by Jayne Castel
The young warrior appeared to be enjoying Alchflaed’s attention. Unlike the others, Bryni did not seem to resent the Northumbrian princess. He had gone pink in the face as she examined the injury. Fortunately, Alchflaed did not appear to notice.
“It’s healing well,” she told Bryni. “It will need at least another five days and then I shall remove the stitches.”
“Thank you, M’lady,” Bryni replied, “although it’s starting to itch – is there something amiss?”
Alchflaed smiled and shook her head.
“It’s healing, there’s nothing to worry about.”
She rose to her feet and left Bryni to don his breeches. Maric was aware that she was walking toward him and he looked away, focusing upon the sword he was sharpening. Nonetheless, Alchflaed approached and sat down next to him.
“That’s a fine sword,” she said lightly. “Does it have a name?”
“Aye,” he replied, “all good swords do.”
Silence stretched between them, and when Maric did not speak further, Alchflaed prompted him.
“So what’s it called?”
Maric’s gaze met hers. “Nightbringer.”
Another silence fell before Alchflaed eventually broke it.
“Has it slain many Northumbrians then?”
Maric nodded. He glanced up and saw that Alchflaed was frowning. It was not a glare of disapproval, which he had expected, but the weary expression of a woman who had grown up amongst war. She knew that battle was a way of life but did not like it nonetheless. The princess’ gaze returned to Nightbringer, travelling along its iron, double-edged blade to its leather pommel.
“In my father’s hall, only his best warriors fight with swords,” she observed. “Is it so at Tamworth?”
“Yes, Penda gifted this sword to me after a successful campaign in the north. Few of Penda’s thegns fight with swords as fine as this one.”
He uttered these words without the slightest boast; if anything, they depressed him. At the time, when Penda gifted him the sword, he had never been prouder. Then, he had felt as if wyrd, fate, shone upon him. He had enjoyed his lord’s favor, the love of a beautiful woman, and his family’s pride. Now, all that remained was cold iron, and as fine as it was, Nightbringer brought him no solace. It was merely a reminder of everything he had lost.
“Is something wrong?” Alchflaed asked. Maric was tempted to conclude their conversation, but upon seeing the genuine concern on her face, he swallowed his bitterness.
“It’s only that this sword reminds me of my old life… “
He watched Alchflaed’s frown deepen, and sensed her curiosity to know more. However, wisely, she did not press him further. In an effort to shift the conversation away from himself, Maric motioned to the scabbard that lay flat across her waist.
“That is a fine weapon also.”
Alchflaed’s gaze dropped to her seax and her expression tightened.
“A gift, from my father,” she replied, her voice subdued.
“It’s a kingly gift indeed, may I look at it?”
She hesitated a moment, before drawing the blade from its intricately stitched leather scabbard and handing it to him. Maric held it up, admiring the shimmering single-edged blade and ornately carved wooden handle.
“You were fortunate with the ealdorman,” Maric said finally. “You struck at him blindly, and it was only luck that your blade actually cut him.”
He saw her bristle at that, but continued nonetheless. “If you carry such a finely made seax, you should know how to use it.”
“Fæder gave it to me just before my departure from Bebbanburg,” she explained stiffly. “I did not have time to learn how to use it.”
Maric smiled. “Shall I teach you then?”
He watched her mouth thin. She was a proud young woman and did not take kindly to being bested at anything. Maric watched the princess, awaiting her response.
“You’re wasting your time there,” A heavy-set man with shaggy brown hair jeered. His name was Baldwine and he was one of the most vocal in his resentment toward their Northumbrian charge. "You can’t teach a woman to fight.”
Alchflaed threw the warrior a venomous look and rose to her feet.
“Very well,” she said, facing Marc. “Show me.”
Maric set Nightbringer aside and stood up. He then passed Alchflaed’s seax back to her.
“Put this away, it’s too sharp to practice with.”
Alchflaed complied, while Maric retrieved a piece of wood, around the same length as the seax, from the fireside.
“The most important thing to remember about a seax – both its strength and its weakness – is that it is short,” he began. “Unlike with a sword, you have no reach.”
Maric stepped forward so that he and Alchflaed now stood very close. He was aware that the conversation had died around the fire, as the other Mercians looked on.
Edgard was frowning, while Bryni grinned. Scowling, Baldwine rose to his feet, spat in the fire and exited the tent. A few others followed him making it clear they did not approve.
Maric ignored them. His gaze met Alchflaed’s, which was easy for she was a tall woman and stood barely a hand’s span shorter than him.
“You have to be willing to get close to your opponent,” he continued. “Far closer than you want to. Once there, you must be aggressive. Speed is everything with a seax.”
Maric brought the stick up sharply so its tip rested just below Alchflaed’s rib cage. He had moved so fast, she had not anticipated him. Her eyes widened in shock.
“Woden!”
“A sword is unwieldy,” Maric grinned, “but a seax is agile. If a man carries a spear, he cannot use his weapon at close quarters.”
Alchflaed nodded, her expression wary.
“Very well. Stand with your legs apart and knees bent and lean forward slightly,” he instructed. She obeyed, although he could sense her discomfort.
“Take this.”
Maric handed the stick to her, which she then held in her right hand.
“Keep your hands low,” he told her. “You will not be carrying a shield, so you must not use your free hand to block the blade – or you’ll lose it. Instead, you must use your shield-hand to parry; hit your opponent’s hand out of the way, or grab it and take control.”
“And how do I do that?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
“I’ll show you. Attack me. Step toward me with your right foot and strike fast.”
No sooner had the words left his lips, than Alchflaed leaped toward him and thrust the stick at his ribs. Maric reached out with his left hand and grabbed her wrist, holding it fast. He cocked an eyebrow, more impressed than he revealed.
“Very good – you’re fast.”
Her lips thinned. “Not fast enough it seems.”
“I’d be wary of you in a knife fight, M’lady,” Bryni spoke up from the other side of the fire, clearly impressed by the princess’ speed.
“Perhaps, but most men wouldn’t be,” she replied with a wince.
“Then use their arrogance to your advantage,” Maric said, taking the stick from her. “A knife to the ribs harms, whether a man or a woman wields the blade.”
Chapter Fourteen
Meeting at Winwaed
Alchflaed watched a hawk glide overhead, a dark silhouette against a rare blue sky. She admired the bird’s regal beauty. Her father kept hawks for hunting and she had loved birds of prey since she was old enough to don a leather hawking glove and hold one of these majestic creatures upon her wrist.
The northern stronghold of her people felt a world away.
She seemed to have been travelling forever. After riding south-west since Eoforwic, Maric had led them east. At this rate, they would reach Tamworth just in time for Yule. This was the longest journey Alchflaed had ever been on; even her trips to her mother’s kin in Rheged had been no longer than five days’ ride from Bebbanburg.
The company now skirted the marshes, which were impassable
at this time of year. It was a necessary detour; they would be able to turn west once more after crossing the River Winwaed.
Alchflaed’s gaze travelled up the column of riders to where Maric led the company. It had been nearly three days since he had taught her how to wield a seax, and things had been easier between them since that evening. They often spoke together in the evenings and Alchflaed found Maric good company. Intelligent and soft-spoken, his conversation fascinated her.
Still, she felt no nearer to knowing the enigmatic Mercian. He kept their talk light, and skirted around any topic that required him to reveal any details of himself. Likewise, Alchflaed spoke little of her own thoughts, or what awaited her farther south.
She had enjoyed learning how to wield a seax but the experience had also reminded her of why her father had gifted it to her. Maric had unwittingly taught her how to kill his own king. No doubt, the skill would come in useful if she did not resort to poisoning as her method of assassination.
Fæder would be pleased, she thought bitterly. How would Maric react, if he knew the truth?
She had no answer for that, just a dull ache in the center of her chest.
They rode on higher ground this morning, upon gorse-strewn moorland. The sun had almost reached its zenith, when the party reached the brow of a hill. Here, Maric halted. Alchflaed urged Briosa forward and rode up so that she drew level with him.
“Why are we stopping?”
“The Winwaed is before us,” he replied.
His gaze, fixed upon where a wide river in the valley below glittered in the noon sun, was hard.
“Is this where the battle took place?” she asked quietly.
Maric nodded.
Edgard drew up next to them, his face stony. “Your folk made camp behind us,” he told her, his tone faintly accusing, “while we camped down there, near the banks of the river.”
“The Winwaed looks a lot calmer today,” Maric observed. “Doesn’t seem like the same river.”
“Aye,” Edgard’s expression softened slightly. “Safe enough to cross on horseback?”
“I’d say so.”
Alchflaed looked down the hillside. Strangely, she could see no sign of the terrible battle, which had taken place barely a moon cycle earlier. It was only when she glanced right that she noticed a wide, charred stretch of ground.
Maric saw the direction of her gaze.
“That’s where they burned the dead.”
Alchflaed did not reply. Edgard broke the uncomfortable silence.
“I have no wish to linger in this place,” he growled. “Let’s press on and take our rest once we’re south of the Winwaed.”
“You’ll have no argument from me,” Baldwine muttered behind them. “The ground here is soaked with Mercian blood.”
The mood was tense and Alchflaed, the only Northumbrian among them, wisely kept silent. All the men here had fought at Winwaed, and had tasted the bitterness of defeat. They had seen their friends – and perhaps even their brothers, fathers and uncles – die. Alchflaed understood their eagerness to be gone from this place.
Maric urged his gelding down the slope and led the way into the river. The water came to just below his horse’s belly and it flowed swiftly. Edgard followed and then Alchflaed. She deliberately loosened Briosa’s reins, letting the mare pick her way across. The pony snorted, nervous in the swirling water, but she gamely followed the others. The water came up higher on the pony, lapping around Alchflaed’s feet and soaking her fur boots. Behind her, she heard splashes as the rest of her escort entered the river.
The Winwaed was a wide river, at least thirty paces across. Alchflaed had heard that the armies had faced each other in torrential rain and many men had drowned in the swollen river. The thought chilled her.
Maric reached the other side and reined in his gelding, waiting till the others were safely across. Briosa leaped up the bank, snorting in her eagerness to be free of the river’s chill. They followed Maric up the slope beyond the southern bank, weaving in between clumps of gorse.
At the top, Maric brought his horse to a sudden halt. His action was so abrupt that Edgard almost rode into the back of him. Edgard started to protest, but Maric put up a hand to silence him. His gaze fixed upon something beyond the rise, Maric beckoned his companions forward.
Reaching the crest of the hill, Alchflaed followed Maric’s gaze across the scrubby landscape before them. An oakwood, a riot of autumnal leaves, began to their right. However, directly in their path – around fifty yards distant – stood a company of warriors, their shields raised.
Alchflaed stifled a gasp.
At this distance, it was difficult to judge their number, although she would have guessed there were around twenty of them. They were dressed for battle in mail shirts or boiled leather, and some of them wore iron helms.
Alchflaed did not need to ask – she knew who blocked their way. She broke out in a cold sweat and her fingers clenched around the reins. She glanced across at Maric, and saw his face had gone stony. Alchflaed then looked at Edgard and Bryni. Even the young warrior’s face had changed, turned into a killer’s mask. Her father had once told her that women had no place on a battlefield. For the first time, she understood him.
Alchflaed swallowed and nervously licked her lips.
“Maric,” she murmured. “You were right… he has followed us.”
Maric did not look at her. Instead, he swung down off his horse and unsheathed Nightbringer. He unslung his limewood shield from where it rested on his back and brought it up before him. Around him, the others followed suit.
“Ride back across the river, Alchflaed,” he told her, his voice cold. “Wait there till this is over.”
“What if you fall?” she asked, panic rising in her breast.
He looked at her then, his crystalline gaze belonging to a stranger. “If the ealdorman comes, flee and pray he does not catch you.”
His words did little to calm her. She watched Maric turn his back on her and stride forward to meet Eadweard of Eoforwic and his warriors. Edgard flanked Maric’s left and Bryni his right.
Alchflaed watched them go. Despite Maric’s order to ride back over the river, she found herself rooted to the spot. The Mercians’ horses milled around her, abandoned by their riders as the warriors moved to fight on foot. Briosa, sensing her rider’s panic, tossed her head and danced. Alchflaed barely noticed. She stared at Maric’s back as he walked away from her.
When they were around ten yards away from the men blocking their path, the Mercians halted. Then, Maric’s voice rang out.
“Eadweard of Eoforwic, why do you block our way?”
The shields before him parted and a huge man stepped forward. The ealdorman was even bigger and more frightening than Alchflaed remembered. He wore a wolf-skin mantle and a mail shirt covered his broad chest.
“You know why, Mercian.”
“Stand aside and let us continue south. We have no quarrel with you.”
“No, but I have one with you,” the ealdorman rumbled.
“You would betray your king?”
The ealdorman spat on the ground, his gaze shifting behind Maric to where Alchflaed hung back at the top of the rise.
“My loyalty has earned me nothing. It’s time I took what is rightfully mine. Give me Alchflaed.”
“We were charged with Lady Alchflaed’s protection,” Maric replied coolly. “I will not abandon her to you.”
“Then prepare to die.”
The ealdorman stepped back to the line and raised his shield.
The Mercians shuffled together, wood thumping against wood, as they formed a shield wall of their own. A moment later, the two groups of warriors rushed at each other.
The crunch of shields colliding split the air.
Briosa squealed and reared. The pony sensed danger and wished to run from it. Alchflaed stroked the mare’s quivering neck, her gaze riveted upon the backs of the Mercians as they locked shields with the ealdormen’s warriors.
> Men’s shouts reached her. She watched the shield walls break apart, and then the warriors were fighting face-to-face. She saw Edgard knock his first opponent to the ground and slam a spear through his throat. Blood spurted and then Edgard was whirling away, raising his shield to ward off a blow from a warrior wielding an axe. Next to him, Maric wielded Nightbringer like an executioner. Blood sprayed in the sword’s wake, as he cut down every man who came at him.
Amongst the fray, Alchflaed spied Eadweard of Eoforwic. He too wielded a sword, and thrust and slashed like a butcher. The ealdorman stabbed Baldwine. He smashed him in the face with his fist as the Mercian struggled upon his sword, before kicking him to the ground.
Then, Bryni went down, skewered upon the ealdorman’s blade.
Alchflaed cried out, her scream lost amongst the roar of battle. Without thinking, she jumped off Briosa’s back and drew her seax.
Around Eadweard of Eoforwic, the battle was turning against the Northumbrians. However, the ealdorman did not appear to notice or care. Fighting with a savage rage, he now clashed with Maric. The Mercian met him blow for blow. Maric did not have the ealdorman’s bulk and strength, but he moved with the agility of a dancer, letting the bigger man expend his energy on the offensive.
Alchflaed’s gaze shifted to Bryni’s prone form. The young man struggled to rise, his face twisted in agony.
She had to help him.
With the seax gripped in her right hand, and held low, as Maric had shown her, Alchflaed ran into the fray. She dodged sword-blades, spears and axes, reaching Bryni in the center of it all.
Alchflaed had just knelt next to him, when she realized that Maric and the ealdorman were still fighting, no more than three yards away.
Eadweard of Eoforwic roared like a stag. He struck out at his opponent, and the blade glanced off Maric’s shield, catching the top of his arm. The Mercian leaped backwards, and parried the ealdorman’s next blow. Blood streamed down Maric’s injured bicep but he ignored it. His next thrust slashed Eadweard across the thigh. The ealdorman grunted in response. Then, he did something unexpected.