gazes met, and
he cast her a look of exasperation. She answered with a pleading look of her own
and wordlessly handed him her seax. Since he was unarmed, and she had gotten
them into this mess, it was the least she could do.
What happened next was a blur. The ealdorman came at
Maric with frightening speed, but the Mercian moved with equal swiftness. He
blocked his attacker’s knife thrust with the poker, before disarming him with a
kick. The knife fell into the rushes and the ealdorman lashed out at Maric, his
meaty fist grazing his opponent’s cheek.
Maric’s own fist lashed out, striking under the ealdorman’s
jaw in an uppercut.
Eadweard’s head snapped back and he dropped to the
rushes, where he lay, senseless. Men’s shouts and women’s cries suddenly filled
the hall, echoing amongst the rafters.
Alchflaed gasped. “Is he dead?”
Maric shook his head, his face unreadable. “Just
unconscious – for a short while, at least. We need to be far from here when he
awakes.”
He retrieved Alchflaed’s mantle from the bench and shoved
it into her arms. Then, his gaze shifted to Edgard. “Get her out of here and
saddle the horses ready for us.”
***
They rode out of Eoforwic as if pursued by Nithhogg
himself.
Maric and Edgard led the way, holding torches aloft, with
the rest of the company thundering at their heels. They had all made it out of
the ealdorman’s hall alive, although Bryni had received a nasty wound to his
thigh in the scuffle that ensued.
It was a dark night, for heavy clouds cast a veil over
the stars and a half moon. If not for the torches, they would have been
travelling blind. The cold stung Alchflaed’s face and it was not long before
her fingers turned numb. Guilt needled her as she rode and she felt sick when
she remembered how close she had come to getting her escort into terrible
trouble.
They travelled a long while, eventually leaving the road
and riding west, deep into woodland. Branches brushed against Alchflaed,
snatching at her clothing, but she pressed on, following the Mercians farther
into the trees. She imagined Maric had led them here to ensure that Eadweard of
Eoforwic would not easily catch up with them.
When he awoke, the ealdorman’s rage would be terrible.
Eventually, they halted in a clearing surrounded by
beeches. Alchflaed dismounted, her limbs stiff and cold.
“No fires tonight,” Maric commanded his men. “Not this
close to Eoforwic.”
Maric received no complaints, for all of them knew they
had been fortunate to extricate themselves from the ealdorman’s hall. He drove
the end of his sputtering torch into the ground and Edgard did the same, so
that they had some light to see by. Maric turned to the warrior who had
sustained an injury during the scuffle.
“Bryni, how is your leg?”
“Hard to tell,” the warrior replied, although his voice
was tight with pain.
“Alchflaed will you take a look at it?” Maric asked. He
had not yet looked her way, although Alchflaed could sense his anger.
Bryni’s face, illuminated by the guttering torchlight,
was hollowed with pain. He sat down upon a log while Alchflaed knelt next to
him and examined the wound to his thigh.
She, like all the women at Bebbanburg, had learned the
art of healing. Over the years, she had tended men with worse wounds than this
one, although the knife wound had cut deep into the flesh of Bryni’s thigh.
“It has stopped bleeding,” she told him, “although I will
need to cleanse the wound and put a few stitches in, for it is deep.”
Bryni groaned at this, but did not offer complaint. Next
to her, Edgard unstoppered a skin of mead and passed it to Alchflaed. She
poured it over the wound, making sure it washed deep inside the flesh. The young
man cursed, his body stiffening in pain.
“I know it hurts, but it will stop the wound from
festering,” Alchflaed told him. She rose then, and retrieved a leather satchel
from her pony. Squinting in the torchlight, which was
he cast her a look of exasperation. She answered with a pleading look of her own
and wordlessly handed him her seax. Since he was unarmed, and she had gotten
them into this mess, it was the least she could do.
What happened next was a blur. The ealdorman came at
Maric with frightening speed, but the Mercian moved with equal swiftness. He
blocked his attacker’s knife thrust with the poker, before disarming him with a
kick. The knife fell into the rushes and the ealdorman lashed out at Maric, his
meaty fist grazing his opponent’s cheek.
Maric’s own fist lashed out, striking under the ealdorman’s
jaw in an uppercut.
Eadweard’s head snapped back and he dropped to the
rushes, where he lay, senseless. Men’s shouts and women’s cries suddenly filled
the hall, echoing amongst the rafters.
Alchflaed gasped. “Is he dead?”
Maric shook his head, his face unreadable. “Just
unconscious – for a short while, at least. We need to be far from here when he
awakes.”
He retrieved Alchflaed’s mantle from the bench and shoved
it into her arms. Then, his gaze shifted to Edgard. “Get her out of here and
saddle the horses ready for us.”
***
They rode out of Eoforwic as if pursued by Nithhogg
himself.
Maric and Edgard led the way, holding torches aloft, with
the rest of the company thundering at their heels. They had all made it out of
the ealdorman’s hall alive, although Bryni had received a nasty wound to his
thigh in the scuffle that ensued.
It was a dark night, for heavy clouds cast a veil over
the stars and a half moon. If not for the torches, they would have been
travelling blind. The cold stung Alchflaed’s face and it was not long before
her fingers turned numb. Guilt needled her as she rode and she felt sick when
she remembered how close she had come to getting her escort into terrible
trouble.
They travelled a long while, eventually leaving the road
and riding west, deep into woodland. Branches brushed against Alchflaed,
snatching at her clothing, but she pressed on, following the Mercians farther
into the trees. She imagined Maric had led them here to ensure that Eadweard of
Eoforwic would not easily catch up with them.
When he awoke, the ealdorman’s rage would be terrible.
Eventually, they halted in a clearing surrounded by
beeches. Alchflaed dismounted, her limbs stiff and cold.
“No fires tonight,” Maric commanded his men. “Not this
close to Eoforwic.”
Maric received no complaints, for all of them knew they
had been fortunate to extricate themselves from the ealdorman’s hall. He drove
the end of his sputtering torch into the ground and Edgard did the same, so
that they had some light to see by. Maric turned to the warrior who had
sustained an injury during the scuffle.
“Bryni, how is your leg?”
“Hard to tell,” the warrior replied, although his voice
was tight with pain.
“Alchflaed will you take a look at it?” Maric asked. He
had not yet looked her way, although Alchflaed could sense his anger.
Bryni’s face, illuminated by the guttering torchlight,
was hollowed with pain. He sat down upon a log while Alchflaed knelt next to
him and examined the wound to his thigh.
She, like all the women at Bebbanburg, had learned the
art of healing. Over the years, she had tended men with worse wounds than this
one, although the knife wound had cut deep into the flesh of Bryni’s thigh.
“It has stopped bleeding,” she told him, “although I will
need to cleanse the wound and put a few stitches in, for it is deep.”
Bryni groaned at this, but did not offer complaint. Next
to her, Edgard unstoppered a skin of mead and passed it to Alchflaed. She
poured it over the wound, making sure it washed deep inside the flesh. The young
man cursed, his body stiffening in pain.
“I know it hurts, but it will stop the wound from
festering,” Alchflaed told him. She rose then, and retrieved a leather satchel
from her pony. Squinting in the torchlight, which was
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