The Wolves of Dumnonia Saga Box Set

by Peter Fox

  Grab it! Kill him now! said the Devil, but Saeric hesitated, confused.

  Heremund just shook his head at him, his expression one of pity. ‘In Christ’s name, I don’t mean to use it on you. I’m giving it to you because the one you stole earlier is so blunt you could ride to Lundenwic and back on it. I thought you might feel safer if you had a decent weapon close to hand. Although,’ he added, sweeping his hand around the curing racks, ‘there are plenty of others from which to choose. Now then,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘I will leave you to sleep. My only request in return for your bed is that you keep an eye on the workshop. No need to take any intruder on, mind; just make a lot of noise and I’ll come. You’ll have seen the lamp I like to leave burning, and there’s a curtain here, see?’ He waved at the drapes, which were currently drawn back and tied with a multicoloured rope. It was all of excellent quality; nothing like the torn and soiled cast-offs of his former master’s household. ‘Tomorrow you can give me your decision, but either way, my wife would like to attend to those wounds.’

  Heremund then set about letting down the big shutters, waiting for Saeric to relieve himself before being locked in. ‘If you need to go in the night, just use one of the curing pails,’ Heremund said, then he closed the last of the shutters, and suddenly it was dark inside the smithy. Heremund had added extra coal to the forge to keep his captive warm, and Saeric settled down onto the bed, placing the knife beside him, astonished at this bizarre change in fortune. He didn’t believe it, of course. There must be a trap or trick somewhere, but then why give me the means to defend myself if Heremund means ill toward me? Could it be that Heremund is exactly what he seems: a fair man with a fair heart?

  Fool, came the Devil’s scornful voice. He is like the others, and there is a witch here. She will be waiting for you to sleep. She has doubtless made contact with Eanswith, who still hunts you. You cannot afford to relax.

  Saeric did try his best to stay awake, but again the intoxicating mixture of the fire, a full stomach and drink took their toll. I mustn’t sleep! he told himself, panicking, but that was his last thought.

  The nightmares came again, as they always did, but this night was different. This night Saeric was watched over by a man who held no ill intent towards him; only concern and not a small amount of ire. Heremund sat with Saeric, shaking his head in pity as the unfortunate slave thrashed about in his bed, crying out the most terrible things in his sleep. When Heremund eventually returned to his own bed after his slave seemed to have settled, his wife turned to him and smiled.

  ‘You’re far too sentimental,’ she said. ‘This one will run off as soon as he is able, just like the others.’

  Heremund shrugged, glancing over at his twin boys, fast asleep in their bed. ‘I certainly hope so,’ he rumbled.

  His wife kissed him. ‘And that, you soft-hearted old fool, is why I married you,’ she said.

  8. No more masters

  Scirburne, Kingdom of Wessex

  So began Saeric’s third stint as a slave, although the difference between this present and previous master was incomparable. He woke on his third day in Scirburne to find another hearty meal awaiting him on the bench by the forge. Heremund was already preparing for the day’s work, his back to Saeric as he hoisted the big shutters and set the supports in place. There was a clear path to freedom, and for a moment Saeric thought about escaping, but with his ruined ankle and the other one tied to the wall, he’d not get far. At any rate, the smell of the stew was inviting, and a mug of ale stood beside it. He sat up and checked himself for any new injuries – a long-established habit after his time at Baldwyn’s – but he didn’t seem to have been touched in the night. He twisted on his hip and saw some plain, clean clothes folded on a small stool beside him. Perched on top of them was a pair of leather boots, not new, but in good condition. It was only then that he realised his ankles were no longer bound in their iron shackles. The cord was gone too.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ the blacksmith said, still not turning. ‘You may leave. Feel free to take your meal first. I have left you some fresh clothes. As I said last night, Carwyn would like to check your foot and shoulder before you go, as she is concerned they will give you trouble. In any case, you should wrap your ankles to avoid suspicion. I’m not sure what to do about the neck, though. A scarf, perhaps?’

  When Saeric failed to answer, Heremund turned to see the young man staring at him, his eyes glinting with tears, his expression a confused mixture of mistrust and gratitude.

  ‘You made such a din in your sleep last night that I thought a hoard of heathens had come to get you,’ Heremund explained. ‘You’d thrown off your covers, but I couldn’t wake you. You were screaming, and your eyes were wide open, but you weren’t anywhere I could help you. I also saw some more of what they did to you. I don’t think I’ve seen so many different marks on one body before.’ He paused. ‘You weren’t an ordinary slave, were you?’

  Saeric looked back at the smith, feeling the shame of Heremund’s assertion, not knowing what to say. He immediately thought of Eanswith, who, having doubtless survived her fall, would be beside herself with rage now because her concubine had not yet been found. He shuddered at the thought of her blue-eyed fury, but elsewhere another part of his body stirred with excitement at that prospect.

  ‘God in Heaven,’ Heremund said, his voice wavering. ‘What corruption is this?’ He took a long, noisy breath, then waved his hand at the open side of the workshop. ‘You don’t need any more masters, Dumnonian. God be with you on your journey. I truly hope you find your way back home and manage to find some amount of happiness among your own people.’ He went back to his work and left Saeric to his breakfast.

  Saeric hopped over to the table and ate his meal in silence, struggling to grasp the implications of Heremund’s gesture. Home? he thought. His first intention upon escape had been to go straight to Caer Uisc, find his family’s murderer, and kill him. It was abundantly clear, however, that executing this admittedly simple plan would be nearly impossible given his current condition. Probably impossible in any state, he realised. I need to recover my health and my strength before I can attempt something like that. What are a few more months after all that I have endured over so many years?

  His thoughts turned to his first masters; the childless couple who had found him lying half-dead in the roadside ditch fifteen years ago. They had taken him into their little farmhouse and coaxed him back to life, and in return for that, he had become their houseboy, and as he had grown older, farmhand and labourer. They had also given him his name, Saeric, for they had laughed at him when he’d told them his birth name. They had never been cruel, but equally, they had not offered him love; he was simply one of the livestock. They had fed and sheltered him, and he had grown to be a strong young man while in their ownership, content to remain their bonded servant because he had nowhere else to go.

  He had, of course, wondered how he’d come to be wandering the road alone as a child, for back then he’d no clear memory of what had happened leading up to that time, save the terrifying nightmares that hinted at some other truth. Occasionally he even experienced those same terrors during broad daylight, seemingly triggered by a random sound or smell. It had all served to frighten his poor masters, who consequently kept him at a safe distance, insisting that he sleep apart from them and their animals, in case he infected them with whatever evil enchantment afflicted him.

  Only after he had been lured away by the demoness Eanswith had the spell been broken, and he had come to remember what had happened in that terrible summer of his ninth year. His nightmares had increased a hundredfold once Eanswith had snatched him into her clutches, and it was she who had also awoken the scathing voice of the Devil within him; a voice that reminded Saeric of the vow he had made on that horrific, blood-soaked morning so long ago.

  The Traitor and his Saxon allies destroyed my home on that day, he thought grimly, and the only reason that I am alive today is so that I can avenge my f
amily.

  He drank the ale then pulled on his new clothes. The feel and smell of the clean cloth was the most beautiful thing he had experienced in ages. He looked out at the sunlit yard and roadway beyond the smithy. Opposite him stood an ancient oak growing beside the stream that ran past the workshop. Saeric could well imagine the dappled shade cast by the tree in summer. He heard the boys laughing somewhere behind the workshop, and moments later came the alarmed honking of geese.

  I’m free, he thought, looking down at his feet, unshackled for the first time in fifteen long years. He listened to the shrill ringing of Heremund’s hammer on the anvil, wondering again why this kindly Saxon and his wife had offered shelter to a wretched slave. He shuddered to think what might have become of him had he not stumbled upon Heremund’s forge. Is it fate, or is this part of the Devil’s plan? He smiled to himself. Or are they one and the same?

  For a long time, he sat on the bed, gazing out at the countryside beyond the road. He came to a decision, hauled himself up, and hobbled over to the bellows. He pulled down on the smooth wooden handle with his uninjured arm. Air roared, and the fire crackled and flared into life. ‘Am I doing this right?’ he asked.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Heremund asked for the third time. He and Saeric stood on opposite sides of the forge, regarding one another through the shimmering heat of the fire. Saeric’s face fluttered as though reflected in a fast-moving brook. The smith put down the piece of iron he had been working and set his hammer aside. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but you will not be my slave. You will be my assistant. Understood?’

  Saeric nodded.

  ‘Good. Then let us get you seen to. I am slightly disturbed that you seem unaware of the injuries you bear.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘And how much you smell.’

  Carwyn had one of the household servants make up a hot bucket of water, and, by the look of him, Saeric was given his first proper wash in possibly all his years as a slave. It started badly when Carwyn took Saeric into the house and asked him to strip off his clothes. He frowned and backed away from her, shaking his head.

  ‘Come now, I can’t wash you in your shirt,’ she laughed, but Saeric refused to do as she asked.

  Carwyn called for Heremund, who entered the house, rubbing his grimy hands on his apron.

  ‘Of course he doesn’t trust us,’ he said. ‘He has been abused all his life. Look at him!’ Heremund grabbed Saeric and tore off his tunic. Saeric let out a cry as his injured arm protested at the rough treatment. He backed away from them both, clasping his hand over the arrow-hole in his left shoulder, which had started to bleed again.

  Carwyn shook her head in dismay when she saw the state of Saeric’s torso and the full extent of his many wounds and scars.

  ‘They tortured him,’ Heremund growled, struggling to contain his anger. ‘Day after day, they tormented and brutalised him. So it is little wonder he is frightened of us.’ He turned to Saeric, who stood half-naked near the door, glaring at them both.

  ‘Listen,’ Heremund said, ‘I understand your fear, but you need to let Carwyn tend you. You’re in terrible shape.’

  ‘No,’ Saeric said.

  ‘Let him be, husband,’ Carwyn said. ‘It’s too soon for him.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Heremund retorted. ‘If you don’t tend his wounds now, he’ll likely be dead by tomorrow. He needs help, and he needs to learn that not everyone in this land has a dark heart.’

  ‘I fear that may be a difficult mission, husband,’ she said, seeing the hatred and mistrust in Saeric’s eyes.

  Heremund stepped between Saeric and Carwyn. ‘Saeric, if you are to be my assistant and live with my family, you are going to have to trust us. That is a condition of our arrangement. Otherwise, you can leave, for I will not have a person living under my roof who harbours ill thoughts toward me. Make your choice.’ He stepped out of the way and stood by the table, his arms crossed.

  Saeric closed his eyes and let out a long breath. He dropped his right hand so that both arms hung loosely beside him. He stood in silence, his breathing controlled, his eyes still closed. Carwyn took it as permission to approach him. She dipped a soft cloth into the bucket and gently wiped his uninjured shoulder, moving down his arm towards his wrist. Saeric didn’t respond at all, his face remaining inert throughout. It was as though he was no longer there, and Carwyn was working on a life-like doll, but one that was nevertheless devoid of life.

  Beornoth and Beornwald sat cross-legged on either side of the fireplace opposite Saeric, watching with fascination as their mother tended their no-longer-slave. The poor woman wept as she carefully cleaned the years of dirt and grime from the young man, shocked like her husband by the dreadful stories that Saeric’s many scars and wounds told of his torture and maltreatment at the hands of his depraved former masters.

  At some point in the process, Saeric returned to them, opening his eyes and wincing when Carwyn accidentally bumped his shoulder wound. She let him keep on his trousers, asking Heremund to roll up the legs so that she could clean below the knees, but she had the wisdom to stay clear of his lap and buttocks. Once she was satisfied with the washing, she instructed Saeric to sit on the stool in front of the fire. She applied salves and dressed his more recent injuries as best she could, then she turned her attention to his ankle. She immediately saw that it was no mere sprain.

  ‘Ooh, can you see the bone?’ Beornoth asked excitedly, leaning in for a closer look.

  ‘For goodness sake,’ Carwyn scolded. ‘It’s broken inside. You can’t see it.’

  ‘Oh,’ Beornoth said, clearly disappointed. He looked up at the former slave. ‘How’d you break it?’ he asked.

  ‘Leave the poor man be,’ Carwyn said. ‘He doesn’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘I was trying to get my leg irons off,’ Saeric said, surprising them all when he spoke.

  ‘You really don’t have to tell them,’ Heremund said, glaring at his two boys.

  ‘I hit my foot with a pike,’ Saeric said, pressing on.

  Heremund winced. ‘Well, you’re lucky you’ve only fractured it. Mind you, walking on it for all that time hasn’t helped any.’

  ‘It’s not like I had much choice,’ Saeric said gruffly. ‘I was trying to get away.’

  ‘Well, we shall bind it in a splint and see how it fares.’ Carwyn said. ‘We’ll need to make a crutch for you too. You’ll not be walking unaided for some while,’ she added, ‘let alone running. Just as well you stopped here.’

  ‘He’s lucky father didn’t cut off his head,’ Beornoth observed, sounding a little haughty.

  Saeric scowled at the twins, anger flaring at Beornoth’s tone.

  ‘Out!’ Heremund boomed at his sons, and the two of them tumbled out the door together, laughing; Beornoth pretending to cut off Beornwald’s head. Beornwald, in turn, staggered sideways out the door, flopping his head to one side and poking out his tongue in mock death.

  ‘Sorry about them,’ Heremund rumbled, then he threw Saeric a grin. ‘I blame their mother.’

  Carwyn clucked at him then turned her attention back to Saeric. ‘The boys mean no harm. They’re too young to understand. Now then, even if you did want to get on your way, you’ll need to wait until your foot heals, and the rest of you for that matter.’ She touched the open gash on his shoulder where the arrow had caught him. He flinched at the sharp pain it induced. ‘This is turning foul,’ she said, ‘and could just as likely kill you as a sword thrust to your heart. I don’t think you realise just how badly hurt you are.’

  Saeric looked back at her. ‘I know,’ he said bitterly.

  Heremund’s brow furrowed with exasperation. ‘You will tell me who did this to you,’ he growled, waving his hand at Saeric’s various injuries, ‘whether today, tomorrow or next winter if we must wait that long. In the meantime, you will allow Carwyn to care for you so that you recover to full health. You and I will then seek out your persecutors and deliver justice to them. I make this my promise t
o you. Are we agreed?’

  Saeric stared at him, speechless.

  Heremund nodded. ‘Good. Now hurry up and get your clothes back on. We’ve got a lot of orders to fill today.’

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Two weeks later, Saeric felt stronger and more hopeful. Every day he ate two hearty meals and a light supper before bed. His bed-place in the smithy had even begun to feel like his own. Such a far cry from the filthy byre floor on which he had slept at Baldwyn’s hall, and better than his pallet with his previous masters. He was still troubled by nightmares of course, and by sheer force of habit, he always had one eye looking over his shoulder, and one ear listening for trouble. He remained convinced that Eanswith still searched for him, his nemesis growing ever more frustrated as each day passed without sign of her prey. He had no idea what he would do if she did find him; as she surely must one day.

  ‘You’re like a stray kitten come in from the cold,’ the smith said one morning, after startling Saeric so much that the Briton let out an involuntary yelp and snatched up the first object he could lay his hands on to defend himself. Unfortunately, it was a rod of hot iron, cooling by the hearth.

  To Heremund’s astonishment, Saeric didn’t seem to realise it was burning his flesh, so the smith shouted at Saeric to drop it, and when that had no effect, he knocked the rod out of his assistant’s hand. The smith immediately grabbed Saeric and shoved his hand into a fresh bucket of water and held it there, all but pulling Saeric off his feet as he did so. The smith shook his head at his charge. ‘What is the matter with you?’ he demanded of his apprentice. ‘And when are you going to trust us?’ He turned toward the house and called for his wife. ‘Fortunately, Carwyn has some excellent salves for burns. Mind you, this won’t be the first time you’ll need them,’ he said, nodding at his own forearms, which had numerous scars from past encounters with molten metal.