The Retreat (medieval historical fiction)

Chapter 9 Thy Sleep Shall be Sweet

Later, when the shadows of the trees were enveloping us and inviting us to rest and forget, we heard a crowd approaching. From beyond the bend of the road came first a murmur, like that from the seashore on a calm day. Then, as the sounds grew louder they also grew more distinctly human. From the surging roars came individual voices and shouts. There was a pattern forming, a song almost.

'Who are the mutur?

'We are the mutur!

'And who ran from battle?

'King Brat ran from battle!

'Who are the mutur?

'We are the mutur!'

When the mass of men came into sight they gave a roar and from their front rank came Rainulf at a run. How he had the energy to do so astonished me. I had barely the strength to pull myself up from the cart, where I had been lying beside Arnulf.

With huge lumbering strides and a fixed blue-toothed grimace, Rainulf ran to our cart and effortlessly flung me up onto his shoulders. To retain my seat there, I had to grab at his tightly bound plaids. It didn't seem to trouble him.

'Beserkir!' He grinned up at me. 'Our young Beserkir.'

'Ro-cad-a-mour!'

'Ro-cad-a-mour!'

From disparate voices at first, then taken up as one.

'Ro-cad-a-mour!'

My name filled the forest.

Around me were the most cruel and bloody-minded men I had ever known. Their savagery at the fall of Devinium had disgusted me, especially the rapine. Yet they and I had fought this battle as one and now that they claimed me as a brother of theirs, I went willingly. Though I did notice that Arnulf was watching this scene from the cart, face sombre and longer than ever.

On Rainulf's shoulders I was carried to the baggage carts of the mutur, one member of the troop after another pushing through their ranks to call out praise to me, or simply to grin and nod at me. Soon, flagons of beer were being passed from hand to hand. And then bottles of mead. With surprising gentleness, Rainulf set me on my feet and began to strip his battle gear.

'Stitches!' he shouted, looking down at his muscular body. Blood was oozing from fresh wounds to his already heavily scarred torso. While he was being sewn up and bandaged, Rainulf studied me from beneath his dark eyebrows. Although he had the physique of an ox, his stare was driven by a calculating intelligence. It was how I imagined Satan might scrutinise a potential recruit.

'You, son, are more of a devil than you look.'

'You, however, are quite the devil you look.'

He liked that.

'Drink?'

I shook my head at the offer of a dirty bottle of amber liquid.

'We have wine somewhere. A fine wine for our lord!'

'No. Water though, would be welcome.'

Someone passed me a leather skin and I drank deep.

With a groan of delight and pain in equal measure, Rainulf lay back against the pale trunk of a birch tree. I sat too. For a while he said nothing and I had nothing to say. We listened to the boisterous shouts of men who were glad to be alive.

'I was your age when I fought in my first battle.'

'Yes?'

'Hainville Bridge. Heard of it?'