Chapter Five
Hussa’s Grudge
War was coming and King Aelle had sent word that all areas should arm and train the Fyrd and be prepared for battle, when and if it should come. In our area of southwest Deira, the responsibility lay with Lord Wallace of Wicstun and he took to the task with vigour. As well as the town itself, there were a dozen or so villages like ours under his lordship. Each of these would be called upon to provide him with a handful of warriors. The Villa and Cerdham contributed the largest single contingent outside the town, with twelve men and boys old enough and fit enough for duty.
Wallace kept the local warriors training while he gathered arms and equipment. He also sent word that there would be a gathering of the entire Wicstun Company in a few weeks. My father had agreed to hold this at the Villa where there was space for us to learn to fight as one company. Prince Aethelric, the son of the King, was coming to inspect us.
This time of year was not a popular one to be taking men away from the land as it was spring and a time to be ploughing, sowing and planting. Wallace told my father that he had some resistance to his call to gather at the Villa, but this summons had the authority of the King behind it and come they would.
Father and Grettir were determined that Cuthwine, myself and the others would put on a good display and so kept us practising late into the spring evenings, after the work on the fields was done for the day.
So, one evening in April − the first month of spring when the rains came and the weeds grew fast − Grettir had again gathered together the men and boys from the Villa. Some from Wicstun had also been sent over to learn from the veteran. We were being taught about spears and stood in an arc round him in a clearing in the woods, west of the Villa. The day had been particularly hot and so we took shelter under the outspread branches of an ancient oak tree, which Caerfydd had once told me dated back to the years when the Romans lived in the Villa.
“Whilst the sword is often the mark of rank and wealth, it is the spear that defines a warrior. Slaves cannot bear arms. If a man owns a spear he must be a free man,” Grettir was saying looking at me, making me wonder how much he knew − or thought he knew − about us and Aedann. He was holding a spear, made of ash and topped with an iron head shaped like a leaf. The opposite end of the spear was capped with an iron ferule.
“There are two ways to use a spear,” Grettir went on. He put the spear down against the gate and picked up a mock version. He also picked up a shield and indicated that I should do likewise. I assumed the normal warrior's pose and braced the shield.
“I can hold the spear over arm gripped about halfway down its length.”
He raised his right arm straight up and angled the spear end slightly downwards.
“Thus, I can attack over the foe’s shield against his face and upper body, or,” he said, dropping his right arm down and bending the elbow, “you can hold it under-arm. The shaft is grasped further back and supported against the forearm. This method gives you greater reach and you have more strength behind the point. You can use the spear to knock aside the enemy’s or to push against his shield and force him back.”
As he said this, he pushed the spear against my shield and I had to shift my weight to keep my position. “But clearly it is more difficult to wound your foe − protected as he is.”
Grettir turned and leant the spear and shield against the trunk of the tree and then turned back to us. “Now, break up into pairs and practice,” he instructed.
Cuthbert, ever the optimist, paired up with Eduard. I turned my head away but was not surprised to hear, a few moments later, a dull thud and a yelp of pain from Cuthbert as yet again he was beaten by my other friend. Cuthbert’s best chance was to use his natural agility to protect himself, but he always tried to stand up, like a warrior from the sagas, usually to unfortunate results.
Smiling to myself, I looked around for a partner. Of the lads present all had paired up, apart from a red-haired youth. I nodded at him and walked over. He looked familiar. Then I realised with a start that this was the same youth I had seen every autumn over the last several years, standing beside the road in Wicstun and again near the blacksmith’s about six month before. His hair seemed to be getting redder, if anything.
“Hello, I’m Cerdic: it looks as if we have to pair up. Who are you, then?” I asked.
The boy did not reply at first. He studied me for a moment then shrugged, before finally answering.
“I’m Hussa,” he mumbled.
He might have said more but at that point, Grettir appeared at my elbow and shouted at us.
“Stop talking and practice. Don’t think I won’t make you run to the Humber and back, master’s son or not.”
I looked at Hussa, quickly took up my spear and shield and prepared to advance on him. I moved forward feinting a thrust with the spear in order to draw his shield to his left, then quickly pushing forward with my own in an attempt to slam it into his unprotected side. Hussa, however, was too quick for me. He stepped back, allowing me to stumble past him and then ramming into me with his own shield, sending me tumbling to the ground. Then, the red-headed lad followed up and jabbed the wooden spear end into my ribs. Nearby, I heard a clapping of hands as his manoeuvre was appreciated by Grettir.
I got up and rubbed my bruised side. I nodded at Hussa. “Nice move,” I said. Hussa did not acknowledge the compliment but looked about him, as if seeing if his fellows from Wicstun had noticed. Ah, I thought. Perhaps vanity might be a weakness in this one. I will remember that.
“It seems noble blood or not you can be beaten, Master Cerdic,” he muttered emphasising my rank in a way that left me in no doubt he did not respect it in the least. I tried to ask him what I had done to offend him, but Grettir again appeared and urged us back into the mock fight. Hussa proved a skilled opponent. Maybe he was not strong like Eduard or agile like Cuthbert. He was, however, cunning and surprised me more than once with a sudden change of attack.
It was a little before dusk when Grettir called us together. “You have done well today, lads. You all deserve ale and meat. Even Cuthbert here,” he grinned at the rather bruised Cuthbert, who looked surprised. But, then again, I think this was the first time Grettir had ever praised him. After a moment, he grinned back.
As I watched the group disperse, I suddenly realised that Eduard and Cuthbert were not the boys I once knew: we were growing up and were now almost the warriors we had always dreamed about. I had longed for the day when I would go away to fight, but now it seemed certain that we would, I began to think about how I would react when battle came at last. Idly, I thrust my spear forward in a heroic stance imaging myself, as I often did, as a hero. I was roused from my day dreams by a sarcastic taunt from behind me.
“The great warrior, huh!” It was Hussa. I turned to see him twenty yards away, lurking in the shadows beneath a beech tree. I walked over to him.
“Hussa, what is it with you? I've never done you wrong. So why do you sneer and snarl at me like this?”
Hussa stared back at me, his dark eyes failing to hide what seemed like an ocean of hate, though his face was still blank − expressionless.
“Oh no, you have never done any wrong, how could you − the beloved son of your father − ever do wrong? But your father, ah ... that’s another tale,” he replied.
“My father, what’s this to do with my father?”
“It has everything to do with your father! How it angers me to see him strutting about as a lord and a close friend to Lord Wallace. Even due to play host to the Prince tomorrow. Yet, if we go back seventeen years he was a philanderer and a seducer of women. Women who saw in his strong, muscular form, something they yearned for. Women like my mother!”
“What are you saying, Hussa?” I demanded.
“Were you hit in the head today? Certainly you don’t seem to be thinking straight. What I’m saying is that your father is also my father. I was born from a summer’s fling. Your dear beloved father mated with m
y mother when your mother was with child − with you.”
I stared at him, unable to accept what he was saying.
“No, it’s not true!” I exclaimed, shaking my head.
“Why do you think your father gives us food? Your mother found out and insisted that he cut all ties with my mother. Wallace discovered what had happened and it was agreed that it would all be kept a secret if your father would supply food and other goods during each Feorm. Mother and I always hoped that one day he would acknowledge me. But as you will recall, he still refuses even to talk to me.”
He turned away, but not before I had seen the tears that had come to his eyes.
So, this is what those deliveries of food down that side lane had been about all these years. But, if my father was Hussa’s as well ...that made us half-brothers. Hussa was the rejected son, turned away from the family and deprived of the affection and warmth I had known as a child. I could see why that would anger him.
“Hussa ... I’m sorry, maybe though I can talk to Father and he will, oh I don’t know, be kinder to you and your mother.” Hussa laughed hollowly at that and still faced away from me.
“For some of us, that would be too late,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because my mother died last winter − with a fever. Your father never even sent a message, the bastard.”
“Hussa, I’m sorry − I didn’t know, really I didn’t,” I said and his head snapped round to look at me. A scowl came to his face, giving it at last some animation.
“I don’t want sympathy, Cerdic, from you least of all,” he said.
“Hussa, I said I'm sorry. We do not need to be enemies.”
“Ah, but we do. For two people’s share of pain and rejection for seventeen years we do. For what I could have been − son of a lord and not the bastard of a peasant − we do. It’s your fault, Cerdic. Ah, to hell with you …,” his voice trailed off. After glaring at me a moment longer, he turned and went away, leaving me staring after him wanting to say something, but really not sure what and burning with resentment, for how could it be my fault?
The day of the muster came at last and we were kept busy from early dawn, getting the Villa ready. Prince Aethelric was coming and like everyone else, he would be staying the night. My parents gave their room − the largest and best in the Villa − over to him. It had to be swept clean and Mildrith and Sunniva were sent to the river to collect fresh rushes and Aidith to the meadows to pick new flowers to perfume the room. I was ejected from my room, which I shared with Cuthwine and that was given to my parents, whilst Lord Wallace got Mildrith’s room − she was moving in with Sunniva for the night. Cuthwine and I would be finding a bed in the barn, with the rest of the company.
“Not that I expect we will get much sleep tonight, Cerdic,” Cuthwine said, “far too much ale to be drunk.”
At this moment, Aidith passed with the flowers and I let my gaze linger on her as she walked by.
“Maybe tonight you won’t get sleep for another reason, eh brother?” Cuthwine said with a wink and an elbow in the ribs. I was still looking the way Aidith had gone, suddenly aware that there was more to being a man than just swords. Maybe tonight I would be lucky, I thought.
Two lambs and a calf were slaughtered and a huge fire pit dug to roast the animals, which were suspended over it. They would roast all day and be ready for hungry men at nightfall.
At noon, the men started to drift in from the villages, followed soon after by Lord Wallace, who was mounted and leading his thirty warriors from the town. We joined them in a field and for the first time, just short of one hundred men were gathered, all armed with spears, axes and knives and carrying shields. A few had armour and even fewer, swords. They looked tatty and far from ready for war. But this − what was to be known as the Wicstun Company − would, before the first leaves of autumn fell and with me in its ranks, achieve glory and fame amid the blood and horror of a battlefield. The naive youth that I was would have been thrilled to know this. Now that I know the truth, when I think back on that summer, a lump comes to my throat. For the truth is that half these men would be dead or wounded before those same leaves fell.
Hussa was also in the company, but he avoided me and stood towards the other end of the line. That afternoon, we marched back and forth and practised moving as one body, three ranks deep and with shields locked behind other shields and spears held high, as Grettir had taught us.
Aethelric arrived mid-afternoon, with a small escort. He was older than I expected: a man in his mid-forties, with grey, balding hair, more weight about his middle than you would want and a slightly nervous look about him as if he was afraid he would get it all wrong. Not exactly the image of a great warrior prince. I muttered this to Cuthwine, as we stood in our ranks waiting for him to inspect us.
“That’s the problem when your father lives a long time. A king should inherit when he is young and strong. That’s what I think. But Aelle though old, just keeps on going. He must be not far off seventy now.”
“Even so, you’d think the Prince would try to look after himself a little more. Wallace is getting on a bit too, but look at him.”
We did. Wallace was as old as Grettir, both of them older than Aethelric, but both looking muscular despite a predilection for ale, at least on Wallace’s part. Wallace was telling the Prince about how he had organised the company and was pointing out veterans like Grettir and Cuthwine.
“Think about it,” Cuthwine went on, “Aethelric was my age when Aelle led the armies to capture Eoforwic. Since then we have had no wars and only a few raids or bandits to contend with. There is only so much hunting a man can do. Don’t suppose he ploughs many fields, do you? After a while of sitting on your arse, it all goes flabby.”
I sniggered at that.
Aethelric was likeable enough, though, in person. Cuthwine and I were called forward with Father to be introduced.
“Splendid looking chaps you have got there, Lord Cenred,” the Prince said, eyeing us both. Do a father proud. Strong and tall like my own son,” he said.
Father thanked him. The Prince just stood there, nodding and smiling cheerfully, waiting for something else to happen. My father waggled his eyebrows at Wallace to get his attention.
“Maybe, your Highness, you would like to inspect the company?” Wallace suggested, taking the hint.
“Erm, what’s that? Inspect? Yes, that seems fair. It’s what I am here for. Check the army and make sure it is ready,” he intoned, as if he was repeating orders from the King.
To be fair by him, he made a good job of this bit. He did not seem much of a leader, but he was friendly and cheerful and would stop at a man and ask him where he came from and soon they would be deep in conversation about planting beans and what the apples would be like this year.
I wondered if Cuthwine was wrong and whether he did know how to plough a field. In fact, once I had thought it, the image of Aethelric as a cheerful ruddy-faced farmer stuck in my head: a man who was born in the wrong place and just trying to do his best.
With him stopping and chatting to every third man, it took a good hour to inspect us and my legs and arms were aching from standing and holding a spear for so long. Eventually though, he returned to the front and looked expectantly at Wallace.
Wallace had arranged for a small grandstand to be built in one of our fields and he, Father and the Prince, along with his party and my family took seats there. The company competed in tournaments for the next couple of hours. Cuthbert shocked everyone, apart from Eduard and me, by winning the archery competition. There was no surprise, however, when Eduard defeated all comers in the wrestling.
The finale was to be a grand melee with sword and shield. Only then did I discover that the prize was to be the magnificent blade crafted by Grothir of Wicstun: the very one I had long coveted. The blacksmith handed it to Prince Aethelric, who held it aloft so all could see. A barely audible sigh emerged from the company as every man in its ranks observed it, wan
ted it and longed for it, each man having the same thought: just win today and it will be mine.
We were paired up and fought with mock swords and wicker shields. The winner was to be the first to achieve a hit with his wooden blade on the torso of the other. Cuthbert and I were paired first and it was no surprise when a few moments later, I landed him a nasty smack on his ribs. He went off glaring at me and rubbing his side. As each pair’s fight was decided, the vanquished withdrew and new pairs were created. The bouts went on for over an hour but, slowly, we were whittled down to a handful.
I started to think that I might manage to reach the final pair, perhaps even to win. Glancing around, I saw there were now only four pairs left.
Cuthwine was fighting a lad from Little Compton, who was about my age. The young boy was outclassed and Cuthwine stepped to one side as he attacked, deflected the lad’s sword and then brought his blade back to deliver a blow in the poor fellow’s stomach. I grimaced as I heard the air rush out of the lad and then, with a groan, he collapsed to the ground. Cuthwine helped him back to his feet, smiled at him, added a quick “Well done, good try,” and looked for his next challenger.
Meanwhile, I had taken on a huge blond-haired brute from a farm near Wicstun. He was a terror to all the local lads when we were younger, relying on fear and intimidation to get his way. He roared at me, but when I stood my ground and did not flinch, he seemed to have exhausted his options, so when I moved inside his blade and lightly tapped him on the chest, he just looked at me stupidly and stomped off the field.
Eduard was still in the fight, but met his match in Grettir who, despite his age, had a lifetime’s experience. Eduard was big and strong and relied on that to batter down a foe’s defences and then, when the enemy was staggering, would look to land the killer blow.
Grettir just absorbed the blows on his shield looking, frankly, a bit bored. Then, when Eduard paused to catch his breath he suddenly struck, thrusting the sword forward with a vicious stabbing motion that caught my friend by total surprise. Grettir nodded at him as he stomped off and the look seemed to say, ‘Not bad, but you can do better.’
Hussa was still in the melee, moving lithely back and forth, dodging this way and that. His opponent was a dull-looking man in his twenties, who looked confused and bewildered. He tried to swing his sword down onto Hussa’s shoulders, but Hussa was too quick and was already past him, then clouted him on the back.
It was now Hussa’s turn to square up against the old veteran, Grettir, in his semi-final match. It was a good contest: wisdom and experience against youth and agility. In the end, Grettir, tiring after the five previous bouts, was flagging a little despite his stamina and Hussa, who still looked fresh, kept moving until Grettir made a tiny error and paid for it. A good loser, Grettir slapped the boy on the back and smiled before stomping off the field. Hussa stepped to the side to wait for his final opponent, which was to be either Cuthwine or me.
Cuthwine and I had trained together many times over the last few months so, although he was more experienced than I was, I knew most of his moves and was also slightly quicker. As a result, we were well matched and exchanged thrust and counter thrust, parry and swing for a full ten minutes, until we were both getting exhausted. In the end, I tried to finish the fight by rushing him. It was a mistake and I felt my foot slip from under me and I fell. Ironically, that is what saved me as I passed under his attack. Somehow, as my arms flailed about wildly, my sword managed to connect with his body. He just stood there, glared down at me and then shook his head, not believing what had happened.
“You lucky bastard!” he groaned then reached down to pull me to my feet, whilst all around us the audience howled with laughter. When I took my place for the final round, a rueful smile was on my face.
So, that left just me and Hussa. Just one more fight, I told myself. Just one more win and the sword would be mine. I glanced over at my parents. Father was talking to Aethelric and pointing at me. He seemed to be avoiding looking at Hussa, but then I caught him glance at him for a moment and in his eyes I saw, what: guilt, pain? I was not sure.
Then, I looked at my mother and a chill shot down my spine. She was not looking at Cuthwine or me, but straight at Hussa and it was a look of implacable hatred.
Here, she seemed to be thinking, was living proof of her husband’s infidelity. For years, she had managed to keep that distasteful memory remote from her life but, today, here was her husband’s bastard son, Hussa, in plain view of all. I wondered how she knew it was he, for he was not much like Father, but there is never any point in trying to fathom a woman’s instinct. I turned back to Hussa and saw that he had seen my mother’s expression and returned it. Of course, he might resent me and our father, but it was this woman who, in his eyes, had ruined his life and destroyed his mother.
His face took on a dangerous expression and he now fixed me with an appraising stare, as he swung his sword in a gentle arc and shifted the weight of his shield. Then, in a flash, he was on me. I might have expected fury and as a result recklessness, but there was none of that. His moves were calculated, driven by ice cold anger: which focused his mind on the fight. As a result, every attack was threatening and any one of them could have potentially won the bout. Forced onto the defence, I just blocked and parried each attack as I watched him and waited for my chance.
He lunged at me and I caught the blade with my shield then followed up with a swing from the side. He danced out of the way and my momentum took me past him. I could feel my heart pounding as I turned to face him, just in time to see the thrust coming towards my neck.
I flinched back, staggering away from him, but I had to open my arms to balance myself so he came on again, attacking the gap in my defences. This time, it was he who overstepped and I slammed my shield into his side sending him sprawling onto the grass, trapping his own shield under him. I was over him now, ready to finish the fight. In my moment of triumph, I looked away to see if Aidith was watching. She was and she smiled at me and gave a little wave, so I smiled back feeling a surge of elation. Maybe, Cuthwine was right and today my luck was in.
Then: disaster! I had wasted that moment of chance: I had done what Hussa had done in the woods and looked to see who was watching me and now I paid for my pride. Hussa sprang to a crouch and at last red hot fury did show on his face as he thrust the wooden sword violently up into my belly. I crumpled into a ball of agony and fell on the grass.
Hussa howled out his triumph and pointed his sword towards my parents. Beneath him, I rose to my knees and retched. Then, I slammed my fists on the ground in frustration, staggered to my feet and limped off the field, feeling my face burning. I was not really hurt − but I was angry, very angry. But not at Hussa − I was fuming at myself for the mistake I had made. If only I could go back a few moments: if only I had just finished the fight, rather than wallowed in the glory. Then, I would be the victor. It was a hard lesson to learn, but learn it I did. Never again would I allow pride to trip me up.
That day, though, Hussa had won. He swaggered up to the Prince who, oblivious of all the anger and hatred on this field, just beamed at him.
“Well done, young man, what is your name?”
“Hussa, Sire.”
“That was a good fight and you deserve this sword,” he said, and then he raised his voice, “I give this sword in honour of a great victory to Hussa, son of … erm,” with a whisper he added, “what is your father’s name, boy?”
My parents’ faces went pale and, close by me, I heard Cuthwine gasp. Hussa looked over at my father and smiled a mirthless smile and for a heartbeat, I thought he would say what had happened seventeen years before, but he just shrugged and then looked back at Aethelric.
“I have no father, Sire,” he said, his voice bitter. “He abandoned my mother when she was with child.”
“Ah well,” Aethelric coughed, “I give this sword to Hussa of Wicstun. Well done.”
Hussa bowed, then took the sword and held it up so we could
all see it. The Wicstun boys cheered at this and Wallace applauded too, although I saw him looking at my parents and biting his lip. But I said nothing and neither did I applaud. I was staring at the sword. I wanted a sword so badly: I had wanted that sword so badly and now Hussa had it! I could almost hear the gods laughing.
That was the end of the tournament and it was now time to eat. I wandered over to my friends and Cuthbert patted me on the shoulder as a consolation.
“Bad luck, come on, let’s get some ale,” Eduard said and I nodded. Then I froze, because I had just seen a girl go over to Hussa and examine the sword with him. Hussa said something and she laughed. I felt hollow inside, because I had just realised the girl was Aidith. Hussa pointed towards the barn and Aidith nodded her head and they went in together. Jealousy raged within me and I gasped with the pain of it, as though a mule had just kicked me in the belly. Cuthwine came over to me and pushed me after them.
“Come on, brother, looks like you lost the sword and the girl tonight. Never mind, there’s always ale.”
The feast that night was spectacular. Mother had made sure the finest food and the best of our beer was served by Caerfydd, Gwen and Aedann. There was roast beef and lamb, fresh and warm bread, fruit preserved in jars through the winter, sweetened with honey and our most delicious cheeses. The ale was outstanding: warming, bitter and very strong.
My mother revelled in the evening. This was her moment, when she showed the world the wonders of her tables and made sure that tonight was a feast no one would ever forget. She was dressed in a startling emerald-green gown, trimmed with gold thread. Father had bought it for her a while ago, but she had never worn it before, saving it, she always said, for a special day. This, at last, was the day.
The coming of a Prince, along with such a large gathering of warriors, was worthy of such a dress, but what really drew every man’s eyes to her was a fabulous set of jewellery. It was a necklace, bangles and headdress of priceless amber, mounted in a setting of exquisite silver. The set was given by King Aelle in recognition of my uncle’s valour in battle against the Welsh of Eboracum. In gratitude for his victory, the King gave it to the widow of the great hero. My aunt had died childless a few years ago and the set then passed to my father, who gave it to my mother. Of all the men at the feast, only Cuthwine, Father and I had seen it before.
A hundred men and more sat, ate and drank and as the cups were filled and refilled, they started to forget the clouds of gloom that lay over the future and they laughed and sang. They laughed and sang: but I did not. I was on one end of the high table and from there, I could see Aidith pouring Hussa some more ale and laughing again at his jokes.
Every so often, I would see him glance up at our table. He would look at me with a smug smile and lean closer to Aidith. Or, he would stare with spite and loathing at my mother and father, whose food and drink he now enjoyed. I once saw mother glare back at him, but then look away. The gracious hostess could not deny him being there − the champion of today’s games and so, nor could I. So, I sat alone, sulking and sipping my ale.
Lilla, of course, was present. Once enough ale had been drunk, men called for the harpist to come and sing and tell his tales and Lilla obliged. He told the tale of my uncle and his battles against the Welsh, of Aelle and the conquest of Eboracum. Then, having seen the firelight reflected in Mother’s amber jewellery, he told tales of the distant Baltic Sea, from where the jewels came and wherein the sea serpents lived.
He then told us that the tales must go on and he was now waiting to sing songs about us; of our battles and our glories so that, a thousand years from now, men would still talk about us and remember what we had done. It’s what the men wanted to hear and they hammered on the tables so hard that many jugs of ale fell over and Aedann had to bring more, so the men could go on drinking long into the night and I − miserable because I had lost both the sword and the girl − joined in, until I remembered no more.
The next morning, I felt sick and my head was pounding when Eduard kicked me awake.
“Go away, you bastard!” I yelled, but he just laughed.
“Come on, Cerdic, everyone else is up and ready for the hunt!”
The hunt! I had forgotten that Aethelric had given permission for the company to go boar hunting in the royal forests. These were west of the village and ran right up to the river, which was the border with Elmet. Groaning, I dragged myself to my feet and was promptly sick.
Eduard watched me for a moment.
“Better now?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Yes actually.”
“Let’s go, then!” Eduard roared and I groaned again, holding my throbbing head. Outside, the company was assembling and I saw, from the number of green faces, that I was not the only one to have had too much ale last night. I searched the crowd for Hussa noticing with distress that he looked fresh and was now swaggering about, wearing his new sword. Aethelric and Wallace soon arrived and we were off.
It took us an hour to reach the woods we were to hunt in. Once there, we separated into small groups, each man taking a boar spear. This was shorter than a war spear and designed to be much more mobile. A small cross piece, just below the point, is welded on to stop the beast carrying on towards you if you manage to skewer it.
Wild boar hunting is dangerous. A fully grown adult can weight much the same as a man. The beast is armed with fearsome tusks and is enormously strong and powerful. In short bursts it can cover ground with breathtaking speed. There was a very real danger of injury or death, so we hunted in pairs: each looking out for the other. The forest was dense and Eduard and I − hunting together − soon lost track of everyone else.
We crept along, searching the undergrowth for movement, for what seemed like hours but without success and I had just turned round to tell Eduard we should head back, when there was a snort from behind me. Spinning round, I saw a flash of a red and brown mass for an instant, before something huge and hard thumped me in the abdomen − still a little sore from the previous night’s fight − and knocked me over, stunned and with stars flashing in my eyes.
Eduard shouted something and then I heard him charging towards us. The next few moments were all flashing steel, the roaring of the beast, grunts from my friend and finally a squeal of pain and then: silence. My vision cleared and when I could see again, I saw that the beast was dead and Eduard stood triumphantly over it. I dragged myself to my feet and staggered across to him.
“Nice work,” I said.
“Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” he answered with a grin, never one to be shy of self praise.
We took the boar back to the glade and soon afterwards the other groups started to arrive. Aethelric drifted around us, stopping at each man or boy who had killed a boar and congratulating them in his vague but enthusiastic way and then he stood, looking a bit lost, before Wallace suggested that he and Cuthwine escort the Prince and his party back to Wicstun.
After he left, we prepared to carry the wild pigs home, strapped to long branches. Eduard was still proudly showing Cuthbert the boar he had killed, when Wallace looked around the company and asked where Hussa was. We all looked up and searched the faces around us. None of us knew where he was; indeed, no one had seen him since soon after the company had split up some six hours before. No one, it seemed, had been his partner, as it now emerged that he had been bragging about his sword until everyone got bored and he went off in a sulk.
“Oh, bother the lad: we’ll have to go and find him!” Wallace was saying, when there was a rustle of undergrowth nearby and Hussa emerged from the trees. He looked pale, blood was drying on his face and he had lost his boar spear.
“Where the hell have you been?” Wallace demanded.
Hussa collapsed onto the ground in front of him then lay there panting for a moment, before replying.
“Went off on my own, didn’t I ... my Lord? Thought, I could kill a boar by myself.”
“Did you?” Eduard asked.
Hussa gave
him a blank look.
“What do you think? I found one alright, but it charged me. I missed it with my spear and suddenly it was on me and I was knocked backwards, tripped on a tree and landed half way down a slope on my arse.”
“Dammed idiot, you could have got killed. Don’t be so foolish in future,” Wallace said. Hussa nodded.
“No Lord, I won’t.”
Well, I must admit I felt better. Hussa had been strutting around the night before, showing off his sword and the gods alone knew what he and Aidith had got up to. Now though, his reputation was tarnished. Fool that he was for getting knocked down by a boar, no one would mind that. Going off in a sulk though, that’s what folk objected to.
We shuffled off towards home, tired, but on the whole, happy. Many men had daring tales to tell and after all, roast pork was on the menu. Soon we were laughing and joking, exaggerating our own glories whilst snorting in light-hearted derision at the others’ stories.
We reached the edges of the forest, where we paused for a moment to rest and drink from a stream before the company separated − us to go due east to the village and the rest bearing northeast for Wicstun and beyond.
As we rested, Cuthbert confessed to us that he had cheated and taken his bow, but had still managed to wound a pig and slow it so his partner could kill it. He laughed as he told us the tale.
Then, his grin faded and his eyes widened as he stared over Grettir’s shoulders, through the trees to the east. I turned to follow his gaze. Beyond the trees, I could see the dim, red glow of fire and the spring evening sky was heavy with dark, black, smoke. Yet, there was nothing else in that direction for many miles, apart from ... my home. I felt my heart sink with the grim realisation that it could only be Cerdham and the Villa. Around me, the company had spotted it too and were rising to their feet, alarm spreading.
Eduard and Cuthbert set off at once through the undergrowth, followed by several other boys from the village. Grettir screamed after them to stop, but it was no use: they had vanished to the east. Grettir seemed about to pursue them, when suddenly Hussa pointed further to the north.
More fire. More smoke.
“It’s Wicstun: Wicstun is on fire!” he shouted, sounding not just shocked, but almost affronted as if it was a personal insult. A moment later, he set off that way, followed by most of the other boys. Again, Grettir tried to stop them, but it was no use. The boys were now just worrying about their families and their homes and blind panic had set in. I spun round, staring at Grettir, then in the direction my friends had run, and then towards Wicstun.
Wicstun was on fire!
Cerdham was on fire!
What, in Woden’s name, was going on?