Darkest before Dawn (The Kingdom of Mercia Book 2) Page 11

  The ealdorman threw himself forward.

  His entire weight crashed down upon Maric, pinning him to the ground. With their shields between them, the two men struggled to draw their seaxes. Eadweard pressed down upon Maric, using his knee to hold the shield still, so that his opponent could not reach his dagger.

  Alchflaed watched the ealdorman fumble for his own seax, which lay flat across his belly. Rage twisted Maric’s face as he struggled against him.

  Alchflaed watched the scene unfold and realized Maric was close to dying.

  Leaving Bryni’s side, she covered the distance to the two men in just three strides. Not hesitating, acting only upon instinct, she sunk her seax blade into the ealdorman’s side, just below the armpit of his shield-arm.

  Eadweard of Eoforwic gave a mighty roar, twisted around and clubbed Alchflaed across the face with his right fist. She flew backwards into the mud. Dazed, she looked up to see that she had given Maric the moment of distraction he needed. In the moment the ealdorman had turned to hit her, he had lifted his weight off the shield that pinned Maric to the ground, allowing his opponent to get his sword arm free.

  Maric whipped out his seax and plunged it into the base of the ealdorman’s neck. Then, pulling his dagger free, he shoved the bigger man off him. The ealdorman choked, his fingers clutching at his throat. His eyes bulged and his mouth moved in wordless curses.

  Maric stood over his opponent and watched him die.

  Around them, the battle was ending. Edgard had just slain the last of the ealdorman’s men. The clearing before the oakwood fell ominously silent. Blood had stained the earth dark.

  Maric leaned down and pulled free Alchflaed’s seax, buried to the hilt under the ealdorman’s arm. Blood dripped from the blade and Maric wiped it clean on Eadweard’s wolf skin mantle before he crossed to her.

  Alchflaed sat up, watching Maric as he approached.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  Alchflaed shook her head. Her left cheekbone throbbed and was starting to swell already, but it was nothing compared to the slaughter she had just witnessed.

  Maric reached down and grasped her hand in his, pulling Alchflaed to her feet. Wordlessly, she took back her seax. Maric’s gaze travelled to where the ealdorman now lay still. When he turned back to her, his expression was exasperated.

  “I told you to wait for us on the other side of the river. Don’t you ever do as you’re told?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Debt is Owed

  Black smoke stained the afternoon sky. The stench of burning flesh made Alchflaed’s gorge rise and she turned her back on the roaring fire. Her companions had piled the corpses of the Northumbrians upon a pyre of oak branches and set fire to the dead. It was better than leaving their bodies as a feast for crows, but the scene sickened her nonetheless.

  Eyes watering from the smoke, Alchflaed hastened away from the fire, and followed the Mercians into the woods. They had retrieved their horses from where they cropped grass near the riverbank. Alchflaed’s gaze shifted to where they carried Baldwine and Bryni. The latter was alive but badly injured. Baldwine would have his own funeral pyre; he would not burn with the ealdormen and his ceorls.

  A few yards in, they found the northerners’ horses, hobbled and awaiting their riders’ return. Alchflaed looked on as the Mercians freed the horses from their hobbles.

  “What shall we do with the horses?” she asked. “Free them?”

  Edgard shook his head, his expression incredulous. “Horses are worth a lot of gold,” he told her. “We shall take them with us.”

  Alchflaed nodded, and felt a goose for asking such a foolish question. No one besides a spoiled king’s daughter would suggest such a thing.

  They made camp in a forest glade. While the men set about cutting branches for tents and unsaddling the horses, Alchflaed knelt next to Bryni and took her first proper look at his wound. The young man lay propped up against a leather pack. His face was ashen and covered in sweat, his gaze glassy. She bent over him and started to unlace the leather vest around his torso.

  “Lady Alchflaed,” he whispered. “Am I dying?”

  Alchflaed shook her head, her eyes smarting, only this time it was not from smoke.

  “Not if I can help it,” she replied crisply, forcing some cheer into her voice.

  Alchflaed pulled away the leather vest, and the blood-soaked tunic underneath. She sucked in her breath when she saw the wound. The ealdorman’s blade had punctured him, to the right, just beneath his rib cage. It was a broad, thin wound that had penetrated straight through the young man’s torso. However, to Alchflaed’s surprise it was not bleeding heavily. There had been some blood initially, but now it had slowed to a trickle.

  Dread rose within her. Was Bryni bleeding on the inside instead? If that were the case, he would certainly die. Swallowing panic, she rocked back on her heels and called over her shoulder to Edgard, who was busy lighting a fire.

  “Edgard, I need Yarrow for his wound. Can you see if any grows near here?”

  Edgard frowned. “Woundwort? Aye, but it is too late in the year for it to be flowering… M’lady.”

  Alchflaed glanced up, surprised by his use of ‘M’lady’.

  “It does not matter, the leaves will do just as well,” she replied. “Please gather as much as you can.”

  Edgard nodded and rose to his feet. “Kenhelm, Osgar – come with me.”

  Satisfied, Alchflaed turned back to Bryni.

  “How great is the pain?”

  “Terrible,” he gasped. “That bastard stuck me.”

  “And he died for it.” Maric stepped up next to them, and hunkered down next to Alchflaed. She could see the wound to his bicep required attention; it had stopped bleeding but was deep enough to warrant stitches.

  Maric ignored his own injury, his gaze shifting to Alchflaed.

  “Do you think the blade pierced his liver?”

  “Aye,” she replied softly. “Although I cannot know how bad it is.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  “Edgard’s gone to look for some Yarrow, but I need to fetch something from my bag.”

  Maric nodded. Alchflaed rose to her feet and hurried across the clearing to where Briosa patiently awaited. Digging into one of the leather bags behind the saddle, she withdrew the pestle and mortar her father had gifted her. She had tried not to think about these items during the journey, for he had given them for a dark purpose. But, this evening she would be using them to try and save a life, rather than take one.

  Alchflaed returned to Maric’s side, just as Edgard and the others emerged from the trees with bunches of Yarrow. Taking them with a nod of thanks, Alchflaed began to pound the herbs into a mash inside the mortar. Maric looked on with interest.

  “You are a skilled healer,” he observed.

  Alchflaed shook her head. “My mother was. She taught me some of her skill before she died.”

  She poured some wine over the wound to cleanse it, causing Bryni to whimper in pain, before packing the mashed Yarrow leaves as deep into the wounded flesh as she could manage.

  “Yarrow will numb the pain in a little while,” she told Bryni. “It should help stop the wound from festering.”

  “Thank you, M’lady,” the young warrior whispered, his voice barely audible.

  Alchflaed watched him with concern. Sweat covered his skin and he looked so pale that she feared he was close to death.

  If he survives the night, it will be a miracle.

  ***

  Alchflaed put aside her needle and straightened up.

  “There, it is done.”

  She and Maric sat alone in the smallest of the three tents in the midst of the clearing. Maric had told Alchflaed that for the remainder of the ride south, this tent would be hers. She was grateful, for the lack of privacy during their journey had been difficult at times. After Eoforwic, Maric had insisted she slept in the main tent, where her safety could be assured. With Eadweard of Eoforwic no lon
ger a threat, she could now sleep alone once more.

  A small fire crackled in the center of the tent, keeping the evening chill at bay. Outside, Alchflaed could hear the low voices of the rest of their company, as they roasted rabbits over a fire and made the final preparations for the evening.

  Maric was pale but he managed a drawn smile.

  “Thank you.”

  His gaze narrowed as it travelled down her face to her swollen left cheekbone.

  “Does that need attention?”

  Alchflaed shook her head. “I’ve put some salve on it – the swelling should go down tomorrow.”

  She gestured at the wound she had just sewn shut on his left bicep before glancing away from him.

  “You’re fortunate not to have ended the battle with more wounds than that. I thought the ealdorman was going to kill you.”

  “And he would have… if you had not intervened.”

  Something in his tone made Alchflaed look up at his face. Maric’s expression was grave.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “You saved my life,” he replied. “I owe you a debt.”

  The intensity of his words, although softly spoken, made Alchflaed uncomfortable. She gave a nervous laugh in response.

  “What kind of debt?”

  “The kind that cannot be erased or forgotten.”

  Alchflaed swallowed, her pulse quickening. “You make saving a man’s life sound like a terrible thing.”

  “It is, if you interfere with fate. Wyrd wished me dead today.”

  Alchflaed’s gaze narrowed. “That is dark and reckless talk. Wyrd wished you to live, why else would you have taught me how to use a seax. Why else would I have been close by when you needed help?”

  A smile quirked at the corner of Maric’s mouth, although it did not reach his eyes. “All the same, this means that a debt is owed.”

  Alchflaed gave him a long, searching look, before the truth dawned on her.

  “It’s not about interfering with events at all, is it? You don’t want to owe a debt to anyone, least of all to me.”

  Maric stared at her, his eyes widening in surprise. Alchflaed started packing her things away. Hurt closed her throat, making it difficult to get the next words out.

  “I shall make it easy for you then. I release you from your debt. You owe me nothing.”

  She moved away from him and started to rise to her feet. However, his hand fastened upon her forearm, stilling her.

  “You cannot release me,” he replied. His voice was slightly hoarse, and strained.

  Their gazes met, and what Alchflaed saw in his eyes made her breathing grow shallow. His gaze, usually crystalline blue, had darkened like a summer’s sky before a storm. She wanted to speak, to ask him why he stared so, but she had been momentarily robbed of the power of speech.

  Two heartbeats passed and then Maric wordlessly released her arm. He rose to his feet and moved toward the tent’s entrance. The physical distance between them caused the tension to ease, and Alchflaed breathed once more.

  “Good eve, princess,” he said softly.

  With that, he ducked out of the tent, leaving Alchflaed alone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Truth of Matters

  Alchflaed wrapped a fur mantle around her shoulders and left her tent. Outside, the rain fell heavily, soaking her hair in moments. Ignoring it, Alchflaed crossed the clearing. She passed a pile of smoking and hissing embers – all that remained of Baldwine – and entered the largest of the three tents.

  Inside, Maric was handing a cup of hot broth to Bryni. Nearby, Edgard passed around some stale griddle bread, which the men softened in their cups of broth made with the bones of last night’s rabbits.

  For the first time since leaving Bebbanburg, many of the men greeted her with smiles and nods. Yesterday’s battle had altered their attitude toward her. They had seen her risk her life to save Maric’s, and help kill the man who threatened them all.

  Alchflaed returned their greetings, although she deliberately avoided looking Maric’s way. After their conversation the previous night, she felt it best to keep her distance from him. Instead, she crossed to where Bryni lay, propped up upon a pile of furs. The sight of Bryni awake and not wracked with fever delighted her.

  The night before, Alchflaed had tended him a long while after they had torched Baldwine’s bier. The young man had slipped into a deep sleep, his face chalk-white. She had retired to her tent, not expecting to see him alive this morning.

  Alchflaed knelt next to the warrior and reached out, laying the back of her hand across his forehead. His skin was slightly clammy but cool. Pain still lined his face, although his gaze when it met hers was clear. Alchflaed grinned.

  “What a welcome sight! Thunor favors you.”

  The young warrior gave a lopsided grin, flustered by the attention. “Aye, it seems so, M’lady.”

  Edgard appeared at Alchflaed’s shoulder and passed her a steaming cup of broth and a piece of bread.

  “The woundwort seems to have had some effect,” he observed.

  Alchflaed nodded. “I will need some more this morning, for a fresh poultice.”

  “I will fetch it,” Edgard promised.

  Alchflaed sat down upon a pack, next to Bryni and broke her fast. The bread was very stale, but it softened well in the hot soup. As she ate, Alchflaed felt Maric’s gaze straying to her. With difficulty, she resisted meeting his eye.

  “When shall we move on?” she asked Edgard.

  “Tomorrow,” Maric replied before Edgard had time to, speaking for the first time since Alchflaed had entered the tent. “Bryni needs to rest and the rain has set in for the day.”

  Edgard emptied the dregs of his cup on the ground and got to his feet, brushing crumbs off his leathers.

  “I shall fetch that woundwort now, Milady.”

  Alchflaed rose to her feet, seizing the opportunity to escape the tent as well.

  “I will join you.”

  ***

  They resumed their journey the following dawn, setting off under a veil of drizzle and low cloud. With the River Winwaed behind them, the landscape steadily grew more wooded, the hillsides less windswept and bleak. The rain persisted, drenching them every step of the way.

  Alchflaed soon forgot what it felt like to be dry and warm. Her wet clothing chafed as she rode, her feet and hands grew numb, and her muscles and joints ached. She rode next to Bryni, near the rear of the column. The young man was recovering, albeit slowly due to the lack of the rest. Ideally, he should not have ridden for at least five days after such an injury, but Maric insisted that they press on without further delay. Yule was almost upon them, and he had promised King Paeda that his betrothed would arrive in Tamworth before Mother Night.

  They entered Mercia two days after Winwaed. It was Bryni who informed her when they crossed the border between the two kingdoms. They had just forded a shallow river and rode through woodland of ash and beech.

  “You’re in Mercia now, Milady,” he announced proudly.

  Alchflaed looked about her, slightly disoriented by his proclamation. The landscape looked just the same as it had moments earlier. However, now that she knew she no longer travelled through Deira – her brother’s territory – it felt different. She had truly left the north behind. Still, she had expected to feel a more dramatic change between the two kingdoms.

  The same grey sky. The same rain. The same scent of wet earth and undergrowth.

  Shrugging off a sense of dislocation, Alchflaed turned to Bryni. The young man had regained a lot of color to his face, although his rounded shoulders and pinched expression told her that his wound pained him. His dark blond hair was plastered to his skull and he looked as miserable as she felt.

  “Where in Mercia are you from?” she asked him.

  “Legacæstir,” he replied with a wan smile, “to the north-west of the kingdom, although I’ve lived in Tamworth for the past three years.”

  “Do you still have kin in
Legacæstir?”

  “Aye, all of them,” Bryni’s smile widened as thought of his family brightened his mood. “Three brothers, four sisters and an army of cousins. One day I’ll return there and live among them again. But first, I must make my kin proud.”

  “I’m sure they’re already proud of you,” Alchflaed replied.

  Bryni’s boyish face grew serious. “I’m a free man with a spear, but I want more than that from life. I want to win my lord’s praise for my valor, to serve as his thegn – like Maric and Edgard have – before I go home.”

  Alchflaed understood his sentiment, for she had grown up watching young men like Bryni try to win her father’s favor. However, a warrior’s life was a brutal one, and it cost a man.

  Alchflaed’s gaze shifted up the column, to where Maric rode next to Edgard. The two warriors were talking, although she was too far back to catch their conversation. Watching Maric’s aquiline profile, Alchflaed wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to him to make him so aloof, so unreachable.

  Don’t concern yourself with him.

  Alchflaed pushed her wet hair from her eyes and tore her gaze from Maric.

  It’s yourself you should be worrying over.

  “How far are we from Tamworth now?” she eventually asked Bryni.

  “Just two days, M’lady.”

  Alchflaed took a deep, steadying, breath and tried to stem her rising panic at this news. Memories of the evening she had learned of her father’s plans returned. She recalled the ruthlessness in his eyes, the hardness of his voice. He had thrust a terrible task upon her, but there was no defying him.

  No one disobeyed King Oswiu.

  Alchflaed’s heart began to race and she swallowed down nausea. Panic engulfed her, smothering her, making it hard to breathe.

  “M’lady, are you well?”

  Bryni urged his horse close to her, his face creased in concern.