The Wolves of Dumnonia Saga Box Set

by Peter Fox

  Idiot.

  The smith poured Saeric a second round and helped himself to one too. ‘My name is Heremund of Scirburne,’ he said. ‘Blacksmith to the king’s ealdorman.’ He nodded at Saeric. ‘And you?’

  Saeric said nothing, knowing that he could not risk anyone learning his name or that of his master, especially if this man were a smith to the King of Wessex! It was one thing to be an escaped slave, quite another to be a murderer. Either way, it meant that he was doubly marked for immediate execution.

  Heremund cocked his head. ‘You’ve not been out long, have you? Two days? Three?’ He nodded at Saeric’s left leg. ‘Although perhaps less with that ankle. You need to get that seen to, or it’ll cripple you. Might even be too late, by the look of it. We need to check that shoulder of yours too. I’ve been trying to work out what caused that wound.’

  Three days, Saeric answered in his head, not hearing the smith’s comments about his injuries. It had been a sudden decision to escape; an opportunity snatched in the heat of the moment, although just what had tipped the balance, Saeric couldn’t say. He’d had dreams and visions of his brother before then, but the one that had arrived the night before his escape had been somehow different. It had lingered all through the following morning, gnawing at Saeric’s consciousness, so that when Baldwyn’s fair-haired daughter, Eanswith, had come to him in the byre, he had felt a wave of deep, purposeful anger that had not been present before. She hadn’t noticed the change in him when she had unhitched his collar from the chain that tethered her slave to the building’s centre-post. God only knew what she had intended to do with Saeric this time, but it was clear she planned to take her plaything somewhere away from the hall. She had that maniacal glint in her eye that told him she was already excited in anticipation of whatever new depravity she had devised. Perhaps she had decided to kill him at last, and something deep within Saeric had understood this and had awoken the voice that had burst into his head and shouted at him to defend himself.

  She’d had a length of cord coiled over her shoulder, and it was this that gave Saeric his chance. As Eanswith struggled with the pin in Saeric’s collar, the coil slipped from her shoulder. She instinctively tried to stop it falling, and in so doing, stumbled for a moment, and that was when Saeric acted. He slammed his forehead into Eanswith’s face, and they collided with a crack. Eanswith staggered backwards, crying out in shock and pain. Saeric saw a shovel leaning against a stall next to him, and he snatched it up and swung it as hard as he could at the woman’s head.

  The iron tool hit Eanswith with a resonant clang, and the Saxon flopped sideways into a heap on the muck-smeared floor of the byre. Saeric stood with the shovel in hand, blinking in shock. Was she dead? She didn’t seem to be breathing. Saeric dropped the shovel and quickly dragged her into a stall and dumped her behind one of the dying cows, keeping an eye over his shoulder in case someone had heard the noise and came to investigate. He then used Eanswith’s cord to bind the woman’s ankles and hands together and stuffed a rag into her mouth in the off chance she still lived. Then he shuffled back to the entrance and checked outside. He saw nothing and no one.

  His next problem was the short iron chain that linked his ankle irons together. You must get these off, came the voice in his head. He searched about the building and found a heavy crowbar in a storeroom that usually lay outside the limits of his neck chain. He set about slamming the sharp end of the iron spike into the links of the chain, hoping to break one of them. He wasn’t prepared for the excruciating pain that came when the impact drove the link into the earth and wrenched the iron band on his left foot down hard onto his ankle bone. He let out a cry, dropped the crowbar and rolled onto his side, whimpering in agony. As he was rocking backwards and forwards, gripping his bleeding foot, he realised to his amazement that he had succeeded in breaking the chain. He struggled to his feet and hobbled back to the entrance, gasping with the pain. He saw no one.

  Go!

  He hopped out along the wall of the byre, the chain clinking noisily. Still no one appeared from the hall — one more corner.

  He made it. No shouts or cries came; he heard nothing but the usual sounds of the manor house and its courtyard. He took a breath and hurried over the short section of open ground that led towards the river, and then he entered the shelter of the trees that lined its bank. He quickly inspected his left foot and confirmed that it was severely injured; quite possibly broken.

  You are useless, said the Devil, his voice full of scorn.

  Saeric made his way through the trees to the river. Rain had started to fall. He dropped into the water and found it to be only waist-deep. It was bitingly cold, taking his breath away. He sank into the water and made his way downstream, allowing the current to pull him along, keeping his head as close to the bank as possible, gasping for breath. I’m not going to last long travelling this way, he thought, but he also knew that the river would be his quickest, perhaps only, route out of there. And there’ll be no scent for the master’s hunting dogs to follow. He’d seen what they could do to a man, and he almost retched at the memory of the slathering hounds ripping a poor servant into bloody pieces with their powerful jaws.

  Saeric had managed to cover a goodly distance before they caught up with him, his pursuers having also realised that the river was Saeric’s only real hope of escape. Much to his disappointment, he rounded a bend to see a tall, powerfully built woman sitting astride her horse in the middle of the shallows, a cloth wrapped around her bloodied head. Saeric cursed himself for his naivety. She was the unkillable spawn of the Devil, a foul succubus, so of course she still lived.

  Unfortunately, Eanswith saw Saeric first, and she shrieked with rage and spurred her horse straight at him. Saeric stumbled out of the river and hobbled as fast as he could across the grassy meadow towards the woods. The trees stood too far away for any real hope of escape. He knew there was no way he could outrun her – no doubt she had chosen this spot for that very reason – but he couldn’t just stand there and allow her to run him down.

  Oddly, Eanswith had been alone; perhaps having sent her brothers away so that she could inflict her wrath upon her rebellious slave in private. Then, most incredible of all, just as she caught up with Saeric, Eanswith fell from her mount and crashed to the ground, either dead or unconscious. The horse let out a whinny and bolted, leaving its rider lying face-down in the grass. Perhaps the excitement or exertion of the chase had been too much for her? Perhaps her injury was grave? Maybe the horse had stumbled in some unseen ferret hole? Saeric didn’t pause to find out. He kept on running.

  That had been three days ago. And while Saeric ardently hoped the witch was dead, he suspected she was alive and well, out hunting her prey right now.

  ‘So, no name then?’ the blacksmith said.

  When Saeric said nothing, the blacksmith took a swig of his cider and asked, ‘then would you tell me how you came to be on my smithy floor?’

  Saeric looked away, having no wish to tell this man anything, yet feeling an inexplicable need to do so.

  You are weak, the Devil warned him. You cannot trust him. You cannot trust any Saxon.

  Saeric waved his hand at his shackles. ‘I am an escaped slave,’ he said.

  Heremund laughed, unfazed by Saeric’s surly attitude. ‘I can see that,’ he said. ‘From where or whom did you escape?’

  Even Saeric’s cider-addled head knew not to answer that question. ‘West of here,’ he lied.

  Heremund smiled, knowing not to press it any further. ‘A Dumnonian then?’ he asked.

  Saeric looked back at him, unable to hide his surprise.

  ‘Again, not hard to work out: your accent. A lot of slaves were taken in the last uprising.’

  Saeric frowned back at the blacksmith, distress tightening his chest. Uprising? he thought angrily. Is that what you call it? You invaded my country.

  ‘Ah, so you were one of those. That is a long captivity. You have been enslaved all this time then?’

&nb
sp; Saeric’s frown deepened, and his anger and distress grew. ‘What’s it to you?’

  Heremund shrugged. ‘I’m trying to understand who I’m dealing with.’

  This man is playing with you like a cat does a mouse. Tell him nothing.

  Suddenly, Saeric had had enough. ‘What is it you want?’ he asked. ‘A reward for my return? Then hand me in and be done with it. I obviously can’t stop you.’ He gesticulated at his foot.

  ‘Ah, to the nub of the matter,’ Heremund said. He stood and prodded the hearth with a fire iron, giving the bellows a few sharp pulls, allowing the iron to heat up in the coals.

  Saeric realised too late what the Saxon intended to do and tried to scramble away, but the cord prevented him from getting to any place of safety.

  Heremund took the iron and stood over Saeric, who closed his eyes and steeled himself, knowing what was to come. He had been branded before.

  Suddenly there was a loud hissing and bubbling sound and Saeric flinched, but it was not his skin burning.

  ‘I thought as much,’ he heard the blacksmith say.

  Saeric opened his eyes. Heremund had taken his place on his stool again, idly stirring the firepit with the iron.

  ‘I saw the marks on your body on your first night,’ he explained, then he twisted and reached for something behind him. ‘Which made me speculate about this.’ He held up the collar.

  Saeric noticed that Heremund had sawn through it to get it off. How did I not wake up? he wondered again, amazed. And how had he managed to do it without cutting me?

  Because he is skilled and you are useless, said the Devil, his tone scathing.

  ‘Beating a slave is one thing, but you were tortured, weren’t you?’ Heremund said, the anger evident in his voice, ‘and not just once, but many times.’

  Saeric remained silent, not understanding much of what they had done to him or why; only that he deserved it because he had made a pact with the Devil.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ the smith demanded, incensed. ‘What they did was wrong.’

  Wrong? It has made us who we are: stronger, better.

  ‘How long did you endure it?’ Heremund pressed. ‘Ten years? No, it is less than that since the uprising. Were you with the same masters all that time?’

  Saeric looked away. He had been a slave most of his life, but he had lost track as to exactly when the succubus had lured him into her clutches; seven or eight years? He shut his eyes, sensing the thousands of horrific memories that gnawed at the edges of his sanity, threatening to burst out and overwhelm him. I am evil, he thought.

  No, you are strong, countered the Devil.

  Strong? Saeric thought. You keep telling me I’m weak. Make up your mind.

  You have learned to bear suffering and pain. This will give you the strength and will to carry out what you need to do in time to come.

  In time to come?

  To wreak your vengeance, snarled the voice, against men like this Heremund.

  Saeric looked up at the smith, wondering what the Devil had against this Saxon. He seems a good man to me. ‘It won’t change anything,’ Saeric said, resigning himself to his fate. ‘I’m still a slave; just to a different master.’

  ‘I offer you a choice,’ Heremund said. ‘My last bellows boy ran off on me, so I need a replacement. You’re a bit older than I’d normally employ, but you look to have the required strength to do the work. Either you can stay here and work for me, or I can hand you to the King’s men, as you suggested. I will feed you well, for you need to be sturdy to do this work, and you will have your own bed-place over there, which you have already tested. I’m a fair man, as you will see. Unlike your former masters, I believe that a person is rewarded for treating his slaves well. And I’ll never put you in one of these,’ he added.

  He tossed the collar onto the hearth and pulled at the bellows. The fire roared, and the leather band burned brightly in the intense heat. ‘You may have the day to think about it. I must get on with my work.’

  And so he busied himself at the forge and anvil, hammering away, making spearheads by the look of it, no doubt for the King’s soldiers to use against Saeric’s fellow Dumnonians. He is my enemy, Saeric reminded himself as he watched Heremund at work. Yet he found he could not maintain his antipathy toward the Saxon.

  Fool.

  As the morning wore on, Heremund said nothing to his new slave, and Saeric offered nothing in return. Towards the middle of the day, a patrol of Saxon soldiers came by. Saeric sprang into a corner and watched from behind a water barrel, crouching ready to defend himself should they come for him.

  The smith went out and talked to the men, who evidently were known to him. They spoke and laughed together, and then the patrol moved on with good-humoured farewells. Saeric closed his eyes and took in a long breath, not having realised he had been so tense that he’d stopped breathing. Mary, Mother of Mercy, he thought. Thank you.

  Mary was a whore. It’s me you should thank, said the Devil.

  ‘You can come out now,’ came Heremund’s voice. The smith looked upon Saeric with a mixture of pity and curiosity.

  Saeric emerged from his hiding place, eyeing the smith with suspicion. Heremund, in turn, looked back at him frankly. He was about to speak when two tousle-haired young boys – twins by the look of them – tumbled into the smithy, carrying bread rolls and wooden bowls. They stopped upon seeing Saeric and stared at him openly. One of the boys inadvertently tipped his plate, and two buns fell onto the floor. Heremund scolded him, although not unkindly, then shooed them out. He scooped up the rolls, dusted them off on his apron, and put them back onto one of the wooden platters in time for his wife to arrive with a pot of stew. Tall and surprisingly beautiful, she threw a brown-eyed smile at Saeric, gave her husband a light kiss on the cheek, then left them to it. Saeric stared after her, amazed that the burly workman had attracted such a comely bride. Not that Heremund was ugly – far from it – she just seemed so feminine and not at all how Saeric imagined a blacksmith’s wife might look.

  Just as she stepped out, she paused and turned. ‘What did Gerard want, dear?’

  ‘Oh nothing, he just stopped by to say hello. He was on his way back from Worgemynster. There was an attack on a huscarl a couple of days ago. The man was killed by his herdmaster, who set the byre alight to hide his crime. They’d already strung him up by the time Gerard arrived, so there was nothing for him to do.’

  Saeric frowned, feeling a sudden sense of guilt at hearing that news.

  Best he is dead, came the voice inside his head, sounding quite satisfied with itself. Now no one will suspect you.

  Heremund’s wife looked at Saeric, who in turn looked away, suddenly feeling exposed under her scrutiny.

  He was our enemy, the Devil reminded him. They are all our enemies.

  Saeric looked down at his hands, remembering the sensation of the knife sinking into the Saxon’s chest. Saeric glanced up at Heremund’s wife, but she had turned away and was walking back to the house. Heremund ladled out some of the thick stew, then indicated to Saeric to join him at the workbench. The cord that bound Saeric’s ankle was long enough to reach, but the Briton was reluctant to place himself so close to his enemy, particularly in light of the news he’d just received. My guilt must surely be plain for all to see.

  Heremund rolled his eyes and waved his hand at Saeric. ‘I won’t eat you,’ he said impatiently, then he softened. ‘Nor will I hit you, cut you, violate you or whatever else they did to you. Come and sit.’

  The Briton warily hobbled over and sat as far away from the burly Saxon as the table allowed. Heremund pushed the platter with the two clean rolls towards his guest. Saeric saw that there were hefty chunks of meat, potatoes, carrots and onions in the thick sauce.

  ‘I married her for her cooking,’ Heremund said, seeing Saeric’s hungry expression and winking at him. ‘You won’t get a better meal on this side of Wintanceaster.’ He offered the cider jug, but Saeric shook his head. ‘Prefer to keep your
wits about you? Fair enough.’ He stood and went outside, returning a short while later with two mugs of weak ale, one for each of them.

  They ate in silence, but at the end of the meal, which was without a doubt the best food that Saeric had eaten in many, many years, he caught Heremund’s eye and despite himself, offered a simple, but heartfelt thank you.

  Weakling, came the voice.

  Shut up! Saeric snapped back.

  In the afternoon, two customers came and went, one leaving some kind of farming implement for repair, and another to collect a large door bolt. Neither paid much attention to Saeric, who sat in the furthest corner of the open-sided smithy, clutching an iron knife that he had snuck from one of the tool benches when Heremund was not looking. His shoulder and foot both throbbed painfully; especially his shoulder, which was worsening the longer it went untended. From time to time, Saeric heard both laughter and cries of outrage from the two boys as they played and fought around the house. Heremund worked until dusk, at which time the twins again burst in to inform their father that supper was ready. Once again, they stood a safe distance from Saeric, looking openly at him and whispering things to each other about their father’s new acquisition.

  ‘Stop being rude and say hello,’ Heremund said gruffly.

  One of the boys pushed the other forward, who in turn scowled at his brother. He stood with his legs apart and hands on his hips, in a perfect imitation of his father. ‘I am Beornoth,’ he said.

  ‘And I am Beornwald,’ the other said. ‘How much did you cost?’

  ‘Beorn!’ Heremund protested.

  ‘Well, he looks very dirty and all beaten up.’

  ‘Out, both of you!’

  They tumbled out, laughing and punching each other playfully. The smith’s red-haired wife brought more food for Saeric, this time a much larger bowl filled to the brim with stew, and extra bread too and a tankard of ale. ‘My husband says you have some holes to fill,’ she said kindly. ‘My name is Carwyn, by the way.’

  Saeric again stared at the doorway after she left, then he looked down at the food she had left him, stunned by her kindness. He wolfed down the meal, again convincing himself that he needed the sustenance because he might manage to escape tonight. When Saeric had finished eating, Heremund pushed aside the bowls, and then he placed a long, sharp knife on the table in front of Saeric. The Briton froze, cold fear gripping his throat. He looked up at Heremund, wondering if he could get his legs out from under the bench before the huge Saxon slashed his throat.