"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 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."