Read The Sixth Lost Tale of Mercia: Hastings the Hearth Companion Page 4

  *

  Pain became a nightmare from which he could not wake.

  When he slept, he remembered the events of the battle as if they were still happening. He tasted someone else’s blood as it splashed into his mouth. He saw steel flashing everywhere: in the smoke covered sun, in the sparks of remaining fires, in the eyes of his enemies. He felt his chainmail digging into his skin, bruising and smothering him. He heard the crack of his own ribs as the blunt of a Viking axe struck him in the chest, knocking out his breath so that he could not even yell.

  He groaned, trying to awake, but the reality was even worse. He winced with every breath, which only made him struggle to inhale more deeply, and that hurt all the more. He tried to open his eyes, but one of them was swollen, warping his vision. He saw through a purple, throbbing haze, and it seemed as if he was still in a nightmare. Despite all that, the room around him was painfully bright. A fire blazed nearby, so hot that his skin itched, and the flames seemed to lick all the sweat from his body. He could not remember the last time he’d had something to drink.

  “What’s wrong, Hastings? Thought your pagan friends would rescue you?”

  Hastings squinted in confusion at the shape looming over him. It was Ulfcytel, and he smelled of horse. His beard lay matted against his neck. His eyes seemed to gleam and twirl like a lizard’s. Hastings felt dizzy.

  “You’re caught, Hastings. I figured it out. The Danes sent you and that ridiculous scroll. You did it so some of my best men would get killed, and so my cousin—my own brave cousin—would be captured! Captured!”

  Hastings’s memory tried desperately to make sense of Ulfcytel’s anger. He recalled cheering, and joy, and the elation of being alive. It was one of the last things he remembered before passing out from the pain in his chest and his overall exhaustion. So why was Ulfcytel so angry? A lot of men had died, of course ... so many that it seemed impossible to tell one bloody face apart from the next. But in the end, the Danes had fled to their ships, leaving most of their plundered goods behind, and many of their own mightiest warriors. It had seemed in many ways like a victory.

  “What does he want?” growled Ulfcytel. “Money? Women? Why would this Golden Cross want to capture my cousin?”

  Hastings moaned, too many thoughts rushing to his brain to speak at once. He wanted to respond, to say that the Golden Cross would never oppose a man so brave and loyal to the Anglo-Saxons as Ulfcytel, that maybe Sweyn just wanted money for this hostage; who knew? Maybe his men even thought Ulfcytel’s cousin would make a good Viking? Whatever the case, Ulfcytel had the completely wrong idea about everything, and Hastings wanted to tell him so; but instead he could not seem to draw breath, mush less utter a word, and all that came from his throat was a long drawn-out groan.

  Ulfcytel leaned closer to him, as if to try and decipher the guttural sounds from Hastings’s mouth. Instead he only grew more frustrated. “Tell me,” snarled the high reeve. “Tell me now. Who is the Golden Cross? Whoever he is I’m going to find him, and cut out his heart, and eat it for breakfast. I am Ulfcytel!”

  Even Hastings’s swollen eye opened wide as he stared in bafflement at the warlord. How was this happening? Where had it gone all wrong? How could the Golden Cross, someone who only wanted to aid the Anglo-Saxons in defending their coasts, seem suddenly like the cruelest of enemies to a man like Ulfcytel? It would have been bad enough for the Golden Cross to go unheeded, for the Vikings to collect their Danegald and sail off with sagging pockets; but this ... this was something far worse.

  “TELL ME!”

  The tip of Ulfcytel’s boot hurled into Hastings’s chest.

  He felt as if his insides were tearing apart. He could not even cry out with pain. His chest seemed to collapse, and all air and breath with it. His vision flashed red, his body flailed, and then he went still.

  Even if he could have talked, he would not have. He would never give away the Golden Cross’s secret.

  Ulfcytel stood over him a long while, breathing hard. The next time his leather boots creaked against the floorboards, Hastings’s heart made a painful lurch of fear.

  But then Ulfcytel turned and walked out, and closed the door behind him.

  The last of Hastings’s breath was lost in a whimper, and his mind spun into unconsciousness.