The Runes Of Victory (The Sceapig Chronicles Book 1) - John Broughton

Historical Fiction Set In 8th Century England

The Runes Of Victory (The Sceapig Chronicles Book 1) by John Broughton

Book excerpt

Faversham 798-799 AD

When instructing or issuing commands, Wardric’s pleasant Dorset burr disappeared, replaced by an intense edginess that held the listener’s attention.

“Heed me well, Deormund, I can do little about your strength of arm, it’s something you must work on alone, nor can I address your courage—either you have it, or you don’t. That’s what you need in a shield-wall, lad: strength and courage. But there is one more thing. It’s vital. Can you guess what it is?”

Standing with shield half-raised and wooden practice sword dangling from his arm for a most welcome rest, Deormund nodded his head and uttered a single word, “Swordsmanship.”

“Pah! Depends on what you mean by that. If it’s what I think, you’re wrong. See, I can teach you the moves to defend yourself and to attack with a sword but, useful as that is, it won’t make you the fighter I want you to be. Nay, my lad,” the veteran warrior grinned, “the essential knack is cunning. Get ready. I’ll show you.”

The two men circled, their shields and practice swords raised. Suddenly, Wardric lunged and twisted, the mock weapon rapping Deormund behind the knee.

“There you are: cunning, see? With a real blade, your sinews are sliced and you will fall. You are on the ground at my mercy.”

“My sinews are on fire. I can’t stand, as it is.” Deormund hobbled to sit on the edge of a water trough in the thegn’s courtyard. “But I see what you mean; feint and attack under the shield.”

“Good. Not just under the shield, lad, anywhere you trick the opponent.” Wardric approached the trough, stood in front of his pupil and began to dance lightly on his feet: an impressive display for a man of his years. “Lithe on your feet, but it’s your eyes that have to be the nimblest. First, observe whether your foe is right- or cack-handed. You can’t feint in the same direction when faced by a left-hander or he’ll skewer you.” A rapid demonstration followed. “If I go this way to a right-hander then swiftly reverse the shift, his flank is exposed. The opposite move for a left-hander, got it?”

Deormund, a quick learner, understood. He sprang to his feet but found that his right leg buckled, causing him to use his sword as a crutch to avoid falling.

“Not today, lad. On the morrow, we’ll try out the moves. I’ll bring young Milgast; he’s another of my pupils, cack-handed as well as guileful. He’ll test you to the limits.”

Two months of receiving bruises passed until his body resembled that of a dappled fawn, before Wardric declared, “Nobody’s breached your guard for three days, lad. I can do no more for you, but don’t consider yourself a warrior yet. You’ve shown me you have the courage, but you need to work on your arm strength.”

The relief Deormund felt at reaching the end of his coaching came mixed with a tinge of sadness. Released from the sessions, he could now return to Sceapig to resume his occupation as a deer herder. There would be plenty for him to do with the mating season approaching. More than once, in the past, he had tended the wounds of a defeated stag. This year, there could be only one outcome. The contest should be ill-matched as the hart, if wise, would yield to the younger stag before shedding blood. He loved his work on Sceapig, so why did he feel reluctant to leave Faversham? When he pondered his feelings, he realised that he had tasted a different life, less solitary: one of comradeship. Even the wily Milgast, who had mottled his flesh with bruises, had become a close friend. Living in Faversham also allowed spending cosy evenings with Cynebald, his wife and the girls: his nieces. The more he thought about it, the clearer it became that he would henceforth divide his time between Sceapig and his parents, and Faversham with his brothers, for Eored was within walking distance at Oare. Now he was married to Saewynn, it might not be long before they presented him with another niece, or even, why not, his first nephew?

Mistig, undoubtedly, was the more excited of the two as they stepped off the ferry to head home on Sceapig. Gradually, the familiar landmarks raised Deormund’s spirits, making him remember why he had left the island in the first place. As a herald, Mistig did an impressive job; his scratching and whining at the door while Deormund was still a quarter of a mile away, brought the herder’s mother, dishevelled from her chores, running to greet him. Catching her in his arms, the residue of sadness at leaving Faversham evaporated. As mothers will, Bebbe pushed her son to arm’s length, scrutinised him and pronounced her satisfaction. “You look strong and well. I’ll wager you have an appetite for my eel pie.”

Easily resuming his previous occupation, Deormund found an injured hind. The doe had a broken leg, which occasionally happened when misplacing a limb in a burrow when in flight. To spare the animal further pain, and to replenish his mother’s larder, he cut the animal’s throat without scaring the creature. Hoisting the beast over his shoulders to carry it home, he recalled Wardric’s advice to build up his arm strength. Stronger muscles would help in this line of work, too; he smiled wryly at the thought.

With this in mind, he divided his activities between looking after the deer and exercising to increase his muscle bulk. The latter, he did away from prying eyes, by which he meant his mother’s. She tended to fuss unnecessarily, so he went to the Ness Forest, found boulders of various sizes and used them, progressively increasing the weight, for lifting. The result surprised him, because not only did his arms become strong, but his thighs and back benefited, too. To complete his exercises, he chose a sturdy branch a yard above head-height. Springing up to catch it with both hands, he used it to pull up his body weight repeatedly, counting his efforts. At first, he could do no more than fifteen, but after a few days he reached fifty, then a hundred.

Naturally, the effect on his physique did not escape Bebbe’s hawk-like scrutiny.

“Mother,” he explained, “if the Vikings return, I want to be ready for them. I have learnt to wield this,” he touched the hilt of his sword with a smile that sent shivers up her spine. “The next time they come to Sceapig, they will pay a high price for my deer.”

She looked stricken. “Do you think they will come back?”

“Mother, do not the starlings return to your vegetable seeds?”

The days passed comfortably with his routines and in the loving bosom of his family until, one morning in October, the expected grunts of the stag reached his ears. The rut season had begun. Again, as he had foreseen, the hart did not resist the vigour of his younger rival, making only a token show of his antler prowess before trotting off a discreet distance in surrender. This was the cue for Deormund to snarl him with a rope and lead him to the small compound near his home. There was method in this because, in the rutting season, the males could become unpredictable and he wanted no sly injury to his dominant stag. He would reward the hart for his years of service by bringing him the comfort of two or three hinds. Here in the pen, there would be no complications, simply a guarantee of more calves.

***

The rut season over, Deormund considered the advisability of crossing the Swale before winter made the trip perilous. He missed his friends and family on the other side of the Channel. Besides, he wanted to test his newly-acquired muscles on Milgast and Wardric, especially him, his veteran tutor, for his approval.

The ferryman, on request, took him right into Oare Creek. A visit to Eored and Saewynn appealed to him before engaging with his friends in Faversham. Two surprises awaited him at the wheelwright’s house. Both were pleasant revelations; the first was the unmistakable roundness of Saewynn’s figure. When taking her in a greeting embrace, Deormund whispered in her ear, “Are you expecting a babe, sister?” Her radiant smile was all the answer he needed. “Make it a nephew, I have two nieces already.”

“You’ll take what God has decreed, Deormund.”

“Well, I suppose a daughter as pretty as the mother wouldn’t come amiss.”

“Flatterer! Are you going to linger on the threshold all morning?”

Deormund laughed, then asked, “Where is the father-to-be?”

“Delivering a cart to a farmstead near Hernhill, by the wooden church.”

“Ay, I passed that way earlier in the year.”

She frowned, considering the distance, calculated and said, “Eored won’t be home till late afternoon, I reckon. So, are you coming in or not?” She looked him up and down. “There’s something different about you, but what?”

He chose not to tell her. How could he boast about his iron muscles to his brother’s wife?

Indoors came the second pleasant surprise. Sitting in a chair by the hearth was an attractive maiden with thick, wavy reddish-brown hair. Her green eyes scrutinised him as he entered the room.

“Cyneflaed, this is my husband’s brother. Deormund, she’s my cousin, my father’s brother’s daughter.”

“So, this is the deer herder,” said the young woman, not more than a score of winters to her years.

“Ay, that I am,” he said gruffly, feeling somewhat tongue-tied under the unwavering gaze and fixed smile of the maiden. “What does your father do?”

She smiled, replying enigmatically, “The same as Saewynn’s father.”

“A miller? But there’s only one mill in Faversham.”

“You are observant, deer herder,” she replied tartly. “And yet, my father is a miller.”

Perplexed and mildly irritated, Deormund asked, “So where is your father’s mill?”

“About ten leagues to the west. Do you know Ebbsfleet? The mill is in the valley. It is a tidal mill, Father has fish ponds there, too.” There was no mistaking the note of pride in her voice.

“So, what brings you to Faversham?”

She pouted, making him wonder if he had been awkward. Clumsiness would be understandable, since he had not sought out female company at all in his five-and-twenty years. Yet, there sat a lovely young woman whose presence, he realised, might change that attitude.

Finally, she replied, “I have two sisters and two brothers, all younger. Although the mill prospers, so many hungry mouths are a burden. Father sent me into service, here in Faversham, in Thegn Sibert’s household. Today, I am free and so I came to see my cousin—I’m glad I did!” She tilted her head and smiled.

Teased, his heart skipped whilst his cheeks burnt.

“Come, sit by me and tell me all about deer. I love looking at them in paintings and tapestries but I’ve never seen one in real life. They never come near the mill,” she added sorrowfully.

“When is your next free day, Cyneflaed? We can take the ferry to Sceapig where you’ll see as many as your heart desires.”

“Really!” She sprang to her feet. “Did you hear that, Saewynn? Deormund will show me his deer! Will they have real horns?”

“Antlers? Ay, the males will.”

She delighted him with her excited countenance. “This day next week. I’ll be free all day.”

She was having a strange effect on his heart. It was thumping madly. Without thinking, he blurted, “I’ll come for you an hour after dawn. We’ll go to the crossing point straightaway.”

Suddenly, he looked sorrowful.

“Is something the matter?”

Her gentle concern bothered him. Embarrassed and flushing, he said, “Nothing. Except I don’t think that I can survive a whole week without seeing you again.”

She laughed gaily, a delightful, throaty sound that set him a-tingle. What was happening to him?

“Nonsense, deer herder, you hardly know me! Was your Eodred like this, Saewynn?”

The other woman walked over, put her mouth to Cyneflaed’s ear and breathed something into it. The green eyes moved to his face, burning red with shame. “I’ll bear that in mind,” she said and smiled sweetly at him. “Do you know the thegn? You could find an excuse to seek me in his hall. I’ll be about my duties, unable to chat idly.”

Deormund intended to find Wardric there, but realising that he’d already made his feelings for her clear enough, merely nodded. The arrival of Eored put a welcome end to the mismanagement of his new-found amorousness. The two men had much catching up to do, whilst the women bustled about preparing a meal and casting surreptitious glances at the brothers, which were not lost on the stalker’s keen eye.

After eating, Cyneflaed said she had to return to the hall. Twilight was approaching, so Deormund offered to walk with her. Again, he did not fail to catch the exchanged glances of the two women. They set off at once, Cyneflaed chattering happily about the planned visit to see the deer.

Perhaps luckily, neither noticed the figure of a man with a thunderous expression lurking in the shadows of the deserted twilit street.

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: John Broughton

BOOK TITLE: The Runes Of Victory (The Sceapig Chronicles Book 1)

GENRE: Historical Fiction

SUBGENRE: Medieval Historical Fiction / 8th Century Historical Fiction

PAGE COUNT: 218

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