Amber Treasure, The (6 page)

“Think about it,” Cuthwine went
on, “Aethelric was my age when Aelle led the armies to capture Eoforwic. Since
then we have had no wars and only a few raids or bandits to contend with. There
is only so much hunting a man can do. Don’t suppose he ploughs many fields, do
you? After a while of sitting on your arse, it all goes flabby.”

I sniggered at that.

Aethelric was likeable enough,
though, in person. Cuthwine and I were called forward with Father to be
introduced.

“Splendid looking chaps you have
got there, Lord Cenred,” the Prince said, eyeing us both. Do a father proud.
Strong and tall like my own son,” he said.

Father thanked him. The Prince
just stood there, nodding and smiling cheerfully, waiting for something else to
happen. My father waggled his eyebrows at Wallace to get his attention.

“Maybe, your Highness, you would
like to inspect the company?” Wallace suggested, taking the hint.

“Erm, what’s that? Inspect? Yes,
that seems fair. It’s what I am here for. Check the army and make sure it is
ready,” he intoned, as if he was repeating orders from the King.

To be fair by him, he made a good
job of this bit. He did not seem much of a leader, but he was friendly and
cheerful and would stop at a man and ask him where he came from and soon they
would be deep in conversation about planting beans and what the apples would be
like this year.

I wondered if Cuthwine was wrong
and whether he did know how to plough a field. In fact, once I had thought it,
the image of Aethelric as a cheerful ruddy-faced farmer stuck in my head: a man
who was born in the wrong place and just trying to do his best.

With him stopping and chatting to
every third man, it took a good hour to inspect us and my legs and arms were
aching from standing and holding a spear for so long. Eventually though, he
returned to the front and looked expectantly at Wallace.

Wallace had arranged for a small
grandstand to be built in one of our fields and he, Father and the Prince,
along with his party and my family took seats there. The company competed in
tournaments for the next couple of hours. Cuthbert shocked everyone, apart from
Eduard and me, by winning the archery competition. There was no surprise,
however, when Eduard defeated all comers in the wrestling.

The finale was to be a grand
melee with sword and shield. Only then did I discover that the prize was to be
the magnificent blade crafted by Grothir of Wicstun: the very one I had long
coveted. The blacksmith handed it to Prince Aethelric, who held it aloft so all
could see. A barely audible sigh emerged from the company as every man in its
ranks observed it, wanted it and longed for it, each man having the same
thought: just win today and it will be mine.

We were paired up and fought with
mock swords and wicker shields. The winner was to be the first to achieve a hit
with his wooden blade on the torso of the other. Cuthbert and I were paired first
and it was no surprise when a few moments later, I landed him a nasty smack on
his ribs. He went off glaring at me and rubbing his side. As each pair’s fight
was decided, the vanquished withdrew and new pairs were created. The bouts went
on for over an hour but, slowly, we were whittled down to a handful.

I started to think that I might
manage to reach the final pair, perhaps even to win. Glancing around, I saw
there were now only four pairs left.

Cuthwine was fighting a lad from
Little Compton, who was about my age. The young boy was outclassed and Cuthwine
stepped to one side as he attacked, deflected the lad’s sword and then brought
his blade back to deliver a blow in the poor fellow’s stomach. I grimaced as I
heard the air rush out of the lad and then, with a groan, he collapsed to the
ground. Cuthwine helped him back to his feet, smiled at him, added a quick “Well
done, good try,” and looked for his next challenger.

Meanwhile, I had taken on a huge
blond-haired brute from a farm near Wicstun. He was a terror to all the local
lads when we were younger, relying on fear and intimidation to get his way. He
roared at me, but when I stood my ground and did not flinch, he seemed to have
exhausted his options, so when I moved inside his blade and lightly tapped him
on the chest, he just looked at me stupidly and stomped off the field.

Eduard was still in the fight,
but met his match in Grettir who, despite his age, had a lifetime’s experience.
Eduard was big and strong and relied on that to batter down a foe’s defences
and then, when the enemy was staggering, would look to land the killer blow.

Grettir just absorbed the blows
on his shield looking, frankly, a bit bored. Then, when Eduard paused to catch
his breath he suddenly struck, thrusting the sword forward with a vicious
stabbing motion that caught my friend by total surprise. Grettir nodded at him
as he stomped off and the look seemed to say, ‘Not bad, but you can do better.’

Hussa was still in the melee,
moving lithely back and forth, dodging this way and that. His opponent was a
dull-looking man in his twenties, who looked confused and bewildered. He tried
to swing his sword down onto Hussa’s shoulders, but Hussa was too quick and was
already past him, then clouted him on the back.

It was now Hussa’s turn to square
up against the old veteran, Grettir, in his semi-final match. It was a good
contest: wisdom and experience against youth and agility. In the end, Grettir,
tiring after the five previous bouts, was flagging a little despite his stamina
and Hussa, who still looked fresh, kept moving until Grettir made a tiny error
and paid for it. A good loser, Grettir slapped the boy on the back and smiled
before stomping off the field. Hussa stepped to the side to wait for his final
opponent, which was to be either Cuthwine or me.

Cuthwine and I had trained together
many times over the last few months so, although he was more experienced than I
was, I knew most of his moves and was also slightly quicker. As a result, we
were well matched and exchanged thrust and counter thrust, parry and swing for
a full ten minutes, until we were both getting exhausted. In the end, I tried
to finish the fight by rushing him. It was a mistake and I felt my foot slip
from under me and I fell. Ironically, that is what saved me as I passed under
his attack. Somehow, as my arms flailed about wildly, my sword managed to
connect with his body. He just stood there, glared down at me and then shook
his head, not believing what had happened.

“You lucky bastard!” he groaned
then reached down to pull me to my feet, whilst all around us the audience
howled with laughter. When I took my place for the final round, a rueful smile
was on my face.

So, that left just me and Hussa.
Just one more fight, I told myself. Just one more win and the sword would be
mine. I glanced over at my parents. Father was talking to Aethelric and
pointing at me. He seemed to be avoiding looking at Hussa, but then I caught
him glance at him for a moment and in his eyes I saw, what: guilt, pain? I was
not sure.

Then, I looked at my mother and a
chill shot down my spine. She was not looking at Cuthwine or me, but straight
at Hussa and it was a look of implacable hatred.

Here, she seemed to be thinking,
was living proof of her husband’s infidelity. For years, she had managed to
keep that distasteful memory remote from her life but, today, here was her
husband’s bastard son, Hussa, in plain view of all.  I wondered how she knew it
was he, for he was not much like Father, but there is never any point in trying
to fathom a woman’s instinct. I turned back to Hussa and saw that he had seen
my mother’s expression and returned it. Of course, he might resent me and our
father, but it was this woman who, in his eyes, had ruined his life and
destroyed his mother.

His face took on a dangerous
expression and he now fixed me with an appraising stare, as he swung his sword
in a gentle arc and shifted the weight of his shield. Then, in a flash, he was
on me. I might have expected fury and as a result recklessness, but there was
none of that. His moves were calculated, driven by ice cold anger: which
focused his mind on the fight. As a result, every attack was threatening and
any one of them could have potentially won the bout. Forced onto the defence, I
just blocked and parried each attack as I watched him and waited for my chance.

He lunged at me and I caught the
blade with my shield then followed up with a swing from the side. He danced out
of the way and my momentum took me past him. I could feel my heart pounding as
I turned to face him, just in time to see the thrust coming towards my neck.

I flinched back, staggering away
from him, but I had to open my arms to balance myself so he came on again,
attacking the gap in my defences. This time, it was he who overstepped and I
slammed my shield into his side sending him sprawling onto the grass, trapping
his own shield under him. I was over him now, ready to finish the fight. In my
moment of triumph, I looked away to see if Aidith was watching. She was and she
smiled at me and gave a little wave, so I smiled back feeling a surge of
elation. Maybe, Cuthwine was right and today my luck was in.

Then: disaster! I had wasted that
moment of chance: I had done what Hussa had done in the woods and looked to see
who was watching me and now I paid for my pride. Hussa sprang to a crouch and
at last red hot fury did show on his face as he thrust the wooden sword
violently up into my belly. I crumpled into a ball of agony and fell on the
grass.

Hussa howled out his triumph and
pointed his sword towards my parents. Beneath him, I rose to my knees and
retched. Then, I slammed my fists on the ground in frustration, staggered to my
feet and limped off the field, feeling my face burning. I was not really hurt
− but I was angry, very angry. But not at Hussa − I was fuming at
myself for the mistake I had made. If only I could go back a few moments: if
only I had just finished the fight, rather than wallowed in the glory. Then, I
would be the victor. It was a hard lesson to learn, but learn it I did. Never
again would I allow pride to trip me up.

That day, though, Hussa had won.
He swaggered up to the Prince who, oblivious of all the anger and hatred on
this field, just beamed at him.

“Well done, young man, what is
your name?”

“Hussa, Sire.”

“That was a good fight and you
deserve this sword,” he said, and then he raised his voice, “I give this sword
in honour of a great victory to Hussa, son of … erm,” with a whisper he added,
“what is your father’s name, boy?”

My parents’ faces went pale and,
close by me, I heard Cuthwine gasp. Hussa looked over at my father and smiled a
mirthless smile and for a heartbeat, I thought he would say what had happened
seventeen years before, but he just shrugged and then looked back at Aethelric.

“I have no father, Sire,” he
said, his voice bitter. “He abandoned my mother when she was with child.”

“Ah well,” Aethelric coughed, “I
give this sword to Hussa of Wicstun. Well done.”

Hussa bowed, then took the sword
and held it up so we could all see it. The Wicstun boys cheered at this and
Wallace applauded too, although I saw him looking at my parents and biting his
lip. But I said nothing and neither did I applaud. I was staring at the sword.
I wanted a sword so badly: I had wanted that sword so badly and now Hussa had
it! I could almost hear the gods laughing.

That was the end of the tournament
and it was now time to eat. I wandered over to my friends and Cuthbert patted
me on the shoulder as a consolation.

“Bad luck, come on, let’s get
some ale,” Eduard said and I nodded. Then I froze, because I had just seen a
girl go over to Hussa and examine the sword with him. Hussa said something and
she laughed. I felt hollow inside, because I had just realised the girl was
Aidith. Hussa pointed towards the barn and Aidith nodded her head and they went
in together. Jealousy raged within me and I gasped with the pain of it, as
though a mule had just kicked me in the belly. Cuthwine came over to me and
pushed me after them.

“Come on, brother, looks like you
lost the sword and the girl tonight. Never mind, there’s always ale.”

The feast that night was spectacular.
Mother had made sure the finest food and the best of our beer was served by
Caerfydd, Gwen and Aedann. There was roast beef and lamb, fresh and warm bread,
fruit preserved in jars through the winter, sweetened with honey and our most
delicious cheeses. The ale was outstanding: warming, bitter and very strong.

My mother revelled in the
evening. This was her moment, when she showed the world the wonders of her
tables and made sure that tonight was a feast no one would ever forget. She was
dressed in a startling emerald-green gown, trimmed with gold thread. Father had
bought it for her a while ago, but she had never worn it before, saving it, she
always said, for a special day. This, at last, was the day.

The coming of a Prince, along
with such a large gathering of warriors, was worthy of such a dress, but what
really drew every man’s eyes to her was a fabulous set of jewellery. It was a
necklace, bangles and headdress of priceless amber, mounted in a setting of
exquisite silver. The set was given by King Aelle in recognition of my uncle’s
valour in battle against the Welsh of Eboracum. In gratitude for his victory,
the King gave it to the widow of the great hero. My aunt had died childless a
few years ago and the set then passed to my father, who gave it to my mother.
Of all the men at the feast, only Cuthwine, Father and I had seen it before.

A hundred men and more sat, ate
and drank and as the cups were filled and refilled, they started to forget the
clouds of gloom that lay over the future and they laughed and sang. They
laughed and sang: but I did not. I was on one end of the high table and from
there, I could see Aidith pouring Hussa some more ale and laughing again at his
jokes.