It had become a bright, cool day, and when the sun had moved high in the sky, Flæd finally turned her dreary face away from the countryside and took up the pouch Edward had given her. It was so light it felt empty, but when Flæd looked inside she found a single folded sheet of vellum. Carefully she spread the page out on her lap. In blotted, slightly smudged writing she found the following message:
Greetings Flæd. Father John has been teaching me to use a reed pen and ink. This is my first message, and I am sorry about the blots. Father John says I may have vellum to write to you whenever there is a rider going to Mercia. You could send a message back in my leather pouch to keep it safe. This writing has taken a long time. Wulf and I will run to bring it to you. Send a message back to me soon. Edward.
The letters grew more blurred beneath Flæd’s gaze, and she quickly folded the note and put it away. Edward had not forsaken her, but for now the thought did not make her feel any better about leaving home.
That night Flæd sat next to Red, staring into the little fire they had made at the center of their camp. Around them the retainers and drivers were settling down for the night. The horses were picketed at the edges of the camp, or tied to the wagons which had been drawn up a short distance from the fire. Flæd was remembering the smearing of Edward’s uneven script—the ink had not yet dried when Edward hurried to fold his message. She thought of her brother running after her with his first letter, and then of the gifts from her father and mother and sisters. Clenching her jaw, she pushed back the sadness she could feel welling up. She turned to Red.
“Tell me what Mercia is like, so I will know it when we get there.”
Red poked at the fire with a charred stick. “We came into Mercia before sunset,” he told her.
Flæd looked around her, surprised enough to forget her grieving for a moment. “This is Mercia?” They had gone a little way from the river to make their camp, but had she not known better, Flæd could easily have imagined that they were in the woods just outside her own burgh. “How is Mercia different from Wessex?” she demanded.
“They’re not so different,” Red admitted. “Even their greatest kings have been like each other.” He reached into a pouch on his belt and drew out a single silver coin. He held it out for Flæd to take. “There is your father’s image. That writing on the edge names him Rex Anglorum—King of the English People.”
“It does,” Flæd agreed, fingering the letters.
“Another king held that title, and marked it on his money, long before your father’s father’s birth,” Red said. “Offa, King of Mercia, Rex Anglorum. Offa overcame the Danes, made law among Mercians and Saxons, even conferred with Charlemagne.” Red dropped his stick into the fire. “This will help you understand Mercians.” He settled back against the pile of gear behind him. “Our name, mierce, means ‘boundary folk.’ Alfred is king of English Mercia now, so we don’t hold our borders against him. But like Offa, we keep our borders strong against the Danes, the Welsh—anyone who would be our enemy. Alfred trusts Ethelred to do this.”
Feeling the nervous discomfort that always accompanied her thoughts of Ethelred, Flæd remembered the man’s heated discussion of the threat at his western border. Mercians were boundary folk, Red said. She began to understand Ethelred’s passionate talk in the council chamber.
Flæd looked up at the clear sky, thinking of the rainy night when she and Red had sat, like this, by a little fire. He had spoken easily to her that evening. Would he be open to her queries again, she wondered.
“Is Ethelred…a good man?” She brought out the words with difficulty. Red threw a bit of bark into the fire.
“After Burgred,” he said, “I didn’t think I’d trust another man to lead me.” He snapped another piece of bark between his fingers, then turned to look directly at her. “When they brought me back to Mercia, they took me to see the aldor-man. He said”—Red swallowed, shifting his gaze—“Ethelred said he would keep looking for my girls, and he has. He is a good man.” There was a pause as the two of them looked silently into the fire again.
“I told you once that I used to listen to poetry in the great hall, in the time when I was proud to be Burgred’s hearth-companion,” Red said unexpectedly. Flæd sat up straighter to listen. “One night the king asked the man who entertained us to recite a few maxims, like the ones your own father loves.” Flæd bobbed her head in recognition, remembering the little handbook with its words about the duty of a woman. “One of the maxims the poet chose I have never forgotten,” Red went on. “The man said, ‘The shield must be at the ready, the javelin on its shaft, the edge on the sword, and a point on the spear.’
“Those were not the most beautiful of verses,” her warder acknowledged with a twitch of his mouth, “but they said something I believe is true. All these things we use—the shield, the spear, the sword—belong in their proper places, sharpened or made strong, ready when we need them. That night I thought, ‘I am the edge on Burgred’s sword.’ I felt ready in my place, like a polished weapon, set to strike where my lord wished.”
“But then he wronged you,” Flæd said quietly.
“Yes, and that changed nothing,” Red returned, startling her with the intensity of his voice. “I became Ethelred’s trusted man, the edge on his sword, still ready in my place when I was needed.” Red turned to face her again. “If someone makes a choice for us, and we don’t like it—maybe we even hate it—it’s still our duty to keep ourselves sharp, or strong, to make ourselves ready for whatever task comes to us.”
The edge on the sword. To stay sharp and strong, ready in one’s place in spite of trouble. Her warder could see that she was afraid, Flæd knew, and he was trying to help.
Red glanced around them with the wariness he had shown all day. “It will be better,” he said, almost speaking to himself now, “when you are safe in Lunden with Ethelred.” Something in his tone told Flæd that he was thinking of a threat more ominous than her dejected spirits.
“Is there still danger from the Welsh front?” Flæd asked in a low voice.
Red sighed. “No new sign of trouble,” he answered, “but Danes don’t give up so easily, nor do Welshmen.” For a moment he prodded the fire, which was burning down to red coals. The he reached into the pile behind him and pulled out a heavy cloth sack.
“I have something for you,” he said to Flæd. “Didn’t know when to give it.” Red untied the mouth of the sack and drew out the mail shirt Flæd had worn in practice. He brought out a leather cap set with plates of metal, and a belt to go around the mail shirt which held a dagger in a plain leather sheath. “There’s a shield for you in the second wagon, and a light sword,” he said, “in case you need them.”
Flæd felt the weight of the mail shirt across her legs where Red had draped it. She drew the dagger from its sheath and tested its edge against her thumb. A hairline of blood appeared where she had touched the blade.
“You think there might be an attack,” she said, a chill running through her.
“I promised that you would reach Mercia safely,” her warder said, returning the things to the sack and placing the bundle beside her. He had done his best to ensure that she and all those with her were prepared for surprises, Flæd realized. Because Red had requested it, their party of ten retainers in addition to herself and Red was half the size of the one Ethelred had brought to their burgh—her escort travelled quick and light. Yet there were still enough fighting men to mount a defense, in spite of the fact that the king’s other advisors had not anticipated trouble on the journey.
Red got to his feet and retrieved his sword. “I have the first watch,” he said brusquely. “Sleep well, Lady.” She lay back, watching him adjust his armor and check his weapons. Safe, she thought, turning onto her side and closing her eyes, I’m safe with him.
Red’s feet made the softest of sounds crossing the flattened grass of their campsite. As he passed her, he bent down to touch her hair with his callused hand.
20
&
nbsp; Blood Money
THE SOUND OF BOOTED FEET RUNNING TOWARD HER WOKE HER before she heard the scream.
“Quiet, Lady,” Red’s voice whispered tensely into her ear as he pulled her to a sitting position in the dark and dragged the mail shirt over her head. “Come with me.” Thrusting the helmet and dagger into her hands, he propelled her toward the wagons. Flæd heard another scream. The noise was not human, her racing mind told her. The horses on the outskirts of the camp were making the awful sounds.
As they reached the first wagon, Red grabbed his own dagger from his belt and slashed the tethers which bound Oat and Apple there. With one hand he snatched at the short strap still hanging from Apple’s halter, and with the other he gripped Flæd’s arm, pulling her closer.
“Raiders,” he hissed. “They’re coming in a half-circle”—he indicated the sweep of the attack with a gesture from the north to the south edges of their camp—“moving down the hill. Get out”—he boosted her silently onto Apple’s back—“and don’t let them see you. Watch the camp from the grove we passed at sunset. If strangers ride out, don’t come back. Go east when you can, along the river on to Lunden. A hard ride will bring you there in half a day.” For a paralyzed moment Flæd stared down at her warder. “Go now!” he insisted, jabbing her horse in the ribs.
Apple surged forward, and Oat wheeled to run with him. With her head lowered among the blowing strands of Apple’s mane, Flæd clung to the grey horse, heading for the thicket Red had ordered her to reach. Ahead of her in the darkness she could see a large black shape on the ground. The shape heaved, and another dreadful scream cut through the night. Horror-stricken, Flæd realized that she was looking at one of the camp’s horses lying at the end of its picket, its hamstrings sliced through. Nearby she could see the shadows of two men closing in on another horse as the animal jerked at its rope in terror. Almost without thinking Flæd wound her fingers tightly in Apple’s knotted mane and slipped down, hanging on the side of her galloping horse farthest from the figures she had seen. She heard shouts in a strange language, heard the sound of men running behind her mount, and then felt her horse swerve as a rock thudded into his side. Several other rocks struck the ground around the two running horses, then nothing more.
Flæd’s arms and abdominal muscles were burning. She would have to release her grip or regain her seat in the next few strides. Biting back a groan, she pulled her torso over the horse’s back and swung a leg across. The men had disappeared behind them, and as she urged Apple to even greater speed, Flæd realized that they had been chasing her two horses out of camp, not trying to catch them. She had not been seen.
Red had told her to take cover, and crouched over Apple’s neck, Flæd could think of nothing she wanted more than a place to hide. But another idea was growing painfully inside her. He trained me, her mind repeated again and again, he trained me to fight. Through her fear she remembered days in the pasture, the balance and counterbalance of weapons, Red’s quiet voice, her muscles growing stronger. She should follow her guardian’s orders, shouldn’t she? Red had prepared and sharpened her for combat—this thought rose through her fear as the shouts of the battle rose through the night—but he had insisted that she flee this battle.
Veering onto the road with a sob of frustration, Flæd kicked Apple into a hard gallop away from the fighting. Looking back over her shoulder toward the camp, she could see the distant shapes of men struggling with each other, and somehow she could not feel relief at leaving them behind. Then her stomach gave a lurch—someone was running away from the camp toward her. No, the figure was not heading directly along her path, she saw with another turn of her head. He appeared to have picked up a trail leading through the bracken. It looked like his course would take him into the trees north of the fighting.
Possibilities flashed through Flæd’s head. This was almost certainly not a member of the West Saxon party. A deserter from among the raiders? He was more likely to be a messenger, she thought, sent to bring back more attackers. Red could not be aware of anyone leaving the battle—he was still back in the thick of the fight….
A stab of anger pierced Flæd’s fear. Someone had been sent to bring fresh warriors down upon her outnumbered band. More violence against their peaceful party—against her companions! And she had been sent away, commanded only to save herself. She would not do it. With a plunging turn she brought Apple around and urged her horse after the running man. Maybe on horseback with her dagger, she thought as she grasped its hilt with shaking fingers, she could stop him.
Flæd and Apple came to the place where the man’s little track left the main road, and Flæd pushed her horse to keep their speed along the narrow way. Soon trees were whipping against her arms and Apple’s sides, and the runner had come into view again. Flæd and her mount lunged forward. She was gaining on the running man, and at last he noticed her. But now Flæd had come very close. Dagger in hand, she leaned over to swipe at him just as Red had taught her to do with the practice sword. The man whirled around, ducking beneath Flæd’s stroke. His fingers dug into her leg, pulling her and her mount off balance. She lost her seat and tumbled sideways, striking the ground hard with one shoulder before Apple’s heavy body crashed down after her. A flailing hoof clipped her chin, and with an awful jerk she found stillness, blackness.
Flæd opened her eyes and saw the moon shining down on her through fronds of bracken. Near her ear a horse blew softly through its nose, and she heard the sound of big teeth cropping grass. She tried to roll over and gasped at the pain she felt in her neck and jaw. With a moan she sat up. Oat and Apple were grazing at the edge of the path a stone’s throw away from her. Shakily she stood and took several steps before she stumbled over something on the ground.
A body lay in front of her. Flæd scrambled backward in fright, but the figure did not move, and slowly she crept forward again to take another look. In the moonlight she recognized the face of the runner she had tried to stop, and she could see that his neck was broken. Around him the ground cover was flattened, the earth churned by hooves. Flæd guessed that the man had been caught beneath her falling horse.
Could she have brought herself to kill him with her knife if she had been given the chance? She had aimed a blow at him from horseback, she remembered as she backed away and struggled to her feet, stomach churning. To kill a man—that was what her training had taught her. But she had never actually tried it before.
The horses snorted nervously as she limped up, but Flæd caught their halters and spoke in a low voice to calm them. When they quieted, she stripped off her belt and sawed it into two leather thongs, which she looped through each horse’s halter. Cautiously she led the pair a few lengths further into the bracken, until they reached a little thicket where she snubbed their heads up close to the trunk of a tree. She left them there and crept back to the edge of the road.
Another rider was coming. Still gripping her dagger, Flæd crouched down, watching the figure on the road draw closer. She shifted the knife in her hand, finding a better grip. The rider’s face was still in shadow, but now on the horse’s bridle and saddle she could see the strange shapes of unfamiliar decorations. This was not a mount she knew. Silently Flæd edged to one side as the rider reined up at the site of her fall. The person dismounted with a creaking of leather and ring mail, peering out at the broken undergrowth.
Then Flæd was behind him, pricking her knife into the back of his neck. She shook with the horror of what she thought she would have to do. The man was suddenly very still. “Lady?” she heard him whisper as he stood there rigidly. “Is that the lady Æthelflæd?”
“Who are you?” she whispered with swollen lips, bracing her arm for the thrust.
“It’s Dunstan, Lady, Dunstan from your father’s burgh. The envoy from Mercia—Red—he sent me to find you.”
“Red sent you?” Flæd asked, stepping around the man and looking at his face for the first time. She recognized the young retainer—it was Dunstan, just as he had claimed. �
��Where is my warder? What happened at the camp?” she demanded, pain throbbing through her face with every word.
“Lady he is badly injured,” Dunstan said. “We have taken this raiding party, but there may be others. He sent me on this captured horse….” Flæed was already crashing through the brush toward her horses. “Lady!” he cried as she plunged out of the thicket on Apple’s back, Oat close beside them, “Lady Æthelflæd, wait!”
Flæd hardly recognized the camp as she galloped through its outskirts past the bodies of horses who now lay silent and unmoving. The bundles of possessions where men had bedded down for the night were strewn everywhere. Torn cloth, shattered boxes, and broken earthenware pots and cups littered the ground. Flæd headed toward the wagons and the center of camp where a fire still burned. One of the wagons had been tipped on its side. Sacks of grain had been ripped apart, their contents spilling out onto the ground. Two of the boxes of silver lay smashed in a wagon bed, surrounded by a sea of coins. Flæd slid down from Apple’s back and ran toward the campfire, where she could see men moving around several prone forms.
“Where’s Red? Where is he?” she said frantically as she burst into the firelit circle.
“Lady Æthelflæd!” said one man, running to catch at her hand. “You are unharmed? Your face …”
“Where is Red?” Flæd said in a whisper that felt like a shriek. Dread filled her as she saw the man hesitate.
“He is here,” the man said at last, “on the other side of the fire.” Encircling her shoulders with his arm, he led her around the flames. There on the ground lay Red, his face gaunt in the flickering shadows. Blood soaked his short hair, and the leather cap which had been removed and placed beside him showed a great tear on one side. Flæd knelt down and reached for her warder’s hand. She felt a strange stiffness in his fingers. She touched his cheek. Even close to the warmth of the fire, it was growing cold.
The Edge on the Sword Page 14