He hefted his spear menacingly in Hereward’s direction. “We got here first!”
“And there are more of us, so bugger off.”
The man lunged with his spear. The warlord flung up his shield, his sword flashed, and the man staggered backwards with his belly slit open like a paunched hare. The sword flashed again, and he crumpled soundlessly to the ground in a spreading pool of blood from his cut throat.
Aethelind was too shocked to scream.
“Now bugger off,” Hereward snarled at the remaining looters, “before I gut you too.”
They did not need to be told twice.
“Get up, girl,” Hereward growled at Aethelind, and two of his spearmen hauled her to her feet, clutching her gown in one hand. Without her brooches the top half of the dress was unsupported, and she was very grateful that her under-dress was of thick linen, with a high neck and long sleeves.
Hereward took his helmet off, revealing a head of shaggy fair hair matted with sweat and dirt, an unkempt beard and a broad, weatherbeaten face. He was heavy-built but not tall, probably around thirty-five or forty.
“You live here, girl?” he said, somewhat indistinctly.
Aethelind nodded, then realised he was talking to her breasts. Men tended to do that. That was something familiar amid the ruin of her world.
“Y-yes.”
“Whose hall is this?”
“My father’s,” Aethelind faltered, and began to cry quietly. “Where’s my father? What happened to him?”
“If he was in the battle he’s dead,” said the warlord curtly. “They’re all dead, except the atheling, and he won’t escape for long.” He appraised the barn in a sweeping glance. “Nice place you got here. How much land?”
“Sixty – sixty hides – I think –” Aethelind stammered. She felt numb. All dead. She was all alone with nobody to protect her.
Hereward grinned, displaying stained and broken teeth. “Right, lads. We’ll have this place. It’s time we settled down.” He gestured at the corpse. “Chuck that in the river, and if any more of his kind come sniffing round, fillet them and chuck them after him. I’ll collar the King before anyone else does. You stay here. Make yourselves at home.” His eyes went back to Aethelind. “Keep that girl for me.”
He strode out. Aethelind drew a long shaky breath. The semicircle of spearmen eyed her hungrily, like dogs whipped off a juicy bone. But she was sure they would not dare disobey their master. The body on the floor was eloquent testimony to the consequences. Besides, they were men. Aethelind was an expert on men.
“You heard your lord,” she said, and was relieved to find that her voice was only a little tremulous. “This is his home now. He’ll want it ready for him when he comes back. So we’d best make a start.”
“Stop it, Lilla –” Ashhere begged, “it wasn’t your fault -”
Lilla was pacing up and down, twisting his hands together in his distress. “That spear thrust was meant for me, and – and Eadwine took it instead –”
“You’d have done the same for him.”
“That’s different – and now he’s dying –”
“It’s very bad manners,” said a faint voice, “to talk about someone as if he wasn’t there.”
Eadwine was still stretched on his back where they had laid him down after his collapse, but his eyes were open and regarding them with a concerned expression.
Lilla threw himself on his knees and seized his hand.
“Lord! We thought – we thought –”
“So did I, but it seems the Three Ladies haven’t finished with me yet. Lilla – it was nothing to do with you. That fellow was aiming for anyone he could hit, and so was I. And he got the worst of the exchange. You couldn’t even have hit him back, not without falling off your horse.”
“I know you’re right,” Lilla said, with something that might have been a sniff, “but I owe you one.”
“You’re not keeping count, are you? I ran out of fingers ages ago.” He tried to sit up, winced, and thought better of it. “Did everyone make it? How long have we been here? We have to move –”
“You’re in no fit state to be going anywhere,” Ashhere said, his voice still shaking a little from shock. The spear had pierced Eadwine’s mail shirt and inflicted a deep gash in his left side. Beortred and Treowin had made no attempt to investigate – what, after all, could they hope to see at the bottom of a dark hole persistently filling with blood? They had simply stuffed handfuls of Eadwine’s linen undershirt into the wound and pressed down hard until, after a heart-stopping few minutes, the red stain at last stopped spreading. The rest of the undershirt was ripped into bandages and used to bind the crude dressing in place. It seemed to have worked, and the fact that Eadwine was conscious and able to talk was a hopeful sign, but Ashhere was afraid that the terrifying bleeding would start again. Nor was the puncture Eadwine’s only injury. Stripped of armour and tunic, his upper body was a mass of heavy bruising, lacerated where mail rings had been driven into the flesh, and his right shoulder was horribly swollen and discoloured around the damaged bone. It must hurt to move, even to breathe. No further explanation was required for his foul temper. It was astonishing to Ashhere that he had managed to keep going at all, especially considering that he must have been close to exhaustion before the battle even started. He knew from their time on the March that Eadwine was capable of extraordinary endurance – having recognised at an early age that he was not built for brute power and so devoted his attention to developing stamina instead – but even so, there had to be a limit somewhere.
“I’m not dead yet,” Eadwine announced, and proved it by sitting up, successfully this time – although he went very pale and his face glistened with sweat. Drust reached out an unobtrusive hand to steady him, surprisingly gentle for so large and powerful a man.
Eadwine looked round at the ring of anxious faces. Very nice of them to be so concerned, but why couldn’t one of them do some thinking for a change? He wanted nothing more than to lie down and never wake up, but it seemed that if he did not come up with a decision nobody else would. They would simply stay here like a flock of sheep waiting to be slaughtered. He wondered irrelevantly if sheep had a mythical afterlife, full of endless grass and – well, whatever else sheep dreamed about – and if that explained their willingness to queue up to be killed. His imagination skipped ahead to visualise an ovine Woden – a wolf in sheep’s clothing if ever there was one – and he had to fight down a burst of insane laughter. He cursed his inventive mind for its irritating tendency to wander down side tracks when he was overburdened with problems, just when coherent thought was most necessary.
“We can’t stay here,” he insisted, “a blind worm could follow our tracks, we can’t have covered more than a mile or two from the ford, and that wasn’t very far from the bridge. Those fellows have at least one fallen comrade to avenge, not counting the prospect of getting rich. They’ll be here soon, so we’d better not be.”
“We’ll defend you to the death,” Ashhere said stoutly, hoping he sounded braver than he felt. He was cold, wet, hungry, weary, sore and now very frightened. It was bad enough being out of his own country, disoriented and lost, and now it seemed that every man’s hand would be raised against them into the bargain.
“Apart from keeping Woden’s doorwardens busy, what does that achieve?” Eadwine said sharply. “One death is what they’re after. If you’re not going to give it them, we might as well at least make them work for it.”
“So what do we do?” Treowin asked. “You can’t ride.”
“No,” Eadwine agreed ruefully, “I’ve just proved that, haven’t I? I haven’t fallen off a horse since I was about six.”
Even sitting still he was dizzy, and he had discovered that any sudden movement of the head made the world spin alarmingly. Loss of blood, he supposed. He might be able to stay on a horse at a very gentle walk, but at a gallop or even a trot he would inevitably be thrown.
“I might be able to hold you in f
ront of me – ” Treowin began doubtfully.
“All the way to Lundencaster?”
“How far is it?”
“About two hundred miles.”
Shocked silence. Most of them probably would not have estimated that the world was that big.
“A horse litter?” Lilla suggested. “We could probably rig up something.”
“Too slow, too clumsy. Next time we’re chased we wouldn’t have a chance.” Eadwine took a deep breath. “I can walk, I think, if somebody will steady me. It’s much harder to track men on foot than horses. This is a very big forest. So we turn the horses loose and disappear into it.”
“I could track eleven men through a forest,” Lilla objected.
“They probably haven’t got a tracker as good as you.”
Lilla looked pleased at the praise, but still doubtful – as well he might.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Treowin announced. “They’re looking for Eadwine of Deira, right? So if they’re chasing him on the army-paths, they won’t waste time searching this forest and the rest of you will be safe.”
“But we’ve just said he can’t ride to Lun – what’s-its-name,” Beortred protested, puzzled.
“How do they recognise Eadwine?” Treowin demanded. He picked up Eadwine’s discarded mail shirt and pulled it over his head. “They’ve only seen him in battle. In armour. In this armour.” He pulled on the helmet and buckled on Eadwine’s sword. “How do I look?”
The resemblance, at least at a superficial level, was remarkable. Treowin had the same tall slender build, the same dark hair and short sparse dark beard. The mail shirt was as bad a fit on him as it had been on Eadwine, and the helmet obscured most of his face.
“Treowin, you can’t do this –” Eadwine began.
Treowin turned on him passionately. “You risked your life to save mine at the bridge. Why should I not do as much for you?”
“There’s a difference between a risk and a certainty. If Aethelferth thinks you’re me, do you know what he’ll do to you?”
“Yes,” said Treowin, and blanched. He drew the sword and went dramatically down on one knee. “I would gladly die for my King!”
The others promptly followed suit. Eadwine’s unhelpful mind conjured up another image of sheep, and again he had to fight down hysterical laughter. Well, he had been wishing someone would do some thinking. Be careful what you wish for. It was a good plan, better than anything he had thought of. But it had the appalling flaw that his oldest friend would be courting danger that was meant for him.
“You can’t do this,” he said again.
“You can’t stop me.”
Which was quite true. Once an idea had captured Treowin’s sense of the dramatic it was never any use trying to talk him out of it. Except by offering him a better role.
“If you’re going to fool them,” he suggested, “you might as well lead them as merry a dance as possible. Don’t get caught.”
“What?”
“The longer Aethelferth chases you, the more chance we have.” And the more chance you have, he thought to himself. “All the way to Kent if you can manage it. And then you can take service with Aethelbert.”
Treowin paused, clearly not having considered that escape was a possibility and that he might not be required to die after all. His retainers, who would be obliged to go with him, exchanged glances and brightened up noticeably.
“How do we get to Lundencaster?”
Yes! Eadwine thought. He traced a J shape in the leaf litter with his finger. “This is the River Trent.” He drew a horizontal line across the top of the J. “This is the Humber. We’re about here.” He pointed to a spot on the left side of the J near the top of the long arm. “You go south, staying on the west bank and keeping away from the actual shore. It’s border country, wooded, sparsely settled. Most likely you won’t see anyone. In the middle part of its course the Trent bends east-west, see?” He indicated the curve of the J. “So you’ll eventually find it lying across your path. It’s not such a big river there. Easier to cross. Fords and bridges. Once across, head south, and a bit east depending how far west you had to go to find a crossing-place, and all the army-paths lead to Lundencaster. The Brittones call it Caer Lundein.”
“Whose lands do we pass through?”
“All sorts. Mercians, Middle Angles, East Angles, some Brittonic odds and ends, and more Saxon and Jutish kings than maggots in a corpse. None of them amount to anything much. South of the Trent was Arthur’s empire, and it all fell apart after Camlann, so you’ll find an upstart king on every hilltop. But they’re all subject to Aethelbert of Kent. Insist you’re on your way to him and they won’t dare challenge you.”
Treowin grinned and counted the horses swiftly. “Eight. That makes us a fair-sized warband. A match for any southern nobody!” He glanced round the men. Five of them were his retainers. “You’ll come with me, obviously. You three –” this was addressed to Ashhere, Lilla and Drust, “I assume will stay with Eadwine? So that’s seven of us and one spare horse –”
“Two,” said Beortred, gruffly. “I’m staying.” He came to kneel beside Eadwine. “I served Lord Eadric twenty years. I’d be honoured to serve you.”
The mention of Eadric’s name and the reminder of his loss stabbed Eadwine as surely as the spear, except that this wound was not likely to heal so easily. The woods blurred in a haze of tears. But he must not break down, must not, must not…..
“Thank you,” he said, and if his voice was unsteady it was no more than might be attributed to his injury. “My brother was a great man.”
“Do not measure yourself by him,” Beortred said, and his voice seemed slow and sad, as if his world too had a great hole in it.
“If I could be one-tenth the man Eadric was,” Eadwine answered, “I would be content.”
He struggled to stand up, the woods tilted like the deck of a ship rushing down a roller in a storm, and a grey mist swirled across his vision, but Drust’s strong arm saved him from an undignified crumple to the floor.
Through the rushing in his ears, he heard Treowin bidding him farewell and his own voice answering. They clasped arms, probably for the last time, and then Treowin sprang lightly into the saddle, wearing the armour with far more panache than Eadwine felt he had ever managed.
“Death to the Twister!” he cried, and thundered away down the path, his retainers following with rather more effort and rather less style.
It seemed very quiet and very lonely when they had all gone. Another loss, Eadwine thought, another face never to be seen again. Of all the many imminent deaths he could foresee, somehow Aethelferth’s seemed to be the least likely. Pity that soldier at the ford hadn’t had a better aim, and then the whole mess would be somebody else’s problem. He ran a hand through his tangled hair. Even that small action tugged at the torn muscles in his side and made him flinch. He looked around for his tunic, already wondering how he was going to solve the problem of stooping to pick it up and then straightening up again without falling over, but Lilla had anticipated this and handed him the garment. Whoever had stripped it off had had the sense to rip neatly up all the seams on the right side, so he could pull it on without having to move his broken shoulder. The woollen cloth felt strange against his skin. His belt held it approximately closed around his waist, and a couple of large thorns fastened the front and back together at the shoulder, like a brooch clasping a woman’s dress. Another strip was ripped off his cloak – there was not much of it left now – and tied into a sling.
“It doesn’t seem right that you don’t have a sword,” Lilla said, and indeed it did feel strange without the familiar weight at his shoulder and hip. He had worn the sword since he was fourteen, ever since Eadric had presented it to him. It should have been his father presiding over the ceremony, of course, but he had been almost glad of the insult, for Eadric had made of the ritual something warm and affectionate as well as stern and formal, welcoming him to his new status as a prince of Deira. And n
ow the sword was gone, another link to his beloved brother broken, and one of bitter significance, for he was no longer a prince.
“I still have a dagger,” he reassured Lilla, and was relieved to hear that his voice sounded almost normal. At least he could control something. “Which will be enough, for I don’t think we’re going to do any fighting.”
They looked more anxious, if that were possible, for fighting was something they understood, something familiar in a world that was suddenly very big and very alien. They would, Eadwine thought, have been much happier being slaughtered by an enemy warband than embarking on an unknown journey into the enchanted forest. So would he, for that matter, and he cursed the stubborn pride that impelled him to play the game to its last move, as long as there was any move to make.
He looked up at the sky. He could not see the sun, but he could estimate its position from the shadows on the trees. It was a long way down towards the west. Two or three hours of daylight remained.
“We go north-west,” he told them. “To Elmet. Princess Heledd will give us refuge.”
If she ever got there, he thought, but it was no time to voice doubts.
They cheered up visibly, as they always did as long as someone seemed to have a firm plan. A sketchy deer path led out of the clearing in approximately the right direction and they followed it, Beortred and Drust beating down brambles and holding overhanging branches aside, and Lilla supporting Eadwine. Ashhere, still sore from his head wound, hovered helpfully.
“Isn’t this Elmet already?” Lilla asked.
“Too far south, I think,” Eadwine answered, in a faint voice.
“Where is it then?”
“I’m not quite sure. Either Middle Britain or whatever’s left of the South Pennines, I suppose.”
Paths of Exile Page 9