Dunston winced and straightened. Frowning, he turned slowly to the man. Osgood was fair-haired, with clear skin and an honest face. His shoulders were broad, hands strong and Dunston had noted the grace of his movements when he had slipped down onto the bench beside him.
“Well, I am getting no younger,” Dunston said, his tone gruff.
Osgood smiled.
“I fear that even the mighty Dunston cannot turn back the tide of time.”
Dunston stiffened. Was the thegn making fun of him? He took another swig of wine. Perhaps he was at that, but the man’s grin was open and seemed to hold no malice.
Dunston snorted and returned the smirk.
“I certainly do not feel mighty.”
“But bold perhaps?”
Dunston groaned.
“Not really. I don’t think I have ever understood why the king named me thus.”
“Like most men, I have heard the tales,” replied Osgood. “If they are even half-true, then you were bold indeed.”
Dunston shrugged.
“Perhaps I was once. Long ago.”
“The man I saw surrounded by the corpses of his enemies a few days ago looked bold to me.”
“You were there? With the king?”
“Yes, and I think if you do not like to be known as bold, you must stop acting quite so boldly.”
Dunston laughed. His chest tightened and he willed himself not to cough.
“That sounds like fair advice.” Still smiling, pleased that the wine had softened his anxiety at being here, surrounded by strangers and the oppressive walls of the hall, Dunston asked, “You fought with the king?”
“I did,” Osgood replied, and his gaze shifted, took on the glaze of memory.
“Tell me,” said Dunston.
And so Osgood told him of how they had waylaid the approaching host of Westwalas and Norsemen at a place called Hengestdūn.
“Our scouts had come back with tidings of their movements and so we were able to position the fyrd across the path between the hills. Ecgberht ordered those of us who were mounted to conceal ourselves in the forest on the slopes overlooking the road.”
Dunston nodded. When he had been in the king’s warband, they had used a similar tactic on more than one occasion and it had served them well.
“How many were they?”
“There must have been well over a score of crews of Norsemen joined by the same number of Wéalas.”
Dunston blew out.
“A war host indeed,” he said, picturing in his mind the size of such a force, how they would sound, the crash and thunder of their shields, the roar of their battle cries.
“Yes, but they were poorly organised. They faced our fyrd, but before they could summon up the courage to act, Ecgberht ordered the Wessex men to attack. And the moment after the shieldwalls clashed, we galloped down from the woods and hit them hard.”
Osgood grew quiet and took a long draught of ale. Dunston knew what it was to relive battles and so did not press the younger man for more detail.
After a time, as though he felt he owed Dunston further explanation, Osgood continued.
“We slaughtered many of them,” he said, and his pale face and set jaw told Dunston much. “And then they scattered. We chased them, riding after them and cutting them down. When the sun set, we had killed more than half their number and the rest had fled like whipped curs.”
Dunston patted Osgood on the shoulder.
“You did what was needed of you. They were marching to kill our people, to steal our land and riches.”
Osgood nodded, but his eyes were dark and clouded.
They grew silent then, allowing the waves of the celebration to wash over them.
“Does it get any easier?” Osgood asked, suddenly.
“What?”
“The killing,” said Osgood, his voice lowered to not much more than a whisper.
Dunston looked at him sharply.
“This was your first battle?”
Osgood nodded.
Dunston swallowed, casting his mind back to the first time he had faced armed foe-men. The first time he had plunged his blade into the flesh of a living man, watched the life ebb from him, as the hot blood pumped into the mud. He sometimes saw that man’s pleading eyes in his dreams, heard his desperate wails for mercy.
“The taking of a life should never be easy.” He thought of the ripped and rent corpses of Bealowin’s victims, Ithamar’s screams. “Killing in the defence of the weak is honourable, but it should never be taken lightly. And an honourable man must never seek to inflict pain and suffering, for that is the way of the weakly coward. But to answer your question, killing can become easy, but you will have to live with the memories of your actions forever. And God will surely judge you for them when you stand before Him, so make sure you are acting for the right reasons.”
Osgood stared at him for a long while, his expression grave. At last, he nodded and raised his cup.
“I thank you for your honesty, Dunston,” he said.
“It is all I have,” he replied with a thin smile, lifting his own cup and tapping it against Osgood’s. “Now,” he said, “let us talk of happier things. This is supposed to be a celebration.”
And so the evening passed more pleasantly than Dunston had expected. To his surprise he found Osgood to be good company and they talked of all manner of things. From time to time Dunston glanced over at Aedwen and was pleased to see her seeming to relax. Perhaps she too had drunk the wine, he thought and smiled. One thing that had been worrying her was soon dealt with when plentiful dishes of all types of delicacy were carried into the hall. There was roasted hare, succulent mackerel, glutinous stews and freshly baked bread. Dunston saw that Aedwen, whether she felt embarrassed or shy in the company of these rich nobles, had decided to eat her fill. Her trencher was heaped with food and at one point in the evening, as the lowering sun cast golden rays through the hall’s unshuttered windows, Aedwen grinned at him, her mouth full of meat. To see her thus, smiling and contented, warmed him and he felt as though an invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Whether from this lightening of his burden or the dulling effects of the wine, his ribs pained him less as the sun set.
Candles were lit and the feast continued, increasingly raucous, as the ale, wine and mead flowed. Laughter stabbed through the general hubbub from time to time, like flashes of sunlight through thick cloud.
Dunston rose stiffly with a groan and a grimace. His belly was full and so was his bladder. On his way outside, he passed Aedwen. She looked up at him.
“All well?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “At least I am not hungry now.” She smiled, but he could see there was more she wanted to say. He patted her arm. Now was not the time or place. They could speak about whatever was troubling her later, or on the morrow.
When he returned from the midden, he made his way to his place beside Osgood, who welcomed him back with a broad grin and a refilled cup of wine. The atmosphere in the hall had changed. Dunston looked to the high table.
Ecgberht, resplendent in a gold-trimmed purple gown, stood and surveyed those gathered in the hall. Slowly, a hush fell over the room.
“Friends,” he said, his voice strong and carrying. “Countrymen. Folk of Wessex. As you know, we have returned victorious from battle with a host of Wéalas and Norse.”
“Praise the Lord,” exclaimed a dark-robed priest who sat to Ecgberht’s right.
The king glanced at the priest slowly and pointedly. His meaning was clear. Interruptions were not something he tolerated.
“The brave men of Wessex fought with the strength of wild boars. Many gave their lives, but it would have been much, much worse for us if we had not been forewarned of the treachery that had festered in our midst. There will be time for gift-giving soon. You know that I am a generous king and I reward those who stand by my side.”
This received a loud roar of approval and the gathered men, intoxicated on drink and lif
e, pounded the boards with their fists and stamped their feet on the ground until the hall reverberated as if with thunder.
Ecgberht smiled, seemingly happy with this interruption. The small priest pursed his lips and swept his gaze about the room, as if he were judging all those gathered there.
When the cheering abated, Ecgberht nodded.
“Yes, there will be gifts soon for my trusty thegns and ealdormen. But first I must give my everlasting thanks to one man, without whom we might well have been doomed.” He held his hand out to indicate Dunston. All eyes turned to him and he glowered back. He could feel the men weighing the worth of him. They might well know his name, but to see him, old and grey, must surely have rankled some, who would begrudge him the king’s praise. “You have my undying gratitude, Dunston the Bold,” the king said. “Without the boldness of your actions, it is likely our enemies would have prevailed. Because of your warning, we were able to lie in wait and ambush them at Hengestdūn. If not for you, Dunston, Ælfgar and Ealhstan might very well at this moment have been accepting your new Norse or Westwalas king with open arms.” The king’s face was dark now. “And for what? Some extra land and gold? Am I not generous enough?”
The hall again echoed with the acclamation of their king’s generosity, but Ecgberht did not seem to pay them heed. Instead he was staring fixedly at the figure seated to his left. A timber pillar had been blocking the man from Dunston’s view but now he shifted to see who had so caught Ecgberht’s attention. He started when he recognised the man. It was Ælfgar, grim-faced and dismal, but dressed in expensive linen and silks, with his gold chain at his throat.
The hall grew silent.
“Well,” Ecgberht said, his voice dripping with venom, “was I not a generous enough lord for you, Ælfgar?”
Ælfgar said nothing.
“Answer your king,” screamed Ecgberht, fury bursting from him.
“You have always been generous, lord king,” Ælfgar said, his voice tiny in the silence of the hall.
“And yet this is how you repay me,” said the king. “And now I expect you would seek mercy from me.”
Hope lit Ælfgar’s face.
“Lord king,” he said, his tone pleading. “You have always been the best of lords. Wrathful in battle. Just and merciful in victory.”
“Was it mercy you would have offered me when the Norse and Westwalas marched over the Exe?”
“Lord—”
“Shut your treacherous mouth,” Ecgberht snapped. “Dunston, what would you do with Ælfgar?”
Dunston’s mouth felt suddenly as dry as dust.
“Lord, it is not for me to say,” he said. “He should stand trial.”
“He is before the king. And we know of his guilt. Do you deny it, Ælfgar?”
The ealdorman looked from the king to Dunston, two old men with grey beards and piercing stares. He swallowed.
“I do not,” he said.
“There you have it, Dunston,” Ecgberht continued, his voice as cold and hard as iron. “He is guilty. What would you have me do with him?”
Dunston sighed. He met Ecgberht’s gaze and saw the rage there. He had known the king for many years and knew there was one thing he despised above all else: disloyalty.
“I would have him put to death, lord king,” he said at last.
Ecgberht grinned and nodded.
“Quite so,” he said. “I hope you have enjoyed the feast, Ælfgar. For it will be your last.”
Ælfgar had grown very pale, but he did not weep or whimper. He held himself rigid and listened as his king pronounced sentence over him.
“Tomorrow,” Ecgberht said, his voice loud and clear, “Ealdorman Ælfgar will be hanged and his body left for all my subjects to see. It must be known that infamy and betrayal of one’s king brings nothing but death.”
Ælfgar lowered his head, but remained silent.
“His family,” the king continued, “will be stripped of all titles and lands and they will be exiled from Wessex. If they should ever be found in the kingdom, they are to be treated as traitors and slain. Take him out of my sight.”
Two guards, who had clearly been awaiting the order, stepped forward. The ealdorman stood and offered the slightest of nods to the king before he was led from the hall.
“What of Bishop Ealhstan?” asked Dunston.
Ecgberht turned to the priest who sat at his side.
“Yes, that is a good question, is it not, Inwona?” he asked. “The Church would not have the king try one of their number, Dunston. A matter for God, it would seem.” The priest squirmed beneath the king’s glare. “But I sent men to fetch him anyway. I would have liked to look the weasel in the eye. But alas, it seems that news travels faster than a horse can carry a man, for when my men arrived at Scirburne, the good bishop had fled. To Frankia, if one is to believe what Inwona here says, isn’t that right?”
The diminutive cleric looked up. Dunston was shocked to see a glint of defiance in the man’s eyes.
“That is so, lord king,” Inwona said. “I have sent word that he is to be detained and he will receive the justice meted out by the Holy Father of Rome himself.”
“I would rather a noose about his neck,” grumbled Ecgberht, “but no matter. I shall have to bow to the wisdom of the Pope in this matter. So,” he said, suddenly jovial, “what of you, Dunston?”
“Me, lord?”
“Your reward. I owe you my kingdom and perhaps my life.”
“Seeing you hale and triumphant over our enemies is reward enough. I want nothing but to return to my home in Sealhwudu.”
Ecgberht shook his head. Dunston was aware that every person in the hall was staring at him. Many would be thinking of what they would ask of their king should they be in the same position. But he had spoken the truth, all he wanted was to go home.
“No, Dunston,” said the king. “I cannot allow you to go unrewarded. What would the people think?”
“I want for nothing, lord king. I merely wish to live out the rest of my days in peace.”
“Ah, peace. Yes, that would be nice. But I fear we will not be so lucky, old friend. With Frankia forgetting her allies, our enemies are circling Wessex like flies around horse dung.”
The thought of more enemies attacking Wessex, and warfare becoming ever more commonplace, filled Dunston with dread. If only he could return to Sealhwudu, he could be free of fighting, leaving the shieldwalls to younger men such as Osgood. He had played his part in the defence of the realm.
“I need no reward,” he said, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge what he knew to be true. Ecgberht was determined and intractable. He was also the king. Dunston recognised the jut of Ecgberht’s jaw and knew that when the king was in this frame of mind, it was impossible to dissuade him.
“Nonsense, man,” the king said, laughing, as if he knew what Dunston had been thinking. “I have a gift for you, which I insist you will accept.”
Dunston nodded.
“Very well, lord king,” he said with a sigh. “What is this gift you would give me?”
Grinning, King Ecgberht told him.
Forty
Aedwen breathed in deeply, taking in the warm summer scent of the land. The sun had shone these past days and the air was redolent of lush life, verdant and brimming with energy. She’d felt it herself, the summer heat seeping into her body as they’d ridden northward. The dark days of pursuit, fear and death had vanished, replaced with a comforting sensation of safety and contentment. On the light breeze she could make out the distant lowing of the cattle that were being led down the path on the other side of the valley. There was a figure walking with the animals, too far to discern the features, but she thought it must surely be Ceolwald, leading the cows down to the Bartons for their evening milking.
The houses of Briuuetone were peaceful and inviting as the golden light of the late sunshine gilded the thatched roofs and hazed the smoke that drifted from dozens of cooking fires. The hint of woodsmoke reached her and Aedwen’s smil
e faltered. For a moment, she recalled the last time she had been in this place. The night had been aflame and filled with screams. Raegnold had attacked Dunston and threatened her. The men of the village had chased them out into the night. A tremor of trepidation rippled along her spine. She shuddered. Perhaps she was wrong to have come back here.
Reining in her horse, a small, placid mare from the steward of Exanceaster’s own stable, she glanced back along the road. Dunston raised his hand in friendly greeting. His presence settled her nerves somewhat. She knew he was not overly happy with the gift that the king had bestowed upon him. But the tension he had carried in his every movement seemed to uncoil the further they rode from Exanceaster. He spoke little as they travelled, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. When they halted to rest and when they made camp at night, he had resumed his teaching of her. He pointed out the signs of animals and set her challenges. Could she find leaves of sorrel? What about burdock? And each night he had insisted that she build and light the fire, while their escort looked on impatiently waiting for her to kindle a spark that would catch.
She returned Dunston’s wave with a smile. He was a good man. If he was ready to bring her back to Briuuetone, it must be safe. He would not allow any harm to befall her.
Out of the bushes that grew in a jumble beside the road, bounded Odin. His sudden appearance caused one of the king’s hearth warriors’ mounts to shy and stamp. The rider, a stern-faced warrior by the name of Eadric, cursed.
“Keep your damned hound under control,” he shouted, tugging at his reins in an effort to control his startled steed.
“Learn to control a horse,” said Dunston. “After all, you are riding it. I am not seated on a saddle atop Odin’s back.”
Eadric scowled and the other men laughed. This was a long-running feud between the two men and it was well-meaning enough. The escort of six horsemen had been forced upon them by the king.
“We do not need to be protected,” Dunston had said.
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