The Fighting Man. Adrian Deans
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There was someone close.
My scalp seemed to tighten with cold and my empty gut was sour with dread. There was a presence, lying in wait, and I became slowly aware of a low rumbling sound – an unworldly portent of evil – and I felt my limbs frozen into immobility as the sound grew louder. And just as I realised what was making the sound, the dog that had been stalking me erupted with furious barking and lunged at my throat – moonlight glinting off snapping fangs, but instinctively I thrust the dagger up to ward off the beast and the night was rent with piteous howls. There was a shout to my right and without a further thought I bolted into the darkness towards the river and lay on the low-tide mud, looking up over the bank to where the dog whined its pain and a torch came sparking through the night, revealing a broad, squat warrior, who examined the dog as he held the torch high, casting about for whomever had caused its injury. It was Angdred – Malgard’s man – whom I knew to be a dangerous fighter. Beside the torch he held also a naked sword and, if he found me, the implications were clear.
He was only twenty yards away and if he ran straight towards the river bank I’d be trapped for certain, but he glanced first into the tanner’s yard, giving me a few precious moments to scuttle backwards into the water like a crab, and by the time he did come running over to investigate the bank I was lying face down in knee-deep water, holding my breath and still clutching my bundle and dagger and fearing that my white, naked body would be easily revealed in the moon and torch light.
At this point, I was resolved to fight. My body was tense as an iron rod, ready to explode into action at the first hint of an approach, but after some time, the need to breathe cooled my desire to take the initiative and, with infinite caution, I raised my head out of the water and opened my eyes.
The breath was sweet but sweeter still was the fact that I had not yet been discovered. Angdred was side-on to me, only five strides away, examining the mud on which I had lain and would soon work out where I must have gone. In the small light of the torch, my arm looked strangely dark and I realised that the muck from the pit had dried on my skin, possibly helping me to blend with the river’s mud and obscure me from Angdred’s vision. The current was tugging gently at my legs so inch by inch I pushed myself backwards into the deeper water and began to drift away from danger. Twenty feet … twenty-five … then Angdred finally realised where I must have gone and charged into the water holding the torch aloft and muttering angrily, standing in the spot in which I had lain only seconds before. The deeper the water, the stronger the current – I drifted further from Angdred but he was still close. He picked his way out of the stream and strode along the bank in the direction of flow, peering out over the dark water and occasionally splashing into the shallows to investigate a lump or eddy. At one point he came within six feet of me but I held myself inert like a submerged log and he saw me not. Soon I was twenty, forty, sixty feet away and lost sight of him as the river bent south and I felt my fear start to ease.
The river held no terrors for me. I was not much of a swimmer but I’d grown up playing around the shallow stream and knew it to be fordable for most of its length until it joined with the Greater Arwan some miles further south and east near the town of Gipeswic. I allowed myself to drift for a few more minutes, my heels occasionally scraping against silt and stones. The moon was sailing in an open patch of sky and the night seemed unusually bright. There were trees on either bank, so I had passed into the wood south-east of the town. I kicked over to the opposite bank and hauled my sodden burden onto the dry mud. Then I returned to the cold water and scrubbed at my hair and skin until it gleamed white in the moonlight and I could no longer smell turd.
As the immediate danger subsided, the grief became sharp again and I lay for some time on the bank surrendering to tears. Then, reflecting on the events of the afternoon and evening, I was overcome with a terrible guilt. I had known that God was privy to my thoughts and seemed disposed towards answering my prayers, and yet I had wished for the chance to become a warrior. Almost immediately God had responded by sending Danes, to the ruin of my family. It was my fault that my father and brother were dead and that slavery and worse had befallen my mother and sisters. It did occur to me that Malgard’s arrangement with the Danes must have preceded my prayer in the church, but God must have been aware of my desire before I had even admitted it to myself. Malgard was simply an instrument of His design. The disaster was not Malgard’s doing – it was mine.
I must have slept, because I woke shivering and hungry in a grey half-light. For a few blissful moments, I recalled not the events of the previous day, but then it all came back and I realised I was lying in full view of the far bank and was still only a few hundred yards from the town. I picked up the still-wet bundle of Gram’s cloak and crept another fifty paces into the wood, where I found a small hollow with a comfortable log.
The ground was damp from the heavy rains that had only settled the day before the wedding so the rising sun found me in a heavy mist which shimmered and sparkled silver and green as stray bolts of dawn sun pierced the forest. Birds began nervously to announce the day and I relaxed, knowing I was safe from searching men while the birds continued to sing.
I spread Gram’s cloak on the ground and tears once again pricked at my eyes as I noted the pink stains around the many rents. But I needed warmth (and to cover my nakedness) so, using Holgar’s dagger, I cut a wide strip from the bottom of the cloak and was about to wrap my groin and butt when I realised I was not alone in the hollow.
I half cried out in panic but it was a young woman – a woman I’d never seen before. She had long, black hair and was dressed in a tunic of animal skins with hide boots held in place with leather thongs. She was very thin, and more or less my age – certainly no older. I scrabbled for the knife and held it up as though to defend myself.
‘Always the knives,’ she said, in a tired voice, and I felt faintly ridiculous despite the perils of the last twelve hours.
I lowered the knife and took further stock of her. There was blood on her hands, and at her feet was curled a dog of medium size with shaggy, red-brown hair.
‘This is the dog you wounded last night,’ she said. ‘His former master was killed by the Danes, so he is now your responsibility. That is justice.’
I was so amazed at this turn of events that, for some moments, I was unable to speak. Then at last I said, ‘I don’t have time for dogs. I must get to King Edward to warn him of the raid … and get revenge for my family.’
‘Your family are dead,’ she said, ‘but the dog can be saved. I have wrapped a poultice over the wounds in his chest and foreleg, which you must change in three days. If the wounds are clean and sweet smelling, the dog will live and will simply need a cloth bandage for another three days … perhaps the cloth you are holding.’
To my shame I realised that I was still completely naked and had been standing there for a minute or so holding a conversation with the girl without concealing my manhood, which then started responding to her presence. Hastily, I turned away and, with some discomfort, managed to wrap myself in the hem of Gram’s cloak.
When I turned back, the dog lay whimpering on the ground, but the girl was gone.
Chapter 2
A Small Prick
Malgard stared at the corpse of Holgar, feeling the fury rise within him. He had forgotten the ring, and now Holgar’s outstretched hand seemed to point directly at Ulrik who yawned and belched at Malgard’s side.
‘Holgar’s ring has been taken … the ring of his office given by the king. Your men are welcome to any other treasure from the field of battle but I must insist on the ring’s return.’
Ulrik shrugged and farted carefully – his stomach still tender from yesterday’s bad meat and the night’s debauch.
‘I know nothing of rings, Malgard,’ he said, scratching at his dags through his woollen breeches. ‘And what does it matter? If a king gives one ring, he can give another. You will still be thegn, so start acting like one. Take command of your shithole town.’
‘His belt also is taken,’ said Angdred, standing close by, ‘ … and the dagger in his chest.’
Malgard