Hi everyone! Stephen Wormwood here, thanks for
clicking! Feedback and criticism is always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com. As always hope you
enjoy reading this and please consider donating to Nifty if you can. CW for
sex, violence, SA, homophobia, and transphobia.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
2
A Call to Valhöll
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"As a Wife would a
Husband" - The Name of Her Soul - Poison - The Thegn that Bedded the
Bædling - The Cave - One's Baser Self - Attack on the River
Encampment - Ǣ - "A Monstruum You Shield" - The
Woman That Screamed for her Freedom - Your Path
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[Within a forest in the
Land of the English, sometime in 1062]
It was not normally
Wulfhere's practice to take the bædling upon her back because the position did
little to hide that ugly device between her legs, but he wanted to see her face
this time, to look into those miscoloured eyes as he spread her out over their
bearskin pallet, her feet upon his shoulders and her head propped against their
saddlebags. By his instruction she carefully bunched her dress about her thighs
to hide her pintel but expose her wrinkled pink earsðerl. He spat into
it and spread her wide, guiding in his swollen manhood with coarse fingers.
Brynna did not look at
him. She looked away, stoic and unblinking, into the sparse thickets of shrub
surrounding the leafy dell within which they'd made their camp for the night.
She lay still as a corpse even as his hard girth cleaved deep into her, inch by
inch, until it bottomed at the scruffy blonde ring of hair about his
balls.
Brynna bit her lip.
There were owls and
bats about the trees, roosting. Some foxes in the distance too, wailing like
widows of war. The sounds of rutting soon joined them – groaning, heavy breaths
and sighs, woolly thighs matted with sweat slapping against a smooth buttock,
the rustle of loose leaves beneath the pallet.
But Brynna was silent.
And Wulfhere, jostling
for position and shifting his knees, watched her. Watched her shoulders jerking
back and forth, watched her long chestnut hair splayed about her ears, watched
the straps of her bodice slip free – but still she would not cry for him, almost
wilfully, as if out of spite.
The Saxon snatched her
jaw and turned it toward him without missing a thrust. "Cry for me, as a wife
would a husband."
She merely stared at
him, eyes unblinking, expression flat and sour. She was being insolent.
Wulfhere growled and replied to her insolence by rutting at her all the harder.
Brynna gripped handfuls of bear fur into her fists and winced with each angry
thrust.
"Do not hurt me...!" She
whispered.
"Then embrace me..."
Warned Wulfhere.
She scowled again as if
to spit in his face, but she took him by his bearded face and kissed him
instead. She pulled her legs from his shoulders and wove them around his
jutting hips with well-practiced talent; wrapping her arms around his back and
spreading her thighs wide to better receive him – a mere handful of the womanly
arts she'd mastered in Ceolfraed's bed. They sent a thrill down Wulfhere's
spine. She was all his now – the only thing he'd wanted ever since the first
day he met her on the Icknield. After that it took moments, mere moments, for
Brynna to ride him to his climax. Wulfhere groaned fiendishly and spent himself
inside her, collapsing on top of her, his breath racing with him, the sweat
dripping from him, his scent staining the air.
Wulfhere caught his breath.
He pulled himself up.
But Brynna would not
look at him.
His worn tunic, breeks
and underclothes lay in the leaves next to the sheathed Seolforhund. He
dressed in silence as the bædling pulled her skirts back down and turned to her
side, away from him, glaring out at the misty woodland. The night was cold and
bitter to the bone, too cold not to have a fire, but fires produced smoke and
smoke would attract their pursuers. She was right to be watchful. It was not a
time for humping – but Wulfhere was merely a man and men did not think clearly
when their blood was up.
He felt guilty for some
reason.
Once he was dressed, he
took the meadskin from his saddlebags and handed it to Brynna, asking her to
take a sip. She responded with silence.
Wulfhere sighed. "Sleep
then. I will take the first watch."
An owl hooted in the
dark. The leaves rustled as Brynna reached for her marten-fur cloak and draped
herself in it to stave off the cold. A mute Wulfhere removed the stopper and
took a swig of mead and sharpened his seax with a stone as the bædling softly
cried herself to sleep.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Where honour ended, and
love began, was on a warm morning some six days past Candlemas. Lord Ceolfraed
bade Wulfhere accompany him into the forest for a quiet hunt at daybreak, no
spears, no dogs, no companions. It was a lean morning for them – with three hares
and a doe for their troubles – but there was good cheer and humour in it (at
least for Ceolfraed) when a misjudged leap threw Wulfhere from Snotta's saddle
on the ride home to Oxburh.
There was embarrassment
in it of course (very much more so had any of the other hearth guards
accompanied them) but Wulfhere was a simple man who very much enjoyed it when
he made his lord laugh. And his lord had a wonderful laugh. Ceolfraed's laugh
was like a great and terrible instrument, thunderous and cacophonous, but
soothing. Summoned from the very pit of his belly to ease the heart, to lift
the spirit. It was a blessed thing to make him laugh. It was something Wulfhere
hoped he'd hear for the rest of his life.
"Up, you son of a
whore," said Ceolfraed, extending a gloved hand to his fallen hearth guard.
Wulfhere pulled himself up by that hand (not noticing the bloody gash torn open
beneath his breeks as he did) as Snotta cantered up to his side and whickered,
lovingly nuzzling his snout against his mailed chest – almost like an apology.
"Calm yourself," said
Wulfhere, petting his mane. "I'm alright."
Ceolfraed's own horse
had the three hares and buck slung from its saddle as it clopped its hooves
against the forest floor, restlessly. It was impatient but it was obedient. All
Ceolfraed's horses had character. "Loyalty is a good quality in a beast. Not
that I'm surprised, you barely let that one out of your sight."
It was true. The Thegn
of Oxburh may have had some of the best stablers in East Anglia to call upon,
but Wulfhere saw to Snotta every day without fail. He fed him hay and apples,
gave him leather barrels of water to drink, cleaned his hide, brushed his mane.
"A good horse is not easy to replace, lord."
"Nor a good man."
"Aye," Wulfhere climbed
his mount. "Shall we go?"
Ceolfraed demurred.
"Hold."
"Lord?"
"Trust is all,
Wulfhere. Trust is all. A thegn cannot call his men his men without it. And
yet? There are some things I can only trust to some of my men. Can
I trust you?"
Wulfhere nodded. "With
your life, lord. Always."
All the laughter was
gone from Ceolfraed's pale grey eyes. Whatever else he may have said he meant
for Wulfhere to listen seriously. "From this day forward you shall no longer
guard me."
"Lord! But I-"
"You will guard
Braden," he said sternly. "And you will guard him with your very life."
Wulfhere felt, at once,
like having being kicked in the belly by one of Snotta's muddy hooves. His eyes
peeled wide (more of confusion than anger) but as he peered into Ceolfraed's
own and saw his unblinking iron will staring back at him – he knew this was no
jest. He was serious. Brutally so. The guardsman looked away, scowling,
embittered. ("...Braden...?") He thought.
Braden. That damned
Wealh þeow. Everyone in Oxburh knew he was cursed. He had blighted eyes, one
the colour of grass and the other the colour of clear sky, and through those
eyes, they said, the Dēofol espied both heaven and earth. They said he was
evil. They said he'd cast a lyblāc upon the good thegn to force him to
stay when any other pure-hearted follower of Dominus Jesu Christi would've put him
to death. And then there were other rumours about the Thegn and the þeow,
rumours filthy and dark and disgusting, unfit for Christian ears... though none
had the balls to say it too loudly.
There was an arrow
tucked into Ceolfraed's sword belt. He took it up and held it aloft for his
hearth-guard to see. "You see this arrow? It is coated in hymlice. And it was
shot at Braden's head just yesterday, only missed by a twig's breadth. Someone
on my lands tried to kill my slave, perhaps someone even in my own household.
And I know not who. But it cannot happen again."
"But lord, why must I-"
"Because I trust you,"
Ceolfraed cupped Wulfhere's shoulder. "This is not a punishment, Wulfhere. The
þeow is... important. And you are the only one I can entrust him too... the only
one unblinded by piety. You will do this for me, Wulfhere. On you I place all
my trust... all my secrets."
That was where it
began.
The death of honour...
and the birth of love.
Most mornings it began
before the break of dawn – when the slaves rose from their huts to tend to
their chores. So too did Wulfhere wake from his feathered bed in the Lord's
Hall, affixing his byrnie, breeks, and boots, before circling around to one of
the three thatched bowers huddled at its rear. Braden resided in the centremost
of those bowers – far away from the other slaves and unusually close to the
thegn's own quarters. And Wulfhere, yet indignant at having been stripped of
his Lord's personal guard, wrapped his knuckles angrily against that plank
door, yelling for the þeow to rise. And then out he emerged with basket and
sack to begin the morning's foraging.
Wulfhere (like most of
Ceolfraed's household) never knew what to make of Braden. Even the other slaves
seemed wary of him. He was short and shaven, of dainty gait and misliking of
spiders and mice. He dressed oddly – loose-fitting leather shoes tied with
string but cut open at the front to expose his long toes, no breeks or belt but
thick brunet robes flowing down to his ankles like a monk. He always had a
shawl draped about his face, one of silken white weave, which was secured by a
gilt bronze circlet. And there was always a covering around his mouth – cloth
mostly, but embroidered flowers or symbols in thin gold thread. One saw nothing
of his face besides his cursed eyes and thin nose. Some said he was a leper.
Some said he was horribly burnt from a fire – few but Ceolfraed knew for
certain.
"We are to go?" Said
Braden.
His voice was soft and
girlish, like a boy with un-dropped balls.
It made Wulfhere's skin
crawl... at first.
(`How can Lord
Ceolfraed stand to be around such a meolc-sopp?') He thought. "Come. We go
to the forest."
And so it was that
morning and every other after it. When one of the þeows brought Snotta to him
(freshly watered and saddled) they rode out together from the lord's hall to
the burh-gate-seat and beyond the staked earthwork fortifications towards the
forest. The ride was always brief as the main riding path into woodland lay
fifty furlongs south of the burh, and from there they slowed to a trot as
Braden carefully eyed the trees, shrubs, grass, and hedges for a different sort
of game.
The Wealh þeow was a
heathen.
It was one of the few
things known about him. He did not attend church nor allow any priests to bless
him. And this was disturbing to the good folk of the burh who did not kindly
accept such insults to their Lord God, and they could not understand why their
lord tolerated such a person. But Ceolfraed was no great lover of God or the
Church. He was a believer of course (no good Saxon wasn't) but his faith was
always more of a bargain. If he paid a sudden feorm to his local church it was
not out of the goodness of his heart – it was to buy their peace on his weekly
slave market. Pragmatism was his heart's true north star and so it was not
beyond him to own a useful pagan.
Braden was a healer,
knowledgeable in herbs and ailments. He poulticed wounds, drained handswyles,
set broken bones and cleansed the flesh. He eased the pregnancies of
belly-swollen women (those not too frightened or too proud to seek his aid) and
brewed tonics to steal the sting of shallow sword-cuts. He kept leeches for
poisons and grew mandrake for pain. There were witches and medicine women
throughout Oxburh and the villages beyond, but none were Braden's equal. They
knew it. As did Ceolfraed.
That morning, as every
other after it, the swordsman and the slave boy trotted the forest path in
search of ingredients for his treatments – weeds, grubs, berries, leaves,
herbs, roots, nuts, and mushrooms. With a ready hand at his sword's hilt
Wulfhere watched Braden dismount Snotta to forage. Most mornings he sat saddled
in boredom, whistling beor-hall ballads, and picking food out of his teeth with
a thorn, but over time he came to observe the boy; the way he picked flowers,
the way he giggled, the way he played with the squirrels; an almost child-like
innocence in an exceedingly cruel world – like a candleflame in the dark. There
was a softness to Braden's manner that first struck Wulfhere as odd and
unseemly, but that he began to admire over time. There was sweetness to it. It
suited him.
"Do you have what you
need?" It was what Wulfhere always asked as the sun climbed too high. Their
thegn did not care to be kept waiting. The boy nodded, tied the basket and sack
to Snotta's saddle, took Wulfhere's wrist to help himself up, and once seated,
wrapped his thin arms around the hearth-guard's waist. It was a warm embrace.
Wulfhere began to
admire that too.
They then circled
around (as they always did) and rode back up the trail towards the forest's
mouth. Usually, they did not speak much. And then there was a day, some
countless days past Candlemas, where he asked a simple question of the þeow.
"Why does he need the
herbs?"
Braden raised his voice
to be heard over Snotta's pounding hooves. "What?"
"Ceolfraed. What does
he need with the herbs?"
"...My lord loves his
ale," said Braden. "But it doesn't agree with his belly. The tonics I brew help
his stomach to settle, that is all. Why?"
(`Because even your
fellow þeows accuse you of casting lyblāc...') thought Wulfhere. "Only
curious is all."
Braden chuckled sadly.
"They think I bewitch him."
"..."
"I know they say it. I
hear them whisper about me. That's why one of them tried to kill me. But it
isn't true."
Although Wulfhere could
not say how he knew it, he did. What they whispered as well as its
falsehood. "...And who taught you these
things?"
"...My mother," Braden
sighed wistfully. "I miss her... so very, very much."
What little he knew
about Braden's life was what little he heard from others in Oxburh's hall.
The boy was one of
several Wealh captured from their native land and put up for sale at a slave
market in Scrobbesbyrigscīr in the year of Godwin Eorl's return from
exile. Ceolfraed, who was summoned to attend Aelfgar Eorl on a visit to his
father Leofric Eorl of Mercia, took the opportunity to tour the market towns at
the border, which was how he stumbled upon the boy. Some ten years hence and
the boy was still in his thegn's service.
"And what of your
mother?" Asked Braden.
It was a simple
question, but Wulfhere's whole face soured upon the hearing of it. He didn't
like thinking of his mother. Eadwyn was her name. And she was warm and kind and
beautiful in his memory. But thoughts of her brought thoughts of Maldmesburh,
and the flames and the screams and the stink of smoking flesh...
"That's enough talk of
mothers," said Wulfhere. He tightened his grip on Snotta's reins and coaxed him
to pick up speed. The road ahead was clear, no traders or riders to speak of,
and he wanted to be home and away from this chatter. ("No more talk of
mothers.") He thought. And that was when Braden's soft hands slowly slipped
down his mailed stomach and settled upon his leathered hips. Wulfhere's body
tensed as the slave drew close to him, chest to back, head rested betwixt his
shoulder blades.
"Ceolfraed trusts you,"
said the boy. "And you do not fear me..."
(`My heart thunders!') Thought
Wulfhere. (`Why?')
"...Wulfhere. I... I trust
you also. These however many moons you've protected me... ridden with me...
listened to me. I trust you. I am fond of you."
Wulfhere swallowed the
lump in his throat. He misliked this. He misliked how it made him feel.
Braden's touch stirred something dark and filthy and
disgusting within him. Something utterly ungodly...
Braden whispered again
– "May I tell you something?"
Wulfhere could not
bring himself to speak.
"I have a name. A true
name. The name of my soul. It is... Brynna. I saw it in the flames..."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The hoot of an owl
stirred Wulfhere from slumber.
He awoke with a snort,
drooling from his chin and eyes encrusted. A silent and morose Brynna sat on
the other side of the fire, sharpening an arrowhead with a piece of flint, and
threw a glance around the camp every few moments – and only then did Wulfhere
realize his blunder. He fell asleep on his own watch.
"Apologies," Said he.
"Why didn't you wake me?"
Brynna smiled bitterly.
"It does not matter. Were your dreams sweet?"
The Saxon sneered. She
had that sour smile again. He hated that smile. She only ever wore it when she
meant to demean him. Wulfhere told her "No" and bade her tend her flames. It
was the wrong thing to say – for it only deepened her smile. "They brought me
more visions, these flames. Do you want to know what they were?"
Wulfhere stayed mute.
"Fate awaits your Brenin,"
she spat venomously. "He is soon to die and when he does your lands will never
be the same."
Brynna was trying to
provoke him, but it was a pointless jab. Wulfhere had no great love of the
Cyning. Edward was weak and after all these years still without an heir
at time when England had enemies at almost every compass point – Gruffudd ap
Llywelyn to the west, Guillaume le Bâtard to the east, Malcolm Canmore to the
north, Sweyn of Denmark to the north-east...
...but it sickened him to
hear her speak of the flames. Whatever he saw in them during his flight from
the beor-hall in Theotford, they did not govern his soul. But Brynna? Brynna
spoke as if indebted to them, enthralled to them even. Dēofol's
sorcery! Why was she so bound to it? Why did she taunt him with it? "Be quiet.
I'll hear no more of your lies."
"The flames never
lie," said Brynna. "They make gifts of the past as well as the future. Isn't
there something you'd want to see, Wulfhere?"
(`My Father...') he
thought.
He almost blurted it
out like a drunken slur.
His father's name was
Haakon. Haakon Raven's Eye. And though he was a Dane he was not just any
Dane. He was one of the legendary huscarls that accompanied Cnut in his
conquest of the English half-a-century ago, and in exchange for his loyal
service he was rewarded with the spoils of a dead thegn – his fertile lands and
his unwed daughter, Eadwyn. Nine months later she bore him a son, a son she
named Wulfhere, for `Wulfhere' was her father's name, and his father's name
before him. Wulfhere Haakonsson.
But Wulfhere never
really knew his father.
He had some surviving
memories of Haakon – a toweringly tall Danish man with big blue eyes and a big
blonde beard chopping wood, catching fish, and drinking beor – but the memories
were faint and grew fainter by the year. Yet there were only some things
Wulfhere wanted to remember... and many things he wanted to forget. "Your flames
reveal nothing I care to see."
Brynna cast him a low,
evil glare. "Why are you christ-men so fearful of
powers beyond the Roman god?"
"Nothing is
beyond God."
The evil glare became
an evil smile. "...Not even humping me?"
Wulfhere balled a fist.
"I'm warning you, Brynna..."
"There's not a christ-man in all of Lundenburh that would handfast us lest
his soul be damned. What awaits yours when you die?"
That was it. That was
the last barb before the Saxon saw red. The furs fell from his thighs as he
charged around the campfire with a wrathful snarl and snatched the Wealh's
throat. He cared not for the fear in her eyes as he slapped her, her frightened
yelp ringing up to bird roosts, for she irritated and infuriated
him. He'd had more than a bellyful of her defiance, her godlessness, her spite!
Damn her!
"DAMN YOU!" Roared
Wulfhere. "I WARNED you to be silent! One more word and I SWEAR you'll wake my
fist!"
Brynna pulled a bloody
smile.
"I SAVED YOU! You would
have DIED in Oxburh without me! I SAVED you from Ceolfraed's guards, killed men
I thought of as brothers, and why? FOR YOU! All of this was for YOU!"
"I... can't... breath..."
He let her go. The
Wealh gasped for air, panted for breath until it finally caught up with her and
she spat out a knot of bloody phlegm. Wulfhere stormed off to his side of the
fire, slumping down into his furs again.
Brynna's cheek turned
purple. "...A man's love is poison."
Wulfhere opened his
lips to retort but the ugly words froze in this throat – when he heard a twig
snap. Brynna heard it too. They paused where they sat, falling silent. From a
distance they might've appeared a sulking couple... but from a distance they were
being watched. Another twig snapped, this one lighter than the first.
Then the leaves in that direction began to rustle. There was movement out
there, maybe fifteen paces behind them.
The Saxon glanced at
his sword, thinking better of drawing it. Whosoever lurked in the dark did not
notice that Wulfhere and Brynna had noticed them. Reaching for the sword
would alarm them. Instead...
"I'm tired of fighting
you," said he. "Tell me a tale – a tale in your tongue."
The bruised Brynna
frowned at him, but she played along. "Pwyll Pendefig
Dyfed a oedd yn arglwydd ar seith
cantref Dyfed. A threiglweith ydd
oedd yn Arberth,
prif lys iddaw, a dyfod yn ei fryd
ac yn ei feddwl fyned i
hela. Sef cyfeir o'i gyfoeth
a fynnei ei hela, Glynn Cuch. Ac ef a gychwynnwys y nos honno o Arberth, ac a ddoeth hyd ym
Mhenn Llwyn Diarwya, ac yno y bu y nos
honno. A thrannoeth yn ieuenctid y dydd cyfodi a orug,
a dyfod i Lynn Cuch i ellwng ei
gwn dan y coed."
Brynna's bow was close
by, nestled next to the saddle bags. Wulfhere took up a stone first, then an
arrow second. He sharpened the head then checked the fletching. "...Go on."
"A chanu
ei gorn," said Brynna, "a dechreu dygyfor yr hela, a cherdded
yn ol y cwn,
ac ymgolli a'i gydymdeithon. Ac fal y bydd yn ymwarandaw
a llef yr erchwys, ef a glywei
llef erchwys arall, ac nid oeddynt
unllef, a hynny yn dyfod yn
erbyn ei erchwys ef. Ac ef a welei lannerch
yn y coed o faes gwastad; ac fal oedd ei erchwys
ef yn ymgael
ag ystlys y llannerch, ef a welei garw
o flaen yr erchwys arall. A pharth a pherfedd y llannerch, llyma yr erchwys a oedd
yn ol yn
ymordiwes ag ef, ac yn ei fwrw
i'r llawr."
The rustling in the
leaves drew ever closer. (`Ten paces away...') thought Wulfhere. He put
the arrow in his lap, as if he did not notice, and checked the bowstring for
its tautness.
"Ac yna edrych ohonaw
ef ar liw
yr erchwys, heb hanbwyllaw edrych ar y carw.
Ac o'r a welsei ef o helgwn y byd,
ni welsei cwn unlliw ag wynt.
Sef lliw oedd arnunt, claerwyn
llathreidd, ac eu clusteu yn gochion.
Ac fal y llathrei wynned y cwn, y llathrei coched y clusteu. Ac ar hynny at y cwn y doeth ef, a gyrru yr
erchwys a laddyssei y carw i ymdeith,
a llithiaw ei erchwys ei hunan
ar y carw."
(`Five paces...') thought Wulfhere as he
gently nocked an arrow.
"Ac fal
y bydd yn llithiaw y cwn, ef a welei farchawg
yn dyfod yn ol yr
erchwys i ar farch erchlas
mawr; a chorn canu am ei fwnwgl,
a gwisg o frethyn llwydlei amdanaw yn wisg hela.
Ac ar hynny y marchawg a ddoeth attaw ef, a dywedud
fal hynn wrthaw..."
Wulfhere stood up,
turned, and fired into the thicket. A whistling arrow thumped home in a
leathered chest and "ARGH!" cried the lurker as he was thrown from his boots
and fell through a thorny bramble onto his back. Brynna drew her seax and took
to her feet. A second man, a mere shadow, stood up and fled but Wulfhere had
already nocked another arrow and loosed it. The shaft sank through the
accomplice's neck at thirty paces. He dropped first to his knees and then to
his face, a steel dagger falling out of his grasp.
Wulfhere threw away the
bow and took up his sword, Brynna closely behind, and strode up to the first
man who lay dying in the bushes with the arrow shaft lodged in his breastbone.
The watcher's half-lidded eyes quivered at the slurp of unsheathed steel.
Seolforhund gleamed in the moonlight as its tip lowered to his shaking throat.
Wulfhere eyed his blue
tunic and sheepskin cloak and recognized them from the beor-hall at Theotford.
"You're one of Uhtric Wineskin's men, aren't you? Talk! Where is he? Where are
the rest of his men?"
Bloody foam frothed
along the fallen tithingsman's lips. "I-I-I-I don't... k-k-know..."
"You will die unless I
pull that arrow from your chest," It was a lie. He would die away but telling
him so served no purpose. "Don't you want to live to see your family again? Eh?
Tell me where they are and the bædling will spare you."
His eyes teared.
"H-he's camped... at the o-o-old Roman f-fort by the river... s-south of here...
U-U-Uhtric and five others...! P-p-please... please save me... I don't want to-"
Wulfhere sunk the sword
through his neck.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
There was a tremendous
feast that night.
All the morning pigs
were slaughtered, chickens were plucked, fish was brazed, beor was brewed,
dough was kneaded, and eel pies were baked. Guests came from as far as south as
St. Edmund's Bury and as far north as Elmham, and as the sun fell their number
swelled Oxburh's hall to breeching. Hundreds sat to Ceolfraed's tables as the
scops told tales and the lutenists and flutists made merry music. Þeowen
brought platters of pork, bread, cheese, and chicken to their thegn's hungry
warriors and townsmen. Oxburh's wealthiest ceorls were invited. The scent of
beor and meat reached up to the rats in the rafters along with song, burping,
laughter, flatulence, and hearth smoke. Even the sour faced Redwig Father was
in attendance (some even said he had a cup of mead!).
But Wulfhere did not
attend.
A year ago he would've
had pride of place at Ceolfraed's table. A year ago the slave girls would be
filling his cup with Norman wine as he stuffed his face with boiled pork hanks
and made drunken bets with the other hearth guards – `Who'll be the first
man to heave his guts tonight?! A Cnut's head
on Cyneric!'
But not that night.
Wulfhere listened to
the feast from the winnowing hut by the central palisade. He looked on
jealously, ruefully, wondering who had pride of place and snorting indignantly
at the thought of Uhtric Wineskin in a seat that was rightfully his. But
Wulfhere's lord had given him a task and that he did not begrudge. His `task'
emerged from the hut with a small mortar and pestle in one hand and a corked
jug in the other.
Brynna.
In his head the name
`Brynna' had already begun to suit. To the others, whether thegn or ceorl or
þeow, Brynna was only the cursed heathen Braden. But to Wulfhere? To Wulfhere
the heathen had become so much more.
And it frightened
him.
"They lent me the use
of their mortar," said Brynna. "My own is broken."
Wulfhere's heart
quickened in his chest at the mere lilt of the þeow's voice. (`That voice...') went
his thoughts. That damned voice. Once ago that voice curdled his very flesh.
And now? Now he heard it in his very dreams. Every night. (`Damn your
voice...') thought he. (`Damn your eyes. Damn your lips. Damn your touch.
Damn you, Brynna.') "By the sounds of things our lord will have great need
of your brew tomorrow," said the Saxon. "Come."
Brynna smiled softly
and followed.
Within the central
palisade the huts and shacks were empty of life as all had gathered in the hall
(save for the dogs and guards) and the footpaths were bitterly quiet. And it
was cold that night – a simple seax could skim the rime off the frozen slop
buckets. Wulfhere put his cloak around Brynna's shoulders to stave off the
chill as they walked up the slope of the hill. The music, chanting, and
laughter grew louder as they approached the hall. They did not enter. A fellow
Saxon may have been welcome but the Wealh þeow was not. They went around it,
past the snoring swordsmen and drunken spear-bearers, to Brynna's bower.
"You are safe," said
Wulfhere. "I... I should go and join them before the beor runs dry."
He turned to leave.
And then a soft hand
took his wrist.
"Do you... do you know
what he does to me... in here?" The voice was a quivering whisper, almost drowned
out by the merriment of the hall. "Do you know what he does to me when the
candles flicker?"
The swordsman shivered
– and not with cold.
Brynna's grip
tightened. "...He puts himself inside my mouth and his beats me if he feels my
teeth! I can tell only you! All those men inside that hall, all those men
to detest me, Redwig Father and Uhtric and the other hearthweru... would they
hate him if they knew? The-Thegn-That-Bedded-The-Bædling?"
Wulfhere snatched his
hand away.
"Enough of this talk!
Ceolfraed will cut you ball from bag if he ever hears it! Do not be so quick to
die, Brynna, live! Live wisely, live darkly, live cravenly, but... live. Live
until life gives you a better chance."
Brynna took his hand
again and bid him turn. And Wulfhere did turn. And when he did, he saw tears in
those accursed, miscoloured eyes. They were the sweetest tears the swordsman
would ever see – for they were tears of quiet joy.
"Brynna," said the
bædling. "You called me Brynna..."
"...I..."
"WULFHERE!" Roared
Ceolwulf. "GOD BLESS YOU LEST THE DEVIL TAKE YOU!"
The Saxon and the Wealh
parted, instinctively, as the merry thegn trod stumbling down the icy dirt track
around his thundering hall with a half-swilled goblet in hand. He was drunk.
The silver-encased amber brooch pinning his bearhide cloak almost came undone
as he nearly tripped over its folds but by some miracle, he kept his balance.
Brynna shrunk back, eyes to the ground, like some naughty child in fear of a
scolding. But Ceolfraed was all smiles as he approached.
He took Wulfhere by the
shoulder and squeezed him. "Stop gloaming. I know it sours your belly to guard
this heathen, godly man as you are, but your loyalty will be rewarded. I swear
it."
Then Ceolfraed turned
to Brynna, and he eyed his slave with a look of intent that every sweet maiden
knew of any hearty male. But he frowned when he saw Wulfhere's cloak around the
healer's shoulders.
"Why are you wearing a
warrior's cloak, slave? Take-" He stopped to belch. "...Take it off."
Under threat of
punishment (as it was any owner's task to keep his þeows good-tempered and
obedient) Brynna did as asked, not daring to meet his eyes. "Apologies, lord."
"There was a chill,
lord." Explained Wulfhere. "Nothing more."
Ceolfraed snatched the
cloak from Brynna's hands and shoved it into Wulfhere's. "Get. Inside. Now.
You'll soon warm up."
"Yes, lord."
Wulfhere could only
watch silently as the þeow opened the rickety wooden door and disappeared
inside the bower. But Ceolfraed's ill-tempered frown did not abate. "...You
weren't at the feast, so you didn't hear the announcement. Well hear it now.
I'm to wed."
The hearthguardsman
blinked. He almost couldn't believe it but one look at Ceolfraed's now stony
glare told the tale plain. It was no joke. "Lord? I would offer you my
blessings, but you do not seem-"
"Thank my kindly priest
Redwig for it," he slurred. "The arrangements were his. It's Thurstin Thegn's daughter. Cynewise, she's called. He says she is
fair, that she'll make a good match."
In a different moment
Wulfhere would have laughed.
Thurstin was a thegn of
growing renown in East Anglia. He possessed many of hides of land, mainly to
the north, and he had close ties with Stigand Archbishop of Canterbury woven up
during his bishopric of Elmham. In recent years he'd even attended the witan at
Wintanceaster. And though he and Ceolfraed were of a similar age (early
fifties) they could not have been more different. Ceolfraed was a warrior.
Thurstin was not. Thurstin was pious, Ceolfraed was not. Ceolfraed inherited
his lands, Thurstin acquired his through wealth. They were night and day. Moon
and sun. And they detested each other.
But Wulfhere did see
the logic of the match.
Ceolfraed had no heirs
and Thurstin had only a daughter. If Ceolfraed and Cynewise were wed and
produced a son then that son would own a huge swath of East Anglia, perhaps as
much as Æthelmær Bishop of Elmham or shire reeve Æthelwig. Between Ceolfraed's
connections to the Godwinesons and Thurstin's ties to the church, such a match
could have had the makings of a dynasty. But one wouldn't have thought so
judging by the smouldering anger on his face.
There was some wine
left in his cup. Ceolfraed set it to his lips, threw it back, belched again,
then handed the goblet to Wulfhere. His eyes never left the bower door. "...I
meant my words, Wulfhere. Your loyalty will not go unrewarded. Go to the feast.
Eat my pork, drink my wine. If anyone asks for me, tell them I've gone for my
prayers. I'll see you in the morning."
He threw open the bower
door and stormed in.
His foul mood began to
make more sense.
Wulfhere wanted to
leave.
He did.
But then he heard
noises.
And against his good
judgement, he set his ear to the door.
It was difficult to
hear what was going on with all the cheering and singing and shouting from the
lord's hall. The voices were muffled. It sounded like a simple conversation at
first. Ceolfraed said something, but Brynna said something back. And Ceolfraed
did not like what he heard. His voice grew loud. But so too did Brynna's,
defiantly. A fleshly slap rang out and a soft wail followed. And then a booming
voice shouted GET ON THE BED so loudly it rattled the door. Wulfhere
heard muffled protests, pleading, crying, and then the distinctive rip of shorn
clothing. Stiff wooden legs scraped against a floor as sudden weight bore down
upon them. And then the humping started. Flash slapping against flesh. Moans of
pain. Grunts of pleasure. Shouts and cries.
Brynna, whimpering.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Bitter winds howled
through the forest. Leafless branches swung slowly from gust to gust, the wood
groaning against the pressure as the brush rustled around Wulfhere's muddy
boots. He trudged along by foot, guiding Snotta up a sloped dell lined by
silver birches. Brynna sat in the saddle with an eye to the forest, but saw
precious little through the darkness of the night.
They saw fit to cover
the two tithingsmen Wulfhere killed with leaves and soil, but it was only a
matter of time before Uhtric Wineskin realized they were missing. Wulfhere knew
that well enough. It was why he fought to ascend that slope. At its height,
past two broken and wind-bleached way-stones marking a long-forgotten hunting
trail, there was a secondary path cleaving through bramble and bush towards the
slopes of a higher dell, but one that ended in a gaping cave mouth.
"...Is there an inch of
this forest you do not know?" As Brynna asked this, she dismounted Snotta,
slippered feet squelching in the mud, and followed Wulfhere into the dark maw.
The cave was wide but shallow and big enough for a bear to rest in. And there
were few signs of other occupancy until Wulfhere tore some moss from an iron hook
in the rear wall and tied Snotta's reins to it. There was more moss alongside
it, clinging to what looked like sheets of vine tangled around the planks of a
broken stall. It was a panel. Wulfhere grabbed it with both arms and heaved it
aside. What lay beneath was a rectangular indentation chiselled into the wall
by stone tools – and inside that indentation was hidden two old spears and a
torch with encrusted brown wrappings.
Wulfhere gave a spear
to Brynna. "Here."
She glared at the
mud-caked weapon. "A rusty pole from the son of the son of some long dead gedriht. What am I to do with it?"
"Look here," said the
Saxon as he pointed at the cave's mouth. "There's only one way in. If someone
approaches it, you yell for their name. If it's anyone but me nock an arrow and
draw. If they get past your arrows,
stick `em with the spear. If they get past your spear, gut `em with your seax."
"And you?"
He put the panel back.
"I will kill Uhtric's men myself."
"You have the head of a
pig," spat Brynna. "I can help. My bow arm is as good as any."
There was little time
to waste. Wulfhere went into Snotta's saddlebags for his armour – a chainmail
byrnie and a conical helm. Gifts from Ceolfraed (much like Seolforhund).
This was the first time he would wear them to battle.
"Bows are for hares and
doe," said he. "Not men. Stop thinking like a bædling."
Brynna frowned. "Is
that not all I am to you?"
(`If that was all you
were to me, I'd leave you here to die.') Or so went his thoughts. He had no heart to
voice them. As Wulfhere dressed into his armour and tightened his sword belt he
tried to think only of the battle ahead; how he would approach the camp, how to
reduce their numbers, what traps to expect. If his thoughts were of Brynna,
he'd ponder what he stood to lose if he fell in battle – his woman falling into
Ceolfraed's dirty arms again. Those thoughts would turn him craven. He would
run away again. But running was not an option now. If they ran, Uhtric would
follow them all the way to Lundenburh.
Tonight was the night
to end it.
Sever the trail.
Disappear.
Sighing, Wulfhere put
his cloak around Brynna's shoulders. Her dress was in tatters, her cheek
swollen, her shoes muddy, her nails dirty. But for all that by God she was
still so beautiful. She was the Swann Hnesce of his heart even if
the rest of the world could not see it. If he could just get her to
Lundenburh! Find work. Build a home. He'd make it his life's duty to
furnish her with jewels and furs and gilt white dresses. He'd make her the envy
of every free woman in the burh. No one would know her secret. If only...
(`No!') Thought he. (`Stand
and fight, Wulfhere, stand and fight!')
"Why do you look at me
so...?" Said Brynna.
He wanted so much to
kiss her again, to feel himself inside her again, just one last time lest he
died... but it would break his fighting spirit. It was all or nothing. He had to
survive the night. He had to win. There was no other way. "Stay here, Brynna.
If I'm not back by daybreak, take the horse and ride for your hidden path to
Lundenburh."
She scowled at him. "You
are a fool. You will not die a death worth a scop's telling. And I will not
mourn you."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Wulfhere found himself
in a church that morning. With hands tightly clasped he knelt before the alter
and lowered his head in prayer. No one bothered him. It was Redwig's church,
but the pale-fleshed priest was already riding north to begin marriage negotiations
with Thurstin Thegn. Everyone else either slept off the night's revelries or
set about their early morning chores as they always did – the þeows, mostly.
The Saxon prayed daily
ever since this poison in his heart first emerged, but he received no signs
or clarity from God. No guidance. No matter how much he pleaded God would not
show him the way. That morning was no different. And every time he closed his
eyes, he saw only the heathen Wealh þeow.
Brynna.
(`O Lord my God what is
happening to me?') pled he. (`Save me from these thoughts! Save me from
these desires! I lived a life of sin before I found honour here in Oxburh. Help
me banish this evil from my heart lest I lose all you've gifted me! Please?
Purge my soul of this poison! I beg you, Lord! Purge my soul!')
But the Lord gave him
no reply.
Wulfhere sighed and
rose to his feet, his sword and mail clinking. It was almost sun-up. Time to
go. He scrubbed the tears from his eyes with a single thumb then made his way
out into the household grounds where the work of the day was almost upon them.
The hunting hounds barked. The horses whickered in their stables. It was market
day and there was much to do.
But Wulfhere had only
one task these days and it did not involve livestock. He followed the footpath
up the hill's slope and around the back of the feasting hall to Brynna's bower.
He stilled himself. Took a breath. Then he knocked. The door swung open
immediately. Ceolfraed stood at the threshold, sober and fully dressed, sword
at his side and cloak at his shoulders, his boots and brooch freshly polished.
"Good," said the thegn.
"You're here. There will be no need for herbs this morn. Go raise my hund-wealh
and tell the stabler to prepare the horses. Today we hunt. I want a nice,
fattened boar for the evening."
Ceolfraed did not wait
for a reply – he stormed off in the direction of his hall. But what of Brynna?
The swordsman paused a moment and waited until his lord was out of sight before
he slowly pushed open the bower door and walked inside. It was a pagan's shack.
Decorated with deer skulls and bone chimes and inverted roods carved with
archaic writ. Herb scent was everywhere. There were jars and bowls and tools
like awls, picks, and carving seaxes, alongside bundles of wrapping and thatch for
poultices and more besides.
But Wulfhere found
Brynna on the bed.
Naked. Whimpering.
Trembling. Limbs half-tangled in pelts while crusted trails of seed traced down
from a raw and gaping earsðerl. When Wulfhere shut the door, the bædling
gasped and gathered up the bed furs to shield that sweat-soaked flesh from
sight.
"W-Wulfhere?" Brynna
thumbed tears from those miscoloured eyes. Ceolfraed had blackened one of them
last night. "I-I-I'm sorry you must see me like this. Have you heard the
tidings? My lord is to be wed! O joyous day..."
The bædling's false
smile fell.
"He... he'll tire of me.
He'll grow tired of me and sell me off like the rest of his slaves," Tears
began to well again. "...Why? Am I worth so little?"
The blood thumped in Wulfhere's
ears. "...Brynna. You are not... worthless."
Brynna stilled. A blush
followed, then a sniffle. "...Thank you. You're... the only man I've ever met who
would say so."
There are moments in
life when one does a thing without thinking to. The mind fogs and acts borne of
rage or fear or love spring unbidden from oneself – one's baser self.
And for all the will a man could summon there is no clarity in that fog. There
was no thought. And there was no thought when a silent Wulfhere strode across
that shack and placed himself upon Brynna's bed and drew the bædling into his
arms and stole the kiss of his tortured dreams. The bædling froze, stunned,
eyes flaring... then broke away, lips smacking in the dark silence.
"W-what are you
doing!?"
The þeow tried to pull
away. But Wulfhere pulled Brynna back to him and pressed their lips together
again, urgently, like the world would collapse if they dared part. Muffled
moans and squeals filled the bower as the Saxon wrestled the Wealh onto those
warm pelts. Brynna's wrists disappeared into the fur where Wulfhere pinned
them. Legs thrashed and arched impotently against the larger man's weight until
Brynna finally tore away from that drudging kiss.
"Stop this!" Shouted
the bædling. "Stop it or I'll scream!"
The plea stung him like
the nick of a knife. Wulfhere paused, caught his breath (and himself), and cast
his eyes at the tear-sodden creature trapped beneath him – and found a look of
utter betrayal staring back.
"...You're just like
him," sobbed the Wealh. "You're just like Ceolfraed..."
"I am NOTHING like
him!" roared the Saxon. "I would not hurt you! I would not tire of you! I would
treasure you! I can fight this no longer! Run away with me, Brynna! I swear I
will-"
Wulfhere's grip
loosened as he spoke and when it did the slave snatched a hand free and slapped
him. The blow was sudden, and it rang up to the thatch of the roof. The
swordsman drew back, arms and armour rattling with the bone chimes as a naked
Brynna climbed out of the bed, seized the nearest cloak, and bounded for the
door.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
(`I'm nothing worth mourning,') thought Wulfhere as he
slowly picked his way through the brush, spear in hand. (But all I can do is
survive. `Smile upon me this night, O Lord my God, so I may live to see another
sunrise.')
Slaving is fraught
work.
It took little to take
a slave – all one needed was war, poverty, or a well-organized raid. The true challenge
was holding onto them. Whether man or woman, whether rich or poor, whether
Saxon or Dane or Norman – people do not naturally submit to the domination of
others. The truth is – slaves are not `taken' at all. They are made. You must break
a soul to own a soul. No one knew that better than old Bolla. And at the height
of its operations his band took captured slaves to hidden sites like that old
Roman fort by the river to beat the defiance out of them – by whip and knuckle
– and ready them for sale.
Wulfhere prowled that
forest for years both as a slaver for Bolla and a hunting partner for
Ceolfraed. No one knew it better... and that knowledge was his only advantage as
he crept through the long grass, sword in sheath but spear in hand, toward
Uhtric Wineskin's camp; six wind-beaten getelds pitched around a central
campfire within the ancient fort's broken inner walls. Six saddled horses stood
tethered by their reins to wooden stakes driven deep into the earth, taken from
a rotted palisade on the eastern side of the Little Ouse.
Wulfhere kept low as he
crept close. `A one-armed man cannot raise his thuuf in victory,'
thought he, in Ceolfraed's voice. `Observe the numbers and think.'
A plume of smoke
billowed into the air as the gathered tithingsmen ate roasted pikes and shared
a bulging skinful of cider. None kept their weapons (a small collection of
hammers, axes and seaxes) to hand. None had armour save the sole man amongst
them with wealth enough to afford it; Uhtric Wineskin. He reclined at the foot
of a broken cross picking fish bones out of his teeth in a muddied byrnie. His
longsword Wrecend and his boiled leather helm lay next to him.
They numbered six in
total.
Wulfhere watched them
from a hidden spot behind a fragment of the old outer wall, lowering the spear
into the long grass. He had the wind in his favour for it blew noisily down the
river's breadth, rippling its waters, rustling the ferns and their tents,
disturbing the horses. No man had ears for footsteps in those winds. But he was
close enough to hear them speak.
One of the tithingsmen
left the campfire to sit with the Wineskin. "Uhtric, may I speak?"
He spat out a bone.
"You may."
"Some of us did wonder...
why we couldn't ask the shire reeve for men? There ain't a beor-hall in all of
Oxburh what don't talk of Lord Ceolfraed's mighty hearth g-"
"Stop," Uhtric smirked
derisively. "What was your name again?"
"My name be Bretel,
lord."
"Well then, `Bretel'.
Speak like an earg and I'll gut you like an earg. I did
not ask the shire reeve for men because we do not need more men. Our
Lord was summoned to the witan and my shield-brothers attend him. I, however,
was left with YOU to root around in the dirt chasing a traitor and a bædling
þeow! Do not speak to ME of what YOU want. Now pick up your seax and take the
first watch before I shove it so far up your scitte-hole you'll taste
iron."
"Beg'n your pardon,
lord, I-I-I meant no offence..."
`So Ceolfraed and other
hearthweru are on the road...?' Wulfhere reached out through the tall weeds
and took up a loose rock nearby. `If Ceolfraed is on his way to
Wintanceaster then he won't return to Oxburh for days... this might by our last
chance to flee East Anglia...'
He had to finish this
now.
`God,' prayed he. `Guide
my sword.'
There was another
broken shard of Roman walling just a few paces away. Wulfhere crouched down and
hurled the rock at it. The clop of stone rose over the blustering winds and
caught Uhtric's ear, and the result was as intended.
"Go see what that is,"
ordered the Wineskin.
"Yes lord," said Bretel
sheepishly. He drew his seax and advanced. "Prob'ly no more'n a fox."
By Wulfhere's judgement
there were thirty paces between the fragmented wall and the camp. And with that
knowledge he counted each of Bretel's steps by the crunch of the dry grass
beneath his leathered feet... thirty paces... twenty paces... ten paces... until the
ingenuous tithingman walked into his shadow. He looked left. Wulfhere loomed up
and snatched his throat from the right. Bretel jerked with surprise and bucked
to wrench free, but Wulfhere was twice his match in size and strength and
dragged him down into the long grass. When Bretel tried to yell for help he barely
mustered a muffled cry through Wulfhere's calloused fingers. The swordsman
grappled Bretel's neck until his limbs went limp and the sharpened seax fell
out of his hand. Wulfhere quickly snatched it – then thumped it hard into
Bretel's stomach, twisting the blade to cleave his guts until bloody slop fell
like offal into the weeds.
By the time Wulfhere
prised the knife loose the tithingman was already dead. He rolled Bretel's body
off him and slunk against the wall fragment again. He caught his breath. (`Five
left,') Thought he.
"Bretel?" One of his
allies called out for him. All song and chatter stopped. "Bretel, are you
cutting a hland out there with the foxes? Save your tiny pintle for your
poor wife! Bah, ha, ha, ha, ha!"
The others laughed with
him until a skreich of unsheathed steel cut the din.
"Quiet...!" Spat Uhtric.
"Take up your weapons and be ready!" As he spoke the Wineskin strapped on his
boiled leather helm. "BRETEL! If you can hear my voice, return towards it!"
No reply came. Wulfhere
listened intently as boots shuffled through the grass towards him. Uhtric's men
were forming up to surround him. If surprise was wealth, that moment was his
last coin to cash. He reached into the grass for the spear, reared up from
behind the broken wall, and hurled the shaft at his nearest target. Ten paces
ahead and the spear thudded through the unarmoured chest of a woolly-jawed
blacksmith, staking the ground behind him as his back slid down its shaft and
collapsed where the blade met the bloodied soil.
War cries abounded as
Uhtric's remaining men began charging at Wulfhere from the camp, but his ears
heard only his own pounding blood as he flipped Bretel's seax up and hurled it
through the air into the eye of a lean-limbed fisherman whose screams curdled
the very marrow of Wulfhere's bones, but he cared not for the battle rage
was upon him then! A dark smile cleaved across his face as another poor sop
came swinging at him from above with a rusty hand axe that he smacked away with
a simple punt of his fist as he thrust forward with Seolforhund and
stuck him in the guts HARD. The tithingsman's eyes bulged and his thin
chicken-flesh lips exploded with a glut of blood and bile that splattered
Wulfhere's byrnie from neck to waist. The swordsman shoved the fisherman off
his matted blade but in that very second an arrow whistled past his ear and
shot off into black thicket behind him.
(`Archer!') thought he.
A second arrow snapped
loose but it sailed over his skull and clipped a tree as he was already diving
rightward behind another wall fragment. The swordsman caught his breath and
counted the dead. Two of Uhtric's tithingsmen lay dead where his feet once
stood. A third man lay dead and pooling behind him. A fourth rolled back and
forth screaming himself hoarse at the short knife lodged in his face, but he
was soon to die, no threat to anyone anymore. That left only two men.
Uhtric and his archer.
"Wulfhere!" Roared the
Wineskin. "Do not make this any worse on yourself! One way or another that Dēofol-possessed
slave will return to Oxburh lashed! No more men need die, Wulfhere! You may yet
be spared! Drop your sword! Surrender!"
He grinned behind the
wall. "If that damned huscarl couldn't force my surrender then what hope have
you, Uhtric?!"
"...Huscarl?"
"Herewulf!" Shouted
Wulfhere. "Play no games with me!"
Uhtric chucked. "Who in
the good name of Christ is `Herewulf'? Never mind. It matters not. I have you
trapped, earg! Defy me and you die here! Now what will it be?!"
Wulfhere sheathed his
blade.
"Well? DO YOU
SURRENDER?"
He did the opposite –
he bolted for the horses. Uhtric screamed angrily as Wulfhere sprinted low
throughout the weeds and ran hard for the six whickering bays tethered to those
rotted burh-wall stakes. An arrow shot past him and caught a horse dead in its
throat.
"No, you fool, we need
the horses!" Cried Uhtric. A dying neigh followed the mare to an agonized death
as it dropped to its knees and collapsed, frighting the other horses. As they
bucked and thrashed their hooves Wulfhere scrambled onto the saddle of the
calmest one and whipped at its reins, coaxing it to turn.
"Come on! Yah!"
The mare turned hoof as
commanded and bolted forth down the long dirt path tracing out along the
riverbank from the ancient fort. But as he galloped away Uhtric and the archer
quickly ran to their steeds, steadied them, and mounted up to ride.
What started as a small
skirmish became a desperate chase.
The road ahead was
Roman; beaten, and well-trodden across the centuries, made close to the
Icknield. As it was the ground held the horse's pace well as it broke across
that dark gaping path along the rushing waters. Cold hard winds whipped at
Wulfhere's face, but he dared to throw a glance over his shoulder and saw both
Uhtric Wineskin and his archer ahorse and after him. The cowled archer, some
hunter or trapper by trade, leaned back in the saddle and drew an arrow from
his hip bundle.
(`Damn!')
Wulfhere ducked.
The bowstring snapped.
A blur of force flashed
through the sky to his right and splashed into the river. As the Little Ouse
began to bend leftward Wulfhere guided the horse with it, sparing only the
briefest glance to his rear.
And then an arrow
struck him in the forearm.
"GAH!" He cried. His
marbled teeth clenched and every muscle in his face tensed up as he seethed in
burning pain. His shoulder lulled at the reins as his grip went slack and his
eyes fogged. The road ahead became darker. More arrows snapped overhead but
failed to strike. Wulfhere almost fell from the saddle. But then he thought of
Brynna. Thought of her face. Thought of her soft smile. Thought of what
Ceolfraed would do to her if he ever got his hands on her again.
The Saxon caught
himself.
He leaned up again and
roared at the winds billowing down upon him to coax his horse onward, snatching
the reins tight with his good arm, screaming "Yah! Yah! Yah! Yah!" until he
picked up even more speed and broke away from Uhtric and the archer. No more
arrows came. As his horse tore off into the black distance Wulfhere wrapped a
fist around the arrow shaft, grit his teeth and SNAPPED it in half. The
swordsman screeched though clenched teeth, but he was lucky – it caught only
the meat of his forearm, not a joint or a bone. He cast a glance over his
shoulder.
The archer tossed his
bow – no more arrows in his belt. Instead, he took the reins with both hands
and coaxed his horse to match Wulfhere's pace as Uhtric lulled behind him –
ever the poor horseman. And then Wulfhere looked to the river as the banks
began to bend again, and he remembered, who he was and where he was. This was
his forest. His domain. And he knew what came next along this road.
He ducked down, ducked
down as low as the saddle could go as the horse turned the bend of the riding
path and almost immediately a thickened tree branch sailed over his head in a
sweeping rush of motion. Wulfhere dare look back again. And as the archer
turned the bend – the branch he did not foresee knocked him clean off his
saddle. A startled and winded cry followed him as he landed backwards into the
rolling dirt path directly in the path of Uhtric's horse.
The Wineskin was always
a poor horseman.
As the archer's battered
body rolled his way, he wasn't quick enough to coax his horse to stop. Maybe it
was too dark for him to see. Either way – his horse's hooves got caught in the
tangled mass of broken ribs and limbs that was once his archer – the horse
buckled. And as the horse buckled the man riding it fell too. Wulfhere merely
watched as Uhtric Wineskin was hurled screaming from his saddle and thrown into
the dust as the startled mare followed suit. And half the whole forest heard
Uhtric's screams when its full weight toppled onto his legs and crushed them to
grisly pulp.
(`Oh Lord my God!') prayed Wulfhere in
flight. (`Thank you!')
And then Wulfhere
looked ahead and saw a man standing in the road fifty paces ahead.
Herewulf.
Shield upon back. Helm
upon skull. Mail rattling in the wind. A horrified and dumbstruck Wulfhere
watched in an almost helpless trance as the huscarl swung his mighty Hildegunnr
into the air and spun about his boots to whirl cold Danish steel through the air
just as the Saxon's horse galloped past him – and sliced its left limb off from
knee to pastern.
The world became a
flurry of motion and noise as his whinnying steed went into the air and
Wulfhere went with it. The mutilated horse landed on its back then skidded
helplessly into the waters of the Little Ouse where it would proceed to drown –
while Wulfhere was thrown face first into the bushes on the other side of the
road.
Everything blurred and
then everything went dark.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Ǣ – marriage – was
tedious to arrange.
Thus, it did not
astonish Wulfhere that Ceolfraed left most of the arrangements to Redwig
Father. Negotiations for Thurstin Thegn's daughter,
Cynewise, took half the year to complete, finally ending in the late summer of
1062, and throughout much of that time Ceolfraed was a sullen bridegroom. He
was a jolly man by nature, generous in his gifts and boisterous in his
attitudes, but his mood was foul from the moment Redwig first announced it. He
spent most of his time as he always did (hunting, riding, overseeing his lands
and collecting taxes) but without his customary smile. He began to take special
joy in meting out punishments where previously he did not – beating lazy þeows
and chopping a hand off bread-thieves. It took little to anger him; a slip of
the tongue, a broken cup, a beor too sour. His own men treaded lightly around
him when once they flocked to his company. Even Wulfhere was mindful of what he
said around the thegn.
What did not change, at
least for a time, were Ceolfraed's visits to Brynna's bower.
Every few nights the
thegn arose drunk in the night, barking for Wulfhere to follow him whilst
everyone else slumbered. The hearth guard stood watch whilst his lord went
inside and locked the door. Whether sleeping, brewing tonics, or praying to
pagan gods, Brynna was forced to stop and see to Ceolfraed's needs. And
Wulfhere, night after night, was forced to listen.
Brynna's mood soured
also.
As before Wulfhere's
duties were to protect the þeow during their `herb hunts' but they barely
looked at each other, exchanging few words beyond the bluntest – "shall we go?"
or "which way?" or "when do we leave?"
Wulfhere hated it. The
silence, the coldness. Those cursed eyes which once looked up at him with trust
and warmth now barely addressed his presence. Sometimes he wanted to snatch
Brynna by the shoulders and force the heathen to look at him, to acknowledge
him, to speak tenderly to him again. But the Saxon held his tongue and kept his
distance.
They called love a
sickness of the heart. And it was during those ebbing midsummer days that
Wulfhere finally began to realize just how sick his heart had become.
And then came the final
day of the arrangements.
The day when Redwig
returned from his third trip to Elmham... but this time he was to return with
Thurstin Thegn and his daughter. Ceolfraed ordered the necessary preparations.
Fine builders were summoned to complete long-standing repairs to his hall whilst
his þeows, even Brynna, were made to clean and furnish it from floor to rafter.
He sent Wulfhere and a few other men into the forest for a nice fat boar whilst
Uhtric Wineskin rode about the burh ordering the townsfolk to greet their
coming guests upon arrival. And so all the ceorls gathered along the main road
by the hundreds and they erupted with cheer as Thurstin Thegn's retinue finally
rode into their town.
Whilst the ructions
went on Wulfhere and Uhtric stood alongside Ceolfraed in the hall whilst a band
of the other hearth guards escorted their visitors to it. The doors swung open
and in walked Redwig Father alongside Thurstin Thegn, primly cloaked and
cleanly shaven, hand in hand with his good daughter, Cynewise Lady of Elmham,
and ten mailed spear-bearers.
Brynna was also there
that day, standing by the wall alongside the other þeows, each one with a
silver plate of refreshment to serve – bread, cheese, apples, fish. As the
pleasantries began Wulfhere dared to steal a glance at the Wealh, who glowered
darkly at the thegn's daughter, almost as if in resentment of her. And when
Cynewise gently lifted her silken veil for all to behold her, Brynna's accursed
eyes glazed over with tears. Wulfhere soon saw why.
Cynewise was utterly
beautiful.
Every inch of her.
Beautiful. Buxom. Her gentle eyes were as blue as a cloudless sky. Her golden
blonde hair, shimmering in the brazier-light, was carefully parted into two
woven braids that dangled about her shoulders. Not a single spot or mark
blemished her fair skin. And her smile... her smile was so soft and sweet it
could stop a man's heart. Wulfhere took one look at Ceolfraed and knew,
implicitly, that Cynewise had already stolen his.
The þeows gasped.
Uhtric's tongue almost fell out of his mouth. The smirking guards began to
whisper amongst themselves (`that'll fix his mood!') like clucking hens. And
Thurstin wore a smirk of his own as his rival gaped upon his daughter with
stunned delight.
"Lord," the thegn's
daughter bowed daintily, still hand in hand with her father. "I do hope I meet
with your approval."
An astounded Ceolfraed
smiled for the first time in half a year. "You have it... and more besides, my
lady. Please, let us... let us all sit."
A tear hit Brynna's
tray.
They sat to eat.
Negotiations soon followed. While Thurstin and Ceolfraed discussed terms, a
grinning Uhtric leaned into Wulfhere's ear and whispered, "How in the name of God
does so rare a beauty go unmarried for so long?" It was a pointless
question. Though Cynewise was nearly nineteen years of age, Thurstin knew well
his daughter's worth and had no doubt been waiting for just the right match.
She would not come cheaply.
Nor did she.
Thurstin made plain the
dowry (a hundred gold mancuses) and Ceolfraed offered a bride price of 2 hides
of land in Meretūn along with 66 oxen, 44 cows, 22 horses and 15 þeows.
Thurstin declared that this was not enough. And so Ceolfraed increased his
offer to 4 hides of land, 3 in Meretūn and 1 in Oxburh, and once the
particulars of the Oxburh hide were agreed upon, Thurstin accepted the offer.
After that they agreed on a morning gift, a golden torc studded with a single
emerald (worthy nearly thrice the sum of the dowry) and then established the
terms of the marriage – Cynewise's entitlements, entitlements upon death,
entitlements upon the birth of an heir and so forth – and shook hands when they
came to terms as Redwig recorded the agreement with ink, quill, and parchment.
All that was left was for Cynewise herself to accept Ceolfraed's suit. And,
smiling softly, she did indeed accept.
Every ceorl in every
beor-hall in Oxburh shared a toast that night.
Word spread like fire
from Theotford to St. Edmund's Bury that Ceolfraed Thegn and Cynewise Lady of
Elmham were to be wed. Gifts of wine, fur, cloth, and cattle came to Ceolfraed
from as far north as Silingeham and from as far south as Colneceastre. Æthelmaer
Bishop sent a letter of congratulations to Redwig Father, along with a sum of
silver to help finance the repairs of Oxburh's church in time for the
celebrations. But no one was happier with the match than Ceolfraed.
It was unusual for
brides to attend wedding negotiations, at least as far as Wulfhere knew. No
doubt Ceolfraed wanted a look at Cynewise before he agreed to anything, which
was why he requested it. But the King's Thegn could not have expected to become
so smitten so quickly. As his good humour returned to him, the mood around his
household lightened and preparations for the great day went underway with
joyous fervour. The weather was good, the coming harvest looked promising, and
Ceolfraed's nightly visits to Brynna's bower stopped. This pleased Wulfhere.
But, for some reason, it did not please Brynna. The climate around the hall
lightened but the þeow's
mood darkened. Their herb hunts grew fewer as Ceolfraed spent less time getting
drunk. And something was changing in Brynna. It was as if a spark was being
lost, like a candle flickering in the dark.
And flickering candles
behaved wildly before they were snuffed out.
Something was coming,
Wulfhere felt it. He felt it in bones. Perhaps it was this `omen' he sensed
that caused him to secretly pack Snotta's saddlebags with food, clothing, and
silver. He knew something was coming... but not even fate could have
predicted what came next.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Everything was silent.
And then everything
began to screech.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE...
...until he slowly opened
his eyes.
A bolt of lightning
shot across the sky and struck a tree, a flash of dazzling light in a single
brilliant instant, hurling embers and flame-touched ash about the brush. He
felt light-headed. He faded away again, consciousness plunging whole into
intractable darkness. And so he dwelt. For a time. But then he tasted blood.
But then his ears began to ring again...
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE...
...and when he awoke the
whole forest was aflame.
The swordman coughed,
spitting out a wad of blood and phlegm. His shoulder spasmed with searing hot
pain again, and when he clasped it reflexively it cut his palm. He looked down.
The fall from his horse had driven the arrowhead so deep into his shoulder it
poked through the other side.
Wulfhere seethed
through bloody teeth.
His ears rang. His
heart pounded. His shoulder was in agony. The scent of smoke befouled his nose
and singed his eyes. But by the grace of Jesu Christi he was alive. The
Saxon coughed again and spat out tiny fragments of his teeth as well as his
blood. The black skies moulted with grey. The smell was disgusting. The heat
was unbearable. And as he slowly looked around him, he saw why.
Everything was on fire.
The trees around him
burned black – like bony silhouettes charring against a morning sun. The scrubs
burned. The weeds burned. The voles and badgers cooked alive in their hiding
hovels. Oaks snapped from their roots and toppled into the black waters of the
river. Embers dappled the sky. And as Wulfhere rolled onto his elbows he saw
him again, two paces ahead.
Herewulf.
His ruthlessly polished
mail rattled against him as he knelt to his haunches and peered at the fallen
hearth guard as if from another world. "You have slept enough, heathen. Get
up." He spat. "Get up! Even you deserve better than a cravenly death. GET UP!"
Wulfhere coughed again.
He wanted to rise, to
stand, to fight, but his legs wouldn't obey him. He stumbled. He fell.
Then a heavy boot slipped underneath his wounded shoulder and flipped him onto
his back with a sudden punt.
"GAAGH!"
A single meaty hand
snatched him by the throat and with almost unnatural strength Herewulf
heaved Wulfhere out of the bushes and slammed his mailed frame into a tree
trunk. Teeth tightly fixed, the Saxon opened his eyes and stared down the
muscled arm holding him aloft – beyond the glittering gilt steel of Herewulf's
helm he saw nothing of the huscarl's face, only his eyes, his furious blazing
blue eyes.
Wulfhere's feet kicked
underneath him.
He couldn't breathe.
"...Do you know what you
shield?" Herewulf spat each word with icy venom. "...Sixty years ago at Pershore
Abbey a child of God broke his oaths to the One Most Holy. He began to lust
after his abbot, praying to the Dēofol for a beautiful body with
which to beguile and befoul him. When he bedded the abbot by this evil
lyblāc, the monks banded together and burnt the bædling alive. Doom!
But its hateful spirit refused the call of Hell and fled the flames,
burning the abbey in its wake! The spirit became a demon, a creature of lust
and vice whose sole purpose is to seduce and destroy good men of God and it has
consumed a THOUSAND lovers since! That is all your creature wants! It will
please your flesh to steal your soul and DAMN you to the flames! A MONSTRUUM
YOU SHIELD!"
Wulfhere's face turned
blue as he choked.
"Where is the bædling...?
Hm? Where?" Growling and furious, Herewulf slammed Wulfhere's shoulder into the
tree again. "WHERE IS IT!?"
A now desperate
Wulfhere threw his knee at Herewulf's jaw. The sudden blow nearly jerked off
his helm, but his grip held firm, so the smaller man jostled against that
gloved fist until all his weight bore down upon it and the two men fell into
the bushes. Herewulf's grip broke. The huscarl and the hearth guard tumbled
down the slope of a dell as the fires raged about the forest and flaming
branches snapped from their trunks. Wulfhere's face landed in fox shit, as he
coughed and hacked for air. Herewulf landed on his knees with Hildegunnr
close by. He took his axe by its shaft and rose to his feet.
"Get up!" Roared he.
"Fight and die like a warrior! Let me end your father's shame!"
"...My father..."
Wulfhere's eyes opened. "You knew... my father...?"
"The
Raven's Eye is a legend amongst us, one of Old Cnut Cyning's fiercest warriors!
You are not worthy to bear the name Haakonsson! GET UP!"
When
Wulfhere parted his teeth a bloody knot of phlegm and soot dripped out. His
shoulder was on fire. His foggy eyes barely saw through the tears. But as he
looked up and saw Herewulf raise up that glinting steel axe into the
ember-streaked night sky, his weakened body acted before his thoughts commanded
it to. He rolled left as Hildegunnr came swinging into the earth mere
inches from his shoulder.
A
second axe swing came almost immediately after the first, a wave of white steel
warping the air as Wulfhere darted down and rolled right, sliding onto his
feet, and instinctively drawing his blade. Moonlight and hellfire glimmered along
Seolforhund's blade. "You will speak... not one more word... of my father!"
"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHH!"
Herewulf's
war cry ripped through the blazing forest and sent shivers down Wulfhere's
spine... but he pushed on regardless, warring with himself, screaming back his
anger, willing himself to rise, urging his limbs and knees to respond to him as
he finally lunged forward, sword first and echoes of clashing steel joined the
tumult of burning wood and rushing waters. Herewulf was larger than him,
stronger than him, unwounded, better trained, and better armoured – but
Wulfhere fought on regardless – raining blow after blow at the huscarl's
defences.
"Yah!"
He cried. "Yah! Yah! Yah!"
Herewulf
parried every swing and thrust, but Wulfhere's fury refused to abate as
chips of wood flew from Hildegunnr's haft and new courage found its way
into the swordsman's heart as his towering opponent stepped back, losing
ground. And then came the swing of the knob. Wulfhere only saw a whirl of gilt
wood before the axe haft smashed into his face and a bloody tooth flew out of
his lips, stopping his storm of blows dead mid-swing. The now raging Herewulf
swung wide for Wulfhere's neck but the hearth guard dove for the ground and the
swing sailed overhead into the thick bulk of an oak. And Wulfhere charged at
him before he could prise his axe loose, grabbing him by the waist and shoving
him back! But Herewulf's boots held firm. His massive frame refused to budge.
Instead, he kneaded his leathered fingers together like a club and smashed both
fists down into Wulfhere's back.
"AGH!"
He cried. The blow was like a blacksmith's hammer battering his spine, knocking
the wind from his matted lips, and jerking his legs from thigh to knee to
ankle. A second double blow rattled the byrnie beneath it and a third drove
some of its broken rivets deep into his purpling flesh. But STILL Wulfhere held
firm! He grappled and jostled with the huscarl and his lumbering weight until
it finally gave way. Herewulf buckled. His boots skidded beneath him as he
plunged backwards into a rough tumble down the dusty slope of the dell, rolling
down through thorn and brier until his shielded back thumped against a leafless
tree trunk.
Stinging
pain shot through Wulfhere's shoulder. The broken arrow was killing him! But by
God he had to fight on, sliding down the slope in pursuit of the huscarl. He
was disarmed! Now was his chance! But the huscarl was battle-hardened
and wily, scrambling up to his feet and pulling the bossed round shield from
his back. Seolforhund's steel met the thick planks of its wood. The blow
shuddered both weapon and shield, splinters flying into the smoky air, but
Wulfhere took the brunt of the impact in the very joints of his sword arm. When
no second swing came Herewulf stole through the moment and thrust at his target
shield-first, bashing him from wounded shoulder to slashed thigh and throwing
him backward into the sloping soil. Wulfhere thudded back, catching his breath
in haggard scraps before he lost it again – as a snarling Herewulf slammed the
shield into him again and pressed his whole bulky weight down upon it.
"AAAAAGGH!"
Cried Wulfhere. "GAA-AAAGH! AHAAGH!"
His
screams climbed up to the burning forest canopy.
"I'll
crush the LIFE out of you!" Snarled Herewulf.
The
weight was unbearable. The bossed shield pressed down into his ribcage until
the wood croaked, and his bones felt like they were about to break. And they
would have. They would have cracked open and caved inward, puncturing his
lungs, and shattering his ribcage, if not for the sleek seax dangling from
Herewulf's belt. Wulfhere's fingers stretched out to seize it, draw it, then
buried it in Herewulf's ribs.
"AAGH!"
Cried the huscarl.
The
pressure eased.
A
gasping Wulfhere twisted the seax and jerked the blade free from bloody flesh
before plunging it in again, its matted blade sinking through the rivets and
slicing deep into muscle and scraping it clean from the ribs as Wulfhere
wrenched it back out.
Herewulf's
heavy boots pounded the earth as he dropped his shield and stumbled back,
gripping his gaping wound whilst Wulfhere leaned back and gasped for breath,
eyes on the huscarl.
Everything
was red from the blood flowing into Wulfhere's eyes. The heat of the flames and
the roiling smoke choked him. Off in the distance he heard the smashing of the
tall trees as they snapped from their burnt roots and collapsed into the
surrounding woodland. Unless the heavens broke open and wept, the fire would
scour the whole forest.
(`Brynna!') Thought he. (`She'll
be killed if I don't get back to her!')
Then
he saw Herewulf's cold blue eyes drift to the ground. Seolforhund was
there. Wulfhere didn't even realize it had fallen out of his hand. The huscarl
eyed the hearth guard and the hearth guard eyed the huscarl, one awaiting the
other's move. All went quiet for a moment.
Just
a moment.
And
then they scrambled. Wulfhere ran for the sword. Herewulf bounded forth and
shouldered him out of the way, hurling the swordsman into the ditch wall as he
reached for the longsword only to take the seax straight through his neck! The
huscarl juddered gasping, stilled, lifeblood bubbling in his throat and oozing
down his mailed chest. Wulfhere growled and drove the knife deeper into
Herewulf's neck until its tip punctured the very apple of his throat and jutted
out into the hot night air. The huscarl gargled blood until he fell, first to
his knees, then to his face, and he did not rise.
Wulfhere
stepped back, barely able to breathe.
The
fires raged above his head now. Up above the tree Hildegunnr was lodged
in was now a smoking black silhouette against lashing tongues of flame. Embers
drifted on the wind. Smoke rolled down the slopes of the dell. A coughing,
weakened and battered Wulfhere reached down to take his sword, limped past
Herewulf's motionless body, and reached out to climb up out of the narrow
ditch...
...but
he was too frail. His swollen hand took a root and he tried with what little
was left of his might to pull himself up, but his limbs were too weak, his
breath too short, his head too light. Everything around him swirled with smoke
and fire and blood until everything went to black.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The food! In all his
life Wulfhere never saw so much of it in one place. From long table to long
table he saw chicken, hare hanks, boar shanks, boiled pork, braised deer,
smoked fish, eel pie, pigeon pie, bread, broth, apples pieces – and there was
enough wine, beor, mead and cider to fill the Temese. Oxburh's
hall was full to breeching with nearly two hundred guests gathered for the
wedding feast of Ceolfraed Thegn of Oxburh and his beautiful bride Cynewise
Lady of Elmham. Many thegns from across East Anglia were in attendance, along
with their own wives and retinues; and many priests from St. Edmund's Bury and Elmham
were in attendance as well. Some of Ceolfraed's most favoured ceorls were also
permitted to attend, most of whom were merchants with ties to markets in Wintanceaster,
Lundenburh, and even distant Difelin. And all Ceolfraed's
hearthweru were there, but as guests rather than guards, a role taken by two
retinues of spear-bearers: twelve bore Ceolfraed's sigil and another twelve
bore Thurstin's.
At the head table sat
the happy pair, Ceolfraed and Cynewise, whispering to each other amidst all the
drinking, laughter, shouting, and music. The old thegn was like a cat with milk
around her, his smile roguish and fervent, barely able to restrain his delight
in his new bride. And Cynewise (for the most) played her part well. If she was
at all reluctant to wed this man more than twice her own age, she hid it very well. Cynewise
smiled brightly at his every word, tittered at his clandestine japes, poured
him wine when his cup went dry, fed him grapes, and swept the crumbs from his
bushy black beard. Alongside them sat Thurstin Thegn and Redwig Father; the
latter to Ceolfraed's side, the former to Cynewise's. As the architects of this
union they were already reaping the benefits of it, Redwig oft left his seat to
speak with the priests in attendance from Elmham, representatives of Æthelmaer
Bishop himself, whilst many of the merchant ceorls (after presenting the happy
couple with gifts) approached the head table to introduce themselves to
Thurstin. This was the way of weddings. A sole event weaving ties and
connections that would last the men assembled for decades to come. And at
either side of Redwig and Thurstin sat either thegn's most trusted guardsman. A
dour and gigantic man called Leofwen sat for Elmham's thegn. Uhtric Wineskin
sat for Oxburh's.
And Wulfhere was bitter
about it.
Men falling out of
favour with their lords was not uncommon (far from it) but in his heart that
seat was his seat, by right, hard won with years of service and loyalty. But in
truth Wulfhere was not surprised. Ceolfraed was a hound with a new bone, a
hound that did not wish to recall the old one, nor the hand that fed it to him.
Wulfhere had been
side-lined.
And the other
hearthweru knew it.
One of them approached
him as the þeows brought out more boar meat, a lank pale-pate fenlander named
Osberht. He took a seat and poured himself a cup of mead whilst their lord drew
his seax to cut himself and his wife a slice of his favoured dish, and Wulfhere
distracted himself with the half-eaten chicken leg on his platter.
"Enjoying the
celebrations?" Said Osberht.
"Isn't
everyone?"
"Aye,"
Osberht gulped a mouthful of mead. "A good day, it is. And well earned.
Ceolfraed was in desperate need of a good match."
Wulfhere sighed.
"...Osberht. If you've more to say to me, then say it and say it
plain."
The Fenlander looked
around if anyone was listening in on their conversation, then leaned toward
Wulfhere and kept his voice low. "...You were seen packing food into your
saddlebags, Wulfhere. I come to you now as both a friend and a shield-brother.
I know Ceolfraed's favour towards Uhtric bothers you, but do not let it make
you do something... foolhardy."
There was a half-empty
cup of beor in Wulfhere's hand. He abandoned the chicken leg for it, threw it
back, poured himself another from a vessel close by, and then threw that back
too. A more honourable man would've drawn his sword at that sort of accusation.
"You are noble, Osberht. Thank you for having a drink with me."
"Wulfhere..."
The swordsman frowned.
"Thank you for having a drink with me."
Ceolfraed's meaty first
banged the table. It drew some attention, but not nearly enough, and so Uhtric
Wineskin shot out of his chair and shouted to their guests, "YOUR THEGN WISHES
TO SPEAK!" and with that, the gathered stopped drinking, eating,
laughing, and burping, and turned to the main table where the happy bridegroom
now stood. Wulfhere (pretending not to feel Osberht's glare piercing through
him) looked to his lord, and his lord looked royal. He wore a dark green tunic
woven at the fringes with golden threadwork, and he had replaced his habitual
bearhide cloak for a silken red one fixed to his grizzled chest by his golden
boar's head brooch. Gold rings glinted from each of his fingers as he held
aloft his goblet for a toast, whilst his mighty longsword Heortgryre rattled
from his buckled belt. Ceolfraed may not have been a man of good grooming or
fanciful clothes by custom, but for his wedding he had spared no expense nor
effort. He was quite taken by his new bride. There was no question of it.
"My heart bursts this
day!" Ceolfraed cast a long grin at his blushing wife as he spoke. "And I know
not what great deeds I have done for God to grant me such a beautiful bride,
but I swear I shall dedicate my life to repaying his generosity!"
A small frown lurked
behind Wulfhere's big smile. (`Your words or Redwig's, my thegn?')
"All of you, raise your
cups! To my lovely bride! May God grant us peace and fortune! May He grant us
many happy years and many happy heirs! To Cynewise Lady of Oxburh!"
"TO CYNEWISE LADY OF
OXBURH!"
Roared
back the guests. And so too did Wulfhere. He threw back his beor and gulped it
whole, slapping the cup upon the table and belching. He did not hear the sudden
whispers... not at first. It was only when the lutenist and flutist did not
resume the music that an ill silence spread across the hall, lightly punctured
by fraught murmurs and gasps. Then he heard footsteps. Little patters of feet
treading softly against the mead-soaked floor. The gasps grew louder. Wulfhere,
already part ways drunk for his fourth beor of the night, turned lazily toward
the commotion as it slowly stepped along the raging hearth fire in the central
pit. And then he froze, dumbfounded. As did Osberht. As did Uhtric. And
Thurstin, and Redwig, and Leofwen, and Cynewise, and certainly Ceolfraed.
It was Brynna.
Dressed from shoulder
to ankle in a flowing, gilt-green dress and adorned at the neck by a golden
torc that only those of thegn-right worth understood the significance of. It
was Lady Cynewise's morgengifu.
The lady, as stunned and confused as anyone else, watched as the þeow cast a
dark smile at her new husband, those accursed eyes wide and tear-glittered,
both unblinking and unashamed.
Ceolfraed's fist
tremored.
"...There dwells within
me a woman," said Brynna, patting her chest. "A woman named Brynna! A woman
screaming for her freedom! AND LET EVERY PIG-HUMPING SAXON BEAR WITNESS!"
Chaos.
Shouts of disgust and
disbelief climbed up to the rafters as guests threw half-swilled cups and food
into the air. Brynna had to shout to be heard over the tumult as she continued,
"Let us free her again, lord, as you did night from night until that preening
mare turned your eye!"
Someone, whether
Ceolfraed or Thurstin, bellowed for their men to ready their spears and each ashen
pole clattered into formation, but in response so too did their counterpart's
spear-bearers – assuming formation against the other spearmen, as if provoked,
as if challenged! Women screamed. Men shouted for calm but the more they
shouted the less anyone could hear. There was a sudden crush of guests at the
other end of the hall as they abandoned their tables to draw away from the
spear-bearers suddenly turning their weapons at each other, as slurps of steel
rang out, Uhtric and the assembled hearth guards each drawing their Norman
swords, as did the lumbering Leofwen who rose to protect a now raging Thurstin.
"What godless madness
is this? Ceolfraed! Ceolfraed, God damn you, what is this?! I will NOT forget
this insult! Cut that bædling down! NOW!"
Uhtric approached the
northern thegn but kept his sword low. "Lord. Rest assured that slave will be
punished, severely. But steady your men. They have raised their spears
against our own and I fear what may come of it."
"You dare address me, ceorl?"
Thurstin spat the word like a curse. "Have a care how you speak to a thegn... cut
that damned bædling down!"
"Ceolfraed will not
allow it!" Yelled Brynna.
But by then, Thurstin
had had enough. "LEOFWEN! KILL THIS CREATURE!"
Wulfhere did not know
what providence caused him to reach for someone's spear. In time he might
associate it with God. But something, if not God then instinct, guided him them
as he reached back and snatched a spear from one of the assembled guards and
hurled it before they had time to object. Female guests screamed as the shaft
thumped into Leofwen's throat and killed him standing. Shouts and cried of
outraged anger broke from the ranks of Thurstin's spear-bearers, taking it as
an attack upon them. They broke formation. Some hurled their spears at
Ceolfraed's guards. Others charged ahead, leapt over the long tables, and drew
their swords as Oxburh's guardsmen broke forward to meet them until steel
clashed violently with steel and the whole hall descended into anarchy.
Wulfhere was already on
his feet, leaping over the long table and bounding into the throng. He snatched
a wrist – Brynna's wrist – and pulled her away. Somewhere behind him he heard
the King's Thegn finally yell for the fighting to cease and for any loyal man
to seize his slave, but his men and Thurstin's men were too busy slaughtering
each other to listen. Wulfhere lead Brynna around their clash about the hearth
fire and toward the crush of guests screaming to escape the now blood-soaked
hall. But there was a man in their way.
Osberht.
As Wulfhere ran, he
looked his fellow hearthweru in the eye and saw the very components of his mind
whirling in unison to piece it all together; Ceolfraed taking so long to pick a
wife, tolerating a heathen, Wulfhere's protection, etc. A look of both disgust
and fury crossed Osberht's eyes as he angrily drew his sword and screamed for
Wulfhere to repent, to recant, but Wulfhere was past the point of no return
now. He shoved Brynna aside to get her out of the way then unsheathed his own
sword. The two hearthweru clashed, sword for sword, metal clapping against
metal as they danced for position amidst the madness until a sudden parry
tossed Osberht's blade from his grasp.
Wulfhere cut him down
with a single stroke across the throat.
And then he looked for
Brynna.
One of the
spear-bearers had her, firmly dragging her back until Wulfhere took up a stray
clay cup and threw it at the wulfheort's face. As it smashed to shards in his
eyes the cool steel of Seolforhund snaked forth and skewered him through his
unprotected chest. The Saxon ripped his sword out of the carcass, scraps of
bone, hair and bloody muscle tissue splattering across the ground. But Wulfhere
was undaunted. He took Brynna again and shoved through the throng, pushing
people out of the way, stabbing them if they refused to budge, until the cold
night air kissed their sweating flesh. By then a fire had broken out. Oxburh's
hall was aflame and all inside were scrambling to get out.
Wulfhere and Brynna,
hand in hand, ran down the slope of the hill and raced for the stables. They
leapt over wooden fences and eventually found Snotta where Wulfhere left him.
The swordsman quickly lifted Brynna up onto the saddle then leapt up and joined
her there – then Wulfhere snapped his reigns and the swift young horse bolted
out of the stalls and ran for the main thoroughfare out of the town.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
He expected to hear
roaring flames when he woke, the crack of shattered trees and screeching birds
roasting alive in fiery chaos. Instead, he heard a familiar whickering, and the
soft clop of hooves beating against soil. Birds chirped. Insects buzzed. His
whole body ached. His face, his teeth, his jaw, his arms, his back, worst of
all his arrow-shot shoulder. All was dark. But then he slowly scraped the
crusted blood from his eyes and carefully opened them.
Leafy rushes swayed by.
Toads scuttled in the muddy waters of a stream. His limp arm dripped blood down
Snotta's hock. His head lulled against a broad but soft shoulder.
Brynna.
"Are you awake?" She
asked.
"I... don't even know... if
I'm alive..." He sniffed. "W-where are we?"
"The Icknield."
So, it was. In the
distance he heard the voices of traders and sheep herders. Many gasped at the
sight of a woman ferrying around a battered and bloodied man by his own horse.
What a sight they must have made.
"You came back... for me?
Why...?" Wulfhere ate a knot of phlegm he was too weak to spit out. It carried
the salt-iron taste of blood. "Why did you... come back... for me?"
Brynna paused for a
moment.
She sighed.
"...I don't know. I just...
I wouldn't leave you to burn to death. Just rest now. I will treat the rest of
your wounds when we find a safe place to camp."
Wulfhere realized then
that he couldn't feel the broken arrow shaft in his arm anymore. His cheek was
poulticed, and his ribs wrapped with oil-soaked cotton, but he wouldn't know it
until they camped that night. "No..."
"No what?"
"No, we cannot... go this
way..." he coughed roughly. "I have killed... seven tithingsmen... a thegn's guard...
and a huscarl. When Ceolfraed hears of this... he'll chase us to his dying day.
We must... disappear. We must take your path..."
Brynna stilled. "...Are
you sure?"
"Yes," whispered Wulfhere.
"We must..."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
· Thanks for reading,
guys! As before your comments and criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com, love to hear from
you.
· If you enjoyed this,
please read some of my other stories on Nifty: Wulf's Blut (gay,
fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The
Dying Cinders (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay,
fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), and A Small Soul
Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi).
· Please see below a few
extra Anglo-Saxon/Old English terms I missed.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[WORDS/TERMS]
[Brenin]
The Welsh word for
`king'.
[Handfast]
A term with multiple
meanings historically, but generally refers to either an un-officiated wedding,
a contract to marry, or a temporary marriage. Harold Godwineson and Cnut the
Great were both handfasted (to Edith Swan Neck and Aelgifu of Northampton respectively)
and both went on to have more `official' marriages afterwards (Harold to Ealdgyth
of Mercia, and Cnut to Emma of Normandy).
[Hund-Wealh]
An Old English term
meaning "hound slave", a slave/servant responsible for the household dogs.
[Hymlice]
The Old English term
for hemlock.
[Mancus]
A gold coin of
considerable value in Early Medieval Europe.
[Thuuf]
An Old English name for
a Roman banner ("Tufa").
[`Pwyll Pendefig Dyfed'/Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed]
The story that Brynna
recites to Wulfhere at their camp. It is the first story of the Mabinogi, a collection of four tales of Welsh mythology.
Brynna recites only the opening paragraphs. The translation is as follows:
"Pwyll Pendeuic Dyfed was lord of the seven cantrefs of Dyfed.
Once upon a time he was at Arberth, a chief court of
his, and he was seized by the thought and the desire to go hunting. The part of
his country in which he wished to hunt was Glyn Cuch. He set out that evening
from Arberth, coming as far Pen Llwyn Diarwya, and there he spent the night.The
next morning, in the young of the day, he arose and came to Glyn Cuch to let
loose his dogs beneath the wood. He sounded his horn, and he began to muster
the hunt, chasing after the dogs and becoming separated from his companions.
As he listened out for
the cry of the pack he heard the cry of another pack, with a different bark,
coming to meet his own. He could see a clearing in the wood, like a smooth
field, and as his pack was reaching the edge of the clearing, he could see a
stag at the head of the other pack. And in the middle of the clearing, there
was the pack catching it up and bringing it to ground.
Then he caught sight of
the colour of the pack, barely noticing the stag itself. Of all the hunting
dogs he had seen in this world, he had never seen dogs the same colour as
those. The colouring they had was a dazzling bright white and with red ears. As
bright was the dazzling whiteness as the brightness of the red.At that he came
up to the dogs and drove off the pack which had killed the stag and let his own
dogs feed on the stag instead.
While he was busy
feeding his dogs like this, he could see a horseman coming after the pack on a
huge, dapple-grey horse; with a hunting-horn around his neck and a garment of
brownish grey material around him as a hunting smock. The horsemen approached
him thereupon, speaking to him thus..."