Bloodline

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Bloodline Page 10

by Katy Moran


  The northerner looked him up and down. “Where’d tha get that sword, maw?” he said. “Where’d tha steal it from?”

  “I didn’t,” said Essa. Suddenly he remembered finding it lying in the trough in the stables, realizing that Cai had left him. The silver dragons on the scabbard had glinted at him in the gloom. “My father gave her to me. King Edwin gave it him.”

  The northerner stared at him, his eyes pools of sorrow. “Ah, Edwin was my lord, my ring-giver,” he whispered. “But now he’s dead, and Ad Gefrin, my hall, burnt to the ground by Penda’s barbarians. And I must wander like this for ever.” He looked down at the sword. “But that was never given to your father by Edwin. That’s the Lady’s sword. Tha hast the Lady’s sword, maw. May God forgive you.”

  “What?” said Essa, but Wulf was beside him, holding the horses by their leading reins. “Come you on, let’s go. There might be more of them, a whole nest of outlaws living in the forest; we won’t stand a chance if the rest get here.”

  The northerner was still staring at Essa, scrutinizing his face as if he were looking for someone he knew.

  “Essa!”

  He felt Wulf’s hand on his arm, and swung himself into the saddle. Pain knifed his side, and he slumped forwards, letting Grani carry him into the night.

  They found their way out of the woods more by chance than by skill. Wulf made some pretence of squinting up at the stars and nodding in a knowing fashion, but Essa knew that he was just trying to reassure him. His tunic was soaked with blood and he felt as if his brains had leaked out of his ears, leaving an empty space in his head. The right-hand side of his body was alight with pain, and every step Grani took made him want to scream. Wulf had torn a strip from the white linen intended as a wedding gift for King Eiludd’s daughter, and had insisted on binding it around Essa’s middle to staunch the blood flow, muttering that, luckily, it didn’t look too deep a cut, or Essa would have been good for nothing by morning. He pressed his lips together and rode in silence as the sky lightened towards dawn. Fenrir trotted behind them, her muzzle nearly scraping the ground. She was exhausted, and Essa was racked with guilt at bringing her. I should’ve sent you back to the village, my honey. I’m sorry. But he knew that if Fenrir hadn’t brought down the northerner, they would probably all three be dead.

  “Look,” said Wulf. “The trees are getting thinner again. I think we’re all right.”

  Essa nodded dumbly. In his mind, he could still see the severed hand lying pale amongst the dead leaves on the forest floor, fingers clutching at nothing. But Wulf was right. The air smelled different. He could smell grass, and he heard the cry of the linnet rising up from the dawn song of the woodland birds, so he knew they must be quite near open grassland.

  For days, Essa had been longing for the sight of a clear horizon, clear of the trees, but when it came, he felt so dizzy and sick he could hardly even return Wulf’s grin.

  “We’ve done it,” Wulf said. They stopped the horses at the wood shore, staring out across the rolling, bare green hills tumbling towards them from the feet of the great white-capped mountains in the distance, the gates of Powys. At their backs, behind the great forest, the sun was rising.

  “The marches of the Magonsaete,” said Wulf, helping Essa to dismount. “Father said he’d grant me the western marches if I do well against the Wolf Folk.” Essa stood leaning on his arm, breathing heavily. For a moment they stood together, looking out towards the west.

  Beneath his tunic, Egric’s ring hung cold against Essa’s chest, chilling his skin.

  “Essa,” said Wulf. “Look, I know you and Cai aren’t bound to any king, but if you fight with me against the Wolf Folk, I’ll grant you lands out here. You saved my life earlier on, and I owe you. Will you fight with my father and me, when we get back?”

  Essa drew in a deep, wheezy breath, fighting the urge to laugh.

  He shook his head. “Wulf,” he said. “I can’t.”

  Wulf looked hurt, lowering his eyes to the ground. Then he smiled. “You’ve more sense than I thought, then,” he said. “It’ll be a bloody fight. My father’s given orders that we kill every man, woman and child until we cross the river Deben and torch the hall of the Wolf Folk at Rendlesham.”

  Essa dropped to his knees, fighting the urge to groan out loud. He stared at the dewy grass soaking his clothes. A gossamer-thin blanket of spiders’ webs glittered at the tips of the grass, spreading out before him as if it had been left by the elvish.

  “It’s odd,” said Wulf thoughtfully. “It’s not like you haven’t the courage. The way you fought in there, you were like a berserker. I can’t make you out, Essa.”

  Essa closed his eyes. He saw the hand again, lying dead on the floor, the wrist stump dark with blood. He would have to clean his sword today. The rush of nausea grew stronger. Then he could hold it back no longer and spewed on the grass, and lay back, letting the dew soak through his clothes until everything went dark.

  Across the plains of the Magonsaete

  THEY rode on in the early afternoon, bleary-eyed having slept through the rest of the morning at the wood shore. Wulf was troubled now about the time they had lost, saying he just wanted to get it done, and if his new wife was fat and looked like the back end of a horse, so be it.

  Essa felt bad. A burning line of pain stitched through his flesh, down the right-hand side of his body. The linen bandage was blood-soaked and clammy against his skin. His head ached as he urged Grani to a fast trot; sharp jolts of pain slid from the back of his skull, down his neck, right to the base of his spine. Fenrir ran alongside them, her stride long and loose, and Essa could tell she was sated, for the moment. She must have killed something while they were sleeping.

  The sky above was grey, hiding the sun, and the distant mountains seemed to creep further away rather than feel closer as the afternoon passed. Holding the reins with one hand, Essa clutched his cloak tight about his shoulders, but it was no good; the wind found its way in, sliding icy fingers through the ragged cut in his tunic where the Mercian’s knife had torn it, pinching at his flesh until he thought he would never feel warm again.

  The wind grew stronger as they left the last straggling reaches of the forest and rode out onto the tumbling plains of the Magonsaete, where the grass was churned up by the wind, and the sky rose above them, huge and high like a giant bowl of pale light, upturned over the earth. Essa’s hair was whipped away from his scalp, the dusting of copper-coloured freckles on the backs of his hands as they clutched the reins stood out like a spattering of dye against his white, frozen skin. He stared at his hands as the landscape flashed by: a blur of green hills, cowering beneath a sky growing heavier, greyer as the day passed.

  He had cut off someone’s hand. How would the Mercian live now, if he even survived the wound? What would it be like to ride with one hand, to climb a tree, skin a rabbit, hold a girl?

  It began to rain and the snow-capped tips and great, dark shoulders of forest-cloaked mountain were lost in a fog that settled across the plains, thicker near low ground, hanging like skeins of raw sheep’s wool just above the grass everywhere else. Fenrir was lost in the mist; he could hear her ragged breathing. They would have to stop soon, or she’d begin to fall behind. Essa could hardly see Wulf ahead of him; Balder had faded altogether into the fog, her rider a dark shape riding on nothing, like a spirit. Wulf was singing, massacring the story of Beowulf descending deep into the swamp to kill Grendel’s mother. Essa mouthed the words to himself, thinking of his father playing the cherry-wood lyre, reeling off the old stories, Anglish and British alike, line by burning line.

  They stopped before it truly got dark, and Essa squatted down in the rain and took his strike-a-light from the pouch at his belt. The iron was cold in his hand, but he managed to coax a few sparks from it with the flint and spill them into the pile of dry twigs Wulf had taken from one of the saddlebags. They sat shivering around the leaping yellow flames with Fenrir lying spent at their feet, and skinned a hare Wulf had shot
from his saddle in the last of the light. When it was done, and Essa had forced the naked, purple body on to a sharp stick and hung it above the fire, Wulf insisted on looking at the knife wound again.

  “You were lucky.” He tore off another strip of linen, batting Essa’s hands away from the blood-soaked bandage, stripping it off in one swipe so that Essa gasped, breathless with pain. “That’s the best way to do it, nice and quick. They probably would’ve killed us both if you hadn’t gone crazy with your sword. I can’t believe you did that: you’re mad.”

  Essa shrugged. “It just happened,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be saving that linen for your wife? Don’t worry about me, I’ll be all right.”

  Wulf groaned. “She’ll have what she gets. Wasp-faced slut that she is, or I’ll bet, anyway. Shut up and let me bandage it. It’s not really bleeding any more but it looks angry, like it might rot if you’re not careful. And then we’ll have to get the maggots in there, won’t we?”

  Essa shuddered. Cole had once cut his hand falling off one of the grain mounds in the village. When the cut started to rot, his mother had bound maggots into the open wound until they ate away the poison, leaving only living, clean flesh behind. Cole had not minded too much, although he’d said he could feel them wriggling.

  “She might not be wasp-faced,” Essa said. “Maybe she’ll be fair and charming, like your father reckons.”

  Wulf snorted. “Some chance. You should see the heifer he married my older brother to. She’s got arms like tree trunks; I swear my brother’s in terror of her, and he killed the king of Kent’s son the summer before last, and one of his bishops. Where’d you learn to fight like that, anyway? Cai doesn’t seem a fighting man. He’s too clever.”

  “I suppose I just taught myself.” Essa shrugged, suddenly back in the courtyard outside the hall, sparring endlessly with Cole and Red, clouting and parrying and thrusting with wooden swords until they were all covered in bruises. The Wixna were serious about fighting, but he could not admit that to Wulf. He stared into the leaping yellow flames, watching the hare’s flesh char.

  “You really scared that northerner, didn’t you?” Wulf leant over and turned the spit. “It was odd, like he was more scared after speaking to you than he looked after you chopped off his friend’s hand.” His tone was light, but Essa wished he had been sent away with someone a little less questioning. “What was it he said again?”

  “That I’ve got some woman’s sword,” Essa said. “I think he was mazy in the head.”

  “Where did it come from, that sword?” said Wulf. “It’s finer than anything I’ve ever had, and I’m the son of a king.”

  “My father gave it me. Are you calling me a thief?”

  Wulf grinned, shoving him lightly on the shoulder. “Did I say that, hothead? Look, I just think it’s strange. He said you had ‘the Lady’s’ sword, didn’t he? And Cai gave it to you. Maybe he knew your mother.”

  Essa shrugged, trying to ignore the little knot of pain in his belly. He had almost forgotten it as he’d grown older and tried not to mind he had never known her; that he could not even remember her face. Hild was the only mother he would ever have.

  But it isn’t the same, is it?

  “She’s dead. I really don’t care.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Elfgift!” Essa snapped. “But I know nothing about her. That was the only time my father’s ever beaten me, when I was about seven, one day when I just kept asking about her. He went crazy.”

  “Don’t you think that’s strange? That he wouldn’t talk about your mother?”

  Essa shrugged, wincing as the movement pulled apart the lips of the long cut down his side. “I’ve always thought he just could never bear it, knowing she’s dead.”

  All he knew was that she had red hair like his, and that she was called elf-shining: fairer than any earthly woman.

  Wulf pulled the hare off the spit, blowing on his fingers. He tore off a leg and tossed it across the fire to Essa. “We’ll be at Eiludd’s fort tomorrow. This is my last night of freedom: let’s celebrate with burnt hare.”

  Essa took a bit of hot, stringy meat and chewed, staring into the flames. What would he do once they had the girl?

  If Penda would not attack the Anglish till he had the west secured, with Powys’s daughter safe in his camp, then somehow Essa had to make sure that Penda never laid eyes on the girl.

  From the marches of the Magonsaete into Powys

  THEY came to the feet of the mountains in the early afternoon. The sun was high above them, lancing down through clots of grey cloud. Pale gold lines of light seared through the fog, burning it away. They drew to a halt at the brow of a hill, looking down into a valley dipping deep into the earth, the mountainside a wall before them. If he craned his neck and looked right up, Essa caught glimpses of the snow-covered peak as the clouds moved across the sky. Below them, the valley was thick with fog: it looked like a boiling white lake.

  He felt them coming, the riders. The ground shuddered beneath their horses’ hooves, like the old oak boards in the hall whenever someone walked across the floor. For a moment, Essa even thought he could hear their voices, whispering on the wind.

  “Look!” Wulf pointed down at the valley floor. Essa followed his gaze and the breath froze in his chest as, one by one, cloaked riders emerged from the mist, traversing the gully faster than ghosts, thumb-sized men at this distance, bareheaded, with long hair streaming out behind them. Fenrir sat up, ears cocked, and let out one of her low growls.

  The leading rider suddenly reined in, coming to a halt facing in their direction, pointing up at the hillside.

  “They’ve seen us,” said Essa, heart pounding. “Who are they?”

  Beside him, Wulf sat back in his saddle, grinning. “It’s the Magonsaete, the Westerlings. They’re always riding out on the border marches. My father told me they spend their lives in the saddle; probably even sleep on horseback. They breathe horses. We should go down and meet them before they start shooting arrows at us.”

  He raised a hand in greeting and Essa followed him down the hillside towards the Magonsaete. There must have been at least two score of them. They moved silently through the trailing mist; by the time Essa, Wulf and Fenrir had reached the valley floor, grim-faced men on horseback surrounded them, spears lowered, hands on sword hilts.

  “Who goes there?” said the leading rider, smiling sarcastically.

  Wulf shrugged, waiting until they noticed the heavy gold-wrought boar-brooch holding his cloak together at the neck.

  “Oh, you’re one of Penda’s brats. Which?”

  “Wulfhere,” said Wulf.

  “Mereleor, lord of the Westerlings. What brings you so far west, Wulfhere of the Mercians, with only one little friend and a pet dog? Don’t tell me your father’s sent you to exact more tribute from us. It’s getting so tiresome and our coffers are empty.” He turned and looked around at his men, eyebrows raised.

  They all laughed.

  “I don’t see what’s so funny,” Wulf said.

  Essa pretended not to have heard, whispering, “Do you shut up!” from the corner of his mouth. Fenrir sat up on her hindquarters, showing her teeth, but the hall dogs had been trained not to frighten horses, so she didn’t move.

  Mereleor’s smile vanished, and Essa felt the skin on the back of his neck crawl in horror as the Magonsaete closed their circle, their spearheads only a thrust away.

  “You could easily go missing out here, little atheling; it’s wild country. Anything could happen.”

  “Not this time,” said Wulf lightly. “I’m promised to Eiludd Powys’s daughter, and she won’t like to be kept waiting. You can tell us the way to Caer Elfan, though.”

  Mereleor laughed. “All right, then,” he said. “No one could say you’ve not got spirit. We’ll show you the way. You’re a lucky boy – half of Powys is in love with her, but I’m warning you: although she’s passing fair, they say she’s a mad crazy girl her father can’t wait
to be rid of.”

  “Just my luck,” said Wulf. “Ah, well, as long as she’s not ugly, I don’t care what she’s like.”

  “Take the north-western passage between those two hills; you’ll find Caer Elfan at the foot of the high peak.” Mereleor pointed with his spear at a pair of boulder-bestrewn hills with silvery-white streams criss-crossing their sides. “It’ll be sundown when you get there, so watch your horses don’t stumble or you’ll be in trouble. These hills are full of outlaws.”

  Essa and Wulf exchanged a quick look. “All right,” said Wulf. “Let’s go then.” He saluted Mereleor and rode a few paces ahead, staring up at the fog-shrouded peaks.

  Essa hung back, mouth dry. He had to do this sooner or later. It was what he had been planning all along. So why not start now, with the Magonsaete? Heart hammering in his chest, he turned his back on Wulf, bringing Grani alongside Mereleor’s horse. Mereleor was leaning forward in his saddle, adjusting his horse’s bit. “My lord,” Essa said, stumbling over his words. “There’s something I must tell you.” He lowered his voice. “You – you don’t have to live like this, in thrall to Penda and his children.”

  Mereleor sat up and looked at him. “You’re playing a dangerous game, boy. What is it, what do you know?”

  Essa glanced over his shoulder. Wulf was joking with one of the Magonsaete, laughing and cupping his hands by his chest, saying, “Well, I hope she’ll have nice tits!”

  Mereleor sighed. “Good luck to him,” he said. “If half what I hear of Eiludd’s daughter is true, he’ll need fate on his side with friends like you and a wife like that. Not that I’m complaining – come, spit it out.”

  Essa felt his face grow hot with shame. “Eiludd’s daughter, she’s going to be more of a hostage than a wife. Do you know what I mean?”

 

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