Amber Treasure, The

The Amber
Treasure

by

Richard Denning

The
Amber Treasure

Written
by Richard Denning

Copyright 2009
Richard Denning.

E-book edition
First Published 2010 by Mercia Books.

E-book Edition,
License Notes

This ebook is
licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or
given away to other people. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase
it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to E-book
Store and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of
this author.

Publisher
website:

http://www.merciabooks.co.uk

Copy–editing
and proof reading by Jo Field.

[email protected]

Author
website:

http://www.richarddenning.co.uk

For
John, Margaret, Jean and Jane

The Author

Richard Denning
was born in Ilkeston in Derbyshire and lives in Sutton Coldfield in the West
Midlands, where he works as a General Practitioner.

He is married
and has two children. He has always been fascinated by historical settings as
well as horror and fantasy. Other than writing, his main interests are games of
all types. He is the designer of a board game based on the Great Fire of
London.

Author
website:

http://www.richarddenning.co.uk

Also by the author

Northern
Crown Series

(Historical
fiction)

1.The
Amber Treasure

2.Child of Loki (Coming 2011)

Hourglass
Institute Series

(Young
Adult Science Fiction)

1.Tomorrow’s
Guardian

2.
Yesterday's Treasures

3. Today's Sacrifice (Coming 2012)

The
Praesidium Series

(Historical
Fantasy)

The
Last Seal

Northern
Britain AD 597

Names of nations, cities and towns

The Amber Treasure is historical
fiction. As such, I have taken one or two liberties with names in order to make
the book more accessible to the modern reader who is here, after all, to enjoy
a story.

However, in this book I have tried − wherever possible
− to use real place names as well as the names of the real historical
characters who existed at the time. All this is difficult, given the scarcity
of records for this period − the ‘darkest’ years of the dark ages. If you
are interested, the historical note at the end of the book goes into the
evidence about this period in a bit more detail.

Meanwhile, to satisfy those who
like to see the use of historical names in fiction and so that you can identify
what these places are called today, here is a glossary of the main names:

Bernicia
− Anglo-Saxon
Kingdom in Northumbria

Calcaria
− Tadcaster

'The Villa'/'The Village'
− Holme-on-Spalding-Moor

Catraeth
− Catterick

Deira
− Anglo-Saxon
Kingdom north of the Humber

Elmet
− Welsh/British
Kingdom around the modern day city of Leeds

Eboracum and Eoforwic
−
York

Godnundingham
− Site of
Deiran Royal Palace. Possibly modern day Pocklington

Loidis
− Leeds

Manau Goddodin
−
Welsh/British Kingdom around what is now Edinburgh

Rheged
− Welsh/British
Kingdom in what is now Cumbria

Salebeia
− Selsby

Wicstun
− Market
Weighton

A note about the Welsh and English

If settlement and country names are
confusing, the names of the racial groups are even more so.

Historians might call the people
left in Britain after the Romans departed, ‘Romano-British’ or ‘Britons’. The
invading Anglo-Saxons became the English. I felt that calling the
Romano-British ‘British’ and ‘Britons’ in this book was going to be confusing
to some readers, especially as a lot of the book involves the English fighting
the British.

So, I decided to refer to the
Romano-British as Welsh, which is what the English invaders called the Britons
(originally this was Waelisc − meaning foreigners). The Welsh would
probably talk of themselves as Cymry (meaning compatriots).

Likewise the 'English' of this
book would probably not have called themselvs that. The Anglo Saxon invaders of
the mid 5th century were made up of Jutes, Saxons and Angles. Whilst the Jutes
and Saxons settled in the South of England, the Angles colonised East Anglia
and Northumbria. In time the word Angles mutated via such words as Anglii,
Englisc to English and the country became England. Although this process took
some time I felt it was easier to just use the term English.

So for the sake of readability, I
decided to simplify these terms and I beg the tolerance of readers.

List
of names characters

* Denotes historical figure

Aedann − Son of Cerdic's
family slave Caerfydd

Aelle* − King of Deira

Aethelfrith* − King of
Bernicia and later Northumbria

Aethelric* − Prince of Deira

Aidith −Village girl

Asha* − Sister of Edwin and
princess of Deira

Caerfydd − Cerdic's family
slave

Cenred − Father to Cerdic.
Lord of the villa

Cerdic − Main character, son
of Cendred Lord of the Villa.

Ceredig* − King of Elmet

Cuthbert − Cerdic's friend

Cuthwin − Cerdic's older
brother

Cynric − Cerdic's uncle

Edwin*− Younger son of Aelle

Eduard Childhood friend of Cerdic

Grettir − Family retainer

Gwen − Wife to Caerfydd,
Cerdic's family slave

Harald − Earl of Eoforwic

Hussa − Village youth from
Wicstun

Lilla − Bard and freind of
Cerdic's family

Mildrith Cerdic's younger sister

Sabert − Earl of the Eastern Marches

Samlen − Prince of Elmet

Sunniva −  Cerdic's older
sister

Owain* − King of Rheged

Urien* − King of Rheged and
Owain's father

Wallace − Lord of Wicstun

Chapter One

My Uncle

Looking back from
old age, when the faith of Christ has replaced the old religions of my fathers,
I can recall many times when my friends and I appeared to be at the whim of
powers beyond our understanding. Today, we talk of the will of God. In those
far off days it was the machinations of the gods or a man’s ‘wyrd’ or fate that
affected his destiny. A man prayed to the gods, put his trust in fate and life
would go well: unless of course he was fey − unless he had been chosen or
doomed to follow some other path.

You know, I am not entirely sure
I agree with all that. It implies that nothing we do has any effect, that in
the end we are all merely pieces on the game board of the gods; just pawns
pushed around by Loki. I will accept that most folk just live and die with
little impact on and little affected by the world about them; but some of us,
at least, are more than that. We become part of the world, help to shape it and
mould it. You can tell we lived, because the world changed whilst we were
alive. And in my lifetime the world changed beyond recognition.

I was not long born the day my
uncle stood on the battlefield, surrounded by the corpses of his men.

They had died defending this
narrow gully through hills which blocked the approach to the city of Eboracum.
The city lay to the east under a pall of smoke that arose from a hundred
burning houses. King Aelle had taken the army there to capture it but, hearing
reports of an enemy warband coming to lift the siege, had sent Cynric and his
company around the city to the west to intercept them.

Eighty men marched through the
night to reach this sunken road. They planted their flag in the ditch so it
streamed in the wind, revealing the image of the running wolf emblazoned upon
it. Then, they gathered about it and waited.

They did not have to wait long.

Soon after dawn, over three
hundred spearmen came down the road and needing to reach the city urgently,
attacked at once. The narrow confines of the gully funnelled the enemy and
brought them onto the spears of Cynric’s men. Then, the killing began.

The enemy paid dearly for each
step they took, bled heavily for each wound they inflicted and three died for
each of our own men slain. But, in the end, it was not enough. One by one,
Cynric’s companions perished and as the company dwindled, it was pushed back
down the lane. Time and again, my uncle rallied his men and they charged back
into the fray, regained ground and forced the enemy to retreat.

But now, as the sun sank and the
sky turned a crimson red matching the bloodstained clay of the road beneath
them, Cynric’s company were all dead.

All dead, that is, apart from my
uncle, Cynric and the grim-faced Grettir. The pair stood on the road in front
of their battle standard. Cynric: tall and fierce, with hair the colour of
autumn leaves, which in the dying light must have seemed almost like flames;
Grettir: shorter, stocky and muscular with black hair and bushy eyebrows.

Cynric thrust forward his great
sword and pointed it at the shield wall. It was a magnificent weapon, forged
from rods of twisted iron overlaid with the strongest of steel, crossed by a
bronze guard and finished with an elaborately patterned pommel. With it he now
gestured at several enemy warriors, picking out − or so it seemed −
his next victims. Strapped to his other arm was his bright blue shield, which
was dented and scuffed from a hundred sword and axe blows. Grettir had abandoned
his and now both hands grasped the shaft of a fearsome axe that had already
today slain a score of foes. Together, they glared down the lane and waited for
the enemy to attack once more.

There in front of them many more
than one hundred enemy warriors still remained and they, having now reformed
their shield wall and seeing that only two foes were standing, came on again.
Eboracum lay just a mile beyond this lonely pair standing beside their flag,
which now hung limp in the still evening air. If the warband could reach the
city they could swell the numbers of the beleaguered defenders and the city
might hold. If that happened, more of the Eboracii tribesmen from the
surrounding lands would come here. They would save Eboracum, then the Angles
and Saxons − like Cynric and Grettir − who had risen up from their
scattered villages and come here to capture the city, would be slain. Then,
there would be no English city; no English kingdom here north of the Humber;
perhaps even no English race anywhere.

All that was needed was to kill
these two men and march on to Eboracum.

For Cynric and Grettir, this was
equally clear. All they had to do was plant their feet on the bloody soil and
survive just a little longer. Cynric glanced at Grettir and smiled thinly at
him. Grettir just nodded back. Both men knew they would die here … it was just
a matter of when.

The Eboracii advanced again and
despite the odds in their favour, their faces were pale and their eyes were
flicking back and forth. They were nervous, cautious: some even terrified. They
had seen their friends die and knew these two men were fearsome warriors. So,
they chose to come together in the security of wood and iron that a shield wall
offered. Nonetheless, they finally reached Cynric and one of them spat at my
uncle, then three spear points were thrust at him.

My uncle stepped to his right,
deflected two spears with his shield and then slashed the other one aside with
his blade, the heavy steel easily shattering the ash stave. Cynric, following
up now, stepped inside the spears and smashed his shield against that of a
young lad in front of him. His mouth and eyes wide, the boy stared at my uncle,
gave a terrified cry, stepped away but then tripped on his own spear and fell,
knocking over the man behind.

"I'll kill you all!" Cynric
shouted as he jumped into the breach.

"Come on you
bastards!"Grettir bellowed and followed him.

Grettir swung the axe to his left
and his right; felt its edge cutting into bone and flesh and with cries of
agony two men fell – one man dead, the other whimpering as he clawed at his
guts, which now spilt out onto the offal-covered ground. Ahead of him, Grettir
could hear his lord roaring as he plunged his sword into two more men and then,
suddenly, Cynric was behind the enemy shield wall. He turned and cut down
another youth, but more warriors now closed in and Grettir lost sight of him.
The last that Grettir saw of my uncle was him screaming in defiance as swords
and spears lunged towards him. Then, a shield boss thundered into Grettir’s
middle and with a whoosh of air he was winded and tumbled out of the fight.

He was knocked onto his back and
lost his grip on the axe, which spun away. He rolled over, clawing at the
ground, desperately trying to reach the weapon. Then, above him, there came a
shadow and he looked up to see a huge enemy chieftain standing astride him. The
man was lifting his own blade up, getting ready to finish Grettir. Oddly
though, it was not the sword that Grettir noticed, but the man’s face. One eye
had been hacked away and an ugly, bleeding gash ran from brow to cheek −
Cynric had left his mark on this enemy and now the man came to have revenge on
Grettir.

As he swung back his sword, there
was a sudden buzzing noise and an arrow sped over Grettir’s head, striking the
brute in the right arm. He gave a roar of pain, dropped the blade and with one
eye, he glared over Grettir, towards the city. Grettir bent his head round to
look, and almost cried with relief as he saw the glorious sight of hundreds of
Angle warriors − English Warriors − charging towards them, up the
lane. Cynric had done it: he had held the road and denied it to the Eboracii
and now the city of Eboracum had a new name: an English name, Eoforwic.

The enemy fled and after a final
venomous glance towards Grettir, the one-eyed chieftain went with them. Grettir
took a deep breath and then dragged himself to his feet. He staggered over to
where he had last seen Cynric and now he could feel the tears coming. For
there, surrounded by the bodies of his foes, he found his lord lying dead in a
pool of his own blood and pierced by a hundred blades. His own sword was laid
across his chest: although, whether this was the last homage to a noble warrior
by his enemies, the whims of the gods, or just chance − Grettir could not
tell.

“Gods, what happened here?”

Grettir turned at the voice then
bowed his head to his king. Aelle, the King of Deira and now conqueror of
Eoforwic, stared at the carnage on the road.

“Sire, we did what you commanded.
The Lord Cynric died bravely, as did every other man.”

Aelle nodded and stood silently
for several minutes, taking in the sacrifice that had won him a kingdom. He
then glanced down at Cynric.

“Take his body and sword back to
his family and tell them I will see he is remembered: he deserves a song.”

Grettir also nodded, but then
frowned.

“I’m afraid I could not write a
song to do him justice, my Lord.”

“Ah, but I can,” a new voice
replied and Grettir saw, for the first time, a strikingly handsome young man,
standing next to the King.

“I am Lilla the Bard, Lilla the
Storyteller,” the man said.

Grettir picked up Cynric’s sword,
cleaned it and handed it to Lilla.

“I will take care of the body of
my Lord and you can carry the sword, storyteller. For all good stories are
about a sword.”