Traveller Inceptio

Godric was sodden with sweat. Exhausted, he leaned on his shield, his sword sheathed and his helm removed. Michael stood by him as he wearily wiped his bloody face. They watched the forest, knowing that Viking scouts watched.

“That didn’t go well,” he murmured sadly. “Five of our people slain, Lord Michael. To make it even worse, one was Ceolwulf.”

“He saved my life, Lord Godric,” replied Michael sadly. “He was a hero to the end.” He turned to the thegn and placed his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Best of all: we, as a village, survived. The Danes didn’t break through and seven were slain, while an unknown number were wounded. We were lucky to survive and, fortunately, most of our wounds aren’t dire.”

Godric grunted, but as he turned, Michael saw the big man had tears in his eyes. “Can we survive more days like this?”

Michael frowned and shrugged. “We must. The question to ask is can the Vikings take more days like this? They can walk away.”

Godric sighed deeply as the dead were dragged back past the second barrier and frantic families ran to collect their bodies. The farmer’s wife sobbed as she and her children gathered around their husband and da. He was a hard-working, simple man and they saw his face with the terrible wound that sliced through his nose and into his brain. Yffi and a couple of the other hunters picked him up and carried him to be prepared for burial while the man’s sobbing wife and children followed. Michael was particularly touched as the older daughter, no more than eight years of age, struggled not to cry. Her little brother of less than two years was on her hip as she followed the body to where they could clean their da before they buried him.

Others came. The mother of a young lad wailed pitifully, her husband having been killed some years ago. Her son supported her and her two daughters. He was only of fourteen years, a mere lad who had died bravely. Godric hugged the grieving mother as his young body was gathered up by warriors and carried into the village.

The slain hunter’s wife knelt, pale-faced, by her husband and held his torn hands, cut by the spearhead as it was ripped from his body. She was young, with two little ones in the cave. It wouldn’t do for their last view of their da to be with his chest and throat gashed. The hunters gathered his body and Yffi walked with her, his arm around her trembling shoulders.

Ceolwulf’s wife stood at the feet of her husband and wept. Raging bull he might have been, but his strength and indestructibility led her and many of the village to believe he might live forever. He was a true warrior, rough and gruff, but a good man and provider for her and their children. His poor head had been smashed, his hair soaked in his blood. Like many women throughout this fair land, she bent her head and, with her face in her hands, wept over her husband.

Godric, Michael, and Desmond stood and watched as the dead Vikings were looted and dragged outside the hedgehog area. They were neatly laid out without ceremony, but were never desecrated.

“You know that we’ll not be able to stop our sons fighting on the morrow,” murmured Desmond.

Godric watched the men carry Ceolwulf away. The bodies would be washed and buried. There was no use keeping them for burial the next day. The monks would conduct a combined service while the graves were dug by the exhausted men. He grunted. “They’re good boys and strong. Remember when we were as they, young and so strong? Nothing could touch us.”

The thegn looked desolate.

“Aye, we were,” sighed Desmond. “It all seems so long ago.”