The Wolves of Dumnonia Saga Box Set

by Peter Fox

  ‘You could not have done any more for her,’ Carwyn began, but Saeric shook his head, refusing to accept that he had failed to save his new friend.

  ‘Why?’ he said and pushed her aside. He got to his feet and staggered sideways, crying out as the welts on his back twisted open. He ignored the pain and stumbled over to Leofwynn, then he sank to his knees and took Leo’s hand. It was cold and stiff.

  ‘You can’t die,’ the Briton said.

  ‘Saeric,’ Carwyn said from behind him. ‘You are not to blame. You’re very badly wounded yourself. There is nothing more we can do for her.’

  ‘This is my fault,’ Saeric countered. ‘If I hadn’t attacked Leo at Easter, I wouldn’t have needed to apologise, and she wouldn’t have come out with me today.’ He looked down at his friend’s pale face. ‘Wake up…’

  ‘Saeric, it’s too late. She’s…’

  ‘Leo,’ Saeric said again.

  ‘Saeric,’ the Bishop said gently, ‘Leofwynn is with the Lord now.’

  ‘No!’ Saeric snapped. He grabbed Leo and shook her, slapped her, threw water on her. Carwyn moved to stop him, fearful of the damage Saeric was doing to himself, but Heremund held her back, allowing Saeric to grieve in his own way. Saeric sobbed as he took Leo into his arms, but the young woman was unresponsive. Saeric looked up into the smoke-filled rafters, clenching his teeth in anger.

  ‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘Haven’t you taken enough? Why won’t you let me have any family?’

  She is your enemy, not your family. I told you she would die.

  ‘She is my friend!’ he shouted.

  Bah. You’ve only just met her.

  ‘Give her back to me!’

  No.

  ‘She belongs to me,’ Saeric growled.

  No, she doesn’t.

  ‘Give her back. Now.’

  Or what? You cannot demand anything of me. You are my servant and my vessel, and you will do as I command. It is time you returned to your path of vengeance.

  ‘I can’t do it on my own!’ Saeric protested.

  And you think this Saxon is going to help you in your quest? You forget your brother, the Devil reminded him.

  ‘No, you have my brother,’ Saeric countered.

  And he will come to you soon. The Saxon is dead. Seek out your own family, Aneurin, Prince of Dumnonia.

  Saeric closed his eyes and clutched Leofwynn to him, struggling to contain his grief. What’s the point of being the heir if I am tainted by you, Satan? he wondered. The Devil lives within my soul, and I will poison anyone who comes into my presence, no matter who they are. Perhaps my kingdom is better off without me, for what price must I pay to win it back? How many more must suffer or die on my account?

  ‘Saeric?’ The Briton felt a light hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ he muttered.

  Carwyn respected his wish and instead pulled Leo’s lifeless body from Saeric’s arms and gently laid the dead girl back down onto the bed.

  Saeric clenched his eyes shut, fighting a burning rage that rose from deep within him.

  ‘Young man, to whom were you speaking just now?’ It was the Bishop, quick to pick up the tenor of Saeric’s conversation with the Devil.

  ‘Who do you think?’ Saeric replied coldly, opening his eyes to look into the Bishop’s startled face.

  He felt a firmer grip on his arm this time. ‘Get off me,’ Saeric growled at Heremund, keeping his eyes locked on the Bishop. The smith did not loosen his hold.

  ‘You parlayed with the Lord?’ the Bishop whispered, shocked by this blasphemy. ‘Who are you that you think you can demand God return the soul of one he has taken into his sanctuary?’

  ‘Leo does not belong to Him,’ Saeric countered. ‘She belongs to me. And it wasn’t God I was speaking to.’

  ‘Saeric,’ Heremund said carefully, ‘Leo was a fair soul. She has joined God in Heaven.’

  Saeric turned his gaze to Heremund. ‘When the Traitor killed my family, I vowed that I would protect my remaining kin at any cost so that one day my brother and I could return to avenge those who were murdered and reclaim what was taken from us. But not long after I made that vow, the Devil took my brother, and I was left to fend for myself. I called on God for help, but it was Satan who came to me in my time of need. He told me that like my brother, I was too weak to carry out my promise on my own, but that he could help us both grow strong and he would teach us how to kill, so that one day when we were ready, we could bring vengeance on the Traitor and all those who helped him.’

  ‘Brother? What brother?’ Heremund whispered, deeply shaken by this development. ‘You’ve not mentioned him before.’

  Saeric saw the fear in Heremund’s face and smiled grimly. ‘I told you, he is with the Devil, in his own Hell just like me. We have given our souls in return for His aid. And like me, my brother is growing strong, preparing for our return. Our family will be avenged.’

  Heremund stared at him. ‘Who in Jesus Christ’s name are you?’ he whispered.

  Saeric felt Heremund’s grip weaken, so he took his chance and pulled free.

  Heremund snatched at his sword, whipping it out of its scabbard with a sharp hiss, quickly moving to protect his wife.

  ‘You know that won’t help you,’ Saeric said calmly.

  Heremund swallowed. ‘What are you? A Demon come to punish me for my sins? Is that it?’

  Saeric considered the smith for a moment then shook his head. ‘I’ve told you what I want.’

  ‘They say you killed all five brigands, including one on a horse,’ the Bishop interrupted, making a warding sign. ‘They say your only weapon was the ploughshare.’

  ‘It’s a good weapon,’ Saeric said.

  ‘Christ Almighty,’ Heremund swore. ‘What you did is not normal, Saeric. That wound in your shoulder would have stopped most men, killed them most likely, and never mind all the cuts in your back. Do you even know you bear an injury?’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Saeric said, then he turned and looked down at Leo, again feeling the hot anger welling just below the surface. ‘They killed my friend.’

  ‘They say it was you who killed Hunlaf too,’ the Bishop continued.

  ‘He whipped me. I told him not to, but he kept at me, so I killed him.’

  The Bishop crossed himself, backing away. ‘You truly are a servant of the Devil!’ The cleric lifted the heavy cross that hung around his neck and began to chant a prayer to expel the evil spirit.

  ‘That won’t help you either,’ Saeric said, snatching the silver icon from the Bishop’s hand and snapping the decorative silver chain as he wrenched the cross free. He threw it aside and it landed at Carwyn’s feet, followed by a shower of silver beads and rods released on the breaking of the neck cord.

  Saeric was mildly surprised that it didn’t burn him.

  ‘Saeric,’ Carwyn began in his native British tongue, ‘please calm down.’

  Saeric held her gaze for a long while, his chest heaving as he struggled to suppress the dark urge to kill them all. In the background, he saw Leofwynn, who had died because she had befriended Saeric.

  ‘You are not evil, Saeric,’ Carwyn continued in Dumnonian, her voice wavering.

  ‘I am!’ Saeric shouted. ‘Leo died because of me!’

  ‘No, the bandits killed her,’ she argued. ‘You saved the maidservant’s life, and Gerard’s, and all the other travellers. This is not the work of Satan.’ She crossed herself. ‘You have much good in your heart, Saeric, not evil. You must not blame yourself for this!’

  Saeric shook his head. ‘You’re wrong.’

  Carwyn bent down and picked up the Bishop’s cross, then stepped forward and pressed it against Saeric’s bare chest. Saeric didn’t try to stop her. He held her determined gaze; her neck within easy reach as the cold silver lay against his skin.

  ‘Carwyn,’ Heremund urged. ‘For the love of God, get away from him!’

  ‘See, i
t does not burn you or leave a mark,’ Carwyn said, reverting to the Saxon tongue and ignoring her husband. ‘If you were truly a servant of Satan, you would recoil from this holy sign. The reason you can parlay with the Devil is that you are his equal and his opposite. You are not weak, Saeric. You bear the might of holy righteousness.’

  Everyone stared at her, Saeric included. He had never considered such a possibility. The voice in my head must be the Devil, he thought. Isn’t he always telling me to kill these Saxons, who are my enemy? And what of the witch Eanswith? If I am God’s child, why did God abandon me to her?

  I’ve already told you, said the Devil. He entrusted you to me so that I can help you grow stronger. That is why Leofwynn died.

  Saeric took the cross in his hand and closed his fingers around it, but nothing happened. He held it over the star-shaped scar and his pounding heart, but again, nothing. He even placed it on his tongue, but all he tasted was the metallic tang of silver. Why does it not burn me? And why did nothing happen when I entered the church and took Communion at Easter? Is Carwyn right?

  The Devil had no answer for that.

  ‘You’re no demon, Saeric,’ Carwyn repeated. ‘The anger you feel is born from the great wrong of our country’s conquest and the terrible suffering you’ve endured because of it. I was in Escanceaster too,’ she reminded him, struggling to contain her own distress. ‘I know how dreadful it was and can only imagine how terrifying it must have been for a young boy, but surviving it doesn’t make you evil. The Traitor, not you, perpetrated the only sin on that day.’

  ‘And Wessex,’ Saeric growled at her, pointing at Heremund. ‘How can you bear children to him? You’re a sinner and a traitor too!’

  ‘Carwyn, for the love of God, get out of the way,’ Heremund ordered, his sword held ready to strike.

  Carwyn didn’t move, intentionally blocking her husband, tears on her cheeks. ‘He is not responsible for my suffering. He saved me from it, Saeric.’ Crying now, she pressed her hand onto the scar on Saeric’s chest. ‘You have a good heart, Saeric, despite all that you’ve suffered, but you are still enthralled to your anger. You must find a way to release this fury, or it will consume you and you will die, either by your own hand or someone else’s. You must learn to forgive.’

  Saeric’s eyes hardened, and his expression darkened. ‘No,’ he snarled, gripping her wrist. ‘I will never, ever forgive that whoreson for what he did to my family and me. That’s when I will release my fury; when I slaughter him, his wife, his children and every one of his household just like he did mine.’

  Confused and distraught, Saeric pushed past her and walked outside, desperate to get away from the stifling atmosphere of the house. He felt queasy and was surprised by how heavy his body had become; each step feeling like he was wading through deep water. His shoulder and back hurt like Hell, and he was aware of a dull pain in his ankle. I will never forgive! he thought, glaring at the two huscarls on guard. One of them raised his hand to challenge Saeric, but he thought better of it when he saw the glint of vehemence in Saeric’s eyes.

  The evening was cold and heavy with dew, the still air carrying a strong, earthy smell. Saeric felt the chill tingle his bare skin, and he put his hand over his heart again, feeling its racing beat as he struggled to control his distress. How can I forgive when I have suffered so much? How could anyone? How could she? They all think I’m some sort of hero, he thought, but if I am, then why did Leo have to die? And why didn’t the cross burn me, a servant of Satan?

  He turned and hobbled out onto the road, needing to get away from this place and the distress and confusion it brought him. Carwyn called to him from the house, but he ignored her. Away, he thought again, squinting up at the crescent moon that seemed overly bright this evening. His legs felt impossibly heavy now, and he frowned down at his feet, wondering what was wrong with them. He was still wondering when he collapsed, clutching the cross in his hand.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Late the following afternoon, Heremund ventured into the smithy, sword in hand, ready for anything. As it was, he didn’t need it. He saw Saeric curled up on the floor by the forge, in the very same place he had found him that first morning, over six months ago. Saeric didn’t stir when Heremund scooped him up and laid him back onto his bed, as he had done once today already, shortly before dawn. The smith felt a tingling in his spine as he looked down at the young man, whose pale face appeared untroubled in sleep. Saeric’s bandaged shoulder showed scarlet where fresh blood seeped from the wound. On the floor beside him lay the Bishop’s cross, and Heremund bent down to retrieve it. He frowned at it, wondering if it was somehow broken, for he was as surprised as Saeric that it had not harmed his apprentice at all. Perhaps Cara is right, he thought, and all that fury is righteous anger for the betrayal of Dumnonia.

  Heremund had spent most of the day reflecting on the previous evening’s events, finding it curious that they had all thought the worst of Saeric – that he was in some way possessed – yet it was Carwyn who had challenged that notion; and who had reached some other part of Saeric when she had appealed to him in his own tongue. There is more to this, much more, he thought. The image of Saeric calmly smashing the skulls of the brigands chilled him, yet Carwyn had found the truth that had been staring him in the face all along. He had said it himself on more than one occasion: how could any man suffer such horrendous torture for so long and survive? How could Saeric have kept fighting after receiving such a grievous wound? And what the Hell did he mean by ‘younger brother?’ It was for this last reason that Heremund had sent for his friend, for it was now alarmingly clear to him why Saeric had come here, to this forge, at this time. There is a Demon in this place, Heremund thought, looking down at his charge, and you have come to exorcise it.

  ‘So, this is your mysterious stranger,’ said the other man, who stood beside Heremund, his lean face thoughtful. He was dressed in fine military riding clothes, dusty from travel, the golden dragon of Wessex embroidered on his breast signifying a man of high rank amongst the King’s guard.

  Heremund turned to his friend and subordinate. ‘Aye,’ he said.

  ‘You say he killed five armed attackers with a… what?’

  ‘Ploughshare.’ Heremund nodded at the bench by the opposite wall, where Saeric’s blood-streaked weapon lay in isolation, in case it might somehow infect the other ironmongery.

  The soldier raised his eyebrows. ‘How exactly does one do that?’

  Heremund shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there, but Gerard and yeoman Averill’s maidservant said that he attacked them without hesitation or regard to his own wellbeing, and he struck each of them down with a single blow. They also said that when the brigand’s sword pierced Saeric, it was as though he had been poked with nothing more than a reed, and he proceeded to kill the fellow while the man’s blade was still impaled in his shoulder.’

  ‘That’s remarkably brave,’ the soldier said, impressed.

  ‘No, not brave.’ When his friend gave him a questioning look, Heremund continued. ‘The way the witnesses spoke, it was as though Saeric was possessed. He also killed Averill’s huscarl by ramming the man’s whip down his throat.’

  The other man raised his eyebrows. ‘Because…?’

  ‘Saeric didn’t take kindly to being whipped.’

  ‘I’m not sure that justifies murder.’

  ‘Carwyn described it as “righteous anger”.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not easy to explain. It is as though there are two versions of Saeric. One is a hardworking, careful, thoughtful fellow who is racked with self-doubt and deep pain, no doubt a result of the not insignificant suffering he has endured throughout his life as a weala. And then there is this other version,’ and he paused, remembering being given the blood-soaked bag that had held the ploughshare which Saeric had used to dispatch the brigands, ‘who is altogether different. Cold, dispassionate, purposeful and utterly devoid of fear or doubt. Averill’s woman said that Saeric acted wit
h the supreme confidence of one whose immortality is assured by God. There was no doubting he would prevail. She could see it in his eyes, and she said the man who had taken her as hostage knew it too. She said her captor knew he was going to die, no matter what he did. It was as though Saeric was delivering the wrath of God upon those men. Gerard says he saw it too.’

  ‘That’s quite a tale,’ the soldier said thoughtfully.

  ‘In his darker moments, Saeric speaks of a vow he made after his family were slaughtered during the fall of Dumnonia; that he would avenge them and seek out everyone responsible for his pain and take them down, one by one, or die in the trying. When I see this side of him, I can believe it.’

  ‘Dumnonian-born?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘But a slave all his life?’ The soldier crouched down so that he could better examine Saeric’s face.

  ‘No, not all. He was the child of a nobleman when Mael took power.’

  The soldier looked up at his friend. ‘What is it you’re not saying? I came immediately I received your message. You fear nothing, Heremund, but it was fear that I read behind your words, so what’s troubling you?’

  ‘Do you not see it?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘The resemblance.’

  The soldier lifted his hands. ‘To what?’

  ‘Not what, who.’

  The Saxon soldier frowned back at Heremund, surprised. ‘You are going mad. It’s the fumes from this forge, you old fool. Or too much drink.’

  Heremund gripped his friend’s forearm and with his other hand, pointed down at Saeric.

  ‘Last night he said he had a younger brother. A brother lost to the Devil after the fall of Escanceaster. The Devil, Eadwald. He refuses to speak his name, and I know why.’ Heremund took a swig of the ale. ‘I am afraid, Eadwald. After all that we – I – did, I am afraid. He’s Dumnonian, for God’s sake, out for vengeance, and from what I’ve seen, he’s going to get it, and nothing’s going to stand in his way.’

  Eadwald shook his head, incredulous. ‘What in God’s name has he done to you? You sound like one of my frightened yearlings just arrived into service. Do you honestly think he is some kind of avenging spirit come to bring you to account for your role in the sacking of Dumnonia? I thought you had atoned yourself for that? Let’s be candid. That’s why you withdrew from military service and refused to move to your new Dumnonian estate. You’re too superstitious for your own good.’