by Paul Finch
“What the king has used before, he will use again. We must tread warily from here.”
Dagobert spun back around to face the visitors. Reynald and Drogo watched from either side of the Korred’s cage, the knight with his whip, the master with his key. They weren’t exactly grinning with triumph, but they didn’t need to.
“Do you … do you expect me to allow this monstrosity into the keep, Reynald?” Dagobert blustered. “Into my family home?”
“You have nothing to fear from the Korred,” Reynald replied in an even tone. “Unless you force my hand. Which I know you will not.”
7
The god Bran sacrificed himself so that our people might survive. Prodigious in size, he often came and fought for us. Many times, he would plunge our slaughtered warriors into his holy cauldron, which had the power to restore the dead to life. On occasion he would charm the hordes of our enemies with his exquisite skills on the harp, while at other times he would lay across rivers or lakes so that our war-bands could use him as a bridge. So vast was Bran that on one occasion he laid himself across the sea between our two islands, and allowed whole armies to pass over him. His death came when a poisoned arrow struck him on the foot. Realising that his time was nigh, he ordered our warriors to cut off his head, take it south and bury it on the crest of the White Hill, so that he might always watch for invaders.
“Assessing their strength, Trewan?” Eric said, joining his younger brother on the stockade.
Trewan, who’d been watching Reynald’s men pitch their tents along the fenland road, spun around excitedly and grabbed his brother in a bear-hug.
“Eric … I knew you’d come home eventually.”
“It’s good to have faith.”
“It was easy to have faith in you.”
Eric attempted to smile at that. They broke apart, and he peered down at Reynald’s camp. He was assessing their strength.
“Have you seen that thing they’ve brought with them?” Trewan said. “That monster?”
“I’ve heard about it.”
“It’s a horrible sight.” Trewan chattered brightly, as if he hadn’t found it horrible at all. “And there’s a stench that comes off it. Like bad piss.”
“There’s such a thing as good piss?”
“Rolf says they’ll let it loose on the Vikings if they land here.”
Eric mused on that. “Let’s hope the Vikings haven’t a crewman called Beowulf.”
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s an English poem.”
Trewan looked surprised. “The English have poems?”
“They did once.”
“Anyway, Rolf says we’ll be safe now that we have that monster.”
“Rolf, as always, is very astute.”
Detecting more than a hint of sarcasm, Trewan appraised his newly-returned brother more carefully. For the first time, he noticed Eric’s rags and unshaved bristles.
“You don’t seem very pleased to hear that,” the boy said.
“Well it’s difficult, Trewan.” Eric watched as one of Reynald’s men-at-arms emptied a bucket of bloody slops into a ditch, and couldn’t help wondering if that was the remains of the Korred’s last meal. “Of all the crimes we’ve committed in this country, there are some so vile that there can be no forgiveness for them.”
“Crimes?”
“Not against men, but against Man himself.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You won’t.”
“Lord Eric!” came a voice from the bailey. They turned and saw Turold looking up at them. “Your father awaits you in the main hall. You too, Trewan.”
“Me too?” Trewan looked amazed but also delighted. He scrambled down the ladder like an eager monkey. Eric followed more slowly. When he and Turold met in the bailey, the household champion’s grim expression said more than words ever could.
*
In the main hall, various tables had been laid with bread and fruit, and there was a delicious aroma of roasting meat. However, a family dispute was now raging.
“You know the king, father …” Rolf said.
“Yes, I know the king!” Dagobert retorted. “Better than anyone else here!”
Rolf hung his head. Anselm reddened in the cheek. Isabel and Ella sat primly at the central table. At the far end of the hall was the cage from which the Korred watched them. Even in this spacious room, its stench of musty urine was eye-watering.
“I was at Rouen when Harold Godwinson swore his perjurer’s oath that England was ours once the Confessor died,” Dagobert reminded them heatedly. “I was privy to all our liege’s plotting when it became apparent that England would not be ours unless we took it by force. I stood by his side at Bonneville when a thousand angry voices were raised against him. I do know the king!
Turold, Eric and Trewan now entered the hall, and proceeded across it to join the others. But Eric stopped short when he spotted the cage. Its silent occupant watched him with hot eyes and a streaming mouth.
“You’ve … you’ve brought it into the hall?” he said, astonished.
“The king’s orders,” Rolf replied.
“Which must always be obeyed, I suppose.”
Rolf glared at him, trying to intimate that they had eavesdroppers on the premises.
“What matter if he gives with one hand, and tears your guts out with the other?” Eric added.
“Damn you, Eric …”
“Reynald fitzJoulaix!” Gilbert called from the entrance. “Count of Lisieux! And his first knight, Drogo Giraldus.”
Reynald and Drogo entered, again with their helmets tucked under their arms.
Dagobert regarded them with undisguised hostility. Anselm fidgeted. Only Eric seemed unconcerned. He nudged Rolf and indicated the Korred.
“What hurt has this thing seen, do you imagine?”
“Hurt?” Rolf whispered, puzzled.
“I think this was once a man.”
“You were once a man.” Rolf stepped away from him, as if no longer seeking his association. “That doesn’t make you worthy of sympathy.”
Eric laughed to himself.
“Welcome, Count Reynald,” Dagobert said. “I trust you and your man there are comfortable in my kitchen? Apologies for that. It’s the only room I could spare.”
“We are a military expedition,” Reynald replied. “Comfort is not a requirement.”
“Be that as it may, you needn’t settle in.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed,” Dagobert said. “I shall be writing a letter to the king. In it, I will request that you and your …” and he glanced disgustedly at the thing in the cage, “… your pet be withdrawn from Wulfbury and deployed somewhere more useful. I will express my annoyance that you were ever sent here. I was rewarded with Wulfbury because I was deemed fit to hold this coastline and guard the mouth of the Wash. I am more than capable of this, and, if the king requires proof, I will send him Sveine Estrithson’s head in a bag should the Vikings land here.
Reynald smiled. “I’m certain His Highness will be very reassured.”
Dagobert peering at his guest, searching the sharp, aquiline features for some hint of mockery, but finding none. “Well …” He turned to the rest of the gathering. “Luncheon is served. Feel free to partake. It’s frugal fare, but this is Lent and the main birthday banquet will be held this evening. In the meantime, his grace the bishop and I will repair to my private chambers to compile our letter.”
Once Dagobert and Anselm had vacated the hall, the others moved one by one, half-heartedly, to the food tables, picking up plates and cutlery. Eric glanced one more time at the Korred; it made no sound, but regarded him balefully.
For a short time, the only sound was the spitting and hissing of logs in the hearth, for it was a cold afternoon and the servants had heaped fresh fuel on the embers of the previous night’s blaze. Reynald idled around the great hall before helping himself to the food, taking in its various adornments with what looked like a shr
ewd accountant’s eye. At length, he followed Ella to the table. She took only a small loaf and a few slices of cold ham, which she picked at delicately once she had returned to her seat. Reynald took relatively little as well.
“May I sit alongside you, my lady?” he asked her.
“Of course,” she replied.
“I take it you are the Lady Ella?”
“You’re correct, sir, and, might I say, very courteous.”
Reynald smiled his silken smile. “How well you’ve learned our language.”
“I had little choice in the matter.”
“Your father was Earl of Wulfbury, was he not?”
“He was.”
“After he and your brothers were slain, I understand your mother took poison?”
“That may be true.”
“Tragic losses for you.”
“Really?” she said. “I didn’t notice.”
“Forgive Lady Ella’s sarcasm, my lord,” Eric said, sitting across the table from them. “She finds it hard to talk lightly about the annihilation of her family.”
Reynald regarded the tattered, unshaved newcomer with detached interest. “You are another of Count Dagobert’s sons?”
“His third and finest,” Eric said
“And what do you do?”
“Me? Nothing.”
“He’s a knight,” Rolf said from the head of the table. “Believe it or not.”
Reynald looked Eric over more carefully. His eyes narrowed a touch, as he tried to peer through the bristles and the long, matted hair. “I seem to know you. Did you serve in your father’s household?”
Eric poured himself some wine. “During the invasion. No longer.”
“You’ve played no part in the pacification?”
“Well …” Eric made a self-effacing gesture. “I’ve had a little involvement.”
Reynald glanced at Drogo, who was standing nearby with plate in hand. Drogo also regarded Eric curiously, as if he was familiar to them.
Eric summoned one of the servants to bring a fresh pitcher of wine.
“You aren’t planning to get drunk today, I hope?” Rolf asked quietly.
“Is this not a birthday celebration?” Eric said.
“The circumstances are rather awkward,” Rolf replied, but before he could object further, a new pitcher was placed on the table and Isabel held forth her goblet, eyeing her husband boldly, as if challenging him to disapprove.
Reynald watched these family politics, mildly amused. But his gaze stole constantly back to Eric. At length he asked to be excused, and stepped away from the table to confer privately with Drogo.
“It’s a little early in the day for wine, don’t you think?” Rolf said to his wife.
“I’m thirsty,” Isabel replied.
“Me too, Eric,” Ella said. “I’ll take a cup.”
Eric nodded and poured. As he did, he looked over to Reynald and Drogo.
“Were you at Hastings, Lord Reynald?” he asked loudly.
Reynald glanced around. “I was.”
“And how about your ugly friend?”
“The Korred was not in our possession at that ...”
“Not him,” Eric said. “The really ugly one.” He nodded at Drogo.
Drogo’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing.
“We both were,” Reynald replied.
Eric stood up and walked towards them, chewing on a chicken leg. “Under which banner did you serve?”
“The Bloodied Boar,” Reynald said.
“Ah yes.” Eric paused. “Yours was the company that fought its way to Godwinson’s dragon standard, wasn’t it? Then hacked the English king to pieces as he lay dying?”
Reynald shrugged. “War is war. These things happen.”
“Yes. Still … what’s an everlasting stain on Normandy’s reputation?”
“Eric!” Rolf said loudly.
Reynald turned to Drogo. “Why don’t you check the men are bivouacked properly?”
Drogo nodded and strode away, vanishing through the main door.
“A useful fellow to have around, I’ve no doubt,” Eric said.
“You’re wise not to doubt,” Reynald replied.
“But ... this one.” Eric walked past him towards the cage. “The famous Korred.”
“You’ve heard of it?” Reynald said.
“I have. But I’m confused. In Cornish, doesn’t ‘Korred’ mean something small and weak?”
“I imagine it’s a kind of irony.”
Eric turned to face him. “You mean like ‘pacification’ when what’s actually meant is ‘persecution?”
“Eric!” Rolf shouted.
Eric hurled the chicken leg at the cage. It struck the bars, and the Korred gave a roar so bestial and blood-curdling that everyone in the chamber, save its master, flinched.
Reynald smiled. “The Korred knows nothing but carnage.” He spoke in low, intense monotone. “There has never been anything else in its life but that. When unleashed on the king’s foes, it kills and kills and kills. Man, woman, child – anyone who gets in its way.”
Eric pondered this. “Does it understand when you speak to it?”
“Who can say?”
Eric edged even closer to the cage. Ropes of hot drool hung from the monster’s mouth as it watched him approach. It was the embodiment of barbaric brute-strength. By its breadth alone, it almost filled the cage. The stench pouring off it was a nauseating mixture of blood, bones and dung.
“Eric, don’t get too close,” Isabel said, sounding frightened.
“Do you understand me, monster?” Eric asked it. “Do you know what I’m saying? How long would it take you to starve to death in there, should something terrible happen to your master?”
Reynald remained unruffled. He even smiled again. Before Eric could offer more insolence, Dagobert and Anselm returned bearing a scroll tied with ribbon.
“Lord Reynald, if you please,” Dagobert said brusquely. Reynald approached, and Dagobert handed him the scroll. “The missive is written. It bears my official seal, as you see. Both the bishop and I are signatories. See that one of your men delivers it promptly.
Reynald nodded thoughtfully – and took the scroll to the nearest table, where he held it in a candle-flame until it ignited.
“What the devil …!” Dagobert blustered.
Reynald faced him boldly, beating the last twists of charred parchment from his hands. “I serve the king, Count Dagobert.”
“You blaggard! I serve him too!”
“But I serve him loyally.”
“You dare accuse ...” Again, Dagobert had to be restrained by his sons.
“Drogo!” Reynald bellowed.
The main door crashed open as though to a battering ram. It slammed back against the walls, splinters flying, and Reynald’s knights and men-at-arms, with Drogo at their head, came clattering in. Multiple blades were already drawn.
Turold dashed forward, ripping his sword from its sheathe. “Any of these men puts a hand on Lord Dagobert, and he dies!”
The family had risen to their feet as one. Trewan was dragged backwards by Isabel. Anselm and Rolf were too startled to speak. Even Dagobert was momentarily astonished, and stood blinking at the intruders, before shaking himself and calling for someone to fetch his sword.
“Don’t be foolish, Dagobert,” Reynald said calmly. “Most of your household knights are absent. The few men-at-arms you have here are already under lock and key.”
“Lock and key?” Dagobert could hardly believe what he was hearing.
“While you’ve held family meetings and written letters no-one will ever read, we’ve been busy.”
“Reynald, I’ll have your bowels for this ...”
“Spare me your synthetic outrage, count. When it comes to rooting out rebels and traitors, I hear it so often.”
“Who do you call ‘traitor’ here?” Rolf demanded, nervously eyeing the drawn swords that encircled them.
Reynald assessed the family
carefully. “Can it be, I wonder, that you fools really aren’t aware?
“Aware of what, damn you?” Dagobert roared. “Splendour of God, I’ll know what this is about!”
“Father, peace,” Eric said, stepping forward. “It isn’t you, they’ve come for.” One by one, the members of his family glanced round at him. Eric approached Reynald. “So you recognised me?”
Reynald regarded him with a combination of mockery and disdain. “It wasn’t too difficult. Even with your newly acquired beard and lice.”
“What is this? Anselm said.
“This, your grace,” Reynald replied, “is the lawful arrest of your brother Eric, alias ‘Wakedog’, for armed revolt against the king.”
An amazed silence followed. Dagobert stared at his third son, utterly bewildered. Eric couldn’t return the gaze. Instead, he looked at Drogo, who ambled up to him almost casually, smiling a crooked, rotten-toothed smile – and launched a massive punch with his mail-encased fist. It locked firmly with Eric’s jaw, sending him spinning into starry oblivion.
8
We heard that the Tuatha were under attack from the more numerous sons of Mil. We celebrated when the Tuatha were destroyed and passed into the Sidhe to become spirit-beings. But we too, now with only Albion to call our own, were subjected to fresh assaults. Tribes came from the east. The first of these was a warlike folk under the leadership of Britto. Neither as strong nor as large as we, they nevertheless were numberless. They overran us in many places, driving what remained of our culture to the northern and western fringes of the island. These anonymous warrior-folk named themselves after their leader, and became the Britons.
All the cottages and long-houses were burning.
On the nearby road, the Norman army trundled past indifferently; knights, serjeants, archers, men-at-arms – all looked weary and browbeaten.
Eric wasn’t quite sure what made him detach from the host at that moment. But he dismounted and strode through what remained of the village. Ahead, amid swirls of rancid, greasy smoke, he saw three Breton mercenaries having their way with an English girl. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old, though it was difficult to tell. Her face was so brutalised that her own mother might have failed to recognise her – assuming her mother was still alive, which was unlikely given the heaps of hacked and gutted corpses strewing the narrow passages between the smouldering frames of the houses. The lass was laid in one such blackened ruin, her skirts and bodice torn away, her thin, white thighs splayed apart as a mail-clad brute thrust himself down on her, humping in a frenzy of lust and violence. The other two Bretons, already sated, stood around and laughed as they laced up their breeches. For her part, the girl had long ceased to scream and beg. Now she simply covered her eyes and wept.