The Edge on the Sword

by Rebecca Tingle

  “Lady,” said a soft voice. The man who had brought her to Red crouched down, and Flæd recognized him as one of the wagon drivers. “I know some healing,” he told her, “but the wound was too bad.” Quietly he began to tell her what had happened. “The envoy saw the raiders first, and made the rest of us circle behind while they were maiming the horses. He hid in camp. When they found the wagons they tore them apart, looking for something, and all of a sudden he rose up and ran at them alone. He killed three before they cut him down.” The man bowed his head in grief. “We were running to join him, just as he had planned. We surprised them from behind and killed five more before the rest put down their weapons. We bound up the prisoners, Lady.”

  Flæd could not speak. Her hand still rested on Red’s unmoving chest. He killed three before they cut him down…the wound was too bad. She felt a terrible wrench as she remembered how often she had wished that his constant watching would end, and that he would leave her. No, her mind keened, no, no. My protector, she squeezed her eyes shut. My friend. With a great effort she looked back at the man who had shown her the body.

  “Are any others dead from our party?”

  The driver shook his head. “No, but the raiders destroyed all of our horses,” he added. “None of us was meant to escape alive.”

  Gently, Flæd placed her warder’s big hand back on the ground beside him. On the firelit ground nearby lay a trampled blanket. She shook the dust and leaves from it and spread it over Red’s body, folding the cloth back neatly at his shoulders. “He is cold,” she faltered, not looking at her companion.

  Flæd stood and limped back toward the wagons. Some of her father’s retainers sat exhausted in little clusters. Others tended wounds, and one or two had returned to the wagons to begin salvaging what goods they could, scooping the spilled coins into empty grain sacks. She stopped beside the seat at the front of the wagon where she had sat the day before. Far back in the little space her mother had shown her, the box with Ethelred’s gifts lay undisturbed.

  “Lady!” a young man’s voice cried, and Dunstan came hurrying up. “The envoy charged me with your care, and I …” Flæd turned away from him, fighting back the anguish that crossed her face. She could not let the thought of Red silent on the ground overwhelm her now, she tried to remind herself. She knew that their little party must regroup—how should this be done? Someone among these men would know what to do. Someone would tell her how they should go forward from this evil place.

  “Please gather our men,” she said shakily. In a few moments the little travelling party had collected before her. Two retainers had blood on their clothes from wounds, and one driver showed a messy gash under one eye.

  “Are you well enough to continue?” Flæd asked him. The man nodded. Flæd searched the faces of the other men, looking for the one prepared to lead them. Some did not look back at her, peering nervously out into the night instead. Two younger thanes met her eye eagerly, but she shied away from their gaze. I’m not the one, she rejected the thought. One of these experienced fighters is the man you want. All of them were waiting to see what she would say. In a small voice she addressed the retainers. “How many prisoners have we taken?”

  “Five, my lady,” one of them answered, “and eight raiders are dead.”

  “There is one other, back along the road. I…I think it would be right to bury them,” Flæd said.

  “My lady,” said another man, stepping forward, “I know some of the prisoners’ speech, and they have spoken to me. They plead for their lives, and offer wergild in exchange for the life of the man they killed.” Wergild was legal payment for a freeman’s death—a fixed sum of money in exchange for a life. The retainer’s face hardened with anger. “They say that although he was clearly of common birth, he fought well. They offer two times the value of a churl.” A murderous silence gripped the little circle of men, and Flæd felt a flash of rage and sorrow like a hot sword in her chest. For several seconds she said nothing. Then, in an icy tone, she began to issue orders.

  “Have the prisoners bury their own dead. Give them water, and make a place for them in one of the wagons. They will come with us to Lunden.”

  “To Lunden, Lady?” It was the same retainer again—the one who had spoken to the prisoners. “Surely we must go back to the king’s burgh after this disaster! Some of us have travelled in this country, but none of our party can guide us like the Mercian envoy. He knew the fastest way to Lunden, and he would have known where we could best defend ourselves from more raiders. Now who will save us if they come again?”

  Flæd looked at the man’s frightened, querulous expression. This was not the leader she had hoped for. Would no other thane come forward?

  “Red told me we are half a day’s hard ride east of Lunden,” she said warily. “We have come more than half the distance of our journey. Do we not face as much danger in going back as we do in going forward?”

  “We should go back,” the dissenting retainer insisted, raising his voice. “We should return home.”

  Flæd tried to think. If their party reached the burgh, Alfred would surely muster a small army to escort her back to Lunden. But there was still every chance that they would be pursued on their retreat, and no West Saxons from the king’s burgh would be watching for their arrival, ready to come to their aid. Lunden was somewhere not far ahead of them—Red had thought that she could find it on her own, if she needed to. He had been trying to train me to protect myself, to do his job in case I ever found myself without him, Flæd remembered.

  “I believe Red would have wanted us to travel on to Lunden,” she said out loud. “Does anyone agree?” Silence settled over the men again, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

  “We do,” said one of the young thanes at last, speaking for himself and his companion. “We will come with you.”

  “And I,” said Dunstan, stepping forward to stand beside her. “I made a promise to the envoy.” That’s right, Flæd thought with a little sinking feeling, Red sent someone to help me. He wasn’t really sure I could take care of myself.

  “Foolishness,” the angry thane resisted. “We are too small already. Our company should stay together.”

  “We should,” agreed a stocky, broad-shouldered man with a bandaged leg. He limped to join the retainers clustered around Flæd, and one by one, the seven remaining men followed. Flæd looked at the scowling man who stood alone opposite her.

  “Please,” she said, “we need your sword, your skill with the prisoners’ language. Our company is small,” she echoed his plea, “we should stay together.” Slowly the man uncurled his fists. Stone-faced, he nodded.

  Still no one else spoke, and Flæd wondered futilely who would tell her what she ought to do next. Finally she looked to the two drivers. “Find as many of the raiders’ horses as you can,” she told them. “We will need mounts and teams by daybreak.” Flæd stepped back and spoke to all of the men again. “Ethelred must be told of this attack. Perhaps you can decide among you who should ride ahead to Lunden. The rest of us must be ready to ride at dawn.”

  Flæd ignored the murmur of voices behind her as she walked away. Her hand went to her throbbing face, which she had just begun to feel again. She made her way to the place where she had been sleeping before the attack. Her possessions lay in a clutter among those of her warder, the neat bundles ripped apart and scattered. Beneath her foot she felt something hard and square. Stooping down, she discovered her handbook. Inside the begrimed leather of its binding, she found that the illuminated æsc and the maxim in Father John’s hand had taken no damage. In the moonlight which now bathed the camp, Flæd stared at the writing. A woman must shine, cherished among her people…she must know what is wise….

  A movement caught her eye. Closing the book, Flæd took a step forward. A tiny shadow lifted from the grass, and then another—wisps caught on the little night wind. There in front of Flæd lay the remnants of her sisters’ gift. Flæd watched the last downy bits of bulrush seed blow aw
ay from the torn cloth. Then, slowly, she shrank down to the ground and dropped her book. Curling onto her side, she laid her cheek on the tattered fabric and brought both hands up to cover her mouth, stifling sobs which would not stop.

  21

  Fortune’s Wheel

  WITH A LOUD CRACKING SOUND THE LEAD WAGON LURCHED TO one side. A splintered end of the front axle tore through the wagon bed, and Flæd and the driver were thrown into the mud as the horses plunged and the wagon twisted.

  “Cut the traces!” the driver screamed, scrambling to reach the harness with his own knife. In a few moments the horses were freed, and Flæd and the thanes gathered around the ruined wagon.

  “Too heavy in this mud,” said the retainer who had argued the night before and whose name, Flæd had learned, was Osric. He kicked a wheel sunk to its hub in muck, and looked around them in disgust. “We still don’t know where we are, and now we can’t move.”

  “Can we save it?” Flæd asked the driver, who was emerging from beneath the wreck. The man spread his hands.

  “In the burgh maybe, a wheelwright with his tools could. I can’t fix it here. The attack must have damaged it.” Flæd bit her lip, looking behind them where the other wagon waited. The five prisoners and the retainers assigned to guard them sat gloomily in the bed. Oat and Apple slouched in harness. All the surviving goods of her dowry had been loaded into this lead wagon, along with one other large, muffled bundle—Flæd’s mind still shied away from this terrible proof that her warder was lost to her.

  But she would have to face it now. Somewhere in the woods around them, enemies could still be coming to overtake them. Her party would now have to shift the burden of passengers and cargo, trying not to lose even more time. Flæd spoke quietly to the driver—could the harness be altered for four horses? A new wagon tongue, he hemmed, some makeshift fastenings…She left him to it, and picked her way through the mud to stand in front of Osric.

  “We need the prisoners to load the other wagon with the most valuable of these goods. You speak their language—you could direct them.”

  “Yes, Lady. But who will direct us out of this forsaken place?” he said angrily. “Does any one of us know this country?”

  “We travel east to Lunden,” Flæd said in a level tone. “We will follow the course of the river.”

  “When we find it again,” Osric muttered, squinting into the woods around them. He glimpsed Flæd’s sober countenance, and jerked up sullenly. “All right. I will talk to the prisoners.”

  “I thank you,” Flæd said without visible emotion. An inner part of her, which she was determined to show no one, was humming with nervous anger. She hated this vile sparring with Osric, who seemed to be the spokesman for most of the remaining West Saxon party. But she was forced to deal with him—her party needed every one of its remaining fighters. With the prisoners and several of the thanes now forced to go on foot, their journey would take far longer than the day’s travel they had planned. And the longer it took to reach Lunden, the more danger they faced.

  When they had set out at dawn, she had told herself with as much certainty as she could muster that they would see Ethelred in a matter of hours. Now as her men began to unload the ruined wagon, Flæd looked back at the path they had followed. Silently she admitted that there was no way to tell exactly how close they were to Lunden. What if they wandered for days before they found the way?

  Flæd could already see a terrible choice before her. The crowded remaining wagon and the doubtful length of their journey…nearer to Lunden, they might have been able to send Ethelred’s men back to bring her warder’s body. But now, out of room in their single wagon, unsure of their location, and not knowing when anyone might be able to return to this spot, they needed to find a way to show respect for Red. Flæd turned to Dunstan, the young retainer who had come to find her after the attack.

  “Gather the men who can be spared from the work here,” she told him, “and please”—her tongue stumbled over the words—“bring…the body of the Mercian envoy.”

  They buried Red in a sorry grave dug with knives and hands, and piled a cairn of stones above him when they had finished. With filthy, scraped fingers Flæd placed her last stone, and knelt looking at the resting place she had made for her guardian. She had wanted to bring his body to Lunden, so that his death could be remembered with honor and ceremony. Now she would only be able to tell Ethelred what his splendid thane had done to save her. It seemed a poor gesture in return for Red’s noble care.

  As the others made their way back to the wagons, Flæd stayed for a moment. No one will see me, she thought as she laid her palm on the earth beside her warder’s grave. A hot tear fell onto her hand and ran between her fingers into the dust, then another. She had never truly merited his loyalty. Perhaps, she told herself harshly, that was why she had lost the one friend she would have had in Mercia.

  When Flæd left the little clearing, her face was scrubbed dry, her mouth set in an unmoving line. On her way she stooped one more time to pick up two dull metal rings, one smaller, and one larger, which had been carefully set aside.

  With almost half its members walking, the West Saxon party travelled even more slowly, halting several times to send out riders in search of the river. Flæd had gone to check her horses’ improvised harness during one of these stops, and as she came around the wagon she heard low snatches of venomous speech.

  “…never make it to Lunden before week’s end at this rate…stupid to take prisoners, should have killed them all after what they said about the envoy…call her ‘Lady,’ but curse me if I’ll follow her to my death…not her place to lead us.”

  Flæd shrank back beside the wagon where the cluster of thanes could not see her. The voice was Osric’s, but the circle of listeners around him had included three battle-hardened thanes, and even one of the young retainers who had supported her last night. They’re just listening; it doesn’t mean they’re all with him, she told herself. But it was ugly and troubling to hear such things. She hadn’t even been sure she was their leader. I’m a person to blame when things go badly, she thought with an acid smile—that is the pleasure of my first command.

  Late that afternoon they moved a little further in what they thought was the direction of the river. As night fell, two more scouts were sent to find what they could before morning, and the rest of the company drearily made camp.

  Flæd had seen to her horses, and then found a place to make her bed in the growing darkness. There would be no fire on this warm night, and the party would sleep early, and rise at first light. Dunstan had arranged his things as close to her as politeness would allow, and she noted the seriousness with which the young man approached the task of guarding her. He will carry out his promise to my warder, she thought, whether I want his company or not. Anyhow, tonight she felt glad to have him nearby. The two of them ate their ration of food and drank water from a spring they had passed earlier that day.

  “My father says that Lady Fortune’s wheel is like the wheels of our wagons,” Flæd spoke first, softly, so that only Dunstan could hear her. “And he says that people are arranged all around it—on the spokes, on the rim, close to the hub. Some of us on the outside, we ride Fortune roughly, sometimes down into the mud.”

  “Where we break an axle now and then, eh, Lady?” Dunstan said ruefully.

  “And sometimes the rough ride takes us up into happiness and prosperity. It changes again and again. But other people,” she said, pulling her blankets closer, “ride the spokes closer to the hub, and things are never so low, or so high for them.”

  “What’s at the center, Lady?”

  “At the center is God, I think,” she replied, gingerly touching her still-swollen jaw. “All my life I have ridden amid the spokes, and now suddenly I am on the rim.”

  “And in the mud, you are guessing?” Dunstan said, leaning to put his hand over hers. She nodded.

  “There is ill will in our company.”

  “They all have a duty
to protect you.”

  “That is the only reason they have stayed with me this far, and it will not keep them here if worse trouble comes. I want to stay alive—I want us all to stay alive.” She stood, straightening her clothes. “I should go talk to the others.” He nodded, getting up to come with her, as she had hoped he would.

  Four faces stared back at her on the other side of the campsite. The two young men who she had thought might take her part again were not present. They had been assigned to watch the prisoners tonight. She would have liked to see the face of the old limping thane who had supported her the night before, but he had been chosen to ride for help—not to Lunden, as Flæd had suggested, but back to her father’s burgh. Ethelred was closer and would come sooner, she had argued. The aldorman knew they were coming, Osric had shot back, and would already be searching for them. They would double their chances by sending a messenger to Alfred, he promised his companions.

  That had been her hostile conversation with these men this morning, she thought with a sinking feeling. What would they say to her after the day’s latest disasters? She drew a long breath.

  “If our scouts come back without finding the river,” she began bluntly, “what should we do?”

  “Several things, Lady,” Osric growled from the middle of the gathering. “Rid ourselves of the prisoners, first of all, then find ourselves some more horses, then get home.”

  “We need more horses,” Flæd agreed in a guarded tone. “But as for the men we captured, Ethelred will want to question them.” She thought of what she had heard in her father’s council room. What should she tell these retainers about the rising threat at the western border? “Ethelred and my father,” she said, choosing her words with care, “suspect that the Danes and northern Welshmen have formed an alliance. Our prisoners might know something about that.”

  “Our prisoners are Danish,” Osric snorted, “stupid as oxen. I promise you none of them could speak a word of Welsh.” Flæd felt surprised. She had kept away from the captured raiders, not wanting to look at the men who had cut her warder down. Now she realized she knew almost nothing about them.