The Last King

by M J Porter

  It gleams in the bright sunlight, and I can see why others were able to see it so much more clearly than I could.

  “What the fuck?” I mutter, striding back to face Pybba and Rudolf. They’re both smirking, and I consider a sharp swipe to wipe the good cheer from their face.

  “We decided that this would be your only option, when all things were considered.”

  “What would be my only option?” I still don’t understand what this is about.

  “To get inside,” Pybba says slowly, resolve thrumming through his words.

  “Get inside what?”

  “The fucking church compound,” Rudolf interjects, his smile wavering for just a moment, as though he can’t believe my stupidity.

  “What, you want me to give their equipment back to them?”

  “No, we’re going to wear it, and lead you inside as though you’ve been captured.”

  I confess, my jaw drops open at the suggestion. I look from Pybba to Rudolf and then back again, but they’re both nodding. Surely they’re joking.

  “You want to pretend to be Danish, or Norwegian, or whatever, and ride in their, with me as your prisoner?”

  “We do yes,” Rudolf nods vigorously, while I turn to meet the amused eyes of Edmund and Icel.

  “Have you fucking heard this bollocks?” I demand of them. Their silence assures me that they have. The fact that they’re not vehemently decrying it worries me a great deal.

  “You think this shit is a good idea?” I change tact, hoping someone else will voice incredulity for the ludicrousness of the suggestion.

  “I think it’s probably our only chance,” Edmund admits, his voice thrumming with laughter. He’s enjoying this far more than he should.

  “It has a great deal of merit to it,” Icel also agrees more slowly. “It’s not as though we can launch a full frontal assault, or even one from the rear. They’ve chosen a clever place to make their stand.”

  “So you think we should willingly go inside?”

  “We’ll have weapons, and be well armoured, albeit with Danish iron and leather. They’ll not even consider that we’re not who we say we are, not with you bound and gagged as our prisoner.”

  “So I must give them what they want? And do it without armour or weapons?”

  “We can conceal a few about you, don’t worry about that.”

  “And how, exactly, would you plan on taking over the enclosure. There are many of them, and we would be few, and surrounded?”

  “We’d have our allies outside waiting to get inside.”

  I lapse into silence. I can think of so many ways that this could all go wrong that I can hardly order them into what aspect concerns me the most.

  But, and I hate to admit it, it is the only reasonable plan that’s been conceived to date. I might want to complain about being used as a sacrificial lamb, but I won’t be alone, and it would ensure we were inside the fort before battle started.

  “I don’t like it,” I admit slowly, “but it doesn’t mean it’s without merit.”

  “I told you he’d go for it,” Rudolf’s voice is rich with satisfaction.

  “Did you think of this?” I demand to know, not sure if I’m angrier with Rudolf for thinking it is a good idea, or because he did think of the plan.

  “Well, with some help from Bishop Wærferth.”

  “Fuck,” I complain. “No doubt he had some sort of biblical precedent.”

  Rudolf’s infuriating grin spreads even wider.

  Only then does Sæbald step forward, a little unsteady, but walking all the same.

  I watch him.

  “You shouldn’t have fucking come, look at you.”

  Rudolf laughs again, but before he can offer another ‘I told you so,’ I walk to Sæbald and embrace him. It’s good to see him, even if he shouldn’t be here.

  “Bishop Wærferth is keen for you to return to Worcester when all this is done,” Sæbald offers, with no trace of humour on his face.

  “When what? When I’ve defeated the Raiders by pretending they’ve already captured me?” My anger has been sparked once more, and it only solidifies as I catch Sæbald smirking at Rudolf and Pybba.

  Damn fuckers.

  Too angry to speak, I stride from them, aware that they all watch me stalk away.

  I can’t believe it.

  No really, I can’t.

  It’s the most ridiculous, dangerous and outrageous idea I’ve ever heard.

  I’m not one for great subtlety. Coming via the back route from Gloucester was about as devious as I get.

  And yet there is something that I can’t deny.

  It is, undoubtedly, a fucking good idea.

  Who would suspect us?

  Not the Raiders, of that I’m sure.

  Still, I walk and I think, trying to find another solution to the problem, desperate to in all honesty.

  I don’t want to lead my warriors into Repton as a prisoner. I don’t want them to take such massive risks, because sure as day follows night, we won’t all live through this. How can we?

  But, I reconsider, is it really any different than the straight out attack I’d been planning? Is it any deadlier? Are we any more likely to die? I don’t see how we can be.

  I stalk back to my warriors. They are all haphazardly trying on the gear that Rudolf and Pybba have brought with them, pillaged from the scenes of destruction we’ve already left in our wake. It seems my warriors know I’ll agree to it, even if I don’t want to.

  “Right, lads, lets get ready to infiltrate these fuckers and send them to their hell.”

  Chapter 17

  My hands are bound too tightly. I’ve told the fuckers that, but they’ve ignored every word I’ve said since my capture.

  My wrists, I know, are red-raw from trying to work my hands loose. The bastard who tied me up did far too good a job. And they enjoyed it too fucking much. I might never forgive the cock for this.

  And yet I’m tied to the horse more by luck than any great skill. It seems they don’t mind if I fall off, as long as my damn hands don’t come untied.

  It’s about how it looks, I know that, and yet I’m furious all the same.

  Ahead, the settlement of Repton is coming into view far too quickly for my liking. Not that I like any of this. That emotion couldn’t be further from what I’m experiencing right now.

  Inside my trews, my legs are slick from trying to grip the damn horse. And it’s not even a bad horse. Still, without my hands on the rein, I can only use my knees, and the horse seems particularly stubborn about taking such half-hearted commands. I miss Haden’s steady presence, but I didn’t want to risk him.

  I’d use my boots, but they’ve been taken from me, and my heels lack the impact they need.

  The warriors who escort me are dour-faced and sheeted in their battle gear, complete with helms, and weapons close to hand.

  I’ve tired myself out trying to talk to change their minds, and now I await my fate. I hope it won’t be long in coming.

  In the far distance, I can see the sails on the ships as they bob in the deep river the Raiders have used to infiltrate to the heart of Mercia. They flash in all shades of colour, from bleached white to vibrant red. I can’t make out any decoration, but I’m sure that at least one of them must have the one-eyed raven of Jarl Anwend on it.

  They’re a stark reminder that the four men I’m about to face are allies by chance.

  If only I can exploit that.

  Beneath me, the horse stumbles, and a cry rips from my throat, fearing I’ll fall and land head first on the hard-packed earth we travel over.

  The summer has been hot, the threat of drought a persistent problem, although so far the crops have survived, and the people will be fed come the winter. I’m not sure that I’ll be there to see it.

  I angrily shake off a hand on my shoulder, righting me, aware that the fingers bite too deep.

  Hard green eyes greet mine, and I decline to offer any thanks, even a muffled one. I refuse
to even think it.

  I do not like this. Not at fucking all.

  I hope I won’t soon become one of the Mercian royal dead housed within the church of St Wystan’s.

  It’s not a huge settlement, but at the moment it stretches long beyond the bespattering of defences, crammed with Raiders and their makeshift canvas homes. There are thousands of them, and the jeering has only just begun to reach my ears.

  The four jarls sent three hundred and more men to bring me to Repton. It was supposed to be a peaceful endeavour, but I ensured it was none of those things.

  Now they bring me, bound and gagged, my tongue stuck to the linen rag in my mouth, and if I could, I’d kill the fucking lot of them if only I had access to my seax.

  My escort raises their heads at the murmur of noise. They're still helmed in iron, scrubbed black to look even more menacing, and with leather encasing almost all of their bodies. Only a flicker of flesh shows here and there, and mostly where chinstraps hold helms in place. They look fearful but take the acclaim as their due.

  The fuckers.

  A hand reaches over and grips the harness of my horse. I refuse to meet the green eyes that belong to the hand. I do prepare for my horse to come to a halt at the barricade that blocks the entrance to the interior of Repton.

  Smoke erupts from many fires behind us, but inside Repton, only three tendrils of grey smoke drift toward the sky, one from the monastery building, one from St Wystan’s, and I would suspect the third from a forge, no doubt inside the more superior defensive structure in front of me. I’ll call it a fort. It’s too complicated to think of it in any other way.

  “Jarl Sigurd,” the voice sounds Danish, but I understand it all the same. I’ve been listening to the Raiders for almost all of my adult life. “I see you’ve found him. The other jarls were becoming concerned.” I don’t hear the rest of the conversation, my eyes raking in the scene in Repton itself.

  Few people are walking about, but it’s early, daybreak a myriad selection of oranges and mauves on the distant horizon behind me. I stare into the darkness of the day not yet touched by the sun, and I don’t like what I see. Not at all.

  My heart pounds in my chest, my breath coming shallow around the rag in my mouth. I wish it hadn’t been needed. I feel my head pounding, my breath growing ragged, and then my horse lurches forward and once more, a hand reaches to hold me in the saddle. Fuckers.

  Maybe I would rather fall here, splinter my head on the well-trodden ground and never know anything ever again.

  But I’m not given the option, and then I’m through the barricade of tree trunks, barrels and carts, watched over by sleepy men, and being forced from my horse by eager hands, their breath too hot on my face.

  I wince at the touch on my tied hands. My eyes bulge, and I start to choke.

  In one swift movement, the rag is ripped from my mouth, and liberal water poured into my parched mouth. I swallow with the hunger of a starving man, beckoning for more, dismayed when the rag is once more thrust into place, and I’m being led to the next barricade.

  This one includes the ancient church of St Wystan’s, beneath which the royal families of Mercia have buried their dead. More warriors stand guard here, similar to those who escort me. They don’t have helms, and I can clearly see eyes, moustaches, beards and the inkings that mark them as Raiders.

  I don’t need to see the iron around their waists, or their scars to know that these men are survivors.

  Fucking bastards.

  There are more derisive cries from them as they scamper to open the wooden door that allows me inside the most heavily protected area of the compound. There’ll be no escape once I’m inside, and I struggle against my bonds again, uncaring of the fact that blood drips down my fingers, and that each movement is agony.

  Two hands on my shoulder force me through the door, my feet walking over the rough terrain before finding the smoothness of well-worn stone. Fucking cold stone as well.

  I shiver, the hands lingering on my shoulders for too long. I think to shake them off, but what’s the point?

  The interior of the church is dark and only a handful of fat, stinking candles blaze where the altar stands. There are no priests and no monks. I bow my head, mourning their loss.

  All of my escort crowd into the church. I’m pushed deeper and deeper inside, blinking to try and acclimatise my eyes to the half-dark. The scratch of leather boots on the stone almost makes me wince, as does the vast quantity of weaponry on show, in a holy church.

  It’s not fucking right, and I’m not even overly religious. But there’s no respect, and that boils me all over again.

  Rough hands clamp over my tied hands, and I scowl at the touch. If I wasn’t gagged, I’d have cried out in pain. Fuck. I mustn’t appear weak, even here, and as surrounded by the blank faces of the helmed warriors as I am.

  More and more warriors surge into the church, seeming to come from openings I didn’t even know existed, and not just from the main door I’ve travelled through. Have they been sleeping in the smaller rooms of the building? Have they been in the crypt below my feet? I growl. The thought infuriates me. The fucking cheek of it.

  The men, sodden with sleep and no doubt ale as well, barely perk up at the sight of their much-longed-for prisoner. I hear mumbled comments, as I swivel my head, trying to see all that I can.

  There are shitting hundreds of Raiders, all wearing similar equipment. These, I deduce, must be the sworn men of the four jarls of Repton. Jarl Guthrum, Jarl Oscetel, Jarl Anwend and Jarl Halfdan, brother of the Ivarr who caused so many problems for Wessex before his fortuitous death.

  I watch all of the men, making a note of how they line up, as though used to such summonings and wait, expectantly.

  A large space remains around me, though, and my abductees. It’s as though none of the others wishes to get too close to Jarl Sigurd and his men. I wonder then what sort of reputation the fucker has? Maybe he’s a mean fighter, a terrible drunk or just a bloodthirsty bastard known for being cruel to the men who take him as their master.

  I’ll never know. Not now.

  A hush falls.

  In the distance, I can hear strident footsteps over the stone floor. From the door that leads into the area of the compound between the church and the river, four men emerge.

  They’re all shapes and sizes, the lead a large man, a wicked scar gleaming in the suddenly growing candlelight as more and more flames spring up, as though lighting the path for him. I take him to be Jarl Halfdan. He looks as mean as his reputation. That he comes without his byrnie or weapons speaks of a cocky bastard.

  His blue tunic shimmers with golden thread, and on it, I see the eyes of a wolf watching me from his chest. Whoever made his tunic for him is well skilled. Almost too well skilled. The wolf eyes me coldly. It seems it wants to hunt.

  Behind him comes a smaller man. I know him to be Jarl Anwend, although he doesn’t know me. Surprised eyes rake me in from beneath the same heavy eyebrows that young Anwend had, joined by a long nose, and elongated chin. Not an attractive man, but he seems to make up for that in body tone. Here’s a man who can fight, and probably very well. I’m not surprised to find his weapons belt in place, or his sigil of a one-eyed raven liberally festooning all of his clothes and weapons.

  He can both fight and has learned to plan for all eventualities. I might have respected him had we met elsewhere.

  Two men follow him, and I don’t know which is Guthrum and which Oscetel. They could almost be brothers, for their hair is the same deep auburn, and they both wear it long and tightly braided down their backs.

  They share many of the same features and walk like men who know the reach of their influence and power. Yet, they follow the two other jarls, and I think that must mean they’re less powerful. At least, here, in the strange little collective they’ve decided upon to rule Repton from.

  The sigils of Guthrum and Oscetel couldn’t be more different. Guthrum has an owl, depicted on his tunic and also on his tw
o arms. The sleeves of his tunic are cut short so that all can see the inkings that ripple as he walks.

  Oscetel’s serpent sigil snakes down his face, and perhaps even along his head and down his neck where his hair is so tightly bound. I can’t see more than the inkings of teeth, and an open mouth with a slither of tongue. It’s not a good look. When he’s old, should he live to be old, the snake will either contract or expand, depending on whether he shrivels or swells. Either way, the snake will no longer look like a snake, but rather a ragged collection of teeth and tongue.

  I’m shuffled forward by booted feet, hands on my shoulders, one digging in far too deeply, as though I’m their anchor and not vice versa.

  A silence falls as the Raider bastards seek chairs and settle at the front of the church. It affronts me to see such men where a priest should stand, wearing only his holy robes and speaking the Latin of the church.

  Jarls Guthrum and Oscetel mirror Halfdan in coming unarmed. Confident bastards.

  Although I reconsider, there are near enough a hundred armed men in the church. Perhaps they’re right to rely on them for protection.

  More candles have been lit behind the backs of the jarls, and a fire blazes on the floor. I’d not noticed it before. Fuckers. The church shouldn’t have had a fire in it, and it accounts for the thick air. I can almost taste it rather than smell it. For a moment the stench fills my nose, and I think I’ll choke again, only then I’m distracted from my panic.

  “Jarl Sigurd,” it’s Jarl Halfdan who speaks. His voice is rich and commanding, and again, I understand him even though he speaks Danish.

  Jarl Sigurd, now standing close enough to me that I can smell his fear, inclines his head quickly, his warrior garb covering him, so that little of him shows. If the other jarls think it strange, they don’t show it. I wouldn’t let a man come before me in all of his battle gear, no matter the prize he had with him.

  “Jarls, I have your prisoner for you.” If the accent is less thick, and the words muffled, I’m sure that everyone will blame the swollen chin and cheeks that Jarl Sigurd has earned himself in capturing me, rather than anything else.