel’s arrival with his son. They still believe one of the war bands will hunt me down and bring me here, to make my pledges of allegiance. Until their continued absence stretches too long, they’ll wait. But it means my choices are time limited.

  “We fight,” I decide, and when neither man argues with me, I know I’ve made the decision they expect me to make. And in honesty, I’ve made the decision I want to make.

  I’ll kill them all. The damn fuckers.

  As we scurry out of sight, back to where my remaining warriors wait for me, I realise that I might have to make some sort of speech to justify my decision. Only then I don’t have to.

  “Look,” it’s Edmund who draws my attention to the warriors who’ve ridden here with me, but my eye pe
ers further back, to where Edmund truly points, his far-sight serving him well once more.

  “Fuck,” I complain. I purposefully left those men behind, because they were all too ill to fight. It seems they’ve taken the decision from me, and I know I won’t be able to send them away, not now they’ve come so far.

  I expect an acerbic comment from Edmund, a counterpart to his on-going worry. His response puzzles me.

  “Fucking clever bastards,” he mutters, laughing loudly as he continues to point.

  I can’t see well enough to know what causes the amusement, and when Icel’s chest also starts to growl with laughter, I feel my temper beginning to build.

  “Look,” Icel unhelpfully points as well, as Pybba and Rudolf make slow progress toward us.

  “What have they got with them?”

  A cart, pulled by an ox, is not usual when riding to war.

  “You’ll see,” Edmund chortles, and now I’ve had enough.

  “Fucking pricks,” I grumble, striding toward Pybba and Rudolf. They might not think they make a fool of me, but I think they do, all the same.

  I can’t see, from my position, what’s in the cart and I just hope the daft fuckers haven’t brought the remainder of my injured men with them.

  The sound of Edmund and Icel’s laughter follows me and continues to grate. More and more of my warriors are turning to watch the strange procession, and on the faces of everyone, slow comprehension dawns, apart from mine.

  “My Lord,” Pybba bows from his saddle, Rudolf grinning at me, more like the youth he was before I left Gloucester, than the young warrior he’s been training to become. Even in the time we’ve been apart, I can see how his build has filled out. I imagine he can help Pybba much more now than previously.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” I demand to know, already walking around the side of the cart to see what the ox has brought me, fearful of seeing my other injured men, and perplexed when I don’t see that.

  Instead, heaped on with no regard for the skill and expertise that’s gone into making the weapons and battle equipment, is everything that we’ve so far taken from the dead enemy, or at least I hope it is.