by Jayne Castel
“It’s true,” he admitted gently. “You owe such a man nothing. All the same, you are needed here. Felix will not protect you when they come.”
With that he gave Edwin a fierce, brief hug and got to his feet. He felt the boy’s gaze burning into him and forced himself to turn away. Aidan strode out of the hall and, not for the first time, wished that things were different.
Freya stood in the yard and watched Aidan, and the twenty spears who had followed him and Sigeberht to Beodricesworth, gather with their horses in front of the hall. They were all heavily armed and armored, and carried heavy wooden shields and lethal-tipped spears. Aidan stood in their midst. His face was unreadable as he waited for the last spear to join him.
A strange numbness spread over Freya. She did not want him to go but she knew he must. She was helpless to stop the course of events now. Yet she would not have changed last night for anything. It would be her dearest memory, till death.
Stop it! She berated herself. You’re telling yourself he’s never coming back. You’re acting as if this will be the last time you’ll ever see him.
Aidan approached her now. All twenty warriors waited behind him; some were tightening their horses’ girths, while others were mounting. He stopped before her and Freya looked down at her feet, unable to meet his gaze. Her vision swam with tears and she cursed herself as she struggled to keep control. He did not need to see a woman’s tears before he went into battle.
“Freya.” His voice was soft but rough with pain.
Freya inhaled deeply and raised her face so that their eyes met.
“You know why I must go, don’t you?”
Freya nodded, blinking furiously. She could not stop the hot tears that streamed down her face.
“Yes,” she managed. And it was true, she did know. When her father had gone to war she had not understood; his loyalty to a king who was going into battle to settle old scores seemed foolhardy. At the time, she and her mother had grieved for the fact that Aelli had thrown his life away for a reckoning that was not even his. Yet, this was different. This was a threat to the safety of the kingdom and of all that lived within it. She did understand why he was going – only it did not make it any easier to bear.
“Come back safe,” she whispered. “Please don’t throw your life away.”
Aidan’s face twisted as if she had just slapped him. Then, he gave a pained smile.
“I am not a reckless man, Freya. How do you think I’ve lived this long?”
“Wyrd has been good to you perhaps…”
“Fate shines on a man who shows courage – wyrd oft nereð unfaégne eorl þonne his ellen déah,” Aidan replied with a grin. The expression was that of the man who had stolen her heart, and not of the stern warrior of just moments earlier.
Freya smiled back at him through her tears. “I hope you are right.”
Aidan pulled her into his arms and kissed her softly on the lips. It was a sad kiss, full of longing and unspoken words. Freya entwined her arms about his neck and kissed him back, before stepping back and putting some distance between them. Part of her did not believe he was going; that she may never see him again.
Aidan took a deep breath and Freya saw the warrior’s mask slide down over his features.
“You need to go from here Freya. As soon as we leave, take as many provisions as you can carry, and steal a horse if you have to. Travel back to Woodbridge Haven, to your mother’s house. You will be safe there. I will find you.”
Freya nodded, not trusting herself to say another word.
“I promise you this sweet Freya,” he said fiercely, seeing the doubt on her face. “If I live through this battle, I will find you.”
With that, Aidan turned on his heel and strode over to his horse. He swung up onto the saddle and slid his feet into the stirrups. He then gathered the reins and exchanged one last glance with Freya before he wheeled his horse away.
“We ride to Barrow,” he shouted, “and to battle!”
Freya stood alone in the yard and watched the warriors ride over the brow of the hill. When they disappeared, she turned back to the hall with a hollow feeling in her stomach. Hereric was standing before the door, his elfin face pale and strained. He approached Freya, fingering the slave collar about his neck as if it were strangling him.
“Are you leaving too?” he asked, and Freya realized that he was struggling not to cry.
Freya nodded.
Hereric’s face started to tremble and his eyes filled with tears. “What will happen to me? I have nowhere to go.”
“Hereric.” Freya took the boy’s hand and squeezed hard. “I’m not leaving you here. If you wish to, you can come with me.”
The boy’s face brightened, as if the sun had just come out from behind a cloud. “You would?” he asked, his voice quavering.
Freya nodded. “Now listen,” she said, lowering her voice. “Once the battle’s over we’ll travel to my mother at Woodbridge Haven, but first there is something that must be done. Will you help me?”
Hereric nodded mutely, not knowing what Freya was about to suggest but so relieved to have a purpose that he did not appear to care.
“Help me gather some food to take with us,” she urged him. “Take any bread you can find, even if it’s stale, from the hall and meet me shortly in front of the store room.”
Freya placed a wheel of cheese, eight crisp red apples and a few handfuls of carrots and onions into a jute sack. The sack was of the same kind she had used during her foiled escape in early summer- it seemed like a lifetime ago now. Then, she added a large piece of salted pork and tied the top of the sack with a piece of string.
In the murky light inside the store, where the only light came from the open door, she caught sight of a knife protruding from another wheel of cheese. She needed a knife. It would come in handy for preparing food, and it would be the only weapon she had. Freya pulled the knife out of the cheese and slipped it into the leather pouch that hung from her girdle.
Freya stepped outside to find Hereric waiting for her. He wore a coarse sacking cloak, which would at least keep the rain off, and carried a sack similar to hers. At the sight of him Freya felt a pang. She would have liked to have brought the other boys away with her as well. Yet, she knew they would not want to leave the Lark Valley and their families in Barrow.
“I took three loaves of yesterday’s bread,” he announced proudly.
“Is that so!” A voice boomed out behind them.
Felix of Burgundy stepped out of the shadows.
Freya’s stomach plummeted. Not now – not when she and Hereric were so close to freedom.
“Thieving theows!” Felix snarled, his eyes bulging with the force of his outrage. “How dare you steal from your master!”
He made a grab for Hereric, who dodged him easily and scampered backwards.
“Conniving bitch!” Felix advanced on Freya. “Sigeberht treated you better than you deserved and this is how you repay him?”
Freya sidled around, so that the store house was no longer at her back. “Sigeberht is not here to give the orders any longer,” she snarled at Felix. “You aren’t, nor will you ever be my master.”
Felix lunged at her.
Freya was ready for him. After Ecgric’s attack she had vowed to fight any man who attacked her, even if it led to her death. She was tired to the depths of her soul of being downtrodden. Last night with Aidan had freed her from her life as a slave; she was now free and intended to stay that way.
Felix grasped her around the throat, with the intent of throttling her. But, striking with ruthless determination, Freya drove her knee up into his cods; like she had with Ecgric, only harder.
The monk’s howl cleaved the morning air like an axe. He dropped Freya as if he grasped a hot coal and crumpled to the ground wailing.
Freya did not waste a moment more. She picked up her sack, darted around Felix and sprinted away from the hall.
“Follow me Hereric!” she called over her should
er, “Run!”
They ran like hares pursued by hounds, their feet barely skimming the ground. Out of the valley and into the woodland beyond, still carrying their sacks of food, they sprinted. On and on they ran, until their breathing grew ragged and the blood roared in their ears. They fled until the stitches in their sides forced them to slow their pace.
Eventually, just short of Saxham, Freya stumbled to a halt. Bent double, she took great, gasping breaths of air into her burning lungs. Beside her, Hereric flopped on to his back, his thin ribcage heaving up and down like forge bellows.
“Freya!” Hereric eventually gasped, rolling over on to his side and fixing her with a desperate stare. “We’ve been running in the wrong direction. Woodbridge Haven lies many leagues to the east!”
“I know,” Freya eventually managed. She straightened up and wiped the sweat from her eyes. “We are not going to Woodbridge Haven just yet Hereric. First, we travel to Barrow Fields.”
Chapter Twenty
Aidan walked onto the edge of Barrow Fields; a huge grassy expanse bordered by Barrow Woods to the south, and stopped for a moment. The fields lay just beyond the village of Barrow itself. The East Anglian army had gathered on the eastern end of the field. The Mercians would come from the west.
Like the other warriors who had joined him from Beodricesworth, Aidan had left his horse at Barrow. Unlike Gaul, where Aidan had been used to wielding a spear on horseback, it appeared that here in Britannia, only the king and certain ealdormen rode horses into battle. Everyone else fought on foot.
Aidan’s gaze scanned the sea of swords, spears and axes before him. He was looking for a familiar face in the crowd; the face of a friend.
He eventually found him.
“Aidan!” Lothar shouldered his way through the throng and clasped his friend in a bear-hug. “I was beginning to think you would not come.”
“You knew I would.” Aidan forced a smile. “Someone has to watch your back.”
Lothar snorted before stepping back and casting a shrewd eye over Aidan. “Something has happened,” he noted with a frown. “What is it?”
“Have you seen the king?”
“Which one?”
“Sigeberht.”
“He is here?” Lothar’s frown deepened. “I thought the coward refused to come.”
“He did,” Aidan replied, his gaze sweeping over the army, “but Ecgric brought him anyway.”
At that moment, the milling crowd of spearmen before them parted and Ecgric, astride a heavy-set black stallion, rode through their midst towards the front line. At his side, carrying a spear, his face ashen with fear, walked Oeric. Behind him, Ecgric towed Sigeberht.
Even brought low, Sigeberht the Righteous walked tall and proud. Conspicuous in his monk’s habit, he carried his staff in one hand. A rope had been fitted about his neck, so that if he struggled or tried to run away, he would strangle himself. One of his eyes had now swollen shut and dry blood covered his chin; yet Sigeberht appeared oblivious to his injuries.
“Woden,” Lothar hissed. “He’s not armed.”
“He refuses to bear a weapon,” Aidan replied, his gaze never leaving Sigeberht. “He will go into battle as you see him, bearing only a staff.”
Lothar shook his head and swore under his breath. Aidan tore his gaze from Sigeberht and regarded his friend squarely once more. He could see that the Frank’s face was dark with anger.
“Most of these men are here for Sigeberht, not that ferret Ecgric,” Lothar growled. “News of Sigeberht’s taking of Rendlaesham, of his valor and skill as a leader of warriors, spread throughout the kingdom. They would not have come here if they thought Ecgric had called them.”
“How big is our army?”
“Three-thousand.”
“And the Mercian army?”
“From what we’ve heard, at least five-thousand. The difference is big enough to matter if morale is low.”
As he finished speaking, Lothar hefted his axe. Only a warrior of Lothar’s strength and build could wield one of these weapons effectively. It was a long-shafted, double-headed ‘bearded’ battle-axe; a lethal weapon in the style of the northmen. It was a weapon that could shatter shields and slide through flesh like butter. It was an axe made for battle, rather than for felling trees or working timber, with a long ash shaft inlaid with langets; metal bands that protected the wood from enemy blades.
“How long will Sigeberht live if someone attacks him with one of these?” Lothar asked grimly.
“You’ve seen him fight,” Aidan replied, adjusting his lime-wood shield so that it hung from his back. “Even with a staff Sigeberht is dangerous.”
Lothar rolled his eyes. “Listen to you. Even now you’re still loyal to him. Even after how he’s treated you. He’s elevated that son of a pox-ridden whore to king while he treats you like something he has just scraped off his boot. Yet you still treat him like he is Woden himself!”
“Is there any point in me raging against him now Lothar?” Aidan shot back, his anger finally surfacing. “If you and I want to survive this, we need to drive our rage against the Mercians, not each other.”
Lothar’s mouth compressed in a thin line at this, but he eventually nodded.
Aidan stepped forward and placed his hands on his friend’s shoulders. Their faces were just inches apart.
“We have much to live for,” he said quietly. “You want to return home to Aedilhild and I want to be with Freya. You were right Lothar – I am in love with her. I should have told her before I left Beodricesworth. Now it’s too late.”
Lothar’s expression softened. “You should have told her.” His voice roughened then as he struggled to compose himself. “Aedilhild is with child. I must return to her.”
Aidan nodded. “Then we must focus on that, and nothing else.”
It was then that Aidan spotted another, familiar figure, making his way through the army towards the front. It was Sigeberht’s cousin – Annan. He was a striking sight; his leather armor creaking and the ring vest he wore across his chest clinking. His long, blond hair had been tied back for battle and his handsome face was set in hard lines. At his side was a heavy sword while on his back he carried a lime-wood shield.
Judging from the grim expression on Annan’s face, he had already seen Sigeberht and was on his way to confront him. Aidan and Lothar fell in behind Annan and followed him to the front.
They found Sigeberht, standing alone on the edge of the fyrd, with the rope still tied around his neck. Nearby, Ecgric spoke in intense tones with a group of his ealdormen; Bercthun of Barrow was among them.
Aidan and Lothar hung back as Annan approached Sigeberht.
“Cousin.” Annan stopped before Sigeberht and dropped to one knee. “My King! What evil has befallen you?”
Sigeberht smiled down at his cousin and winced at his split lip. “There’s little use in kneeling before me now Annan,” he said gently. “I have renounced my worldly kingdom and now live only for the heavenly kingdom. I refuse to fight – but it remains my choice.”
“Please reconsider,” Annan replied, his voice urgent. “You know that you will die if you go into battle unarmed.”
“We all must die cousin,” Sigeberht replied with the same gentle smile. “Sooner or later it comes to us all.”
Sigeberht’s gaze then shifted over Annan’s shoulder and came to rest on Aidan. His good eye widened slightly.
“You’re here Aidan – why?”
Aidan stepped forward. He felt a surge of relief at having the chance to speak with Sigeberht before they went into battle. He had thought Sigeberht would have refused to acknowledge him after the final words between them back at Beodricesworth.
“I gave my word I would come, and I have,” Aidan replied gently. “I’m sorry I disappointed you milord, but most of all I’m sorry it has come to this.”
Sigeberht gave a sad smile at that. “I too wish things were different Aidan. There were so many things I wanted to do at Beodricesworth and now
I’ll never get the chance.”
“You would,” Annan cut in, his voice urgent. “If you’d agree to carry a sword you might live through this.”
“I’d not waste your breath trying to convince him.” Ecgric turned from consulting with his ealdormen. His face twisted when he looked upon Sigeberht. “He has clearly lost his mind. Speak with us instead Annan. We are discussing tactics. You are more use to us than to that craven.”
Annan’s face darkened. He was about to reply when the sound of a horn echoed over Barrow Fields. It was a mournful, lonely sound that caused the fine hair on the back of the men’s necks to prickle.
Aidan, who stood a few paces back from Annan, turned and looked west. There, emerging over the brow of a low hill, at the far end of the fields, was a long bristling line of spears.
The Mercians had come.
Panic rippled through the army. Aidan felt a cold sense of foreboding clench at his chest; he could taste their fear. This was not how an army should approach war. They needed a leader who could inspire them, set fire to their blood and turn them into fell, dangerous warriors. Ecgric had failed to do this, and they were all too aware of their mortality. A larger army approached them – an army hungry for war.
Ecgric appeared oblivious to this. Upon setting eye on the approaching army he sprang onto his horse and rode up his lines.
“Form the shield-wall!” he shouted, brandishing Æthelfrith’s Bane high. “Do it now!”
Then, Ecgric reined his stallion around and galloped back down his lines to where Sigeberht, Annan, Aidan and Lothar awaited his orders.
“Aidan of Connacht,” Ecgric sneered. “Do you know what a shield-wall is?”
“Yes,” Aidan replied coldly. Shield-walls were only used here in Britannia, and as such he had never fought in a battle that used them. Nevertheless, he knew what a shield-wall was. All warriors did.
“Then it’s time you showed that fighting skill I’ve heard so much about. You will join the first line of this shield-wall. Let’s see how much fire you’ve got in your belly now!”