Melissa tells us about the inspiration for her story in the latest HWF anthology
As soon as I saw Nicolaes Maes’ painting The Lacemaker (1656), I was drawn into the depicted child’s world. As a reenactor and lacemaker I could feel the fabrics, I could hear the sound of the bobbins and I could imagine the smells of a seventeenth-century house, so the world around the child was easy to imagine, but Maes had painted the child with such a strong gaze that I knew I’d found my main character.
I imagined the child as a grown man who is sure they are missing something, looking back through his memories in the hope of finding whatever that is, starting with his earliest memories of being sat in his highchair as his mother made lace. The child in the painting looks so confident and happy at his mother’s side, which led to my questioning what impact the loss of his mother might have on him, so I explore this throughout my story. I also wanted to consider the other people in his life, the ones who aren’t visible in Maes’ work. We, the viewers, did not get to see them and creates a feeling that they were not important parts of the child’s world at that moment, perhaps they were even absent. I took both these ideas and used them to drive parts of the narrative. Respecting the engagement Maes had created between his viewer and the child, I decided to tell the story in the first person. I named him Henry.
I already knew enough about the seventeenth century from my own research, visits to historic sites, and volunteer work, to create a timeline for Henry’s life and story. I wrote out the timeline with fictional events on top and real events on the bottom, to help me keep track as I wrote. I then set to fact-checking and researching some additional aspects (such as language, health, etc.) to ensure I created an authentic world for my readers, as Maes had done for his viewers. I also made use of an etymological dictionary to retain an authenticity in his vocabulary, avoiding modern words such as petal. Researching health in the 17th century is very illuminating and it can lead to new directions within the narrative. In my story, it led to the addition of characters I had not thought of when I began writing, and those characters help the reader to better understand the people in Henry’s life.
From his earliest memories during the English Civil War, through the Cromwell years and the Restoration period to the departure of James II, memories of his mother are woven through his story like the threads in the lace she made. A Shropshire boy whose father fought for Parliament yet saw his mother visited by Cavaliers, it is only by unpicking these threads after his mother’s death that he discovers the truth of his life story.
Author’s Bio
Melissa Speed writes fiction and poetry in addition to her creative non-fiction, personal essays and travel blogging. Much of her work is published on Medium in a variety of publications, including the popular Scribe. Her personal essay I Was Ashamed of My Post-Surgery Body Hair was published in Issue 1 of Aghh! Zine (2022, Brighton, UK). Her historical poem Queen of the Iceni (published in Medium’s Share the Love, June 2020) was adapted into a choral work by the American choir Pantera, and she is the winner of a Kids Poetry Club poetry for children competition. She writes a history-themed disabled travel blog at http://www.accessinghistory.com.
In addition to her writing, Melissa has previously been a beta reader for several historical fiction authors. A volunteer for two heritage trusts, she is also an artist and an avid reader in her spare time.
An Unattainable Stronghold (Book 8 of the Peninsular War Saga) The Historical Cast
To celebrate the publication of An Unattainable Stronghold I thought I would provide a brief introduction to some of the main historical characters who feature in the book. Some of these will be very familiar, not only to my readers but to anybody with a general knowledge of the period. Others will be less well known. The men included here have been chosen not because of their importance to history but because of their significance in this particular book. It should also be noted that to avoid too many historical spoilers, I’ve only included their career up to the beginning of this novel. What happened to them after that is a matter of historical record, so you can always look it up…
Lord Wellington
Wellington was born in 1769 in Ireland into an aristocratic Anglo-Irish family; the Earl and Countess of Mornington. He lived and was educated between Ireland and London and attended Eton from 1781 to 1784. Arthur was not the most promising of the Mornington children and was described by his mother as ‘my awkward son Arthur’. In 1786 however, he enrolled in the French Royal Academy of Equitation in Angers, where he made good progress. In 1787, Wellesley took up a commission as ensign in the 73rd regiment. Initially he served as ADC to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland and for the next few years his duties were mainly social. He fell in love with Kitty Pakenham, the young daughter of Lord Longford and proposed in 1793 but was turned down by her family due to his poor prospects. Wellesley seems to have been devastated by this rejection and made the decision to take his military career more seriously. By 1794 he was a lieutenant-colonel and joined his first real campaign in Flanders under the Duke of York. On 15th September in 1794 he had his first experience of combat at the Battle of Boxtel. The campaign ended with a disastrous withdrawal but it taught Wellesley a lot about military tactics and the problems of poor leadership and organisation. He later remarked: “At least I learned what not to do and that is always a valuable lesson.” Wellesley’s next posting to India as a full colonel. He spent five months in Calcutta then was sent briefly to the Philippines. On his return to India he found that his brother Lord Mornington had been appointed as Governor-General of India. It was at this time that the family changed the spelling of their name from the ancient Wesley to Wellesley. Wellesley fought in several campaigns during his time in India. The Fourth Anglo-Mysore War broke out in 1798. There were signs that he was still learning his trade during this period and not everything went according to plan. He was a quick learner however and even at this early stage we can see signs of his talent for careful logistical planning. There was some muttering among the officers about Wellesley being given commands due to his brother’s position but it became clear that Mornington’s confidence was not misplaced. In 1799 Wellesley was present at the storming of Seringapatam and remained as Governor of the region. Despite repeated bouts of ill-health he went on to successfully defeat an insurgency led by Dhoondiah Waugh in 1800. He was promoted to major-general in 1802 and was sent to command an army in the Second Anglo-Maratha War, which led to his celebrated triumph at the Battle of Assaye in 1803. It is at this stage in his career that Wellesley first encounters the young Paul van Daan, fictional hero of the Peninsular War Saga. India had made Wellesley’s reputation along with a respectable fortune. He returned to England at his own request in 1805 and was knighted for his service, becoming Sir Arthur Wellesley. Pushing for further employment, he served briefly with the unsuccessful Anglo-Russian expedition to north Germany in 1805. There was a period of leave when he was elected to the British parliament, finally married Kitty Pakenham (whom he had not seen for ten years) and was appointed as Chief Secretary for Ireland. He was a conscientious administrator but it was clear that he was keen to get back to his army career. The opportunity came in 1807 when Britain decided to send a joint expedition to Denmark in an attempt to prevent the Danish navy falling into the hands of Bonaparte. The expedition was a success with Wellesley commanding the only land victory of the campaign at Køge and Wellesley was one of the negotiators for the terms of surrender. Back in England he was promoted to lieutenant-general in 1808 and accepted a command to go to South America. This was switched to Portugal and Sir Arthur Wellesley arrived in the Peninsula as an experienced general with a growing reputation. He achieved early success, defeating the French at Roliça and Vimeiro but was immediately superseded in command. General Dalrymple negotiated the controversial Convention of Sintra, which stipulated that the Royal Navy transport the French army out of Lisbon with all their loot. Wellesley, Dalrymple and General Burrard were recalled to Britain to face a Court of Inquiry. It might have ended Wellesley’s promising career but as the most junior officer he was cleared. Bonaparte, meanwhile had entered Spain to crush the Spanish revolt and the replacement commander of the British forces in the Peninsula, Sir John Moore, was killed at the Battle of Corunna in January 1809. Wellesley made a convincing argument for his return to Portugal and was given the command in 1809. For the next five years Wellesley, soon to be raised to the peerage as Lord Wellington, made the hills and plains of the Iberian Peninsular his own. Progress was not linear and seldom very dramatic but it was steady and despite the occasional setback and a few unpleasant retreats, Wellington held his nerve. He spent time and energy creating a secure base in Portugal, with the Lines of Torres Vedras behind which his army could retreat at need. With Lisbon secure he began his dogged advance towards the Spanish border. He took Oporto in May 1809 and marched on to unite with the Spanish army to fight at Talavera in July. Problems with supplies and relations with his Spanish Allies led to a retreat back to Portugal but the new Viscount had given notice of his intentions and there was more to come. In 1810 he won at Bussaco then waited patiently behind his lines for the French under Massena to run out of food. When they did, Wellington made a cautious pursuit and fought him again at Fuentes D’Onoro in 1811. At the beginning of 1812 he finally captured the two key fortresses to Spain, first Ciudad Rodrigo and then Badajoz. He was created an Earl and then a Marquess during that year and achieved a brilliant victory at Salamanca which liberated the Spanish capital of Madrid. There was a setback at the end of 1812 when Wellington was unable to take the fortress of Burgos and was forced into a difficult and unpleasant retreat back to his headquarters at Freineda on the Portuguese border. He had given the French due warning of his intentions however and in May 1813 he was on the offensive again, leading his army back across Spain in a series of well-planned outflanking marches until he caught up with King Joseph Bonaparte and defeated him in the Battle of Vitoria. From there he began the pursuit into the Pyrenees towards the French border. This is where we find Lord Wellington at the beginning of book eight of the Peninsular War Saga. As always, far too many of the French managed to make their escape after the battle and Wellington is irritated, impatient and beset as always by both military and political difficulties. He is also really concerned about his dog.
Marshal General Jean-de-Dieu Soult, 1st Duke of Dalmatia
Marshal Soult was born in 1769. He was the son of a notary and enlisted in the French Royal army in 1785 then rose quickly through the ranks during the years of the French Revolution. He entered the army at sixteen and was promoted to sergeant after six years. A year later he became a sous-lieutenant and during the years of the war he rose steadily through the ranks. By the time he distinguished himself in the Battle of Kaiserslautern in 1793 he was a captain. He commanded his first battalion in 1794 and for the next five years he fought in Germany and continued to impress his senior officers. By 1799 he was a general of division and was sent to fight under Massena in the Army of Helvetia. It was during this period that Soult’s military reputation was really built. In 1800, Napoleon Bonaparte sent Massena to reorganise the Army of Italy. Massena asked for Soult as his deputy and gave him command of the right wing of the army. He continued to be successful until a battle in Montecreto in April when he was badly wounded and taken prisoner. He was rescued after the French victory at Marengo in June and given a command in Piedmont. By the time he returned to Paris he was high in Bonaparte’s favour and was made one of the first eighteen Marshals of the Empire in May 1804. He commanded a corps in the advance on Ulm and led the attack on the Allied centre at Austerlitz. In 1808 he was created Duke of Dalmatia by Napoleon. Soult was apparently unhappy about his title and would have preferred Duke of Austerlitz. Napoleon however had reserved that title for himself. In 1809 Soult was sent to Spain. His pursuit of the British army under Sir John Moore led to the Battle of Corunna. Moore was killed but Soult was unable to prevent the British army from escaping by sea. Soult remained in Spain for the next four years. In 1809 he invaded Portugal and took Oporto but was driven out by Sir Arthur Wellesley and had to make a difficult retreat over the mountains. He was unpopular with the Republican officers in his army due to his reputed ambitions to be King of Portugal. After the Battle of Talavera he was placed in command of all French forces in Spain and had success at Ocana and with the invasion of Andalusia. He was unable to capture Cadiz however, despite a lengthy siege which proved costly for the French. In 1811 he fought and narrowly lost the bloody battle of Albuera against Allied forces led by Sir William Beresford. In 1812 Soult was obliged to evacuate Andalusia after Wellington’s victory at Salamanca. He managed to push Wellington back from Burgos later in the year, though failed to bring him to a decisive battle despite having superior numbers. Soon after, he was recalled from Spain at the request of King Joseph Bonaparte. Soult spend a few months in command of the IV Corps and fought at Lützen but was quickly sent back to the Spanish border to reorganise the army after the defeat at Vitoria. It is there that we find him at the beginning of An Unattainable Stronghold, struggling to manage a demoralised army and knowing that Bonaparte is impatient for a Spanish victory.
General Sir Thomas Graham, 1st Baron Lynedoch
Sir Thomas Graham was born in 1748. He was educated at Oxford but almost immediately inherited his family estate on the death of his father. He spent several years completing his education on the continent then returned to Scotland to take up the management of his estates. He took his landowning duties seriously and was the model of a country gentleman. In 1774 he married Mary Cathcart, the second daughter of the ninth Lord Cathcart. Graham was a devoted husband and the couple enjoyed a peaceful life for the next eighteen years until Mary’s health began to decline. In 1792 her husband took her to the south of France on medical advice but she died on the voyage. The story goes that during the journey to take Mary’s body home for burial, a group of French soldiers insisted on opening the casket and disturbed the body. Graham had previously been something of a sympathiser with the ideas of the French revolution but this incident caused a dramatic shift in his sympathies. He struggled to come to terms with his loss and eventually, in his forty-third year, he decided to embark on a military career. Graham’s career began as a volunteer ADC to Lord Mulgrave at Toulon where he distinguished himself for his courage. He also became friendly with Captain Rowland Hill, later one of Wellington’s most trusted generals. After returning home, Graham was given the temporary rank of lieutenant-colonel and raised the first battalion of the 90th Regiment of Foot. Hill became a major in the regiment which fought in the revolutionary wars. When it was sent to Gibraltar on garrison duty however, Graham became quickly bored and asked permission to join the Austrian army as British Commissioner. He assisted the Austrians and fought bravely through the disastrous campaign of 1796. He was elected to parliament in the same year and returned to Scotland but was back with his regiment at Gibraltar in 1797 and took part in the capture of Minorca. He was then placed in charge of the siege and blockade of Malta which finally surrendered in 1800. He then travelled to Egypt but arrived too late to join the campaign. The next few years were spent travelling, carrying out his Parliamentary duties and improving his estates. He was stationed in Ireland for a while and then spent three years with his regiment in the West Indies. He did not seek re-election in 1807 but went to Sweden in 1808 as ADC to Sir John Moore and then on to Spain. He took part in the miserable retreat to Corunna and was beside Sir John Moore when he died and was buried. Graham was promoted to major-general and commanded a division in the disastrous Walcheren campaign of 1809 but was obliged to return home with Walcheren fever. He was then promoted to lieutenant-general and given command of the British and Portuguese troops in Cadiz which was at that point under siege by the French. Graham made an effort to raise the siege in 1811 and won an impressive victory at Barossa but was unable to achieve his aim because of lack of support from his Spanish allies. In 1812 Graham was appointed second-in-command to Wellington. He fought at Ciudad Rodrigo and was awarded the Order of the Bath along with Rowland Hill but was obliged to go home due to a problem with his eyes much to Wellington’s dismay. He rejoined the army in 1813 and was given command of the left wing of the army at the Battle of Vitoria. In An Unattainable Stronghold we join Sir Thomas Graham as Lord Wellington gives him the unenviable task of storming the coastal citadel of San Sebastian. His eyes are playing up again, he’s fed up with sieges but more than anything else he wishes that Lord Wellington would stop turning up at his headquarters for dinner with his entire staff and no warning whatsoever.
General Louis Emmanuel Rey
Louis Emmanuel Rey was born in 1768 and joined the French Royal Army at the age of sixteen in 1784. He was promoted to sergeant-major in 1791 and obtained a lieutenant’s commission in 1792. He then served four years in the Army of the Alps and won promotion to general of brigade in 1796. During the War of the Third Coalition Rey was given command of the Camp de Boulogne between 1805 and 1808 and was named a Baron of the Empire. He was sent to Spain in 1808 and is believed to have commanded a brigade at the Battle of Ocaña in November 1809. He fought at Baza in 1810 and then at the siege of Tarragona in 1811. In July 1813 Rey found himself on the inside of siege warfare in command of the garrison of San Sebastian. With the promise of help on the way from Marshal Soult, Rey was confident that his garrison could hold out until they were relieved. At the beginning of An Unattainable Stronghold he’s probably beginning to wish he hadn’t sounded so sure.
Sir Richard Fletcher
Richard Fletcher was born in 1768, the son of a clergyman. He enrolled as a cadet in the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich in 1782 at the age of fourteen and began his career as a second-lieutenant in the Royal Artillery in 1788 before joining the Royal Engineers in 1790. He was promoted to lieutenant in 1793 and was sent to the West Indies later that year. Fletcher took part in the successful attacks on the French colonies of Martinique, Guadeloupe and St Lucia in 1794. He was wounded at St Lucia and was transferred to Dominica as chief engineer before being sent home in 1796. In November of that year he married Elizabeth Mudge, the daughter of a doctor. The couple went on to have five children. Fletcher served as adjutant to the Royal Military Artificers in Portsmouth until the end of 1798 when he was sent to Constantinople as an advisor to the Ottoman Government. Fletcher’s ship was wrecked near the mouth of the river Elbe and Fletcher was forced to walk across two miles of ice before reaching land. After three months travelling through Austria and Ottoman territories he finally arrived in Constantinople in March 1799. He advanced into Syria alongside forcing Napoleon to give up the siege of Acre and retreat to Egypt. After his return from Syria, Fletcher took part in the preparation of the defences for the Turks in the Dardanelles. He spent some time with the Ottoman forces in Cyprus then returned to Syria in 1800, to supervise the building of fortifications at Jaffa and El Arish. He served under Sir Ralph Abercromby in at Marmaris Bay, practising beach assaults for the expected invasion of Egypt the following year. He was captured during an expedition to reconnoitre the Egyptian port of Alexandria and was held prisoner in Alexandria until its capture on 2 September 1801. Fletcher returned to England, having been promoted to captain while he was imprisoned and was later decorated by the Ottoman Empire for his services. The war broke out again the following year and Fletcher was sent back to Portsmouth where he helped improve the defences of Gosport. He was promoted to major in 1807 and took part in the Battle of Copenhagen in August that year. Soon after the start of the Peninsular War, Fletcher was sent to Portugal. He was part of the force that occupied Lisbon when the French withdrew following the Convention of Sintra then he accompanied Wellington as his chief engineer in the field. He was promoted to lieutenant-colonel in the army and then the Royal Engineers in 1809 and he fought at the Battle of Talavera for which he received a mention in dispatches. Fletcher is famous for one of the greatest military engineering feats of his era. The Lines of Torres Vedras were constructed on the narrow peninsula between the Atlantic and the Tagus and were intended to protect Lisbon and provide a line of retreat for the British to their ships should it be needed. Fletcher began work on these defences in October 1809, using local labour. He worked with natural features to construct the lines. Fortifications guarded every approach and batteries commanded the high ground. A system of signal stations and roads ensured that troops could be sent quickly to where they were needed. This was achieved with the utmost secrecy so that most people were not even aware of the lines’ existence until Wellington was obliged to retreat behind them later the following year. In July 1810 Fletcher left the fortifications to join Wellington in the field. He fought at the battle of Bussaco in September. Wellington fell back to the Lines of Torres Vedras in October 1810 and Marshal Masséna was astonished to find such extensive defences. He made an unsuccessful attack on 18 October, then retreated to Santarém until his supplies ran out the following March when he marched north never having managed to penetrate the lines. Fletcher fought with Wellington at the Battle of Sabugal, Fuentes d’Onoro, Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz where he was seriously wounded. He returned to England to recover and was made a baronet on 14 December 1812. He returned to the Peninsular in 1813 and received a further mention in dispatches for his role in the Battle of Vitoria on 21 June. Fletcher first met my fictional hero Paul van Daan, during his work on the Lines of Torres Vedras and the two men became good friends. The beginning of An Unattainable Stronghold finds him busy directing the blockade of Pamplona and the siege of San Sebastian and wondering how he can possibly be in two places at once.
General Manuel Freire
Manuel Alberto Freire de Andrade y Armijo was born in 1767, the son of a cavalry officer. He joined his father’s regiment as a minor cadet at the age of seven and became a formal cadet at the age of thirteen. Freire’s first battle was in 1793 against revolutionary French forces during the War of the Pyrenees. He was promoted several times, becoming captain in 1794 and cavalry captain in 1795. During the following peace Freire was given command of a squadron and took part in a campaign against Portugal before being assigned to training in Mallorca. When Napoleon’s forces invaded Spain, Freire joined in the resistance and in 1807 was a colonel in command of a volunteer cavalry regiment in Madrid. The following year he fought in Extremadura and was promoted to brigadier in 1809 after a campaign in La Mancha and to field marshal after the Battle of Talavera. On 10 January 1810, he was appointed commander of cavalry under Juan Carlos de Aréizaga and fought at Ocaña, a devastating defeat that cost the Spanish control of Andalusia. He later wrote a manual revising Spanish cavalry tactics. Between 1810 and 1812 he fought in Murcia, Granada, and Valencia (1810-1812), Freire became a general. When we meet him at the beginning of An Unattainable Stronghold, he is about to succeed Francisco Javier Castaños in command of the Army of Galicia, ready to stand with Wellington against the invasions of Marshal Soult. He would also really like it if the Spanish government could sort out their supply train before half his men starve to death.
General David Hendrik Chassé
David Hendrik Baron Chassé (1765-1849) .
Chassé was the son of a major in the army of the Dutch Republic. He entered the Dutch army as a ten-year-old cadet in his father’s regiment in the Dutch States Army in 1775. He was promoted to second lieutenant in 1781 and to captain in 1787 but he resigned his commission in the same year out of sympathy with the Patriots in their opposition to the autocratic regime of William V, Prince of Orange. Instead Chassé became a captain in a Patriot Free Corps, fighting against the Prussian invaders that restored William to power. He was obliged to go into exile in France, partly because of the rebellion but also reportedly because he had killed a man in a duel. In 1788 Chassé received a commission as a first-lieutenant in the royal French army. After the revolution of 1789 he fought for the revolutionary French armies, during the War of the First Coalition. By 1793 he was a captain in the Free Foreign Legion. He took part in the invasion of the Dutch Republic in 1793 and was promoted to lieutenant-colonel in the following year. Chassé now entered the service of the Batavian Republic with the rank of lieutenant-colonel as commander of the 2nd battalion Jagers. He took part in the Rhine campaign of 1796, and was with his Jagers in 1799 as part of the Franco-Batavian army that countered the Anglo-Russian invasion of Holland. In 1800 he commanded battalions in the French campaigns in northern Germany. He was mentioned in dispatches at the siege of Würzburg and was promoted to colonel in 1803 and to major-general in 1806 under the Kingdom of Holland. King Louis Bonaparte gave Chassé command of the Dutch brigade that his brother Napoleon obliged him to contribute to the French campaign in Spain in 1808. Chassé fought at Zornoza, Mesas de Ibor, Talavera, Almonacid and Ocana where he assumed command of the Division-Leval. King Louis made Chassé a baron in 1810, just a week before Napoleon annexed the Kingdom of Holland to the French Empire. Like many Dutchmen, Chassé resented this annexation and refused to accept his elevation to Baron de l’Empire in 1811. Nevertheless, he continued serving in the imperial French army. Chassé was now made a général de brigade, serving under Jean-Baptiste Drouet, Comte d’Erlon in Spain. At the beginning of An Unattainable Stronghold we find him commanding a brigade which includes the 30th légère and their scarred, grouchy commander, Colonel Gabriel Bonnet. It’s possible they have a lot in common.
Conclusion
These are just a few of the colourful historical characters making their way through the pages of An Unattainable Stronghold. I love writing about real people, trying to tease out their personalities and to imagine how they might interact with my fictional characters. The book is published on Kindle and in paperback on Amazon on 1st November 2023.
You can find me on social media in the following places.
In the aftermath of a great battle during the 1058 invasion of England by the Norse, Wulfric and his father, Wulfhere, must cope with the untimely death of Wulfwin, Wulfric’s twin brother, whose demise, whilst having been met on the field of slaughter, bears all the hallmarks of a murder rather than a battle killing. No one believes them when they protest that Wulfwin’s death was suspicious and that the likely perpetrator of the crime is Wulfhere’s arch enemy and nemesis, Helghi, with whom the Wulfheresons have feuded for many years. The Howling of Wolves is a little standalone spin off from the main books and incorporates elements of the narrative from the saga.
June, 1058 Somerset The battle was over. Wulfric stared at the body of his twin as it lay wrapped in its burial shroud, resembling a moth in its cocoon. Had he just seen the chest rise and fall? He shook his head. Surely not. He’d seen Wulfwin’s death mask as he’d washed and covered him and knew it impossible that he still breathed. He shut his eyes and moments later opened them again. The cadaver lay still, just like the line of other slaughtered warriors. Sadly, Wulfwin was quite dead. He’d stopped counting the corpses at one hundred. He figured there must be at least the equivalent to add to it. So many dead, despite their victory. A large trench had been dug in which the bodies were lowered with much respect. Father, badly injured during the battle and having his wounds tended to, was unable to say goodbye to his son. Leofnoth, Father’s friend, stood in his stead and had helped Wulfric carry his brother to the death pit. They deposited him in the ditch with a companion on either side, so he would not be alone. It felt strange to touch the lifeless carcass, knowing that a soul no longer inhabited it. The priest took some time to walk around the site, sprinkling holy water over the dead, and reciting the rites in Latin. When done, he made a sign of the cross over them, and the ceorls cast the earth back in. Prayers said, the corpses were left to start their rot in their earthly resting place. Leofnoth patted him on the back comfortingly and turned to leave. Wulfric found he could not, and remained, joining those who wished to stay and sing a lament. The evening was still. Warmth clung to the air and the sun still held sway over the day like a watchful mother. Across the meadow of slaughter, Norse prisoners dug a hole for their own dead. Wulfric heard the huscarls barking profanities at them for being ‘lazy sons of whores’ when they didn’t dig hard enough. He felt no anger toward the enemy, for it was not they who’d killed his brother, he was certain. Nay. It had been the hand of their family’s arch nemesis, Helghi. Or someone close to him. His son, Eadnoth, perhaps. Or their kinsman, Hengest. Or someone else in their pay. Neither Wulfric nor Father had been believed, when they’d protested Wulfwin’s throat could not have been cut by the Norse Wícinga. The incision had been too clean to have been given in battle. A killing like that was hard to prove as murder, but they alone were convinced of the truth. Wulfric, numb with grief, scooped up some dirt, sniffed it, then threw it down where his brother’s corpse hid in the soil. The pungent odour of moist, brown earth filled his nostrils. As a warm breeze played with his fringe and caressed his cheeks, he thought he would never forget the smell of that dirt. To his amazement, a gathering of twigs and leaves rose upwards, spinning like a whirlwind, picking up momentum as it reached where he stood at the edge of the pit. Whoosh! His hair whipped back. The wind roared; whistled through his ears and blustered against his blood encrusted tunic. He gulped mouthfuls of air, trying to refill his lungs, and let out a loud gasp as his breath returned, and with it, the familiar odour of his brother seemed to embrace him before moving on. Wulfwin had passed right through him. The day after the battle, Wulfric did not rise at the sound of the morning horn. Sleep had evaded him, left him lying awake most of the night in the hope Wulfric might let him know he was still here. But nothing. Surprised when the tent flap opened, he blinked. The sun streamed through, blinding him. “What are you doing? Why haven’t you risen?” For a moment, Wulfric thought it his brother who stood before him, but it was his father, Wulfhere, eyes rimmed with red, the torn flap of his cheek stitched into a curve. His complexion was the same pallid shade of green of Wulfwin’s just before they’d wrapped the shroud over his face. “What is there to get up for? Wulfwin is dead and that bastard, Helghi, goes unpunished.” Father stood awkwardly in the entrance, clutching the tentpole as though he were about to pass out. “We break our fast. You should eat something. Come, if you want to.” Wulfhere turned to leave. “Wait. I’ll come,” Wulfric said, crawling out of his bedding. Noon came and at last the fyrd was ready to march back to Gleawecaester. Father, obviously in pain, waved away attempts to get him into the wagon with the other injured. “I will not ride in a litter like an old lady, but like a man,” he had insisted. Why Father had to be so stoic, Wulfric could not guess. He’d always been that way. Wulfric clasped his hands together allowing Father to lever himself awkwardly into the saddle, his injured leg stiff and obstinate, hose stained with blood. A sword thrust had also gouged into the flesh above his hip. He was not in good shape. Wulfhere rode in silence. Gloom wafted from him like a bad smell. His stallion, Hwitegast, was unusually subdued for such an animal often flighty around other horses, especially the mares. The pair of them and made a melancholy couple, but were not alone in their grief. The men of Súþ Seaxa lost many men to the Norse, and amongst those revelling in glorious victory on the journey, were those grieving for the friends and comrades who would never again join them in the warriors’ meadhall. Wulfric glanced at his father riding beside him. The sweat pooled on his face. “You should have gone with the rest of the injured,” Wulfric told him sternly. “Many are worse than I, Wulfric.” A passing rider called to them, “Wulfhere, ’tis a great scar you will have there, ruining your pretty looks. Will your wife still love you?” Father returned the rider’s jest with an unenthusiastic smile. Wulfric scowled his offence, and the man, realising his mistake, rode on in awkwardness. “Do they think they can jest when we have lost my brother?” Wulfric said angrily. “Life goes on, Wulfric.” Wulfhere bit down on his lip. “You are in pain, Father. You should have gone in the wagon.” “I am all right,” Wulfhere told him. “Nay, you are not.” “There was no room, and I can ride. Do not badger me.” Wulfric said no more of it. He was afraid of losing him as well as his brother, but Father’s stubborn resistance to comfort defeated him. Bruised and battered himself, Wulfric counted himself lucky to have come out of his first fight largely unscathed. As one of the younger warriors, he’d been protected by the older men. At only sixteen, he’d started out on the venture with excitement. Father had caught him and his friends acting out their boyish bravado, boasting about their supposed prowess, as if combat was no more than a game. Father, incensed by their foolhardiness, warned them, lecturing them that they should be fearful, not full of unqualified confidence, for without fear they would be like apples on a tree waiting to fall at the slightest gust of wind. “It wasn’t meant to have ended like this, was it?” Wulfric murmured. “We were to have returned together. All of us.” He gulped, stifling a sob. “Half of me has died, Father.” Without looking at him, Wulfhere replied, “I know.” “Father?” “Aye?” “He will hate us for leaving him?” “He will understand. Besides, he will not be alone.” “He wants vengeance. I feel it.” “He will have it, I promise you.” Father turned to him and their eyes locked. “How? How will we avenge him? When?” “We will bide our time, Wulfric.” “I don’t want to bide my time, I want to kill Helghi – now,” Wulfric muttered. Father looked away wearily.
The King’s Stronghold at Gleawecester Wulfric dipped the compress into the basin, squeezed it out, and dabbed at Wulfhere’s sweat-drenched face. Father’s closed eyes flickered, and rapid movement beneath the lids indicated that his sleep troubled him. Tears spilled down Wulfric’s cheeks. God, please, do not take him from me too. How could he go home without his brother or his father? Æmund, his sister’s husband, appeared beside him and handed him a bowl of stew. Wulfric put down the sponge, took the meal, and gazed at the unappetising contents. “How does he fare?” Æmund enquired. Wulfric put aside his supper, his stomach clenching. “He should have ridden in the cart with the injured,” he replied. “And he should not have worn his mail over the wound…” he paused, stared at his fevered father, then continued, his voice increasing to an angry crescendo, “causing the stitching to undo and open the gash.” Æmund, a few years older than him, put a comforting hand on Wulfric’s shoulder. “Am I going to lose him too?” Wulfric asked. “Nay, he will live. Wulfhere is a strong man, has taken worse injuries, or so my father says.” “He always did come back from battle wounded.” Wulfric paused for a moment, reflecting. “Your father does not. How so?” “Father says that Wulfhere puts himself in the middle of the fight every time. Remember, he fought the champion fight ‘ere the battle had even started. My father, well, it has become his custom to keep himself out of the way as much as he can.” The tent opened. A tall fair-haired man, his woad-dyed tunic partially concealed by a rich scarlet cloak, stood with the light behind him. It took Wulfric a moment to realise who it was. Astonished, he attempted to stand as Earl Harold entered with his huscarle, Tigfi. “You will excuse me for intruding,” the earl said, “Please, stay seated. I came to see how Lord Wulfhere is. We are all sorely anxious for him…. And –”, he turned to Tigfi who rummaged in his satchel and handed the earl a small pouch, “I wanted you to have this.” The earl, crouching, stretched out the purse and Wulfric took it silently. “It is your brother’s wergild. Your father left it in my chamber when he collapsed.” Wulfhere made a groaning sound and muttered some incoherent words before quietening again. The earl gazed at him, his face etched in sympathy. “I will pray Lord Wulfhere recovers soon,” Harold said. As Tigfi drew aside the tent flap for the earl, Wulfric got hurriedly to his feet. “My lord,” he said, “I must ask of something you.” Harold paused. “Aye, lad. What is it?” “Did my father speak with you about my brother’s death?” “He did… He mentioned it. And I have told him he should bring the matter up with the hundred moot. If what he says is true, then the truth will out.” The earl exited the tent and Tigfi turned to Wulfric and said, “It is best to leave it to the king’s law, Wulfric. If your brother was killed by Helghi, then as Lord Harold says, the truth will out.” The truth will out… Wulfric doubted that it would.
August 1058 Home Wulfric shivered as he entered the gates of Horstede. It was as though he’d stepped into a cloud of misery. The homestead was usually so full of life at this time of year. It was haerfest monath and the steading should have been alive with activity and merry-making. Something did not feel right. It was as if the place itself already knew that Wulfwin was not with them. Or perhaps it was them who had brought the shadowy atmosphere with them. Father and Wulfric walked at the head of the group who were just as gloom-ridden as the place they’d walked into. Leofnoth, his son, Æmund, and Wulfhere’s young fyrdsman, Yrmenlaf, followed behind. Mother appeared from inside with her maidservant, on her heels. Both women were beaming to see them. His younger sisters, Winflæd, and Gerda, scurried past him, eager to get to Father. Wulfhere held them as they clung to him, kissing and embracing him with veritable violence almost. Then older sister, Freyda, appeared briefly on the porch before rushing back inside, the look on her face was fearful of seeing anyone. Wulfric expected her to be big with child by now. It had been all that Æmund talked about on the journey home. Yet the girl was as slender as ever. If the babe had already arrived, then it must have come early. Æmund, her husband, pushed Wulfric aside, and leapt up the porch steps after her calling her name. Wulfric saw Mother’s eyes rake the scene, then her gaze settled on him and she smiled warmly, before looking around. “Where is Wulfwin?” she asked, her face suddenly grave. “Why is he not here?” Sobbing, Wulfric fell aganst her, draping his arms around her. A great scream came from her and to his dismay, she wriggled from his embrace and ran up the porch steps wailing. “Could you not have brought him home, instead of leaving him in a ditch for the worms to nibble at?” Mother demanded when she had recovered a little. Too busy berating Father, Mother had failed to see to Wulfric’s well-being, the son that was still alive. Nor did she even think to inquire if Father was all right. When Wulfhere walked silently away, leaving her scolding the air, she then turned on Wulfric. Unable to stand her complaining any longer, Wulfric escaped outside to seek peace on a grassy patch behind the chapel. As he hurried there, her wretched sobbing echoed from the hall until the distance was enough to no longer hear it. He leaned against the stone wall, and after a while he took out a piece of whittling he’d been working on, something for Wulfwin – a wolf tacen perhaps. “Does she never stop?” “You know how Mother is,” his dead twin said. “No one has come to see how I am,” he groaned as tiny pieces of wood shaving fluttered to the ground around him. “Not even Mother. Not even to continue her damned complaining. Does anyone care that I have lost you too?” “They only care about themselves, my brother. You should know that by now.” Wulfric smiled. So used to having his life-long companion always there to talk to, it seemed only natural that he would answer when he spoke his thoughts aloud. “It is all they ever cared about.” About to walk back to the hall as the sun was going down, angry voices caught his attention. He looked across the expanse of meadow. Framed against the orange glow of sunset, his sister Freyda walked with her husband, Æmund. They stopped in the shade of an old oak. Æmund crouched to look at something on the ground. Behind him, she stood with her cloak about her, shoulders moving; crying. He watched silently, curious as to why they were there. Was that a grave marker, so far from the chapl grounds? A little wooden cross? He saw Freyda touch her husband’s shoulder. Æmund put a hand over hers, then moments later withdrew it sharply. He stood and turned from her, appeared to wipe tears from his eyes, and she reached out, her hand grasping his arm. Æmund shook her off, and said something he could not properly hear, but could tell had been said in an anger before storming away. The tension between them reached Wulfric across the meadow. Wulfric stood, instinctively protective, the sensation strange. The only person he’d ever felt protective of was Wulfwin. Freyda slunk to the ground, the air was filled with the miserably sound of her tears. He paused and thought, before deciding he would go to her. “Was he being unkind to you? Æmund, I mean,” Wulfric asked as he approached. Freyda turned, a look of surprise on her tearstained face. Wulfric sat down and gazed at a little burial mound, covered in handpicked flowers. “What is this?” he asked, knowing the answer before she gave it. “My baby,” Freyda answered in a low voice, not looking at him. She sniffed and wiped away tears. Wulfric’s heart missed a beat. Now he knew the reason for the misery that had greeted him on his arrival home. He ventured an arm around her. A hint of surprise glimmered in her eyes and she did not flinch, so he pulled her to him, not really understanding why he was doing it. Freyda looked up and stared at him questioningly, then allowed her head to rest against his chest. “I know. This is unlike me,” he said, with a smirk. As small children they had played together, but in their dolescence,Wulfric’s sister thought herself too high and mighty for her younger siblings. Now that she’d seen eighteen summers and he sixteen, would things be different? More tears fell and he held her closer. He had never comforted anyone, not even his brother. And yet it felt right to ease her distress. Her tears fell for some moments before abruptly withdrawing. “Wulfric, I am so sorry about Wulfwin.” Her words hit him, his chin trembled, and pushed aside the tears that escaped his eyes. “What happened to your child? Why was Æmund angry?” he asked after a few moments, not really wanting to talk about Wulfwin for fear of showing too much emotion. “We called the babe Eadric. Oh Wulfric, I am to blame for his death. It was my fault he was not baptised. T’was my fault he could not go to be with God!” “Why? What did you do?” Freyda pulled away from him and wiped her wet face with her sleeve. “Just after you all had gone with the fyrd, I worried about Winflæd being here, what with Mother and Sigfrith both unwell, trying to cope with everything on her own. Father sent for me, but Æmund forbade me to leave our home. Said it was not safe for me or the bearn to manage the journey. I just couldn’t bear to be in Hechestone without Æmund there, and thinking about poor Winflæd here in Horstede, so I disobeyed him. He was right. I should not have left… The child came early. Too early. He didn’t have the strength to live, and he died.” She burst into tears again. “God, Freyda. You should have done as you were told, girl.” “I know. You think I’m a bad wife, don’t you?” She was wailing like a child. Wulfric shrugged. In the last few years, they’d not had much to do with each other, but there he be, comforting her, feeling her pain. He wondered if this was what it was to be a man. “You’ve not always been good,” he said, as though he had thought it all very carefully before answering. “All that trouble with Edgar… Promising to marry him and then marrying Æmund.” “And you? The things you and Wulfwin used to do to Winflæd and Tovi.” There was a slight hint of harshness in her tone. “I-I know,” Wulfric said, gravely. Then, havng pondered on it said, “We were not very good to them. But – sometimes… well, they asked for it.” Freyda giggled through her tears and gave him a playful smack. “You terrorised them. I remember when you put poor Tovi down the well! And the time when you threatened to hang Winflæd as a witch, tying her to the fence by her hair.” Wulfric barked with laughter at the memory, then worried what she must think of him. “And the day the earl came to stay, you stopped Tovi from joining the hunt because you left him hanging from a tree!” Wulfric was relieved to see her smiling. “Aye, I do believe we were very bad to them.” They laughed together and Freyda said, “I didn’t mind, because all the while you boys were tormenting them, Mother and Father didn’t notice me running off to meet Edgar.” “Like the dutiful Christian daughter that you were,” Wulfric grinned. He mimicked his mother and they giggled loudly. “They could be brats some times,” Freyda said. They sat in companionable silence whilst Freyda picked the dead flower heads from the little grave. “Winflaed – she has grown up a lot. She saved my life when I lost Eadric. If it was not for her – and Mother – I do not think I would ne here now.” After a few moments of silence, Wulfric asked, “Do you think we will be forgiven for our sins?” “Not I. God won’t forgive me. And neither will Æmund.” “Æmund will see that you did not knowingly cause your child’s death.” Freyda turned sad eyes to him. The sun reflecting in them made them shine like bright emeralds, a reminder of Mother’s eyes before they had become filled with such bitterness. “It was my fault,” she said quietly, and Wulfric felt her anguish. “I failed my little boy. I failed Æmund. I should not have left Hechestone. I should not have ridden that damned horse. And I should not have disobeyed my husband.” He once more gathered her close and held her, feeling her slight frame tremble against him. Wulfric wondered about the little boy whose bones lay in all that earth. His nephew. A child who had died before it was born. He understood his sister’s agony. Just as he’d shared their mother’s womb with Wulfwin, she’d also shared hers with the little mite. A thought came of his twin. He should have known something bad was going happen to him. Hadn’t Wulfwin tried to warn them of Helghi’s murderous intentions? He could still remember that portentous gesture his brother had made with his hand, slicing his throat, the sign of malice that Helghi had made. “Wulfwin’s death was my blame,” he announced, breaking the silence between them. “How so?” She had been leaning her head against his chest but pulled away to look at him. “I lost Wulfwin in the chaos of battle. When the lines broke… I should have looked for him, found him. Been at his side. Then that bastard, Helghi, would not have got to him.” “Father says it cannot be proven.” “It doesn’t need to be proven. He did it. I know it. Everyone knows. And Father knows it too. He just –” The breeze caught a few strands of her golden hair, fluttering from the cap she wore. His body went cold. Goosebumps ran across the surface of his arms and legs. The back of his neck went rigid. “Did you feel that?” he asked in almost a whisper. “Feel what?” “That chill? Like a cold gust of air just blew through us.” “No? I felt nothing. Just the wind.” “Look! It is him!” Wulfric jumped up. Some feet away, under the big oak tree that spread its ancient limbs out over the horse’s paddock, stood an ethereal shape. A faint mist surrounded the figure, and it was laughing, beckoning. On her feet beside him, Freyda said, “I can’t see anyone.” “Over there, by the horse’s paddock.” He turned to face her. “Wulfwin.” “Wulfric, no one is there.” Looking back, his twin was still laughing, a scene from one of his memories. He seemed to beckon him. He placed his hands on either side of her shoulders and turned her to face the ghost. “See? There.” She caught his face and jerked his head to face her. “Look at me, Wulfric. Wulfwin is not there!” He gazed again to where his brother had been. Freyda was right. No one was there. “But I saw him.” “You couldn’t have. He is gone. Wulfric, Wulfwin is gone.” “I did see him, there, in the pasture, calling me.” Wulfric’s eyes welled with tears. “Listen to me, Wulfric, you’re grieving. That is all it is. I used to think I could hear my baby boy crying at night. I wanted so much for him to be alive that I imagined it.” She drew him to her, arms around him tightly. He sunk into her embrace and silently shed his anger and despair. She was right, hard as it be to accept. He just wanted a chance to make amends for not protecting him – for letting him die. Grief had maddened him. Wulfwin was not coming back. That evening, sleeping in the space he’d once shared with his twin, Wulfric struggled to sleep. They’d shared everything, even their dreams. And now, without Wulfwin, he would be spending the first night home from what would have been their first battle together, alone. But this was not the only reason slumber would not come. Mother was still tearing into Father, and what with Freyda and Æmund arguing well into the night, it was no small wonder he could not doze off. Over the next few days, Wulfric spent much time lying in his bed chamber, curtained off in the hall. If he did get up, it was to wander about the homestead like a wraith. Sometimes he caught his family staring strangely at him as he slouched around, muttering like a lunatic, forgetting to keep the conversations with Wulfwin in his head. He liked to search out places where he and his brother once hid together, plotting their devilish antics. Their favourite had been in the space behind the woodshed. There now, he stroked the bench they had fashioned together from a log. The smoothness of the wood through the tips of his fingers drew the memories of them together into his mind. He lowered himself down to sit and leant against the ram-shackle building, imagining that Wulfwin was beside him. A smile formed on his lips as an old conversation came to his mind. “Tovi always had to come and spoil things, didn’t he, Wulfwin?” His brother nodded, a mischievous glint in his eye. Was Wulfwin’s voice and image only in his head? Could it really be him he saw and spoke to? Or could it be just grief, playing tricks with his mind, as Freyda had said? Nonetheless, he took comfort in knowing he could summon Wulfwin’s spirit anytime he felt like it – real or not. The quiet tranquillity of the warm afternoon away from the noise of the homestead, began to filter into Wulfric’s mind. Still laughing with the ghost of his sibling, Wulfric tried to stop the sleep from coming, but his eyes grew heavy and heavier until he fell into slumber. * Wulfric’s eyes flash open. Surprised, he finds himself on the ground and quickly springs into action. Had he been sleeping? The impact as the lines are forced back causes the men to tumble and fall over one another. On one knee, Wulfric crouches behind his shield. The air fills with screams as blades plunge into flesh. The noise of squelching blood and innards terrify him. Now on his feet, he grabs his spear. Where is Wulfwin? Where is his brother? The shieldwall is torn asunder and its warriors are no longer standing side by side. Heart pounding like a hammer on an anvil, he sees all around is chaos. The Wícinga are big men with giant axes that swipe across the shoulders of his battle companions. Heads, still with their helms attached, fly from their necks and the stumps are left looking like fresh meat. He searches for Wulfwin but cannot find any familiar faces amidst the clash of weapons. He breathes through his nose and is immediately hit by the stench of blood. He tastes the foul globules of gore lthat land in his mouth. “Wulfwin! Wulfwin!” Wulfric wonders if it is really he that shouts. His voice sounds distant even in his own ears. The noise of battle diminishes as though he is suddenly leagues away, but still the fighting goes on. Then the howling comes. A faint voice calls… “Brother… Come to me! Come… The wolves…They are howling.” Wulfric listens for the voice. He is standing still. All else circles him like a wheel. He hears it again, very faintly. “Wulfwin?” he calls. Looking before him, some yards away, he sees Father’s banner, Running Wolf. It flaps furiously in the wind. His brother is there, like a maddened boar. He gives good slaughter with his long-shafted spear, protecting the standard and its terrified bearer, Yrmenlaf. Suddenly Wulfwin is still. He stares, smiles, and then nods to Wulfric who is close enough to see that someone has reached around his brother’s neck from behind. There is a blade and Wulfric shouts a warning.His eyes focus on the knife as it presses into the exposed skin of Wulfwin’s neck. Even from that distance, he can see the trickle of blood that runs into the gully of his brother’s collarbone; the skin that is unprotected by his mail. He closes his eyes and the screaming starts. With a sharp intake of breath, Wulfric woke. He lay panting, sweat running down his back, the sun hot on his face. He must have slipped from the bench and onto the grass, his heart still racing. He jolted himself to a sitting position, casting a look around him, gaining his bearings. He saw no sign of Wulfwin – or anyone else for that matter. Almost immediately the dream had begun to fade. He tried to claw it back. What had he seen? But he could recall nothing significant, just an image of his brother with a knife at his neck. Only a nightmare. * For the seventh night since arriving home, Wulfric lay, wide-eyed and lonely in bed. The wind whispered through the eaves like the faraway howling of wolves. During the day he longed for sleep, but at night it evaded him, and his head swirled with thoughts of Wulfwin. Most nights they talked, and this night was no different. As always, Wulfric told his brother of the misery he felt without him. Wulfwin, however, did not return his sympathies. He was not happy for some reason. Wulfric shivered with the ominous feeling of hostility that seemed not only to pervade the air, but also his skin, setting the fibres of his nerves on edge. It was the last of the hot weather months and still humid at night, but the atmosphere abruptly altered from warm to freezing. An aroma of damp, rich soil filled the space around him. The dark grew deeper, and he sank into a murkiness of shadows as if he had fallen into an earthly tomb. “I know you miss me too brother, but I am not at fault. I told Father we should bring you home. I didn’t want to leave you in that hole. I’m sorry… If we had brought you home, then you would be here too….” The wind rose in a high-pitched wail and suddenly the mattress felt cold as snow, and it shifted, as though someone lay down next to him. Afraid, Wulfric slowly turned his head and as he did so, an eerie voice spoke, sibilant and serpent-like; demonic, “But I am here with you, brother….” He screamed as a face, white as ash, dispersed into the darkness like splintered glass. Wulfric sprang upright, shaking, perspiring, and puffing for breath. The image of Wulfwin, now gone, had been lying on its side, head leaning on the palm of its hand as the real Wulfwin had often done when alive. Wulfric looked around, the darkness not as strong as before. Leaning forward, he pushed through the curtain and gazed out. In the hall silence reigned. Lying back against the bolster, he felt calmer. It must be a nightmare. He shut his eyes, and after a moment opened them again and looked to where his brothere had just been. There was nothing but empty space. As time went by, the vivid dream of battle continued. So very real; the crash of weapons, the cries of the wounded. And the howling – yes, the howling of wolves. It always ended the same. Every time, just as the blade was about to slide across his brother’s neck, Wulfric would wake up screaming, covered in sweat, with a feeling of impending doom. And something else? What are you trying to tell me, my brother? Then, as the day wore on, those feelings would diminish. He’d shrug. After all, they were just dreams, weren’t they? Though he never spoke about the nightmares and the conversations with Wulfwin to anyone, he was often seen around the homestead talking to himself – or someone that could not be seen. Both Ealdgytha and Wulfhere believed there was something quite wrong with their son talking to the dead. But Father Paul advised them to leave him be, reassuring them it would help the healing process. Then one day, his parents surprised him with a different idea of what might aid his recovery. Growing up, Wulfric had never been able to fathom the inner workings of his mother’s mind. He could, if he wanted, recall some magical moments in the past when she’d smiled spontaneously or genuinely laughed at some prank of his and his brother’s. These were, however, mostly old reveries. Since returning without Wulfwin, her expression had become grimmer, and mostly now remained that way. But on this particular morning, leading a young woman into the hall from the snowy, wintry afternoon, Mother’s features were aglow with pleasure, as if she were about to tell him something wonderful. Brought to stand before him, the girl pulled back her hood to reveal a mass of unveiled chestnut hair, set aglow by the light of the hearth. He couldn’t help but stare. He chided himself as he tried and failed to draw his gaze away from her, only to discover a pair of startling green eyes fixed on him. The gentle curve of her plump, rosy lips displayed a light smile. Perfect. Her lips were perfect. He briefly looked at his feet, as Mother introduced her as Cynethryth, daughter of a local thegn. Wulfric risked glancing up and began to stare again, unable to draw his eyes from her. Catching him out once more, the girl’s grin broadened, pricking her freckled cheeks with attractive dimples. Thus, Wulfric learned he was to be married. He hated the idea of having this marriage forced on him in order to help him forget the pain of losing his brother. Did they think him a child who could be placated with a puppy when an old dog had died? “It will do you good to have a son of your own,” were Mother’s words of wisdom. And the very thought he might father a brat or two filled Wulfric with terror. Nay, he was not ready for that responsibility. What he really wanted was Wulfwin back. “As if a mere female could replace you,” Wulfric said to his brother in their nightly talk. “You didn’t protest much,” came Wulfwin’s caustic reply. Wulfric shrugged. “Mother will get what Mother wants, regardless of what I say.” “She will make a fool of you, that one.” “Mother? Or the girl?” “The girl.” “Why so?” “You’ll see.”
At first, Wulfric found his bride irksome. Her cloying, persistent expectation he would be at her beck and call was an irritation that he often could not hide. She was eighteen, and far more mature than any girl he had been with. He could not deny the excitement of having a woman in his bed instead of a mere girl. And she was not unversed in the art of love, teaching him a trick or two he’d not known before. Her naked body in his bed was more than tempting, but with the deed done, he just wanted to get away from her, provoking angry outbursts from her which he returned in kind. Eventually the aggression seeped into their lovemaking and he soon discovered that they both held a liking for ferocious bed play. As much as Wulfric tried to avoid his new wife during the day, he would always find himself in their chamber at night and Cynethryth’s loud screams of pleasure meant that they now had their own sleeping quarters outside the hall. Occasionally they would arrive at mealtimes with scratches and bruises on their faces, inducing some odd looks from Mother and curious ones from Sigfrith. Father though, seemed oblivious to it. He regularly appeared preoccupied of late, often found to have an empty horn of mead in his hand. But since Wulfric had been married, he found himself changing. The more time he spent as a husband, the less he thought of his brother and the more he thought of his wife… and the less he dreamt. Until one night… Wulfric… Wulfric… Wulfric’s eyes opened. He surveyed the darkness, listening to the delicate snore of his sleeping wife, lying with her head on his outstretched arm. Wulfric… His ears pricked. Who was calling him? Was he dreaming again? Sleep forced his eyes to close, before a light brushing on his shoulder disturbed him. His lids flew open as he felt himself shaken. He gently untwined his arm out from under Cynethryth’s shoulders and sat up carefully, so as not to wake her. A dark mass moved through the door as it creaked open. “Wulfwin?” Wulfric pulled on his clothes, threw his cloak around himself, slipped into his boots, and followed him into the night. As he looked out across the green, the figure was hurrying across it, coming to a halt by the twin towered gates. “Wulfwin? Is that you?” Wulfric called out in a loud hoarse whisper. The dark human shape waved a beckoning shadowy hand, then disappeared through the unopened exit, sinking into the structure as though swallowed by it. “Follow me…” Wulfwin’s disembodied voice called. Without realising how he got there, Wulfric found himself outside the palisade and down the track into the forest. The rime on the path gave him the sensation of crunching dried leaves and twigs under his feet. Frosty balls of breath floated around him, caressing his cheeks. He felt strangely detached from th cold. He was there, but not there. In the distance he saw the dark mass that had drawn him out of his warm bed. “Wulfwin is that you?” he cried out and ran after it. “Wulfwin wait! Where are you taking me?” Soon, the ghostly figure disappeared into a dark part of the woods, where the half moonlight could not penetrate. Wulfric stopped at the edge of the gloom, afraid to go in. “I am scared, Brother. I don’t want to see.” He heard in what could only be a resonance of his twin’s voice, “To see what happens in the light, you must go into the dark…” “Is that really you, Wulfwin?” Wulfric stared into the blackness before him, dark and crepy. “What will happen to me if I go in?” “Look, down there…” Wulfric turned and beheld a shallow ravine. Moonlight shone as if to purposely show him what lay there. He saw a burial shroud covered in vegetation. Within the coverlet of leaves, a bright light glowed, and something pulsated with the rhythmic thump of a heart beating. His brother’s death pall. What was it doing here? “Christ! Wulfwin, you’re alive!” He scrambled into the ravine and slid down its short slope. He fell to his knees and brushed away the dirt and leaves and tore off the shroud to reveal the face of his twin. What he saw made him scream. Hollow cheekbones, rotting skin, brown and wrinkled like leather. And the eyes – black rot in their hollow sockets. Wulfwin’s voice hissed, “Aye, Brother. I am dead but not dead. Real but not real. It is not a dream.” Wulfric leapt up. “Nay, nay, nay!” he cried out, hands over his ears. He was unable to stop looking at the undead cadaver at his feet. The thing’s lips moved. A voice spoke in a slow, harsh, grating tone, “Look at the hand…” Fear coursed through his veins, and he scrambled up the bank, the monstrous voice echoing. Look at the hand… the hand… On the ridge he stood panting, staring into the ravine. The enshrouded corpse had gone. The voice quiet. “If you are trying to scare me, it is working!” “Trying to make you see…” “See what? What?” “The hand…” Wulfric shook his head. It must be a nightmare! He looked down at his dirt-soiled hands and fingernails. He was awake after all. The darkness still loomed ahead, drew him to it, his eyes growing heavier and heavier, drifting into a deep, penetrating slumber.
Wulfric crouches behind his shield, as the enemy is attacked. He must protect Yrmenlaf and his father’s banner, Running Wolf. He lashes out with a spear, stabs anyone that comes near them. Screams of slaughter echo through the air, raw and terrifying as death takes anyone in its path. A heavy blow by a huge-bladed axe crashes against his shield and causes him to go down. He rolls, slides, and is up again in a thrice. He hopes his brother Wulfwin is safe. Running Wolf is nearby, and he realises he is not Wulfric, butWulfwin – or is he? Suddenly, he is hauled rearwards, his helmet dragged off exposing his head. He struggles but can do nothing as cold steel bites into the skin at his throat. He tries to call for his father and brother, but what comes instead is the high-pitched whine of a wolf cub. The sound of despair. Shock surges through him as he slips slowly to the ground. The gore-laden grass squelches beneath him. Warm liquid pours from his neck, saturating his mail. He grabs at the wound, hot blood gushes through his fingers. A gurgling sound. He is dying. Unable to dam the exodus of his life any longer, his hands fall helplessly beside him. Someone sobs loudly and he looks up as the light wanes. Father looks down from above, beside himself with grief. “Wulfwin…” He turns his head towards Father’s voice but all that can be seen is a man’s shadow. I am not Wulfwin, he thinks, and wants to say it out loud. But the words do not come because he is dead. Wulfric gasped, panting, hands cover his throat. He inhaled deeply, replacing the breath lost. “Christ,” Wulfric muttered and sat up. He had been in the forest all night. The sun was coming up and his bones ached with cold. A deep depression hung over him. What was he doing there? He struggled to remember. Standing up, he thought he must have been sleep walking. Then Wulfwin’s voice came to him like a whisper in the wind: To see what happened in the light, you must venture into the dark.
Weeks later It was a freezing cold Candelmæsse eve, late in the afternoon. Wulfric had been ordered out of the hall to help his father with pruning the orchard, but just as he usually did, he ignored the summons. He’d made himself comfortable as near to the hearth as he could without getting in the way of the women’s cooking. He lounged on a pile of animal skins, supported on one elbow. His dog, Brun, slumped across him, and he stroked the dog’s fur. Around him, some of the villagers were taking down the greenery that decorated the hall since Christmæsse tide to replace them with new for the coming celebration. His eye lids grew heavy, and he almost dozed off. He could hear the chatter of the women as they attended to the evening supper. The cauldron pot that hung above the hearth bubbled away. The delicious scent of meat and vegetables waft abedout him, tantalising his sense of smell. His eyes snapped open when through the back doors of the hall, stormed his father. Picking up a spear and shield, Wulfhere stomped out through the front doors, slamming them behind him. About to return to his relaxed state, Sigfrith’s announcement that trouble was at the gate jerked him awake and he sat up. He shifted Brun off of him, and the dog leapt up, tail wagging as Wulfric raised himself to his feet. Brun panted and circled himself with excitement as if it was time for a hunt. Wulfric approached the door just as Mother, her face etched in fury, pushing him aside as she came through. “What is going on?” he asked as she returned to her cooking. “Tigfi is out there with Helghi of all people and those awful men of his. They have come to discuss your sister,” she said. “What?” “Aye! It seems your dear Father did not attend the hundred moot summons, nor the shire court summons, and now Tigfi has orders to hand Winflæd over to that disgusting foul creature outside as a wife for his equally foul offspring!” “Winflæd? She is but a bearn still.” Mother rolled her eyes. “And Eadnoth of all people? Father will never let her marry him.” Ealdgytha looked at him with an expression that would have killed all the weeds in the kingdom. “He’s let them in the gates. He’s talking to them now.” Wulfric listened. The rumbling of voices could be heard distinctly outside. Wulfric pulled one of the doors ajar and looked out. Father was arguing with Tigfi as Helghi ranted in the background. His piss boiling, Wulfric burst through the doors, sorely testing their hinges. There stood his brother’s murderer – the enemy – arms folded, watching as Father and Tigfi argued. There were others also, a woman and another man, standing in the background. Though it was Helghi who interested him most. “Helghi! You lie and you know it! You killed my brother!” Wulfric lunged at the man with his seax drawn. Tigfi, the local hundred reeve, knocked the blade spinning out of his hand. “Oh no you don’t.” As Tigfi dragged him away, Wulfric yelled, directing his ire at Helghi, “My brother told me you threatened him like this!” and he drew his hand like a knife across his throat. “Ælfstan!” Tigfi cried. “Contain this boy on pain of death should he move.” Then at Wulfric he said menacingly, “Wulfric! If you do that again I’ll have my men clap you in fetters. Stay there!” As Ælfstan forced him back, Wulfric stood, sullenly making fists. A perfect opportunity to revenge his brother now lost. He peered out from behind the burly blacksmith. To his annoyance, Winflæd snatched the seax from the ground. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he doesn’t move.” The knife quivered as she threatened him with it. Wulfric hissed. “What are you playing at stupid little girl?” Winflæd scowled and looked away from him at Tigfi and Father. Tigfi had his arm around Father’s shoulders. He walked him forward a few steps. “I know this is difficult, Wulfhere, but it could get worse. Is there nothing we can do here? I know that Helghi is an earsling, but the boy may not be so bad–” Their heads turned to look at Helghi’s son who was picking at an unsightly spot on his nose. Catching everyone gazing at him, Eadnoth looked flustered and dropped his hand away from his face. Wulfric felt a moment of disgust. This was the creature they wanted his sister to wed. He still thought of her as the wispy, plain, skinny thing, so unlike Freyda. He’d not bothered with Winflaed much since coming home. They had not spoken as he and Freyda had. He turned his attention back to Tigfi, hearing him talking animatedly with Father. Wulfhere suddenly turned and jabbed a finger in Eadnoth’s direction. “He is not getting my daughter!” Father then glared at Helghi, who drew breath deeply, his bearded cheeks lifting into a smile as he let out a sigh of satisfaction. Wulfhere shouted, going toward Helghi, Tigfi holding his arm, “Helghi!” “What are you doing, Wulfhere?” Tigfi demanded. “You wanted a solution, I have one,” Father said. “Helghi?” “What?” Helghi squared himself and folded his arms. “Oh no you don’t, Wulfhere,” Tigfi groaned, still latched tightly to his arm. Wulfhere ignored Tigfi, and barked at Helghi, “We fight. You and me. If you can get me to submit, then you may have her.” Wulfric gasped. His father had not been in any shape to fight anyone since they had come home. To bargain like this with his daughter’s life was the height of idiocy. “Father! Do not do this! You are still not well,” Winflæd shouted. Father pushed her toward the hall. “Winflæd, go – in – side!” “Don’t do this. Please?” she pleaded. Tigfi said softly to her, “Go, Winflæd. This is not the place for you to be right now.” Wulfric’s heart beat fast. His sister shrugged the reeve off. “Tigfi, my father is not fit. You can see how ill he is? He is weak as a kitten.” Father looked indignant. “Why don’t you let everyone know how he easily he will pound me into the ground?” Clenching his fist, Wulfric’s rage grew as Helghi, smirking, looked Father up and down as though measuring his chances against him. Wulfwin’s voice appeared in his head, goading, “Kill him, brother! Kill the bastard!” “Very well.” The sneer on Helghi’s face stretched to a wide grin that was more like a grimace. Wulfhere nodded. “When you lose, your fat, bulbous, stinking shadow never darkens my door again.” Wulfric could stand it no longer. He forced his way past Ælfstan. “Father, Winflæd is right. Let me fight. I will fight Eadnoth. If I win, then Winflæd goes free.” He glared at Eadnoth. “And I will win.” “Stay back, boy!” “I am sick of you calling me a boy! I am not a boy anymore, Tigfi. You cannot treat me like I am!” Wulfric’s eyes then flew to where Eadnoth stood. Sneering, Eadnoth crossed his arms and widened his stance. “What say you, Eadnoth?” Wulfric stepped forward to stand nose to nose with Helghi’s son and felt himself whipped away by large capable hands. He turned and saw it was Aelfstan. There was a lot of commotion. Raised voices were giving their opinions on what should happen next. It was his sister who put a halt to them. She swung around at them all, eyes ablaze with such uncommon fury for her true nature. “Stop it, all of you! Have you not had enough of fighting?” “Nay. That is exactly what we are about to do, little girl.” Helghi, his voice menacing, gestured at Wulfhere and himself. “Your father and I will fight it out and your fate will be decided.” “Don’t, Father,” Winflæd pleaded. She went to him, put her arms around him. “I’d sooner wed you to Edgar than this godforsaken wyrmlicin,” Wulfhere said in a low voice, but Wulfric still heard him. His sister’s head jerked up from where she had lain her head against Father’s chest. “Then it shall be done.” “What?” exclaimed Tigfi. Wulfric’s heart was still thumping. Had his ears heard correctly? His sister, agreeing to wed Eadnoth’s brother Edgar. How could she agree to swap one bastard for the other? But Edgar was outlawed! And what’s more, Father had admitted to having…What? Did he hear right again? Had Father really rescinded the sentence of outlawry? Nay, nay! This could not be happening. Wulfric began to pace, shutting out the noise from his head with his hands. When he could stand it no more, he released his ears and bellowed, “Winflæd, if you do this thing, you will no longer be my sister! And you”, he turned to Wulfhere, “will no longer be my Father! How could you release Edgar after what he did to Esegar and Freyda?” Winflæd stepped up to him defiantly. “Stay out of this! Since when do you have the right to speak about who I should marry?” “You conceited little bitch! I am your brother and have every right to dispute this matter. Tell her, Father.” Outrage whirled inside him. His sister’s marriage into Helghi’s family would mean they would have familial ties to the man who had killed Wulfwin. Something he could never countenance. It must be stopped. Just then all hell broke loose. Voices talking at once. Amongst them he heard Wulfwin whispering, his words getting louder until they were blasting in his ears above the din of the others. Look at the hand… “Who’s hand?” Wulfric shouted and all but collapsed with the stress. “What?” Ælfstan, stared at him curiously. Wulfric, bent almost double, looked up at the blacksmith. “Nothing,” he croaked. “Why don’t you go in the hall lad. Get away from this.” Wulfric ignored him and gazed over at his sister and Father. What were they doing now? It looked like she was trying to get him to write his mark on something. “Father sign, please.” “Never will I sign this thing!” Wulfhere had hold of Winflæd so tightly, Wulfric thought he would choke her. “If all of you do not leave my land now, I shall cut her throat and then no one will have her. Come, Winflæd, Wulfric, Ælfstan, Yrmenlaf. And you, too, Father Paul. Inside.” Tigfi called out to him. “Wulfhere, we shall be back on the morrow, if your daughter is not handed over then, you may not have any land on which to order us out of!” There was a deadly pause. Father stiffened; gone white with anger. “How could you of all people do this, Tigfi?” Wulfric felt relieved. Father still had some fight in him. Tigfi stepped cautiously toward him hands held up in placation. “Wulfhere, I was charged with this mission –” “To hell with your mission – to hell with the earl. What did he offer you – gold, land?” Wulfhere spat, then releasing Winflæd, snatched the contracts. “You know me better than that, lord,” Tigfi said as Wulfhere leant on the bench and put his mark on the contract. “Nay! You can’t! You can’t!” Wulfric cried, as Ælfstan stood in his way. He heard Father say in a low angry voice, “There will be no marriage celebration. No merry-making, or dancing – or feasting… Let the priest say the words over them – but not here, not in my home. I will not be witness to it.” Father pushed past anyone who stood in his way, dragging his injured leg up the porch steps to enter the hall. Winflæd followed and as she went by, Wulfric spat in her face. “You little bitch!” Sigfrith went for him, shaking her fist, and he scuttled up the steps, making for the safety of the doors. “If you do such a thing to my lady again, I’ll set your arse on fire, you red-headed beast!” Wulfric hid inside the porch. He peered out of the door and saw the she-viper, Sigfrith, wiping Winflæd’s face. “I just don’t know what has happened to this family,” Sigfrith said tearfully. “He is one half of a devil, that one. God forgive me but thank the Lord, there’s only one of them now.” Wulfric said nothing; did nothing. Just stood stunned. Wulfwin’s voice said, “She hates you too, Wulfric. She hates us. They all do. Now I am gone, they want you dead too” Wulfric watched as his father forlornly clambered down from the rampart. The others had already gone inside leaving just Father to watch Winflæd borne away by Tigfi to her new home in Helghi’s household. It was all so confusing. Wulfric had been too young to have been involved in the situation that caused so much trouble between his family and Helghi’s, but over the years he had managed to piece together the story. It started with his older sister, Freyda, whose forbidden love affair with Helghi’s first-born son, Edgar, reignited a long dormant feud. Helghi and Father had been enemies long before this, and now it was their offspring who were reaping what their parents had sewn. The young couple met without either families knowing. Freyda and Edgar plighted their troth and the matter only came to light when they met one night in Helghi’s byre and accidentally burned the thing to the ground; not only the byre but Helghi’s hall as well. Remembering the bloodfeud of old, Lord Harold, Earl of Wessex and master to all men living in Súþ Seaxa, ordered the two men allow their children to wed so that there would be peace between them. Lord Harold hated feuds. But Father had no intention of allowing a daughter of his to marry to a Helghison and went against the earl’s wishes and promised her to his friend Leofnoth’s son, Aemund. Freyda had kicked against this at first but eventually she preferred her prospects with Aemund, who, unlike Edgar, was a thegn’s son, and not a mere ceorl. A broken-hearted Edgar, kidnapped Freyda. During the rescue he killed Wulfhere’s beloved right-hand man, Esegar. But eventually, Freyda was freed, and Edgar outlawed. A furious Helghi, sought out Earl Harold and the earl demanded that Wulfhere offer younger daughter Winflæd to Helghi’s other son, Eadnoth, as recompense and so that the truce between them could be restored. Not that it had ever been a peaceful truce. Father reluctantly gave an undertaking to carry this out, though in truth he was never going to submit to the order. And then, Wulfric’s twin brother, Wulfwin, was slain during the fight against the Norse, his demise resembling an execution rather than a battle-death. Father accused Helghi of murdering him. There would never be peace now. Neither would Wulfhere willingly consent to a wedding between his daughter and the insufferable Eadnoth Helghison. Or so Wulfric had thought. And Father had let her go without a fight. Helghi! Wulfric spat as the filth’s name left his lips. Father walked toward him from the gates and Wulfric blocked his way. “Why did you let her go?” “Leave it, Son. I do not wish to quarrel with you… not now.” “The hell I will leave it!” Wulfric said, mirroring him as he tried to move out of his path. “Come on, Father. Tell me. Why did you let the murdering scum win?” There was something so defeatist about Wulfhere at that moment. It angered Wulfric. Rage built up inside him and he pushed Father. “Don’t,” Father said. “What’s wrong with you? Are you turning coward? There was a time when you would have torn Helghi limb from limb rather than let him win this thing.” “I do not have to justify myself to you. Men do not always think of consequences when they do violence. A boy of sixteen-year-old thinks even less of them.” He moved to pass, but again Wulfric refused to get out of his way. “I say you have lost your nerve.” Wulfric spat. He thumped his father’s chest with balled fists. Wulfhere staggered back. “You are a coward. What kind of a man allows his daughter to be carried off by the murderer of his brother, his friend, and his son?” Wulfric’s voice cracked with emotion. “Don’t you think I want the same as you? I want revenge. I want to see Helghi dangling on the end of a rope. To see his eyes bulge and the stain of shit soil him as he cries for mercy!” “Spare me the sermon, Father. I’ve heard it before, remember? In Kings Holme?” Wulfric turned to walk away. Father caught his arm. “It will come, Wulfric, I swear it.” “When?” “That, I cannot say. But it will.” Supressing a sob, Wulfric said, “When Wulfwin and I were little, he used to comfort me when I was afraid of the dark. He used to say to me, ‘Do not fear, brother, Father will protect us from the nihtgenga.’ I wonder what he thinks of you now, to see the weakling you have become. He asks me every night, ‘Where is my vengeance, Brother?’ And every night I must tell him I do not know.” The muscles in Father’s jaw rippled as he clenched them, then, before he knew anything more, Wulfric found himself flung to the ground. He lay winded, head thumping with pain as it hit the earth. Father crouched over him, hands around his throat. Wulfric tried to pull them away, but Wulfhere tightened his grip. Looming over him, a grimace of rage on his face, Father growled ,“Do you think it was easy to let her go to that pig? Knowing he was the man responsible for killing my son. Knowing that because of him my brother died – that Esegar died – and there is nothing I can do about it. Do you think it has not torn my heart out? You know nothing of what I have just been through in my head. Fighting is easy! I could swat you like a fly – just like that, I could crush the life out of you, but–” Father’s hands tightened, his eyes blazing like a madman’s. Wulfric desperately tried in vain to loosen the hold. He could not breathe. He was going to die. “Coward, am I?” Father sneered. “It takes more courage to walk away than to fight! Aye, it takes more courage than you will ever know, to see your daughter stolen from you and not be able to do anything about it.” Wulfric gasped for air. Father let go and rose to his feet, stepped over Wulfric’s prone body, and limped away, back toward the hall. Wulfric leapt to his feet, coughing and spluttering. He ran after Wulfhere, undeterred, as though Father had not almost choked the life out of him. “Father! You have fought many battles. You fought and won the cheampa. Men sang your praises in the warrior’s hall – and now you speak words of cowardice, not courage.” Wulfhere halted, faced him and enclosed on him, their foreheads touching. “Do not even think to talk to me of the things you know nothing of. You will regret your words to me one day – by God, you will! Aye, you will learn in the fullness of time, if you get there.” Father walked on and Wulfric hurried alongside him. “You have lost your mind. We are warriors. Wulfsuna – a bloodline that stretches back through our family since the first sons of the wolf came to this land.” “Aye, we are warriors. But there are many kinds of battles to fight other than the ones you fight in the fields. As you go through life, you will find out what they are! Now, get out of my way, lyttel mana!” Wulfric hurried after him. His brother’s voice nagged him, wanting his vengeance. “Shut up!” Wulfric cried. Inside the hall, he went to his mother. She was sobbing in Sigfrith’s arms. “Farewell, Mother.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “Where do you go, my son?” she asked as he collected his things. “Am I to lose all my children?” “I go to Leofnoth. I’d rather eat pig scite for the rest of my life than stay here,” Wulfric said. “You’ll get plenty of that there!” Wulfhere retorted. “What about me?” Cynethryth hurried to him. “You may come, if you wish,” he said, joylessly. He went through the doors, carrying his spear and shield, his wife securing her cloak and hurrying to catch him up. They rode at a slow pace, through the night, his wife in pillion behind him. It was freezing. Frost floated on the air around them like smoke. “Cynethryth?” Her non-response and gentle breathing suggested she slept. He clung to her hands that were folded about his waist so she did not slip. The road to his foster father’s homestead stretched out ahead of him, grim like a black abyss, similar to the dark mass in his dream the other night. As Wulfric gently nudged his mount forward, the ice he’d seen hovering in the atmosphere disappeared and looking around him he saw nothing but shadows, no moonlight, no frost. Just darkness. “Wulfric…” Wulfric gazes into the leaf-laden ravine. Beside him, his brother’s ethereal presence stands. He turns sharply to stare at the phantom and shakes his head. “Nay, I don’t want to go down there again. Don’t want to see…” “You must…” The pale death shroud is there in the ravine, he sees it through the covering of dirt, twigs, and leaves. A limb extricates itself from the rotting fabric, its decaying flesh drips off yellowing bone. Slowly other parts of the putrid corpse appear as it begins to climb out of its cocoon in jerking movements. “Go into the darkness…” Wulfwin commands. His voice is like a demon’s, sibilant and snakelike. Wulfric gazes around himself. The phantom Wulfwin has gone from his side without him seeing. He is there, down in the gully. “Come to me, Brother…” Wulfric’s heart is in his mouth as the corpse of his brother sits up, head turned to look at him. He has hollow eye sockets, and strips of leathery flesh peel and hang from his face. His mouth is stretched into a weird, ominous grimace, exposing gumless teeth. “You are not my brother! Go away!” says Wulfric, his hands over his eyes. He wants to run but feels rooted to the spot. He peeks from between his fingers and sees the thing is on all fours, crawling toward him. The once thick, vibrant red hair now clings to the skull in long hanks shedding as the undead figure clambers to stand. He covers his eyes again, hoping the thing will go away. Suddenly, a bony hand grasps him round the throat. Fingers digging into his flesh like claws. “Aghh!” His lids shut tight, blocking out the horror. “Why are you doing this to me?” Wulfric shouts as the skeletal hands tighten their grip. “I told you to look at the hand!” Wulfric reopens his eyes. The face of his brother is now that of the one he’d come to know more recently. The white veiny flesh of death had returned to the skull. The fibrous skin of moments ago gone. His brother’s voice is no longer like a serpent’s and he is shaking him and shouting, “Look at the hand!” Cold, malodourous breath fans his face. The creature is so close to him, it is as if he is alive and not buried deep in a hole in Somerset. He recognises the familiar mix of woodsmoke, wool, leather, and body odour. “What hand? Whose hand? What do you want me to look for?” “Useless piece of scite! What kind of brother are you?” “You are not my brother. He would not terrify me like this.” “Look at me! Am I not Wulfwin?” “What do you want from me?” Again, Wulfric closes his eyes, willing himself to wake from this nightmare. Then the voice of the spectre growls like one of the old gods of yore blowing up a storm. “Vengeance!” The cry that rings out is subterranean. The strength of it blows the hair back from his brother’s deathly pale face and rumbles through Wulfric’s body. As his own mouth is forced open by the powerful gust of his brother’s roar, his soul is sucked out of him, swallowed into the dark mass and thrust into another time, another place… Wulfric crouches behind his shield. Men around him are being attacked and he knows he must protect Yrmenlaf. He lashes out with his spear, stabbing anyone that comes near them. He hopes to God that his brother is safe. An arm grabs him around the neck and pulls him backwards, tugs at his helmet until it slips over his head. He is surprised, and there is nothing he can do but let it happen. He looks down and sees a glimpse of a hand holding the handle of a blade. It is the assailant’s left hand. There is a blur of red, a blister or birthmark between the thumb and the forefinger. He wonders momentarily why he has never noticed it before. Cold steel rests against his throat. He tries to call for his father and brother, but the only sound he can make is to howl like a wolf cub as the knife opens his throat. The ground squelches beneath him. He slips down to lie in the gore of other men. There is a gurgling sound as he grabs his neck, and the blood gushes from the wound through his fingers. He knows he is dying. His hands have no strength to stop the flow of scarlet and they flop beside him. Around him he hears sobbing and his sight wanes. He looks up hoping to see the sky and glimpses the face of his brother, hovering above. “Wulfric…” He turns his head towards his brother’s voice. Wulfwin is smiling. “I saw it, Wulf,” Wulfric says. “I saw the hand.” Wulfwin is nodding and he has a look of happiness on his face as he gets smaller, diminishing into darkness. Wulfric lies there waiting. There must be more. Then he sees it. An image of that pockfaced son of a filthy swine; Eadnoth. Wulfric is standing before him as he squares up to him in his father’s courtyard as he had earlier that day. As Eadnoth crosses his arms over his chest, Wulfric sees clearly on the left hand, the bloodstained birthmark, like a blister, between Eadnoth’s thumb and forefinger. His brother’s killer was Eadnoth.
Wulfric could not remember how he came to arrive at the home of Leofnoth, but when he awoke just before dawn, he found that they had slept in the barn. Looking around him, he did not recognise the place at first, but after some moments of searching for memory of what had gone before, he recalled the night ride up until the nightmare. As it all came back to him, his heart raced at recollections of the demonic brother and his incessant demands for vengeance. Could you not just have told me who it was that had killed you? Did you have to put the fear of God into me? He bent over the girl lying next to him, deep in sleep. He shook her gently, but she did not stir. He lay back in the growing light and closed his eyes in the hope that he would return to the peaceful sleep he longed for and rarely received. Then his brother spoke to him, as though it were his own thoughts. “Oh Wulfric, Wulfric. You do not know what it is like to be in this state, between worlds. I could not tell you who, because I did not know. I had to make you see for me. It is you that has shown me who murdered me. And now you must do your duty, my brother. You must give me my vengeance.” “And it shall be done, brother of mine. It shall be done.”
Some days later Wulfric lay in wait as he had done every day for the last week. Much time had been spent learning of Eadnoth’s daily movements. The murdering bastard regularly went hunting. After a few unsuccessful attempts to waylay his quarry, Wulfric realised he must have been in the wrong place, or the right place, at the wrong time. It took him some further days of enquiring to find out the route that Eadnoth seemed to take the most and at what time. As he crouched, hidden by dense foliage, anticipation pulsed through him. Something told him that today he would avenge Wulfwin. The same rush of blood that had sent exhilaration into his veins at his first battle, washed over him at the thought of killing. He heard rustling and a tuneful whistling, accompanied by soft footsteps on grass. Moving aside the shrubbery, Wulfric flinched as his hand caught a prickle. Sucking the blood, he peered through the greenery and saw a pair of sturdy legs stride by, encased in grubby green hose and dirt-stained pale winningas, the biding that wrapped legs. He caught a glimpse of a hunting bow beside the legs as they went on their way. Wulfric had no doubt it was Eadnoth. Peeping out of the bushes, he saw the back of the murderer. Wulfric remembered Eadnoth had worn the same green hood and the same weld dyed tunic the week or so ago in Father’s yard. It had to be him. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. He would make it a slow death. He’d make the swine suffer. There would be no mercy for this horningsunu, son of a bitch. Helghi was about to know the pain of losing a son, just as he and Father had lost Wulfwin. Wulfric crawled out of the bushes and unravelled the rope he’d held in his vigil. Elation rose within him as he found the length needed and made a noose. Flexing it between his fingers, he hurried along the lane, blood rushing through his veins as he caught up with his target. His heart leapt as he flung the snare over the hooded head, before the poor sod could turn and see who it was that attacked him. Pulling the noose tight, he dragged his terrified victim to a suitable oak tree. Tossing the rope over a strong thick branch that would carry the weight, he thought of what he was doing and was filled with righteousness. It was justice he was serving, and everyone will look up to him for having the guts to act. Well if Father wasn’t going to do it, then it fell to him, did it not? He tugged down so the kicking, spluttering Eadnoth rose upwards. When it felt secure, he flung it over the branch again and heaved on it. Knowing that the life of his brother’s nemesis was now in his hands gave him a thrill akin to ecstasy. But despite the joy, he did not want to see the eyes bulge, the tongue protrude, nor the blackened lips. He suppressed the feeling to vomit and hung on to the twine, stood on the end of it, panting, gritting his teeth as the weight of the struggling Eadnoth threatened to bring the soon-to-be corpse back down. He could not say how long he’d stayed like that until he could not hold anymore, and the twitching body of his victim crashed to the ground. Wulfric collapsed and fought for breath, staring at the heap of dead humanity that no longer jerked with life. The deed was done. Wulfric laughed. It had been easier than he’d thought. “I have avenged you, my brother.” Wulfwin did not answer. Odd, because he thought his brother would have been with him at that moment. He crawled over to the carcass that only moments ago had been swinging from the tree. His heart pumped with the fear of what he would find. A strange thing to be worried about, for in battle he’d not concerned himself with the thought of slaughter or seeing the enemy with his blood spilled, guts sliced open, pouring onto the ground. Wulfric studied the area. He would need to move the body; somewhere where the undergrowth was thickest. He could not leave it there to be found. No one must know. Eadnoth must simply disappear, quickly before anyone came to see what he’d done. But the idea of touching the dead body made goose bumps rise on his flesh. Suddenly, he did not feel so good. He stood over the corpse, glanced momentarily at the bloated face before swiftly looking away. Bile rose and he vomited to one side, heaving and heaving until he thought he had emptied his stomach. “Wulfric? Is that you? What is it you have there?” Ælfstan? The rest of Wulfric’s stomach sprang into his mouth as his father’s blacksmith approached. He tried to speak as he swallowed down the hot acidic liquid, “I-I-” “I came to find my nephew, we were going hunting, but he seems to have grown impatient of waiting for me.” Wulfric felt a stab of fear as Ælfstan came closer. “Yrmenlaf?” He spat the disgusting mucus from his mouth. The blacksmith’s face that had been looking at him curiously, paled as his eyes rested on the body in the grass. “Christ on the Cross!” Ælfstan’s gaze went to the rope in Wulfric’s hand. “What have you done?” “It was not me! I found him hanging. It was I who c-cut him down!” Ælfstan buckled over beside the body of his nephew and held the youth to his chest. Tears streamed down his face. Wulfric’s hands went to his ears. “Nay…nay!” he cried. “What have you done?” Wulfwin mocked him. He was laughing. “What vengeance is this? Stupid fool.” Wulfric sank to his knees, his heart thudding, his head about to explode with grief. What have I done? The world suddenly caved in on him. There would be no justice for his dead brother. He had killed the wrong man. The End
This is an extract from the HWF Hauntings Anthology
If you enjoyed Wulfric’s story then you may want to read more about him and his dysfunctional eleventh century family in the Sons of the Wolfseries.
Also recommended is short-story by Lynn Bryant, amazing author of The Peninsular War Saga and Manxman series.
This weeks excerpt comes from WIP Wolf’s Bane, Book 3 in the Sons of the Wolf Series. Tovi is now in his fourteenth year and has been at the collegiate for priest’s school in Wlatham for more than two years. As we can see he has not settled in very peacefully.
Tovi stuffed the last of the honey cakes into his mouth. He munched heartily as he stoked the forge to suffuse the coals with red hot heat. Tongs in his hand, he was about to remove the glowing metal he was working on when he heard, “Eh hem,” and a soft feminine voice said. “My mama sends these oatcakes and eggs for the fathers.”
The girl looked familiar, though he couldn’t quite place her. A good few years younger than him, a smile like a sunbeam, she stared at him with a pale-blue gaze. A willow basket covered in linen was extended out to him. Tovi was surprised. It was not often girls were allowed inside the walls of the collegiate. Except on Sundays when they could attend Mass.
Behind him in the workshop, the tuneless singing of a man’s voice, rang out in time with a rhythmic hammering, and Tovi cringed.
“Well, take them then,” the girl said with a giggle, “before my arm drops off with the ache of it.”
Tovi, irritated by the interruption, slapped down the tongs and wiped the crumbs from his mouth with his sleeve. Averting his eyes, he took the basket from her.
A moment of silence fell between them, before she said, “I know you… do I not?”
Tovi turned slightly to one side so that he faced away from her. He gazed at the ground awkwardly, like a child under the stern eye of an adult, about to berate him. His face grew hot.
The girl was not deterred by his silence. “Do you remember me?”
He glanced at her obliquely and caught her smile, then quickly looked away again. “Girls are not allowed inside the collegiate,” he said quietly. He put the basket down on a bench and started fiddling with the tongs in the firepit to distract himself, hoping she would go now.
Annoyingly, she remained where she was, her eyes watching him. He remembered her, now. She was the earl’s daughter. He had been in Waltham for more than two years and a half, and he had not seen her until that moment, though he had seen her father enough times. Lord Harold had often of late been seen wandering about the place, inspecting the work that was going on in the new church.
“Don’t you ever speak?” she asked. Her voice was girlish, soft and sweet like honey. “I remember you did once. A lot.”
He sighed and looked up at her. He had sisters. It was not as though he didn’t know how to talk to girls, he just hadn’t for some time. She smiled brightly and to his displeasure he found he liked it. She seemed nice; was well attired in a bright madder-dyed woollen cloak. Aye, it was her alright, but he could not remember her name. He looked down at the ground again, wanting to speak to her, but the words just would not come. Anything he said would most likely be stupid, so it was best not to bother. He scuffed the dirt with the toes of his shoes, and his eye began to twitch. He knew she was waiting for an answer, but he wished she would just go away.
“Th-th-th-,” he began. He groaned inwardly. The stammer had begun before he left Horstede, but since being in Waltham, he had also developed the eye twitch. In times of angst, he could not stop it from happening, and it was made all the worse by the trying. “Th-thank you f-for the cakes and eggs.”
“You’re welcome… What do they call you?”
“T-Tovi.” “I remember now. You’re the boy who saved me. We came to your house; my sister and brothers played in the forest with you.” The expression on her face grew more animated as she spoke. ” There was a rope swing and I fell off and fell into the water, and you jumped in and got me! You held my head above the water until my father came!” By the end of the telling, she was jumping like an excited puppy.
Tovi preferred not to remember that particular embarrassing occurrence. He and his sister Winflaed had taken the earl and lady’s children into the woods to play, whilst their fathers went hunting. Gytha had been so little then, unable to hold on to the rope. The first thing he thought of was that if she drowned he would be blamed. He’d been the eldest of the children. He was responsible. As he watched her slip off the rope and sink down into the water, he had to do something to get her out. He’d been mortified when her father, Earl Harold, loomed over him to thank him for saving her. And he’d been even more mortified when that evening, not being a soul who liked attention, he was called out by the earl in front of everyone in the hall to receive the gift of a magnificent seax for his heroic actions. And it was she who had presented it to him. It had been one of the most awkward moments in his life. He had never felt so disconcerted. Jealous, his older twin brothers had given him a bad time because of it.
Now after all this time, there she was again, looking at him expectantly, and all he could do was give an uneasy nod.
“I must go now,” she said. “My father is waiting.”
The heat that had suffused his cheeks, had only just begun to fade when it rose again. He felt stupid. Could he not have said something? She was just a mere girl, albeit the daughter of the most important man in the land, next to the king.
He watched as she pushed off the fence to hurry away. “What about the b-basket?” he called,
Turning she said, “I’ll fetch it on the morrow,” then with a wave, continued on her way.
“Don’t be making eyes at the Lady Gytha, boy.” Tovi turned to see Father Godric, “She is not some filly from the village.” The blacksmith come priest, wiped his sooty hands on the thin leather blacksmith’s apron tied around his wide girth.
Tovi felt his face redden again. “I was not. She brought these,” he held up the basket, “from her mother.”
“Give me those,” Father Godric said. He snatched the hamper and glanced under the cloth to make sure nothing was missing, “and just make sure you’re not…”
“Not what, Father?” Tovi stared at him with deliberate innocence.
“You know whose daughter she is, don’t you? She won’t be taking up with the likes of you, Master Tovi. Now get on with your work.”
Tovi picked up the bellows, scowling. What did the old fart think he was going to do to her, anyway? She was a little girl. He – well he’d passed his fourteenth summer. That made him a man, apparently, though most people didn’t think so when he stood next to other boys his age. But even so, a lad of fourteen had no interest in little girls.
As he exerted the pump the into the furnace, he glimpsed Father Godric reach for his cake pouch, resting on a worktop. Tovi sniggered quietly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the blacksmith slip a coal-blackened hand into the small linen sack, and scrabble around inside. He casually pulled out a piece and put it straight into his mouth without even looking. He turned, looked at Tovi and chomped purposefully, giving him a deliberate look of enjoyment, meant to spark envy.
Tovi drew in a quiet gasp, and looked away, trying not to descend into peals of laughter. He hadn’t expected Father Godric to actually eat the stuff. He tried not to glance back but he could not resist. Father Godric’s smugness had disappeared. The priest grimaced, his tongue shot out, and he licked at his hands, uttering noises of disgust.
Tovi, pretending to be working, waited expectantly, wondering how Father Godric hadn’t noticed what he was eating. His eyes must be bad. He took another bite. Tovi suppressed the hilarity brewing in his throat, until it burst from his lips like the sound of the dinner horn.
“What are you looking at?” the burly blacksmith-come priest demanded. “Get back to your work!” Godric continued to remove what he couldn’t swallow from his mouth and tongue. Tovi tried not to look directly at him in case the spectacle caused him to lose control. Surely, the man must realise that these were not the usual honey oatcakes his wife baked for him every day.
Tovi hadn’t imagined that poor Father Godric would actually eat the charred dog droppings that he and Peter had blasted in the kiln earlier. He and his friend had replaced the real cakes with them, the real ones they had happily eaten. The jape was turning out better than expected. It had been done in revenge. Every afternoon, Godric took great pleasure in uttering envy-provoking noises that would make the boys’ stomachs rumble. Seeing his apprentices’ covetous faces, their tongue-licked lips, and desperate eyes, he would suck the crumbs defiantly from his fingers and reach for the next one with a huge malicious grin.
Tovi sneaked another glance.
“Get on with your work!” Godric yelled at him, scowling, the furry eyebrows raised over enraged bulging eyes. He turned away, muttering, “Damn Osyth, I knew her eyes were getting worse, putting mouldy leftovers in my cake pouch…. Whatever next? Dog scite?”
Godric’s eyes widened as though struck by realisation and reached into the pouch, pulling out its revolting content. He held a piece close to his eyes to examine it, then sniffed it, confirming an eyesight that was failing. Then he spluttered, trying to vomit.
Tovi asked with fake concern, “What is it, Father Godric?”
The blacksmith didn’t answer. His eyes were bulbous, and suddenly a blizzard of little specs of dark detritus sprayed in the air.
Laughter rang from the workshop doorway. Tovi looked over to his friend, Peter, histrionic with laughter. Tovi looked down at himself, realising he dripped with little black crumbs.
Godric scrambled to get to the bucket of water, pushing Tovi aside. He threw out the tools left there to cool and scooped a handful of water into his mouth, rinsed and spat. He then picked it up and plunged his whole face into the pail.
Bent double with laughter, Tovi and his accomplice were unable to control themselves.
“You!” Godric growled as his head emerged from of the bucket. He lunged towards Tovi.
Peter was out of the workshop and over hurdles in moments.
Avoiding the enraged canon’s grasp by inches, Tovi dodged this way and that while Father Godric, his bulk slowing him down, made unsuccessful grabs at him, narrowly missing toppling onto the forge.
Tovi followed Peter over the hurdles.
“A pox on both of you!” Godric bellowed.
As Tovi made good his escape, he could hear the balcksmith’s angry cursing. “By all the saints when I get hold of you, I’ll be using the pair of you for arsewipes! You’ll pay for this, by God you will, if it is the last thing I do on this earth!”
Today we know many families who have problems with dysfunction, it is easy to think that this is a modern phenomenon. But look back through history and we find many such families: The Godwinsons, the Plantagenets, the Tudors, are just three I am sure, of many historical families who were plagued with problems within their clans. So it was no issue to write about the difficulties of a historical fictional family, whose difficulties functioning as a well balanced family would not be unfamiliar in a modern soap opera.
This scene comes to you care ofThe Wolf Banner, second in the Sons of the Wolf Saga. I hope you find this enjoyable.
She was gone. A cold wind blew, and in the darkened ether, clouds of frost emanated from his breath. As he stood watching her go until she disappeared into the winter mist, it seemed to him that God had reached down and touched his heart with ice. Wulfhere struggled down off the rampart, legs carrying him as though made of lead.
Wulfric was waiting for him, blocking the way. The skin on his face was so white with cold it blanched even the freckles on his face, contrasting starkly against the red of his hair. “Why did you let her go?” he demanded as Wulfhere stood before him.
“Leave it, Son. I do not wish to quarrel with you… not now.”
“The hell I will leave it!”
Wulfric mirrored him as he tried to move out of his way. “Come on, Father. Tell me. Why did you let him win?”
Wulfhere tried to skirt him. Wulfric pushed him and he staggered slightly. “Don’t.” He knew he sounded pathetic.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you turning coward? There was a time when you would have torn Helghi limb from limb rather than let him win this thing.”
“I do not have to justify myself to you,” Wulfhere said, with more conviction. “Fully grown men do not always think of consequences when they do violence. A sixteen-year-old thinks even less of them.” He moved to pass him, but again Wulfric refused to let him.
“I say you have lost your nerve.” Wulfric spat. Wulfhere made no move to retaliate and frustrated, Wulfric pushed him again. “You are a coward. What kind of a man allows his daughter to be carried off by the murderer of his son?”
Wulfhere’s blood rose, though he quelled the desire to do damage to his son. He knew what it was he saw in the boy’s eyes because he felt it himself. Loathing, and hunger for vengeance.
“Don’t you think I want the same as you? It is revenge I want. I want to see Helghi flailing on the end of a rope! I want to see his eyes bulge, soiling his breeches, crying for mercy!”
“Spare me the sermon, Father, I’ve heard it before, remember? In Kings Holme.”
It was Wulfric who turned to walk away this time. Wulfhere caught his arm. “It will come, Wulfric, I swear it.”
“When?”
“That, I cannot say. But trust me, it will.”
Wulfric sneered cynically. “When Wulfwin and I were bearns, he would comfort me when I feared the dark. He was never afraid of anything, because of you. He used to say to me, ‘Do not be scared, brother, Father will never let anything happen to us.” His voice cracked. It was as if a sob had caught in his throat. “I wonder what he thinks of you now, to see the weakling you have become. He asks me every night, Father, ‘Where is my vengeance, Wulfric?’ And every night I must tell him, I do not know.”
Wulfric’s words ripped through him. Roused beyond boiling point, he threw his son to the ground and crouched over him, holding him down by his throat.
“Do you think it was easy to let her go? To him, knowing he killed my son. Knowing that because of him my brother died – that Esegar died – and there is nothing I can do about it? Do you think it has not torn my heart out? You know nothing of what I have just been through in my head. Fighting is easy! I could swat a man like a fly, could crush the life out of you, but–” He felt his hands tighten around Wulfric’s neck, the boy’s eyes watering, as he tried to extricate himself from the chokehold. “Coward, am I? It takes more courage to walk away than to fight. Aye, it takes more courage than you will ever know, to see your beloved daughter stolen from you, and not be able to do anything about it.”
Wulfric’s face had reddened. Wulfhere let him go, and rising to his feet, stepped over him, and strode, his damaged leg dragging, back toward the hall.
“Father!” Wulfric caught up with him. “You have fought many battles. You fought and won the cheampa. Men sang your praises in the warrior hall…”
Wulfhere halted, turned and closed in on him, head to head. They locked horns. He, the old stag, felt the heat of the younger stag’s anger, trying to overthrow him. “Do not even think to talk to me of the things you know nothing of.” Wulfhere pulled away. “You will regret your words one day – by God, you will! Aye, you will learn in the fullness of time… if you get there.”
“You have lost your mind. We are warriors!Wulfsuna! – a bloodline that stretches back through our family since the first sons of the wolfcame to this land.”
“Aye, we are warriors. But there are many kinds of battles to fight other than the ones you fight in the field. As you go through life, you will find out what they are! Now, get out of my way, lyttel mana!” He had said the last as an insult, then instantly regretted it, but kept walking.
Wulfhere returned to the warmth of the hall. Wulfric slumped in after him, head bowed. He went to his mother who was sobbing in Sigfrith’s arms, and said a farewell, kissing her cheek.
“Where do you go, my son?” she asked him as he collected his things. “Am I to lose all my children?”
“I go to Leofnoth. I’d rather eat pig shite for the rest of my life than stay here,” Wulfric said, venomously.
“What about me?” Cynethryth hurried to his side.
“You may come, if you wish,” Wulfric said, joylessly. He went through the doors, carrying his shield strapped over his shoulder and his spear in his right hand. Cynethryth grabbed her cloak and hood and ran after him.
“Don’t let him go, Wulfhere!” Ealdgytha urged him.
“He will come back in his own time.”
“Just as Winflæd will come back, I suppose,” Ealdgytha retorted.
Writing for fun when I'm not getting paid, look out for posts on sport & history, probably with a Welsh & medieval twist. Travel writing, reviews of books, movies, food & drink, plus random scribblings all likely to feature
The Road to Hastings and other Stories 