The Amber Treasure

  Chapter Six

  Raid on the Villa

  Grettir turned to me and shouted, “Master, please follow the village lads and I'll find you later. I'd better go with these town idiots and make sure they reach home safely.”

  Nodding, I turned and ran east in the wake of my friends.

  “I'll find you at the Villa − or here if Cerdham is not safe,” my instructor shouted after me, as I crashed through the branches. I saw him head off northwards, running surprisingly quickly for a man of almost fifty odd summers and then he was gone, invisible among the oak and beech trees.

  My friends had a few moments’ lead and were already out of sight through the trees, but I could still hear them up ahead and I set off in pursuit. While I ran, the branches whipped at my face and then snagged and tore at my clothes. I almost tripped over a large log buried deep in the undergrowth, staggered a few steps, managed to keep upright and was off again.

  Ahead of me, there was a sudden yelp of alarm, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting water. I pushed a willow branch aside then it was I who cried out, as my feet seemed to sink into the ground and then slip away from under me. I just managed to hold onto the branch to stop myself falling and then looked down to see I was standing on a sandy bank of another stream that ran through the royal hunting woods. I had slipped on the sand and would have ended up in the stream, were it not for the branch. Eduard, it seemed, had not been so lucky and had ended up on his back in the water. Beyond him, I could just see Cuthbert disappearing through the woods on the far side: he had obviously managed to react in time and leap over the stream. I could not see the other lads from the village, so I figured that they must have become separated in the woods.

  “Cuthbert − wait!” I shouted after him but, whether he heard or not, he continued running.

  “Woden’s arse!” I cursed and looked down at Eduard who sat in the stream, drenched through. I frowned at him then reached down and gave him my hand and heaved him up. We crossed the stream and took to the chase again, with Eduard lumbering along behind me.

  Soon, the trees began to break up and become sparser and the undergrowth vanished. I could now see the west end of the village and the orchard. Several of the villagers’ huts were burning. One of them − I feared it was Eduard’s − was fully ablaze. Behind me, I heard my friend give a shout and then a cry of despair and we paused and both stared in horror at the scene before us.

  Cuthbert was a hundred yards ahead, approaching the fence around the village. Past him, I could now see figures silhouetted by the fire moving about and I could hear screams of agony and shouts of panic. What puzzled me was that no one seemed to be trying to put out the fire: why was no one getting water from the stream to the south and how was it possible that the whole village could be on fire? We started off again.

  Suddenly, Cuthbert stopped running and dropped into a crouch. I caught up with him a few moments later and he turned to me, signalling for silence − one finger moving to his lips. He then pointed the same, trembling finger, towards the village.

  I peered through the gloom, squinting to make out details against the glare of fire. Along the main street of the village, there were shapes lying in the dirt. It took me a moment before the realisation came to me that these lifeless lumps were the bodies of some of the village men folk. A number were lying face down in a pool of their own blood, whilst others looked like rag dolls that some careless child had discarded and which had landed on a barrel here, or a sack of flour there. The screams and sobs we had heard were from half a dozen women and as many children, who were, even now, being rounded up by a mob of dark-haired warriors, who each carried a spear and a shield: spears which now dripped with the blood of our own men.

  “Who are they, Cerdic?” Cuthbert whispered.

  “I’m not sure, but I guess they are Welsh − from Elmet,” I answered. “They must be a raiding party. It looks to me like they took the village by surprise.”

  I glanced again at the bodies in the street, noticing now that some of them had spears and axes lying nearby and I added, “Mind you, some at least of our men tried to fight.”

  Suddenly, I thought of my family and I knew that I must get to the Villa. Eduard joined us at that point, puffing a little he stood and stared at the sight in front of us. Then, a moment later, he set off towards his hut. I had been right: it was his hut that was burning so heavily. If he reached the hut, he ... we would be spotted. I had to stop him! I launched myself forward, knocking him onto his front. He hit the ground hard, air whooshing out of his lungs.

  “What in the name of Thunor’s balls ...!” Eduard hissed.

  “Quiet Eduard, we must be quiet or we will get caught.”

  “Let me go, I’m going to kill the bastards,” Eduard threatened, as he thrashed about to get free from me. I sat on him, struggling to hold him down whilst I tried to work out what to do. Eduard, though, is the strongest man I know and he was beginning to push me off when I noticed some activity in the village.

  “Stop it, Eduard: look over there.”

  Three Welsh warriors had rounded up all the women and children and had tied their wrists behind their backs. Our people looked miserable and terrified and most were crying. Several of the women’s clothing had been torn and some were showing their breasts. For a seventeen-year-old lad that gave me an odd feeling: seeing in the middle of all this smoke, blood and death that which at another time would have been arousing, seemed to emphasise the horror of what was going on.

  A scream from a young woman brought me back to hard reality and I felt ashamed. The Welsh were prodding the captives with their spear butts and forcing them to begin walking towards us. One of the young women − I think it was Aidith − had slipped and fallen and the lead warrior, a tall stocky fellow with hair as black as night and cold unfeeling eyes, had kicked her and snarled some words in their outlandish speech. Almost I broke cover, so angry was I at this outrage, but something held me back. Common sense or cowardice? I have never been sure.

  Aidith got up slowly, holding her side and began walking again, towards the setting sun. The others, wailing and sobbing, followed along behind like sheep afraid of a dog. No wonder they cried, I thought, they knew they were being taken away into slavery. I thumped the ground in frustration. How on earth could this be happening? We all thought we were safe here. Where was our army?

  Then the realisation hit me: by Woden, we were the army!

  The enemy warriors came on towards us, leading their captives along and I realised we would be discovered as soon as they passed through the fence. Eduard had begun to struggle again, beneath me.

  “Come on, Cerdic, we can’t let them take our people,” he said. Nodding, though still looking terrified, Cuthbert agreed and so did I.

  I glanced past the captives and their guards towards the Villa. I could see no more Welsh, but the sound of the crashing of sword on shield and the screams of wounded men told me they had moved on over there now. I spared a brief thought for my father, mother, brother and sisters. Were they alive? Were they dead?

  There was no time to think about my family for long, because the enemy warriors were now getting very close and I felt my belly become all knotted up, so I prayed to the Valkyries to keep my bowels from emptying. The look of fear on Cuthbert’s face told me that he felt the same way. Eduard, however, showed no fear; instead his expression indicated that he had just one thought: murder!

  The three Welsh warriors all looked alarmingly strong. The lead fellow’s arms carried scars that spoke of many battles. The other two were younger, but looked just as confident. Our only hope here was surprise. If the raiders had come from the west, they must have missed us as we hunted our wild pigs in the woods. As such, they would not expect an attack from this direction. I indicated to my friends to follow me and then ran south a little way, to where the grass in the meadow was long. I then crouched down. The others did likewise. I pointed at Cuthbert’s bow and then at the lead warrior. I then
held up my fore and middle fingers. I wanted two arrows fired at him. Cuthbert gulped hard, his lips twitching, but he nodded and then pulled the bow from his shoulder, strung it and took the three arrows he had thrust through his belt. These he stabbed into the ground in front of him so as to have them ready for use. He took one and loaded it onto the bow string. I held my hand up to tell him to hold fire a moment and he pointed the bow down to the ground.

  I now drew out my long seax. It was a gift from my grandfather when I was just four, although Father had not let me carry it until I was eight. I had no sword, but this was sharp and broad and would have to do. Eduard was not armed and I was worried about that. Indeed, I was worried about the whole situation. We were just three seventeen-year-old boys. Our village’s strongest men had been killed: how could we hope to defeat even three experienced warriors, the youngest of whom must be five years our elder. Eduard seemed to sense my hesitation. He made a fist and punched it against his other palm − clearly he was ready.

  The warriors and their miserable booty were now quite close. They were moving more southerly now. I looked around and saw that the grass behind me was trodden down, so the Welsh had come up from the Humber. They must have followed it from Elmet before striking north and east to the village.

  I whispered to Cuthbert, “Now!”

  My friend nodded and then rose out of the grass. He brought his left arm up and locked the elbow, then drew back on the string. He aimed the arrow head at the lead warrior, who was now only thirty paces away. Cuthbert held his breath for an instant then let the arrow fly. There was a look of startled horror on the face of his target and then a sickening sound as the missile punctured his chest. He gave a brief cry of pain and fell forward onto his knees. For a moment, I didn’t move. Despite the years of training for war, this was the first time I had seen a man actually hit by bow or blade. Then, to my right, Eduard burst up from the grass and charged straight for the second guard.

  I recovered my senses as Cuthbert’s second arrow left his bow and flew towards the wounded foe. It hit him in the throat and the man’s hand flew up to grasp the arrow, shock and disbelief showing in his wide eyes. Then he tumbled full length onto the grass; already dead. I ran forward ten yards behind Eduard, feeling the blood pumping through my veins and my heart pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer. Suddenly, the fear was gone and all I now wanted was to kill these bastards and make them pay for what they had done to us.

  The women and children started screaming and crouched down in the grass, shielding their heads with their arms. As yet they did not recognise us: and why should they? We were bellowing and screaming in fury, faces distorted with rage and vengeance − hardly the friendly lads they all knew from around the village.

  The second guard, a man of maybe twenty summers, looked more puzzled than surprised, as if he could not quite understand what was happening. Eduard was five yards from him, when the warrior finally spotted him and quickly tried to bring his spear point to bear. He had been walking along with the shaft leaning casually against his right shoulder and it took him a few moments to swing it down to point it at Eduard. Moments later, Eduard arrived in front of him, running so fast that he could not slow down in time. Had he arrived a heartbeat later, he would have taken the point firmly in the chest and his own weight would have impaled him upon it.

  Fate and the Valkyries must have been watching him that day for the point was angled still slightly up so, although it hit him, it was deflected off his shoulder, piercing muscle and ripping a gash right up to his neck. He gave an agonizing cry at the pain but then ploughed headlong into the warrior. They both tumbled over and landed heavily on the ground, which knocked the wind out of them, the guard ending up underneath my friend.

  I now arrived at the floundering pair, knife in hand. The Welsh lad was looking up at me, eyes showing the fear he must now feel. Realising that I must thrust my blade into him, my rage dispersed and all I could feel was the bile rising into my throat. I knew I had to do this thing: think of Aidith, think of Eduard, I told myself and I moved towards the enemy.

  Fate now took a hand again and spared me the choice. For, at that moment, the third Welsh warrior bellowed a war cry full of hate. He was a dozen yards away, following the line of villagers. I could see that he was some twenty-five years old and had the same dark black hair as the other two. Indeed, there was a shape to the face and a look in his eyes that was similar to the older warrior whom Cuthbert had shot. The thought occurred to me then that these three might all be brothers.

  I had no time to debate such matters: he was already moving towards me. He had dropped his spear and drawn a sword, whose blade gleamed and shone red under the sunset light. He swung it from side to side as he closed upon me, a man set on revenge for a dead brother. He was close now: just five yards away. I glanced down at my short knife and sighed. So it would end here. I would be just one more youth slain this day. After all, he was a strong and fierce warrior; I was just a boy who, only yesterday, was practising with wicker shields on the last spring afternoon of my childhood.

  I should run, I thought. Get away, survive − but I could not. Whether I was frozen in terror or held by some feeling of honour and duty, I cannot recall. I tried to think of some ferocious battle cry or threat to intimidate him, but it was already too late. He moved in and swung back his blade to cut down on my shoulder. I moved my knife up to block the blow, realising as I did, that he would knock it aside with ease.

  Then, I heard a buzzing noise past my right ear. An instant later, I could see an arrow embedded in the warrior’s left arm. He gave a cry of pain, moved his right hand across as a reflex and dropped the sword. In a flash, I was on him. I thrust the knife hard into his upper abdomen, beneath his ribs and felt it ram home. Blood gushed out of the wound and ran hotly down my arm, drenching my tunic. He stared at me in horror, grabbed my shoulder with his hands and pulled me towards him. Even with a knife in his gut, the strength he had was surprising, but it began to drain away as his life blood ran down me. Finally, his hands released me and he slumped down, first onto his knees and then, with a groan, onto his front.

  Turning round, I could see that Eduard was still punching the other warrior with his good arm. The Welshman’s head hit the ground with the sound of splintering bone that told me he had hit a rock or stone and he now lay completely still, perhaps dead, perhaps knocked out. Eduard, holding a hand over his still bleeding wound, slumped down next to his enemy then he looked up at me for a moment, eyes unfocused at first. He blinked and dragging himself over, collapsed on the ground beside me. We glanced over at Cuthbert. He was still crouching in the grass, bow in his left hand staring open-mouthed at what he had just seen. Then, suddenly, he laughed.

  “I wonder what old Grettir will say about this!” he said.

  We had done it! Three youths barely out of childhood, had fought their first battle and won. For a moment I just nodded at Cuthbert and then the sound of a baby crying in the arms of a village woman brought me back to the present. The villagers were still staring at us, fear yet lingering in their eyes then, Cybilla − Cuthbert’s mother − bustled over.

  “Woden bless you, Master Cerdic, you’ve saved us all from this filth.”

  She rushed past me and over to her son, who cut her bonds with his small dagger and then embraced her. A moment later, we were surrounded by crying and laughing women and children. We cut them free and Aidith tore a strip of linen from her dress and used it to bind Eduard’s wound. She then came over to me and without warning, gave me a brief but intensely passionate kiss that left me staggering. I stared at her, desperate for something to say, but lost for words.

  “Do I get one of those as well?” Eduard asked. Aidith laughed and bending over pecked him lightly on the top of the head.

  “Don’t think much of that,” he grumbled.

  “That’s the best you’re getting, so don’t complain,” she muttered.

  Reaching down, I picked up the Welshman’s sw
ord from the ground. It was short, compared to my uncle’s, but felt heavier: a weapon made for the cut and thrust of a shield wall. It was well made and sturdy too. Not as pretty as Hussa’s new blade, nor as legendary as my uncle’s, but it was a sword taken in battle from a foe and that would do − for now. I examined it more closely. There were signs of dried blood along the blade and around the guard and I tried not to think which of the villagers had been struck down by it. That thought made me think, with sudden horror, about the Villa and my family. It was out of sight at present, beyond the orchard and the still burning village. I wanted to go there and find out what was going on, but then I looked at the villagers. Even though we had rescued them, they still looked scared and vulnerable and I could not just abandon them, could I? I bit my lip, realising that I was in two minds.

  It suddenly occurred to me that we were all being rather too loud. We were standing in an open field only a few hundred yards from our burning village. Somewhere, not far away, there were more raiders and I did not want to get discovered here. I turned to the women.

  “Quiet now, everyone,” I ordered and was then rather surprised that most of the noise ceased. Was I no longer just a boy to them? Did they see me as their leader?

  “We must find somewhere for you to hide. We cannot return to the village yet, it is far from safe,” I began. I pointed with the sword towards the west, into the woods we had run through earlier.

  “Through there the woods get denser. There is a stream some way into them. You can hide there and you will be safe overnight. By morning the raiders will have gone,” I advised them.

  At least I hoped the raiders would be gone. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps they were part of an invasion force. This land had been theirs before it had been ours. Maybe they had returned to reclaim it and drive us Angles out. In that case, no place would be safe. I prayed to the gods that I was right.

  “But, Master Cerdic, you’re coming with us, surely?” asked Cybilla and she looked at me imploringly. “It’s not safe for you at the Villa and in any case … we need you to protect us.”

  I looked east again, towards the Villa. In my mind, I saw an image of it burning and the Welsh rampaging all around it. I could imagine them looting my mother’s food store and then dragging away cattle and poultry. Had my father used my uncle’s sword to defend it? He was not a warrior. Had he fallen at the door to the house? Was he dead? What of Cuthwine the warrior and Sunniva my older sister? Images of her and Mildrith slain or raped flashed into my mind and I felt cold with fear for them all.

  I then considered the women and children who stood around me here. Dark thoughts came again to me. What if they were found in the woods and dragged away to serve masters in Elmet? Some to be slain, others to become the playthings of Welsh warriors. I could not allow that. I was torn, all my instincts urged me to go to the Villa, but common sense told me that it was already too late and that by now, whatever was going to happen had happened. I hesitated a moment longer then reached a decision: I could not leave these people prey to the Welsh. I had to protect them; what else could I do?

  I turned back to Cybilla and I nodded my head. “Yes, Goodwife, I’m coming with you.”

  It was now getting quite dark. The moon was rising and I could see several stars. The village still burnt close at hand as, like a shepherd with his flock, I gathered the village folk to me. We then set out: me leading the way with the women in single file behind and Cerdic and Eduard following up in the rear. We walked back into the woods and pressed on into its depths. Soon, we had come back to the stream where Eduard had fallen, although it took half an hour for our slow moving party with its children and wounded. We halted there, washed away the smoke and blood and drank the cool water.

  I scouted on ahead through the dense undergrowth. By now, it was full night and I had great difficulty seeing the way, but I was searching for a place to rest; a place to hide. I soon came to the stream where the company had rested just before we spotted the smoke. It was quiet and deserted; the abandoned kill from our hunt still lay where we had dropped it. I decided we would sleep here and go back to the village in the morning and find out what had happened to my family.

  Suddenly, I saw movement up ahead behind a beech tree: a glint of metal in the moonlight and the crack of a twig snapping underfoot. I raised my new sword and braced myself, whilst my eyes strained to see in the gloom. Were there two eyes staring at me through the branches? My heart began to pound, then a voice spoke and I half jumped out of my skin with fright.

  “I thought I taught you the warrior’s pose better than that, Master Cerdic,” said Grettir grinning and coming out of the deep shadow under the tree.

  “Grettir, thanks be to Woden. How long have you been here?” I asked moving towards him. I then stopped when I noticed his left arm was in a sling and was bandaged. The bandages were oozing blood. He saw me examining his wounded limb and grunted.

  “Don’t worry about this, Master. I got careless and one of the Welsh raiders stabbed me in the arm, but it’s just a scratch, really. I took his head off for it, so I think he learnt his lesson. I’ve been here only a few moments. I saw the lads back to Wicstun and then I returned to look for you.”

  Suddenly, he slumped against the tree, appearing exhausted and extremely pale: so perhaps he had lost more blood than he thought. I ran over and helped him to a tree stump that stuck up out of the undergrowth. I unwrapped the bandage and examined his wound: it was quite deep, several veins had been cut through and the wound bit deep into his muscle. I cleaned it with a little water and then bandaged it with torn cloth from my own shirt. I then fetched the villagers and the sorry looking band of dirty, bloodstained women and children staggered into the clearing and collapsed under the trees.

  Grettir told us that the raiders had been attacking Wicstun, but they had been driven off by the townsfolk by the time he and the youths drew near. A small band of the enemy had encountered the boys as they fled west and there had been a brief fight. One of the Wicstun boys was hurt and two of the raiders had been slain, whilst the others had made their escape. My tutor, though, could not tell me what had occurred at the Villa, as he had not been there, so I still had no idea if any of my family still lived.

  Cuthbert, Eduard and I took turns watching the trees for signs of the raiders while the villagers slept. Throughout the short spring night, my thoughts were of my family and the Villa. As I sat alone, staring into the gloom, the whole evening came back to me. The fear, the rage and the excitement echoed around my mind which, combined with the anxiety I felt about my family, brought on a sudden attack of nausea: a terrible hollow, gnawing feeling inside that made me want to retch and I wandered a few yards into the woods to find a bush to vomit into.

  Just as I had finished, I heard a rustle of movement off in the woods, away to the south and I sank back into the shadows under the trees and froze. Nothing, though, came from that way and after a moment I breathed out slowly, but then caught my breath again when I heard a clear voice calling out. I was not sure … but it sounded Welsh.

  My shield, sword and spear were back in the clearing. All I had was my knife and I drew it as I crept slowly towards the noises. Now I could hear more crashing in the trees and exchanges of conversation in an alien tongue. Soon, I came to the edge of another clearing, perhaps a hundred paces from where the villagers and my friends slept and I heard the voices again, but this time right in front of me. Startled, I crouched down quickly and hid behind a tree.

  In the glade, five Welsh warriors were standing in a small group leaning on spears and drinking from clay pots that looked like the ones father stored his wine in. Behind the men, I could see a group of women and children being herded along by yet more warriors. Their hands were tied and a rope linked all the prisoners together in a long, miserable line. I did not see all the faces but, I was sure that one of them was the wife of the blacksmith from Wicstun and two of the children were from the village. So, we had not saved everyone − or so it see
med.

  I raised my knife and then put it quickly away again. Clearly I could not hope to fight ten enemies alone. I thought about going back to fetch my friends and Grettir, but even then we would be outnumbered and by the time I roused them, it would be hard to find this group in the dark.

  I watched the nearest group of warriors gathered around a huge man − easily a head higher than his fellows and broader than Eduard. He was dressed in leather armour overlaid with iron rings and plates sewn onto the leather, and on his head was a helmet of bronze and iron. Only the wealthiest men could afford armour, but that was not what most struck me about the warrior, rather it was the man’s face.

  It was cruel, his expression menacing as he watched the poor wretches trail by. The image was made all the more terrifying in the moonlight, due to the fact that his right eye was missing and his face was scarred, horribly, by what looked like an old axe or sword wound. Something stirred in my memory then − something from one of Lilla’s stories. For a moment the warrior’s one eye turned towards the woods where I lurked and seemed to search them. Had I made a noise, or had the moonlight caught my knife blade and betrayed me? I tensed and was ready to spring up and flee if needs be, but he glanced away from my hiding place and muttered something to the other men, which they laughed at.

  After another few minutes, they drank up and tossed the empty pots towards the trees, cheering or jeering as each man hit or missed a trunk. One landed and shattered by my foot and I jumped, almost giving myself away, but they were moving off behind the prisoners and in moments were gone. I was just about to return to the villagers, when I saw another man emerge from the trees, going the same way as the others.

  This was no warrior: this man I knew and I stared at him in confusion as I realised that it was Aedann, our slave. He was carrying a spear as well as a shield, which bore the Welsh Christian God’s symbol upon it. I stood up and was about to yell after him, when two more Welsh warriors emerged, twenty yards behind him. They must have been able to see him ahead of them, across the glade, because they shouted a challenge at him. Aedann turned, answered them with a few words in Welsh, before passing into the woods ahead of them and was gone. Minutes later, they followed him and finally, the glade was silent. I was left alone to ponder what I had seen. Firstly: the prisoners − some from the village and some from Wicstun − being herded westwards, towards Elmet. Then Aedann, carrying a Welsh shield. Had he joined them? Had he taken advantage of the raid to make his escape? I turned back towards the villagers and found them still asleep. Should I rouse them and tell them? No − let them rest − dawn would come soon enough, with the sorrows it must bring. Then, we would go home and see what had happened.

  In the middle of the night, Cuthbert relieved me from watch. I lay down on the ground next to the snoring Eduard and waited for sleep to take me. As I grew drowsy, images from the day flashed across my mind. I saw the horribly scarred face of the one-eyed Welsh warrior chieftan leading our people into slavery and in my dreams he looked at me, his face mocking, as if saying that I had failed these people and that he had won. Then the chieftain vanished and next I saw Aedann, walking along with a spear leaning against his shoulder. He glanced over at me with those brooding, dark green eyes and then, after a moment, he laughed. ‘You thought I was your slave,’ he seemed to say. ‘You fool: now I am free.’ A moment later and then he too was gone and the last thing I was aware of, before oblivion came, was the terrified expression in the eyes of the man I had killed and the warm, sticky feeling of his blood running over my hands.

  Lilla never mentioned that in his poems.