by Jason Malone
“My Lady has a message for you, Edward the Gifted. Edward the Doomed,” the shrill voice cried. “She bids me tell you this world shall be smitten by your own action, and only that which you do not intend can save it. The Lady of Night advises you keep the Earl of Henton’s daughter close. She shall be your light in the darkness you have forged. She shall be your light. She shall be your light.”
Fear gripped my heart and coursed through my veins. I shouted over the voice and over the screams. “Alcyn, Hefencyn, Lufi, Hildafol. Oh Gods, do not forsake me. Carry this creature away,” I prayed. Tears ran down my cheeks.
“She shall be your light. Your light…” The voice faded. The screams stopped. The violent shaking of the tent’s walls ceased, and soon all I could hear was the light tapping of rain.
Then William began to snore. I reached down, shaking, and found my sword. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the hilt.
It was over.
I climbed back to my feet and wiped my face with my sleeve. My heart was still racing, but relief now washed over me. The spirit was gone, and the night was once again calm, though how I banished it I did not know. Had my fearful pleas roused pity in the hearts of the Gods, or had the mara finished its business?
I sheathed my sword and headed back outside. Eleni and Philip stood there and turned as they heard the tent’s flaps open. In the torchlight, I could see the worry on their faces.
“A vicious wind came over us,” Lady Eleni said. “We heard shouting from inside. Is my husband…?”
“William is sound asleep, My Lady. My job here is done.”
Eleni sighed, and a weary smile came to her lips. “You have my eternal gratitude, Edward. There is no word in your tongue or mine that can express the thanks you deserve.”
“Lord Odo’s gold will be thanks enough. Forgive me, My Lady, but I am exhausted. I must bid you goodnight.”
“Of course. We should speak tomorrow, so William and I may thank you properly.”
I nodded and stood aside for the lady. She entered her husband’s tent, and I turned to Philip. He opened his mouth to speak, but I shook my head. He nodded. We walked silently back to where we were camped, where we found Matilda sitting alone by the fire, wrapped in furs. She was wet, her black hair matted down. The fire coughed and sputtered as it struggled against the light rainfall. I bid Philip goodnight and sat on the stool beside Matilda. She was shivering.
“It’s late and miserable, My Lady. You should be in your tent,” I said.
“I could not sleep, and the fire shields me from the worst of the cold,” said Matilda. “I find comfort in gentle, night-time rain like this. It is like the soft tears of Hefenstea, weeping for what she has lost.”
I said nothing, only stared into the flames, watching them flicker and hiss and toss sparks into the air. I thought about what had happened in the tent. What I had heard and felt. I took a deep breath, and my eyes began to water. The shock was disappearing. I started to sob.
“Edward?” Matilda said.
I put my face in my hands and wept. “Osmund was right. I’m cursed.”
I had worn a tough face for Philip and Eleni since I left William’s tent, partly because my experience there had left me numb and confused. But now, for some reason, my strength had failed, and I let out all my fear and despair. Matilda slowly put her arms around me and pulled me close, and I cried into her shoulder. She said nothing, I said nothing, and we sat there shivering in the cold and wet by a dying fire for a very long time.
“We will die out here soon,” Matilda said after a while, breaking the silence.
I nodded. “I’ll light a fire in my tent. We can warm ourselves inside.”
We went into my tent, I pushed my bedroll as close to the side as possible, and cleared a space on the floor to light a fire. My tent was not large, like William’s, but there was enough room for the two of us. It was also dry, aside from a small leak by the entrance. The tent quickly filled with smoke, so I opened the flap a crack to let it escape. I was beginning to warm already, and Matilda and I removed our cloaks and placed them by the fire.
“Do you mind?” I asked. I started undoing my tunic, which was also soaked. Matilda shook her head, and I stripped down to my pants.
Matilda took the fur blanket I slept under and wrapped it around herself. She shuffled and wriggled, and I frowned, then she tossed her wet dress from under the blanket. She wrapped the fur around her tightly and stared into the fire. She glanced at me every so often, but aside from that we just sat there for some time as we dried off.
“Forgive me for my show of weakness,” I said.
Matilda shook her head. “I cannot judge you for it. I do not know what a Godspeaker must face.”
“Something happened in that tent,” I said. “It was no ordinary mara that possessed William. I believe it was sent by the Gods, but I do not know why.”
“What happened?”
“I cannot explain it. It could be mere coincidence, but I believe the mara appeared to William as you for some reason, though you had the wings of a moth. And I heard my mother screaming.”
“I do not understand.”
I did my best to explain the details. My fear had gone, but now I was once more puzzled and haunted by a sense of dread. The Gods and their servants only appear fearsome to those they are punishing. What had I done, or what was I to do, to earn their wrath?
Matilda tried to understand, but I could tell it confused her as much as it confused me. I felt fear begin to grow in my heart once more, so I shook my head and stopped talking. Matilda took the hint. “Tell me about those scars,” she said.
I looked down at the numerous scars that decorated my upper body and pointed to the long, wretched one on my breast. “You have probably heard about this one,” I began. “When I fought the witch in Oldford, she swung a lumber axe at me. My mail took most of the blow, but my ribs took the rest.”
I moved my finger to one on my right shoulder. “This one was an arrow. Bandits would raid my lands every so often, and my oathmen and I would fight them back each time.” I smiled a little. “Cubert saved my life that day.”
I pointed to the scar on my left arm. “During another skirmish against raiders, I blocked a blow from a hammer with an old shield. The wood splintered and stuck in my arm. It was a bitch to remove. Pardon my tongue.”
Matilda chuckled. “What about that one?” She nodded to the mark at the side of my abdomen.
“A pig gored me while I was hunting. Fortunately, it was not deep,” I said.
Matilda cringed. Her hair was dry now but was all messy and knotted. We locked eyes for a moment and then she looked away. I noticed her face turn red. “You know,” Matilda began, “when I first met you, and while we stayed in Oldford, I believed you were some great warrior. Untouchable. Undefeated. Travellers from Oldford would speak of your deeds and make you sound almost godlike. Stories always make the heroes out to be perfect.”
“And do you still think that?”
Matilda shook her head. “I know you are brave. I know you have skill with a blade. But you are nothing like the travellers and merchants make you seem. Your body is evidence of that.”
“Only the good warriors have scars. The bad ones don’t live to bear them.”
Matilda smiled. “The stories also do not tell of your temper. They do not tell of your coldness or of your pride. Stories of your deeds tell of Edward the Gifted, but you sit before me as Edward the Man. Edward the Flawed.”
“I am sorry I do not live up to your expectations.”
“No, you exceed them. I much prefer this Edward. My favourite poems and tales are those that tell of the hero’s imperfections.”
I nodded. “Perhaps you are right. When I tell my children and my children’s children of my adventures, I will try to tell them of my failings. And of yours, Lady of Henton.”
Matilda smiled but said nothing. She glanced at my scars once more and then stared back into the flames. We sat again in silence f
or a time, listening to the little fire crackle, the rain fall against the tent, and the drops of water dripping through the leak and into the small puddle it had made beneath it.
I pulled on a shirt once I was dry, and after a while I began to notice Matilda struggling to keep her eyes open. Without a word, she lay down on her side by the fire, curled up under my fur blanket. It did not take her long to fall asleep.
I rolled up one of my other shirts and lifted her head gently, putting the shirt underneath to act as a pillow. She did not wake. I watched her and the fire and the rain deep into the night. I was thinking about the mara again, and of my mother. Was she watching me from wherever she was? Did I make her proud? I hoped so.
I did not realise how long I sat there until I heard a lone bird sing in the distance. The night was slowly drawing to an end. The fire had died down, and Matilda was deep in sleep. I decided I should get a few hours of rest before the army marched again at daybreak, so I lay down on my bedroll and closed my eyes. I must have been the last in camp to fall asleep.
The rain did not pass before dawn the next day, so the army departed in a miserable mood. It was little more than drizzle, but it still made us cold and wet. The ground was muddy and sloshed under our feet, and everyone knew this would slow us down. The Royal Way had fallen into disrepair here, and the paving had long ago degraded into the dirt.
As the army began its march and my companions and I were packing up our things to load back onto the wagon, William approached us with an escort of six housecarls. He sat upon a beautiful white stallion in a shining suit of mail. Draped over his shoulders was a thick woollen cloak dyed a deep blue, fastened by a white-gold brooch in the shape of a hare — William’s personal emblem.
He smiled at me as he approached, and despite the rain, he was cheerful. The dark circles around his eyes were gone, and there was colour in his cheeks. His hair was combed back behind his ears but otherwise fell loose. He had the look of a brave young warrior off to make a name for himself in war, like in the heroic tales of old. “A fine morning, is it not? I do love the scent of grass in the rain,” William said. He dismounted, and we clasped each other’s forearms. “Edward, I wish to thank you for—”
“It was my pleasure, but I would rather not talk about it,” I said. He frowned but nodded.
“I have a message for the lady who travels with you,” William said. “My wife wishes to travel with her in the carriage today. She says a noblewoman should not be made to ride on horseback in this weather, and I must say I agree.”
“I am sure she will be grateful for that offer,” I replied. “She and Dughlas are watering their horses at the moment, but I will send for her. Cubert!”
Cubert turned away from helping Philip load the wagon and came over to me. “Yes, lord?”
“Go and fetch Matilda, and take her to Lady Eleni’s carriage, if she so wishes. I would also have you ride alongside it today.”
“As you wish, lord.”
“You two, go with him,” William said. He pointed to two of his warriors and sent them off with Cubert.
Philip came to stand beside me. William thanked him for his help with the mara, and Philip nodded, but he was in a sorry state. His nose was runny, and he frequently sniffled, and I feared he had come down with a cold. That was often the case when southerners travelled north during the colder months. He had wrapped himself in thick leathers and furs, but they did little to protect him.
“Can I ride in the cart with Matilda too?” he asked me.
I looked at William and raised my eyebrows, and he nodded. “You are in no state to ride today, little Lurian,” he said. I nodded for him to go, ruffled his curly locks, and he followed Cubert and William’s warriors. “I am feeling much better today, Edward. As if I have been born anew. Tell me, did you sleep well, my friend?”
“I slept well,” I replied.
“Excellent. I will make sure the payment my father promised gets to you. Will you allow me to ride with you today?”
“It would be my pleasure. May I ask why you’re wearing your mail and not travelling with your wife?” I continued packing up the last of our gear.
William threw the cloak off his arms and began to help. “Well, it allows me to get used to it, plus my men will feel like I am one of them. I am to be the Lord of Everlynn one day, so I should learn to lead.”
“You are making a fine example already, if I may say so.”
William laughed. “You may.”
We finished loading our gear onto the transport wagon. The wagons carried the essentials that could not be carried in bags or on horses, and they lumbered along behind the army, dragged by strong mules. The carriages carrying noblemen and their women and children also travelled with this part of the army, and today this would include Matilda and Philip, though I feared the wet weather would muddy the ground too much and slow the wagons significantly.
I introduced William to Dughlas, and he was quite impressed by my oathman’s new scar, calling him a “fearsome-looking man.” William was right — Dughlas did look fearsome. Even without his patched eye and the gruesome scar running down his face, his long, bright hair and beard, broad shoulders, and tall stature were menacing. He had bought a new coat of mail from Odo’s quartermaster, which he now wore under his cloak and tied at the waist with a thick leather belt. I would not want to fight him.
“This is a man I want as a friend,” William said to me before turning his attention back to Dughlas. “May I ask how…”
Dughlas chuckled. “Some bandits attacked us on the way here from Oldford, and I missed a parry during the fight, so my opponent scratched my face. Nothing too major.” He loved bragging about his new scar. I had already heard him tell the story in all its gory details to dozens of the soldiers we travelled with.
He had his wound tended to, as did Cubert, on the day we arrived at Lord Odo’s camp. I admit, the healers did a much better job at fixing it than I had. He had even developed a liking for Gyde, the woman who patched him up. She had to remove the eyeball, and during the surgery Dughlas screamed so loud I reckoned he could be heard from all the way in Erila. I later discovered he had been with her while I banished William’s mara.
Once William and Dughlas stopped chatting, we all mounted our horses and joined the column. We were among the first to leave that morning, so we were at the front of the marching army. My fears regarding the wagons came true; they were bogged down by the mud and trundled along slowly. Three of my friends were all the way at the other end with them, and that made me uneasy.
The march this day was much merrier than one would expect in such weather, because William was constantly passing jokes down the line and sharing tales and songs. He even knew a ballad about me and my fight with the witch in Oldford, although the song insisted it was a vampire.
His housecarls accompanied us, and they sang along with William. He made the most of the day, and he seemed an entirely different person now that his Otherworldly tormentor was gone. Despite the rain and the cold and the muddy slush we travelled through, William was happy. But that slush meant the wagons and carriages lagged far behind.
“I am always urging my father to post more soldiers to the wagon train,” William told me. “But he insists it would be unnecessary. ‘The rebels are in the north,’ he says, ‘and our wagons are in the south.’” He lowered his voice and pulled a face, and his men laughed.
“Why don’t you put your own men at the back?” Dughlas asked him.
“Oh, I do. I have a dozen oathmen guarding my wife’s carriage. But most of the men I command are technically my father’s. I have only a small retinue.”
A calm voice spoke up behind us. “I agree with you, William. It would be wise to leave a portion of the soldiers with the carriages. They are left vulnerable to attack if they are unprotected.” We all turned to see who had spoken.
“Thank you, Uncle. Perhaps you can convince my father to guard the wagons,” William replied. We had been approached by Hakon, and
he flashed me a cruel smile.
“I have tried. Your father is stubborn, unfortunately,” Hakon said. “Why are you not with your wife, Nephew?”
“I wish to ride with my friends today.”
“You should be with your wife.”
“Are you with yours, Uncle?”
Hakon scoffed and turned his horse away from us. He rode off back down the column.
“What was that about?” Dughlas asked.
“I hate my uncle,” William said. “He is a spineless, scheming fool. And a bastard. I am certain he wishes me dead so he can succeed my father.”
“Do you have no other brothers?” I asked.
William chuckled. “I have seven sisters, but no brothers. Legally, Anora should succeed my father if I were to die, but Hakon has more men and wealth than she.”
“Sword and Silver: the two lords Law must kneel to.”
William only nodded. We rode on, despite the weather. Lord Odo, whom I did not get to see that morning, apparently insisted we march through the rain so we could reach the Capital on time. William continued to talk with us for a while, and I got to know him and his men better.
Our conversation was cut short when we heard horns. Battle horns, coming from the rear of the marching column. We could hear the beating of hooves and the hammering of boots, and there was a sudden confusion rushing down the line. Men and women began shouting, and William, Dughlas, and I all turned our horses and drew our swords, as did the warriors that rode with us. “What is happening?” William asked.
“The rear is under attack!” a soldier shouted. Without hesitation, William kicked his horse and sped off down the line, followed by his men. Dughlas and I glanced at each other, and a wave of fear washed over me. Matilda, Philip, and Cubert were at the rear.
I knew this would happen. I knew it in my gut the moment I woke to the sound of rain. The wagons would be slowed considerably, and it left them vulnerable. War was not often waged that early in the year for reasons like this, but ill luck had forced King Stephan’s hand.
I kicked my horse and rode with haste down the column, followed by Dughlas. The air rushed past my face, cold and hard, and my mind had gone empty. I thought only of one thing: reaching the wagons to defend my companions. I had failed to defend those I had sworn to protect when my home was attacked, and I would be damned if I failed now.