by M J Porter
“Right, I’m doing it,” but Ælfgar’s shriek is just as loud as he warned me it would be, even though I apply it before I say I will. I hold my knife over the hand-sized wound, gritting my teeth against the sizzle that makes my stomach rumble. When I pull it aside, he collapses to the ground, silent but breathing heavily, sweat beading his face.
“Thank fuck for that,” Lyfing calls sleepily from beside the first fire as I return my knife to the fire for cleansing. I spit out my unease.
What the fuck is happening within Mercia? I wish I knew.
Chapter 11
When I wake, I can’t remember where I am. Above my head, the bough of the pine tree is dark. Only the smell reminds me that I’m outside and not beside the hearth at Northampton, or preferably, Kingsholm. I think of my home. I’m there so rarely; is it truly my home?
The space we’re sheltered within is warm, despite the fact I know snow lies deeply all around, and there’s even the smell of meat roasting to rouse me fully.
Not that I’m alone in sleeping. Other than Hereman and Ælfgar, almost everyone still sleeps. Beornstan grins at me when he sees me sit upright.
“Poor bloody thing ran in here looking for somewhere warm for the night, and I caught him and slit his throat before he could do anything about it.”
My mouth falls open in shock. Are we so lacking in menace that the hare had no problem in trying to find a bed beside us? It’s doesn’t reflect well on the mass of iron with which we adorn ourselves.
But, Beornstan’s grin speaks of his triumph, so I hold back my sarcastic response.
“Hardly enough for everyone,” Hereman’s face is downcast. I can hear his stomach growling from here.
“No, but a fair start, and better than fuck all,” I retort. Hereman’s strained grin is all I need to see to know he’s starving.
“The fuckers died full and sated. What good has it done them?”
I amble to my feet, feeling every ache and twinge, tears in my eyes for the savage pain that starts at my toes and makes its way to the top of my head. I peer all around me, eyes seeking out Haden, who still sleeps, and then Tatberht.
“Everyone seems well,” Hereman states flatly, although Ælfgar’s face is sheeted and sweating still.
“Just the pain or a fever?” I demand to know.
“The fucking pain,” and he grits his teeth, unsuccessfully trying to get comfortable.
“He needs wine or ale or a smack around the face to make him worry about something else.” Hereman. As fucking sympathetic as ever.
“I’ll check on the others,” I stand as tall as I can, feeling every ache and creak in my body. My thighs burn, my arse as well. Hereman nods.
“Walking through the snow’ll do that to you. Uses all sorts of body parts you didn’t realise you even fucking had.” Ah, the compassion slips from his tongue like honey from an oatcake.
I cast him a frustrated look. He smirks, enjoying himself.
“I notice you’re not on your feet.”
“No, I tried that. My back aches like a bastard, my thighs as well. This body ain’t made for trudging through snow. Or for surviving on a handful of berries. We need water,” he cautions as I turn my back on him.
“I’ll just go and find some then, Your Grace,” I consider sweeping a bow but know it’ll hurt more than the satisfaction I’ll get from taunting the bastard.
I find Eadulf and Eahric sitting together, just where the snow starts to lie on the ground, finding its way through the thick tree cover. They’re both huddled under their furs but have alert enough eyes.
“Anything?” I ask.
“Nothing but a few hares and the odd robin, come to try their luck. I’m so fucking hungry; I could have pecked him, and not vice versa,” Eahric chuckles. I notice then that his lips are jagged from lack of water.
“I’ll get someone to relieve you and find water,” I promise, standing clear of the trees, boots wedged in the snow, just gazing around me. Nothing’s changed since we came beneath the tree line. The snow is just as thick, the wind just as cold, and the sun is all but set, lending the view a strange texture, more pink than brown. The sun might be about to disappear for the day, but the snow will light our path if we have need of it.
Ordlaf and Wulfstan aren’t together when I hunt for them. I come across Ordlaf first, his eyes fluttering in sleep.
“Go and get Hereman,” I order him, but not unkindly. “He’s awake and can take your place. He can moan to himself rather than to Ælfgar, poor fucker.”
“Are they cooking something?” Ordlaf asks hopefully.
“Yes, a hare. Beornstan caught the poor bastard. There might be enough for everyone to have a mouthful.”
“Ah well, better than nothing,” Ordlaf springs to his feet and immediately regrets it, his eyes closing in pain.
“Walking in the snow,” I offer, as though I realised the cause of the problem first.
“There’s a brook down there,” and he points. “The water is clear, if fucking cold,” and he’s gone. I remain behind, guarding the position until Hereman comes crashing through the undergrowth. He’s happily chewing on one of the cooked legs, and I roll my eyes at him.
“Fucking hungry,” he explains again, not bothering to move the bone from his mouth to inform me.
“There’s water down there when you need to swill your mouth.” This seems to delight Hereman more than the food.
“I’m going to find Wulfstan. Keep alert.”
“Aye, aye, your grace,” and I chuckle at his more cheerful tone. As long as he’s not hungry or thirsty, Hereman can endure almost anything. All of my warriors can.
I stoop to quench my thirst in the brook, the sharp coldness of the water bringing me to full alertness in a way reminiscent of a sword or spear levelled at my throat. I hurry on, seeking out Wulfstan. He’s not where I expect him to be. I turn, looking all around me, but the visibility is poor. There are low hanging branches everywhere.
“Here,” a sharp hiss reaches my ears, and I swivel. Wulfstan furiously beckons me to his side. I go hand already on my seax. What has he discovered now?
I expect it to be Raiders, or hopefully, the bodies of Raiders, but it’s neither of those things. As I rush to his side, I quickly appreciate what’s caught his attention.
Somehow, in this great vast woodland, we’ve sheltered within, we’ve managed to strike our camp within spitting distance of a wolf’s den. From inside the den, and entirely out of season, are the gentle nips and barks of puppies.
Wulfstan wears a daft smile, even as I grip my seax tighter. Where there are pups, there’s sure to be a dame, and probably not a very happy one, with us close.
But Wulfstan shakes his head, reaching out to knock my hand aside.
“She’s seen me, been all through the camp while you lazy sods slept. She has no problems with us, although I think she’s a bit annoyed that someone else caught her hare.”
My forehead furrows in shock. Wulfstan chuckles.
“We’re not all bloody-minded murderers,” he states. “And make sure you keep the other fuckers away from here. She’s been kind enough to leave us be; we can do the same for her. Poor bitch, trying to keep the pups alive during the winter. She must have caught late in the season.”
I confess I’m speechless.
“Tell ‘em yourself,” I eventually splutter. I’ve taken enough ridicule from my men recently. Wulfstan can handle them himself.
“Aye, well. I’ll tell you what, take yourself away from here, and then no one will even know where they are, other than the two of us.”
“Fine, but if someone gets attacked by her, I won’t call them back.”
“What, and leave her puppies to die? I never took you to be such a cruel old bastard.” But he’s laughing as he walks away, a last lingering glance showing me that he’s enjoyed his time out here far more than he should have done.
In the sudden silence, I march steadfastly back towards the brook, pausing to empty my stream cl
ose to another tree. Above my head, the canopy sways slowly, rhythmically, and I can’t see the sky. I feel enclosed and perversely safe from harm, as though the trees want to protect me, just as much as they do the family of wolves.
Perhaps I could bring every man, woman and child to live here, allow the Raiders to run riot over Mercia, rely on this natural protection.
“Coelwulf,” Sæbald’s words break my reverie, and I nod to him.
“You got some sleep?” I demand.
“Aye, I did, and Wulfstan told me to watch out for his wolves. Daft sod’s getting soft, but I’ll not kill ‘em. Pybba’s on his way as well. He and Lyfing are going to hunt for mushrooms and berries. Sounds bloody delicious.” His face turns sour at the thought. I smirk and slap his back, and he winces.
“We’ll get some proper food soon. It’s just lucky that they didn’t eat the oats for the horses, or we’d have no choice but to press on in this crap weather.”
“Make sure they don’t forget me if they do return with anything edible,” Sæbald calls after me, and I raise my hand, eyes rolling. Damn fool. Complaining about the food and then demanding not to be forgotten.
Maybe, the wolf will bring more hares or squirrels or any other creatures that live within the forest.
It would certainly be welcome.
Back with the rest of my men, I check on those who are awake and Tatberht and Haden. They both seem well, but of course, they don’t need to move a great deal. It won’t be like that when we make our way to London. Perhaps I should leave them both here, but then I’d have to split my force. Still not knowing where the remainder of the ship-men from the boats are, I don’t want to take the risk.
I’ll have to be patient. It sits ill with me, not helped by my griping belly.
I slump back to the floor, face towards the fire. At least I’m warm. That’s something about which I can be grateful.
Rudolf still sleeps. My warriors purposefully don’t disturb him, keeping themselves occupied with trips to the stream, trips to relieve themselves, only then turning to weapons, and the horses’ saddles and reins. I watch Oda through sleepy eyes as he runs his hands along the leather and ropes, ensuring all are supple and free from ice and water. I think I should probably do the same, but I’m too fucking sleepy.
Next time I wake, the flames from the fires leap ever upwards, the scent of something that might be pleasant emanating from beside the hearthstones. Pybba is smiling, Lyfing as well, while Rudolf looks as though he might eat Pybba’s remaining hand if he doesn’t hurry the fuck up.
“If you eat it before it’s ready, it’ll do you more harm than good,” Pybba berates Rudolf.
“If I don’t eat something, I’ll do you more harm than good,” Rudolf retorts. His cheeks are flushed with heat. Pybba slaps his questing hand back, time and time again.
“Will the meat ever be cooked?” Rudolf asks of Wulfstan. It seems the wolf has brought us our supper once more.
“It’ll be ready when it’s ready,” Wulfstan’s words hold the same edge of irritation as Pybba’s. This conversation isn’t a new one.
“How’s Tatberht?” I ask, sitting upright and brushing stray pine needles from my shoulders and back, wincing. Sleeping off my aches and pains isn’t working.
“Sleeping,” Rudolf announces, his eyes remaining on the cooking meat.
“And Haden?”
“Not asleep,” is his less than helpful reply. Wulfstan meets my gaze, a smirk on his face, as I wrestle to my feet, trying not to cry out with pain when my muscles object.
“Has everyone on guard duty been relieved?”
I can’t see Sæbald, or Eadulf and Eahric.
“Yes, some time ago,” Pybba confirms, once more slapping Rudolf’s hand aside. “Ordheah, Siric, and Wærwulf are there now. Ordlaf has just gone back. He begged for the duty, something about it stinking of farts and horse shit in here.” I grunt, wrinkle my nose, and immediately regret the action.
“He’s got a bloody good point. I’ll go check on them all.”
“There’s no need,” Icel responds. “I just went, and they’re all fine. They’ve had some berries, and they know there’ll be food waiting for them when they get back. I even think we might be able to catch some fish from the brook if any of us can walk beside it without sounding like a hundred warriors.”
“I might just go and try my luck,” I begin. Icel nods sagely. He knows me too well to try and prevent me from doing something twice.
Haden is standing now, and I call him. He strides towards me, almost managing to avoid everyone else, and then comes to a standstill.
I run my hand along his nose, meeting his eyes and only then cast my eye toward his wound. To my eye, it still looks red and sore, but the stitches that Rudolf made are holding. For now.
“He’s been trying to lick it,” Rudolf lifts his voice to complain. “I’ve told him to leave it alone, but he’s having none of it. It probably itches and feels tight and uncomfortable, but better that than a ragged great big wound.” His petulance brings a smile to my face.
“How does it feel to have someone who won’t do the right thing, even when it’s for their own good.”
“I don’t know what you mean, you old git,” but Pybba grins into his chest, and Hereman mutters something beneath his breath. I laugh.
“Come on, old man. Let’s get you some water.”
I lead Haden through the branches, having to hold them high to allow passage. It’s an effort, but I can see where the other horses have gone because of the marks in the rich loam. No doubt, Haden has been this way already, but he’s my horse and responsibility.
Ordlaf nods as I appear. He’s sitting on the ground, running his blades through a mass of tufted grasses taken from the brook.
“Could hear you two coming from London,” he states quickly, no doubt wanting to explain why he’s not standing, threatening to slice my throat open.
“And have you heard anything else?”
“Nothing but the occasional scurry of some creature going about their business. There’s no one here but us. Well, not now there isn’t.”
“Have we scared them away?”
“Doubt it. They’ve just gone elsewhere.”
The words aren’t the comfort they should be.
“They might come back?”
“Maybe, but we’ll hear them if they do.”
Haden has taken steps down to the flowing water. Now he drinks quickly, his entire body quivering with the movement. I wince at the flash of reddened flesh high on his leg.
“A nasty cut,” Ordlaf confirms, nodding his head at Haden.
“Maybe he’ll grow his hair long to cover it,” I offer, eyebrows high.
He nods and grins. That’s what the vainer of us do if we take a slice to the face.
“Well, not everyone likes to see something as ugly as this,” and he lifts the hair running down the back of his neck to reveal the angry skin.
“It probably doesn’t much help that you have to tell everyone how you got it.”
“Well, no, it’s not the most inspiring of stories. Falling over in the stables and impaling myself on the fork used to clear the filth from the horses bedding was not my finest hour.”
I laugh then, and so does he. It’s not a fine story.
“But then, that’s not what I tell the women who ask.” He’s beaming, a devious glint in his eye.
“I imagine it’s not,” and we’re both laughing, even as Haden lifts his head, glaring at us with affront. We laugh all the harder.
And then I hear a crack of a broken twig, my hand on my seax, even as Ordlaf leaps to his feet, all humour drained from our faces.
I risk looking at Haden, his front hooves in the trickle of water. I have to hope I’ll keep him from further injury because from nowhere, two Raiders appear, leering faces, looking from Ordlaf to me, to Haden. They wear thick cloaks flung over their arms, revealing the rippling muscles they lay claim to and the array of weapons around their waists.
I find a leer sliding onto my face.
Two of them, against all of my warriors. I hardly think so.
“It seems that you might have something of ours?” I’m not surprised he speaks my tongue. At some point, it was bound to happen to all the Raiders. Jarl Halfdan speaks my language. The bastard.
“And what might that be?” I ask out of mild curiosity.
“That horse. He’s ours. He ran loose last night. We’ll just take him now.”
I hear the rustle of Haden’s interest.
“Then tell me, what’s his name?”
“We don’t name our animals. There’s no point. They’re merely weapons.”
“Ah, but you name your weapons. I know you do.”
A flicker of unease belies the man’s ignorance, but the smirk is back quickly enough.
“He’s called ‘Skiderik.’ See, I’ll call him. And he’ll come to me.”
“Why would you call him a bastard?” I ask.
The crafty look in the warrior’s eye falters, but he presses on all the same. So, he thinks to shock me by understanding my language, but I’m to be ignorant of his.
“You speak my tongue?”
“Of course, I do. Better to know your enemy.”
The man turns to the other, a string of words fleeing from his mouth. His fellow warrior chuckles at something the man says, and I regret my hasty and cocky reply. It’s not as if I know more than a handful of words.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I’m beyond relieved to hear Wærwulf’s bluff retort. Not that I have a problem with being caught in a lie, just not immediately.
“I think, if you were to attempt it, you’d be dead before you got any closer.”
Wærwulf stands to my right, hand on the seax handle at his waist, the other resting on the sword pommel slung over his shoulder.
Now, there’s more panic on the man’s broad face, and it only intensifies as first Hereman and then Icel joins the small collection of warriors.
We outnumber them, and yet, I can’t help thinking that two men such as this wouldn’t be alone in the forest. There must be more of them. Perhaps, they’ll appear from behind a tree, just like Wærwulf, Hereman and Icel. Any moment now, I expect Pybba and Rudolf to arrive as well.