Warriors of Ethandun (7 page)

She did not know who she was and she did not care. She experienced the fear of the prey and the triumph of the predator, felt flesh tear and was torn. She felt the baby's first eager breath in the cool of the place beyond the womb, felt the death rattle of an old man's last desperate gasp. She was lost and did not know it, barely Ursula and she did not care. Night came and she was not hungry or thirsty but stared up at the starlit skies, seeing nothing but the visions her magic brought to her, feeling nothing but the steady pulse of power.

The man indicated that Dan should unbuckle his sword, which he did reluctantly. He set it next to his feet, then he sat in a strangely companionable silence with the knife-bearing Aenglisc man by the fire.

Once the Aenglisc man had established to his own satisfaction that Dan posed no danger, he seemed to lose himself in his own thoughts, for he did not try to speak again, but stroked his light beard with a calloused hand. He was a fighter this man, that much was evident from his build and the state of his hands, but even that did not frighten Dan. The heat made him drowsy and, though his warrior's instincts and plain common sense told him it would be foolish to sleep in a place of such obvious danger, he struggled to stay awake. This was not Macsen's world – it was nowhere that he knew. He needed to stay sharp and ready to defend himself, and yet his body, usually so tireless under stress, betrayed him. He had not slept well in his own world – had not, in fact, slept well for weeks. His bed at home lacked stability; he seemed to be perched on something too high and too
soft to support the weight of his bones, and he was ridiculously fearful of falling off. The air in his centrally heated room had stifled him, and then each night he had fought for Ursula and failed her, burying them both under a mound of carcasses and suffocating them. He felt more at ease by a strange hearth next to an unknown man with a seax than in his own bed at home.

Something about the crackle of the warming fire and the silence of the cottage lulled him into a light but restful sleep.

It was barely a moment later that he started awake at the sound of voices. A woman was complaining bitterly about spoiled cakes. It was not his sister's voice nor his dead mother's nor even Ursula's. He opened his eyes and saw a stout woman in what he thought of as peasant dress, shouting at the friendly knife man. That was not too weird; what was strange was that he understood her perfectly. The knife man was apologising, and the tumble of undifferentiated sound had suddenly resolved itself into comprehensible words and phrases.

‘I have no excuses to offer, good wife. I was lost in my own thoughts and I forgot my duty. Please forgive my inattention.'

The woman was unimpressed and berated him for some time. The small homestead stank so badly of burning that Dan wondered why fear of being burned alive had not woken him up. It was not long before she turned on him, and though he wasn't surprised he had not prepared a defence. Luckily he didn't need one.

‘I hope I haven't presumed too much in asking this fellow traveller to rest by your fire. He has fallen into the marsh and I feared he might catch fever from the chill.'

The woman turned to Dan then and looked him up and down. She wasn't old but had hidden her hair under a stiff veil so that all he could see was her lined, round face and the irritation in her shrewd eyes.

‘Well, I haven't much in the way of food to share with you now that the cakes are burned, but you are welcome enough if you are peaceful. You would do better to take off your clothes and dry them properly – I have a blanket to keep your naked shame covered.' She laughed at that, a full-throated cackle, and Dan doubted that she was too much older than he was. She pulled out a blanket from a storage space beneath his bench. It had been hidden by a screen of rushes – it was a neat arrangement.

‘It's warm yet so I haven't needed it on my bed.'

Dan was a bit embarrassed to get undressed in front of strangers and began to do the behind-the-towel contortion that people do on beaches, but the woman laughed so much that he simply stepped away into the shadows to preserve his modesty. He kept the sword by his side. Her eye settled on it for a moment and Dan saw her stiffen, but she said nothing. If she had weapons hidden in the space under the bench, they were not easily grabbed. He was unsurprised that she did not challenge him.

The blanket was of thick, soft wool and he guessed it to be a treasure in what seemed otherwise to be a simple
house. He thanked her carefully in the same language that she had used with him. Somehow the words were there as he needed them, at the tip of his tongue, at the back of his throat, and it was obvious that he had not entirely lost all his magical gift. He was pleased that it made life easier but concerned about what other changes might have afflicted him. Unlike Ursula, he wasn't a great fan of magical power. The knife man looked at him suspiciously.

‘You have found your tongue, I see,' he said. Dan felt uncomfortable.

‘Yes. Thank you for supporting me – before … I am sorry. I … um …' Dan's mind went blank. ‘I – I didn't understand your accent.'

‘Odd as you speak with the same one – you are a Wessex man? I would like to know who you serve with that fine blade of yours. It is strange that I have not seen you in the muster of the King's fyrd.'

Dan opened his mouth without the slightest idea of what he was going to say. The man's former calm had been replaced by an acute curiosity that might turn any moment into aggression. The woman came unwittingly to his rescue.

‘We'll have no talk of kings and that here. I owe allegiance to no king but God and I ask for no protection from any either. If any man gets through the demons of the marsh and lands at my door, then I reckon God has tested him and found him honest. If by the wit of the dark one a dishonest scoundrel should wash up here, then my husband's long seax will make sure they get a final reckoning.'

She gave them both a quelling look and Dan was glad to take refuge in silence. He had gained knowledge of the language but nothing else. He now knew that there was a king and that a man with a sword might be expected to serve in his army. Somehow he had to avoid getting caught up in the affairs of this world. He wanted to find Ursula and hoped that she had enough magic to raise the Veil and get them back home. That was the limit of his ambition. He should not have allowed himself to be persuaded to raise the Veil. Damn Taliesin. It was his fault.

The woman handed him a pottery beaker of ale and he drank it gladly. It was not strong and he was familiar with the taste – barley, malt and herbs, a hearty combination that he preferred to the sweetness of mead and the bitterness of wine. He smiled his thanks and raised his pot to his hostess, who had bought him time. He obviously needed some story to account for his presence in the middle of the marsh, but his brain resolutely refused to provide one. Why was the other man here? He was not the woman's husband, that had become clear when she'd complained about the cakes. Perhaps he was an outsider like himself. If the woman was to be believed and it was not easy to cross the marsh, was he some criminal escaping justice? Dan looked at the man more closely. He was dressed plainly, though his tunic was fastened with a finely worked brooch which might have been gold. He wore boots of soft leather, and though his hands were calloused his fingernails were clean and Dan thought he could detect a paler area of skin at the base of
several of his fingers, as if he was accustomed to wearing rings. A rich man, perhaps, fallen on hard times, or a renegade warrior who'd had to bribe his way out of some mess? Dan did not know and speculation was fruitless. So long as the man did not hinder him in his search for Ursula, their paths need not cross again. Dan sipped his ale slowly. He didn't want the woman to feel she had to give him more. Hospitality seemed to be an obligation here and he'd rather not abuse it. It would be better to look for Ursula with food in his belly and it would be safer by far if he could stay in this woman's homestead until dawn.

The woman's husband arrived a little while later, stinking of sweat and swine. He was not pleased to find his hearth crowded by two strange men.

‘They can stay. I'll not have a man's death on my conscience, but I'll take their blades for safe keeping. I don't want us murdered in our beds. They could be Danes for all we know. They could feed us both to their demon gods and no one would be the wiser.'

He made no effort to keep his voice low, so that neither Dan nor his companion had any doubt that they were not entirely welcome. The husband was a big man and Dan found himself automatically evaluating his likely ability in a fight. He was probably in his late thirties and he moved a little stiffly, as if already suffering with arthritis. Dan was confident that he could take him if necessary, with or without his sword. The magic of this world worked slowly, but just as he found himself able to speak the language of this land, he found himself certain that should he
need to fight, he would. His earlier lethargy and exhaustion had disappeared, which was as well because he could see no easy way of finding Ursula or of finding out what he needed to know to escape the business end of a seax.

Ursula did not sleep, but in the dark night explored the country with the eyes of a fox, a badger and a tawny owl. She could not contemplate sleep. There was too much power burning through her; she could not rest. She experienced the dawn through the senses of a thousand eyes and ears, felt the damp earth through paw and claw and talon and was intoxicated by the rich and ever-changing scents and stinks that were carried by the wind. She heard the tread of the hunter's boots and sensed his hunger for the kill long before he arrived. She knew the fear of the deer as she ran leaping over Ursula's own inert form and heard the hiss of the arrow as it struck home. The pain too she knew, only she pulled away quickly to share in the exultation of the hunter. He forgot the hind and fell to his knees when he saw her and bowed his head in supplication.

She saw herself through his eyes and he was stunned by what he saw. She lay encased in a latticework of roots, at the base of a huge ash tree. Her eyes were closed like one asleep and in repose her strong-featured face had the kind
of beauty she had always admired. Her hair was so pale a blonde that it shone as if it were somehow lit from within. Her unearthly appearance took Ursula by surprise, although it no longer mattered to her in any real way. She could change her face should she wish to as easily as she once changed her clothes. She saw that to the hunter she seemed larger than life, taller than any real woman and unblemished – like a goddess. He named her to himself as Freya, Goddess of Love and Fertility, one gifted in witchcraft and beloved of warriors, the Goddess who takes half of the warriors dead in battle to her own hall. Ursula found this identification briefly amusing. Once, she'd had much to do with battles and with the reaping of death. She was amused too by the man's terror and awe – both seemed ridiculous to her … Then she was distracted by the sudden flight of a flock of birds and joined them with her mind.

She was only distantly aware of the man calling to his companions and making preparations to carry her body away from its bower of roots. It was not quietly or easily done. The roots had to be carefully cut with an axe and the hunter was sweating before he was finished – with exertion and with the fear of accidentally hitting her and incurring the wrath of an important divinity. Ursula was not so lost to common sense that she did not surround herself with a barrier of power to protect herself should the axe slip.

The hunter's companions were equally overwhelmed by Ursula's presence and helped him haul the deer's carcass away. They butchered it nearby. Ursula was not interested
in watching that; she was not much interested in butchery of men or animals – it was all too familiar to her.

After a while the hunter returned with yet more men – young, proud men, armed with axes and dressed in war gear. Some of it was very fine – mail shirts and iron helms, thick woven cloaks fastened by gold brooches, and round, painted shields. These were important men, warriors, predators. It showed in the way that they moved. She was surprised that they too bowed to her where she lay, surrounded by unseasonal flowers and dressed in her blue polyester school sweatshirt. These new important men had brought servants or slaves to help bear her away. They had a wooden cart and horses. The horses were good specimens but weary and thirsty. She lost herself in them for a moment. She felt the burden of the cart for an instant before she pulled away. The cart was decorated with leaves and berry-bearing branches, with gold belts and silver chains, with chalices and church plate, jewelled boxes and decorated crucifixes – with all the wealth that could be found at short notice to carry the Goddess home. It was all plundered treasure; Ursula knew that and did not care. What had she to do with such things?

The men spoke a language that was new to her, but it was easy enough for her to learn it. It was, in any case, clear that they took delight in the riches in the cart and that they thought they had come by it legitimately by the killing power of their weapons and the honest greed of their hearts. They honoured her. She found herself unmoved by their care for her inert body. No one dared touch her with their bare hands and those that accidentally
brushed their naked skin against hers jumped away, burned. They sang as they lifted her reverently to the cart and carried on singing as the cart bore her through the woods. Their songs had an unfamiliar rhythm, which held her attention for a while because they were quite unlike the songs she had heard in Arturus's court. She hadn't much of an ear for music, but when the hunter added his voice to the song even she could tell that his singing was very bad, off-key and discordant. She turned her attention away, glad to explore further afield. For all her power she could only listen to one thing at once. She wondered what it would be like to split her consciousness. It was probably possible, but she was a little afraid to make it happen. There was time enough for all that later. She let herself drift away from all that anchored her to her body, becoming lost in the thoughts of a wild hare, and then eventually, exhausted by so much experience, she fell into a kind of a doze. Waking up was disorienting. She forgot about the magic for a moment and opened her eyes to find herself looking straight up into the grey gaze of a warrior. Fear flashed across his face and he called out: