The Fighting Man. Adrian Deans
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the warriors and the beginning of the women. Am I right?’
‘It is of no importance,’ said Malgard, irritated and impatient. ‘What is important is that one of the sons is missing.’
‘So?’ sneered Ulrik, climbing to his feet and fastening the two layers of heavy woollen breeches. ‘Is not the victory complete? My men are already celebrating and I make it a rule not to stand between Vikings and plunder … especially of the female kind. I advise you to follow that same rule.’
‘The only rule that matters,’ said Malgard, ‘is the rule of inheritance. Brand is the thegn’s son. His claim is greater than mine if he lives to stand before Edward. He must be hiding and he must be found before he gets away.’
‘That’s your problem Malgard,’ said Ulrik, stumping down the slippery log stairs. ‘It is time for play.’
‘I will pay extra!’ shouted Malgard in his wake.
‘What did I tell you?’ laughed Ulrik, waving a hand in dismissal as he walked into the midst of his celebrating men. ‘Never get between a Viking and his plunder. I am a Viking.’
∞ ∞ ∞
It was dark and getting cold.
There was a constant stream of men using the pit, which had perceptibly filled, since my descent, but I hardly noticed the stench any more.
I am not ashamed to say that I was confused and utterly terrified. I hadn’t understood all that I’d heard but it was clear my uncle Malgard was allied with the Danes and had arranged a surprise attack on the town. My family were dead or despoiled and I was being hunted so that Malgard could take the posts of reeve and thegn, which had been my father’s and would have been Gram’s. So fixed in my mind was that certainty that I had never even idly entertained the possibility that the titles could be mine. Now my heart flared with a cold fury at the treachery of Malgard and my own impotence. I was now the rightful thegn – the king’s representative charged with keeping his peace and doing his justice – but instead of marching into the Viking camp and seizing Malgard, I was cowering in a shit hole, accepting all the turd, piss and vomit like a king collecting tribute.
But the one thing I knew I wanted was revenge. And to get revenge, I had to stay alive. That meant getting out of the pit before dawn because I would surely be discovered when light came and men were face down vomiting.
The Danish celebrations went on for some time, but eventually the laughing and singing and occasional screaming of women subsided to a murmur and then silence. It had been a while since I was last shat, pissed or spewed upon and the common sounds of a summer’s night – insects, frogs and owls – caused me to conclude that all were asleep.
Except the sentries.
I knew for certainty there would be sentries. Even drunken, pillaging Vikings remember to set sentries in an enemy’s land, but there was a greater threat.
Malgard.
Malgard would be sober and would certainly be hunting me. And while the loss of my family was like a dull ache in my heart, my terror at the prospect of capture meant I had no time for the luxury of grief. I waited, scarcely breathing, for the sound of another soul.
I counted two hundred seconds.
Then another two hundred – the counting warding off the need for action. But at last I stood, the shit stench foul around me as my painful unfolding from the cess pit disturbed the turds and set them stinking again.
My fine clothes I simply abandoned. It was better by far to emerge naked from the hole and would be easier to clean myself. New clothes could be found later. I kept only my shoes as I clambered dripping from the pit – a thing of slime – and peered out from behind the canvas into the moonlit nightmare. Bodies lay upon the ground in poses that could only mean death. Perhaps thirty yards away still glowed the embers of a bonfire but no shadows passed in front of it. I needed to skirt the green and get through the town to the stream that fed into the Arwan.
The moon was high and two days from full. Its light was enough to present a danger if the sentries were alert, but it passed behind cloud and I took the opportunity to creep across the green through a field of cold and clammy corpses – ever ready to assume a similar pose. Then I heard a low growl and might have vomited as I realised that dogs of the village were feasting on their former masters. But there was nothing in my stomach to throw up and no tears either for these fellow folk and kin who lay in ruin while the dogs and Danes fed. I couldn’t even force the dogs away for to do so would risk alerting the sentries. But no sooner did I have that thought than a large cur trotted towards me growling – then two more yelped at me and a man I hadn’t seen shouted in a strange tongue. Despite the terror that begged me to bolt, I believed he was shouting at the dogs and forced myself to lie still among the corpses and was utterly revolted when one of the dogs nuzzled at my ear and then started licking the side of my face. Then all three of the dogs were rubbing and rolling against me. The sentry shouted again, his voice suddenly much closer, but then he made some exclamation of obvious disgust and backed away choking, and the dogs – well fed and perfumed – resumed their peregrinations about the conquered town.
At that moment the moon came out from behind a cloud and I all but cried aloud as I recognised Holgar – my father – lying close by. His body was rent by many wounds but his face was unspoilt and he seemed to stare straight through me as though I was the ghost and he the man with unfinished business. Now there were tears. The enormity of the disaster was plain and real and I groped for his hand – hoping to find it warm still with life, but snatched my own away as I felt his flesh like cold mutton. Somehow I found the courage to touch his hand again and was surprised to discover that he still wore his ring – a thick ring of copper and gold given to his father’s father’s father by the king – that bore the seal of his office which he would press into ink or soft wax to make his official mark on letters of credence.
A sudden flame of ambitious hope, coupled with vengeance, grew in my heart as I realised that if I could bring the ring to King Edward and tell my story then maybe the king would appoint me his reeve and thegn, despite my tender years, and empower me to take my family’s revenge on Malgard. It took some time, but I managed to twist the ring off my dead father’s finger without needing to cut it off. I also, with some effort, relieved him of his fine leather belt, to which was attached his favourite dagger, that he’d mainly used for eating.
The night got worse. Next to my father’s body was my elder brother’s – although his face was so disfigured by axe and sword cuts, I recognised him by his cloak – a beautifully embroidered, fine spun garment of pale green with the boar’s head and two towers of the family badge in white and gold. I was equally surprised that such a fine cloak had not yet been plundered, but as I removed it from Gram’s corpse, the reason was possibly explained by the many rents which I tore further in taking it from him.
After rolling carefully on the grass to remove the worst of the turd-slime, I made it to the copse on the western outskirt and considered my next move. There was no point heading for home. It would certainly have been occupied by Malgard and I had no wish to see him without a sword in my hand (and the skill to use it).
No, I had to find the king before Malgard did; or if not the king then someone I could trust to hide me until I could get to the king and seek justice for my kin. But the king was in Lundene, or nearby, and I had no idea of how to get there or even in which direction it lay. Many times the size of Stybbor Lundene was said to be – bigger even than Gipeswic – and I felt excited at the prospect of seeing the great city when I should have been feeling only grief. I wondered if God was aware of my excitement and, presuming yes, hoped that He would also be aware of my penitent shame. Then I realised that such a hope was impiously self-serving and that God would be aware of that, causing me to hope that self-knowledge and regret for my self-serving penitence might somehow be worthy of …
I gave it up and concentrated on getting through the copse and then the tanner’s yard with the ring overlarge on my finger, the cloak rolled up in the belt and the dagger clutched in my trembling fist. It was suddenly silent – the night noises strangely still and I crouched at the