Traveller Inceptio
66

Desmond assisted Michael to the ground with a painful grunt. The blacksmith’s concerned, bloody face turned to humour and he barked out a coarse laugh. “Ah, Lord Michael, ye are full of surprises,” he growled as he spotted the grey, Kevlar-linked armour underneath Michael’s tattered tunic.

Michael nodded as he groaned in pain. “Oh, he would have gutted me like a pig. I may be alive, but I’m going to be sore on the morrow.” He struggled to sit comfortably and hoped the mail shirt had been enough to prevent internal injuries. “It must have been a glancing blow,” he moaned as he gingerly felt his side. It was agony.

With Eadric and Desmond’s help, he painfully struggled to his feet and hobbled to the cart as the women ran from beneath its shelter. Edyt rushed with a cry to young Irminric, assiduously skirting the dead Vikings as she ran. She immediately knelt and, using her hands, put pressure on her son’s leg to stop the bleeding. All of her men, including Irminric, who was now a man despite his youth, were injured and bloody, but she cried out in joyous thanks to the Holy Virgin that they remained alive.

Aedgyd scrambled to her brother, Alric, and hugged him fiercely. He sat against the cart in shock as he stared at his bleeding stumps left from severed fingers. She knelt and kissed his pale face. “Alric! Oh, Alric, you were so brave,” she muttered and held him tight. He held her and kissed her bruised face as blood from his wounds added more stains to her tunic. She kissed him again before she scrambled to her feet and ran across the bloody ground.

Eadric stood, pale and devastated. Michael knew how the blood and violence could affect a man, and he watched the young man suddenly collapse to his knees, exhausted, his arms weary and his bloody sword still in his right hand. He looked dazed and confused, as if unsure whether to laugh or cry. Suddenly Aedgyd was in his arms. She held him tightly and whispered his name over and over. He held her with his free hand, somewhat confused as he looked to Michael and Desmond. They nodded and smiled in weary approval.

Holding his side, Michael hobbled to the monks where they knelt beside Brother Tondbert. The spear had entered the monk’s bony chest, his nervous parry not effective enough. In the Viking way, the spearman had pushed the haft of the spear aside before it was withdrawn to maximise the spearhead’s damage. There was no surviving such a wound. His brother monks prayed and wept as the young monk lay dead in the gravel. Brother Horsa painfully held his bloodied hand to a gash the spearhead made as it skated across his ribs.

Michael nodded as he gasped, “Well done, Brothers. You fought well. I’m so sorry.” He looked sorrowfully to Brother Tondbert. If only they had time to practice, they might all still be alive.

Brother Oeric had a long string of snot that hung from his nose. He sniffed, which caused much of it to disappear. If the circumstances were less tragic, Michael would have thought it funny.

“Oh, Lord Michael, he was young and foolish, but was a good lad.”

Michael nodded and rested against the cart wheel a moment before he wearily sank to the gravel. He watched Edyt stand and run to her husband, leaving the care of her youngest son to his brother. The big man opened his arms to her embrace. His forehead was a bloody mess and his eyes were blackening, but she kissed his face, his blood on her lips and face as she held him close. As if this was the signal that all was safe, the children slipped from beneath the cart and, despite Desmond’s terrifying appearance, his darling little girls and sweet Berethun ran to their father. He knelt, kissed and hugged them. As if an emotional dam had burst, they all began to cry in relief.

Michael struggled to stand. “Everyone, to the cart. Wounds need to be inspected and cared for. Come!” he ordered as he skirted the dead Viking spearman and staggered to the river. He wanted them away from the immediate signs of bloody conflict. It was time for the healers to work.

Days before, Brother Horsa wisely insisted they cut the clothes from the dead rapists into strips for bandages. With the twins, he had washed and boiled them until they were clean. There was an irony in making something useful from such evil. As the wounded men collapsed on the riverbank, Edyt and Brother Horsa washed and inspected the wounds. Pale and bent over in agony, Brother Horsa sent the girls into the forest with Eadric to look for white and waxy puffballs, a globular fungus common in some of the more open forest areas. They soon returned with a few, which were sliced.

“This dressing is to stop the wounds from going bad and helps the body to heal,” explained the bald monk with a painful wince.

Michael nodded wearily. “Very good. A moment, Brother, I have something that will also help.” He grunted in agony as he hefted his pack from the cart and removed a large leather pouch. Selecting a stitching needle and catgut, he gestured wearily to Desmond. “This’ll hurt, but it’ll help. Trust me.” His hands shook, but as Brother Horsa watched carefully, he stitched Desmond’s forehead. The blacksmith gritted his teeth and grunted at the pain of it.

The twins started a small fire upon which a pot of water soon simmered with herbs and a few small yellow mushrooms Brother Horsa had also instructed them to gather.

“What does this do?” asked Michael.

“’Tis an infusion, my Lord,” explained Brother Horsa. “A wound washed with it will be less likely to go bad, and it is also good for you. You must drink, for it heals bruises.”

Michael nodded and gestured to Desmond. “Well, we can clean Desmond up, I think.”

Edyt soaked a cloth in the mix and washed her husband’s newly stitched wound and face. It looked very painful.

At Brother Horsa’s insistence, Michael was compelled to drink some of the earthy tea, which was not pleasant. He moved slowly to inspect Irminric’s wound, a vertical gash that went with, rather than across the muscle fibre in his upper leg and had barely missed major blood vessels and bone. This was of concern, for it was a deep wound. There was a serious risk of infection, so he instructed Edyt to wash the wound thoroughly before he stitched the terrible gash.

Pale-faced with shock, Brother Horsa, Alric and Hengist were stitched and bandaged where possible and all drank the mushroom tea.

Michael looked around him. Yes, to have survived the Vikings was a miracle, he thought, but all combatants were bruised and battered. Even Eadric and Hengist, who had been largely spared from wounds, could barely move. Desmond’s eyes were almost swollen shut. They looked like slits in his swollen, bloody face. All of the men had collapsed in exhaustion. Brother Horsa rose to make a few painful steps to the creek and was stopped by Michael.

“Brother, you should rest and heal a moment,” he called.

When the monk explained his intent, Michael nodded and the twins were called to assist. They ferreted at the river’s edge for some moments and returned with a bowl into which they had placed leeches. Brother Horsa knelt and gently applied the slippery, black parasites to Desmond’s swollen face. The poor blacksmith looked like a horrid beast as he sat by the cart, bandaged and bloodied, his eyes swollen and black leeches hanging as they gorged to remove the bruised swelling.

Michael used a camera to take photographs of the group, especially Desmond’s face, simply explaining he was praying for their health and giving thanks. Desmond was too exhausted to care. Edyt, her daughters, and Aedgyd washed and cared for their men as they gave thanks with loving words, hugs and kisses. The unseen wounds, the wounds of the heart and the soul, were soothed by the quiet ministrations of those they loved.

He knew their anguish. Much of his professional training was in accepting death as part of the soldiering life. He had known men who were crippled by guilt after killing some mother’s blue-eyed boy, but in a world of ‘him-or-me’, it was essential to approach another’s death with a pragmatic separation from emotion. As Michael praised the efforts of each, he noted how they seemed to cope with the death surrounding them. Brother Oeric and the women searched the scattered bodies for any useful item, coin and weapon that could be collected and placed into the cart.

The men had the herculean task of rousing themselves to stack the Viking bodies near the forest. Tunics were removed to be turned into bandages and Edyt scavenged a pair of breeches for Irminric, as his were ruined by the spear thrust. The shit and sweat was washed away before the clothing was hung over the cart to dry.

Edyt finally compelled Michael to remove his tunic and light mail to bathe his badly bruised side with cool water. As he sat, exhausted, all stared at his tattoos. Desmond, Eadric and Alric wearily stood ready in case they had other visitors, but Michael was under no illusions; they couldn’t defend themselves against the twin girls, let alone another Viking raiding party.

A search of the nearby forest by Eadric and Hengist revealed a small camp where a horse was tethered. Large travel packs confirmed their suspicions that the Vikings had been looting and murdering as they went. Brother Horsa suggested that as they were only a day’s travel from Giolgrave, to take the laden pony might be a folly. They wrapped and buried the loot and extra weapons to collect once they had established the villagers were safe. Never had they seen such wealth. There was a leather pouch stuffed with coins, rings and precious stones, while silver and gold church relics filled another sack. One major replace was a psalter in its silver chest, hidden in a leather travel pack. Brother Oeric gave a cry of delight, despite his pain and grief. Scriptural works were of enormous value and they were compelled to take it with them, as they did any food they found, including a huge, leathery, smoked ham.

With the stolen items, they also buried Desmond’s precious anvil and tools. It was essential they make room for the injured, so the location was memorised for later recovery.

It was time to take care of their dead. Brother Tondbert was wrapped in some of the finest woollen cloth from the Viking loot. Having been given the last rites by his brother priests, he was buried in a grave far from the pile of naked Vikings. A rough cross, crafted from driftwood, was placed at the head of the grave, faced with rocks carried laboriously from the surrounding riverbank. The labour of love seemed to take hours, especially with their wounds, but it was a cost worthy of Brother Tondbert’s sacrifice. Michael would miss the monk’s comical face and his eagerness to assist. Brother Oeric led the ceremony and many tears fell, not only for Brother Tondbert, but also for the many they had seen killed over the past days.

Michael had them move out soon after, their new packhorse tethered to the rear of the cart. As they were so weary, wounded, and with a cart to take into account, it was not long before made their camp off the main track. They ate well, but were quiet and subdued. Barely had the sun set when they slept like the dead they had left by the river.

Michael insisted on sentries, but on short shifts. Though exhausted, they could never afford to relax their vigil.