The retainer licked his dry lips nervously. He had heard a great many things about Aethelferth, but that was not among them.
“If you answer a few questions, I will let you go. I promise it. Do you understand?”
The man nodded, as best he could while lying flat on the floor.
“Where were you going?”
The retainer found a spark of defiance in his abject terror. This man had hurt his lord.
“I d-don’t know.”
Aethelferth twirled the spear and looked down at him with a contemptuous expression. The retainer felt as if someone was hooking his soul out through his eye sockets.
“This,” said Aethelferth in a conversational tone, “is a spear. If you do not answer my questions I personally will ram it up your arse and out through your lying mouth. Try again. Where were you going?”
The retainer’s mouth moved, seemingly without his own volition. “L-Lun – something – Lun – den – caster.”
“Why?”
“M-m-my lord t-told us to –”
“This is your lord?”
“Y-y-yes –!” sobbed the man.
“Is this –” holding up Eadwine’s helmet, “your lord’s helmet?”
“N-n-no –”
“Whose is it?”
“Eadwine – the atheling – the King – ”
The flash of anger in Aethelferth’s eyes would have put Woden to shame. “I am the King!”
The retainer could do nothing but freeze, like a mouse under a kestrel’s stare.
“And why was your lord wearing the atheling’s helmet?”
“H-he was d-dying –”
Aethelferth frowned. Treowin had seemed in reasonable health, until quite recently. “Your lord was dying?”
“N-no – lord – the atheling –”
Here was good news. They had all seen Eadwine struck down on the field. So the injury had been serious enough to kill. If Aethelferth could retrieve the body, he could fulfil his pledge.
“You saw him die?”
“N-n-no – lord – I-I mean y-yes – he c-c-couldn’t have l-l-lived –”
Aethelferth glared. But he could send someone to check. A recently-dug grave would be obvious, and the corpse should still be recognisable.
“Where did you leave him?”
“I d-d-don’t know, lord –!”
It was soon clear that this was true. All the information they could extract was that it had been in a forest near a river, which applied to most of Britannia.
Aethelferth glowered and the retainer cringed.
“A – a forest – near a r-river, lord,” he wept, “m-m-my lord didn’t t-t-tell me w-what they were called – I – I n-never w-went that far from h-home before – I d-d-don’t know any more. P-please let me go. You p-p-promised –!”
“So I did,” said Aethelferth meditatively. “Release him.”
The unhappy prisoner fell at Aethelferth’s feet, covered them with kisses, and fled. Aethelferth gave him a moment’s start, then strolled to the door and sent the spear speeding after him.
Outside, there was a cry, followed by a muffled thud.
“Disloyal creep,” Aethelferth said. He gave Treowin’s limp body a kick. “Bring him round. I want Eadwine of Deira, dead or alive.”
“Not in the mouth, you bloody fool,” Aethelferth growled. “How can he answer if you kick all his teeth down his throat?”
He planted another kick in Treowin’s stomach and Treowin doubled up on the floor, retching helplessly.
“Where is Eadwine?” Aethelferth repeated.
No answer.
“Tell us where he is and I will let you go.”
No answer.
Aethelferth grabbed Treowin’s hair and jerked his head up, staring into his eyes.
“Where is he?”
And Treowin spat a mouthful of blood and vomit and broken teeth full into Aethelferth’s face.
One of the guards, a fat red-faced man, looked on disapprovingly as the beating began again. Such a good-looking youth – handsome face, broad shoulders, narrow hips, long tapering legs – and such a mess they were making of him. Such a waste. The guard shifted from foot to foot and surreptitiously scratched at his groin. Such a waste. But he did not dare to intervene.
“Try another question,” said Aethelferth’s impatient voice. “Is Eadwine dead?”
Through a red mist of pain, Treowin recognised that this could be a way out for both himself and his friend. If he swore that Eadwine had died of his wounds and they had burned the body or thrown it in the Trent, Aethelferth would give up searching for Eadwine and would probably also give up questioning him. Eadwine would be safe from pursuit. But if Aethelferth stopped searching, then Deira too would accept that Eadwine was dead, and that would finish Eadwine’s chances of regaining the kingdom. There had to be rumours of secret survival, rumours of a prince – a King – who would return one day. Otherwise the remaining nobles and thanes would accept Bernician rule as sanctioned by the gods, and if Eadwine ever did return he would find himself fighting his own people as well as Aethelferth. He would fail, and Deira would never be restored.
“Is Eadwine dead?” repeated the harsh voice.
Through a bruised and broken mouth, Treowin hissed, “Eadwine – lives.”
And that was the first time that Treowin betrayed his oldest friend.
Chapter 10
“I can safely say this isn’t going to kill you after all, Steeleye,” Severa commented, removing the last of the stitches. She smeared honey over the wound, shaped a clump of sphagnum moss into a fresh dressing, and bandaged it firmly in place. It was early morning, a week after the bandit raid, and Steeleye was sitting with his tunic off on the bench outside the hut, patiently ignoring the chill so she could examine his wounds in daylight. He looked much more tired than she thought he should, and she had been concerned that the wound might be festering again, but in fact it was healing remarkably well. Was something wrong with the shoulder? She ran light, practised fingers along the collarbone. The swelling and bruising was much reduced and she could feel the bone clearly. “And this is doing well too. It’s not quite straight, but it’s not worth re-breaking the bone to set it properly. Unless you want me to –?”
“No, no,” came the hasty reply, “I think I’d prefer if you didn’t bother.” He winced as her fingers probed the break. “Will I get full use of the arm back?”
“Oh, yes. It’s not that far out.” She sat back on the bench, wiping her hands on a cloth. “I ought to display you in the village, you know. Proof of my skill.”
He laughed, pulling his tunic back on with a shiver. “Not until we leave. No-one should know we are here, if at all possible.”
Severa studied him intently, wondering what enemy he feared and if that was the reason for his strained and weary look. She was quite sure it was not her imagination. He seemed cheerful enough, but there were shadows under his eyes and a hollowness about his face that she did not like and could not explain, especially since the pain from his wounds should not now be sufficient to interfere with his sleep. Which meant something else was interfering instead. Fear of pursuit? But it must be a formidable enemy, to alarm a man who could deal so efficiently with six robbers, and in that case the others should surely also be worried, yet they clearly were not. They had all stayed on the hafod this morning, Gwen and Luned having taken the pigs and the dog having taken Blodwen along with the sheep, but apart from keeping a careful eye on her and Steeleye they seemed not to have a care in the world. Drust was picking the last of the crab apples from the top of the tree, Lilla was grubbing around in the vegetable patch and Ashhere was chopping firewood and whistling out of tune. Severa had tried to wheedle information out of them, but although they were not as reticent as Steeleye – particularly when they got carried away topping each other’s battle exploits – they clammed up promptly if she tried to turn the conversation towards their captain. He was a puzzle.
“Whatever you f
ear,” she said, with what she hoped was a reassuring smile, “you need not worry that it will find you here. We see nobody from Beltane to Samhain unless it’s a panicked father summoning me to his wife in labour and there aren’t any of those due for a few months. Here, let me help you with the sling.”
“No need, see?” He shrugged off her assistance and tied the knot dextrously with his left hand and his teeth. Seeing that they were finished, Drust came over with the crab apples and Severa borrowed his eating knife and started halving the fruit and flicking the grubs out of the cores. This attracted a flock of excited chickens, along with Ashhere.
“Crab apples go well with roast pork,” he observed hopefully.
Severa gave him a rueful smile. “Not here they don’t. They go with turnips and barley like everything else.”
Ashhere’s face fell, and Steeleye grinned. “Cheer up, Ash. Try hunting hares on the moors, if you’re still intending to join Blodwen and the sheep.”
“Hares?” Drust scoffed. “No chance. Anything faster than a slug can outrun him.”
“Sorry about the food,” Severa apologised, as she had every day for a week. “I wish I could do better for you. But there isn’t anything else.”
“That,” said Lilla’s voice with a gleeful air, “is where you’re wrong.”
He was holding out a pail in one hand with a triumphant expression. Severa peered into its depths, wondering what feast he had conjured up – and saw a wriggling mass of worms, grubs and a few slugs making determined bids for freedom up the sides.
Her voice was a horrified whisper. “You’re not serious –!”
A peal of masculine laughter drowned the words and Lilla held up his finished fishing hook, twirling on a length of thread.
“Who fancies trout for supper?”
“Ow,” Steeleye groaned, pressing his hand to his side, “don’t make me laugh, it hurts. Oh, Severa, if you could have seen your face!”
She was half-amused and half-annoyed. “How was I to know? For all I know Saxons think slugs are a delicacy.”
“Then your education has just been expanded,” Steeleye said severely. “But if it isn’t a stupid question, what do you do with the animals if you don’t eat them?”
“Everybody knows what Brittonic men do with sheep,” Ashhere grinned.
“Same as Saxons do with pigs?” Severa retorted.
“Och, that’s a myth,” Drust put in, in the manner of a dispassionate expert. “’Tis just what the women look like from a distance.”
Steeleye gave an exaggerated sigh and closed his eyes. “I knew it was a stupid question.”
“I expect you salt them for the winter,” Lilla said, poking slugs back into the pail.
Now it was Severa’s turn to sigh. “If only! No, I’m afraid his lordship and his warband take the animals. To eat, I believe, but I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
Steeleye looked surprised. “What, he takes all of them?”
She shrugged. “Nine out of ten. More in a bad year.”
“Sounds a bit steep for a food-rent. How come he’s entitled to so much?”
“Entitled? What his lordship wants, he takes. Food, drink, possessions, women, whatever.”
Lilla stared at her with an expression compounded from horror, pity and a fair degree of contempt. “Why do you put up with it?”
“He has a warband. What choice do we have?”
Lilla looked from her to his companions and back again. “We were a warband! But can you imagine what Deornoth would have done to us if we’d tried to take more than the lawful food-rent?”
Steeleye raised an eyebrow. “I should imagine we’d still be looking in the harbour for our heads.”
“Oh, and I’m the Empress of Rome,” Severa said, annoyed. Did they think she was a fool? “You fought off those robbers. You don’t seriously expect me to believe a few farmers with scythes and shovels could have resisted you?”
“You mean a score of large angry men with spears,” Steeleye corrected.
“Farmers with spears? Ridiculous.”
“Not where we come from. Every man over fourteen has a spear and a shield and follows his lord to war when called, except slaves, cripples and half-wits. They’re not as good as the full-time fighters like us, and it’s as well not to rely on them if you’re expecting heavy fighting, but you’d better not annoy them on their own patch unless you’re very sure of your strength.”
Lilla was staring at Severa in disbelief. “You mean Brittonic men don’t fight? No wonder you get walked all over.”
“Being able to fight back didn’t do you any good!” she snapped, and saw immediately that she had hit the wrong target. Steeleye flinched as at the handling of an open wound.
“I failed,” he said shortly. “That doesn’t mean –”
Not ‘we’, Severa noticed, but ‘I’. The others made frequent mistakes with the unfamiliar grammar, but not Steeleye, not in his native language. She interrupted hastily.
“Lilla, your bait’s escaping!”
Three slugs teetered uncertainly on the rim of the pail, groping at empty air. Lilla flicked two of them back in, but the third recoiled from his finger, tumbled over the edge and disappeared under a squawking rush of hens.
“There’s a lesson in there somewhere,” Steeleye remarked. “One minute he’s safe and sound in the undergrowth, chewing on a nice dead leaf, not a care in the world. Then he gets snatched up and dumped in this nasty cold pail full of worms and other riff-raff, no shelter, no food, far from home. Is he downhearted? No! he manfully sets himself to escape his prison. Inch by painful inch he struggles up the side. At last he reaches the top. Freedom! he cries. And then – ” he snapped his fingers. “Out of the pail and into the chicken. Who says the Three Ladies don’t have a sense of humour?”
The others laughed, and Severa gave him a baffled look. “Have you been at the mead or something?”
“No, he always talks like that,” Lilla reassured her, grinning. “The trick is to nod politely until he starts making sense again.” He picked up his bait pail. “How many trout does everyone want? Two each? Three?”
Drust looked at him scornfully. “Ye’ll not catch enough to feed the cat with yon feeble hook.” He ducked into the hut and returned with his spear. “Ye want tae watch it done properly, laddie?”
“I can catch more with a hook than you can with a spear!”
“How much will ye bet?”
They climbed the wall and jogged down to the river, still bickering cheerfully.
“Will they catch anything?” Severa asked. “I wouldn’t mind a change from pottage myself.”
Steeleye stretched gingerly. “Given there’s a bet involved, if there’s a single fish in the river it’d be well advised to hide under a stone and pray for all it’s worth. I wonder if fish have gods?”
“I’ll see what I can find on the moors,” Ashhere offered. He picked up his own spear and raced off up the track.
“Not slugs,” Steeleye called after him. “Even if it is going to disappoint a lady.”
“Clown,” Severa teased, smiling. As a defence mechanism it was undoubtedly effective. That flash of remembered pain had vanished as if it had never been. She slid off the bench. “Just you and me today, Steeleye. Will you lend me a hand in the dairy?”
There was now only one cow in milch, so the dairy work was winding down. Severa poured the new milk into settling pans, scrubbed the cheese mould and set about milling and pressing the curds that had been draining overnight. After a while, she said, “Steeleye – how does Drust catch fish with a spear? Is it possible?”
Eadwine looked up from skimming cream, a task at which he was becoming quite expert.
“He wades out into the river, stands very still until the fish think he must be a tree or a rock, and then – strike!” He made a stabbing motion with the spoon. “Like a heron.”
“Doesn’t he get wet through?”
Eadwine had perfected a one-shouldered shrug. “He ta
kes his trousers off. And if it’s very deep water, his tunic as well.”
He waited jealously for her to invent some task that needed doing by the river, but instead Severa merely smiled and murmured, “It’s a good job Gwen didn’t hear you say that.”
She finished churning the butter, washed it, packed it away into a barrel and scalded out the churn. Then she disappeared into her weaving shed, while Eadwine scrubbed the tables and checked the cheeses ranged on the shelves to see if any were fermenting or turning mouldy. Cheese in this state was available to be eaten on the hafod rather than taken back to the village for the winter. There was a certain amount of rivalry between Severa and Blodwen over who made the best cheese, so a neutral observer avoided a lot of unpleasantness. All the cheeses appeared to be fine, so it was devoutly to be hoped that Lilla and Drust were successful. Eadwine chased the cat out of the dairy, shut the door, and went looking for mushrooms in case they were not. There were two or three varieties that were easy even for a non-expert to recognise, and he came back to the hafod in the middle of the afternoon with a laden basket. He chased the cat out of the dairy again, blocked up a hole under one wall that he would have sworn was too small to allow access for a mouse, let alone a cat, and heard Severa swearing vigorously from the weaving shed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, putting his head round the door and then coming in so that he was not blocking the light.
Paths of Exile Page 17