Nightfall till Daybreak (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 2) (21 page)

Chapter
Twenty-two

It was a still night. Smoke from the fire pit at the heart of
Penda’s tent drifted lazily towards the opening above. Outside, torches that
had been staked into the ground, framed either-side of the entrance. They
burned gently; their flames licking up at the moths dancing around them. Mist
snaked through the Mercian encampment in the aftermath of battle.

There was little movement in the encampment. The muffled cries
and groans of the wounded was one of the few sounds, apart from the low timbre
of men’s voices inside the tents.

Inside the king’s tent, Penda of Mercia poured himself a cup
of mead and stood watching the glowing embers of his fire pit. The tent was a
cavernous space, with the king’s sleeping area curtained off at one end. Heavy
tapestries hung from the walls and rush-matting had been rolled out over the
floor. Although temporary, it was a comfortable and kingly abode. A
magnificent, blood-stained sword hung from one of the tapestries:
Æthelfrith’s
Bane
. The axeman who had slain Ecgric of Exning had pried the sword from
his victim’s dead hands and brought it to his king as a trophy. 

Penda paid little attention to his surroundings. He was deep
in thought as he sipped meditatively at his mead. He drank from a golden cup,
studded with jewels; his victory cup he liked to call it. Even dressed in a
linen tunic and leggings, cross-gartered to the knee, with little finery or
armor, Penda of Mercia cut a formidable figure. He stood at well over six feet
and was heavily muscled. A shock of white blond hair ran down his back, and his
face – belonging to a man who looked no older than his early-thirties – was
carved of stone. He may have been handsome as a boy, but as a man his face was
cruel and austere. Pale blue eyes flickered in the firelight.

There was much on Penda’s mind tonight. For the first time in
years, he thought of his older brother – Eafa. They had never been close. Eafa
had been too wary of Penda as a possible threat to the throne to ever befriend
him. He had always known that Penda was cleverer than him, and a far better
strategist. In fact, Eafa’s attempt to butcher the East Anglian royal family
nearly five years earlier – an attack that was as badly planned as it was
executed – had resulted in Eafa’s death and had cast shame upon the Mercians.
Penda had stepped directly into the breach left by his foolhardy brother and
had barely thought of him since. Yet now, after defeating the East Anglians in
battle, memories of Eafa resurfaced. Not particularly pleasant ones, since Eafa
had been cold and bullying towards his younger brother.

“I succeeded where you failed dear brother.” Penda murmured,
raising his cup to the firelight. “I’ve taken back dignity and pride for our
family.”

“Milord.” A voice behind Penda caused him to turn sharply from
the fire. His instincts were still battle-honed, and had he been carrying his
sword he would have raised it. He relaxed slightly when he saw it was one of
his ealdormen. “We have brought the prisoners, as you asked.”

Penda nodded, before finishing his mead in one gulp. “Thank
you, Aldric. Bring them in.”

Five men, bruised, bloodied and battered, were herded into the
tent. A tall, blond man with sea-blue eyes led the group.

“Annan of the Wuffingas,” Penda acknowledged their leader. “
Wyrd
did shine upon us today. I never thought to catch the nephew of the great King
Raedwald himself alive.”

Annan’s face darkened at this observation. It was a terrible
insult to a warrior not to let him die a warrior’s death on the battlefield.

“We fought and you bested me,” Annan ground out roughly. “You
could have killed me then but chose not to. If I stand here before you it’s
because you chose to let me live. We both know it was not mercy that stayed
your hand. What do you want Penda?”

The King of Mercia smiled. He was sharp this one; far cleverer
than that oaf Sigeberht had handed his kingdom over to. Yet, despite his brave
words, Penda could see that Annan was in pain from his injuries. Penda’s blade
had sliced him across the ribs and cut deeply into one shoulder. The wounds had
been tended to and bandaged but Annan’s skin was ashen in the firelight and
covered with a faint sheen of sweat. The other East Angles who had survived the
battle, looked on, hollow eyed. They could see that Penda was playing with
Annan.

 “What do I want?” Penda sighed, warming his hands in front of
the fire and pretending to ponder the matter. “I think you know exactly why
you’re still alive Annan. I want you to take the East Anglian throne and, in
gratitude for keeping your life, you are to bend the knee to Mercia.”

A cold silence followed Penda’s words. There was no surprise
on Annan’s face. He had known this was coming. Yet, his face twisted savagely.

“No.”

Penda’s smile broadened. “I don’t remember phrasing that as a
question. ‘Tis not a request, but an order.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I kill each of these men, one by one in front of you.”

“
Nithhogg
take you!” Annan snarled. “I will not rule as
your puppet!”

Penda turned calmly to his ealdorman and inclined his head.
“Aldric – if you please.”

The warrior struck so quickly that none present had the chance
to react. One minute, the young, injured warrior beside Annan was alive, the
next his throat was cut and he writhed on the ground, clutching his neck as his
blood flowed out onto the rush matting.

“We have all night,” Penda said quietly. “And I assure you
that they will not all die as easily as this one. We will kill each man slower
than the last. I’ll make sure the last one begs for his mother before I kill
him. Now what is your answer?”

Penda had seen anger in many forms – but never had he seen
such pure, killing rage as that in Annan’s eyes. For a moment he paused, on the
brink of reconsidering his decision to place Annan as ruler of the East Angles;
a king who would do his bidding. Perhaps it would have been wiser to have
killed him on the battlefield after all. Yet, Annan was the right choice. He
was of Wuffinga blood and that mattered to the East Angles. The people would be
suspicious of a ruler they did not know. They would not suspect that Annan was
Mercia’s puppet.

“I’m still waiting Annan,” Penda’s smile grew thin. “What is
your answer?”

Annan’s gaze dropped to the body of the warrior who was still
twitching at his feet. Penda felt a thrill of victory as he did so. He had
known that Annan would not want these men’s death on his conscience.

“Very well,” Annan ground out finally, his voice barely above
a whisper. “I will be king.”

***

The small campfire crackled as Hereric added some more twigs
to it. Edwin edged closer to the flames and warmed his hands. Although the
wreathing fog meant that there would be no frost, it was a cold night and the
damp seemed to drive straight into their bones. After the horror they had
witnessed that afternoon, shock settled over the companions in a chill shroud,
making their limbs shake and their teeth chatter.

They had managed to carry Aidan some distance from Barrow
Fields, and were now in the heart of the strip of woodland between the village
of Barrow and the Fields. They would not be safe in Barrow Woods long, but
Freya guessed that for tonight at least, they could linger.

While the boys lit a fire, Freya took a close look at Aidan’s
wounds. They were serious, although not immediately life-threatening: a nasty
gash to the ribs, two arrows piercing his left shoulder and a wound to the back
of his head. The years Freya had spent tending the sick and wounded at her
mother’s side, meant that she knew exactly what to do now. With the boys’
assistance, she removed Aidan’s leather armor and cut away the linen tunic
underneath. Using water from the bladder she carried, she gently washed the
wound on his ribs. It needed stitching but she had left her bone needle back in
Beodricesworth. She left his head wound for now. The matt of bloodied hair was
at least providing some protection and she decided to leave off her inspection
until she had better light. With Hereric’s help, Freya snipped off the ends of
the two arrows and slowly drew them out of Aidan’s flesh. She then instructed
Edwin to boil a little water in the small iron pot Hereric had stolen from the
hall. Once the water was bubbling, she poured a little over Aidan’s shoulder and
chest wounds to cleanse them properly and stave off infection.

Freya’s eyes stung with fatigue as she ripped Aidan’s tunic
into bandages. She would use them to bind his wounds tomorrow morning. For now,
they lay Aidan as comfortably as they could near the fire and covered him with
the blood stained cloak they had used as a makeshift stretcher to remove him
from the battlefield. Bone-weary, Freya sat next to Aidan and gratefully took
the hunk of bread and cheese that Hereric passed her. All three companions ate
in silence; the only sound was the crackling of the fire and the rustling of
night creatures in the undergrowth nearby.

Aidan’s breath was a little deeper than earlier and his pulse
stronger. After her supper, Freya gently dripped some water into his mouth and
took a sip herself. Her water bladder was now empty.

“We’ll need to find a stream tomorrow morning,” she told the
boys. “We won’t be able to travel far without water.”

“There’s a brook outside Barrow,” Edwin replied, speaking for
the first time since he had found his father and brothers dead on the
battlefield. “We can fill up our bladders there.” Edwin paused for a moment,
his face, hollowed and gaunt with grief. “I can also get us a cart for Aidan.
We won’t be able to travel far, or fast, if we have to carry him.”

Freya nodded, giving Edwin a tired smile. Bercthun of Barrow
had under-estimated his youngest son. Edwin may have been small for his age,
and not as rough and ready as his brothers, but he had a quiet, sure strength
and maturity, rarely seen in a boy his age.

“Freya.” Hereric poked the fire with a stick and fixed her
with an earnest gaze. “How far is it to Woodbridge Haven? Will Aidan make it?”

Freya sighed and tried to force her tired mind to calculate
how long the journey would take.

“Seven days at the least,” she said finally, “although with
Aidan it may take us longer. We’re still wearing our slave collars, which might
draw unwelcome attention. As such, it’s best we keep off the roads unless
absolutely necessary.”

Hereric nodded, taking it all in. “I have my slingshot,” he
told them. “I can hunt birds and rabbits on the journey, once our food runs
out.”

Freya smiled at the boy’s eagerness. This was his first taste
of freedom and he did not intend to waste it. Despite her misgivings earlier,
she was glad Hereric was with her.

***

They packed up at daybreak. Freya bound Aidan’s wounds and
replaced his leather vest over the bandages on his chest and shoulder; it would
give him a little extra protection. She bound his head carefully, wary of
winding the bandage too tight as she did not yet know the extent of his injury.
Then, carrying their unconscious patient between them, they made their way
towards Barrow.

The sun was just beginning to rise over the treetops to the
east when they reached the fringes of Barrow Woods. As promised, a small brook
babbled its way past them. Smoke wreathed from the thatched roofs of Barrow and
a rooster crowed. Freya wondered if the villagers knew what had happened on
Barrow Fields. Surely they would have sent someone to scout for them.

“Wait here,” Edwin whispered. “I’ll be back soon.”

Neither Freya nor Hereric had a chance to say anything before
Edwin slipped away, his thin figure wraithlike in his long woolen tunic and
ankle boots. They filled their water bladders and waited in breathless silence.

Freya was beginning to worry that someone had seen him, when
Edwin returned pulling a small wooden cart.  It was a similar cart to the one
Freya had used to collect supplies at Rendlaesham. It was light and well-made,
and would make transporting Aidan much easier.

Carefully, they lifted Aidan onto the cart, and made a pillow
for his injured head with some sacking. Then they covered him with the
blood-stained cloak.

“I must leave you now.” Edwin turned to Freya and Hereric, his
thin face set in determination. “I’m staying here.”

Freya stared back at Edwin for a moment, confused. Then,
realizing that this had been his plan all along, she nodded. She had not really
expected Edwin to accompany them to Woodbridge Haven. His family was here.

“So you won’t go back to Beodricesworth? You know you’d be
safer there.”

Edwin shook his head. “I didn’t mind my time there; Sigeberht
was good to me and I enjoyed learning. Yet, life with Felix will not be the
same. I might be safer in a monastery but my mother and sisters have lost all
their men. I am all they have left. Soon the Mercians will come. Whatever
happens, my kin need me.”

“You’re right, they do.” Freya embraced Edwin and kissed the
top of his head. “Keep them safe Edwin. Keep yourself safe.”