The Edge on the Sword (20 page)

A movement caught her eye. Closing the book, Flæd took a step forward. A tiny shadow lifted from the grass, and then another—wisps caught on the little night wind. There in front of Flæd lay the remnants of her sisters’ gift. Flæd watched the last downy bits of bulrush seed blow away from the torn cloth. Then, slowly, she shrank down to the ground and dropped her book. Curling onto her side, she laid her cheek on the tattered fabric and brought both hands up to cover her mouth, stifling sobs which would not stop.

W
ITH
A
LOUD
CRACKING
SOUND
THE
LEAD
WAGON
LURCHED
TO
one side. A splintered end of the front axle tore through the wagon bed, and Flæd and the driver were thrown into the mud as the horses plunged and the wagon twisted.

“Cut the traces!” the driver screamed, scrambling to reach the harness with his own knife. In a few moments the horses were freed, and Flæd and the thanes gathered around the ruined wagon.

“Too heavy in this mud,” said the retainer who had argued the night before and whose name, Flæd had learned, was Osric. He kicked a wheel sunk to its hub in muck, and looked around them in disgust. “We still don’t know where we are, and now we can’t move.”

“Can we save it?” Flæd asked the driver, who was emerging from beneath the wreck. The man spread his hands.

“In the burgh maybe, a wheelwright with his tools could. I can’t fix it here. The attack must have damaged it.” Flæd bit her lip, looking behind them where the other wagon waited. The five prisoners and the retainers assigned to guard them sat gloomily in the bed. Oat and Apple slouched in harness. All the surviving goods of her dowry had been loaded into this lead wagon, along with one other large, muffled bundle—Flæd’s mind still shied away from this terrible proof that her warder was lost to her.

But she would have to face it now. Somewhere in the woods around them, enemies could still be coming to overtake them. Her party would now have to shift the burden of passengers and cargo, trying not to lose even more time. Flæd spoke quietly to the driver—could the harness be altered for four horses? A new wagon tongue, he hemmed, some makeshift fastenings…She left him to it, and picked her way through the mud to stand in front of Osric.

“We need the prisoners to load the other wagon with the most valuable of these goods. You speak their language—you could direct them.”

“Yes, Lady. But who will direct us out of this forsaken place?” he said angrily. “Does any one of us know this country?”

“We travel east to Lunden,” Flæd said in a level tone. “We will follow the course of the river.”

“When we find it again,” Osric muttered, squinting into the woods around them. He glimpsed Flæd’s sober countenance, and jerked up sullenly. “All right. I will talk to the prisoners.”

“I thank you,” Flæd said without visible emotion. An inner part of her, which she was determined to show no one, was humming with nervous anger. She hated this vile sparring with Osric, who seemed to be the spokesman for most of the remaining West Saxon party. But she was forced to deal with him—her party needed every one of its remaining fighters. With the prisoners and several of the thanes now forced to go on foot, their journey would take far longer than the day’s travel they had planned. And the longer it took to reach Lunden, the more danger they faced.

When they had set out at dawn, she had told herself with as much certainty as she could muster that they would see Ethelred in a matter of hours. Now as her men began to unload the ruined wagon, Flæd looked back at the path they had followed. Silently she admitted that there was no way to tell exactly how close they were to Lunden. What if they wandered for days before they found the way?

Flæd could already see a terrible choice before her. The crowded remaining wagon and the doubtful length of their journey…nearer to Lunden, they might have been able to send Ethelred’s men back to bring her warder’s body. But now, out of room in their single wagon, unsure of their location, and not knowing when anyone might be able to return to this spot, they needed to find a way to show respect for Red. Flæd turned to Dunstan, the young retainer who had come to find her after the attack.

“Gather the men who can be spared from the work here,” she told him, “and please”—her tongue stumbled over the words—“bring…the body of the Mercian envoy.”

They buried Red in a sorry grave dug with knives and hands, and piled a cairn of stones above him when they had finished. With filthy, scraped fingers Flæd placed her last stone, and knelt looking at the resting place she had made for her guardian. She had wanted to bring his body to Lunden, so that his death could be remembered with honor and ceremony. Now she would only be able to tell Ethelred what his splendid thane had done to save her. It seemed a poor gesture in return for Red’s noble care.

As the others made their way back to the wagons, Flæd stayed for a moment. No one will see me, she thought as she laid her palm on the earth
beside her warder’s grave. A hot tear fell onto her hand and ran between her fingers into the dust, then another. She had never truly merited his loyalty. Perhaps, she told herself harshly, that was why she had lost the one friend she would have had in Mercia.

When Flæd left the little clearing, her face was scrubbed dry, her mouth set in an unmoving line. On her way she stooped one more time to pick up two dull metal rings, one smaller, and one larger, which had been carefully set aside.

With almost half its members walking, the West Saxon party travelled even more slowly, halting several times to send out riders in search of the river. Flæd had gone to check her horses’ improvised harness during one of these stops, and as she came around the wagon she heard low snatches of venomous speech.

“…never make it to Lunden before week’s end at this rate…stupid to take prisoners, should have killed them all after what they said about the envoy…call her ‘Lady,’ but curse me if I’ll follow her to my death…not her place to lead us.”

Flæd shrank back beside the wagon where the cluster of thanes could not see her. The voice was Osric’s, but the circle of listeners around him had included three battle-hardened thanes, and even one of the young retainers who had supported her last night. They’re just listening; it doesn’t mean they’re all with him, she told herself. But it was ugly and troubling to hear such things. She hadn’t even been sure she
was
their leader. I’m a person to blame when things go badly, she thought with an acid smile—that is the pleasure of my first command.

Late that afternoon they moved a little further in what they thought was the direction of the river. As night fell, two more scouts were sent to find what they could before morning, and the rest of the company drearily made camp.

Flæd had seen to her horses, and then found a place to make her bed in the growing darkness. There would be no fire on this warm night, and the party would sleep early, and rise at first light. Dunstan had arranged his things as close to her as politeness would allow, and she noted the seriousness with which the young man approached the task of guarding her. He will carry out his promise to my warder, she thought, whether I want his company or not. Anyhow, tonight she felt glad to have him nearby. The two of them ate their ration of food and drank water from a spring they had passed earlier that day.

“My father says that Lady Fortune’s wheel is like the wheels of our wagons,” Flæd spoke first, softly, so that only Dunstan could hear her. “And he says that people are arranged all around it—on the spokes, on the
rim, close to the hub. Some of us on the outside, we ride Fortune roughly, sometimes down into the mud.”

“Where we break an axle now and then, eh, Lady?” Dunstan said ruefully.

“And sometimes the rough ride takes us up into happiness and prosperity. It changes again and again. But other people,” she said, pulling her blankets closer, “ride the spokes closer to the hub, and things are never so low, or so high for them.”

“What’s at the center, Lady?”

“At the center is God, I think,” she replied, gingerly touching her still-swollen jaw. “All my life I have ridden amid the spokes, and now suddenly I am on the rim.”

“And in the mud, you are guessing?” Dunstan said, leaning to put his hand over hers. She nodded.

“There is ill will in our company.”

“They all have a duty to protect you.”

“That is the only reason they have stayed with me this far, and it will not keep them here if worse trouble comes. I want to stay alive—I want us all to stay alive.” She stood, straightening her clothes. “I should go talk to the others.” He nodded, getting up to come with her, as she had hoped he would.

Four faces stared back at her on the other side of the campsite. The two young men who she had thought might take her part again were not present. They had been assigned to watch the prisoners tonight. She would have liked to see the face of the old limping thane who had supported her the night before, but he had been chosen to ride for help—not to Lunden, as Flæd had suggested, but back to her father’s burgh. Ethelred was closer and would come sooner, she had argued. The aldorman knew they were coming, Osric had shot back, and would already be searching for them. They would double their chances by sending a messenger to Alfred, he promised his companions.

That had been her hostile conversation with these men this morning, she thought with a sinking feeling. What would they say to her after the day’s latest disasters? She drew a long breath.

“If our scouts come back without finding the river,” she began bluntly, “what should we do?”

“Several things, Lady,” Osric growled from the middle of the gathering. “Rid ourselves of the prisoners, first of all, then find ourselves some more horses, then get home.”

“We need more horses,” Flæd agreed in a guarded tone. “But as for the men we captured, Ethelred will want to question them.” She thought of
what she had heard in her father’s council room. What should she tell these retainers about the rising threat at the western border? “Ethelred and my father,” she said, choosing her words with care, “suspect that the Danes and northern Welshmen have formed an alliance. Our prisoners might know something about that.”

“Our prisoners are Danish,” Osric snorted, “stupid as oxen. I promise you none of them could speak a word of Welsh.” Flæd felt surprised. She had kept away from the captured raiders, not wanting to look at the men who had cut her warder down. Now she realized she knew almost nothing about them.

“Have they told you where they come from?”

“They won’t say much”—Osric shook his head—“but they’re straight from the north, I’d guess, from the Danelaw around Eoforwic, maybe. If you want them to talk, Lady, we could make them talk.” He smiled grimly. “I learned my share of tricks with a knife in the wars.”

“What good would that do?” Flæd demanded. “We can’t let them go—if they didn’t attack us themselves, they’d bring other raiders down on us.”

“I don’t suggest we let them go.” Osric’s voice was flat and dangerous. The men around him murmured. Flæd couldn’t tell if these were sounds of outrage or of approval.

“We are King Alfred’s men,” a voice called out beside her. “He offers his enemies an honorable death in battle, and fair treatment after capture, not murder. We will not kill men held helpless among lis.” Flæd had almost forgotten Dunstan was there. Grateful for his words, she swallowed nervously, but she did not break off the level gaze she had aimed at Osric.

“Ethelred must question these men,” she said as forcefully as she could. “The Danes will come with us in the morning. If our scouts have found no sign of the river, we will look for a farmstead, where a churl may sell us food and horses. Is this acceptable to you?” There was no reply. With effort Flæd maintained the firm set of her mouth as she surveyed the firelit faces a last time. “We will see what morning brings,” she ended, knowing that the words sounded as feeble as she felt.

“They are not with us,” Flæd muttered as she and Dunstan settled down for the night.

“They are afraid, but they will see that your plan is right,” Dunstan said with assurance. Flæd pillowed her head on her arm, wishing she could believe him. Fortune’s wheel, she remembered. I am still down in the mud.

The man who came running in the grey light of dawn forgot to hail them, and Dunstan was on his feet with drawn sword before the thane could gasp out his first words.

“They’re gone, Lady!”

“Who is gone?” Dunstan gripped the retainer’s arm as Flæd struggled up.

“The prisoners, Lady”—the thane twisted around—“and Osric is dead.”

“G
ET
UP
!” F
LÆD
STRODE
WITH
D
UNSTAN
AMONG
THE
MEN
, rousting them out of their sleep. She grasped another man’s shoulder to shake him awake and drew a sharp breath of surprise as one of the two young retainers turned his bleary face to her. “Why are you here?” she demanded. “Why did you leave the prisoners?”

“Osric took our watch,” came his mumbled reply, “told us to get some rest.” So this was how it had begun, Flæd realized.

“Get your things together,” she told him, moving on to the next sleeper: “We have to leave.”

With the man who had brought the bad news following along behind them, Flæd and Dunstan went to view the wagon where the prisoners had been kept.

“They were bound up, and then tied to the wheels,” the man was saying. “We only ever let one free at a time to eat or piss.”

“How did you know to check them this morning?” Flæd said, confronting the retainer. “Was it your watch?”

“No, Lady,” the man whispered. “I knew he was going to them.”

“You mean Osric?”

He nodded, eyes on his boots. “He went to find out whatever it was you said the king and the aldorman needed to know. He said it was the only way to get you safe to Lunden.” Flæd let out a groan. Osric had thought to serve her best by going against her, and he had paid an appalling price. Beneath the wagon they found his body where it had rolled into a pool of bloody mud.