The man shot down the road, face contorted in pain. The little horse beneath him seemed to fly, running through the forest and crashing finally through the outer border of Horstede. The rider screamed to the little town, fast asleep:
"Wake!"
Deor rubbed his eyes in the grey quiet before daybreak, and looked vaguely around his cottage for the rider. Funny how dreams did that to you: Wulfgar had once woken up convinced he was the king.
"Wake!"
Deor gazed blankly at the door. That had to be a dream...
Did it? asked Ecghete, who never seemed to sleep.
"Wake!" cried the rider, voice hoarse with desperation.
Deor stumbled outside, and stared at the man. He had slipped off the horse and crouched beside it, shivering in the morning air. One hand clenched a handful of earth, and the other he used to keep himself from collapsing onto the ground. There was a long, ragged gash on the erstwhile rider's right leg, and the rest of him was covered in various scratches.
The man gaped at Deor as if he were an angel from heaven.
"You must deliver a message...to...Harold..."
Deor inwardly started to shriek. No. He wanted Ecghete nowhere near his king.
"...William of Normandy," whispered the man, "has landed at Pevensy..."
Slow-waking villagers looked curiously at Deor, silent and pale, and the fast fading man, at his fine garments and horse.
"Do you know who that is?" whispered Ælfwynn's father. "It's the thegn of Pevensy!"
His wife looked at her husband patiently. A good man, but inclined to flights of romantic fancies. "No, dear. It couldn't be the thegn of Pevensy. There's no reason for him to come all the way out here."
"But it is!" hissed the father. "I've seen him, woman!"
"Yes, yes, dear," said his wife.
Whether or not he was the thegn of Pevensy, the wounded man seemed satisfied. He had completed his service to his king. One faltering hand passed Deor the horse's reins.
"You must tell Harold—you must make haste..."
With that final remark, he clutched his leg, and then fell.
Dead.
——
The argument had gone around in circles for almost an hour now.
"Deor's right," snapped Uther. "To really send him would be foolishness. The house-carl passed over him for the fyrd, and his experience in riding is sparse. The dead man just saw him first. Get that through your head!"
Ælfwynn's father (predictably) was heading the opposition. His wife, as it happens, was incorrect—her husband was not prone to flights of fancy. He was prone to flights of practicality. Unfortunately for Deor, he was not taking one of those flights now.
"That man chose Deor when he was dying," bellowed Ælfwynn's father. "We cannot know what the dying understand—there must have been a special reason for it."
Wulfgar looked at his friend encouragingly. Inside, he was dying to be chosen. A chance to be a hero! A chance to rub this achievement in that haughty house-carl's face, as well. He'd miss his sister, of course, but a chance like this... He sighed. Such a good friend he had—he knew Deor was giving up this opportunity to open a door for Wulfgar. But he also knew that it would be dishonorable to deprive Deor of it.
He wasn't the only one who thought that. Aldwulf though about how brave he'd look in the exceptionally pretty brown eyes of Wærthryth. Of course, Wærthryth already thought he was brave, to be sure, but it never hurt to be certain. Deor, he thought, was certainly the most unselfish of friends—denying himself such glory! Still, Aldwulf firmly decided not to take advantage of this unselfishness. It would make Wærthryth love him more, he was sure.
As a matter of fact, practically every man in the room was certain Deor was committing a beautiful act of unselfish friendship—even towards those in the room who were certainly not his friend—and equally certain that they mustn't use that act for their personal glory. Virtue was its own reward: well, here was a good illustration of that.
Deor stood apart, nearly shaking as the argument went back and forth. He had an excellent reason not to go—named Ecghete—but he doubted that informing the villagers of the demon's existence would help matters greatly.
No. It's been tried before, Ecghete informed him. If you aren't declared insane, you'll be sent for exorcision. I do not like my hosts going to priests for exorcision. But have no worries, mortal. I have no interest in killing your piddling amateur of a king. I have an much older and much more experienced king to destroy.
Deor would have felt indignant, but at the moment he was too relieved. Still—he had no idea of exactly how far Ecghete could be trusted, if he could be trusted at all. The demon could merely be lying in order to gain accessability to Harold—for a moment Deor had the wild image of William summoning a demon in order to assassinate Harold without the trouble of war.
The pendant, hidden safely under his tunic, quivered in silent metal laughter. Paranoid little fellow, aren't you?
The argument was turning in Ælfwynn's father's favor. Deor gulped, and waited for the inevitable doom to fall.
And useless, muttered Ecghete. I can't afford your going anywhere. I believe my king is with this William—in any case, he's close.
Deor pointed out that his existence was not designed for Ecghete's personal convenience.
That's what you think. Fine. If you won't help yourself, then I will.
Darkness tugged at Deor's soul and mind, sucking him back into the swirling blackness of limbo. Faintly, he could see the grey dream-shapes of men, still standing outside around the horse; faintly, he could hear the rising voices.
Ecghete stepped lightly over to Ælfwynn's father. Smiling benevolently at the muttering Englishmen, he raised a hand for silence. The face changed from one of benevolence to that of someone with great words to say.
"What this man says is true: I was chosen by a man on the brink of death, and who knows what the dying may discern that is beyond the ken of the living?"
Deor, with great effort, spoke across limbo. Stop being melodramatic. No one talks that way.
Ecghete bristled. "But just because the man handed me the reins does not mean I am to continue holding them. Perhaps he knew I would be wise enough to choose someone else—someone brave and persevering, the ideal messenger to represent Horstede to the king."
Everyone hung on his words. Perhaps, just perhaps he had worked some of the strange powers of that pendant into his voice, but more than likely it was pure vocabulary that entranced them. The only person not swept away was Wulfgar, who could not understand half of what Ecghete said. He stared at the calm, self-assured speaker, and one lone, crazy thought darted through his mind:
That wasn't Deor.
The speaker glanced at Wulfgar while he still spoke, and for half a moment the eyes narrowed and sent a stream of pure hatred at the boy. Not only did this boy ignore him, but he knew. Ecghete pulled himself back together—the boy could be easily disposed of. The speech was far more important than some English youth.
"I believe," continued Ecghete, "that is why I woke up in time to hear his final words. For I know who should go to the king as a messenger."
Ecghete took the reins of the horse up in one hand, and then with a quick flourish, knelt and presented the straps of leather to Wulfgar. There was a moment of breathless admiration and jealousy, and everyone waited for Wulfgar to accept the reins.
For a second, the youth hesitated. He knew this thing that spoke with Deor's voice and lived in Deor's body was not Deor—and that it was offering him a great honor. An honor that should be Deor's...
The snowy head tilted upwards to look at Wulfgar, and Deor stared up at him, face insistent. The eyes were inscrutable and the only thing shown in them was Wulfgar's own reflection...
But perhaps, just perhaps...there might be...
Fear?
Wulfgar took the reins.
"Ride," whispered Deor, leading Wulfgar to the horse. "Ride—the wolves of slaughter are biting at your heels."
——
"I hate England," said Alain.
He was ignored.
"It's so dismal, don't you think?" he asked Robert.
Robert blinked vaguely. "Oh...I suppose...it's quite nice..."
Alain gave up.
The soldiers stared at the endless, forbidding forests that completely surrounded them. Somewhere, in the forest, an animal called: their imaginations instantly turned the call into a howl of warfare from a nightmare-beast of gigantic proportions.
"It's judgement," said Stephen, looking almost happy.
He received a collective order to be quiet from everyone within hearing range.
When the army had landed at Pevensy, William had ridden out to prove himself master of all he surveyed. There was a minor disaster—no knew exactly what it was—and William had decided that Pevensy was not suitable. So the army had been ordered to go to the Abbey of Fècamp: a place that would be friendly to the army. Having looted half of Pevensy between the landing and the interlude, the soldiers set off. To their delight, there were more villages between Fècamp and Pevensy. These were overridden; some destroyed entirely.
Robert and Stephen had brought food and for the most part, did not participate. Alain had brought food and participated quite happily: looted items could be valuable.
But now they sat at Fècamp, amidst the silent forest that could hide a thousand unfriendly eyes, and wondered exactly how many villagers lay dead, and how many villages were ashes. The dead couldn't really wreak vengeance...
Right?
An odd, rhythmic pounding was crashing against Stephen's skull: senseless, chaotic smashing, bam crash boom thwhack pound...
"Are you well?" inquired an anxious Robert. Stephen shook his head.
"I think I'll...go where it's quiet for a while..." he muttered, getting to his feet. Robert moved to stop him, then decided Stephen knew best and sat back on the damp English grass.
But there was no quiet.
Ratatatat whack crash bang...
Stephen paused. The forests were quiet...
He stumbled beneath the shade of the trees, finding silence at last. The clatter of the army faded away to nothing: the cool air of the forest at first relieved him of the pain in his head.
Not for long.
Boom pound ratatatat bam roar rip...
Stephen was a knight, trained in the art of warfare. He could bear armor and weapons, ride a horse through battle and keep it steady.
But he collapsed beneath the tearing of his skull.
——
"Harold's not here?" screamed a panicked Wulfgar.
"No," said the man. In a dry, emotionless voice (he had repeated this many times), he continued; "King Harold has gone to York, having been summoned there on urgent business by the people of York."
"Where is York?!"
The man tsk-ed tsk-ed. Such ignorance amongst the populace was truly astounding. Still, he outlined the directions and sent Wulfgar on his way.
The horse shot far down the road, away from London, down to York. Wulfgar threw one glance backwards to assure himself hordes of Normans weren't pouring down the road, and then concentrated on riding.
——
Brihtric stood on his feet, slightly intoxicated. It had been seven days since Stamford Bridge, and the victory feast was roaring along, mead passed freely—perhaps a bit too freely—and the fighters rejoiced in eating huge quantities of beef.
"I pro...propose a toast," said Brihtric, unsteadily. Since practically everyone in the room was equally unsteady, no one noticed that and paid him close attention. Toasts meant more mead.
"To..." He paused. Everyone had been toasted, and a good many things as well: one extremely unsteady house-carl had proposed a toast to his battle-ax, for splitting so many helmets.
"To..."
What to toast? Brihtric ran through lists of possible items in his mind frantically. Aha!
"To mead!"
There was a general noise of approval—the few sober men, among them Harold and Cyneheard, groaned—and the toast was passed around. The mood of merriment was heightened; men swapped indecent riddles; a thegn attempted to dance on the table—
Someone ran into the room, smelling strongly of horse. Cyneheard recognized him: the annoying village boy. What was he doing here?
"Need—to—speak—to—King—Harold," gasped the boy, gulping air. He had ridden the horse dead and ran the last part of the way—fortunately, that was quite short—and now was terrified he would drop dead before speaking his piece.
Harold stood. Wulfgar recognized him and limped over, breathing hard.
"William," he squeaked, "landed...at...Pevensy..."
Then he fell over.
——
One last chapter. Seven days to write it. I'm going to be having some sleepless nights… Oh well. My fault for not using my time wisely.
I claim poetic license for Wulfgar's ride—it might have taken him another day to reach Harold, but I had to fit in with the timeline, so I'm hoping that it doesn't seem too fantastic.
Incidentally, if anyone gets the interesting part of the "wolves of slaughter" reference, tell me. It means that there are other Anglo-Saxon fanatics, somewhere…out there…
RepliesTuulikki: Hm… Perhaps A Very Short History of Finland Because the Writer Is Too Lazy to Actually Put In Any Detail. (grin) Anyway, what happens next is called the Battle of Hastings, so you aren't excused. Nope. Then again, I did meet someone who'd never heard of 1066, which was a shock. (wails) My poor Saxons, buried forever beneath moronic history textbooks that talk about how great William was…
"Cynic heart"? That definitely fits. And here: for your review you get a piece of the Miraculous, House-Carl Sized Barrel © free of charge.
Kiita: Yes—and berserkers also were incapable of feeling pain or fear of death. That meant that a berserker could continue fighting with a mortal wound and never know: and since knowing you're about to drop dead increases the speed at which it happens, berserkers could last quite a while.
Anyway… There's a difference between having fans and being liked. When people are cheering you on, that's one thing—when people you barely know and don't like come up and say: "Cyneheard! How are you old-buddy old-pal old-friend, huh?" But point taken.