Amber Treasure, The (11 page)

After about an hour, our scouts
returned to us.

“We are in luck, my Lord,” a
bright-eyed woodsman from the Wolds reported. “I don’t think there can have
been any rain here these last few days, for the mud on either side of the ford
still shows the tracks the raiders left. Several score feet passed that way and
seem to have veered northwest, away from Salebeia.”

“Northwest? That’s a surprise.
What’s in that direction?” Wallace said, as much to himself as to the scouts,
and pulled the rolled up map out of his tunic. He squinted at it for a moment,
grunted, then looked up at the company.

“There is an old Roman fort northwest
of Salebeia − perhaps five miles from the ford. Its name is,” he brought
the map closer to his eyes, “erm ... Calcaria, I think. I would guess Samlen
was going that way. If so; we should find him there.”

“If he is still there, my Lord,”
I pointed out.

“Indeed, but we will only know by
going,” he said and stared at the slate grey sky above us. “Well, there may not
have been any rain since the raid, but we might have some soon. Best press on.
I would like to get to some shelter near this fort and take a look at it today,
if we can.”

To begin with, all went well. We
moved down to the river and found the shallow crossing point. There, we waded
through the clear, icy waters and clambered up the far bank. We had now left
Deira and I gazed back over my shoulder with a sudden feeling of anxiety. My
home − what was left of it − was back there. Eduard and Cuthbert
saw me looking and paused too.

We were now further away from
home than I had ever been. It could only have been ten or eleven miles and
looking back now, over the thousands of miles I have wandered since, it was
just next door. But there and then, to the young man I was, it seemed a very
long way indeed. Cuthbert and Eduard agreed with me. Indeed, Eduard had an
excited expression of wonder at each new hill we climbed and each new valley
beyond it. Cuthbert, on the other hand, looked a little afraid and glanced
around at the woods we passed as if he expected a horde of goblins to attack us
at any moment. I grinned at him and he looked away, his face flaring pink with
embarrassment.

“I never expected to leave the
valley, you know,” Cuthbert said, “and here we are attacking another country.”

“You a bit scared?” I asked.

“Well, yeh, you?”

“A bit, but I’m excited as well
and keen to get this job done. Find Mildrith and the others and sort out Samlen
and Aedann. So, because of all that, it does not seem so bad.” I turned to my
other friend.

“Eduard?”

“What?” the big lad asked.

“Are you afraid?”

Momentarily forgetting his wound
he shrugged, then winced, but nothing bothered Eduard much, big strong lad that
he was. He just took life as it came and got on with it. I sometimes envied him
that ability.

We finally turned away from our
homeland and rejoined the company. The land on the other side of the river was
much the same as on our side: woodlands and fields in the low lands, then hills
rising gently away from the river. The scouts reported that the tracks we were
following joined a narrow road or path heading northwest and so, we followed
it.

We were cautious and travelled
quietly with scouts out ahead of us and on each flank to look for the Welsh
but, as yet, we had seen none. After a few miles the path turned sharply north
towards the River Wharfe, passed between two woods then emerged in flat open
fields, before turning again back to the west. The river was now immediately on
our right. Ahead of us, no more than a mile away, was a small settlement
− perhaps a dozen huts clustered round a larger one − the headman’s
house most probably.

Wallace gestured for me and
Sigmund to go with him and sent the company back into the woods. We slipped
down into the ditch that followed the road and then through a thorny blackberry
hedge that separated it from fields running down to the river bank. Some cattle
were grazing in the meadows there. Following the hedge, we approached the
village until we were hidden in a small copse, barely a hundred paces from it.

From where we were, we could see
the villagers going about their daily lives. Some were building a new hut near
us and were pounding in the upright posts to make a frame from ash trunks.
Beyond them, some women were gathered together round a well and were filling
jugs and pots from it. Out of sight, I could hear hammering and banging from a
blacksmith or carpenter. The village was at least as big as Cerdham and so
there could be over fifty men and women here. The men that we could see looked
strong and while we could easily take the village, there would be some
resistance and many of our men would die.

“Blast,” Wallace cursed. “We will
have to go round it. We can’t go through − someone in the village will
surely alert Samlen and that’s our surprise gone.”

“I say we attack the village,
burn it down and kill them all,” Sigmund said, “serves them right; revenge for
what they did to Wicstun.”

Part of me agreed − why not
inflict pain and suffering in measure for what we had suffered? Yet, another
part of me knew that was not right.

“These villagers did not burn the
Villa or Wicstun or kill any of us,” I pointed out. “It’s Samlen we want and he
is not here.”

Sigmund looked at me like I was
sticking my opinion in where it was not wanted, lord’s son or not, and argued
that we needed a base to operate from. By now, however, I was not listening,
because I had just noticed something. Something that made my blood boil.

Standing in the centre of the
village were two men. They appeared to be haggling over a barter. The goods
concerned were food and a shield: a Welsh shield with a Christian symbol on it.
Well, there would be many such shields around − one looking much like
another − but the man who was holding the shield did not look just like
any other. He looked like and was, without a doubt, Aedann: Aedann the slave,
Aedann the traitor who had sold his countrymen with news of the amber treasure
and as a result had caused the death of Cuthwine and many others.

There, in front of me, was my
father’s Welsh slave, bartering for food like none of that had happened, like
he did not care. Like none of it mattered. But, it mattered to me and I drew my
knife and started running towards the village with one thing on my mind: I
would kill Aedann.

“Cerdic, what the hell do you
think you’re doing?” hissed Wallace, “Get back here now!”

The voice was full of authority,
but I ignored it and carried on running. No one in the village had seen me at
first. I was only fifty yards from Aedann and now I swerved, so I would be able
to pass between two huts. Suddenly, my legs were swept from under me and I
fell, full length, knocking my chin hard against the ground, so that I bit my
lip and tasted blood.

Head spinning like it did if I’d
had too much ale, I felt someone pick me up, so I struggled and hissed at them
to let me go, but then I received an agonizing punch to the belly which doubled
me over. I was heaved up onto this someone’s shoulder and carried away. I heard
a high-pitched scream. Was that me, I wondered? Then I passed out.

When I came round, I was back in
the copse and Sigmund was leaning over me. I groaned and spat out blood. I
looked up at them both. They returned the glance with disgust.

“What were you doing boy, trying
to give us all away?” Sigmund asked nastily.

“What made you go running off
like that?” Wallace added.

I dragged myself up onto my knees
and coughed, spitting up some more blood.

“Aedann, it was Aedann.”

“Your escaped slave − the
one you think told Samlen about the jewellery?” Wallace asked.

I nodded and looked back at the
village. One of the women by the well was pointing at the gap between the
houses where I had been knocked down by Sigmund. Two men had armed themselves
with short spears and were peering through the gap. They glanced at the copse,
but did not seem to have seen us. A few of the villagers had started running
around in panic, looking this way and that. We could see Aedann, still in plain
sight, completing his trade and taking a sack of food off the villager then,
heaving it over his shoulder he walked out of the village and away from us
towards the Roman fort and Samlen. As he left, I was certain that he glanced
towards our hiding place.

Wallace insisted we stay in the
copse for two full hours and then, as it started to get dark, we scampered back
down by the river and so found the company in the wood.

“My Lord, we were worried about
you and were about to come and look for you,” Grettir said.

Wallace glanced at me before replying.

“We were seen and had to lie low
for a while for the fuss to die down,” he said.

“Seen? But my Lord if you were
seen, Samlen might know we are coming,” Grettir pointed out.

I thought about Aedann glancing
towards us and the villagers running around in panic. Feeling very foolish, I
looked at Sigmund who was watching me to see what I would say. I might as well
come clean and confess, I thought.

“It was my fault; I saw Aedann
and went to confront him. I was not thinking straight.”

There was silence as everyone in
the company stared at me. Even Eduard and Cuthbert gave me a strange look.

“I’m sorry. I know this is not
just about my own revenge, but the sight of him just ...” I shrugged.

I could not look at them and sat
down on a log feeling miserable.

Wallace told the company that
because of the time lost, we would now camp in the wood, post plenty of
sentries and carry on at first light.

Eduard and Cuthbert came over to
me, but seemed unable to say anything and I ignored them. I then felt a hand on
my shoulder. It was Sigmund.

“Well lad, you sure buggered up
today. But I will say one thing for you. It took guts to come out and admit
that just now. Don’t make things any easier today, of course, but folk mostly
feel better about a man who will admit a mistake,” he said.

“We’ll see. I hope that Samlen
doesn’t know about us yet and we can carry on in the morning, without trouble.”

Sigmund shrugged.

“We can hope,” he said, but his
tone was doubtful.

Hope. It drives men forward and
keeps them struggling on, whatever the odds: whatever the difficulty. But the
gods don’t deal in hope. They mostly deal with fate − what destiny has in
store for a man. But Loki, the trickster God Loki: he deals in mischief and
that night he was abroad mixing up his mischief. The winds carried his laughter
far and made sure that news of our passing reached the ears of the one man we
hoped would not hear. Perhaps Aedann was his agent or maybe it was one of the
villagers − it makes no difference, really.

Whoever was the messenger, it seems
Samlen heard about us and − sharing Loki’s laughter − he sent his
men out to look for us and now, only a few miles away, they were waiting for
the chance to pounce upon us.

Chapter Nine

Ambush

It happened in a
field between two woods. The corridor of open land was perhaps two hundred
yards long and fifty yards wide; we had chosen it to avoid the Welsh village to
the north. Wallace, with most of the Wicstun lads and Sigmund were in the lead,
followed by those from Newbold, Sancton and Compton, whilst the men of the
Villa brought up the rear. The whole company was tired, having slept poorly in
the damp wood the night before and perhaps this had made us careless, so as a
result, we were strung out in a loose, dawdling line, a hundred yards long.

We were almost half way across
the field when, without warning, there was a guttural cry from the northern
wood. The shout was taken up by a hundred voices and then two score men charged
out from the trees to our north, blocking our path. We all stopped, startled by
the suddenness of it but before we could respond, another forty Welsh warriors
ran out behind us this time from the other wood − the trees to the south
− preventing any thoughts of retreat. Finally, a further dozen emerged on
each flank and lined the edge of the wood. These, being armed with bows and
without giving us a chance to react, sent a volley of arrows spitting towards
us. Most of these, mercifully, missed us although one unlucky man from Wicstun
fell dead with three arrows sticking out of his chest.

“Men of Wicstun to me,” Wallace
shouted, drawing his sword. We all moved in that direction, but the Welsh
closing in from either side and pelting us with arrows, divided the company in
two.

Grettir looked grimly at the
Welsh and then at me, expecting me to take command. Father’s parting words came
back and I heard him speaking.

“Lead them and they will follow
...”

I drew my sword and then thrust
my spear up in the air, like a standard.

“Men of the Villa ... from
Compton: to me!” I yelled. For a moment no one did anything and they still
milled around confused and bewildered, like so many frightened sheep, so I
yelled again.

“Come on, you bastards, to me!”

Eduard and Cuthbert reacted at
that and moved to my side and Grettir followed. Cuthbert quickly strung his bow
and reached for an arrow. Eduard braced his shield and spear and prepared himself
for the fight. The other men took a moment or two to move, but another bellowed
order finally brought them close.

Glancing towards Wallace, I saw
he had his men ringed round him and I decided to copy the idea.

“Form a ring,” I yelled. They
looked doubtful, as this was not a formation we had practised, yet they could
see the danger coming from both in front and behind us. Soon, we had almost
forty men in a ring, twenty in the front rank and twenty behind them.

The enemy were close now −
only two dozen yards away. So, I thought to myself, here at last in this field
is where I would first command men in battle. I prepared myself for the blow to
come, unstrapped my shield and put away my sword. Then, I readied my spear, all
the time praying to the gods that today would not be my last fight.

“Spears over shields!” I bellowed
and the men obeyed, forty spears now pointing out at the enemy, who in just a
few moments would be upon us.

Yet, the clash did not come. The
enemy, having hemmed us in two rings, halted and surrounded us. Their archers
moved up and threatened us with arrow fire, but did not attack. A
broad-shouldered chieftain came forward out of the enemy ranks and inspected
first my men and then those round Wallace.

“Saxons,” he shouted in strongly
accented English, “I am Peredur, chieftain of these lands. Your presence here,
armed and secretive, is illegal. My Prince will want to see you and know what
you are doing here. We have you outnumbered and surrounded. Surrender and you
will not be harmed. If you fight, many of you and many of us will die today. We
will take you to Prince Samlen.”

I figured the odds and sighed.
Peredur was right. We were tired, damp and hungry. I was stiff from sleeping
last night in that copse. Eduard was clearly suffering from his wound and Cuthbert
had only a few arrows and there were not many other bowmen in our ranks. Few of
us had fought a battle before and if we fought one today, it was obvious that
most of us would die. As much as I hated the idea, if we surrendered we might
survive.

Wallace glanced over towards me
and then at the Welsh surrounding us. Sigmund and he spoke for a moment then
Wallace nodded his head and dropped his sword and his shield. A moment later,
with a great clattering noise, the rest of us threw our weapons to the ground.
The Welsh came forward and collected them and as one of them picked up my new
sword, I felt an ache in my chest. I had taken the weapon from a vanquished foe
only a few days before, but somehow it already felt like mine. After gathering
up the spears, shields and swords, the Welsh herded us together and led us
away.

Gloom descended on the company as
what we had feared came true: we were now captives! No one said anything, but I
felt the gaze of many lingering upon me and their thoughts were mine too: had
my foolish act the night before betrayed us? A few moments of anger and now our
chance of revenge, along with all hope of rescuing our families were gone
− maybe forever.

No one said anything: they did
not need to. I already knew it was my fault.

The Elmetae took us north and
west, along a mud track that meandered through dense forest, which covered much
of Elmet. Here and there, we saw swirling smoke rising from what were
presumably villages and hamlets in woodland clearings. Eventually, we reached a
stone Roman road running from the distant south and − I found out later
− via Loidis across the south Pennines to Eoforwic. Strange how roads
play such a large role in one’s life: armies march along them. Folk use them to
go to market and back. As a boy I dreamt of where the road that ran past the
Villa would carry me. Well, I did not know it then, but I was going to spend a
great deal of my life on one road or another.

We turned northwards and as the
sun began to fall behind the mountains we saw the fortress of Calcaria. It was
an old Roman fort such as Caerfydd had told me their legions once lived in. It
stood to the east of the road at the end of a short path, backing onto the
river. The fort itself was oblong in shape with the short sides parallel with
the main road. In the centre of the southern wall was a gateway accessed via a
bridge, which led over a ditch. The ditch had once been quite deep, but had
clearly filled up over the years with the debris of nearby trees and decades of
mud that no one had tried to clear. Beyond it was an earthen embankment topped
by a stone wall, which had once encircled the entire fortress. However, in the
two centuries since the Romans left it had decayed and fallen down in many
places. Here and there, I could also see signs that it had been attacked more
than once since their departure. These defects were partially repaired by
wooden palisades or loose rocks and bricks.

We marched through the crumbling
gatehouse, closely observed by sentinels standing watch upon the walls and
above the gates. Beyond the gatehouse, we entered a road that ran between two
rows of long low buildings on either side.

Lilla was walking besides me and
pointed at them.

“Those were barracks for their
legionaries, or stables for their cavalry. Now look, see there,” he continued,
indicating a number of large, square two-story buildings on the other side of
the wide open space we had arrived at. “One of those would have been the Headquarters
building for the legion or regiment that was barracked here, maybe that larger
one. The slightly smaller one now, that would have been the Commander’s
accommodation.”

We looked at them both. Massive
they seemed to me, compared to the Villa which I had always thought to be a
palace. Clustered around these, there were other, more diminutive structures
and beyond them all, even more buildings. Like all Roman structures, these
buildings were well-made, but once they started to decay, the Welsh, like the
English, did not possess the skills to maintain them. But whereas we generally
avoided such places, the Welsh still lived in them.

“What about those?” I asked,
indicating some other buildings.

“Um ... maybe granaries,
storehouses, possibly a workshop and those further on are more barracks.”

“More? Just how many men did the
Romans have here?”

“Hundreds, maybe thousands, if
they needed them: and this was just one of many forts they had.”

We stood together, staring round
at the impressive sight.

“They must have been giants!”
Cuthbert said: reminding me of a similar conversation we’d had about the Villa
years before.

Lilla shook his head.

“No, men just like us. They were
just men but conquered the world. Then they died and their Empire is gone and
these places are all that are left.”

It was a sobering thought. As if to
emphasise the briefness of glory, a tile slid off a nearby roof and smashed on
the ground. We all sank into gloomy silence, each maybe thinking how short our
own lives might be, right now.

 “Makes you think, don’t it?”
Eduard muttered, after a moment.

“Silence! You’ll be silent!”
Peredur shouted at us. While Lilla had been talking, he had left us under
strong guard on the parade ground and gone into the smaller of the main
buildings. A few minutes later, he came back and was standing in front of us,
glaring. He turned to Wallace.

“You are the chieftain of this
warband?” Peredur asked in his accented English.

“I’m the Lord of Wicstun and this
is the Wicstun Company,” Wallace said, defiantly.

Peredur glanced at us all
appraisingly and smiled.

“Some army, we caught you half
asleep blundering around the countryside. I doubt you can even fight.”

“Give us our weapons back and
we’ll show you,” Wallace countered.

Peredur looked amused but shook
his head.

“I don’t think so. Now, bring
your senior captains and come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Prince Samlen wishes to see you
and talk to you. I warn you to show respect, or you’ll regret it.”

Wallace nodded at Lilla, Sigmund
and three of the village leaders and finally, after a pause, myself. My youth
would cause him hesitation and maybe my rash behaviour at the village was still
on his mind, but I did in theory command the largest number of men, after him.

Peredur, accompanied by five huge
warriors, led us across the ground and up the steps of the largest building. We
walked through a small passageway, which opened into a central courtyard
similar to the one at the Villa, only much bigger. To either side were small
rooms: offices, Lilla told me later. Opposite us were two large double doors, a
Welsh warrior standing on either side. They opened it as Peredur approached. It
led into a rectangular room in the corner of which were two statues of Roman
gods, their once bright gold and red paint peeling off. To the left was another
door and yet more guards. Peredur opened this and entered.

Samlen One Eye sat on a chair
raised upon a small platform against the opposite wall. To either side more
Welsh warriors and chieftains stood staring at us as we came in. We shuffled
forward to stand in front of Samlen, who studied us in menacing silence much like
a fox watches a goose waiting for the moment to strike.

Finally he spoke. He, like
Peredur, knew and spoke English with a strong Welsh accent.

“Who are you and what are you
doing on my land?”

Wallace stepped forward.

“Prince Samlen, I am Lord Wallace
of Wicstun. King Aelle of Deira sends his greetings and bids me bring a message
and a gift for you.”

Samlen rose and stood on the
platform. Already tall, he now towered above us.

“Wicstun, where’s that?” he asked
and then muttered some words in Welsh to Peredur, who replied.

“So, you rule that miserable shit
heap full of hovels and filth, a day’s walk east of here? Bloody awful place
that was, with very little of value,” he sneered.

“Still, you took something of
value to us − our families and friends.” Wallace’s tone was cold.

Samlen laughed.

“Miserable and feeble lot those
are as well. You should have been grateful I took them away and got on with
life − found yourselves some new women and had new children with them.”

“We find we prefer to have them
back.”

Samlen looked at his chieftains
and roared with laughter now and they joined in, though many plainly were not
following the English.

“What? You thought you would just
walk into Elmet and take them, just like that. You really are fools. Well, you
can be reunited with them soon: one big happy slave family.”

Wallace did not reply and just
stood his ground, staring at Samlen.

“Well then, what is this message
from the mighty and aged Aelle?” Samlen asked. “Is it to say there will be
another delivery of slaves next Tuesday?” he asked and then he laughed again.

“No, I had to deliver a gift to
you, so that you will not attack us again.”

“What gift would make me agree to
that? It would have to be impressive!”

Wallace now smiled, but there was
no humour in it.

“It is this,” he said and stepped
closer. Peredur looked across at him now, anxiety etched onto his face and he
moved towards Wallace, but he was already too late. Wallace had slipped a dagger
out of his sleeve and quick as lightning, swung it up towards Samlen’s belly.
The Prince’s arm lashed out like a snake’s head and grasped Wallace’s arm by
the wrist. With strength like the jaws of a wolf he twisted the arm viciously,
there was a crack. Wallace screamed and dropped the blade.

Peredur now arrived and punched
Wallace in the stomach, so he collapsed winded on the ground. Sigmund and I
started forward, but the guards ran out and rammed the butts of their spears
into our guts and we too were forced to the ground. The spears swung around and
now sharp points pricked at our throats.