Pagan Warrior

PROLOGUE

AD629 - CADWALLON OF GWYNEDD

I wipe the blood from my face with my leather-gloved hand. It does more to smear than completely remove the sticky substance sheeting my eyes. I smell afresh the tang of recently shed blood.

I’m hidden away in a copse of trees, far from the battle line but close enough that I can make out the tiny figures, ant-like, crawling around the field of death.

My foster-brother and overlord, King Edwin, is victorious, and my rage is intense.

I should have won this battle. I should have belittled him and taken away his haughty title as overlord of these lands; the title he claims much to my disgust.

He pretends to his New God, his Christianity, as though it makes him worthier for such dominance. He forgets that I was a Christian long before him. Long, long before he even considered his marriage of convenience. A marriage that legitimised his claim to the throne of Northumbria in the eyes of Eadbald, the Christian King of the holiest kingdom of Kent. The brother of the woman Edwin took to be his second wife.

Men rush through the thick and gnarled trees around me, as though they’re being chased. Their faces are streaked with blood and mud, gore and snot. I shout to them to tell them no one follows them. That they should come to me, stand as my guard. But they’re blind in their terror and don’t heed my words.

I’d thought they were better warriors than this.

I’d thought they were as committed to killing Edwin as I am.

Yet, I’m the one cowering in the cover of the forest already. Perhaps, I should have led by example.

I can blame only myself for this abysmal failure. I underestimated Edwin, thought him no more than my foster-brother. I underestimated the number of his allies. Of how many men he could call upon to stand and fight in his name.

I had no idea the tactician he’d become, using my strategies against me.

So far, the only mistake being made is that he’s not following the retreating men. He’s not sent his men into my forest hideaway. That means I’ll live to fight another day. That is an oversight.

I watch on with narrowed eyes, thirstily drinking in all that happens before me. I expect to be forced to run for my life at any moment. The last of my few remaining warriors stagger through the tightly-packed trees. Their footsteps are heavy and laboured. I’m sure that those on the blood-stained battlefield must hear them, but they don’t even raise their eyes to look my way.

A horse rushes through, and then another, eyes crazed with terror, a shrill whinny of fear. I slap them on their rump in encouragement, pleased they know their way home. Horses are valuable, almost as prized as men. Certainly, more highly prized than some I could name. I’d rather take them home with me than leave them for Edwin.

As I think his name, I fancy that one of the warriors on top of his horse looks my way from the battlefield. I glare into the dimming daylight, wondering if it’s him seeking me.

If I were closer, I’d see his steely eyes, thick full beard and moustache: his long brown hair, stubborn chin and bent nose. But I’m too far away. I imagine them easily enough.

I consider what he sees when he glances my way? Does he notice his far younger foster-brother or just an enemy? Does he laugh at my shame or soberly tuck it away and hope to understand my actions and motives?

Disgusted with my thoughts, I once more smear the muck from my face. My nose is bleeding. I have a split gum. My hair is coated in blood, but not mine. No wounds gush from the top of my head. My arms are sore from where I’ve been fighting all day. My body is starting to shiver with the shock of it all.

A tap on my back and I spin in fear, pleased when the eyes of my brother, Cadfan, meet mine. He’s as riddled with exhaustion as I am, his chest heaving tightly beneath a split byrnie. He holds his seax and shield, grimacing around his pain.

Come, we must leave, he commands. I know he’s right. We need to make it back to our own lands, away from the watchful eyes of Edwin, even if, for now, he’s choosing not to follow us.

We need to regroup, and I need to decide how I’ll overwhelm him once and for all.

He’s my much older foster brother, but he’s no more qualified to be over-king of this island than I am, and I mean to prove it to him.

Once I’ve recuperated and found myself some allies as staunch as his own.

1

AD630 – PENDA

The (exiled) Court of Cadwallon of Gwynedd, Priestholm

My men follow me as I stride from my horse to meet this king who dares to demand my attendance upon him.

My anger guides my steps. I let it pool within me, build slowly. When I finally meet him, I’ll tell him exactly what I think of him and his belligerent messenger.

I’ve heard of this Cadwallon, loser and subordinate to the alleged ‘great’ King Edwin of Northumbria. Huh, I could teach him a thing or two. Not that he listens to anyone other than the priests of this new religion, or rather the old faith that now sweeps this island as though it were a fresh one.

I keep to my old Gods. They’re fickle and unreliable compared to the new but old God who did little but die for those who followed his teachings. He killed no one. He accomplished little in his short life. I wish for greater notoriety.

I hope Cadwallon doesn’t speak to me of faith. I wish to talk about war, not matters of belief.

The hall towards which I stride is well built and has clearly been a permanent feature for some time. Yet to the rear of it, I see construction on another building. The post-holes are being dug deep into the stubborn ground by sweating men. Massive tree trunks are being worked upon, the scent of sawdust scenting the air. This royal site is filled with busy activity, even if rumours on the mainland tell me that Cadwallon is running for his life. I think King Edwin is overly boastful when he claims Cadwallon’s lands as his to rule.

One day soon, I’ll have a hall as magnificent as this. These craftspeople will beg me to let them build for me. And it won’t be on an island either. Islands are simple to defend. Are an easy place of retreat. I plan on having far more land to call my own than a tiny little island. I plan on defending my palace without the aid of the natural barrier of the crashing sea waves that bring with them the smell of the ocean.

I feel the smile spread across my face at the shining future I foresee. As though to punish me for such thoughts, I trip over a discarded piece of wood in my distracted state. I feel my irritation coalesce and swell, but it leaves me swiftly. It’s not the craftsman’s fault I’m too busy with my thoughts to look where I’m going.

Cadwallon’s warriors stalk my every step, and I watch them with some interest. These are the men who let King Edwin humiliate them. I’m surprised that Cadwallon keeps them with him.

And yet they look the part. Fierce and watchful, even though all they do is walk beside me. I consider what happened that day? I speculate as to why King Edwin overwhelmed them? I reconsider my derisive thoughts about Cadwallon and his men. If these finely dressed and well-equipped warriors with as many weapons as they need could not beat King Edwin, then why should I be able to?

I’m no more than the brother of a successful minor king, the son of the now-dead leader of my tribe. I don’t have the vast resources with which Cadwallon can accumulate. Even now, in exile, his war band outnumbers mine by at least two to one, and that’s merely all I can see.

Cadwallon’s warriors creak as they walk, their leather byrnies tightly laced around their wide frames. Faces are fierce, and eyes are hard, unflinching. I swallow against a sudden rise of fear. But I’ve come as an equal. I need to stand my ground and not buckle under such a show of strong fierceness and steadfast devotion. I must live up to the reputation that’s preceded me and made a king seek out my assistance.

Before I enter the hall, ducking my head as I enter through the low doorway, the cold, flat eyes of the warrior who walks closest to me takes my weapons. I don’t like handing over my seax, my war axe or my shield, but I do so, noting the appraising eyes of the warrior as I hand him each item. He lays them reverentially on a rough wooden board and then moves to take the same from the rest of my warriors. I feel consoled that he handles my weapons with such respect.

There are murmurs of complaint from my men, but I’d told them this would be necessary. Men who come armed do not come to make peace. Ever. And often unarmed men don’t, but that’s only a passing thought as I stride into the great hall, one I might remember in the future if I don’t get my way.

It’s a chill day outside, but the smoky warmth from the well-stocked fire assaults my senses. I cough a little dryly as my eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

The hall is sparsely populated. I see Cadwallon standing close to the hearth, and his face lifts in greeting. This isn’t the first time we’ve met, although I’m not sure he’ll remember the last occasion. After all, I was just a warrior then, not a man who led warriors. My reputation has grown in recent years. Pity my brother, Eowa, eclipses me.

Striding towards me, Cadwallon’s face creases in a tight grin of welcome that never quite reaches his eyes. Yet, his handclasp is warm enough, his dry skin against my cold hand, almost making him wince.

Penda, he says in greeting. I nod to acknowledge that I am he.

Lord Cadwallon, is all I respond. I’m keen to see what he wants to say to me.

My thanks for coming when I extended overtures of friendship. I see there are to be pleasantries before we begin. I relax my tense posture a little as I glance over his shoulder and see the curious faces of small children and mighty warriors amongst those within his hall.

It’s my pleasure to speak with you in person. I’ve heard much about you.

And I have about you. I see that most of what I’ve heard is probably true. I laugh at that. I wonder what he’s heard of my exploits. Is it that I defeated the father and son kings, Cynegils and Cwichelm and gained the land of the Hwiccan kingdom for my brother? Is it that my brother and I do not always get along? Or is it perhaps just a man making small talk when faced with a warrior far more physically dominating than himself?

Their speaking too often mangles rumours and fact, I say a little courteously. It would not do to mouth the truth, that Cadwallon is no great warrior or strategist, and that’s why he’s reached out to me across the contested border.

He’s momentarily still as I speak the platitude. I believe him back at the battle with Edwin a year ago.

Yes, they are, he muses, signalling for mead and food and indicating that I should sit with him on a bench before the vast roaring fire—super-heated blues dance at its centre. Cadwallon is a man who knows how to impress his audience and his warriors both.

My men are loosely alert close to the doorway. Their hands hover near where weapons would usually lie at their waists. I watch Cadwallon’s eyes slide over them as though he measures them all and is grudgingly impressed.

Then his eyes clear, and he’s looking intently at me, eyes bright.

But we must speak of the future, not the past, of an alliance and the death of King Edwin.

I’m smiling now. The death of Edwin would be a great thing for me. It would create a vast power vacuum amongst the Saxon kingdoms. I’d be more than happy to step into that breach. Hopefully, with Edwin’s death, my own damn brother will die as well, leaving the path clear for me. The nobler brother and the better man.

Yes, the future, I say, lifting the elaborate drinking horn and swallowing deeply. I pass the horn to Cadwallon, eyebrows high. His smile almost reaches his eyes as he too drinks deeply, his gaze never straying from my face.

2

AD630 - CADWALLON OF GWYNEDD

The (exiled) Court of Cadwallon of Gwynedd, Priestholm

Penda is a giant of a man. I don’t believe it’s just a physical thing. No, instead, he exudes confidence. I’m a little envious as I sit and watch him drink and look around my hall with his quick looks.

His eyes tell the story of his envy, and it’s only that naked need that makes me wary. Is he like this with everyone he meets? Does he crave everything that others have?

I know the story of his battles with the father and son kings. I know that he and his brother are often disunited in their goals. I consider what woman birthed such fiercely independent and proud men. Perhaps she was a Goddess and not a woman after all?

My flight of imagination amuses me, but I keep my smile in check. I’m trying to convey a composure I’m not sure I feel.

I want this alliance.

No, I need this alliance.

Of all the men and would-be-kings throughout this island, it’s Penda who wins the most battles. It’s Penda who rides with the most confidence and grapples for what he wants. I require his raw energy and desire to beat King Edwin of Northumbria.

It seems as though every day, I hear new tales of Edwin’s greatness and his prowess. It fills my mouth with bile. I’ve replayed those events from last year so often in my mind that I could relive it, moment by moment, if I wanted. Still, I can’t see where I made a mistake, where I let him beat me?

Penda will give me the rawness I need. He fights like no other; his tactics are always surprising and devastating for his opponent.

Do you have any thoughts on how we can defeat King Edwin? I ask blandly, as though it’s not the thing that keeps me awake each night, tossing and turning as I replay every scenario I can think of; that deprives me of the joy of my woman.

Yes, I do. We need to bring him far from his land, cut off his retreat and then cut off his balls. Penda gurgles around the drinking horn. I know my eyes widen a little in horror at the evident joy he sees in battle. I want Edwin dead. I don’t necessarily want him to suffer. Or do I? I reconsider. I don’t much care as long as he’s dead.

And how do you suggest we tempt him far from home?

Penda stills a little at that and glares at me, his ice-blue eyes intense.

I thought I should leave some of the planning to you.

Damn. I really wanted him to come armed with an idea. If Edwin suspects I’m trying to force a confrontation with him, I know he’ll not come, no matter how much I antagonize him.

We were brothers once. He knows me too well.

That disappoints you, My Lord? Penda asks with a slight taunt. I question what he sees on my face.

No. Well, a little. I’d like someone else to prize Edwin away from his precious Northumbria. I fear he’ll guess my involvement if I cause it.

Penda’s satisfied smirk slides from his face as he assesses my words.

You make a good point, Cadwallon. I’ll need to think on it more.

That surprises me. I’d envisaged some rage from the warrior, not reasoned thinking. Perhaps, he’s more than just brute strength after all.

Edwin has no problem fighting away from Northumbria. I think he relishes it knowing that he can exact revenge on people who don’t call him their Lord. It’s luring him away that’s the problem. He thinks himself a gracious king. One is keen to turn to diplomacy to get what he wants. One too happy to use religion as his justification.

But he has no problem using his sword when he wants to.

Yes, when he feels his honour has been impugned.

Then we’ll have to do just that.

What? I say, wondering what I’ve said that’d cleared Penda’s face of its worrying thoughts.

Do something that he’s honour bound to retaliate against.

3

AD630 - PENDA OF MERCIA

The (exiled) Court of Cadwallon of Gwynedd, Priestholm

I still haven’t decided what I think of Cadwallon. He seems to be both kingly and not kingly all at the same time. He comes with everything a king should have apart from confidence. Perhaps Edwin’s defeat did more than send him running with his tail between his legs? Maybe it made him forget what it means to be kingly?

Either way, this potential alliance can be used to my advantage. I’d do well to have a sturdy ally. Someone who, whether he realises it or not, is considered a king worthy of emulation by many men. What Cadwallon has, others desire. The fact he still holds much of his lands, despite his failure is proof of the loyalty of his men. And that he inspires fears in others. They’ve not come to make good on his humiliation. That intrigues me.

I could have come as an enemy. Ridden roughshod over this weak king, but I didn’t realise how enfeebled he was. Now that I’ve met him, I’d rather call him a friend than an enemy. My anger at his messenger has dissipated. I’m far more intrigued by what he plans than my initial fury let me think.

His reputation, combined with the success that I’ll bring to our endeavour, will ensure we’re both regarded as the highest of kings, the most distinguished of warriors. We’ll be men to be feared. We’ll be united in our purpose.

Food is brought and placed before us. I appraise it carefully. It seems to be good beef, dripping with its juices. I eat it eagerly, and Cadwallon watches my face with interest, grinning when I swallow the food quickly and reach for more.

It’s my favourite, he offers by way of an explanation. My wife knows the recipe, the herbs, the exact way it must be cooked. She keeps it a secret from everyone. She says she’ll always claim my stomach that way.

I nod in delight at the strange little tale. I’ve not yet taken a wife. I don’t much know if I want one. I like variety in my bed.

Do you not demand that she tells you? I ask around a mouthful of the delicious meat.

Where would the pleasure be in that? he asks. I start to understand him a little more. He prefers to be taunted, have things held away from him. He likes to strive to accomplish the things he achieves. He doesn’t want everything to be easy. I’m pleased. What we have planned won’t be easy. Provided we both try for it, dream of it, desire it, we’ll accomplish what we want. Edwin’s death, and possibly my brother’s as well. If that’s not too much for which to hope. If my brother, as I imagine he will, becomes a problem instead of a stubborn thorn in my finger to be born, his death will become imperative.

You’ll join with me in forcing King Edwin back from my lands? Cadwallon asks the question that must have been burning his mouth with the desire to ask it. That’s why it’s taken me two weeks to get here. I’ve avoided as many of Edwin’s warriors as possible and then taken a ship to the island of Priestholm, where Cadwallon is regrouping. Edwin’s men scour the land. I know they didn’t chase Cadwallon from the battlefield, but they hunt for him now.

Edwin also likes to make things difficult for himself.

I believe he’s realised his mistake in letting him go.

The bloody idiot.

I will, My Lord. We scouted where we could on our way here. I assume you also know where Edwin’s men are based.

Cadwallon chuckles at my formal response. My words mask my love of slaying my enemies and decapitating any who step in my way.

First, we’ll take back Mon, and then the land of the Britons. Once they’re gone from there.

And the land of the Middle Angles, I interject quickly. I don’t want to send Edwin’s warriors their way. There are many amongst the Middle Angles, as we Saxons call the new kingdom, I call family and friends.

Yes, or, we can send them further north, to Chester and then they’ll be almost within their kingdom.

That would be best, I concur, and he grins at me.

You have designs on the Middle Angles? he queries. I shrug. It’s not really any of his concern whether I do or not.

I’m barely even a prince yet, let alone a king, I say. My words make him laugh, his hand hitting the table loudly. His delight shocks me.

Penda, there’s no need to hide your pretensions from me. I don’t want the land of the Middle Angles. I just want bloody King Edwin dead and gone.

You don’t wish to be an over king like Edwin or Rædwald before him? I demand, confused, and not enjoying it.

No, I don’t. I mean, don’t misunderstand me, if I could be, then I would. If all the kings and war leaders dropped dead, then I’d be king there. But I don’t look for it. Why would I?

I want scops to compose poems of my battle prowess, to tell tales of me, fill the heads of foolish young warriors with my name.

Cadwallon raises his drinking horn to my words, his merriment gone.

I want the same, and I, you’ll be pleased to know, already have scops who can do that for you.

I almost smirk at that, but I stop myself. I’m a bloody warrior, not a tittering child.

One day, I’ll have scops, I say instead, maintaining my façade of the mighty warrior.

You will, my Lord Penda, you will.

I’ve never yet heard my name with ‘Lord’ preceding it. I like that, and Cadwallon, damn the man, knows it as well. I try to cover my brief flare of joy, but he’s laughing again, not at me but with me, and I join him.

I like Cadwallon, I decide at that moment. I might not be his equal yet, but I will be.

4

AD630 - EDWIN OF NORTHUMBRIA

Ad Gefrin

I’ve rewarded my men handsomely for their overwhelming victory against the foolish Cadwallon last year. Not that it was any great hardship for them. The men of my war band live for war and plunder, jewels and women. I try to prevent their love of the women, but I don’t think they live by my example. Not that I always blame them. But still, when you beat someone into submission, it’s best to make sure they can pay their tribute when it’s next demanded. Angry men make poor adherents. I know that. My men don’t, though.

My hall is a wondrous thing. Yeavering, the farthest north of my royal residences and my favourite. The rawness of its surroundings and its contrariness calls to my nature. When the wind blows hard from the eastern sea or the western mountains, I can imagine the wood of the great hall bowing under the pressure. The shrieks and howls are ungodly. They remind me of my old Gods. The ones I worshipped before being made to turn to this new God.

I don’t much know if I like my new God, but he seems to like me, so