"To Britain's Shores" - Chapter 17 - Spring

At last. A morning where it isn't just miserably wet and grey. I was starting to hate these British winters.

This past one, particularly. Strange, as old Theobald used to say about Leofric the Drunkard, how you don't miss something till it's not there any more. No Ecgwine, blue eyes aflame, brashly questioning the Young Wolf's decisions. No Lavinia, with her head of raven-dark hair leaning next to his unruly straw-pale mop, slim hand on his arm and the quiet word that tempers his rashness. Truth, we'd seen less of that this last year, as he'd started to learn wisdom from all of us, and she'd thus had to do it more infrequently.

But Ecgwine's dead, a British spear in his side, and she... who knows? Left in the night on Aelfric's second-best horse. The Cyning's Hall in Caer Lind Colon - Odin's blood, that's still a barbarous mouthful of a name - seems that bit darker without them both, and we...

We have become grim.

Resolute.

Cold.

Iron.

The ring of metal on metal has been the music of the Hall most days, with none questioning our Cyning's resolve to make us harder, better. Which is why I'm here in one of the Hall's outbuildings, sorting through a batch of new-made spear points. That and it gives me something to do.

We're missing Beornwulf too this winter, sent on a thankless task to bear news of his son's passing to Ecgfrith across the great sea - Ecgfrith the Cyning, Aelfric's father's brother, who charged us - me and Aelfric especially - to take care of his son and make him a man. "You can't argue we managed one of those...."

"Mmm?" Aelfric, damn him, still has a habit of sneaking up on me.

"I... uh. Just musing aloud." He eyes me for a moment, with that maddeningly prompting look of his. I sigh. "Ecgwine." Again the regard. "Your uncle. 'Keep him safe. Make him a man.'"

Aelfric nods, "We tried." A pause, then, ruefully. "And we were..."

"Ho there!!!!!" It's a yell from the gate, young Hedric. "Someone's coming up the round. A band of men..."

The Young Wolf treats me to a sudden grin. "I'll bet you it's Beornwulf."

I grin back. "Not taking that bet. I'll catch you up when I've tidied this lot away."

---

I head for the gate, slipping through between a couple of the buildings to join the throng: there's much backslapping of Beornwulf, and the group of warriors he's brought across the sea with him. Hel's teeth, he's even managed to persuade the tall, rangy Deorwine, one of Ecgfrith's Gedriht that I actually don't have any grievance with, to join him. He's a skilled horseman, and a fine warrior, quiet yet intelligent: never a score of words when two will do. I'm just about to clasp him by the hand when a slap on my back nearly knocks the breath out of me.

"Not dead yet, then, Godric?"

I really should have spotted that distinctive hair amid the small crowd, but she isn't tall, certainly not among men. The voice, though, is unmistakably hers, a low alto rasp. I allow myself a second or two, as Deorwine gives me a knowing wink, lips quirking in an amused grin, before I turn. "Gytha."

There might be even more grey in her locks, but other than that she hasn't changed in the time since we left. Hair the colour of iron down to her shoulders; the same well-worn mail; axe and sword at her belt; the white line of a scar the length of her cheek from a blade; eyes the grey of a winter sky.

A smile, rendered slightly crooked by that scar, quirks her lips. "Miss me?"

She always did start with the difficult questions.

---

Now if I could actually find the box that has Bad Squiddo's shieldmaiden warriors blister in it (which I'd link to, but I can't find it on Annie's site either!), I'd have Gytha painted up by now. Unfortunately, I suspect it's somewhere in the stuff we cleared out of the workshop so the builders could do their stuff, which means I have almost no space to move stuff into to search for it. That and it's cold out.

"To Britain's Shores" - Chapter 16 - The Boar Hunt

"What myth are we chasing this time?" We're jogging through the woods towards the bank of a fairly generous stream. "Some golden horse? Some saint's dried up private parts?"

Aelfric laughs, claps me on the shoulder. "Good honest boar."

I snort. "Not sure there's anything honest about something with tusks and a bad temper."

The Young Wolf chuckles. Evidently he's in a good mood today. "At least you know it's going to be mad at you."

We pause a few hundred paces before the bank, near the edge of the wood, and Aelfric turns to Ecgwine. "Take your men and the archers. See what you can flush out. But stay this side of the water."

Ecgwine brisiles a little at the restriction, but nods. Lavinia and her handful of archers are already roving ahead, moving from bush to bush towards the water's edge. He and his men follow, surprisingly quietly. Aelfric nods approvingly. "You and Theobald did a good job with him, Godric."

"Aye." I catch sight of a head of raven hair before it and its female owner disappear amid the scrub. "Not sure I can take all the credit, mind."

He nods. "Aye. Still a mystery, that one. Beornwulf knows something, but he won't tell..."

"You could make him."

A shake of his head. "It'll out in its own time. Or when it becomes a problem."

"I hope you're..." 

I'm interrupted by a yell from one of Beornwulf's men, ranging ahead and to our left, "The British!"

I sigh, unsheathe my sword. "I knew this was too good to be true."

---

Damn right it is.

He told them to stay this side of the water. But no. Lavinia and her little band flush the boar, and Ecgwene's men, with much whooping and yelling, chase after it, and, rather than facing up to them it turns and splashes its way across the stream, and the idiots follow it. I don't know if they don't see the British, or figure they will be too late to arrive, but by the time the archers are back this side of the river, Ecgwine has brought down the boar with a spear thrust, and their little man is almost on them with a considerably greater number of their warriors.

Nothing I can do. Aelfric has led us leftwards, skirting another clump of trees, to head off their Praefect and his hearth guard, while Beornwulf follows after Ecgwine with another two bands of our warriors. 

"Odin's balls," Aelfric growls, "Why doesn't he just leave the damn carcass...?"

Ecgwine's band, boar hauled between two of them, struggle across the stream, one or two slipping on wet rocks, with the Britons right behind. For a moment I think they'll made it far enough that the little man won't risk it for fear of Beornwulf's warriors approaching along the near bank, but no: with a great battle cry they ford the stream...

In the grand scheme of things? Not the little man's wisest course. Sure, he and his men rush on Ecgwine's, and I, like Lavinia's group of young bowmen, can only watch as they fall. But Beornwulf waves his great axe above his head, twin to the one his father Wulfhere carries still in Petvaria, and roars aloud like the bear he's named after... "DEATH! Death to the Britons!" They charge into the enemy flank, swords and spears reddening with British blood, and swiftly break them.

But the damage is done.

---

I watch her, not saying a word, as she kneels by his body, touches a hand to his cheek, then to the great rent in his mail where a spear took him. She wipes a hand across her face in a gesture she thinks I don't see, then, carefully, she unfastens the symbol of the Christ-God that she gave him from round his neck, fastens it with bloodied fingers round her own, and stands.

I open my mouth to say something comforting, but she forestalls it with a look from those dark eyes. His blood on her fingers has left a mark where she rubbed her face, a mark that shows a track of moisture through it. The eyes, though, glitter with something more than tears. For a moment, I think she's going to just go, but then she turns, a swirl of night-dark hair across her shoulders. Her voice is quiet, brittle. "Warriors don't weep." All she says, turning, shoulders set, without another look back, and walking away.

She's not there when we build his pyre. Not there to speak words for the God he at least honoured for her sake. Out of respect to her, and to him, and to the Christ-God, we let one of the locals offer a prayer in Latin, before Beornwulf, Aelfric and I set torches to the stacked wood, and step back.

She's not there when we sit around, late into the night, raising horns and mugs of ale and mead to the stories and memory of a brat-turned-man who would have, one day, made a fine Cyning. And husband. And she's wrong. Warriors do, when we lose one of our own. And that, Ecgwine had become. 

She's not there in the morning. Neither is one of our few horses.

Aelfric's voice at my shoulder, as I'm considering the empty stall, makes me start. "Lavinia's gone?"

I just nod. 

"Surprised?" 

It's an odd question, one that breaks me out of my thoughts. I frown. "Yes. No. I'm not sure."

He nods, shrugs a touch, cloak wrapped around him against the oncoming winter. "Me neither." A pause, then, quietly. "We need to send word to Ecgfrith."

I nod, glumly. "He's not going to take that well." The Cyning's only son is dead. And he'll likely blame us, whom he trusted with the care and training of his son.

Aelfric nods. "No, he's not." He sighs, long and thoughtful. "I could send you."

I knew this was coming. "You need me here. And besides..." There are folks at Ecgfrith's hall across the sea with whom I have... how to say this...? 'history', and Aelfric knows it. But it would give the old King someone to rail at.

To my surprise, he acquiesces. "You're probably right." He exhales, thoughtfully. "I'll send Beornwulf." 

---

Editor's note: sorry, no photos, although Andy has some. My iPhone was away at the iPhone menders not being mended.

"Saxon Noble One"? Not a good job title in my army. 

"To Britain's Shores" - Chapter 15 - St. Cuthbert's Hol(e)y Relics

"Right. Off your rear ends, the lot of you."

Here we go again. I get to my feet - Odin's beard, but I'm starting to get stiffer as the years go by - and head over to pick up sword, spear and shield from where I've propped them. "What is it this time?"

Aelfric grins, that teeth-bared wolf-smile of his. "The Britons are apparently making ready to receive another of their holy relics. A handful of their unarmed holy men and a dozen men to guard it on the old road."

Ecgwene joins us. "What are we waiting for then?" 

Too keen by half, that lad.

---

Aelfric's right, anyway. A little knot of men and pack-mules are making a slow and steady pace along the old road, and we find them maybe four hundred paces from safety. He's getting a little keen, though, giving the cluster of Britons led by that Lord we had as a guest - Geraint - the charge. They peel off from the monks to head him off...

Ecgwine heads after the monks, and makes rather quick work of getting the mules off them and heading back away. Lad is definitely guilty of over confidence there, though - he has no respect for that hat short Lord of theirs who comes after him with his men, quite prepared to turn his back as they retreat with the treasure. I learned his name the other week - I think it was Lavinia who found out -  'Maximus Minimus', the Great Little Man. Evidently somebody has a sense of humour, anyway. But, to be fair... he may be short, but he's no coward, and he and his men aren't about to let Ecgwene away without a fight.

Meanwhile, we're facing off against Geraint and that Praefect of theirs and their hearth guard, me and Aelfric side by side as we have been for what seems like years now. It's a back and forth rough-house of a fight, and for all we give a good account of ourselves, in the end they push us back. Out of the corner of my eye I see Ecgwene's men likewise retreating without the monks' goods...

---

"If," I observe drily to Aelfric, "Your next words are 'that went well' again, I may do something that I regret later."

My reward is a bark of laughter, quickly suppressed,  as the Young Wolf removes his rather rent mail shirt, then eyes it ruefully, "No. Overconfidence is just as bad as being fat and lazy. Ecgwene needs to learn that." Quietly, "Mayhap you should have a word in the ear of that woman of his."

I snort. "I suspect she's telling him that without any need for words from me."

He sighs, lets the mail fall to the floor with a growl of frustration. "Damnation. They are growing more skilled in our ways. These defeats are growing costly." 

Indeed they are: once again the women are moving among our wounded, and once again there are far too damn many of them for my liking. I sigh, look across at him. "What now, then?"

The Young Wolf shrugs. "We heal." A pause, and then a chuckle, an echo of the teenager I first met nearly a decade ago, "Who knows? We take up boar hunting for profit for a while?"

[OK. Now I'm caught up barring Monday's game. Watch this space!]

"To Britain's Shores" - Chapter 14 - Hunting the White Stag

"Slow down boy, for Odin's sake!"

Sithric blinks, pauses and takes a deep breath. "I... ahh... alright... Old... old Martha says that Hedric..." He rests his hands on his knees, exhales, inhales again from his hurried run. "That's her grandson..."

I allow myself a chuckle. "I know who Hedric is." I should, I've been teaching him to use a spear for the past winter.

"I... uh. Sorry. Hedric's seen the white stag."

Ecgwine and I exchange puzzled looks, then I catch his woman's expression. Evidently this isn't unknown to her. "The white stag?"

Lavinia worries at her lip, frowns. "It's only a wives' tale."

"Go on."

She shrugs, spreads her hands in a helpless gesture. "It..." Another shrug. "They say it's supposed to be a messenger from the gods. That it's not possibly to catch it, but..." A half-smile. "That it can lead you on a quest, or to great glory or riches..."

I allow myself a faint snort. "What do you think?"

Slim fingers run through dark hair, and she makes a wry face. "All I know is it's a very old tale, and Martha believes it." 

The Young Wolf's voice behind me makes me start. "Where was it seen?"

Sithric blinks, stammers, "Um... up b...by Meagram Wold... or... so Martha says. It's not... that far..."

"Good." Aelfric nods to me. "Get them ready. Godric." 

He turns to go, and I follow him. "You don't believe this, surely?"

A smile, teeth bared like the wolf he's named for. "Does it matter what I believe?"

"I..." Light dawns, and I grin. "No, I guess not."

He chuckles. "Martha's of the local folk, remember. If they believe, and we can bring it down... Besides, what if the Britons do...?"

---

It is, truly, a magnificent beast. Next to me, as we crouch near some rocks with a wary eye on the Britons who also seem intent on bring it down, Wulfstan breathes, "Gods, Lavinia...."

I nod at the unspoken question. "It's just a stag." As it's no more than thirty or forty paces away, it's easy to see it's just a stag - its hide is a rich white, almost aglow where the low evening sun catches it. Marcus nocks an arrow, as does young Torvald, the newest member of our little band now Aelfric has named Sithric his bannerman. I follow my usual ritual, choosing an arrow, touching my fingers first to the carved cross around my neck on a leather thong, then to its head, then nocking it. I risk a glance back whence the stag came - Aelfric's hearthguard and the British lord are facing each other across a short span of ground, neither willing to make the first move towards the stag... 

This close, I can see it's been wounded, a gash from one of Ecgwine's warriors' spears as it dashed across their front, the blood stark against white. It's maybe a hundred, a hundred and fifty paces from the safety of the deep wood that we'd none of us follow it into, not with the Britons here. 

It turns, for a moment, as I have the arrow at full draw. Three bows loose almost as one, one of the arrows just grazing its hindquarters. None of them are mine - I hesitate, just for a moment, to take this magnificent creature in. 

I realise with an odd certainty that I can bring it down, that it may fall to me to do so some day. That, I decide suddenly, will not be today, though. My carefully-aimed arrow passes harmlessly through the great ivory-tipped rack of antlers, and the white stag pauses, just for an instant, looking at me, then tosses his head and kicks up his heels, full speed for the shelter of the deep forest. To my right, Ecgwine's men raise a shout and hare after it, and there are cries and yells from beyond them as the two hearthguards clash, that grey wolf banner above the heads of the struggling men.

As I watch, the banner wavers, falls...

---

The boy's... no, the man's.. eyes are open, as he grips my hand weakly. "Godric...?

I nod, pointedly not looking down at the great rent in the mail shirt that he was so proud of, the widening pool of red. "Aye."

Sithric swallows, noisily, voice hoarse with pain. "I messed up..."

I shake my head. "Not that I saw. You did well."

There's a gasp from behind me, and the girl's there, kneeling, hands reaching to check him over. I block that movement with my free hand, and give her a tiny, regretful shake of my head when her head snaps up, dark eyes meeting mine. She bites her lip, hard, sits back on her haunches. "Oh, Sithric..." There's a catch in her voice, but no tears. She's learned well, that one. Warriors don't weep. At least if we do, not where anyone can see.

"Did you get it...?" he asks her, faintly.

Before she has to.. or can... reply,  his grip loosens from mine, hand falling limp to the blood-stained grass. It's not clear if her breathed "no" is answer to him or an attempt to deny his passing.

I give death a moment's space, then reach to close his eyes and murmur softly "Told you to slow down, boy..."

"To Britain's Shores" - Chapter 13 - Complacency

"We..." Aelfric's voice is dangerously soft, that low, intense tone that I think we've all come to fear. "We are become fat and lazy." Grey eyes flick round his men. "And we have paid the price." 

I follow his gaze. Even now, Lavinia and a number of others are still adjusting bandages, poultices and the like on our battered band. It didn't go well.

The Young Wolf's hand grips his spear, bangs the butt on the low wooden dais on which he stands. Everyone - I confess, even I, and I'm half-expecting it - starts. "Fat. Lazy. Complacent " The words are snarled. "The best among you today were a beardless boy and a woman." 

To be fair, that isn't quite true. His own hearthguard made off with one of the three wagons the British were driving towards their fort, and that unscathed. But... Sithric, by all accounts, felled a tall Briton with a swing from the butt end of his banner, and Lavinia and her small band of archers, with her usual calm efficiency, did their bit to draw the British into a spot of our choosing with no losses. The rest, however...?

I sighed. No. It didn't go well at all. And I'm not going to quibble over his choice of words. Not this time.

He's berated us before, and there have been mutters of disagreement. This time, there are none. All of us know it to be justified. Necessary. Even Ecgwine. A glance at the young lord's face tells me I won't need to knock sense into him on this occasion.

"Get up." It's a snapped order, and I note with a degree of pride that every man who can scrambles to obey so, even if they have to lean on a comrade. "Look around you. This is my hall. Our hall. Our home." Aelfric raises his voice, "We fought to win this. We will fight to keep it. But if we fight again like we did today, we will be headed back to Wulfhere's steading like beggars hoping for a roof over our heads and scraps from his table." A deep breath. "Is that what you want?"

A few mute shakes of heads, mumbles of disagreement.

The boom of the spear butt on the planks of the dais jerks those lowered heads up to him. "Is that what you want?" 

"No." 

It's Beornwulf. Wulfhere's own bastard son. Beornwulf, with his shield-arm strapped up tightly, who raises his voice from next to me, cuts through the sudden silence.  "No, it is not." He catches my eye for a moment, the slightest of nods, and I recall our conversation from the other day as heads tun to him. He, at least, tried, eventually having his band of warriors driven off from the wagon they were trying to lead away. Just the moment's pause as he realises he has everyone's attention, then: "We..." The stress on that word is subtle but unmistakable, "We will hold what is ours. We will take what the Britons claim as theirs..."

That earns him a chorus of agreement, and a curt nod from the Young Wolf. Snapped. "Good. Godric? Start drilling them tomorrow. Work out how to deal with that gods-dammed shieldwall of theirs properly. Learn how to fight in one if you have to."

---

OOC battle report to follow tomorrow. A tale of some pretty dismal dice rolling.

"To Britain's Shores" - Chapter 12 - Winter in Aelfric's hall

"It beats paying a tithe to my father, I suppose," Beornwulf admits, grudgingly.

"Aye." I look up at the rafters of the hall in Caer Lind Colun which has been our winter home for what seems like an age. Without thinking, I add, "Though I'd still trade that for him charging us for Leofric's mead..."

To his credit, the blond king's bastard doesn't balk at being reminded of the man he replaced. Thoughtfully, after a moment, "Aye. Wish I'd known him." 

I grin across at him, answer what he doesn't voice. "You're doing fine. They've started seeing you as one of us these days, not your father's man."

A short bark of laughter. "Not that I ever was."

"Aye. True." My eyes catch Ecgwine - another king's son - and his raven-haired woman Lavinia. "Not the only one we can say that of." You'd still not mistake her for a Saxon, even though she's taken to wearing much the same as our lads do, bow across her back as the pair walk in through the hall's great doorway. That hair, glossy and dark as a blackbird's wing against his straw-pale locks, proclaims her as British - pure-blooded - for all to see. Or, it occurs to me, even Roman.

Beornwulf laughs.  "It's not his father that has a hold of that one."

"No. But...." She catches my eye, treats me to that quick, slightly mischievous smile of hers. "She seems to be good for him. Surprised they're not handfasted yet."

He purses his lips. "Mmm. Maybe. I heard...." A pause, then he shakes his head. "Never mind. It's of no matter."

I frown, making a prompting noise, but he won't be drawn, looking up as our Cyning, Aelfric the Young Wolf crosses to us from where he's been talking to young Sithric. 

"Ready?" Aelfric is grinning. Sithric, meanwhile, is hurrying across to Lavinia and Ecgwine, talking excitedly.

"Ready?" queries Beornwulf, with an amused glance at the young man.

"Mm." The Young Wolf bares teeth in a smile. "The weather omens are good. It's time."

I nod across at Sithric. "What's got into him?"

Aelfric chuckles. "I made him my bannerman." 

I glance across at where the huge banner old Martha fashioned in our last winter in Petvaria, the grey wolf Fenris, hangs from the rafters. I know his mind is made up, but I still have to point out, as befits my position as the Young Wolf's conscience, "He'll have to get working on that beard, then..."

---

Here's a cast list, for those desperately trying to remember who's who. Characters marked with *'s are force Lords in the Dux Britanniarum game.

The Saxons:

• Godric, Aelfric's champion and our narrator
• *Aelfric, Cyning of the Saxons in Caer Lind Colun
• *Ecgwine, son of Ecgfrith, cousin to Aelfric
• *Beornwulf, bastard son of Wulfhere the Red, replaced Leofric
• Wulfhere the Red, lord of Petvaria, where the Saxons wintered for a couple of seasons
• Leofric the Drunkard, killed by the British well over a year ago.
• Lavinia, from Petvaria, leader of the Saxons' archer band, British heritage - occasional narrator
• Theobald, veteran of Aelfric's hearth guard and mentor to Ecgwine, killed in battle
• Sithric, young archer in Lavinia's band (until just now).
• Ecgfrith - Saxon king across the North Sea, Ecgwine's father
• 'old' Martha - servant to Wulfhere in Petvaria.

The British:

• *Andrusius, Praefectus
• *Maximus Minimus
• *Geraint
• Bedwyr, Andrusius' champion, killed by Godric
• Mascuidius, former King of Caer Lind Colun
• Publius Lirarius, chronicler and Andy's narrator
• unnamed new champion :D 

"To Britain's Shores" - Chapter 11 - Another Church Raid

For all we took a beating, Aelfric seems remarkably cheerful, considering that he's shirtless, torso wrapped in a bloodstained bandage. "That," he observes, to no-one in particular, "Could have gone better.".

I sigh. "That makes three, you know."

"Three what?"

"Raids since we last actually came away with any loot worthy of the name." It's my job to question him: no-one else can get away with it. "You used the same tactics last time and the same thing happened. Except last time it was Beornwulf's men who couldn't find any decent loot before the Britons  drove us off."

Beornwulf, walking with a noticeable limp and aided by a spear as a crutch, snorts. "The brat didn't do any better. Anyone would think he was afraid of offending his woman's Christ-God."

Aelfric frowns, but leaves it to me to point it out - as ever, I get the dirty jobs. "That would be the same woman who saved your Saxon arse today, Beornwulf."

A snort from Wulfhere's bastard son. He knows I'm right - Lavinia's little band of archers held off a large band of the British led by their little man and our one-time guest Geraint for long enough for Beornwulf and Aelfric to rally his men. Just a shame it wasn't long enough for Ecgwine's lads to actually find the Christ-cursed church treasure.

Ah well. Next time. 

"To Britain's Shores" - Chapter 10 - Fen Raiding

"Were you trying to get yourself killed?" It's Ecgwine, clearly less than happy with his woman.

"You can talk. What in the Christ's name were you doing charging back into the Praefectus' [1] men?" Lavinia. it would appear, is no less upset. "Especially after he'd already taken down most of our Gedriht. You're good. Not immortal."

For a Briton, she doesn't make a bad fist of the Saxon word for hearthguard. Ecgwine stares at her, blinks. Shakes his head. Quietly. "I though he'd killed you all."

She blinks. Sighs, reaches up and lays a hand on on his cheek, wordlessly.

Ah, me. Young love. I manage a smile, despite being bone-weary. I can hardly blame either of them for looking for an oultet for their frustration, either, Today was.... hard. On all of us.

The little village on the edge of the fens looked easy pickings, especially since we'd managed to sneak most of the way past one of the British watchtowers before they spotted us, and Beornwulf and his warriors were in the village almost before the main force of the Britons got anywhere near us.

It should have been easy. 

Should have.

The British Praefect seems to care a lot about that village. Those damn Britons would not lie down, despite Aelftric's first charge, and Ecgwine proving himself more than competent to deal with their little man and his warriors. We fought, and fought, and fought again, till both sides were just about dead on their feet. And in the end, they prevailed, as with their final charge with the remains of their hearthguard they broke Ecgwine's war band, and, damn them, killed Theobald.

Theobald's been with us longer than just about anyone - he had Ecgwine under his wing and talked some sense into him the first year we were here in Britain, and his grizzled grey hair hid a warrior's cunning, someone Aelfric often turned to for an opinion. 

Bastards.

Tonight, we get drunk, and light pyres for him and the others we lost. Tomorrow? We start planning afresh. Those Britons won't get away with this forever.

---

[1] Yes. They finally found out Andrusius got promoted. :D

"To Britain's Shores" - Chapter 9 - A new year

"They got away." Ecgwine was, clearly, annoyed, tossing his shield into a corner of the new Hall with a clatter. "Cowards."

I couldn't resist a chuckle. "Not for want of trying. You and yours were too good."

He snorted. "Never seen their little man run that fast."

I grinned at the memory of him fleeing for the safety of their hearthguard after his own warriors had been routed. "Aye. And it was a good plan."

Ecgwine brightened, his mood lifting visibly. "Really? You think so?"

At times like this I'm reminded he's still a youngster, that one. "Aye. That patrol was slowed up by the swamp, and you got through the woods to them before the rest could come off the hill and help. Was well done." I chuckled. "Almost too well. If they'd stuck around for the fight, we'd have had him."

He actually smiled. "I guess. Still annoying that they got away."

I couldn't argue with him there. "Truth. But they were lucky. And they'll know it."

"Mm." He paused. "Did I hear right. Cormac's leaving?"

"Aye. Says he and his have earned enough off us, and 'sides, they got a fair amount of hurt in that raid."

Lavinia, who'd been listening, and for once leaving her man to fight his own battles, sighed. "That's a shame. I liked their music."

I laughed. "Not at all sure some of it was fit for a lass's ears, mind."

"To Britain's Shores" - Chapter 8 part 2 - The Taking of Linnius

"ATTACK!!"

It's the moment we've been waiting for, taunting the British in their shieldwall from the bottom of the slope, and we charge up the hill, roaring our battle cries. It's a fair slope, longer but a touch less steep, than the one we've been running up all summer.

"NOW!"

We pause. Hope in the Britons eyes, as they think we've been beaten by the slope, but no - we slow just long enough to hurl spears, then barrel into them full tilt. Aelfric makes a beeline for their leader, and as his champion, this Bedwyr I fought last time is mine. It's a dirty, close quarters fight - the kind I'm good at. Aelfric gets pushed away by a rally from their shieldwall for a moment, and Bedwyr and I lock swords, his up high to parry a downward cut. "You won't prevail, Saex."

"Look around you." To my left, Britons are turning to run, broken by the charge of Theobald and some of the hearthguard. He can't resist a look, and I can't resist a vicious knee, which makes him stagger back, and gives me an opening for the British leader Andrusius. We cross blades, as Britons around us fall or flee. One staggers, struggling to hold bits of himself in from a deep spear wound, and topples headlong to the ground behind Andrusius just as he backs off a pace, and the British leader stumbles.

Bedwyr puts himself between him and me, as the British leader struggles back to his feet. But I have the momentum, and we trade three or four quick blows before I sweep aside his blade and impale him on my own, the one Aelfric gave me last time. He clutches at my arm as he subsides to his knees. "You..."

I ease him down, as his Tribune watches for a second then turns away, yelling for the Britons to fall back. "You did your job." I owe the Britons' champion that much, at least. Some day, it'll be me. Whatever he was going to say is lost as he coughs up blood, a death rattle as his eyes dim.  I kneel to clean my blade on a patch of grass that isn't slick with mud and blood, then close the Briton's eyes, lay his sword beside him.



We spend the evening getting gloriously drunk in an ale-house in Linnius: Linnius that's now ours. I find a spot to watch, looking round at the warriors who've come with us this far. Some are old, grizzled veterans like Theobald with his grey beard, horn of mead in hand. Some not so, like the teenaged Sithric, talking with some of the younger warriors - from his hands and gestures, he's describing some impossible shot he may or may not have pulled off during the battle. Some have been with us since we landed, some, like Beornwulf, joined us to fill the places of the fallen. 

Leofric. 

It still doesn't feel quite right to be celebrating a victory without him leading us in raucous songs and ribald stories. I still sometimes fancy I see him out of the corner of my eye at times like this. But we go on.

Some have grown: I glance across at Ecgwine, who has his arm round a certain young British lass, and grin at them, remembering our first raid, and the punch I landed afterwards. It earns me a couple of smiles back, which amuses me afresh, since they don't know why.

And then there's the Young Wolf. He's taken up his customary position, leaning against a roof-post with a mug of ale in hand, watching us. He catches my eye, nods, a quick smile, and pushes off, to bang the mug on the table a couple of times. The room goes quiet.

"Linnius is ours!" Good lad, start with the obvious. It gets him a raucous cheer. "But we're not done yet. There are richer lands for the taking to the south." More cheers. "But for now..." He reaches into a pouch, tosses coins to Theobald. "For now we winter here." A grin at Beornwulf. "No more tithes to Wulfhere." More coins to the hearthguard. "We build our own steading, draw more warriors to us..."

They cheer. Start chanting his name. And something else. Even Ecgwine, a king's son, and Beornwulf, a king's bastard.

"Cyning! Cyning!"

King.

"To Britain's Shores" - Chapter 8 part 1 - "If Only I Could"

"You want them to do what?" I stared at Ecgwine, who, damn him, was grinning from ear to ear. "They're not going to agree."

"They will if you or Aelfric ask them, Godric." 

I looked between him and that maddeningly smart British woman of his. "This your idea or hers?"

Lavinia ran a hand through raven-dark hair. Smiled that winning, innocent smile she knows I can't resist, damn her. "His."

I sighed. "Let's go talk to Aelfric."

The Young Wolf was leaning against a tree, looking across at the walls of Linnius, where a number of Britons were nervously watching back at us. Without looking round, he asked, "How long do you think, Godric?"

I shrugged. It was early summer, and (unlike the couple of months of rain after the battle when we'd spent the time looking like half-drowned rats) not a bad time to be camped outside the city. "Weeks? Months? Depends on how stubborn that Tribune of theirs is."

He nodded. Then looked round, took in the three of us. "Ecgwine. Lavinia." A pause. "You wanted something." Not a question.

I sighed, and let Ecgwine explain.

And so it was that every damn morning, for the rest of the summer, every man of us spent half an hour running up the nearest hill out of sight of the Saxons, fully dressed for battle. For the first week or so, I would have been ready to make a deal with the Christian God to get out of it. Or kill the brat and his woman, smile or no, if I could have lifted a finger to by the end of the half hour.

By the time I could do it without feeling like my lungs were going to explode, I think we'd all figured out that, damn him, he had a point.

"To Britain's Shores" - Chapter 7 part 2 - the Battle of Heatham Wold

Part 2: Battle

I grab a spear off Theobald, who usually carries several. At least I can wield it two-handed if my wrist isn't up to swinging a sword. Aelfric leads the way at an easy lope round the far side of the woods. "If they come our way, we're in trouble...", I point out.

He nods. "Aye. But they won't." A grin, and he taps the side of his nose. "Like I told you. They're over fond of that shieldwall of theirs, and they'll want to make us fight them uphill with numbers on their side. And they think we're a bunch of crazy heathens who'll just charge their front."

His confidence is infectious. I flex my wrist against its tight strapping, wince a bit. "But we'll still have to fight them on the hill."

Aelfric just grins. "Sure. But fighting on three sides at once, their shieldwall's not worth much."

---

"Be careful." 

I smile at Ecgwine. He always says that now: it's something of a ritual between us. "You too. May the Christ watch over you." I touch my fingers to my lips, to the cross I'd given him, now hanging from a thong round his neck, then bend to pick up my bow and quiver, and start walking. No goodbyes. It would be an admission that we might not be coming back. "Sithric, Marcus, Wulfstan, to me." We set off at a quick run to the stone circle, Beornwulf's band and Cormac's group of shirtless, blue-painted spearmen to our left, Ecgwine's larger group to our right. It's a measure of how much he's gone up in Aelfric's sight that he has a dozen or more under him now, and old Theobald isn't needed to mind him any more.  

Wulfstan, the youngest of the three, pauses as we step inside the circle of upright, mossy grey stones, turns back to look at me, eyes wide. "Is this safe, Lavinia?"

I've been wondering the same, but I'm not about to let on, make my voice firm and sure. "The Christ is stronger than the old gods." Not that it stops me making the sign of the cross when Wulfstan turns away. After all, if He's stronger, how come the Saex and their thunder God are beating the Christian Britons? 

We take up positions using the overgrown stones as cover, wait. Up onto the hill come the Britons' hearthguard, strong, tall, with spears, shields with Christ's symbols on. I choose a shaft, touch fingers to my cross and then its point, nock it, take in a breath and draw, slow and even as old Sextus taught me. Sithric and I loose at about the same time, the others a heartbeat or two later, and two of the Britons stumble and fall, one clutching at an arrow in his throat.  

"Fine shootin', for sure, lass..." Cormac, skirting the edge of the woods to our left with his little knot of javelinmen, blue and white striped trews clearly visible amid the undergrowth.  

I just grin at him, wait for another target, but the Britons look alarmed, one pointing at us, and begin to edge back.  Beornwulf's men move across our line of sight, joining up with Ecgwine's, and when next I have chance to look across one of the wild Irishmen is down, the rest hurling their light spears at the Britons' archers before skirting further along the edge of the wood. I beckon to my little group. "To me: across to the woods..." It'll give us a better line of sight on the hill, and besides, I might be able to do something for the downed Irishman. 

---

We skirt the woods at an easy, ground-eating pace, till Aelfric holds up a hand. "Hold. Listen."

Theobald snorts. "Don't hear anything much. Do you, Godric?"

I grin, as it dawns on me. "No. And you won't. The plan's working." No Britons crashing through the woods towards us, and more importantly, no sounds of battle. "They won't come off the hill now..."

---

I reach the spot where the Irishman fell: too late. An arrow has taken him just to the left of the breastbone, a clean shot that dins those blue eyes for ever. I kneel and close them, and settle in a crouch. The British archers, none much older than Sithric, are up on the hill across an open slope, and I duck as an a arrow feathers the tree about an armspan above my head. I have never liked this - the big warriors rarely carry bows, and consider us a nuisance as much as anything. Their lads, on the other hand, seem to consider being shot at by a girl some kind of personal insult. If they but knew. But then, even Wulfhere doesn't, nor Ecgwine...

To our right, Beornwulf's group stand their ground at the bottom of the slope. He brandishes his spear, raps it against his shield. "Odin. Odin." The warriors take up the chant and the rhythm, almost a low taunting rumble like thunder, a rhythmic beating of metal on wood. Above them, the banner old Martha fashioned, the grey wolf Fenris, flaps in the breeze. On the hill, the Briton's little Lord, Maximus, fingers his sword and glares, shifting from foot to foot.

---

Now I can hear it, a steady chanting. Aelfric grins, sidesteps round one of the trees. "Ready?"

Last time he asked me that I got my wrist sprained. "Always." I heft the spear I've borrowed from Theobald experimentally. "Let's go."

We fetch up at the edge of the wood, to find their Tribune[1], his hearthguard ... rather fewer of them than I expected, to tell the truth... and some warriors, formed upslope of us on the hill. Aelfric grabs my shoulder. "Wait..." Out of the corner of my eye I see Cormac's Irish, and Lavinia and her little band of bowmen, further along the treeline, arrows and javelins finding the Briton's archers, the last of whom drops as I watch.  The Young Wolf raps his sword on his shield, takes up Beornwulf's chant. "Odin... Odin..."

The Britons' resolve breaks first, whether because their Tribune waves them forward or because they don't want to stand up on the hill and get shot at I don't know, but they charge downslope to where we're waiting on the edge of the wood, yelling and screaming as they come. Just fine by me - I'd rather brace a spear with two hands than swing a sword with one right now. It's touch and go for a moment, but we hold fast, and they start to falter. "NOW!" roars Aelfric, and we countercharge: I don't care if my wrist hurts, as the hearthguard break and flee before us as we run up the hill. 

--

"What now?" I ask. as we survey the hill top. 

There's a goodly number of dead Britons, but the rest have fled, our taunts in their ears as they run for the safety of their town. Cormac, and some of our lads, are going over the bodies for their weapons and armour. The former seems to be engaged in a discussion with Ecgwine and Lavinia over whether the latter is going to take a rather fine red cloak one of the Britons was wearing. Aelfric picks up a sword, weighs it in his hand with a thoughtful frown, tosses it to me hilt-first. I almost miss the catch, left-handed. "Try that. Nice workmanship, and better balanced than your old cleaver."

I make a face. "I happen to like my old cleaver, thank you." He's right though. Much easier on the wrist. "That wasn't what I meant."

The Young Wolf looks over to where the walls of the Britons' city are visible in the distance. "We wait it out. Keep them from getting aid, and they'll surrender to us in time."

[1] Yes, I know Andrucius is now a Praefect. Godric doesn't. :D

"To Britain's Shores" - Chapter 7 part 1 - The Battle of Heatham Wold

[I figure this morning's post doesn't really count. So here's part one of the in-character side of Monday night's first actual battle (rather than raid) in Andy and my Dux Britanniarum campaign. Enjoy. Especially the second narrator.]

Part 1: Pre-Battle

"Today..." 

I swear, you could hear Aelfric's voice the other side of the Humbre back in Petvaria. It's not that he's shouting as much as he knows how to make it carry.

"Today, we bring the British to BATTLE!"

The roar from our assembled warband damn near blows me off my feet. We're on the down side of one of the wooded hills that dot the region of Linnius, and Aelfric (with a little help from the scop Oswulf) has them more than ready to go up against the British. He's let it be known he's looking for allies, and a small group of men from one of the lands to the West, who have been moving from steading to steading looking for chances to take on the Britons, have joined us, led by a wild-eyed, huge bull of a man called Cormac. I hope to Odin they scare the British, because, by Thor, they worry me!

"What do you want, Saex?" It's one of their leaders, from near the top of the hill. I'm not quite sure at this distance, but it could be that Geraint. "Caer Lind Colon is well defended. It's not yours for the taking."

Adric laughs. "Send us your champion, and we'll see..."

Uhoh. 

He claps me on the shoulder. "Ready?"

What in Hel's name am I supposed to say when my Lord asks that question? No?

Me and their champion step into the stone circle. He's about my height, a red cloak, shield with a symbol of their Christ-God and a sword over mail. I salute him with my own blade. "I am Godric, champion of the Drohtin Aelfric, the right hand of the Young Wolf." My mouth is oddly dry. "We fight to the death, or till either calls quarter or sets a foot outside the circle." 

He returns the salute. "Bedwyr of the swift sword, son of Emrys of the Saxon Shore, slayer of Franks, Goths and Burgundians, protector of the legacy of Rome..."

I can't resist goading him, just to set him aback and not thinking straight. "Not doing a very good job of that last, are you?"

It's an ugly fight. I go in fast and hard to try and catch him off balance, but he's a wily fox. In other times, other places, he'd not be bad to have at my back, truth be told. He gets the edge and keeps it, nicking me as often or more so as I do him, backing me up against one of the stones and using his shield as a weapon as much as he does his sword. 

In the end he catches me with the rim of his shield with an outward sweep that jars my wrist and knocks my sword arm aside, and brings his own up to swing down. And that's the point at which I start to realise I'm getting too old for this game. I sidestep, forcing him to change his hacking downswing into a long cross cut or risk smacking his blade into the stone as he steps forward. Without a pause, I risk a very quick glance behind me and take a half pace back. 

The blade passes about a handsbreadth from my chest, and there's an audible groan from our lads as they see where my back foot is. I smile at him. "Yours. Well fought." He's at best sprained my wrist, and at worst broken it, and it hurts like the Christian Devil himself, but I'm not going to let on.

---

"Let me see." I'm probably the only person apart from Lord Aelfric who can get away with bullying Godric, but it's clear that wrist is hurting him as he walks back to our lines, so I set my bow and quiver down and hold out a hand to him. 

"Stop fussing," he growls, but offers me the wrist anyway, gingerly. "No time for that."

Ecgwine claps him on the shoulder, laughing. "Let her. She will, come what may, and you know it."

Godric hrmphs. "And which of us is the man Lavinia has under her thumb, mm? Not me." 

"It won't take long." I prod and push at it a little, watch his reactions, note when he winces, and as importantly when he doesn't. I've done this for ages with everything from Wulfhere's prized hound to old Martha's nephew after he came off a horse, and I can tell... "Not broken. Sithric? One of those strips of cloth."  

Sithric has a bag with a few things to tend wounds that I gave him to carry, him and the other two lads, and hurries to hand me one. "This do?" 

"That's fine." I smile, which I know will be reward enough for his teenage blood, and set to quickly strapping Godric's wrist good and tight. 

---

Aelfric eyes me up and down after the lass has tended to my wrist, quirks a questioning eyebrow, which I take as the unspoken question of whether I'm fit to fight. So I just nod, and he nods back. "Good."

Beyond him, I can see the glitter of spear points through the trees as the main body of the Britons hurry towards us. "Here they come."

Aelfric nods. "Good." Raising his voice. "Ecgwine, Beornwulf - to the foot of the slope. Hold them there, don't attack till we do. Hearthguard, with me." He grins at me. "British. They're too fond of that wall of shields of theirs. They'll try and defend the hill, even if it isn't their best option."

"To Britain's Shores" - Chapter 6 - The Baggage Train

"D'you hear that?"

Odin's balls, but that lass has keen ears. We're flat on our faces on the edge of a wood near one of the Britons' forts, me, Aelfric, Edgwine, Lavinia, and half a dozen of the hearthguard, and behind us further back in the woods are Beornwulf and the rest of the lads. I'm damned if I can hear anything, and equally I'll be damned if I let her know that. "Aye. Can't make out what it is, though," I lie.

She frowns, a crease between dark brows. "Sounds like a wagon. More than one." 

Ecgwine tilts his head, listening, nods. "Aye." 

Blasted kids. Aelfric works his way back a little deeper into the woods. "We'll take them, if they're light enough guarded. And remember, we're here for the gold, not the killing." 

I grin at him, "This time."

---

We come running out of the woods towards the Britons, yelling and screaming at the top of our lungs. There's a moment when I glance over my shoulder and realise that the rest of the lads are a bit further behind than I'd really like, but Aelfric grabs my arm, points to the gap between the nearest group of Britons and a patch of bare rocky ground: "Go for the wagons!" And he's off, the rest of us hard on his heels, cries of "Odin! Odin and the Young Wolf!" as we barrel past the startled bunch of British warriors, who I notice are headed up by that Geraint we had as hearthguest a while back.  

The drover of the middle wagon stares, wide-eyed at me and the spear I have levelled at him. "That way..." I jerk my thumb over my shoulder, back where we just came from. He swallows, nods repeatedly and rapidly, and tugs on the lead rope. The oxen hauling the cart don't know or care about allegiance: they just go where he leads, and self-preservation wins out over loyalty. 

"On me. Charge!" Aelfric again, turning to our right, where, joy of joys, Geraint has formed up his men to face Beornwulf and most of the rest of the lads. Caught between Fenris and and the Midgard serpent, he is: we're behind his flank, and their wall of shields is a cumbersome and slow thing to turn. It's swift and bloody, half his men gone in next to no time. About then, though, their big Lord orders his personal guard up and into us. They fight hard, no doubt about that: I manage to lay a blade on him, but it's clear after a moment or two they have the beating of us, and we fall back. 

I have to say, Aelfric looks remarkably little bothered by that, or by the couple of arrows from Lavinia and her little band that whistle past a shade closer than I'm comfortable with. He grins at me, savage like the wolf they've named him for, nods at the scattered few lads from our group running for the safety of the woods. "Never mind them. We've got this." Voice raised. "Beornwulf! NOW!" 

Beyond Beornwulf I can see Ecgwine urging a group of warriors into the woods after some of the Britons, and beyond that their fort, and their little man leading a bunch of their levy towards us. Too little. too late. The thought amuses me, and Aelfric's laughter is infectious: we've done our bit, and watch as Beornwulf at the head of a dozen screaming warriors and the rest of our hearthguard charge in. Their Lord's guard back away, and our lads crash into what's left of Geraint's force. It's a messy, protracted scrap: Aelfric, damn him, just leans on his spear and watches, apparently unconcerned, just nods once as the Britons finally waver and withdraw. Another glance at me, and an almost boyish grin. "Got them now."

---

He's still grinning back at Wulfhere's steading, and when we're done unloading the loot, he raps his spear on the dais, thrice, hard. 

Silence.

"This..." A handful of gold and silver, held up for them all to see. "This was what we came for. British gold. Caesar's gold." That savage smile. "Our gold." He tosses that handful to Theobald. reaches for another. "They'll be sorely hurt. We raid again, while they lick their wounds. But then...." Another handful of gold to another of the hearthguard, "Then we bring them to battle. Then, we take their lands!"

The shout goes up, as he scatters gold, even-handed, amid the rest of the hearthguard, and, I notice, tosses a purse to the scop Oswulf. "Aelfric! Aelfric! Young Wolf!" And then, first one, then another, till every throat raises the same chant. "Drohtin! Drohtin!" Warlord, they name him. 

I look across at Wulfhere the Red, sat on his great chair, impassive, that huge axe he favours across his knees. And the old fox just nods at me, approving, perhaps, as the chant rings in the beams and rafters of his hall. "Drohtin! Drohtin!" 

He's seen this day coming. 

"To Britain's Shores" - Chapter 5 - "To success..."

It didn't feel right on the trip across the Humbre, not having Leofric in the stern, roaring with laughter and cursing the Britons with a brimming horn of mead. I think we all sensed it, and felt the wrongness of having a relative stranger, Beornwulf, sat there. Give him his due, he figured it out for himself pretty quick, and tapped Ecgwine on the shoulder, sat on the bench in front of him. "Swap."

Ecgwine glanced round. "Me?"

"You." It wasn't Beornwulf but Theobald. "How many does this trip make now, lad?"

He frowned. "Six, I think."

Theobald snorted. "Get your scrawny arse up in the stern where you belong, then."

I glanced across at Aelfric, who caught my eye and grinned. 

---

"Remember," Aelfric ordered, as we headed for the little village under the eaves of a long low hill, "We're not here for vengeance. Not yet."

He'd made that point enough times in the last couple of months that I'm pretty sure we'd all got the message. Much as I think each and every one of us wanted, very badly, to take down that Tribune of theirs, send him to his Christ-God, I think we'd all come to appreciate that we'd get that chance in good time. For now, we needed to strike fast, hard, and humiliate them.

For once, Odin be praised, it all went how it was supposed to. We were in the village almost before they'd raised the alarm, and our warbands set to ransacking buildings. Ecgwine and the lads took up a spot on the hill, and sure enough - there were the big Tribune and a band of Britons. I looked across at Aelfric as we ran to the last of the small knot of buildings. "What now?"

He grinned, wolflike. "We keep looking. Ecgwine knows what to do. So does Beornwulf...."

---

"I swear," Ecgwine has a horn of mead in his hand, "They didn't know which way to turn." He takes a swig, wipes his mouth and grins. "So he's chased off the hearthguard... and Beornwulf backs up to join with us in the village. The big Tribune turns his men back to head for the other end of the village, where the rest of you are... so we pop out from round the church again behind him." 

Lavinia's curled up at her man's feet. Her little group of archers - make no bones about it, after the last couple of months they're most definitely hers now - lost one today, a lad by the name of Eadulf, a messy kill from one of theirs. She still has his blood on her shirt from trying to save him. Right now, though, she's watching Ecgwine, something akin to pride in dark eyes, as young Sithric pipes up, "You missed the best bit."

"How so?" asks Ecgwine.

Sithric grins, enjoying being the centre of attention for once for the right reason, rather than some youthful transgression. "You showed up behind him. So the Tribune turned round again - we could just see him between their ranks from where we were,. And then Aelf... the Lord here yells out for us to get going, and he turns back to that, then back again...  Honest truth, he must have spun round three times on the spot, slammed his sword back in his sheath, and he looked fit to boil over!"

Aelfric grins that wolfish grin of his. "Good. Let's see if we can't make him look a bigger fool next time." He raises his own drinking horn. "To success!!"

As the gathering gets rowdier, I lean across to him. "Planning on sharing out some of the treasure?"

He considers it, longer than I expect him to. "No. Not this time. One more raid. I want to be sure there's enough left in case we have to tithe to Wulfhere again this coming winter."

"To Britain's Shores" - Interlude - "A sword passed..."

We got royally drunk again that evening - it only seemed right to be roaring drunk on such a night. One of the men who came over with Beornwulf was a Scop - a poet. Oswulf was his name, hair blond as the grain, with a fine, small lyre that he made good use of. He walked among us a lot that day, listening, drawing out stories as he had been the previous evening, until, as one of those occasional lulls settled on us, he stepped up onto one of the tables and declaimed, in a ringing voice:

"Ale-drinker, armsman, axe of the Saxons;
Warrior, wine-stealer, wencher and friend.
Faced down his foes, fearless and taunting,
Time upon time bringing treasure to his Lord. 

"Springtime's sun rose on this son of the barrel;
Cheerful companion, cousin to Wulfhere.
Horn raised to heaven, held brimming with bloodwine,
Roaring, rejoicing at the rout he would bring. 

"Britons beheld him, bravest of Saxons:
A dozen of Duguth, drawn up for the fight.
Declaiming defiance, to danger unheeding,
To fen-bound foemen forward he strode.
Bright the blade of this boldest of warriors,
Spear thrust sharp, striking the Tribune,
Undaunted, unwavering, up to the foeman,
Heedless of hurt, insults hurling, he fought.
Sword and spear clashing, sparks in the dawn's light
Leofric last of the liegemen to fall. 

"Ale-drinker, armsman, axe of the Saxons;
Warrior, wine-stealer, wencher and friend.
Fell facing the foe, fearless in death,
Home now in Odin's halls, hero now mourned."

Aelfric turned to me after a moment or two, asked, quietly, "What do you think of Beornwulf?"

I arched an eyebrow, shrugged a little, then answered the question he really wanted answered. "He'd do."

"To Britain's Shores" - Chapter 4 part 2 - "Taking Ship To Valhalla"

"Where's Leofric?" It was, surprisingly, Lavinia who asked, flushed and a little breathless from our run. She and the lads, at least, had had some success, managing to find some pickings in one of the farm buildings before we'd left.

I leant on my sword, still trying to catch my breath from the hasty retreat Aelfric had called from being pretty much surrounded by most of the British force. It had started off well - Ecgwine's little group had headed for the village at speed, and the British had, it seemed, been off on a patrol elsewhere, as a group of them headed by the Tribune Andrusius (him, again) turned up the wrong side of a copse of trees and some marshy ground. Aelfric left Leofric's group of warriors to jump them as they cleared the marsh, and he and I and the hearthguard headed for the farm, expecting more Britons to meet us there. 

The last I saw, or rather heard, of Leofric was him taunting the British at the top of his lungs as they struggled out of the marsh, a glance over my shoulder as we headed for the village. We turned once we'd got there to charge another group of Britons, led by that short Decurio of theirs - Maximus Minimus, I think his name was. Should have been easy pickings for us - we've fought his lads before and they're the rawest of the Britons. Time was the killer, though - we took too long dealing with them, by which time their big Tribune and their man Geraint joined in the fight, and ... well, frankly, I was too busy making sure that Aelfric, Beornwulf and I kept our heads attached to our shoulders to worry about anything else. Beornwulf is more than useful with that blade of his - he and Aelfric wrought some serious havoc amongst the Tribune's men, but in the end, the fact we were outnumbered two to one and surrounded on three sides was always going to be our undoing.

"Where's Leofric?" Lavinia asked again, a little more urgently this time, pushing a strand of damp hair off her face.

Aelfric opened his mouth to answer, before the sound of cracking branches caused him to turn. It was Theobald, grizzled old Theobald, who this time out had decided Ecgwine was becoming man enough not to need babysitting, and returned to his usual post at Leofric's left shoulder.

It was Theobald, carrying a mail-shirted, bloodied body across his shoulders, himself likewise bloodied and bruised. He let it slide from his shoulders to the ground, staggered and reached for a tree for support.

Leofric.

Aelfric looked across at me for just a second, stricken, a silence broken by a choked-off sob from Lavinia, before he drew a long breath. "Beornwulf, Godric, take him." He strode across to Theobald, lending the veteran his shoulder for support as we picked up the lifeless body of Leofric, and for a moment the Young Wolf sounded old beyond his years. "Take him home."

---

We got spectacularly drunk that night, and shared tales of Leofric until the sun rose. Wulfhere had us all howling with laughter at a story involving a very drunk Leofric (strangely enough, a lot of those stories involved Leofric bring very drunk!), a peasant girl and two pigs. Apparently, both the pigs were better looking, according to Leofric - either way, Lavinia turned an interesting shade of pink by the time the tale was concluded. Even more so when we started speculating on what he'd be getting up to in Valhalla.

As the sun came up, Aelfric came and sat by me, offering his drinking horn. I shook my head. "Had enough?"

I nodded. "More than."

He leant back against the wall. "My fault."

I shook my head. "He knew the risks."

"Maybe. Theobald thinks it's his fault for not protecting him better." Aelfric contemplated his horn, shrugged, and with a decisive move tipped it out onto the floor of the hall. "But I was stupid to think they could take on that damn Tribune and his men without us."

"No you weren't. He had the edge on them coming out of the marsh. If it had gone like it should have, we'd have taken that damn dwarf as well, before we got surrounded."

"But it didn't." Aelfric looked across at me, asked, quietly, "Godric?"

"Mm?" I had a feeling I knew what was coming.

"Am I fit to lead us?"

I sighed. Told you. "Yes. They'd follow you anywhere, and you know it." I frowned, tried to clear my head of the mead I'd downed earlier. "Give up now and we might as well not have come here in the first place, and we make his death, all the others, a waste."

He nodded, soberly, looked down, away. "Maybe you're right."

I gripped his shoulder, made him look back at me. "I am right. You keep me around to be right. Even when you wish I wasn't." 

---

We gave him a fitting pyre, the body laid out atop a stack of dry wood on one of Wulfhere's boats on the estuary shore, his sword, his shield, his favourite drinking horn and a whole barrel of Wulfhere's best mead among the things we laid with him. We pushed him out into the current, and at a signal from Aelfric, several of the younger lads let fly with flaming arrows.

As we watched the flames grow, and the current take the burning boat, I asked Aelfric, "What would you have done if they'd missed?"

He grinned a little. "Swum out and lit it myself. Leofric would have loved that. Anyway, it was Beornwulf's idea. Seemed to think it was an appropriate thing to do, and he was raised by a priest."

I glanced across to where bows were being unstring, noted one head of long dark hair. "At least you knew one of them would hit."

"To Britain's Shores" - Chapter 4 - "New Recruits"

I can't decide whether I hate winter or not. There's a part of me wants to get out there and have another go at the British, but Wulfhere the Red keeps a fine hall, with a blazing fire that never goes out, good company, fine mead... the only risk, as the Young Wolf keeps reminding is, is that we go soft and out of shape.  Which I guess is why we've had any number of mock fights with some of Wulfhere's lads: a bunch of bloody noses and the odd broken rib and arm, but it keeps us hard and strong.

One of the new arrivals over the winter was Wulfhere's bastard son, Beornwulf. With a name like that - Strong Wolf, Wolf Prince - you'd expect him maybe to be built like his father, tall as one of the standing stones in Linnius and twice as wide, but far from it. He's lean, wiry, not that much taller than Ecgwine's lass Lavinia, though he does have his father's fiery hair. Far as I can tell, Wulfhere sired him on a peasant lass in Germany after his first raid, Odin-knows how many years ago,  and... well, basically, Beornwulf's got where he is today on his own with no help from his father. The reunion was a little frosty, but he brought half a dozen men with him, and he's pretty useful with a blade. His men call him the Righteous. I guess we'll find out why sooner or later: he certainly prays to Thor and Odin a lot.

Anyway. Come spring, I was doing my usual morning walk to clear my head (Wulfhere's mead is strong stuff), and I came across a bunch of the young lads shooting at trees with their bows, and with them, who but Lavinia, in a man's leggings and a leather shirt. So I found myself a trunk to lean against just out of sight, and watched for a while. Girl's good. In fact, she's a better shot than most of the lads. Something tells me there's going to be trouble there. 

---

A week later, and we're headed for the Britons' lands again. Ecgwine's sulking, mostly because his girl has tagged along with the lads with her bow, and made it very clear that she's not to be dissuaded. The lads are teasing him about who wears the breeches in that partnership: appealing to Aelfric didn't work, either, as the Young Wolf shrugged and said, basically, "your woman: you deal." Beornwulf seems amused by this - he's coming along as well, as part of Aelfric's hearthguard, which is good, as I want him somewhere where I can keep an eye on him. Not, of course, that I'm going to tell him that's because his father asked me to.

"I thought you said," observes Aelfric, just a little tartly, as we cross the little stream and range out between the two woods that bracket a trail, "that the village was in the valley."

I strain my eyes to check in the early morning light. Several torches and fires, and movement. Some of the buildings are down in the valley, but it's clear our main goal is a knot of huts on a hill overlooking a stone circle. I shrug, as there's not a lot to do but acknowledge the fact. "I was wrong."

Aelfric treats me to one of those wolfish grins of his. "Let's go. Ecgwine? Take your men and the bows..." a nod towards where Lavinia's stringing hers, "through the woods on the right and see what you can find in the village. Quietly now. Leofric, Beornwulf, with me and Godric. Let's give them something to think about." 

Ecgwine nods, glances across at his woman, who looks up, gives her bowstring an experimental tug, and returns his look with a blankly innocent one of her own. He sighs, turns on his heel, resigned. "Let's go." And I swear she catches me looking, grins and winks at me.

"To Britain's Shores": Chapter 3 - Hostage

Wulfhere's halls are a distinctly cheerier place tonight. Apart, that is, from our... for want of a better word, let's call him our guest. The sullen British noble is sat on the floor ignoring most of the jeers and the jibes thrown his way, but he's well aware that I, if no-one else, am keeping a close eye on him.

---

We were a few hundred paces from one of the watchtowers on the borders of the British lands, when Sithric, one of the young lads who'd wheedled his way along with us, came running back through a copse of trees, breathless. "There's a British lord and his band heading for the tower over that away..."

"Keep your voice down," hissed Aelfric. A horn blast from the watch tower suggested he was too late for that advice, but it didn't appear to faze him. "Leofric, Ecgwine - take your warbands and the boys and keep the tower busy. Godric, come with me and the hearthguard." Blue eyes glittered dangerously. "We're going to catch ourselves a noble."

Evidently the Young Wolf's words after last time's fiasco hit home. We faced off a bunch of the British levy who tried to head us off, led by their little man, and they clearly didn't fancy it. Just about that time, the band of warriors Sithric had spotted appeared past a small clump of trees... as if we needed an invitation. We knew we had them when their half-hearted charge petered out a few paces short...

---

"What are...*hic* we gonna do with him?" It's Leofric, who seems to have come out of the battle unwounded - his warband laid into their Tribune and chased him off, before having a run in with the little man.

"Kill him!" comes the suggestion from several folks. I'm watching the noble for a reaction, and to his credit, he doesn't so much as flinch.

Aelfric looks round, gauging the temper of his men. Lavinia's sat by Ecgwine again, murmurs something to him, which earns her an assessing look from the princeling and a nod, and he raises his voice. "Ransom him."

I don't think Aelfric saw that coming. Leastways, I know him well enough to catch the faint arch of his brows in surprise at the young man. "Ecgwine?" he prompts.

"Ransom him." Give the lad his due, once an idea's planted in his head, he can figure out the whys and wherefores. "Killing him would dishonour us, anger them, and put our lives at risk if they were to ever capture one of us." He actually grins. "And besides, we could use the money."

Wulfhere, our host, has been listening, propped against a roof-post; rumbles, "Aye, y'could that, 'specially the amount Leofric's been drinking that needs paid for." The latter makes a rude noise, to general amusement.

Aelfric nods, once, turns to the Briton. "On your feet, you. What's your name, and your Lord's?"

He's well aware I'm watching him, is the Briton, and gets to his feet just slow enough to suggest he's doing it because he wants to. "I am Geraint. My Lord's name is no business of yours, Saex."

A soft snort. "I would do your Lord the courtesy of addressing him by name when I barter for you, Geraint." Aelfric gives him an assessing look. "I am Aelfric, son of Aelfgar, and these are my warriors."

He stiffens, does the Briton. "Our Lord is the Tribune Andrusius." Grey eyes study Aelfric. "We have many men in Caer Lind Colun - you will not prevail, Saex, and I am not a thing to be bartered."

That earns him jeers, and a few suggestions about the bravery of some of those men, before Aelfric cuts them short with a single hand gesture. I can see that, for all his sullenness, Geraint is impressed at his command of what I'm sure the Briton thinks of as an unruly mob. "We will see, will we not." He glances across at me, nods, then turns back, "Ecgwine? Come speak with me a moment."

---

And so it is that a while later, Aelfric, me, Geraint and a group of our hearthguard are back at that watchtower. Whoever's in charge up there... from this distance it looks like the little man... is smart enough to stop one of their lads from feathering one of ours with an arrow. "What do you want, Saex?"

This is my job, and I step forward, and raise my voice. "I am Godric, champion of Aelfric son of Aelfgar. He wishes to speak with the Tribune Andrusius." The Latin name sits strangely on my tongue. "Who are you, stranger?"

"I am Decurio Maximus Minimus. Why should he negotiate with you barbarians?"

One of the Gedriht obligingly pushes Geraint forward, and I raise my voice again. "Aelfric has something he may want back."

"To Britain's Shores": Chapter 2 - "The Church"

I don't think I've ever seen Aelfric this angry before.

He came back from across the river with news of a village with a church to the Britons' Christ-god, ripe for the taking, and a new wolf-skin cloak. Some of Wulfhere's men who went with him have started calling him the Young Wolf, and, truth to tell, it fits.

We came on the village just as a bunch of the Britons - I swear, the same ones we fought before: I'd recognise that short warrior of theirs in the red cloak anywhere - were moving to head us off from the west. Aelfric, me and his dozen Gedriht, the hearthguard who are his sworn bodyguard, moved to head them off, backed up by Ecgwine, Theobald and his band, while Leofric took another dozen warriors and headed for the church.

"We should have taken them." Aelfric has waited till everyone's wounds are cleaned up and bound, Lavinia and a couple of the Saxon women working their way among the tattered survivors of our band. She moves to sit by Ecgwine now she's done, rests dark hair on his shoulder. If she's upset at the desecration of her god's church by Leofric, she's smart enough to keep it to herself. Bright girl. 

His voice is deathly quiet."We should have taken them," he repeats, ice-blue eyes sweeping along the men facing him. There's a chorus of sullen assent, none of them really wanting to meet his gaze. They messed up. We messed up. I count myself as one of them, Thane's champion or not, and I'm very glad Aelfric has me stood by him right now, so I don't have to meet that look. "All you had to do... All you had to do was stand firm for long enough for Leofric to do his job. Are you not my hearthguard?"  A snort. "Are you not warriors?" Louder. "Or are you women and cowards?" 

The last time anyone used that last word in Wulfhere's hall, it was Ecgwine. Even he winces, this time, and Lavinia murmurs something to him which earns her a sharp shake of the head. Good. He's learning. 

Aelfric stalks the width of the dais. "The Atheling... the princeling..." He means Ecgwine. "...is more warrior than you are." Fair play to the lad - his warriors did stand firm against twice their number, including that Tribune with the very quick blade, for long enough to delay the Britons from getting to Leofric. He bristles a little, does the princeling, at the implied slur, though, but Lavinia stretches up, hair brushing his cheek, and whispers something in his ear that earns her a surprised look, then a nod, and he's paying a lot of attention to Aelfric now. I make a mental note to have a word with the lass sometime.

Leofric gestures with a horn brimming with wine. "But we did... heh... loot the church. Can't... argue w' the plan." 

"Barely, Leofric." The blue-eyed glare won't work on the Drunkard, and Aelfric is smart enough to realise, turns that ice-cold regard back on his Gedriht. "Barely," he repeats. Words cutting like the keen edge of a blade. "You shame me. You dishonour me, and everyone else here." 

I think every man of us would prefer it if he shouted.

"I picked you, every man of you, because you were the best, the bravest. Today you ran from a fight." There's a moment there when I think he's lost them, before he unsheathes the broadsword at his waist, jams it hard, point down, into the dais at his feet, and leans on it, hands on the hilt. Offers them a  chance at redemption. "Next time, there will be no running. Next time..." Those blue eyes scan the warriors before him, assessing, judging. "Next time there will be no cowardice. Next time there will be no dishonour." He straightens, tugging the blade loose, holds it up in an outstretched arm. "There will be a next time, and as Odin is my witness, we will prevail."