Torc and Seax

Torc and Seax Chapter 2

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.

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2

A Call to Valhöll

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"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

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[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.

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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..."

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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..."

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·       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.

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[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..."