Nightfall till Daybreak (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 2) (22 page)

Hereric looked on the verge of tears as he hugged his friend.
Life as a king’s
theow
was a lonely existence. To most within the Great
Hall he had been invisible. Most highborn children had either ignored or
bullied him. His friendship with Edwin had been the first of his life.

“Live well Hereric,” Edwin told his friend, his eyes brimming
with tears. “I will never forget you.”

Wiping away tears of her own, Freya turned and picked up the
cart’s handles. Hereric fell in next to her and took one of the handles.
Together, they lifted the cart and towed it forward.

Edwin stood at the edge of the woods, with the shadowy outline
of Barrow behind him. When Freya had gone a few paces, she glanced back over
her shoulder and looked upon the boy one last time. Edwin rewarded her with
that fey, wistful smile that she had come to know so well. Then he raised his
hand and waved farewell.

Chapter
Twenty-three

The first day of their journey was a nerve-wracking game of
cat and mouse. They were within easy reach of the Mercian army. Freya hoped
that Penda would spend the next day celebrating his victory, rather than
sending his warriors out to raid villages and hunt down any stragglers. Yet,
she had a gut feeling that their escape from the area would not be so easy.

As soon as Freya and Hereric left Barrow Woods behind, they
were able to move quicker through sloping meadows, towing the cart behind them.
Freya did not like being out in the open. It made her nervous. She kept getting
an odd, tickling sensation between her shoulder blades, but when she turned to
look over her shoulder, she could see nothing but grass and trees. Still, her
intuition warned her that they were not safe here.

Despite her hopes, she knew the Mercians would be combing the
land around Barrow Fields.

They were not far from Saxham now, and the surrounding
woodland that stretched down to the upper reaches of the Lark Valley and
Beodriceworth. Freya intended to cut behind Saxham and bypass the valley before
heading south-east. Her plan was to make for the upper reaches of the River
Deben. It was an ambitious and slightly foolhardy choice. Unlike the land
around Woodbridge Haven, which she knew intimately, this stretch between
Beodricesworth and the Deben was unknown to Freya. It would have been a safer,
albeit slower, option to retrace their journey towards Rendlaesham and then
veer south, but Freya decided against this. If the Mercians decided to ride to
Rendlaesham, they would be taking the same route. It was too risky.

They had almost reached the line of trees behind Saxham when
Freya skidded to a halt, causing the cart to buck behind her.

“What’s wrong?” Hereric looked on in concern as Freya dropped
to her knees and placed her palms on the ground.

“Feel the ground,” Freya urged, her heart starting to pound.
“It’s shaking!”

Hereric followed her lead. His eyes widened. “Horses!”

“Run!” Freya leaped to her feet, grabbed the cart and took off
towards the woodland. They crashed into the trees like hunted deer. Hereric had
just finished helping Freya pull the cart into a thick matt of bracken, when
the sound of thundering hoofs reached them.

Freya peered cautiously through the bracken and saw a band of
warriors galloping towards the woods.

“Saxham,” Freya whispered. Her voice caught as she remembered
that friendly village and the
Winterfylleth
bonfire.

“But if they’ve come this far that means they’ve already
sacked Barrow,” Hereric whispered back. “What about Edwin?”

Freya shook her head. “I know not. We can only hope that Edwin
was spared.”

“Will they sack Beodricesworth too?”

Freya glanced over at the boy and realized he was terrified.
She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, even if her bowels felt as if
they were turning to water.

“Perhaps not,” she ventured. “Even if Penda is pagan, he may
still respect a holy place. He may spare Beodricesworth.”

Once the warriors had crashed through the woods, making no
attempt at stealth, Freya got to her feet and yanked the cart out of the
bracken.

“Come Hereric. We need to move quickly while they’re in
Saxham. If we delay they may cut off our escape.”

They skirted the woods close to Saxham; too close for soon the
screams of the villagers reached them. Shortly after, smoke wafted through the
woods.

The Mercians had set fire to the village.

Freya and Hereric fled, pulling the cart behind them and
trying not to think about what the Mercian warriors were doing to the folk of
Saxham. Aidan, still in a deep, injured sleep, was being jostled about during
the bumpy journey. Yet, they could not risk slowing their pace.

A short distance from Saxham, they passed through a leafy
glade. Freya’s breath stilled when she realized where they were. This was the
place where she and Aidan had stopped on their way back from Saxham; where they
had stripped naked in the moonlight and made love. The memories of that night
rushed back. The memories warmed Freya’s soul but brought with it a sweet pain.
It had only been one night ago, but it felt as if weeks had passed.

Still, things could have turned out much worse. Aidan could
have died like all the others. 
He may only be half alive, but at least he
has a chance!

The sight of the glade, and all it represented, galvanized
Freya’s resolve. It also helped her get their bearings. Instead of heading
south, towards Beodricesworth, like she and Aidan had done just a day earlier,
Freya angled the cart east.

She and Hereric fled through the woodland and out into open
grassland. On and on they raced, with the cart bumping behind them, until their
chests burned. By the time they could run no more, the sun hung high in the
sky, signaling that it was about noon. They had been on the move, almost
entirely without rest, since daybreak.

Freya unstoppered a water bladder and took a couple of gulps
before gently giving some water to Aidan. While Hereric took his turn, she
leant against the cart and looked up at the sky. She had been so intent on
fleeing that she had paid little heed to the weather. It was a grey, damp day;
a colorless sky stretched from horizon to horizon. All color appeared to have
leached from the world.

Hereric had sunk down into a sitting position, his back braced
against the wheel of the cart. He was still gasping, and looked about to
collapse. Freya sat down next to him and they remained there for a while, unspeaking,
until they caught their breaths and rested their limbs. They sat in the middle
of wide, flat grasslands that appeared to stretch away into eternity in all
directions.

“Which way are we travelling now?” Hereric asked when he had
recovered sufficiently to speak.

“East, roughly,” Freya replied. “Watch the sun as the
afternoon passes. We should be travelling in the opposite direction to it.”

Hereric nodded. “Do you think we’ve outrun the Mercians?”

Freya smiled at that. “I don’t think we’ve outrun them
Hereric. If they’d been chasing us, they would have caught us a long time ago.
We’re just travelling in a different direction to them at present. We must keep
moving if we don’t want to cross paths again.”

By the time night fell, Freya and Hereric were so exhausted
they had begun to stagger. They rested for the night near a water course filled
with murky water that did not look fit to drink. Freya noticed the ground was
getting damper and spongier, and wondered if they were wandering into
marshland. She hoped not. Trekking across marshes would be slow, unpleasant and
potentially fatal.

Hereric was too exhausted to go rabbiting with his slingshot,
so they ate stale bread, salted pork and a crisp red apple each. Too exhausted
to even speak, they sat either side of the campfire and listened to the night.
Once she had recovered sufficiently, Freya hobbled over to the cart and checked
on Aidan. His brow was warm, rather than feverish, which was a good sign;
although once again the light was too poor for her to check his head wound.
Still, she reflected, their priority today had been to get as far from the
Mercians as possible. They would be able to travel at a more moderate pace
tomorrow.

Like the night before, Freya got Hereric to boil some water
for washing Aidan’s wounds. As he had still not woken, they could feed him
nothing. Instead, Freya sat, with his head on her lap and dribbled water into
his mouth.

It would have to be enough to sustain him for now.

The next morning, Freya awoke to find the sun shining on her
face. She sat up, groggy and with a faint sense of panic that she had
overslept. In contrast to the day before, today was breezy and cold. Scudding
clouds moved across the sky, playing hide-and-seek with a pale sun.

“Hereric,” Freya croaked. She clambered to her feet and winced
as her limbs protested. She ached all over. Muscles hurt that she did not even
know she possessed. Today, she would have to take things slower, whether she
wanted to or not. Nearby, her young companion rolled over onto his side and
rubbed his eyes. Leaving him to wake up, and prepare something to break their
fast, Freya hobbled over to the cart to check on Aidan.

There did not appear to be much change from the night before.
Aidan still slept deeply, and showed no sign of waking. Carefully, Freya rolled
him onto his front so that she could check the injury on the back of his head.
It was difficult to see the extent of it as his hair had dried into a thick,
bloodied mat. It was with regret that Freya was forced to use her knife to cut
away his beautiful hair so that she could see his scalp. When she finally saw
the injury, Freya winced. It looked as if something blunt and heavy had hit him
very hard. The flesh was swollen and scabbed but when Freya probed gently with
her fingers she could find no fractures or breaks in his skull. Her mother
needed to see this wound. It was beyond her skill to heal.

Stay with me Aidan
, she stroked his brow and
gazed down at his face.
You’ve made it this far, just a bit farther.

A short time later, they set out once more. Yesterday’s fears
were realized when Freya saw they were travelling further into marshland. The
ground became wet underfoot and they soon had to navigate their way around
stagnant pools and reed beds. Yet, this was the way east, and Freya was
determined that they should continue in this direction. She was afraid that if
they changed direction, they would never find their way back to Woodbridge
Haven.

“At least the Mercians won’t bother riding in here,” Hereric
commented, swatting at a cloud of midges that were attempting to eat him alive.

“That’s true enough,” Freya replied sourly, heaving the cart
through a deep puddle. “Only a fool would lead you through the middle of a
bog!”

***

Four days later, they finally reached the upper reaches of the
Deben. When Freya saw the unmistakable outline of the Great Barrows of Kings
rising before her, she nearly wept for joy. Unlike the Freya’s last visit to
the Barrows, this spot appeared deserted.

There had been times over the past few days when she had been
sure she had got them well and truly lost. The marshland had nearly been their
undoing. She had lost count of the times she and Hereric had struggled to pull
the cart free of a sucking bog. They had spent two nights in the marshland, and
had slept huddled in the back of the cart with no fire to warm them; there had
been no spot dry enough to make camp in.

Through it all, Hereric had not complained once. He was a
cheerful companion, even when the skies opened and pelted them with stinging hail,
or when they ran out of food in the marshland and had nothing but an onion each
for supper. Freya knew she would never have reached the Great Barrows of Kings
without him.

That night they camped in a lime-tree copse, not far from the
barrows. Hereric went out with his slingshot and brought back four fat rabbits.

While he was away hunting, Aidan awoke.

Freya had been tending the fire, coaxing it with damp sticks
and cursing the two days of rain since they had left the marshes, which made
finding any dry wood a challenge, when she heard a faint groan.

She dropped the wood and rushed over to where Aidan lay on his
right, facing the fire. His eyelids were flickering. As Freya reached him, he
groaned again.

“For the love of Woden I’m dry.” Aidan’s voice was so hoarse
he could barely speak.

“Here.” Freya unstoppered the water bladder and placed it to
his lips. “Take a few sips, gently now.”

“Has a horse ridden over my head?” His eyes flickered open,
unfocused for a moment before he fixed upon Freya. She could see the confusion
in his gaze but waited for him to adjust to his surroundings before she
explained anything.

“I should be dead,” he rasped. “Are you my prize in the
afterlife?”

Freya laughed at that. “I doubt you’ll be as fortunate as that
Aidan of Connacht. No you are very much alive – and so am I. Hereric and I
found you on the battlefield and we’re taking you back to Woodbridge Haven.”

Aidan stared at her, taking it all in, before his eyes closed
once more. Freya saw the naked pain on his face – not the pain from his wounds
– but from the memories of what he had seen and lived through on Barrow Fields.

“The Mercians won.” It was a statement rather than a question
but Freya answered it anyway.

“Yes – they took a small group of warriors hostage; the rest they
left on the battlefield.”

“Do you know who survived?”

“No, it was too far away to see, but when we searched the dead
I saw Ecgric, Sigeberht, Aldwulf and Lothar. Edwin helped us search for you,
but he found the bodies of his father and brothers on the field. Not one of his
kin survived.”

“I told him to stay in Beodricesworth,” Aidan growled,
reopening his eyes, “and I told you to go straight home.”