The Wolves of Dumnonia Saga Box Set

by Peter Fox

  Unprovoked? Leofwynn is Saxon filth, argued the Devil.

  Oh shut up, Saeric snapped back in his thoughts, tired of the Devil’s incessant needling.

  Heremund stopped a few feet away but said nothing. Beyond them, fisherfolk cast their nets in the river shallows, while a group of boys made their way noisily through the reed beds, hunting for duck eggs and water voles.

  It was Saeric who broke the silence. ‘I’m sorry I attacked Leo,’ he said, knowing it was wholly inadequate, but having no idea what else to say to the man who had taken him in and saved his life and soul. When Heremund didn’t respond, Saeric stood and turned to face the smith. ‘I’m leaving. I’m not fit to be with you. Please thank Carwyn for all she has done for me.’ He turned away. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

  ‘Saeric,’ Heremund said quietly. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘I disgraced you. I attacked your niece in front of your brother and all his guests. She’s just a girl, Heremund. What was I thinking? I know I threatened Carwyn too when the Bishop was here. I can’t be trusted, so it’s better that I leave.’

  ‘And where exactly will you go?’

  Saeric gazed westwards towards the bank of grey cloud that hung over the hills beyond. ‘Home.’

  ‘You said you didn’t have a home anymore.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘No, you won’t. The Dumnonia you knew is gone.’

  Saeric looked back at Heremund, shocked at his harshness and wanting to hate him for saying it, but when he looked into his master’s troubled face, he felt only overwhelming fatigue. I want all this to stop, he thought. I want things to go back to how they were, at the start. He laughed at himself. What start? Back in the King’s hall in Caer Uisc before our routing by the Traitor? So that I can go through all of this suffering again?

  Saeric let out a sigh and turned back to the vista. ‘I can’t control myself. I’ll only get angry again.’

  ‘Aye, I’m sure you will. The consensus is that you’re possessed by a demon,’ Heremund said. ‘I, however, think it’s simpler than that: we Saxons destroyed the world you knew as a child, and you lost everything. Yet you survived, only to endure years of unspeakable suffering as a result, again at the hands of my kind. Unsurprisingly, you want recompense for all that we have done to you. And then when you finally do manage to escape your tormentors, it is a Saxon noble who saves your life and shows you kindness. How can this be, when everything you have experienced about us is the opposite? How can you be indebted to me, your enemy? You’re understandably angry and upset by that.’

  ‘Consensus? Recompense?’

  ‘Consensus means accord, agreement. Recompense means–’

  ‘I know what they mean,’ Saeric interrupted. ‘My point is that you know a lot of big words for a blacksmith, but then you would, being a mynster-educated Ealdorman yourself.’ He frowned up at his mentor, still angry that Heremund had withheld that vital piece of information from him for all this time. He was even angrier with himself for his blindness to the many clues that had been laid before him from the very first day he’d met the smith.

  ‘Ah yes, about that,’ the smith began awkwardly, but Saeric cut him off.

  ‘You don’t have to apologise,’ Saeric said. ‘You’re right. I don’t get any of this, and I especially don’t understand why God has made you my saviour. You could – should – have handed me in or cut off my head. God knows what would have happened to me had you not given me food and shelter. I know how lucky I am, believe me. That’s why I wish I could control my temper. I should at least be able to show some gratitude for all that you’ve done for me.’

  Heremund let out a noisy breath and sat down on the bench beside Saeric. ‘You have aplenty, Saeric. What happened today is my fault, not yours. I was stupid and insensitive; my brother even more so. That’s why I wish to apologise. Will you forgive us?’

  Saeric frowned back at the Saxon noble, not sure what to think or say. ‘I gave up on forgiveness a long time ago,’ he said.

  Heremund nodded thoughtfully to that, then reached around behind him and lifted a small bundle wrapped in a rough woven cloth bag. ‘Then perhaps it is time I gave these back to you.’ He dumped the package down in front of Saeric with a clank. The cloth fell aside to reveal Saeric’s leg irons.

  Saeric instinctively recoiled, but the smith laughed at his reaction and shook his head.

  ‘I am hurt,’ he said, and not altogether in jest. ‘I wasn’t proposing to put you back in them.’

  Saeric immediately felt embarrassed. There I go again, insulting those who would help me.

  ‘There’s good iron in these. I thought you might like to melt them down and fashion something more useful out of them; as a symbol of your freedom if you like, made by your own hands. You did bring them with you, after all.’ He smiled wryly at that.

  ‘But I don’t know how to make things,’ Saeric said.

  ‘I will teach you,’ the smith said. ‘I know you will be off one day when you are ready, but in the meantime, you may as well learn a skill or two. I meant what I said when I asked you to be my apprentice. You could do with some more bulking up too. You’ve got a good frame on that body, and it’s going to waste.’ He clamped his large hand on Saeric’s well-muscled upper arm. ‘I can get my fingers around there. Far too thin.’

  Saeric smiled at that. ‘I can make whatever I want?’ he asked, realising what he would like to forge from his shackles.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then I will make a sword out of them.’

  Heremund nodded with approval. ‘That feels appropriate, but there’s not enough iron for that. A dagger perhaps?’

  ‘No. It must be a sword,’ Saeric said.

  Heremund smiled at him. ‘Dare I ask who you intend to use it upon?’

  Saeric frowned back at him, deep in thought. ‘I think you know.’

  ‘I’m not sure it would be in my interests to teach you to make the blade that killed me.’

  This time Saeric looked hurt.

  ‘Ah,’ Heremund said in understanding. ‘The bićće who tortured you. Of course.’

  ‘No,’ Saeric said. ‘Not her.’

  Heremund’s brows creased in confusion, then his eyebrows arched as he came to the realisation. ‘Really?’ he asked, somewhat amazed by his apprentice’s audacity.

  Saeric nodded.

  ‘Killing him will be quite a challenge.’

  ‘I made a vow.’

  ‘Do you even know how to use a sword?’

  Saeric scowled back at the smith, knowing the answer to that, but pride not allowing him to admit it. ‘I will work to earn the balance of the iron,’ he said instead. ‘You will have me until I can forge my own blade.’

  ‘Then, for the sake of my smithy and your king, I’d be wise to ensure you never quite learn how to do it,’ Heremund laughed. He thrust his hand out to Saeric, who in turn clasped the other’s and sealed the contract.

  ‘And I promise not to ask you another question about who you are, or where you come from,’ Heremund said.

  ‘I would like that,’ Saeric said, ‘but I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Well, you could save me a lot of head-pain and just tell me your name.’

  Saeric shook his head. He looked up at the silver-haired smith. ‘Those huscarls; they’re your men, aren’t they?’

  The smith nodded. ‘Yes, they belong to my household. They are members of my fyrd.’

  ‘Were they in the church to protect me, or you?’

  Heremund smiled. ‘You’re perceptive, but that shouldn’t surprise me. I did station them on guard in case…’ He paused. ‘In case your presence attracted unwanted attention, or you went crazy and attacked one of us. And while you did the latter, fortunately you came to your senses before Gerard shot you, which would have been a pity after all our efforts to bring you back to life.’

  Saeric frowned at Heremund.

  The smith smiled back at him. ‘A wise man takes no
chances,’ he advised, ‘and happily for you, I employed a smarter man than me as my sergeant. I ordered him to shoot you, but he claims that he could tell you weren’t going to kill Leo. If it had been me, I’d have put the arrow through you and asked for forgiveness afterwards.’

  Saeric stared at Heremund, shocked that his mentor clearly meant what he said.

  Heremund shrugged. ‘If it were the other way around and Leo had been strangling you, I’d have shot her.’

  ‘You’d kill your own niece?’

  Heremund rolled his eyes. ‘What is it with you barbarian Britons wanting to kill everything you see? An arrow in the backside would have done the job.’

  ‘Oh,’ Saeric said, feeling stupid. He decided to change the subject. ‘Do you honestly think I am safe from harm now?’

  Heremund nodded. ‘I do. And to prove it, you’re going to start making deliveries for me.’

  Saeric pushed down another stab of panic at that revelation.

  ‘Turn it around, son: yes, everyone knows you’re my British-apprentice-who-was-once-a-slave, but that means you are doubly safe. No one will dare bring you to harm now that you are a recognised member of my household, Saeric of Scirburne.’

  The smith bent down and scooped up the irons, which jangled noisily as he bundled them back into the bag.

  ‘My name’s not Saeric,’ the Briton said on an impulse.

  Heremund paused and nodded. ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘I will tell you,’ Saeric continued. ‘Who I am, I mean.’

  Heremund raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I just need time,’ Saeric added. Time to know that I can trust you; that I can trust myself!

  He’s a Saxon, you idiot. He’ll kill you the moment you utter your name.

  Heremund clapped his apprentice on the shoulder. ‘Take as long as you want,’ he grinned. ‘I’ve got a growing list of orders to fill, so I need to keep you at my forge for as long as I can.’

  PART III

  Westseaxna Ríce

  Weodmonað, 823 AD

  (Kingdom of Wessex

  Late Summer, 823)

  12. Ploughshare

  Scirburne, Kingdom of Wessex

  Saeric woke with a start and blinked into the daylight, for a moment disoriented, his surroundings unfamiliar. Moments ago, he had been standing on a boat on a body of water – a lake? – surrounded by rugged mountains. His heart was tight with anguish, and for some reason, he felt an overpowering need to cry. He closed his eyes again, struggling to contain the inexplicable distress that had overcome him.

  Gradually his senses returned to the smithy and the familiar tang of burning rock coal and fresh-forged iron. He opened his eyes, not entirely sure what he might find. He let out a breath of relief on looking up at the smithy’s soot-stained rafters and blackened roof slates above him. Somewhere off to his left, Heremund huffed and puffed as he hoisted up the shutters.

  Saeric sat up, frowning and rubbing his temples, trying to bring himself back to the present.

  ‘You alright?’ Heremund asked, eyebrows raised at his assistant. He was halfway through propping up the last of the shutters.

  Saeric nodded, although not altogether sure he was.

  ‘Your breakfast went cold. Carwyn has it warming on the hearth inside if you want to get it.’

  Saeric muttered an apology, pulled on his work shoes, then walked out to the yard and relieved himself against the wall. His dream clearly had something to do with Caelin, but what? He closed his eyes again and saw, with startling clarity, a sword lying on what appeared to be the deck of the boat, part-covered by a maroon-coloured tunic. He let out a startled grunt and opened his eyes again, reeling at the contrast between the watery darkness of his dream and the bright daylight of Scirburne. Frowning, he closed his eyes again and was straight back to the shore of what seemed to be a long lake, except the smells were of the seaside, not fresh water. He turned to look at his surrounds, but his vision blurred when he tried to see what lay behind him. He looked down again at the sword and tunic and saw an upturned trunk nearby. He felt a sudden rush of excitement when he recognised both his father’s chest and the weapon. The Sword of Dumnonia! He crouched down to touch it, but his hand felt dry earth. Yet it was unmistakeably his father’s sword, and between the folds of the tunic, Saeric was sure he saw the snarling head of a wolf woven into the garment. He swallowed, feeling another rush of anguish. He let out a cry and opened his eyes, confused and distressed. Something has happened, he realised. Something terrible. Caelin, can you hear me? he asked in his thoughts, closing his eyes again, distress turning to panic. He received nothing in reply. Why are those things lying on the ground? Why can’t I see you?

  Because you’re seeing through his eyes, idiot.

  Saeric started at the Devil’s voice.

  His eyes? So, am I seeing what he is seeing?

  You still haven’t got it, have you? You are wolven brothers. Your fates are interconnected. What happens to him happens to you, and vice versa, the Devil warned. You might want to be mindful of that.

  Saeric tried to concentrate, to get some hint of where Caelin might be or what might have happened to his brother, but suddenly the image vanished, and he saw only darkness. His heart pounded, and Saeric knew for certain now that Caelin was alive, and he had the regalia of Dumnonia with him.

  ‘Christ’s bones,’ Saeric swore. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Where’s who?’ It was Heremund. ‘Saeric, are you alright?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Saeric called back, in no mood for a discussion about what he had just seen. He took a long breath, then opened the gate into the home yard and made his way to the house, scattering clucking chickens as he crossed the cobbled square. One of the boys came flying out, saw his father’s apprentice, shouted back inside that Saeric was here for his breakfast, then dashed past Saeric towards town. Moments later, there was a crash as the door flew open again, and Beornwald burst out in pursuit of his brother. Saeric let them pass, then stepped inside. Carwyn had a steaming bowl of stew and a tankard of weak ale waiting on the table for him. He nodded in thanks and moved to take it, but Carwyn told him to sit down. ‘You’re part of the family now, remember?’

  Saeric took his place at the heavy oak table that sat at the opposite end of the room.

  ‘There are those who say some people can detect the change in the seasons,’ Carwyn said. ‘We are coming to the end of summer.’

  Saeric looked up at her, surprised. Has it been that long?

  She smiled at him kindly. ‘Don’t panic, you won’t overstay your welcome if that’s what you’re worried about. My husband has grown to rely on you, and dare I say it, quite like you, for all your lack of conversation.’ She moved around the table and sat opposite him. ‘You know you can talk to us, Saeric. I can see you are upset by something. What is troubling you this morning?’

  Saeric wasn’t listening. How long has it been? he wondered. Five, no, six months? Carwyn is right; everyone is preparing for the harvest. He felt a sudden pang of guilt over his self-betrayal for not having acted upon his vow. Could that be why I’ve been troubled by these dreams of late? As summer had reached its height, he had felt the same sharp tugs at his heart on several occasions; at first joy and happiness, but replaced by pain, sadness, anger and most recently, a terrible sense of despair. The dream today had been the strongest yet, and it had lingered in a way none of the others had. What did the change in mood mean? Has some tragedy befallen you? Are you trapped, like I was, unable to break free? Or is it frustration? Are you angry that I’ve not made any attempt to find you? Saeric sighed. But how will I find you when I don’t know where you are? And I need to regain my strength. Had I tried to fulfil my vow straight after my escape I’d have got no further than the city gates. He laughed to himself. I’d have gotten no further than this very smithy. He glanced down at his hands and arms. He had, as Heremund had predicted, put on flesh and muscle, even in that short time, and he already felt considerably stronger a
s a result of his strenuous work as a blacksmith’s assistant. But in return for his labours, he was well fed and cared for, and more astonishingly, offered a degree of kindness that did resemble family. Saeric had kept his distance, both for the fact they were Saxons, and for fearing the bad influence his intrinsically poisoned soul might have on this generous family, but they seemed to care not one jot about it.

  Carwyn offered him a second portion, but he refused, having little appetite this morning.

  ‘Saeric?’

  Saeric rose from the table and shook his head. I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘I’d best get back to the forge.’ He returned to the smithy and set about his duties, stoking up the fire and clearing out the old ash.

  ‘I think you need some fresh air, young man,’ Heremund observed. ‘Time to make your first delivery for me. I need you to take this ploughshare that you’ve been sharpening back to Hunlaf. He’s a yeoman farmer tithed to a neighbouring hall. For some reason, he specifically asked for you to bring it back to him.’ He smiled at his frowning apprentice. ‘He probably wants to see if the rumours about my rebel Dumnonian foundling are true. Leofwynn will be able to tell you how to get there.’

  ‘But I thought I wasn’t to go near her,’ Saeric said, surprised. ‘Your brother said he’d string me up if I showed my face there again.’

  ‘Bah!’ Heremund waved away the objection with a noisy expulsion of breath. ‘Dunstan’s off with the King somewhere. You’ll be safe, trust me. The poor girl’s itching to see you again. I think she has an eye for you.’ The smith winked, then grabbed a hessian bag and thrust it at his apprentice. ‘I suggest you carry it in this. And put on your tunic. You’re my representative out there, and I can’t have you looking like a scruffy serf.’

  Saeric took the sack reluctantly, baulking too at the thought of wearing Heremund’s crest, but he saw that Heremund was in no mood for an argument. Perhaps you’re right, he thought. A walk in the sunshine might do me some good. He quickly changed into his formal tunic then carefully fitted the protective leather sheath on the blade, dropped it in the sack, then hoisted the bag over his shoulder. He said his goodbyes and headed out, not at all certain this was a good idea. How could Leo possibly want to see me after what happened at Easter?