The Splintered Kingdom Read online

  I glanced about, searching for one who looked like their leader. It wasn’t easy, for they were all dressed in similar fashion; none of them had mail, and only a few looked as though they possessed helmets. But then the one with the axe turned about, and I saw a thick silver chain around his neck and a gold ring proudly displayed upon his shield-hand. Liquid that might have been ale dripped from his sodden moustache. He would be the first I would kill.

  ‘Here they come,’ Serlo murmured.

  I looked up and saw Turold returning. Behind him was Ædda, followed by the rest of our party in single file. I gritted my teeth, praying that they were silent, for the slightest noise could betray us. But the air was filled with the Welshmen’s laughter, and they seemed not to hear. One by one the villagers assembled behind me: fourteen spears to add to our four swords. I only hoped it would be enough.

  Turold crouched beside me. ‘What’s our plan?’

  ‘We could come from two sides, trap them in the middle,’ Serlo said.

  I shook my head. That would need more men than we had, and would take time besides. The longer we spent organising ourselves, the greater the chance we would give ourselves away.

  ‘We all go together,’ I said, making sure that all my men could hear me. ‘The four of us will lead, killing as many as we can in the first onslaught. By the time they realise what’s happening, with any luck we ought to outnumber them.’

  It was hardly the most sophisticated of plans, but I could think of nothing better. Neither, it seemed, could any of the others, for they made no objection.

  I gave the same instructions to Ædda, who passed them on to his countrymen in their own tongue as they gathered around. My shield hung by its long strap across my back; I brought it over my shoulder and gripped the leather brases firmly in my left hand, at the same time adjusting my helmet, making sure the nasal-piece sat comfortably.

  About twenty paces lay between us and the enemy: ground which we’d have to cover quickly if we were to retain the advantage of surprise. I didn’t doubt it was possible, since they all had to find their feet and their weapons before they could do anything. But we had to choose the right moment, when the enemy were most off their guard—

  ‘Hild,’ said one of the villagers behind me. It was Lyfing, the miller’s son, a usually sullen boy of about fifteen with straw-like hair. He rose, looking if he were about to start forwards; I grabbed him by the shoulder, at the same time clamping my other hand across his mouth to stop him speaking.

  ‘Quiet,’ I hissed. ‘Not yet.’

  He tried to struggle, but I was by far the stronger, and he soon gave up. Ædda muttered something in the boy’s ear – translating for him, I guessed. I glanced towards the enemy, hoping that none of them had heard, and it was then that I saw what was troubling him. A red-haired Welshman had left the fire and gone over to the circle of women, where he was dragging one of the younger ones to her feet. She must be Hild, then. I recognised her, for she and Lyfing often spent time in each other’s company back in Earnford, though until then I wouldn’t have been able to say which of the girls she was. Her hair had fallen loose and she was shrieking as she lashed out with her feet. If anything, her oppressor seemed to be enjoying the challenge, for there was a wide grin upon his face. She fell to her knees, only to receive a slap across the cheek, and once more I had to grip the boy’s shoulder to keep him back.

  One of the older women rushed to help Hild, throwing herself at the Welshman even though her hands were tied, trying to bite him, it seemed, but he pushed her away and she fell face first to the ground, prompting laughter from his friends, who were now turning to see what was happening. All of them were jeering, shouting what must have been insults at the women, as if it were a game. Hild, on her back, tried to scramble away. Laughing, the red-haired one kicked her in the side, and she crumpled.

  ‘Hild,’ Lyfing said again, suddenly breaking free of my grip and rushing forward. ‘Hild!’

  ‘Lyfing—’ I began, but it was too late to stop him. Cursing, I sprang to my feet and the steel rang out as I pulled my sword from its sheath. ‘Now!’ I called.

  As one we rushed from the shadows of the forest, a horde of French and English in common cause, with spears and knives and all manner of blades raised to the sky, gleaming in the late sun.

  ‘Kill them,’ I roared. ‘Kill them!’

  I saw the startled looks on the enemy’s faces, and felt a surge of joy, for I knew this would be quick. And I saw their leader, the one with the axe, standing before me, too dumbstruck to draw his weapon or even to move. I was upon him in a heartbeat, running him through, twisting my sword in his stomach, and he was dead before he knew what had happened. Blood spilt from his chest, staining the grass crimson, but no sooner had I freed my blade from his corpse than I was turning, making room for my sword-arm, and as the next one rose to attack me I tore the edge across the side of his face, and with a scream he fell.

  The rest were jumping to their feet, snatching up their weapons from where they lay, but it was too late. The battle-calm was upon me and every thrust, every cut, ingrained through long hours of practice, came as if by instinct. Another charged at me, but it was the charge of a desperate man, and I danced easily out of reach before backhanding a blow across his shoulders and neck. Around me all was slaughter. Swords and spears flashed silver; the sound of steel upon steel rang out and the air was filled with the stench of fresh-spilt guts. Five of the enemy lay dead or wounded while only one of our men, so far as I could see, was hurt.

  ‘For St Ouen and King Guillaume,’ I shouted. ‘For Normandy, for Earnford and for England!’

  I saw the gleam of a spearpoint to my right and I turned just in time as another of the enemy rushed at me. I raised my shield to fend off the blow; it glanced off the boss, sending a shudder through my shoulder, but before my assailant could recover for another attack I rushed at him, catching him off balance and sending him crashing to the ground, his weapon falling from his grasp. I stood over him, and it was then that I noticed his red hair. He met my eyes, but only briefly. He didn’t even have time to let out a shout before I drove my sword down through his ribs into his heart.

  I looked about for my next kill, but the fighting had spread now as the enemy were being forced back, and there was no one, either friend or enemy, who was close. No one except the girl Hild, who was kneeling beside one of the corpses, staring up at me, her wide eyes full of tears. Blood was on her cheek and on her dress, and for a moment I was confused, until I glanced down at the body and saw that it belonged to Lyfing. His eyes were closed and his tunic was soaked crimson where a great gash had been opened in his chest, no doubt by the red-haired one.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I told Hild, though the words would mean nothing to her. I should have protected Lyfing, I thought, protected him from himself. I ought to have known he would try to save his woman first, since in his place I would have done the same.

  I had no time to dwell on it, though, for the fighting was not yet over. Beyond the campfire, the enemy’s horses, frightened by the noise, were rearing up, tugging at the ropes tethering them to the trees as they tried to free themselves. And the panic was spreading to the Welsh themselves, who had seen their leader and several of their comrades fall and had no wish to be next. Some tried to flee, and were pursued by Serlo along with most of the villagers; others fought on, preferring a heroic death, but they were no match for trained swordsmen such as Pons and Turold, and were soon cut down. That left just six, gathered in a ring with their backs to one another, their spears held before them. But we were many and they were few, and they must have seen the hopelessness of their position, for after exchanging glances they all let their weapons fall to the ground.

  I made them form a line and get down on their knees while the villagers rushed to their womenfolk, loosening their bonds and hugging them close. Not an hour ago they must have given up hope of ever seeing them again, yet now they were reunited. I could barely imagine their relief.


  Pons nodded towards the ones who had yielded. ‘What should we do with them?’

  I cast my gaze over each of them in turn, and I saw the fear in their eyes. But they had sent several of my men to their deaths today, and I was not inclined to be merciful.

  ‘Leave them to me,’ I said, and then to the Welsh themselves: ‘Do any of you speak French?’

  At first no one answered, and I was about to repeat myself in the English tongue, when one spoke up. He was probably the youngest of all of them, of an age with Lyfing, I thought: a scrawny lad with lank hair. Possibly this was his first expedition.

  ‘I – I do,’ he said, his voice trembling.

  I marched across, my mail chinking with each step, and stood over him. ‘Whom do you serve?’

  He cast his gaze down. ‘Rhiwallon ap Cynfyn, lord.’

  ‘Rhiwallon?’ I asked. I’d heard that name before; he was foremost among the Welsh princes who held sway in these parts beyond the dyke. Indeed I’d heard it said that he called himself king, though there was precious little in these parts to be king of. Until now I’d never spoken to any who knew him directly. ‘He sent you?’

  The boy nodded cautiously, as if unsure whether this was the right answer to give or not.

  ‘You took something that didn’t belong to you,’ I said, slowly enough that he could understand me. ‘The death of your companions is the price that you pay.’

  He nodded but remained silent. For one so young he did well to keep his composure, when many men twice his age would have crumbled.

  ‘Go back to your master and tell him you failed. Tell him what happened here, and mention to him the name of Tancred a Dinant. If you’re lucky he’ll spare your life, as I’ve done. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’ I saw a lump form in the boy’s throat as he swallowed, but he did not move.

  ‘Then go,’ I told him. ‘Or else I just might change my mind.’

  He scrambled to his feet, hesitating just for a moment while he glanced at his fellow countrymen. The blades of my men were pointed at their backs, their heads were bowed and they didn’t speak. He must have seen that he’d suffer the same fate as them if he waited any longer, and so he darted away across the clearing, towards the west and the dying light, into the depths of the forest. I raised a hand to Serlo and Ædda so that they knew to let him go, then went to survey the corpses strewn about the clearing, to see if they had on them anything of worth.

  ‘What about the rest?’ Pons called after me. ‘Are we going to take them back with us?’

  I glanced towards Hild, clutching at Lyfing’s limp body, the tears flowing down her cheeks. I thought of all those men back in Earnford whose lives had been cut short earlier that day, and I thought too of their families who would be grieving for them. They had not deserved to die.

  And I knew what had to be done.

  ‘Kill them,’ I said, without so much as turning around. ‘Kill them all.’

  They were warriors the same as us, and as such they faced their deaths with dignity. But nevertheless when the end itself came, they screamed as any other man would, and I hoped that the boy running back to his lord would hear those screams and know how fortunate he had been.

  Two

  WE DIDN’T STAY there long. There could well be more Welshmen prowling the hills – friends and brothers of those we had killed – and if the boy went back to them rather than to his lord, they would surely come to seek their revenge sooner rather than later. Although we were all weary and it was already late, I knew we could not rest yet.

  Before we went, we rounded up the enemy’s horses and searched their camp for anything useful or valuable. A man could rightfully claim anything owned by someone he himself had killed, except for silver and anything more precious, which had to be given up to me. In all we managed to find thirty-nine pennies, which I would share out amongst my knights later. Since I had slain the enemy’s leader, I claimed for myself his silver chain and gold ring, while the village men found and traded with each other for helmets and knives, shields and weapons, as well as brooches, tunics and even shoes. I saw Ædda donning a fine green cloak trimmed with what looked like otter fur, while another man tried to buckle up a leather corselet that was too small for him.

  What food we could gather I divided up into equal parts, though there was little of it: some dozen loaves of bread no bigger than my fist, a handful of small cheeses wrapped in scraps of cloth, and a few berries and nuts. It was not much of a feast, given that we had two dozen empty stomachs to feed, but it was more than any of us had eaten all day, and it came as welcome relief.

  With the light fast fading, then, we left that place of slaughter, following our own trail eastwards in the direction of home. As night descended it grew harder to find our way; the moon was new and cloud was beginning to gather, obscuring the little light offered by the stars. We were becoming ever more stretched out, and several times those of us at the front had to stop to let the stragglers catch up.

  ‘They can’t go on much longer,’ Ædda told me when we paused to drink. ‘The women have been through a lot. They need to rest.’

  I glanced back at the rest of our party, though it was too dark to make out much more than their shapes. Bringing up the rear were Serlo and Turold, who were doing their best to keep everyone moving; I recognised them by the glint of their mail. In front of them rode the women on their newly acquired mounts, while the men half walked, half stumbled alongside, leading the animals over rocks and trees that had fallen across the way. In the middle was Hild. Her head was bowed, no doubt so the others could not see her tears.

  ‘We can’t stop yet,’ I said. The longer we stayed in enemy country, the less I liked it. At most we could have made three or four miles, I reckoned, and probably not even that. ‘We need to make it to the dyke at least.’

  The dyke was the ancient divide between Wales and England, built in the time of a certain King Offa, who had ruled in these parts some three hundred years ago, or so I was told. Beyond it lay friendly country, and while that was no guarantee of safety, I would feel better for reaching it.

  ‘Look at them, lord,’ Ædda protested. ‘They won’t manage that.’

  I set my teeth, but deep down I knew that the Englishman was right. Not everyone was strong enough to keep on marching for hour after hour, and no amount of coaxing would change that. The last thing I wanted was to lose anyone now. And so even though I didn’t like it, I did not argue with him.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Across the valley to the next ridge, and then we’ll stop.’

  Ædda passed on the message to his kinsmen, and as soon as the stragglers had caught up we carried on, crossing the brook and climbing the rise opposite, until we found a good place to set up camp, next to a spring, with a clear view in every direction. The few tents we had taken from the enemy were not large enough to hold everyone, but there was no wind and the night was warm. As long as it did not rain, the trees would be shelter enough.

  So far I’d managed to stave off tiredness, but now the day’s exertions were beginning to catch up with me. My eyelids felt heavy and my limbs were aching, but I forced myself to stay awake. Someone had to stay on guard, and I trusted no one more than myself. With Serlo for company, I decided to take the first watch.

  The night was still. Only the burbling of the spring, and the soft song of steel as Serlo sharpened his sword, broke the silence. Down in the valley, bats flitted between the trees, swooping low and then twisting mid-flight, darting back into the shadows. Otherwise there was no sign of movement. I sat cross-legged upon the ground, still in my mail with my scabbard beside me, drinking ale from one of the leather flasks we had taken from the enemy. It tasted bitter, more so than the sort I was used to, and not entirely to my taste, but I supposed that was the way the Welsh must like it.

  ‘Lord?’ said Serlo, after a while. He sat beside me, though he was facing in the other direction, running a whetstone down the edge of his blade.

  �
��Yes?’ I asked.

  ‘Those men we killed earlier, the ones who said they were sent by King Rhiwallon.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Do you think they’re the same ones who attacked last week?’

  He might also have asked whether it was they who had come at full moon a fortnight ago, or last month, or indeed the month before that.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. It was possible, I supposed, although I found it hard to imagine. Wales was a lawless country, where men did as they pleased, where oaths and alliances were made and broken at will; a land where princes rose and fell with the seasons, where a man could count himself a king if he held a single valley. To think that there was any pattern to the attacks was to suggest that there was some plan to them, and that I could not believe. All that most of them were after was sheep and women and, if they could lay their hands on it, silver.

  But then why had these ones said they’d been sent by Rhiwallon himself? A mere dozen men was too small a band to cause much disturbance, and if they met with any resistance then all they could do was flee. Unless their purpose was simply to make trouble, to harass our lands this side of the dyke and instil fear amongst their enemies. In which case they had failed. Instead, by killing them, we had sent a warning back to their lord.