The Deepening Night (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 3)

by Jayne Castel

  “Loose your arrows on my command.” Wulfhere’s voice cut through the rapidly increasing din of battle. “Remember to keep the rhythm once you start – notch, draw, loose. When I say so – move back – and if I tell you to run, do it!”

  Saewara felt her heart start to hammer against her ribs at these words. Everything was suddenly becoming very real. She had steeled herself for this moment; but no amount of preparation could ready her for the screams of men dying and the brutal sound of physical combat.

  Somewhere, in the heart of that mêlée, Annan was fighting for his life.

  The mist started to clear and Saewara took a few deep, slow breaths to calm her nerves. She needed to keep her hands steady or she would be no use to anyone.

  Suddenly, the mist cleared and Saewara received her first, horrifyingly clear, view of the fighting. Men writhed in spaces between trees, floundering on the uneven ground. They thrust spears, heaved axes and, those who were high ranking enough to wield swords, sliced their way through the fray.

  Saewara did not look for Annan. That was not why she was here – she had to concentrate, and that meant putting her husband out of her thoughts.

  “Notch!” Wulfhere commanded, the hard edge to his voice, galvanizing Saewara’s resolve. “Draw!”

  The row of bowmen obeyed. Saewara held her breath and aimed, as she had been instructed, at the second group of Mercian warriors, who were now moving forward to join those at the front ranks.

  “Loose!”

  Once the first arrow was loosed, the battle became a blur.

  Saewara did as Wulfhere bid.

  Notch, draw, loose. Notch, draw, loose.

  She developed a steady rhythm – and men fell.

  Even at this distance, she recognized some of the men she killed. Among them was Thyrdwulf – the cold warrior, one of her brother’s best, who had dragged her back from Bonehill. She felt no pleasure at killing him, only a chilling relief that a man who was almost as cruel as her brother, no longer walked the earth. He fell, with an arrow lodged deep in his windpipe and was trampled by his comrades.

  After a time, Saewara’s fingers grew raw from the bowstring and her arms burned with fatigue, yet she did not halt. Her aim was lethal. She only lowered her bow when her quiver was empty, and only then was it to take another.

  She had just started on her second quiver when Wulfhere’s shout brought the firing to a halt. Saewara could see why. The numbers were swelling down below. Men now fought elbow-to-elbow; the ranks of Mercians and East Angles had suddenly merged so it was impossible to determine where one started and the other ended. Even more worryingly, the tide of men had started to surge toward the higher ground where the bowmen stood.

  “Fall back!” Wulfhere shouted.

  Saewara moved back, shoulder to shoulder with the other bowmen. However, the trees grew thick behind them and they were forced to shift apart. Sheltered from view by the trees, each archer took up position.

  “Be sure of your marks before loosing your arrows!” Wulfhere bellowed.

  A moment later, a hand axe came hurtling through the misty air.

  Wulfhere slumped to the ground, the axe embedded in this forehead. He lay there twitching, just yards from where Saewara stood.

  The horror of it made Saewara reel back and cling to a tree trunk for support. One moment Wulfhere had been alive, shouting orders at his bowmen – and the next he was gone. The reality of how close danger was, and the fact that the battle had now reached the point where it could turn either way, made her want to turn tail and flee.

  Instead, she heaved Wulfhere’s quiver of arrows onto her back, next to the one she had already. Then, whispering a prayer for the dead man, she looked for a tree to climb.

  Saewara chose a sturdy beech tree; old with spreading branches close to the ground and a thick foliage to hide herself in. Her hands, wet with sweat, slipped on the rough bark as she climbed. Her pulse pounded in her ears; so loud that it even drowned out the roar of battle close by.

  Perhaps it was not wise to climb a tree so close to where the battle raged – the other archers had fallen back to where it was safer. Yet, Saewara had a plan. She knew her aim was good, and settling in the fork between two branches, she pulled the foliage aside and saw that she had a remarkably clear view of both armies, breaking upon each other like waves against a shingle shore.

  The sight made her hands shake. Once again, she was reminded that somewhere in the middle of that nightmare, Annan fought.

  Please Lord, keep him safe.

  Regaining control of her nerves, Saewara notched an arrow and drew, her eyes scanning the mêlée. Whenever her gaze seized upon one of the East Angles that she recognized, especially if he was in trouble with an opponent, and if she had a clear shot, she loosed an arrow. More often than not, her shot saved that man’s life. She was careful and deliberate, her arms trembling with the strain of keeping the bowstring drawn – but one by one, she picked the Mercians off.

  The battle raged on, and for a while it seemed as if no side was gaining the advantage. Men fell, only to be trampled by the living, and for every man that died there was another to replace him.

  However, such savagery could not continue forever.

  The fighting slowly inched closer to Saewara’s hiding place and she began to run low on arrows. She would need to replenish her supplies soon, but had no wish to do so in the middle of slashing blades and axes.

  She was down to her last five arrows when she spotted Annan amongst the fray.

  He was fighting her brother.

  Saewara’s breathing stilled and her heart missed a beat. For a moment, she just watched, horrified, as the two kings slashed at each other. The blades of their swords were dark with blood. Both men were injured – Penda was bleeding profusely from a gash to his right cheek and Annan’s left shoulder was slick with blood – yet they fought with savage determination as if the battle had just started and they had all the energy in the world.

  Transfixed, Saewara stared down at Annan and Penda as they drew closer still to her hiding place.

  They were both formidable swordsmen, but even to her untrained eye, Saewara could see her brother was better. No wonder Penda still worshipped the old gods; he wielded a sword like Thunor himself bent on destruction. He was a frightening and terrible sight – and yet Annan did not appear remotely cowed by him. Her husband’s face was a black mask of determination and something Saewara had never seen in him before – hatred. Penda had given Annan reason to loathe him, and it was that which fueled Annan; forced him on even though Penda was slowly gaining the upper hand.

  I have to stop this.

  Saewara notched an arrow and raised her longbow.

  I can’t let Penda kill Annan. I won’t let him.

  But it will mean killing your own brother, her conscience needled her. Can you live with yourself if you do?

  A moment later, the decision was made for her. Annan slipped on a patch of gore, and went down. Penda was on him in an instant, raising his sword to skewer his opponent.

  Draw and loose.

  The arrow flew through the air and landed with a meaty thud in Penda’s flank.

  The Mercian king roared, rearing back.

  Saewara did not hesitate. She loosed another arrow, this one hitting her brother in the right shoulder. Penda staggered. He was right handed and the arrow had hit deep, for his sword fell from limp fingers on to the ground. His free hand clutched, uselessly, at the arrow embedded in his shoulder while his gimlet gaze frantically searched his surroundings, seeking the bowman who had wounded him.

  Annan was scrambling to his feet when Penda’s warriors surged forward and seized their king, heaving him back into the fold.

  Giving a shout, Annan went to follow his enemy. However, four of his men threw themselves upon their king and hauled him away. Penda was badly injured – he would trouble them no longer. If Annan followed him, he would not emerge alive.

  Saewara sunk back against the beech’s tru
nk, her ash longbow slipping from her numb fingers. The energy that had fueled her till now suddenly seeped away and she felt barely able to move, let alone pay attention to what was happening on the forest floor below. She was trembling, violently; whether from relief or horror, she could not be certain.

  The battle drew out for a while longer before the harsh sounds of iron against iron, and the cries and shouts of men, died away.

  Eventually, Saewara forced herself to slide along the branch and part the foliage once more. She had to see who had gained the upper hand, even if she dreaded knowing.

  Warily, she peeked out, steeling herself for what she would see. Her gaze settled upon the ravaged woodland below. Once a virgin, untouched spot, it was now gouged and ravaged by man. Bodies, twisted and maimed, littered the peaty ground. Survivors staggered amongst the dead, some injured and leaning against the trees for support. The only sound was the whimpers of the injured and dying.

  Saewara craned forward, her eyes straining to recognize any of the faces. She only prayed that when she did, they were not Mercian.

  Eventually, a man, tall and blond, wearing chainmail and covered in blood and dirt, limped into the clearing directly under Saewara’s hiding place. There, he stopped and looked up into the trees.

  She saw his face and her heart expanded with joy.

  “Saewara,” Annan called, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and pain. “You can come out now, Love – it’s safe, it’s over. We’ve won.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Things Unsaid

  “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  Saewara felt Annan’s gaze upon her as she dropped from the beech’s lowest branch onto the ground. “You loosed the arrows that brought Penda down.”

  Saewara turned to her husband, unsure whether to tell the truth. She wondered if doing so would anger him. After all, she had intervened in a fight to the death. She may have caused Annan to feel he had lost honor.

  Yet, when her gaze met his, her trepidation vanished. He was looking at her with such a soft expression that it was all she could do not to burst into tears.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “I’m only sorry I did not kill him.”

  “Come here.”

  She stumbled forward into his arms, the stench of blood and death filling her nostrils. Only then did she let the tears come. His arms closed tightly around her and Saewara felt safe for the first time since the battle had begun. The floodgates opened and she sobbed against his chest as if her heart would break. She had seen so much violence and death today – enough to last many lifetimes.

  “You were right,” she sobbed, barely able to get the words out. “War is the province of men – women have no place on a battlefield.”

  “My wife,” Annan murmured, his voice husky. “We won because of you.”

  Saewara pulled back, blinking at him through her tears. “What?” She hiccoughed. “How is that possible?”

  Annan gave a lopsided smile and, reaching out, wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  “Penda is the greatest warrior his people have ever known,” he explained. “The Mercians have never lost a battle with him at the helm. You’ve seen him fight – you know why.”

  Saewara nodded, still not truly understanding.

  “When you injured your brother and his men carted him off, the rest of his fyrd folded. The problem with having such a strong leader is that Penda carried his army. He was its backbone – its strength. With him no longer in charge, the Mercians scattered. It was not long before we beat them back, and those still wishing to live retreated.”

  Saewara shook her head, scarcely able to believe it. “You won because your army was strong, not because of me.”

  Annan’s smile widened. “Believe what you will – but I and the others know the truth of it.”

  At that moment, Saewara realized that a huge crowd of bloodied, battered men now surrounded them.

  Saewara’s face broke into a wide smile when she saw that Aethelhere and Saba were among them. Unlike before the battle, the two warriors now gazed at Saewara with awestruck expressions.

  “What a woman,” Saba grinned before stepping forward and pulling Saewara into a bear hug. When Saba finally released her, after nearly cracking her ribs, Aethelhere stepped up to speak to the queen.

  “I should never have doubted you,” he told her, his blood-streaked face beaming. “You saved my brother’s life and turned the battle in our favor. We owe you so much more than our lives, Saewara. We owe you our freedom.”

  Saewara stared back at him and felt fresh tears stream down her face. She then glanced at Annan who gave her another smile, although this one was tender, private. He put a protective arm around her shoulders and gently drew her against him. The warmth of his body against hers soaked into Saewara’s body and gave her strength.

  Holding his wife close, Annan turned to the amassing crowd of warriors – spearmen, axe-men, bowmen and swordsmen.

  “Remember this day!” he called to them, raising his blood-stained sword aloft. “For this was the day we sent the Mercians home, whipped and beaten. This is the day a woman fought alongside her menfolk and triumphed. Now, we go home to our families and rejoice!”

  ***

  It was late afternoon before the East Angles left the battleground. They left the Mercian dead behind – there were too many to bury or burn – and carried as many of their own dead as they could with them. It was a slow march back to Exning and they were forced to spend the night in the woodland before resuming their journey at first light.

  Annan’s fyrd reached Exning, just as the first rays of sun were peeking over the high paling fence. The village folk had been awaiting their return, and as soon as they were recognized as friend rather than foe, shouts rang through the air and a stream of villagers rushed out to greet the army.

  Saewara watched the human tide approach and found herself smiling so wide that her face hurt. The joy in their faces, the tears running down their cheeks, reminded her that it had been all worth it. The thought of the Mercians taking this place was unthinkable. Yet, she knew that if her brother had been victorious he would have burned Exning to the ground and have done unthinkable things to its inhabitants.

  “Saba!” Hilda’s cry reached Saewara’s ears. She watched as her friend hurtled through the crowd, skirts flying, toward them. Hilda barreled into her husband’s arms, nearly knocking Saba off his feet.

  “Watch out little bird,” he laughed as she threw her arms around his neck and showered his face with kisses. “I’m getting on in years – you’ll stop my heart!”

  In response Hilda – timid, reticent Hilda who had wilted under Saba’s attention just a couple of months earlier – silenced her husband with a passionate kiss.

  The crowd roared its approval. There was no more joyous sight than to see lovers reunited.

  As they neared the gates of Exning, a tall, willowy blonde wove her way through the pressing crowd to the front. Dressed in a plain, beige, woolen tunic, Hereswith’s beauty still shone like a single ear of golden barley in a ploughed field. For once, she was alone. Eldwyn, her forked-tongued maid, was nowhere in sight.

  Hereswith’s face was serious, her eyes huge and frightened as she scanned the approaching fyrd. She was searching for someone.

  However, it was not Annan she was looking for. Her gaze slid over him without hesitation and fixed on the man who walked a few paces behind him: Aethelhere.

  Saewara watched, intrigued, as Hereswith’s blue eyes filled with tears. The knuckles of her hands that clutched her skirts were white. She was clearly afraid of approaching her husband, for they had not parted well.

  Hereswith and Aethelhere stopped a couple of yards from each other and the crowd stilled, parting to give them room.

  “Husband,” Hereswith murmured; her voice for once was free of artifice.

  “Wife,” Aethelhere replied, his gaze coolly meeting hers.

  Seeing that his response was less than warm, Hereswith swallowed and
took another, tentative, step toward him. “I am glad to have you home,” she said, her voice quavering with anxiety. “Are you hurt?”

  Aethelhere looked at her quizzically, clearly trying to reconcile the woman who stood before him with the shrew he had left behind. “Nothing that will not heal,” he replied, his tone more neutral than before.

  Hereswith took another step toward him, her gaze never leaving his face. Even though hundreds of eyes were upon them, she did not seem to notice, or care.

  “Aethelhere,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “I know things were said before you left – things we can never take back – but after you had gone, I thought of you never returning. It felt as if my heart had been torn from my breast. I’m so glad you came back to me – please don’t ever leave again.”

  Aethelhere stared at her, his eyes widening. Yet, when he did not respond to her plea, Hereswith’s gaze dropped to her feet and she covered her face with her hands. Her body trembled with the effort she was making not to cry.

  The crowd watched, entranced, as Aethelhere stepped toward his wife, closing the gap between them.

  “Hereswith,” he said, gently taking hold of her wrists and pulling them away from her face. “Look at me.”

  She did, and for a moment the pair of them just stared at each other – as if they were truly seeing the person before them for the first time.

  “I wanted you from the moment you arrived at Rendlaesham,” he murmured, his expression suddenly vulnerable, “but do you really want me?”

  “Yes,” Hereswith whispered.

  That was enough. His eyes shining with tears, Aethelhere pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply for all the world to see.

  Blessed with yet another happy reunion, the folk of Exning roared their approval once more.

  Saewara brushed away a tear that had escaped, and turned to Annan, only to find her husband watching her closely.