The Edge on the Sword (24 page)

Coming out of the tunnel ahead of her front riders, she pushed swiftly through the brush which choked the forgotten exit. She could still hear the shouts of the enemy, but now another rhythm had joined those sounds….

With a shock she recognized the echo of a ram pounding against the fortress wall. She twisted in the saddle to look back—the half-ruined defenses could not possibly withstand such an assault for more than a few blows.
The driver who stayed inside, will he be ready? Will any of it work as we planned?
Time, she thought blindly as she kicked her horse into a gallop, we’ve run out of time.

And they had. Flæd heard the old bridge they had used to block the entrance give way with a creaking and snapping of wood. She and her riders had all left their secret exit now, and were circling around to the other side of the fortress, where the path led up the hill to the main entrance. The girl leaned into the swerve of Apple’s gallop as she and her riders burst onto the path. The horses slowed a little as they began to climb toward the gateway, where the enemy would have massed, and Flæd gathered her limbs to urge Apple forward. She could almost see the entrance of the fortress. Suddenly Dunstan was beside her, clutching at her horse’s bridle.

“Lady,” said her second in command in a strained undertone as he fought to calm their two horses while the rest of the company raced forward and passed them, “we agreed that you would not risk yourself in battle!”
But I brought this on all of you! I brought us here! I stirred the raiders like a nest of wasps! I should ride first to save us, or be punished!
But Dunstan was right, Æthelflæd forced herself to acknowledge, reining in her horse. They had agreed, yesterday, as he said. Remembering this did not make it any easier to stop, while her little band stormed into the fight.

“Go,” she hissed. “I’ll meet you when it is done.” Dunstan wheeled and charged after the others.
I will meet you if any of you …if any of us live.

Flæd turned Apple off the path, heading for the stone outcropping she and Dunstan had spoken of when he made her promise not to fight if the raiders attacked. Both of them remembered noticing a massive ridge of rock as they looked down from the top of the fortress. It jutted out of the ground just ten paces or so away from the main route up the hill, Dunstan had explained, and Flæd had nodded. She knew just the spot. It was surrounded by small trees and other growth, and Flæd and Dunstan had judged it a place where a horse and rider could stand unseen. At the same time, a person hiding there could stay close to the path for a quick escape, if needed.

Sliding off her horse, Flæd led him into the shadow of the rocks where she had agreed to wait. Almost immediately the smell of smoke surrounded her. It had begun. She closed her eyes, picturing the scene inside the fortress.

The driver we left behind has set fire to the brush we piled in the entrance and splashed with my dowry mead. The raiders are burning and afraid—they forced their way into the middle of our flimsy barrier and met flames when they had expected a group of frightened thanes and a girl, easily taken. They panic. Some struggle back through the entrance, where my men are waiting to cut them down. Then
—what? A more equal fight for her men, she hoped, still closing her eyes and hugging her arms around her body. A serious blow dealt to the Danish raiding party, and maybe survival for the West Saxons. Something better than helpless death like cornered animals.

Flæd listened to the rising sound of battle at the fortress. She still felt fear at these noises.
But those are my men, who followed my instructions to the end of their strength, who rode out wounded and tired and few, because I ordered it, and because they think they will save me.

And I am useless, Flæd thought to herself. This could not have been what Red meant when he spoke of preparing herself, could it? Even when the world around her was not what she wanted, Red had said, it was her duty to remain polished, sharp, and strong—to be a shield at the ready, a point on the spear, the edge on the sword. Now she stood, ready in her place, and that place was in a shadow behind a rock.

Flæd cringed as an awful cry split the air above the shouts and clanging.
One of the raiders? One of my men, even Dunstan?
The sounds were so close, but there was no way to know unless she could see. Flæd beat her hand against the stones that hid her.

She waited, racked, as the fight went on, until at last she could bear it no longer.
I have to look.
With fumbling fingers she looped Apple’s reins up close around a branch, and pushed his big body as close to the rocks as he would go. It would be very hard to spot him as long as he stayed still. She left her sword and shield hanging on the saddle, taking only her knife. They would catch in the undergrowth as she tried to go stealthily, and she was only going to look. She crept toward the path.

A hellish light glowed over the fortress walls—the brush was still burning inside. There was chaos at the gate, where the raiders had bridged the trench with rough poles. As she watched, a few of them stumbled out of the gate, coughing and struggling with the difficult footing of their bridge. Those who did not fall into the gap disappeared into the brawling mass of mounted fighters and men on foot at the other side of the ditch.

Flæd lay there on her belly, trying to make out her own men in the moonlight, wondering if this was the time to flee to the river, as she and Dunstan had agreed she must.
Dunstart said it was my duty to save myself, that I must live to save Mercia and Wessex from Siward’s pillaging.
But she stayed, and strained to see.

Someone was running. Flæd groped forward for a better view. Were her people in retreat? No, these looked like two raiders straggling off toward the woods. She turned back to the battle site. A small group of fighters had clustered together. They were stooped close to the ground and no longer raised their swords to meet the blows that flashed in the surrounding crowd. As Flæd watched, another man knelt with them, and another. What was happening? All around the battlefield weapons began to clatter to the ground—the kneeling men must be raiders, Flæd realized as their numbers surpassed the pitiful tally of her own thanes. Mercy, they were asking for mercy!

Æthelflæd’s elation died away as she counted the figures standing and on horseback. Only five? There might have been nine if the driver who had stayed to light the fires had been able to join the skirmish. She thought there were at least a dozen kneeling raiders. Would they still submit when they saw that they had been routed by so few? Her men needed her—she could join them and seize one of the dropped swords. Careless of the branches that snapped around her, Flæd stood and ran into the road, heading up the hill.

Without warning her body collided with something dark and moving. Thrown backward, she hit the mud, thudding so hard it knocked the breath out of her. With a wheeze she forced a tiny amount of air into her lungs as the black shape heaved up off the road and came toward her. An excruciating grip closed upon her arm.

“Alfred’s daughter,” said a ravaged voice. A hand grasped Flæd’s other arm, and she was yanked against the body of the figure who held her. The moon showed singed hair, hard eyes, a face twisted with the pain of a fresh burn across one cheek. An acrid smell of smoke rose from her captor’s clothes. “My men say the spirits turn against them, but look, they smile on me.”

Siward.
Flæd kicked against his legs and tried to shove herself away from his chest. She cried out as the man wrenched her arms violently behind her.

“Quiet, Alfred’s daughter,” he rasped, bringing the burnt-hair stench of his face nearer. “I have you. Now that doesn’t matter.” He jerked his head to indicate the battle at the fort.

Flæd gave a little moan. She understood more than Si-ward realized. He would summon his northern forces while her father and Ethelred rode to Wales in search of her. Unless her band’s battered survivors were able to bring this news to Lunden, Siward was right: Nothing about tonight’s fight would make much difference.

“You have a horse,” he said with a vicious tug that sent her to her knees. Bent down so that her face almost touched the mud, she nodded. “Show me,” he ordered, allowing her to stand, but never releasing his hold. Flæd shuffled forward. Apple was only a few lengths away—she must think. With a show of reluctance she turned off the road and began to tromp through the brush. A limb slapped her in the face and she flinched aside, but Siward pulled her back in front of him. “Go,” he said, propelling her onward.

As erratically as she could, Flæd wound her way toward Apple’s hiding place. In the darkness she tried to choose the roughest footing and cross through the densest snarls of undergrowth, hoping Siward would falter. But his step remained sure. Soon they had almost reached her horse—she would have to try something else.

At the edge of a muddy hollow Flæd hesitated, blood pounding, and then deliberately stepped flat-footed onto the slick incline. With a whump she went down, pulling Siward with her, and rolling away as he lost his grip on her arms. On all fours she swarmed across the mud and into a patch of nettles on the other side, grabbing for her knife as she went. She had to get to the horse before him, she knew as she stood and began to run, never feeling the burn of the poison leaves. She did not know if the crashes she heard were the sounds of her own bolt through the wood or of Siward close behind her.

There was Apple, dancing and jerking against his knotted reins. She flung herself at the horse’s head to cut him free, but a great blow from behind knocked her off her feet.

Siward panted, uttering harsh syllables which might have been curses in his own language. Flæd clawed with her free hand to reach her horse’s gear, but it was no use—her sword and shield hung on the other side of the saddle. Siward’s weight bore her down again. He spoke in a quiet voice. “Your horse, your clothes will prove to your
father”
—he spat the word with hatred—“that I have you. Why should I take you alive?”

“Dunstan!”
Flæd screamed, but the word was forced back into her mouth by the Dane’s muffling hand. He brought his other hand up to cover her nose, pressing her head back into the slime of fallen leaves.

“No one will find your body,” Siward whispered as Flæd writhed beneath him. A fragment of poetry—
the battle-strength of a woman was less than a male
—echoed crazily in ÆthelflÆd’s mind as flashes of light and color flooded her vision. She was going to die here, and this man would live.
His Danes will ransack the countryside.
With a jolt of desperation she struggled harder.
They will raid Lunden.
She flailed, her new home with Ethelred disappearing in ruin.
They will assault Father’s burgh where Mother, Edward, and the little ones will be waiting, left behind.
Howling against Siward’s palm, Flæd gave a last great thrash and tore one of her arms free. With a motion Red had made her practice in every imaginable posture of combat, she brought up her knife and buried it between Siward’s ribs.

They found her sitting with her back against the rocks. Apple had snapped the branch and stood, head hanging, a little way off.

“Lady Æthelflæd.” Dunstan crouched in front of her and offered his hand, but dropped it when she recoiled. He looked at the body of the Danish leader which lay faceup, knife protruding from its side.

“Your blade,” he said gently, turning back to her. “How did he find you, Lady?” Flæd said nothing. Dunstan leaned closer, searching for a response. “Are you hurt?” Flæd rolled her head to one side. “I should not have agreed to this plan.” Dunstan’s voice was grim. “I knew you would not go.”

“I watched him,” Flæd said, barely moving her lips.

“What, Lady?” Dunstan touched her arm, and when she did not pull away, began to check her limbs for soundness.

“I watched him die,” she repeated, as if speaking to herself.

Her thane held out both hands now, and this time she let him help her rise. “She is wounded,” he shouted to the others when he saw the terrible stains on her front, but Flæd shook her head.

“His blood,” she whispered.

They had brought the wagon from its hiding place in the fortress, and there were new prisoners, and captured horses. Four of her men were injured—three could not ride—but the concentrated force and surprise of their attack had worked even more effectively than Flæd had hoped it would. All of the West Saxon band had lived.

Apple refused to carry Flæd in her gory clothes, so she climbed up beside the wagon driver, taking the seat they had given her on the day the journey began. It was three mornings ago, she had to remind herself, numbly counting the deaths that marked the days: Red and the raiders who died with him, Osric and the two thanes, along with the raider at the gate, and today Siward, dead by her hand.

The sky was light and clear when they reached the river. The riders let the horses wade in to cool their legs and drink a little. Ignoring the cold, Flæd walked into the water with them until the river, brown and clouded with the last day’s rain, swirled around her waist. She felt it rush through her mail shirt and clothes to her skin. She untied her bloodstained cloak, the grey wool her mother had woven, and let it float away on the current. She had left her cap in the wagon, and now she unbound her hair and threw it over her head as she dipped down to let the gritty water scour her.