by Jayne Castel
However, Blod monath was a bad time of year to travel, for it was usually a month of heavy rains. After years of impeccable strategy, Penda had pushed his luck too far and they were all about to pay the price.
The three men made their way up to the brow of the hill, where other cloaked figures waited next to sputtering and smoking pitch torches, mounted on poles and stuck in the mud. Like the three newcomers, the other warriors wore oiled leather cloaks, their cowls pulled high, in an effort to shield them from the drumming rain.
“It’s going to be a long watch,” Elfhere muttered as they took their place in the line.
Maric spoke for the first time since leaving Penda’s tent.
“You wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway – no one will, tonight.”
His gaze shifted to the edge of the torchlight, and he squinted into the murk. He was just able to make out the faint light of the enemy camp’s fires, nearly a furlong distant. A short while later, Osulf broke the silence.
“It’s going to be ugly tomorrow.”
Maric gave a grim smile. Osulf was ever given to stating the obvious. A huge portion of Penda’s army had deserted, morale was at rock bottom, and the king’s son had disappeared. The only advantage the Mercians had was that their army was bigger than that of the Northumbrians. The rest was too desperate to dwell upon. As things stood, it looked as if dawn would send them all to meet Nithhogg in the underworld.
Maric inhaled the wet air and let the realization wash over him. Tomorrow he would die. He waited for dread to cramp his guts, but felt nothing, only a faint sense of relief. Finally, it would be over.
“Every man’s got to go sometime,” Elfhere spoke up, as if reading Maric’s thoughts, his voice uncharacteristically flat, “but I’d hoped my time was far off.”
“A warrior doesn’t get to choose his end,” Osulf slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Wyrd does.”
“Aye, and those battle-shirking bastards who have left us to stand alone,” Elfhere replied bitterly.
Maric cast Elfhere a glance, trying to gauge his thoughts, but the warrior’s face was hidden by his cowl. They had known each other since they were boys, getting up to mischief in Tamworth’s back streets. He did not want to think about either Elfhere or Osulf falling tomorrow. His life had ceased to matter to him, but theirs did.
“Nothing sorts out loyalty like the eve of battle,” he murmured.
They lapsed into silence then, their gazes surveying the murky darkness to the north. Conversation was gloomy anyway, and each man withdrew into his private thoughts.
Maric inclined his head to the night sky, letting his cowl fall back. The rain peppered his skin like hundreds of icy bone needles.
Blod monath. How fitting his end would come now, during the month that was a constant reminder of the blood on his hands. Blood that would never wash clean.
It had been raining two years ago, on the day he returned to Tamworth, after Penda’s failed peace-weaving in Bebbanburg. They had arrived home earlier than anticipated, for Penda had been in a foul mood and had driven his men hard.
Maric had shared his lord’s impatience to return home; during the entire journey, he had longed for Tamworth. He remembered his last view of Gytha, standing framed by the doorway of their home, waving to him as he rode away to join Penda on his mission north. He ached to see her again.
The rain had been driving almost horizontally when Penda’s company rode into Tamworth. Folk cowered indoors, warming themselves around smoking fire pits and waiting for the storm to pass. Maric had accompanied the others to the stables, but after seeing to his horse, he begged off the others’ requests he join them at the mead hall, and headed home.
The thatch-roofed, timbered dwelling he had built for himself and Gytha sat near the walls encircling the Great Tower of Tamworth. It had taken him a whole summer, two years earlier, to build it; but with the help of his friends, he had finished the house before Winterfyllth, in time for his handfasting with the fair Gytha.
Maric had run the last few steps, and thrown open the wattle and daub door, eager to surprise his wife. He imagined she would be sitting near the fire pit spinning, or at the kitchen table preparing bread for the next day. In fact, she was not doing either of these things.
The scene that had greeted him had torn his world apart.
Maric shook his head, jerking himself back to the present and shoving the knife blade of grief to the back of his mind. He wanted to remain numb – to return to that day would shatter him.
Some memories would break a man.
Chapter Two
Oswiu’s Reckoning
Maric watched the lad fasten the leather brace around his left forearm. Outside, the wind clawed at the exterior of his tent. The gods were definitely against them this morning. The rain appeared to be coming down harder than ever. At this rate, they would be fighting knee-deep in mud.
Beyond the roar of the wind, Maric heard the shouts of men readying themselves for battle and the squelching of their boots as they hurried past his tent. There was fear in the air this morning, he could taste it. He could hear the edge of desperation in the men’s voices and wondered how they would react when it came to facing the Northumbrian shield wall.
There was still no sign of Paeda this morning; one look at the king’s face earlier had confirmed that Penda’s son had not returned overnight.
Yet, Penda did not rage. Instead, his fury at the apparent betrayal lay still and cold within him like a deep, frozen lake. Maric pitied any man who crossed Penda of Mercia’s path in battle today.
“Off you go,” Maric nodded to the boy. “I can finish the rest myself.”
Wide-eyed, his face taut and pale, the lad gave a brave smile and ducked out of the tent, hurrying to help the other warriors don their armor for battle.
Maric glanced down at the mail shirt he wore over a quilted tunic. He was better protected than most; many warriors would only have leather jerkins to protect their torsos, some even less than that. This armor had been a gift from Penda after a successful campaign against the East Angles a year earlier.
Buckling his sword about his waist, Maric glanced around the tent he shared with Elfhere and Osulf. They had already readied themselves for battle, and had joined the warriors gathering on the slope above the encampment. He had only a few moments alone before he too would form the ranks of Penda’s fyrd.
Maric savored them. A warrior’s life meant he spent little time on his own; something he had been grateful for. His thoughts were poisonous these days. Still, this battle was to be different to any other he had fought. He could feel it in his bones, and he wished for a moment of solitude.
His shield lay on its side, at his feet. His gaze travelled over its battle-scarred surface. Lime wood, with an iron boss, he had painted it blue and gold, the colors of Mercia. Maric’s mouth tasted bitter as he picked it up, feeling the shield’s reassuring weight in his hand.
The shield symbolized his allegiance to Mercia. He had always been loyal. His father had once warned him that although there was nothing wrong with loyalty, too much turned a man into a fool. Maric had devoted himself to the glory of Mercia, to his lord. He had also been unfailingly faithful to his friends, his kin, and to his wife – and paid for it.
Maric’s fist tightened around the shield’s iron grip.
It’s time.
A grey dawn cast its dull light over the world. Maric stood, shoulder to shoulder with Elfhere and Osulf, and helped form the first line of the shield wall. The thumping of wooden shields overlapping, one by one, echoed through the wet morning air.
Penda, resplendent in leather, mail and a gleaming bronze and iron helmet, rode astride a magnificent white stallion before the shield wall. The beast was up to its hocks in thick, wet clay, but its rider urged it on mercilessly.
At the top of the hill, Maric made out the bristling line of spears of the enemy, protruding through the mist. The Northumbrians were ready.
Penda’s powerful voic
e cut through the driving rain.
“Destroy them!” he roared. “From the highest to the lowest – I want every last one of Oswiu’s people dead!”
Maric had never heard his lord’s voice like this – so raw. Paeda’s betrayal had unleashed the beast within. No man who came within range of Penda’s lethal sword, Æthelfrith’s Bane, would live to see the dusk.
A ripple of unease went through Penda’s men, as the men forming the shield wall jostled each other, shoulder to shoulder. Maric drew his sword from its scabbard; a two-edged broad blade with an iron pommel and bone grip. Nightbringer, she was called, and she had served Maric well through countless battles. She was a reassuring weight in his hand, an old friend.
He glanced left, at where Osulf stood at his shoulder. A dark scowl creased his friend’s heavy-featured face. Osulf’s gaze was riveted upon the enemy line at the top of the hill. He had tied his thick auburn hair back for battle and his grey eyes gleamed. Maric glanced right, at Elfhere. An iron helmet hid his friend’s face. Leather armor encased his tall, muscular form. Like Maric and Osulf, Elfhere had drawn his sword, his shield locked into place before him.
Ahead, the enemy line trembled, and the world drew breath. The sounds of nature’s fury filled their ears: the howling wind, the roar of the river at their backs and the splattering of rain on leather and mud.
“May Tiw guide your blades my brothers,” Maric murmured.
“See you both on the other side,” Osulf grinned, showing his teeth.
“Not likely,” Elfhere grunted. “Where you’re going, a fire-breathing serpent will roast your arse.”
Osulf snorted. “And what awaits you?”
“A hundred beautiful maidens and a land of eternal summer.”
Maric listened to his friends’ banter and smiled despite himself.
A heartbeat later, the Northumbrian shield wall raced down the hill toward them.
A great roar split the air and the Mercian fyrd surged forward to meet the enemy. Shields collided with an almighty crunch and the ground shook from the force of thundering feet. The two lines battered each other. Spears thrust, hammers flew and seaxes – lethal single-edged knives – stabbed through the gaps between the interlocked shields.
The Northumbrians had the higher ground, and pressed their advantage from the first moments of battle. They leaned into their adversaries, and pushed the Mercian shields back toward the river, causing the Mercian fyrd to spread out along the banks of the Winwaed.
Suddenly, the Mercian shield wall buckled and gave way. Men fell and were trampled underfoot as enemy warriors poured through the breach. The Mercian warriors wielding swords and axes charged forward to meet them.
Bleakness filled Maric the moment the shield wall crumpled. Ever since that fateful day two years earlier, he had lost his taste for battle. This change worried him; for the fire that set a man’s veins alight as he faced his enemy was the only thing that kept him alive.
Maric gripped his sword with his right hand and his shield with his left, and whispered a prayer to Tiw, god of battle. He had to fight, to bring down as many men as possible before darkness took him.
Roaring the name of his king, Maric rushed forward and threw himself into the oblivion of battle.
Nightbringer sang and blood flowed thick. Initially, he was barely aware of the wet clay that sucked down at his legs as he fought. However, after a short while, it began to hinder his movements. The roar of battle around him was deafening: the rise and fall of men’s shouts and screams, the thud of shields, the clang of iron against iron and the wet sounds of axes, spears and swords finding their mark.
Elfhere and Osulf disappeared from his field of vision, shortly after the Northumbrians breached the shield wall, but Maric knew they would be close by. There was no time to look out for his friends, no time to scan the battle-field for his king. Maric’s survival depended on focusing entirely on the fight.
A Northumbrian axe-man came for him, bellowing a war cry. Maric ducked, feeling the whisper of the blade, perilously close to his left cheek, and cut his opponent down from below. He wrenched the blade free from just below the Northumbrian’s ribs and staggered back under the onslaught of a new tide of enemy spearmen that surged through the disintegrated shield wall.
It did not take long before the Northumbrians had pushed their enemy back into the river itself. The cries of men falling into the raging water reached Maric and he glanced over his shoulder to see that many warriors fought at the water’s edge, while others flailed, chest-deep in the torrent. Others disappeared under the swirling surface, not to reappear.
Maric glanced back at the fray, and found himself surrounded by Northumbrian spearmen. With a roar, he swung his blade in an arc and fell upon them; the knowledge he was doomed turning him recklessly savage. Men fell upon his blade, but they were quickly replaced by others. Yet, step by step, they pushed him back to the water’s edge. Knee-deep in icy water, he continued to fight them. A spear tip ripped across his right bicep, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, but he fought on, ignoring the pain.
They forced him farther back into the river, where he was suddenly flailing, waist deep, fighting the strong current. A Northumbrian warrior bearing a seax waded in, heedless of his own safety, and launched himself at Maric.
Maric sheathed his sword and reached for the seax at his waist, which was better for fighting at close quarters. Then, he staggered as the river floor gave way under him, and lost his balance. Something heavy collided with Maric’s temple – and he fell backward, into the Winwaed’s watery embrace.
***
Maric awoke on the riverbank, with a splitting headache and a mouthful of mud.
The sun warmed his cheek, a soothing balm in contrast to the pain hammering his skull. His eyes felt glued shut, his body leaden and useless, as if it did not belong to him. He could hear the dull roar of the river and felt chill water lapping against his ankles.
It’s stopped raining, he realized dully.
The chilling croak of crows roused him, and his eyes snapped open. The carrion birds would be feasting upon the dead; and they would soon come for him if he continued to lie here, prone.
There’s life left in me after all.
Maric raised his head and blinked, attempting to clear the fog from his vision so he could focus upon his surroundings. The current had carried him a short way down river, and had washed him up against a growth of stunted willows. Maric attempted to push himself upright and spat a curse. He had forgotten the injury he had sustained to his right bicep. His entire arm was coated in blood and the arm had no strength in it.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Maric dragged himself up the bank, using his uninjured arm to haul himself forward. Panting from the effort, he reached the top of the bank and looked out upon a sea of bodies.
Standards and spears stuck up from the carpet of broken, twisted and bloodied corpses that covered the windswept hillside from the river’s edge to the pale horizon.
Despair twisted his gut and bitterness soured his mouth.
I should be among the dead.
The end had come for the Mercians, but wyrd had spared him – again.
Maric watched the Northumbrians comb the battlefield. They were checking for survivors and helping themselves to choice weapons and trinkets from those they had slain. One of them was in the process of wresting gold rings off the hand of a dead Mercian when he spotted Maric watching him.
“We’ve got a live one here!” the warrior grinned at the man next to him.
His friend looked up, his gaze travelling to where Maric lay, glaring defiantly at them.
“Looks like the river washed him up.”
The first warrior dropped the corpse’s hand; the gold rings forgotten.
“He’ll soon wish it hadn’t.”
Chapter Three
A New Allegiance
The warriors dragged Maric into the Northumbrian encampment, to a clearing at the heart of it. He tried to walk,
but his limbs refused to cooperate; his captors were forced to carry him when his legs gave way.
“Sit down cripple!” one of the warriors mocked. “Look at you – weak as a maid!”
They shoved him into the center of the clearing where a knot of bloodied, wounded captives sullenly awaited their fate. Maric snarled a curse at the Northumbrians, before crumpling in a heap. His head was now pounding, and his legs still refused to cooperate.
He had insulted both the warriors earlier, when they had tried to haul him up from the riverbank. When that did not anger them, he had fought them with his fists, hoping that the scuffle would end badly for him. However, they had been intent on taking him alive.
“Maric!” a croaky, pain-laced voice roused him, and he turned to see Osulf; one side of his face covered in blood, his left eye a swollen bloodied mess. Next to Osulf sat Elfhere. He was slumped against his friend, his face ashen. Maric’s gaze travelled down Elfhere’s mud-caked body to the nasty gash on his thigh; if he survived the wound, his friend would never walk properly again.
Osulf grimaced. “Avoided nithhogg for a little longer, eh?” he rasped.
Maric gave a mute nod. He saw the doom on Osulf’s face and he too felt a cloak of hopelessness settle over him. There was only one thing worse than dying in battle – and that was being a survivor on the losing side.
There were at least two dozen other survivors, some of them so grievously wounded that death would be a relief. Maric sat in the mud, looking about him, and awaited his fate. He watched men trudge past, hauling the bodies of the dead or injured. Presently, his gaze rested upon a grisly spectacle at the edge of the clearing.
A head on a pike. A fine sword sat next to it, its blade embedded in the mud.
Penda of Mercia glared at him. His features, twisted in a snarl, showed defiance even in death. The enemy had mounted his head next to the largest of the tents.