Then Finan came.
Waormund reckoned that Æthelstan had no forces closer to Lundene than the garrison at Werlameceaster, which is why he rode southwards without any scouts ranging the pastures and low wooded hills either side of the Roman road. So far as he knew this was safe ground and all he could think of was the joy of his triumph and the sweet revenge of my death.
But Rædwalh’s two servants had reached Werlameceaster in the night, and Merewalh, who had fought beside me in Æthelflaed’s service, had sent sixty men to rescue me, and those horsemen did have scouts riding ahead. They had seen Waormund’s men, but being uncertain how many warriors the West Saxon led, they had followed cautiously. They had seen my capture, but had not known it was me, and so they had followed Waormund further eastwards and, in the wood of coppiced beech, had found Finan and the rest of my company.
Now, caution swept to the wind, they came from a wood to the west of the Roman road. They came at a gallop, the high sun reflecting off spear-points, from sword-blades, and from shields bright painted with Æthelstan’s symbol of a dragon clutching a lightning bolt. Their horses’ hooves threw up great clods of pastureland, the thunder of the horses suddenly loud.
Waormund’s men were tired, their horses white with sweat. For a few heartbeats they just stared in disbelief, then men dragged swords from scabbards and turned to face the charge, but Waormund just went on staring. I heard shouting, though whether it was bellows of surprise from the West Saxons or war cries from the Mercians, I could not tell, but the shouts seemed to startle Waormund who suddenly turned his horse away from the attackers and spurred it towards the field of stubble that lay between the road and the tree-covered hill. His stallion, checked by my weight that was still tied to its tail, reared. Waormund savaged the spurs back, the horse screamed, then bolted. My horse followed, but then it was my turn to scream as I was dragged from the saddle. Behind me were other screams as the Mercian horsemen slashed into the West Saxons. I saw none of it, did not see the blood on the Roman stones nor the men in their death throes. I was being dragged across the dry stubble, being lacerated by the short, sharp stalks, bouncing and sobbing as the horse fled, hauling on my tether in an attempt to prevent my arms being wrenched from their sockets, and as I sobbed I half saw another horse come alongside me, saw the earth flung up by giant hooves, and saw the sword lifted above me.
Then the sword sliced down. I screamed. And I saw nothing.
Not far from Bebbanburg is a cave where the Christians claim Saint Cuthbert’s body was hidden when the Danes sacked Lindisfarena and the monks fled with the saint’s corpse. Others say that Saint Cuthbert lived in the cave for a time, but whichever story is true, whether Saint Cuthbert was alive or dead, the Christians revere the cave. Sometimes, when hunting deer or boar, I will pass the cave and see the crosses made from twisted grass or reeds that are left by people praying for the saint’s help. It is a sacred place and I hate it. We call it a cave, but in truth it is a massive ledge of rock jutting from a hillside and supported by one small stone pillar. A man can shelter from a storm beneath that ledge. Perhaps Saint Cuthbert did, but that is not why I hate the place.
When I was a child, maybe six or seven years old, my father had taken me to Saint Cuthbert’s cave and forced me to crawl under that vast ledge of rock. He had five men with him, all warriors. ‘You stay there, boy,’ he had said, then taken a war hammer from one of his men and struck the pillar a great ringing blow.
I had wanted to scream in terror, imagining the massive rock crushing me, but knew I would be beaten bloody if I made a sound. I cringed, but stayed silent. ‘You stay there, boy,’ my father had said again, then using all his strength he hit the pillar a second time. ‘One day, boy,’ he had continued, ‘this pillar will crumble and the rock will fall. Maybe that day is today.’ He hammered it again, and again I kept silent. ‘You stay there, boy,’ he had said a third time, then mounted his horse and rode away, leaving two men to watch me. ‘Don’t talk to the boy,’ he had ordered them, ‘and don’t let him leave,’ nor did they.
Father Beocca, my tutor, was sent to rescue me at nightfall and discovered me shaking with fear. ‘Your father does it,’ Beocca had explained to me, ‘to teach you to conquer your fear. But you were in no danger. I prayed to the blessed Saint Cuthbert.’
That night and for many nights after I dreamed of that great lump of rock crushing me. It did not fall fast in my dreams, but came slowly, inch by ponderous inch, the stone groaning as it descended so inexorably, and in my dream I
