Amber Treasure, The (26 page)

After fifty paces, I halted and
we now stood in a line, looking across the woods. I could just see Eduard’s
bulk through the trees. I whistled a long drawn out note. With a roar − I
had never known him do much without a bellow or a roar − he surged
forward, leading his half of the patrol through the woods. They were upon the
Welsh position in a moment and I expected to hear screams and cries and the
noise of battle. Yet, I saw Eduard halt and glance over at me and then bend
down. When he came up, he was holding pieces of the burnished armour. They had just
been abandoned, I imagined. Unless, it was a …

Trap! Suddenly, from the
undergrowth, only twenty paces in front of us, there erupted a half dozen
Welshmen. They had smeared mud on their faces and some had stuck leaves and
grass in their hair. That and the fact we were looking beyond them, had been
sufficient to deceive us. They had few weapons, save surprise, some swords and
the odd sturdy branch. That, though, was enough. They rushed at us, knocking us
over or lashing at us with branches. Most, I had not seen before, but one I did
recognise for it was Hussa who rushed directly at me. His shoulder hit me in
the chest and I went down into the ditch, the air knocked out of me. A
heartbeat later and he was leaping the ditch and running off towards the
mountains.

It took me a few moments to catch
my breath and to clamber, mud-covered and winded, out of the ditch. By then,
the Welsh were fifty yards away and going fast. Cuthbert, I saw, had blood
coming from a cut on his head, but he was still standing, at least. None of the
boys were dead, although some groaned and Horsa − a youth from Wicstun
− was holding his wrist and wincing as if it was broken. Cuthbert assayed
a shot at the fleeing Welshmen, but it sailed far wide of the target.

I saw Hussa turn to check the
others were with him and to wave them on past. Then he gazed back at us and on,
over the tree tops towards the camp and, finally, the battlefield at Catraeth.
For a moment he looked straight at me then, with a wave, he turned and was off.
Behind me, I heard Eduard arrive.

“Well, we buggered that up,
didn’t we!” he grunted. I turned and gave him what I hoped was a withering
glare and with a sigh, led the boys off in pursuit.

The ground started to climb much
more acutely now and there was little undergrowth and no trees. The fleeing
Welsh were still ahead of us and now they were joined from further south by
another group of warriors, one of whom glared back at us with his one eye.
There then, at last, was the scarred face of Samlen. Aedann hissed and doubled
his pace and I did nothing to stop him, for I had seen that Samlen was dragging
along the struggling form of my sister.

My father’s men closed in on us
and reunited now, we pursued the Welsh. We now passed the start of steep, bare-faced
cliffs jutting out from the mountain. Our prey had moved into a valley between
the cliffs but then, at last, they turned and faced us as it was a dead end and
for them, there was now no escape.

Hurriedly, Samlen’s men formed up
into a shield wall, using the few shields they still had. Behind this, stood
Hussa, Samlen and Mildrith. Hussa had planted the Wolf’s head banner next to
him, maybe trying to goad and taunt us. It was a mistake. It made us angry and
gave us just one more reason to kill them all.

Samlen still held Mildrith and
now he drew his dagger and placed it against her throat.

“Stop there: or I kill the girl!”
Samlen shouted.

“Leave her alone One Eye and
fight me like a man. If you win, all of you can leave as free men,” I said.

Samlen worked his mourh and spat
towards me. “I told you once before, I don’t fight slaves!”

Aedann shouted something in
Welsh, then stepped forward, his sword and shield ready.

One Eye stared at him for a
moment and then replied in the same language.

“Aedann, what’s going on?” I
murmured.

“I askedhim if he would fight a
free man of his own race, or die a coward,” Aedann answered, sneering at his
fellow Welshman.

Samlen growled and letting
Mildrith go, he pushed through his men, dropped his knife and drew his sword.
Then, I looked again and saw that I was wrong. It was not his blade he carried:
this was my uncle’s sword − the sword I had come here to retrieve.

“Very well, Eboracii; let us see
how well you fight.”

Much is said of the value of
experience, of how veterans of many battles learn such tricks and see an
enemy’s moves so often that eventually they develop a second sight and can
almost predict and anticipate what he will do next. All this is true, of
course, but it is not the entire story: it presupposes that whilst your foe is
aiming to kill you, he will choose tactics designed to maximise his own chance
of surviving the battle. What Samlen failed to realise was that although Aedann
was certainly trying to kill him, he was not bothered about his own survival.
This made him dangerously unpredictable.

Samlen advanced on Aedann,
swinging his sword in an arc, bracing his shield and taking the time to study
his opponent, to learn his weakness. But Aedann did not give him that time: he
just charged full on. Samlen took a few moments to react and when he did, he
now had to bring his sword back from being held out to his side. He managed it
alright, but, with the blade moving so quickly, he could not direct it with any
accuracy. Aedann groaned in pain as the sword sliced into his left shoulder,
opening a blood vessel which let out a gush of blood. His arm just went limp
and he dropped the shield.

The next instant, his momentum
had carried him onwards into Samlen and the collision sent him into his enemy’s
arms. In a bizarre parody of lovers embracing they stood like that for a long
moment and then, suddenly, Samlen vomited up blood and fell backwards with a
loud crash on to the ground, quite dead, impaled by Aedann’s sword. He held it high
in the sky, the blade slick with One Eye’s blood, and gave out a mighty cry of
vengeance satisfied.

“Charge!” my father yelled and
started towards the Welsh, followed a moment later by the rest of our men. The
Welsh, still stunned by Samlen’s death, stood in shocked silence and we cut
them down. There was to be no mercy or pity, because we now recognised each one
of them. These were Elmetae who had raided the Villa alongside One Eye and
watched him kill Cuthwine and the others, whose relatives were in the company
and who today avenged their death. These warriors, at least, died quickly on
our swords and spears. Only Hussa was left alive. Looking back, I will never be
sure quite why I did not kill him there and then, except that for all his
betrayal he was still of my blood and that knowledge must have stayed my sword
arm.

Then, it was done and Hussa alone
stood beside Mildrith. My sister was crying as she ran over to me and I held
her close as she sobbed away her fear, realising she was free again. Father
joined us and now I could see that his own eyes were moist. He reached out and
pulled Mildrith and me towards him and the three of us stood together, holding
each other for several minutes. All this time, the brooding figure of Hussa
looked on impassively at this family he was not part of, but perhaps should
have been.

Mildrith was laughing and crying
at the same time now. “If I ever try and sneak a look at a warrior again, just
hit me, alright, Cerdic?” she said at last, reminding me that it was curiosity
that had got her into all of this.

I nodded and then tilted my head
at Cuthbert and Aedann, who stood nearby.

“I think there are two here, who
you won’t mind seeing.”

Both Cuthbert and Aedann came
across. Cuthbert gave a shy smile and Mildrith put one hand gently on his
cheek. Aedann suddenly groaned in apparent pain.

“Oh my poor dear, let me see to
that,” Mildrith said, moving his hand away to examine the wound and then
tearing a strip from her own dress to bind it.

Aedann grinned and out of sight
of my sister, he rolled his eyes at Cuthbert, who glared back at him. So, not
all our battles were over, I realised and idly pondered what the outcome of
that little skirmish would be. Chuckling, to myself, I turned away to look at
Hussa.

Hussa had dropped his sword and
held out his arms.

“Go on, Father ... kill me, too.”

Father just walked up to him and
slapped him hard across the face.

“Bastard traitor!” he snarled.

Hussa wiped blood away from his
lip and glowered back at Father.

“Yes, and as I once said to
Cerdic, we all know whose bastard, don’t we?” Again he held his arms away from
his chest. “Just finish it now. My mother is dead and soon I will be and you
can return home as the hero who saved Deira,” he said bitterly.

My father looked down at the seax
he was carrying, back up at Hussa and then he dropped the long knife and shook
his head.

“No, I will not. Enough have died
today, besides which, your life is in the King’s hands now. You are coming with
us ... son,” he said and Hussa was led away.

Father bent down and picked up
Hussa’s sword: the sword I had coveted throughout my childhood and youth. Then,
he wandered over to Samlen’s body and retrieved his brother’s sword from the
ground and wiped Aedann’s blood off it onto the grass. He then turned and
offered them both to me.

“Take one of these, son, you have
earned it.”

I stared at the blades.

“But, Father ... that sword is
yours.”

“No ... it was my brother's. He
died a warrior and a hero. Today I would give it to you. For this day, it is
you who are the hero.”

My hand shook slightly, as I
reached out and grasped the hilt. My fingers tightened and I took my uncle’s
blade, the blade of a warrior lord. I held it up, so that it reflected the
lingering sunlight.

Then, I glanced across at the
other sword − Hussa’s sword, which I had watched forged and always wanted
to own. Each was a magnificent, glorious weapon in its own way. I studied them
both for a moment, then I shook my head and passed my uncle’s blade back to my
father. He raised an eyebrow and looked at me, puzzled.

"Keep that sword, Father. It
has always been Uncle's and then yours. Give the other to Aedann, if you would
take my advice, for I already have a sword.

I once heard it said that ‘every
good story is about a sword’. Well, that may be true, but I now realised that
every good sword has its own story. I reached down and drew my own blade. The
broad, sharp stabbing weapon that, Lilla later told me, was in fact Roman. It
was a gladius and once would have been wielded by a legionary posted to the
fortress of Calcaria and later was carried by the armies of Samlen as they
attacked my home. It was there I had taken it from the first man I killed. I
carried it to Calcaria and used it to free our people. Finally, here at this
battle, it was the weapon that killed Owain: the golden King of Rheged. I now
held it up high so every man could see it.

“I will call it: Catraeth, in
memory of this place, so if I ever have to draw it in battle again I will not
forget those who died here.”

One of the men had retrieved the
Wolf’s head banner and proudly carried it back to us. The Wicstun Company had
its standard again, so it was time to return to the camp with it. That left
just one thing: the amber treasure.

Bending over, I examined Samlen’s
bloody corpse. His one eye stared at me, but it no longer burnt with his hatred
and evil and I did not fear it. Inside his tunic I found what I was looking
for: all of my mother’s jewellery, save the link from the one earring, which I
knew Hussa had sold.

“It is over,” I said, handing
them to my father. He examined them briefly and then thrust them inside his own
tunic.

“No,” he said, “not quite over.
There is still one more duty.”

Then he turned away, before I
could ask what he meant.

The sun was setting as we walked
back towards Stanwick camp. We were alive and quietly I gave thanks to the
gods. I carried the wounds of a warrior, some of them deep and painful, but
today I had not been fated to die. Around me lay fifteen hundred men who had
not been so lucky. We believe that when we die − if we die as warriors
− we go to feast in Woden’s hall with the men we have killed now our
friends. I looked at Eduard, Cuthbert and lastly, Aedann − walking along
one hand clamped to his wounded shoulder − and smiled. Woden’s Hall could
wait. For now I was glad to share a few more days with my friends, right here,
right now.

Soon after we reached the army,
the celebrations began. Aethelric welcomed Aethelfrith into Stanwick camp and
in the fortress, a victory feast was held. I sensed that we had been present at
one of the great battles: a turning point perhaps in the history of our
troubled land and indeed we had. There would be no further attempt by the Welsh
to cross the Pennines for a generation. Their hopes of driving us into the sea
were finally defeated and it had been this battle that planted the dream of a
common race north of the Humber. The dark times of division between us, which
would plague much of my life, were part of an unknown future. Naïve of what
fate was destined to shower upon us we drank ourselves senseless in joy.
Bernicians and Deirans celebrated the truth: we were not just Saxons or Angles
any longer.

We were Northumbrians.

Chapter Nineteen

Hussa

The following
morning, I woke early and, needing fresh air and to empty my bladder, left the
hall where I had slept and walked the battlements to watch the sun rise. I was
now utterly sick of this place of death and I turned my gaze southwards towards
the bridge, Eoforwic and the even more distant Villa.

I did not get my wish
immediately, of course. That day and all of the next, we finished burying or
burning the dead. Our wounded needed rest and treatment for their injuries,
whilst the able-bodied turned their efforts to repairing the camp’s walls for
defence against a possible further attack; though one never came.

We seemed to be delaying our
departure home for no reason that I could discern, but we found out why the
following day. Aethelric and Aethelfrith had been involved in long discussions.
Harald, Sabert and the other commanders were often seen coming and going into
the hall, which the two leaders had taken over. Harald in particular looked
furious one night when he came out, but when I asked him why, he would not
answer.

There was great secrecy about the
subject of their discussions, but rumours will emerge, eventually, in any army.
Some men said that King Aethelfrith was keen to invade Rheged and conquer it,
taking advantage of its weakness, but that our Prince did not want to. Alfred,
from the Wolds swore that he had seen Owain still alive after the battle,
walking away from it. I knew this was nonsense, of course, and I told him that
I had killed the golden king with my sword and knew he was dead, but in the
chaos of battle men can imagine many things. Indeed, one day a tale went round
that Eoforwic had indeed fallen to an uprising and that we were about to march
there to put the city to the sword.

In the end, we discovered that
the issue under discussion was the future of Stanwick camp and the location of
the border between Bernicia and Deira. We were shocked to learn that Aethelric
had agreed that this border should lie at Catraeth Bridge, a few miles south of
the fortress we were in. In other words, Stanwick camp would be left in the
hands of Aethelfrith. So, this meant that we had marched all the way here and
fought a battle, Deiran blood had been shed, Wallace and hundreds more besides
him had been killed; and after all of that, we were simply just giving away the
fortress.

Suddenly, the feelings of unity
and the dreams of Northumbrian brotherhood seemed foolish. The Bernicians
started ordering us Deirans around, acting all self important, as if they were
the masters and we their subjects. One day, one of Aethelfrith’s house guards
called out to Eduard, ‘You’re a piece of shit!’ My friend retaliated, got into
a fight with him and broke his nose. Relations in the camp grew tense; soon,
fights were breaking out on a daily basis and increasing in severity.
Eventually, a man from the Wolds was killed by two Bernicians, but Aethelfrith
would not permit them to stand trial, which made us even angrier. It now
started to seem as if a battle might be fought between us and our former allies
on the very battlefield where together we had defeated the Welsh only a couple
of weeks before.

In the end though, Aethelric
called to him all the lords and commanders in the Deiran army. He looked
frankly exhausted and seemed to struggle to get his words out and when he did speak;
there was a tone of resignation in his voice.

“You see, it is simple numbers,”
Aethelric explained to us. “We have just five hundred men to defend Deira from
future Welsh attacks. Aethelfrith has a thousand spears. He can keep a few
companies here and still fight on against the Welsh to his west and north,
whereas we would be stretched manning a garrison all the way up here. In
addition, there are the armies of Elmet, which might come again and attack us
one day, from the west. We were victorious here,” and now he swept his arm
around in a circle, “at Catraeth, because we had allies. But, we would not be
able to defend our own home lands if we kept two hundred men here. Bernicia is
better placed to watch over Rheged and the pass and release us to guard our
western border. I don’t like it and I expect you won’t either, but there is
nothing else to be done.”

And so, that was that: a treaty
was agreed. The Prince was correct that none in Deira much liked it, but however
reluctant, we could see Aethelric’s point. Even so, while the victory here had
saved Deira from an invasion by the Welsh, we had now given away Stanwick camp
to the more powerful Bernicians and many of us questioned the outcome. Had it
justified the death of all those who had died? Would Wallace have felt that his
sacrifice was worthwhile? Would the families in Wicstun and elsewhere, those
whose sons would never go home, find solace in the outcome? Well, to those
questions, I had no answer.

There was now nothing to keep us
here and with tempers frayed and relations cooling, Aethelric ordered the army
to be ready to march the next day. No one complained at that. Aethelfrith came
out on that last morning and spoke to Aethelric. Then, the King of Bernicia
turned and looked over at us and I found that I did not like his expression one
bit. To me, he seemed like a man assessing our strength and abilities. This man
and his father had been heroes to us all when we were growing up. I had always
imagined him full of courage and valour and he certainly had all that. His
eyes, however, told a different story. They showed ambition as well as a lust
for wealth, land and power. For the moment, he had been our saviour and our
lands were as a result safe, but as we marched away I thought to myself that a
man such as that was a dangerous ally and I pondered that it would be all too
easy for him to become our enemy. Then, I cursed myself for wasting time with
these thoughts. “It’s not your problem, Cerdic”, I thought. “Enjoy the moment:
after all, we are going home.”

We did not go straight home, of
course. We marched with Harald to Eoforwic and there discovered that Aelle had
arrived and set up court in Harald’s hall. Aelle held a feast to celebrate
victory at Catraeth and to give thanks for our survival. Then, the next day, he
summoned a great council, to which I was invited. Lilla was too, of course, but
excused himself − saying that he had been invited to play at a special
celebration in one of his favourite halls and would see us later. The rest of
us sat down to discuss the campaign.

Aethelric talked of the battle
and then the negotiations with Bernicia. Frowning as he heard about the treaty,
Aelle reluctantly agreed to the arrangement, realising that he really had no
choice. But, I got the feeling that he wished he had been there and seeing the
expressions on the faces of the nobles, I think many of them felt this too.
For, we knew that he would have put up a bigger fight than his son did.

Then, Aelle called Father and me
forward and we stood side by side in front of him.

“It’s time for some reordering of
my realm,” he said. “Lord Cenred, your action in persuading Aethelfrith to come
to our aid saved the army at Catraeth and − as a result − our land.
Lord Wallace died bravely saving my son and I honour his memory. But now,
Wicstun needs a new master. Wallace left no heir so to you, Cenred of the
Villa, I grant the estates of Wicstun and the title of Lord of the South
Marches.”

My father must have known that
this was likely, because he did not act surprised, unlike me − gawping at
my father like an idiot.

“Thank you, my Lord, I’m
honoured,” Father said, in a hoarse voice and I could tell that the often gruff
man was touched.

“Cerdic, son of Cenred of the
Villa, I have heard the words of the Lords Harald and Sabert who have sung your
praises.” I looked at Sabert in surprise and Aelle saw the glance and smiled.
“In particular, Lord Sabert has said that it was your insistence that you stay
and your unfaltering faith in your father’s arrival, that saved the army. More
than that, your defence of the gate at Stanwick camp at the critical moment and
the slaying of Owain enabled the Bernicians to join a battle, rather than have
to fight Owain’s army after he had slaughtered you all.”

I nodded at Sabert and for the
first time, he smiled at me.

“So, it is with great pleasure
and with your father’s permission, that I grant you the title of Lord of the
Villa, under your father’s overlordship.”

My head spun at that news. I was
a lord now. Was it that many days since I was, more or less, a farm boy? I was
unable to find a word to say, so I just bowed. As I came back up, my father
placed a hand on my shoulder.

“You make me proud, son. Cuthwine
would have been so, too.”

How my life would have been
different if Cuthwine had lived. Would he have taken command of the company in
Elmet? Would it have been he who fought Owain at the gates of the fortress of Catraeth?
Then, would it have been my brother standing here in front of the King,
confirmed as the new Lord of the Villa? At that moment, I realised that I would
have given up all of these triumphs and willingly passed the glory to him, if
only he was alive today.

“Now,” Aelle went on, his voice
suddenly stern, “there is one more matter we must attend to.”

I was not surprised when Hussa
was led out, his wrists bound tightly behind his back. One of Aelle’s house
guards pushed him down and he was made to kneel in front of the King.

Aelle then called my father to
give an account of all that Hussa had done and went on to summon other witnesses
who confirmed that Hussa had been seen alongside Owain and Samlen and was in
fact Samlen’s trusted lieutenant.

Finally, the King turned to my
half-brother.

“Have you anything to say in
defence, before I pass judgement?”

Hussa just glared at him and said
nothing.

“You understand that you stand
accused of treason and that the penalty for betraying your country is death?”

Hussa spat on the ground at the
King’s feet.

“My country?” he asked, “What has
my country done for me? I had more honour and reward in Elmet and in the
service of Owain and Samlen, than I ever had here. Here I was just an
unrecognised bastard son, whilst there I was a lord.”

Part of me could understand how
appealing that must have been. To have left behind the past, full of anger and
rejection and taken on a new life would have seemed intoxicating. Yet, almost
two thousand people had died these last few weeks. How much of that blood was
on Hussa’s hands, I wondered.

“Very well, I judge that you are
guilty of treason and will be executed by hanging. Your body is to be left to
rot in the open, as a warning to others.”

As Aelle declared his fate, Hussa
visibly paled, but still he glowered defiantly back at the King.

In the hall, there was now utter
silence. Then, next to me, my father stirred. He glanced at me then he moved
forward to stand beside Hussa. I stared at him, wondering what he was doing.

“Sire, I wish to claim the right
to pay weregild for this man, in lieu of his punishment.”

The lords in the hall gawped at
my father they, like me, shocked by this unexpected statement. From the
expression on his face, Hussa was as stunned as the rest of us and just stared
in confusion at his father: the father who had never acknowledged him, who had repeatedly
rejected him and who thought him a traitor and yet now stood by him − a
condemned man, guilty of treachery.

What did my father hope to
achieve by this?

Sabert coughed, breaking the
silence. “Cenred, why do you do this, what is this man to you?”

Father did not hesitate to
answer. Until now, only a few men knew − or had realised − that
Hussa was his son. Of the Lords of Deira, only Wallace had been aware. Now, he
chose to confess to them the truth.

“Hussa is my son,” he said
simply.

Sabert’s eyebrows went up in
complete surprise. Harald’s expression was that of a man who had just heard the
answer to a riddle and now realised that he really knew it all along. Aelle, on
the other hand showed no reaction. Had he known it after all, or was he just
very good at hiding his reactions? My father looked at the King and spoke
again.

“His mother and I ... had a brief
relationship one summer seventeen years ago. She was beautiful and I was weak.
It was ... intense, for as long as it lasted. But then I realised it could not
go on. In the end, I was forced to choose between my wife and the family I had
made with her and Hussa. I realise now that this was the wrong choice and I was
weak: I should not have been made to choose between them. I should have
recognised Hussa years ago. Then things would have been different ...” He
paused and I knew he was thinking of my mother, who had insisted he make that
difficult choice.

Aelle sighed.

“A man makes his own choices,
Lord Cenred. Hussa made his and nothing that you say excuses what he has done.”

“Perhaps that is so, Sire. But,
he is still my son.”

Aelle nodded.

“Weregild though ... it’s for
murder, theft and so on. The law and our customs do not allow it for treason.”

Weregild was blood money. If a
man killed or harmed another or caused damage to property, he could prevent
punishment by compensating the victim. Our kings defined, in various codes of
law, how much it all cost and the lords then enforced it. But, as Aelle said,
treason was never included in these lists.

“The King decrees the law, Sire.
You can decide if it may be included and if so, how much.”

Sabert spoke again.

“Cenred, even if the King chose
to allow this, how can you value the safety of a kingdom, how do you define its
worth?”

Aelle nodded.

“Lord Sabert speaks truthfully,
Lord Cenred. To dissuade offenders, the fine must match the crime. It would be
a fine of the order of thousands of shillings.”