Trouble in the Wind

by Chris Kennedy

  “As you wish.” The assistant placed his quill on his blotter and left.

  The archivist stared out the window and watched leaves fall off trees in the breeze, ending their lives in glorious color.

  Abbot Siward walked in. “The brother said you wished to see me?”

  “I did.” The archivist gestured at the codex before him.

  The abbot read, “CMXCI. In this year Ipswich was plundered and Siric, Bishop of Canterbury and Aelfeah of Winchester first suggested to pay tribute to the Danish men because of the great destruction they caused on the seacoasts. And in that year Olaf came to Maldon with XCIII ships and there the ealdorman Byrhtnoth came against him with his force, and many men were slain and drowned there on both sides. And there Eadric and Eadweard the Tall were slain and many other thegns loved by the ealdorman. Most dear to Byrhtnoth was Wulfstan, who fell defending his lord. And many ships of the Danes were captured, such that it would be years before they came again.”

  Siward placed a hand on the archivist’s shoulders. “I am glad God chose you to copy our chronicle. It will be a glory to the abbey for many years.”

  “Thank you, my lord abbot.” The scribe gestured at his assistant. “But it will be up to him to continue the work. I beg to be released of this burden. I am no longer capable of doing it properly.”

  “You have done this task since I was appointed abbot nearly eighteen years ago. Abbot Aethelwine told me you had done the same throughout his time as well.” Siward smiled. “God is well-pleased with you.”

  The archivist stared at his hands. Tears returned, dropping onto fingers that would never untwist again.

  The abbot spoke again, but this time the archivist heard a different voice. The same voice from a few moments ago. The same voice that saved him. Wulfstan’s voice.

  “Godric, ego te absolvo.”

  * * * * *

  Historical Note

  On 11 August 991, 93 ships filled with northern warriors decisively defeated the English in the real Battle of Maldon. It’s possible the English slew enough Northmen they could hardly crew their ships, but no matter how many they killed it was not enough. After the battle, Archbishop Siric and others suggested to Aethelred II Unraed that he offer the Northmen ten thousand pounds to leave England alone. The king paid, and the Northmen left. As Kipling would lament, though, they returned the year after with those same 93 ships. And the years after.

  However, it’s easy to understand why the English and others kept paying the Danegeld. The strategic mobility provided by those ships allowed them to attack where the defenses were weakest time and again. Rarely could the defenders bring any significant force to bear. The extant copies of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle all vary slightly, but they all detail the harm this fleet brought to England for many years to follow after Maldon. The entry at the end of the story, by the way, is a cobbling together of a number of entries from the Chronicles modified to suit my purposes.

  A remnant of a poem, The Battle of Maldon, provides our best description of the battle. I have adhered as much as possible to the poem with one major change and one significant explanation.

  The explanation is a defense of Byrhtnoth. As described in the poem, Wulfstan, Maccus, and Aelfhere hold the causeway so fiercely the Northmen ask the English to permit them to cross. Then the poem says Byrhtnoth allows this because of his “ofermode.” This word is a challenging one for scholars, as it only occurs this once in extent Old English documents, but the general accepted meaning is, essentially, “over-proud.” In other words, Byrhtnoth allows the Northmen to cross because of his arrogance.

  While that interpretation matches the tone of the poem, some scholars have pointed out the strategic opportunity allowing the Northmen to cross provided Byrhtnoth. J.R.R. Tolkien actually discusses the ethics of Byrhtnoth’s choice in his alliterative poem The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm’s Son. It will come as no surprise that scholars continue to debate both Byrhtnoth’s ethics and Tolkien’s discussion.

  In some ways, though, it’s irrelevant why Byrhtnoth made his decision. I prefer the smart theory over the arrogant one for two reasons. The poem describes Byrhtnoth’s thegns dying much as I’ve described them, fighting even though their lord had fallen and the battle was already lost because that’s what good, honorable men did. I like the idea of Byrhtnoth being worthy of their loyalty. More importantly to the outcome of the battle, had Byrhtnoth allowed the Northmen to cross out of arrogance, I can’t imagine the English would have been as eager to fight.

  And that did matter. It is the cracking of their morale that probably decides the battle. In the poem, Godric and his brothers fled after Byrhtnoth fell. Godric actually rode away on the Byrhtnoth’s horse. Many Englishmen, seeing what they thought was their ealdorman running away, followed on Godric’s heels. Obviously, my major change forces Godric to stay and therefore all the English to stand firm. The slaughter, which was already great, would thus be all the worse.

  This outcome might mean the Northmen would have to leave a major portion of their ships. In that case, Aethelred would have faced a weaker fleet in years to come, and he might have succeeded in creating a useful English navy using those ships as its core. He certainly tried to create such a navy, but it was never more than a nuisance to the Northmen. In fact, the Chronicle says his navy did more harm than good.

  Aethelred is remembered as an ineffectual king who listened too much to bad advice (Unraed does not mean “unready” but instead “ill-advised”). However, given the strategic challenges facing him, it is difficult to imagine he could do much more than he did. That’s a much larger discussion, though.

  I’ll freely admit even with a significant victory at Maldon the English would have still struggled to keep the Northmen at bay. However, it’s a possibility, especially since Olaf Tryggvason converts to Christianity in the two or three years following the battle. I wanted my change to the outcome of the battle to matter, after all.

  I should also briefly mention that Psalm 143 is not incorrect. Many of you might know the passage used as coming from Psalm 144, but that is a more modern numbering of the Psalms. These priests would have used the Vulgate, in which case it is called 143.

  Finally, it’s a shame that all we have is a fragment of the poem. It’s powerful, evocative, and worthy of heroes. If I can hope this story will do anything, it’s that it encourages you to read the poem someday, if you haven’t already done so. The deeds done that day should never be forgotten in the halls of men.

  * * *

  Rob Howell Bio

  Rob Howell is the creator of the Shijuren fantasy setting (www.shijuren.org) and an author in the Four Horsemen Universe (www.mercenaryguild.org). He writes primarily medieval fantasy, space opera, military science fiction, and alternate history.

  He is a reformed medieval academic, a former IT professional, and a retired soda jerk.

  His parents discovered quickly books were the only way to keep Rob quiet. He latched onto the Hardy Boys series first and then anything he could reach. Without books, it’s unlikely all three would have survived.

  His latest release in Shijuren is Where Now the Rider, the third in the Edward series of swords and sorcery mysteries. The next release in that world is None Call Me Mother, the conclusion to the epic fantasy trilogy The Kreisens.

  You can find him online at: www.robhowell.org, on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00X95LBB0, and his blog at www.robhowell.org/blog.

  # # # # #

  The Heretic by Monalisa Foster

  “France will be lost by a woman and shall thereafter be restored by a virgin.”

  —Marie d’Avignon

  It is a terrible thing to know one’s future. To know that one cannot avoid it. To know that even if I could, I would not.

  I do not walk my path alone. God has sent me counsel. It is for love of God that I take each inevitable step, knowing where it will lead: to victory; to pain; to lives lost. But also to freedom—not for me, but for France.

>   In my mind’s eye, I see them making the sign they will hold up as they escort me. I cannot read, but I know what they will call me: superstitious; a liar; a seducer of the people; blasphemer; presumptuous, cruel, and braggart; idolater and apostate; invoker of devils.

  Heretic.

  Even knowing how it will end, I march towards this future of my own free will. I walked the path knowing that I would take an arrow. I walk it again, knowing it will end in fire.

  I know it will be worse than anything I can imagine. Worse than the beatings, the arrow to my chest, the wound to my thigh. I know that they will draw it out. There will be no quick release, no snap of the neck as the rope catches my fall.

  No mercy.

  Only fire.

  They will make me live my own Hell because deep in their hearts they know my soul is destined for Heaven.

  Do not call me brave. Save that for those who overcome fear. I fear not, for God is with me.

  * * *

  May 7, 1429

  Heart pounding like a drum, Jehanne sat upon her white courser, banner in hand. Made of thick, white satin with golden fringe, it was the finest thing she’d ever called her own. The words “Ihesus Maria” had been embroidered with gold thread. Christ sat between two angels and golden lilies littered the background. She loved it. More than her sword, more than her armor.

  Her armor was finely made as well, for it too had to inspire. The Duke of Alençon had made a gift of it. It had taken some time, but she’d gotten used to the yards of linen that she had to be wound into before she could put it on. The fabric’s oppressive tightness had become a familiar friend, along with the bruises that came with fighting in armor. After each battle, her whole body was black and blue. But nothing about wearing the armor felt wrong anymore.

  Instead, she was filled with the knowledge that no matter what happened, it would be God’s will.

  Awareness of what she was, what she stood for, and what they saw when they looked at her made her sit that saddle as if she’d been born to it. It was hard to believe that once, not so long ago, she’d been terrified of horses.

  Jehanne was no longer alone.

  La Hire, with his prickly disposition, was on her right, swearing under his breath because he knew she did not approve of such language. Like her, he had dark eyes and dark hair worn in a casque-cut. One of the few leaders who truly believed in her, he now prayed beside her before each battle, his sonorous voice echoing her own, soft one…

  Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly hosts, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.

  On her left, Poton. Also dark of eye and hair, he was a minor noble who served as her chief lieutenant and called her an inspiration. He towered over her more than most and ruffled her hair as if she were his page boy.

  Next to him, D’Aulon, blue-eyed and light of hair. A skilled archer, he also served as her bodyguard, scribe, and squire. Of the three, he was the youngest, the one that seemed to understand her impatience the most.

  They had let her inside their hearts. She could tell by the way they looked at her as if she were an angel. Ears hot with embarrassment, she’d scolded them for it, but it had only made them admire her more.

  It is no small thing to be inspiration to so many, La Hire had scolded back. Perhaps that too is part of your burden, la Pucelle.

  A cloud slid over the sun and spirit—a sense of things gathering and shifting—rose up inside her.

  The catapults hurled their first volley. The rocks soared high above her head and crashed against the Tourelle’s stone walls.

  It had begun.

  Ahead of them, men took up their battering rams and ladders. They ran towards the ditch surrounding the fortification. Flaming arrows arced above them, aimed at the Tourelle’s wooden doors.

  She kicked her horse forward and lifted her chin defiantly as she galloped across the field.

  The cavalry thundered around her. Like a tidal wave, they surged forward. She couldn’t have stopped them if she’d wanted to. They rode like men who knew their purpose and sacred duty in this world.

  Men armed with lances and axes followed the cavalry, adding their voices to those of screaming horses. They pressed around her in air thick with dust and smoke.

  And then the sky darkened and rained arrows down on them.

  Horses dropped. Men fell by the dozens, their eyes rolled back in their heads. Those not hit pressed forward, eyes wild with vengeance. Lances ran through bodies. Poleaxes split heads. Brains spilled out on the ground.

  Jehanne rode into the fray, urging them on, holding her banner high. The tang of saltpeter and gunpowder ignited the fire in her blood. Exhilaration roared through her, a kind of madness that distorted time and sound.

  She lost track of La Hire. An arrow passed high over her shoulder—D’Aulon was still behind her, putting his bow to good use. She pulled on the reigns, veering left to avoid a lance.

  The corner of her eye caught sight of Poton just as an axe went through his horse’s leg. The animal screamed as it went down.

  Poton went down with it, pinned between the dying beast and the ground. His sword flashed in the sun as steel met steel.

  Jehanne dug her spurs into her horse’s sides, driving him toward Poton. She raised her standard and brought its sharp end down into the neck of the man attacking Poton.

  Momentum carried her forward, the shaft of her standard fighting the pull of bone and sinew as she yanked it free. Twisting around in her saddle, she pulled on the reigns.

  Poton was alive. He’d lost his helmet but managed to get out from under his dead horse and finished another attacker off with his sword.

  A triumphant smile splitting her face, she raised her standard.

  It was the look on Poton’s face that told her something was wrong. He fought his way towards her, his gaze fixed not on her face as it usually was, but lower.

  There was an arrow sticking out of her chest. Hot, thick blood rose in her throat and filled her mouth. The stench of burning oil and flesh filled her nostrils.

  Shrieking, her horse reared, pawing the air.

  She fell as the clouds turned red and swirls of gray sky twisted into black.

  * * *

  In the corner of the one-room shack with its thatch roof and rotting beams, an unconscious Jehanne was covered by blankets and pelts.

  Hours—had it really been only hours?—ago, Jean had pulled the arrow from her chest and tossed it into the fire. He’d heard thousands of men scream. He’d heard women scream, but for some reason, Jehanne’s scream still echoed in his ears like it would never stop.

  D’Aulon had bound her wound and forced wine down her throat to ease the pain. She’d slipped into an exhausted sleep.

  Jean had then left the shack, leaving the work of taking off her armor to D’Aulon, her squire. The young man had taken it with him when he’d left. He would make sure that it was repaired. They both knew, without the slightest doubt, that as soon as she was conscious again, she’d demand its return. And D’Aulon was nothing but conscientious about his duties.

  The shack’s wooden door swung open on creaking hinges, letting in a night wind heavy with the stench of death. It stirred the fire and sent ashes upward through the chimney.

  “My watch,” La Hire said, his voice almost a whisper as he ducked through the too-small door.

  Jean shook his head. He’d propped his leg—the one that had gotten itself pinned under his horse—on a chair. His elbow rested on the rough, wooden table, kept company by a jug of wine and a cup with a chipped lip.

  “Jean Poton de Xaintrailles,” La Hire said, leaning over Jehanne’s sleeping form, “do you think you’re the only one who cares about her?”

  “I haven’t finished my wine,” Jean said, wrapping his hand around the cup.
>
  La Hire’s thick, black eyebrows rose, making the dried blood still clinging to his forehead flake and drift down into his eyes. He swiped at his face, smearing more soot into the gash on his cheek.

  “Go. Get some sleep,” La Hire said as he crossed over to the table. With bandage-wrapped hands, he raised the jug of wine to his lips and drank deeply.

  Jean put his other leg up over the arm of his chair, letting it swing as he slid down into a more comfortable position. He tilted his head back and looked at La Hire through half-closed eyes.

  A string of curses poured out of La Hire. Despite the hushed tone, Jehanne stirred and mumbled.

  “Heh. Hear that? Even in oblivion, she scolds me,” La Hire said proudly as he looked around. The shack was bare. If La Hire wanted to stay, he’d have to find a corner not already claimed by rats and bed down on packed dirt soaked in urine.

  “Fine then,” La Hire said, “but I’m taking the wine.” He grabbed the jug and trudged off. The door swung shut behind him.

  Jean opened his eyes and pulled himself up. He rubbed at his throbbing leg. La Hire was right of course. Jean needed to rest, but he knew that he could not. Not this night. Not until he was sure that Jehanne would live.

  D’Aulon said she would, but like the rest of them, he was caught in her spell. Her squire would not allow himself to think that she could die. Not again.

  When that arrow had hit her, they had thought her dead. Word had spread through the ranks like wildfire. Motivated by revenge, the men had fought harder, taking the Tourelle.

  What an incredible revelation that had been.

  Jean knew that the men believed that she was a gift from God. He knew that they would follow her into Hell. They loved her fire, her vigor, the way she urged them on, the way she made them believe that they could not be hurt.