by Peter Fox
Eadwald raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you honestly believe that?’
‘They have waited…’
Eadwald lifted his hand to cut Saeric off. ‘You’re a scruffy, ill-trained, ill-prepared slave, whose only proof of identity is an outlandish tale and a single-minded hatred of your king. No one will believe you, and even if they did, do you actually think there are hordes of your fellow Dumnonians hiding in the shadows, clutching their rusty swords in anticipation of the day you return to lead them to glorious victory over the usurper?’
‘Yes,’ Saeric said petulantly, but even as he spoke, he realised just how truly childish and simplistic his ideals were.
‘Well then,’ Eadwald said, pressing on with irritating confidence, ‘if you really do intend to kill Mael and win back your kingdom, you’re going to need a lot of help; real help. You’ll start by learning to act and fight like a prince. Heremund tells me you plan to forge a sword from your leg irons?’
Saeric nodded, but as before, felt silly now admitting it. Yet Eadwald seemed to approve, as he too nodded thoughtfully.
‘Work with me then. Let me teach you, and when I think you are ready, together we will take back your kingdom. You have a lot of work ahead of you, mind; at least a year’s hard graft I should think. And you’ll be sick of this by the time we’re done,’ he said, tapping the iron band again. ‘In return for my assistance, you will offer fealty to King Ecgberht, but you, in turn, will be regent of your dominion.’
Saeric considered the Saxon general for a long time, then he said, ‘I’ll wager that’s exactly what you promised my uncle. How can you expect me to trust a turncoat like you?’
Eadwald shrugged. ‘You’d be wise not to, clearly. But you won’t get a better offer.’
‘And if I don’t accept?’ Saeric asked.
‘I’ll cut off your head here and now and no one will ever know you existed.’
Saeric frowned at the arrogant Saxon, no longer shocked by his blunt words. ‘That’s not much of a deal,’ he muttered.
‘You have a choice: death and obscurity or the chance to avenge your family, and if you’re especially lucky, to become king. Our conquest of Dumnonia was always inevitable, and if you hadn’t turned up, I’d have dragged Mael from his throne and taken your little backwater myself. I won’t ask you again, Aneurin, would-be king of Dumnonia. What do I take off: your head or my glove?’
Saeric let out a long breath, knowing he was beaten. He thrust out his hand, grudgingly. Eadwald removed his riding glove and took Saeric’s hand. His grip was firm. Saeric met his eyes and clenched his own hand more tightly. Eadwald smiled mockingly back at him.
You’re weak! cried the devil.
Oh, shut the fuck up, Saeric replied in his thoughts.
Heremund placed a hand on Saeric’s shoulder, and the Briton turned to his mentor, unable to find words to express his inner fury at having been exposed and trounced so effortlessly.
‘For whatever reason,’ Heremund said, ‘fate has brought us together. I don’t understand it either, but Eadwald will be a powerful ally, as can I if you wish it. At the very least, it will give me a chance to right my part in this wrong. Will you accept our help?’
Saeric’s mind reeled as he struggled to understand how his fortunes could change so radically and quickly. He knew that he was signing a pact with a different kind of Devil, but he nodded reluctantly, his only other option being death and the snuffing out of any hope for Dumnonia. Somewhere in the back of his mind was Caelin, and he couldn’t help feeling he was betraying him too.
‘Good,’ Eadwald said. ‘Now, before we get started on your tutelage, we have an important matter to resolve: the fifth person on your list.’
Saeric frowned at the ealdorman, confused. Eadwald smiled.
‘Her name, if you please.’
Saeric hesitated, realising to whom the Saxon referred. It disturbed him that even now her hold on him remained so potent.
‘We know who you are, Aneurin, so what possible reason can there be for keeping her identity secret? Do you not want the opportunity to pay her back for her barbaric treatment of you? And, dare I say it, you owe it to Leo.’
Saeric closed his eyes, and at once he saw the face of his tormentor, but so too the face of his lover. He let out a long breath, then he opened his eyes and looked into the glowing coals of the forge; the three spearheads dulling now that the bellows were silent.
‘Her name is Eanswith, daughter of Baldwyn of Wilcote Hall.’ Saeric nearly mentioned Edward too, but his deep sense of shame prevented him from speaking her brother’s name.
‘Ah,’ Heremund said, frowning to himself as he searched his memory for the name.
‘It is some way to the north and east, I think,’ Saeric said. ‘I wasn’t paying much attention to my surroundings when I escaped, other than to head west.’
‘Well, it will be a simple matter of an enquiry or two,’ Eadwald said. ‘Thank you, Aneurin. You won’t regret it. This shall be the start of your remaking; the cleansing of a painful past, albeit one that has made you the remarkable man you have become.’ He glanced again at the ploughshare and shook his head in wonder. ‘You can bring that with you if you like. It would be fitting, yes?’
Saeric followed the ealdorman’s gaze, then said, ‘I have one more request if you’ll hear it.’
‘Of course,’ Eadwald said.
‘Don’t call me Aneurin. That person died a long time ago.’ He looked up at his new ally, or was it master? ‘I don’t deserve to be known as him. Not yet, anyway. You said so yourself.’
Eadwald smiled back, his rueful expression revealing that he perfectly understood Saeric’s inner conflict. ‘Very well, Saeric of Scirburne, I shall not speak your true name again until you are ready to do so yourself.’ He nodded at the rack of unfinished swords on the smithy wall. ‘In the meantime, forge yourself a sword fit to slay a king, and I will teach you how to use it.’
END OF BOOK 2
✽ ✽ ✽
READ ON IN BOOK 3 OF THE WOLVES OF DUMNONIA SAGA:
WOLF OF DUMNONIA
BOOK 3: WOLF OF DUMNONIA
Peter Fox
For Shawn,
Master of Story and
best friend.
Aurlandsfjorden, Norvegr
Heyannir (MID-SUMMER), 823AD
Rathulf’s Sixteenth Birthday
1. A Ferret’s lair
Thorvaldsby, Aurlandsfjorden, Norvegr
‘Whoa. Stupid horse, you’ll kill us both! WHOA!’
Rathulf, son of Thorvald, Viking of Aurlandsfjorden, pulled hard on the reins, but Tariq ignored his master’s increasingly urgent commands. The horse landed heavily, nearly unseating its rider as it struggled to regain its footing on the slippery ground. Rathulf let out a yelp and grabbed the saddle’s wooden backrest to save himself from being pitched over his mount’s head.
Rathulf and the other boys had set off earlier in high spirits from the farmstead; each resolved to claim the prize of a magnificent silver arm ring for this, the most important race of the day. All were dressed in their best outfits, although none was more finely attired than Rathulf himself.
His foster-parents, Sigvald and Helga, had presented him with an entirely new wardrobe for his birthday: dark blue lambswool riding trousers, dazzling white linen undershirt, a thigh-length tunic of fine maroon wool with green and gold embroidered hems, and a light summer riding cape of russet-dyed wool fastened at his right shoulder by an enamelled bronze cloak pin. His father, Thorvald, had presented his son with a beautiful new sword belt with polished bronze fittings inlaid with silver, while his best friend, Alrik, had given him a splendid pair of leather riding boots. His would-be girlfriend, Ingrith, had offered a cloth band for her foster-brother’s hair, woven by her own hand.
It all had the desired effect of drawing a great deal of attention to the handsome sixteen-year-old, who struck an impressive pose upon his massive Byzantine warhorse. And it was due to Tariq that so many riding events
had been scheduled throughout the festivities; something that Rathulf was now regretting. The two previous races this morning had ended in humiliation, and this too was rapidly approaching the same inglorious end.
The first leg had taken the riders from the farmstead immediately up the mountain. The path rose steeply from the valley floor and took them far above the fjord. Ice and snow still lay in treacherous patches across the narrow trackway, making progress perilous at best, particularly as nothing stood between the riders and the drop to the water below. The views were spectacular, and today the sun shone bright and clear. Rathulf could see far up into the mountains that rose to the east beyond Aurlandsdalen; their smooth, arched backs cloaked in glistening snow and ice.
In the opposite direction, the fjord snaked away towards the unseen ocean – flanked on either side by more imposing mountains which fell straight into the water – eventually taking a distant bend and turning out of sight. Back up here on the shore of the fjord stood Rathulf’s partially-completed home, reconstructed beside the scarred earth where the avalanche had swept the old garth away. The new stone fences of the sheep yards made neat lines in the dark soil, and the fresh-cut pine staves of the house and outbuildings glowed honey-gold in the sunshine.
Rathulf and his friends, though, had little time to admire the view. Once they’d crested the valley wall, the riders had followed a course which took them across the upland plateau for a short way, and then they’d turned at the intersection of two rivers to return by the same route. Tariq had performed terribly on the climb up the mountain, where the path rose laboriously in a series of zigzagging switchbacks. The stallion had struggled to keep his footing on the narrow track, and Rathulf had watched in dismay as the other boys on their stocky, unimpressive ponies had drawn away from him. Tariq had gained ground on the dash across the plateau but had soon begun to lag again on the way back down. In an ill-considered moment of frustration, Rathulf had yelled abuse at his horse for being so useless. Tariq had responded in a way that Rathulf could never have expected: he had abandoned the path and pointed himself straight downhill.
So it was that Rathulf now found himself plummeting head-first down the impossibly steep slope at breakneck speed towards the cliff’s edge. Beyond the precipice lay the fjord, a thousand feet below. A switchback flashed beneath him, and Rathulf heard shouts of surprise and protest from Alrik and the others to his right. Suddenly Rathulf understood Tariq’s plan and whooped with jubilation. He ducked under a low-hanging bough then risked a glance over his shoulder. He saw Alrik, Gunnar and the other boys strung out along the hairpin bend he had just crossed, riding as fast as they dared along it. Rathulf shouted with joy when he and Tariq burst through another clump of saplings to see the lower branch of the path running below them. We’ve done it, he thought, elated. We’ve got in front!
‘See ya back at the house!’ Rathulf yelled, triumphant as he kicked his heel and pulled on the reins to bring Tariq around.
They almost made it.
Tariq threw himself sideways into a hard, lurching turn and even managed to point himself in the right direction before it all went wrong. They had picked up too much speed on their reckless charge down the mountainside and nothing, not even Tariq’s valiant will, could prevent them from slewing off the path. Rathulf yanked at the reins in a desperate effort to pull the horse up, shouting frantically at Tariq to come around. The big Nisean was trying to turn, but he could find no traction on the slippery ground.
His momentum carried them straight over the edge.
Rathulf’s blurted profanity was carried away by the wind as horse and rider slid sideways down the mountainside towards the cliff edge. Rathulf stayed on board, crouching low to avoid the worst of the stripling birch trees that lashed his face and body as Tariq scrabbled to regain control. From somewhere above came the horrified cries of his friends, who had watched helplessly as their companion had careened off the path and out of sight.
Rathulf shut his eyes and braced himself for the end, but just as he did so, Tariq came to a sudden stop. Rathulf’s chin smacked into Tariq’s neck, and a strap snapped somewhere beneath him. The young Norseman swore again and clung to the saddle, waiting for the impact and cold bite of water in his lungs. It took him a few moments more to realise that he was not falling. Nor was he wet. He opened first one eye, then the other, to find that they had halted just two yards from the precipice.
‘Hel’s thighs,’ he muttered, his heart pounding. ‘That was close.’ He leaned forward and gave his horse an encouraging pat on the neck, and then he smiled when Tariq turned his head to meet his master’s gaze. ‘But it was awesome!’ he whooped, exhilaration rushing in to swamp the terror he had just felt. But when he lifted his eyes to the slope above, he let out a groan. A wall of earth rose steeply up to the path far above, four deep gouges marking the line of their descent.
How will we ever get back up there? Rathulf wondered, shaking his head at his stupidity for allowing Tariq to have his head.
He heard laughter from above and looked up to see Alrik and the others moving off, waving to him and shouting their condolences as they continued down the narrow trail. Most irritating of all was Gunnar’s self-satisfied smirk. Eirik’s son mouthed ‘loser’, and then he was off after the others.
‘The race isn’t over yet,’ Rathulf shouted at their retreating backs, but Gunnar and the others rode on, unconcerned, their laughter echoing off the opposite wall of the fjord.
‘Great,’ Rathulf muttered, anger rising in his throat, but it was mostly directed towards his idiot horse for trying such a crazy stunt in the first place, and his own failure to control him.
They’ll never let me ride you over Odin’s Breach if we keep making blunders like this, Rathulf thought in frustration. But it was so hard, as Myran had warned, to treat Tariq like an ordinary mount. The damned horse wanted to fly and leap and charge! He wasn’t sensible like the locally-bred ponies. It was as though Tariq was daring Rathulf to push him further. Rathulf had responded to the challenge, but so far that had proved disastrous. They had foundered in the two earlier races, on both occasions because Rathulf had been rash and overextended himself. On each occasion, he had ended up on the ground, once on his face and once on his back, but fortunately, both he and Tariq had escaped injury. Most importantly, however, no one had seen him fall. Yet here he was again, failing the test, only this time the price had almost been his life.
The big horse shook his head and let out an indignant snort.
‘Why are you complaining? This was your idea!’
Tariq turned his head and responded with another snort. The stallion’s apparent ability to understand Rathulf had at first unsettled the young Norseman, but over the past couple of months, he had grown more accustomed to the horse’s unusual talents, among which was an uncommonly high intelligence.
Rathulf gave Tariq a friendly clout before slipping down from the makeshift saddle. He looked at the slope down which they had slid. It wasn’t as bad as he’d first thought but getting back up would be easier said than done. He slipped in the loose, icy soil as he scrambled up to the safety of the path, smearing his knees and arms with mud in the process.
‘Terrific,’ he muttered, looking down at his soiled clothes. ‘Come on,’ he said to his horse, already having resigned himself to another humiliating loss. ‘Are you coming or not?’
Tariq clambered back up to the path, slipping as Rathulf had done in the dark soil, then once on firmer ground, he shook himself from head to tail, whinnying noisily as he did so.
‘As I said, you’ve only yourself to blame.’
Rathulf hauled himself back up onto his horse, feeling a slight twinge in his chest as he did so. Ignoring it, he readjusted himself on the ill-fitting saddle, deciding to leave the broken strap alone as there was nothing he could do about it. He made a mental note to remind Alrik of his promise to pay for new tack, then gave the order to Tariq to get going.
The Nisean sprang into a trot, and almost
immediately Rathulf lost any irritation he had felt towards his mount. How could he possibly be angry with this magnificent horse? Perhaps he could not yet claim to be in command of him, that was clear enough, but to own and ride him! Tariq remained the most impressive mount in the fjordlands, despite his growing list of short-comings, but best of all – and counter to his protestations otherwise – Alrik remained insanely jealous of his friend, and nothing could better that.
They moved down the mountain at a brisk pace, Rathulf allowing Tariq to find his stride along the narrow path. He watched as Alrik and the others appeared on the valley floor, his friend whooping with glee as he charged past the homestead and on up towards the valley head. Rathulf felt Tariq tense beneath him, incensed by the taunts. The warhorse increased his stride.
They arrived at the bottom of the mountain just as the group of riders led by Alrik reached the second of four turning marks in the valley. Rathulf cursed his friend under his breath. We haven’t a hope of catching them, he realised. Rathulf and Tariq charged past the homestead to the cheers of the spectators, but as they flashed by, Rathulf caught sight of Sigvald’s disappointed expression. The chieftain looked at him with hands raised in question. Rathulf kicked his heels and urged Tariq on, heading up the valley in pursuit of Alrik and the others.
Despite his best efforts on the river flat, Tariq still came in second to last, bursting across the line and coming to a bucking halt right up against the wall of the house, scattering spectators as he struggled to brake on the fresh grass. Rathulf dropped to the ground, determined not to show his dismay in front of all these witnesses. Plenty of spectators were already doing that for him, and he felt the prickling weight of their disappointed gazes as he wrestled with Tariq.
‘Calm down, you idiot,’ he growled, glaring into Tariq’s large brown eyes.
Alrik was first to appear, not even bothering to hide his delight. ‘Great effort, Ra,’ he laughed, still panting from the exertion of his race. ‘And now we’ve got a new name for the greatest horse Norvegr has ever seen: Slippy!’