by Jayden Woods
*
“God, can he not keep quiet for just a few fucking hours?”
Hereward and his eight followers sat in the dark, too frightened to light a fire even as black night crept through the treetops. They had ridden from the castle like madmen and not stopped until one of the horses went lame and Dudda awoke and started screaming again. He hadn’t stopped since.
Before the sun fell, Hereward tried to take a good look at Dudda’s injury, but he didn’t know what to make of it. The leg bled profusely, and Dudda’s movements had ripped the surrounding flesh wide open. The arrow must have pierced a nerve based on the extent of Dudda’s agony, and he now seemed unable to move his leg at all, as if long sequence of muscles had been damaged.
Hereward had eventually decided to pull the arrow out, for the wound gaped so large it would bleed a lot anyway. He asked Osric to find cow dung and bring it back to them, for he’d heard this had healing powers. Then they wrapped the wound tight and gave Dudda ale to drink. Despite all of this, Dudda never stopped moaning and his injury never stopped bleeding.
Hereward wandered as far from Dudda’s groans as his conscience allowed, then leaned against a tree and looked up at the moon. He upended a pouch of ale over his mouth only to receive a few meager drops. He threw it aside with a growl.
Osric slipped quietly up beside him. “Maybe we should leave him here, then come back.”
Hereward was glad that someone had voiced the idea before he did. “Maybe. Might be better for him anyway, to just stay here and rest. We could drop him off at a church.”
A dark silence stretched between them.
“Do you feel good about what happened today?” asked Osric.
“Yes, of course.” Hereward thought he spoke the truth. So why did he not sound convincing? “We taught those bastards a lesson.”
Osric nodded, desperate to believe him.
After that they tried to sleep, though this was next to impossible due to Dudda’s constant groaning. And in the darkness of the woods, most of the boys feared evil spirits or wicked elves. In the morning, Hereward announced his decision to the others. Dudda did not understand his fate until he noticed that a few of the boys were carrying him towards a church. He started squirming.
“Hereward?” he moaned. “HEREWARD! What’s going on?”
Hereward reluctantly leaned over to face him. “Dudda, we’re going to leave you with some monks. Hopefully they’ll tend to your wounds. I’ll come back for you soon, I promise.”
“No, Hereward, please!”
Dudda reached out to grasp Hereward’s hand. Hereward gave the chubby fingers a firm squeeze.
“Dudda, you’ll be fine. If anyone realizes who you are, they’ll be cowering in fear of you. They’ll do whatever you tell them to. You’ll see.”
“No. No! If they recognize me, they’ll murder me! All of them! Not just the Normans, but the Saxons, too! Thanks to us, they’ll probably be punished. They’ll probably be forced to work harder and faster to make up for what we destroyed. Don’t leave me here, I beg you. Don’t leave me here!”
Hereward yanked his hand from Dudda’s. He suddenly felt nauseous. “He’s feverish. He must have caught an evil spirit overnight. Get him to the monks, quickly!”
So they left Dudda at a church with the lame horse, without explanation, and hastened back to Lincolnshire as if the hounds of hell chased after them.
Hereward convinced himself he had done the right thing. Everyone else would see that, eventually.
**
7
Last Tales of Mercia 7:
GODRIC THE THEGN
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