Nightfall till Daybreak (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 2) (19 page)

Chapter
Nineteen

Aidan shrugged the chain vest over his head and felt its
weight settle against his chest; a sensation that he would always associate
with battle. Standing before the smoldering fire pit in the hall, he placed
leather arm guards over his forearms and upper arms and waited while Edwin
laced them up for him. Felix was nowhere to be seen, and nor were the three
other students.

This was the warriors ritual, one that meant war was coming
and blood was about to be shed. Aidan’s weapon of choice was not a sword – for
only ealdormen and their kin carried these – but a spear. Aidan’s spear had
always meant a lot to him; it symbolized his freedom from slavery. Only a free
man could wield one. This spear was around eight feet in length and made out of
ash, with a lethal iron point. When fighting, Aidan always carried a spear in
his right hand and a shield in his left.

As Edwin finished tightening his arm guards, Aidan’s thoughts
momentarily strayed from the approaching battle to Freya.

A hard knot of sorrow tightened in the center of his chest.
The memories of last night broke over him, like water bursting from a dam. Last
night he had known a joy he had never thought existed. He had been with plenty
of women since reaching manhood, but none had made him feel like Freya did.
Even now, he ached to rush to her, to touch and kiss her; to hear the sound of
her voice and breathe in the scent of her skin. She made him feel truly alive.
Wryd
,
fate, had cruelly cheated him. He had been given too little, too late.

Aidan took a deep breath and forced his thoughts on to what
lay ahead. Edwin finished tightening the last arm guard and stepped back, his
blue eyes huge on his thin face.

“Thank you lad.” Aidan forced a smile. “Look out for the
others. If the battle goes ill, the Mercians will come here. You may want to
consider hiding in the woods until everything’s done.”

Edwin nodded wordlessly, although Aidan could see that his
words had given the boy no solace. As young as Edwin was, he understood that
there was no honor in hiding in the woods while the rest of his male kin went
into battle.

“Listen to me Edwin.” Aidan hunkered down so that their gazes
were at the same level. “There is nothing pretty about war. I know you want to
be with your father and your brothers, but it is best you stay here. The other
boys are not as strong as you; they need you to look after them.”

Edwin’s eyes filled with tears.

“Why would I want to be with my father when he sold me for a
pouch of gold?”

Aidan felt sadness stab him through the guts at the anguish on
the boy’s face.

“It’s true,” he admitted gently. “You owe such a man nothing.
All the same, you are needed here. Felix will not protect you when they come.”

With that he gave Edwin a fierce, brief hug and got to his
feet. He felt the boy’s gaze burning into him and forced himself to turn away.
Aidan strode out of the hall and, not for the first time, wished that things
were different.

Freya stood in the yard and watched Aidan, and the twenty
spears who had followed him and Sigeberht to Beodricesworth, gather with their
horses in front of the hall. They were all heavily armed and armored, and carried
heavy wooden shields and lethal-tipped spears. Aidan stood in their midst. His
face was unreadable as he waited for the last spear to join him.

A strange numbness spread over Freya. She did not want him to
go but she knew he must. She was helpless to stop the course of events now. Yet
she would not have changed last night for anything. It would be her dearest
memory, till death.

Stop it!
She berated herself.
You’re
telling yourself he’s never coming back. You’re acting as if this will be the
last time you’ll ever see him.

Aidan approached her now. All twenty warriors waited behind
him; some were tightening their horses’ girths, while others were mounting. He
stopped before her and Freya looked down at her feet, unable to meet his gaze.
Her vision swam with tears and she cursed herself as she struggled to keep
control. He did not need to see a woman’s tears before he went into battle.

“Freya.” His voice was soft but rough with pain.

Freya inhaled deeply and raised her face so that their eyes
met.

“You know why I must go, don’t you?”

Freya nodded, blinking furiously. She could not stop the hot
tears that streamed down her face.

“Yes,” she managed. And it was true, she did know. When her
father had gone to war she had not understood; his loyalty to a king who was
going into battle to settle old scores seemed foolhardy. At the time, she and
her mother had grieved for the fact that Aelli had thrown his life away for a
reckoning that was not even his. Yet, this was different. This was a threat to
the safety of the kingdom and of all that lived within it. She did understand
why he was going – only it did not make it any easier to bear.

“Come back safe,” she whispered. “Please don’t throw your life
away.”

Aidan’s face twisted as if she had just slapped him. Then, he
gave a pained smile.

“I am not a reckless man, Freya. How do you think I’ve lived
this long?”

“
Wyrd
has been good to you perhaps…”

“Fate shines on a man who shows courage –
wyrd oft nereð
unfaégne eorl þonne his ellen déah,
” Aidan replied with a grin. The
expression was that of the man who had stolen her heart, and not of the stern
warrior of just moments earlier.

Freya smiled back at him through her tears. “I hope you are
right.”

Aidan pulled her into his arms and kissed her softly on the
lips. It was a sad kiss, full of longing and unspoken words. Freya entwined her
arms about his neck and kissed him back, before stepping back and putting some
distance between them. Part of her did not believe he was going; that she may
never see him again.

Aidan took a deep breath and Freya saw the warrior’s mask
slide down over his features.

“You need to go from here Freya. As soon as we leave, take as
many provisions as you can carry, and steal a horse if you have to. Travel back
to Woodbridge Haven, to your mother’s house. You will be safe there. I will
find you.”

Freya nodded, not trusting herself to say another word.

“I promise you this sweet Freya,” he said fiercely, seeing the
doubt on her face. “If I live through this battle, I will find you.”

With that, Aidan turned on his heel and strode over to his
horse. He swung up onto the saddle and slid his feet into the stirrups. He then
gathered the reins and exchanged one last glance with Freya before he wheeled
his horse away.

“We ride to Barrow,” he shouted, “and to battle!”

Freya stood alone in the yard and watched the warriors ride
over the brow of the hill. When they disappeared, she turned back to the hall
with a hollow feeling in her stomach. Hereric was standing before the door, his
elfin face pale and strained. He approached Freya, fingering the slave collar
about his neck as if it were strangling him.

“Are you leaving too?” he asked, and Freya realized that he
was struggling not to cry.

Freya nodded.

Hereric’s face started to tremble and his eyes filled with tears.
“What will happen to me? I have nowhere to go.”

“Hereric.” Freya took the boy’s hand and squeezed hard. “I’m
not leaving you here. If you wish to, you can come with me.”

The boy’s face brightened, as if the sun had just come out
from behind a cloud. “You would?” he asked, his voice quavering.

Freya nodded. “Now listen,” she said, lowering her voice.
“Once the battle’s over we’ll travel to my mother at Woodbridge Haven, but
first there is something that must be done. Will you help me?”

Hereric nodded mutely, not knowing what Freya was about to
suggest but so relieved to have a purpose that he did not appear to care.

“Help me gather some food to take with us,” she urged him.
“Take any bread you can find, even if it’s stale, from the hall and meet me shortly
in front of the store room.”

Freya placed a wheel of cheese, eight crisp red apples and a
few handfuls of carrots and onions into a jute sack. The sack was of the same
kind she had used during her foiled escape in early summer- it seemed like a
lifetime ago now. Then, she added a large piece of salted pork and tied the top
of the sack with a piece of string.

In the murky light inside the store, where the only light came
from the open door, she caught sight of a knife protruding from another wheel
of cheese. She needed a knife. It would come in handy for preparing food, and
it would be the only weapon she had. Freya pulled the knife out of the cheese
and slipped it into the leather pouch that hung from her girdle.

Freya stepped outside to find Hereric waiting for her. He wore
a coarse sacking cloak, which would at least keep the rain off, and carried a
sack similar to hers. At the sight of him Freya felt a pang. She would have
liked to have brought the other boys away with her as well. Yet, she knew they
would not want to leave the Lark Valley and their families in Barrow.

“I took three loaves of yesterday’s bread,” he announced
proudly.

“Is that so!” A voice boomed out behind them.

Felix of Burgundy stepped out of the shadows.

Freya’s stomach plummeted. Not now – not when she and Hereric
were so close to freedom.

“Thieving
theows
!” Felix snarled, his eyes bulging with
the force of his outrage. “How dare you steal from your master!”

He made a grab for Hereric, who dodged him easily and
scampered backwards.

“Conniving bitch!” Felix advanced on Freya. “Sigeberht treated
you better than you deserved and this is how you repay him?”

Freya sidled around, so that the store house was no longer at
her back. “Sigeberht is not here to give the orders any longer,” she snarled at
Felix. “You aren’t, nor will you ever be my master.”

Felix lunged at her.

Freya was ready for him. After Ecgric’s attack she had vowed
to fight any man who attacked her, even if it led to her death. She was tired
to the depths of her soul of being downtrodden. Last night with Aidan had freed
her from her life as a slave; she was now free and intended to stay that way.

Felix grasped her around the throat, with the intent of
throttling her. But, striking with ruthless determination, Freya drove her knee
up into his cods; like she had with Ecgric, only harder.

The monk’s howl cleaved the morning air like an axe. He
dropped Freya as if he grasped a hot coal and crumpled to the ground wailing.

Freya did not waste a moment more. She picked up her sack,
darted around Felix and sprinted away from the hall.

“Follow me Hereric!” she called over her shoulder, “Run!”

They ran like hares pursued by hounds, their feet barely
skimming the ground. Out of the valley and into the woodland beyond, still
carrying their sacks of food, they sprinted. On and on they ran, until their
breathing grew ragged and the blood roared in their ears. They fled until the
stitches in their sides forced them to slow their pace.

Eventually, just short of Saxham, Freya stumbled to a halt.
Bent double, she took great, gasping breaths of air into her burning lungs.
Beside her, Hereric flopped on to his back, his thin ribcage heaving up and
down like forge bellows.

“Freya!” Hereric eventually gasped, rolling over on to his
side and fixing her with a desperate stare. “We’ve been running in the wrong
direction. Woodbridge Haven lies many leagues to the east!”

“I know,” Freya eventually managed. She straightened up and
wiped the sweat from her eyes. “We are not going to Woodbridge Haven just yet
Hereric. First, we travel to Barrow Fields.”

Chapter Twenty

Aidan walked onto the edge of Barrow Fields; a huge grassy
expanse bordered by Barrow Woods to the south, and stopped for a moment. The
fields lay just beyond the village of Barrow itself. The East Anglian army had
gathered on the eastern end of the field. The Mercians would come from the
west.

Like the other warriors who had joined him from
Beodricesworth, Aidan had left his horse at Barrow. Unlike Gaul, where Aidan
had been used to wielding a spear on horseback, it appeared that here in
Britannia, only the king and certain ealdormen rode horses into battle.
Everyone else fought on foot.

Aidan’s gaze scanned the sea of swords, spears and axes before
him. He was looking for a familiar face in the crowd; the face of a friend.

He eventually found him.

“Aidan!” Lothar shouldered his way through the throng and
clasped his friend in a bear-hug. “I was beginning to think you would not
come.”

“You knew I would.” Aidan forced a smile. “Someone has to
watch your back.”

Lothar snorted before stepping back and casting a shrewd eye
over Aidan. “Something has happened,” he noted with a frown. “What is it?”

“Have you seen the king?”

“Which one?”

“Sigeberht.”

“He is here?” Lothar’s frown deepened. “I thought the coward
refused to come.”

“He did,” Aidan replied, his gaze sweeping over the army, “but
Ecgric brought him anyway.”

At that moment, the milling crowd of spearmen before them
parted and Ecgric, astride a heavy-set black stallion, rode through their midst
towards the front line. At his side, carrying a spear, his face ashen with
fear, walked Oeric. Behind him, Ecgric towed Sigeberht.

Even brought low, Sigeberht the Righteous walked tall and
proud. Conspicuous in his monk’s habit, he carried his staff in one hand. A
rope had been fitted about his neck, so that if he struggled or tried to run
away, he would strangle himself. One of his eyes had now swollen shut and dry
blood covered his chin; yet Sigeberht appeared oblivious to his injuries.

“Woden,” Lothar hissed. “He’s not armed.”

“He refuses to bear a weapon,” Aidan replied, his gaze never
leaving Sigeberht. “He will go into battle as you see him, bearing only a
staff.”

Lothar shook his head and swore under his breath. Aidan tore
his gaze from Sigeberht and regarded his friend squarely once more. He could
see that the Frank’s face was dark with anger.

“Most of these men are here for Sigeberht, not that ferret
Ecgric,” Lothar growled. “News of Sigeberht’s taking of Rendlaesham, of his
valor and skill as a leader of warriors, spread throughout the kingdom. They
would not have come here if they thought Ecgric had called them.”

“How big is our army?”

“Three-thousand.”

“And the Mercian army?”

“From what we’ve heard, at least five-thousand. The difference
is big enough to matter if morale is low.”

As he finished speaking, Lothar hefted his axe. Only a warrior
of Lothar’s strength and build could wield one of these weapons effectively. It
was a long-shafted, double-headed ‘bearded’ battle-axe; a lethal weapon in the
style of the northmen. It was a weapon that could shatter shields and slide
through flesh like butter. It was an axe made for battle, rather than for
felling trees or working timber, with a long ash shaft inlaid with langets;
metal bands that protected the wood from enemy blades.

“How long will Sigeberht live if someone attacks him with one
of these?” Lothar asked grimly.

“You’ve seen him fight,” Aidan replied, adjusting his
lime-wood shield so that it hung from his back. “Even with a staff Sigeberht is
dangerous.”

Lothar rolled his eyes. “Listen to you. Even now you’re still
loyal to him. Even after how he’s treated you. He’s elevated that son of a
pox-ridden whore to king while he treats you like something he has just scraped
off his boot. Yet you still treat him like he is Woden himself!”

“Is there any point in me raging against him now Lothar?”
Aidan shot back, his anger finally surfacing. “If you and I want to survive
this, we need to drive our rage against the Mercians, not each other.”

Lothar’s mouth compressed in a thin line at this, but he
eventually nodded.

Aidan stepped forward and placed his hands on his friend’s
shoulders. Their faces were just inches apart.

“We have much to live for,” he said quietly. “You want to
return home to Aedilhild and I want to be with Freya. You were right Lothar – I
am in love with her. I should have told her before I left Beodricesworth. Now
it’s too late.”

Lothar’s expression softened. “You should have told her.” His
voice roughened then as he struggled to compose himself. “Aedilhild is with
child. I must return to her.”

Aidan nodded. “Then we must focus on that, and nothing else.”

It was then that Aidan spotted another, familiar figure,
making his way through the army towards the front. It was Sigeberht’s cousin –
Annan. He was a striking sight; his leather armor creaking and the ring vest he
wore across his chest clinking. His long, blond hair had been tied back for
battle and his handsome face was set in hard lines. At his side was a heavy
sword while on his back he carried a lime-wood shield.

Judging from the grim expression on Annan’s face, he had
already seen Sigeberht and was on his way to confront him. Aidan and Lothar
fell in behind Annan and followed him to the front.

They found Sigeberht, standing alone on the edge of the
fyrd
, with the rope still tied around his neck. Nearby, Ecgric spoke in
intense tones with a group of his ealdormen; Bercthun of Barrow was among them.

Aidan and Lothar hung back as Annan approached Sigeberht.

“Cousin.” Annan stopped before Sigeberht and dropped to one
knee. “My King! What evil has befallen you?”

Sigeberht smiled down at his cousin and winced at his split
lip. “There’s little use in kneeling before me now Annan,” he said gently. “I
have renounced my worldly kingdom and now live only for the heavenly kingdom. I
refuse to fight – but it remains my choice.”

“Please reconsider,” Annan replied, his voice urgent. “You
know that you will die if you go into battle unarmed.”

“We all must die cousin,” Sigeberht replied with the same
gentle smile. “Sooner or later it comes to us all.”

Sigeberht’s gaze then shifted over Annan’s shoulder and came
to rest on Aidan. His good eye widened slightly.

“You’re here Aidan – why?”

Aidan stepped forward. He felt a surge of relief at having the
chance to speak with Sigeberht before they went into battle. He had thought
Sigeberht would have refused to acknowledge him after the final words between
them back at Beodricesworth.

“I gave my word I would come, and I have,” Aidan replied
gently. “I’m sorry I disappointed you milord, but most of all I’m sorry it has
come to this.”

Sigeberht gave a sad smile at that. “I too wish things were
different Aidan. There were so many things I wanted to do at Beodricesworth and
now I’ll never get the chance.”

“You would,” Annan cut in, his voice urgent. “If you’d agree
to carry a sword you might live through this.”

“I’d not waste your breath trying to convince him.” Ecgric
turned from consulting with his ealdormen. His face twisted when he looked upon
Sigeberht. “He has clearly lost his mind. Speak with us instead Annan. We are
discussing tactics. You are more use to us than to that craven.”

Annan’s face darkened. He was about to reply when the sound of
a horn echoed over Barrow Fields. It was a mournful, lonely sound that caused
the fine hair on the back of the men’s necks to prickle.

Aidan, who stood a few paces back from Annan, turned and
looked west. There, emerging over the brow of a low hill, at the far end of the
fields, was a long bristling line of spears.

The Mercians had come.

Panic rippled through the army. Aidan felt a cold sense of
foreboding clench at his chest; he could taste their fear. This was not how an
army should approach war. They needed a leader who could inspire them, set fire
to their blood and turn them into fell, dangerous warriors. Ecgric had failed
to do this, and they were all too aware of their mortality. A larger army
approached them – an army hungry for war.

Ecgric appeared oblivious to this. Upon setting eye on the
approaching army he sprang onto his horse and rode up his lines.

“Form the shield-wall!” he shouted, brandishing
Æthelfrith’s
Bane
high. “Do it now!”

Then, Ecgric reined his stallion around and galloped back down
his lines to where Sigeberht, Annan, Aidan and Lothar awaited his orders.

“Aidan of Connacht,” Ecgric sneered. “Do you know what a
shield-wall is?”

“Yes,” Aidan replied coldly. Shield-walls were only used here
in Britannia, and as such he had never fought in a battle that used them. Nevertheless,
he knew what a shield-wall was. All warriors did.

“Then it’s time you showed that fighting skill I’ve heard so
much about. You will join the first line of this shield-wall. Let’s see how
much fire you’ve got in your belly now!”

Aidan felt the chill that had settled in his chest, slide down
to his guts.

Of course, he should have expected this.

Ecgric wanted revenge for his humiliation on the evening he
had tried to rape Freya. Aidan had sorely wounded his pride, and he had made
the mistake of thinking Ecgric had forgotten about it.

A man like Ecgric never forgot about such things.

Aidan nodded to Ecgric and schooled his features into an
impassive mask. He glanced across at Lothar and the two friends exchanged one
last look. Then, Aidan un-slung his shield from over his back and strode across
to where a line of spearmen were forming the shield-wall.

Even though he had never fought in one, Aidan knew the odds of
surviving the first line of a shield-wall were slim – especially against a
significantly bigger army. Still, he would rather have been boiled alive than
see the satisfaction on Ecgric’s face if he had showed even a glimmer of fear.

Jostling himself into place between two warriors who looked
barely out of boyhood, Aidan saw the naked terror on their faces.

This would not do.

“Are you ready to send those Mercian dogs running with their
tails between their legs?” he grinned, showing his teeth. “I hope so, because
this kingdom – your kingdom – is depending on us keeping this shield-wall from
breaking. Imagine one of them raping your woman, or your mother or sister.
Imagine them burning your village and taking your brothers as slaves. They will
do it. If you show them a shred of mercy they will stick you like a pig.”

Watching the faces of the young men, Aidan saw the anger
kindle in their eyes. “The men of the East Angles are made of iron,” he pressed
on, noticing that his speech had gained the attention of other spearmen who
were jostling for position around them. “Remember who you are fighting for.
Your courage cannot fail. Send these men into the afterlife so that they may
face eternity in torment. Let them wade through wild, poisonous rivers. Let
Nithhogg
suck their blood and wolves rip them limb from limb!”

That was all the warriors needed. Aidan had just spoken of the
otherworld those who committed evil deeds would be consigned to – and of the
dragon residing there who would torment their enemies. He had reminded them
that they had every right to stand firm and defend their home. They, not Penda
and his invading army, were in the right.

A roar went up along the shield-wall and Aidan allowed himself
a grim smile.

That’s better. Let Penda hear that and pause. Even
if we all fall on the battlefield, this will be no easy victory.

***

Freya heard the armies before she saw them: the shouts of men
rising and falling in waves, and the rhythmic beating of spears against
shields. With Hereric at her side, Freya crept through the undergrowth, while
attempting not to get snagged by black thorn and bramble, and made her way to Barrow
Wood’s edge. Hiding behind the trunk of an old elm, she peeked out and looked
for the first time upon Barrow Fields.

The sight of the two armies – still some way apart while they
made preliminary preparations for war – made her breath catch. She had never
seen so many men in one place. Spears bristled against the skyline like a
carpet of nails. They were too far off for her to make out the faces, but the
din echoed across Barrow Fields. It was a bloodthirsty, raw sound.

Freya shuddered. This was no place for a woman. She wanted no
part in this slaughter; she was loath to stand here and look on while men
butchered each other senselessly. Yet, she found herself rooted to the spot.
Somewhere in that heaving sea of men was Aidan. She would not leave this spot
until she knew his fate.

Tearing her gaze from the battle lines, Freya glanced over at
Hereric.