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- Herausgeber: Next Chapter
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
All three books in John Broughton's 'The Sceapig Chronicles', a series of medieval historical fiction, now in one volume!
The Runes Of Victory: Isle of Sceapig, 798 AD. After Vikings arrive to raid the island, deer herder Deormund kills their chieftain and takes his sword as a trophy, unaware that there is more to the weapon than meets the eye. In time, Deormund's prowess impresses the neighboring thegn, and he's tasked by the Archdeacon of Canterbury to defend the island. But what power do the inscriptions on the blade have, and why are the Vikings so driven to reclaim it?
Sea Wolves: In the early 9th century, Asculf leads a quiet life among his apple orchards on the Isle of Sceapig. When called upon for military service, he covers himself in glory, and his prowess leads to a friendship with King Aethelwulf of Kent. Offered with one of the most prestigious positions in the kingdom, Asculf realizes the potential of naval power, and comes up with a plan to defeat the invading Norsemen and save the kingdom. But when hundreds of Viking longships attack the English coast, can father and son save Kent from devastation?
Blood Eagle: The Vikings are poised to return to Sceapig, ready to raid and pillage the small island. Best friends Deormund and Faruin, born and raised on Sceapig, have only one goal in their mind: retake the island for the Saxons. The two become chief advisers of King Alfred, who is only too aware of the horrific fate of King Aella of Northumbria, who met his end by the horrific Viking torture method knows as the blood eagle. Together with his new advisers, can he save the island from the invading Vikings?
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THE SCEAPIG CHRONICLES COLLECTION
THE COMPLETE SERIES
JOHN BROUGHTON
CONTENTS
The Runes Of Victory
Acknowledgments
Explanatory Notes
1. Sceapig (Isle of Sheppey)
2. North Kent coastal area
3. Sceapig (Isle of Sheppey)
4. Sceapig
5. Sceapig (Isle of Sheppey)
6. Faversham, Kent
7. Canterbury
8. Faversham
9. Faversham, Kent
10. Faversham, Kent November
11. Oare, Kent
12. Lyminge, Kent
13. Faversham, Kent
14. Faversham, Kent
15. Sceapig, Kent
16. Sceapig
17. Sceapig
18. Sceapig
19. Sceapig
20. Sceapig
21. Sceapig
22. Sceapig
23. Sceapig
Appendix
Sea Wolves
Frontispiece
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Appendix
Dawn Burgoyne – Calligrapher’s Note
Blood Eagle
Frontspiece
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Appendix 1
Appendix 2
About the Author
Copyright (C) 2022 John Broughton
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter
Published 2022 by Next Chapter
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.
THE RUNES OF VICTORY
THE SCEAPIG CHRONICLES BOOK 1
An extract from a letter written by the scholar Alcuin from the court of Charlemagne, addressed to the clergy and nobles of Kent in 797 AD (See Appendix for translation) Frontispiece by calligrapher Dawn Burgoyne
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I should like to acknowledge the encouragement and suggestions of my writer friend Randal Solomon (St Louis, Missouri) whose contribution has helped to make The Runes of Victory better.
Special thanks go to my dear friend and fellow writer, John Bentley, for his steadfast and indefatigable support. His content checking and suggestions have made an invaluable contribution to The Runes of Victory
SCEAPIG (ISLE OF SHEPPEY)
798 AD
Deormund turned the whittled object in his hand, not yet satisfied. Another trimming of the fipple, the mouthpiece of the horn whistle, a rigorous scraping of the flue and it was ready. The twenty-two-year-old never wasted a shed antler, carving them being an integral part of his life as a deer herder. The haft of the knife he’d just sheathed was his handiwork. He wondered how his best friend would respond to his latest piece of handcraft. Only one way to find out—he raised the whistle to his lips, blew, and it emitted a shrill note that carried on the sea breeze to the woodland where Mistig was passing the time.
He came, breaking out of the trees, bounding towards him, lolloping to a halt, his shaggy grey head tilted inquisitively as if to ask what adventure awaited. The deerhound’s chest heaved, his tongue lolling after the exertion of his sprint to his master.
“It looks like the whistle will do, Mistig, if it brings you like that. You were so fast I should have named you Windig. But your name better suits your shaggy grey coat.”
The hound wagged his tail, which was long enough to touch the ground, the eager-to-please companion responding to the tone of his master’s cheerful voice. Mistig was one of the main aspects of Deormund’s life that made it so perfect.
He was the first and only deer herder on Sceapig—Sheep’s Isle—all the other inhabitants being shepherds who bred, bought and sold ewes and mutton. The island was separated from the mainland of Kent by the Swale Channel, where ships sometimes sheltered from the fury of the open sea. This strait provided a natural barrier to predators, making life easier for those who tended their flocks or, in the unique case of Deormund, herd. His eye strayed to the southern side of the isle as he distractedly stroked the beard of his hound. That part of the island was marshy, crisscrossed by drains and inlets where the sun flashed off the sparkling water on this fine late-spring day. The silvery flashes, offsetting the white of the frolicking lambs and sedate ewes interspersed with the chestnut coats of his hinds, made him sigh. Was there a more perfect life? If there were, it probably pertained to a nobleman, he thought wistfully. Ay, those wealthy thegns who relied on him for their hunting ritual, not to mention, by association, the venison for their table.
“I’m glad I didn’t follow in my father’s footsteps to become a shepherd, Mistig. If I had, I’d never have brought you to Sceapig, would I?”
By way of reply, the seemingly fearsome, but docile, animal snuggled his flat head into his master’s chest. He could do this because the deer herder was sitting on a smooth boulder, his favourite perch, likely deposited from the seabed by a storm. Folk could not imagine the appalling force of an enraged sea. The two remained locked in this amiable posture for some time, Deormund happy to reflect about his life on such a peaceful day and setting.
He sometimes wondered whether the choice of his trade had been determined unwittingly by his parents soon after his birth. When baptised a Christian, like them, in the church of the metal-workers’ village across the channel, the priest of Faversham had asked, “What shall he go by?” and his father had replied “Deormund.” It was not a common or even family name but, in accord with his parents, he liked it. Mund means protection and the deor is a beautiful animal, especially the male—Deormund identified with the stag, while his lean, muscular frame and chestnut-coloured hair and beard set many a hind’s heart a-flutter on market days in Faversham! Not that Deormund had time for womankind, because his work as a deer protector absorbed him and rarely left him with idle time, such as these beatific moments of reflection. Besides, he considered himself too young to wed, which was nonsense, as his mother continually stated when nagging him to find a bride.
Was that his father down by the creek? He smiled fondly; it seemed to him that his father cared more for the ewes than the youngest of his three sons. At least he didn’t badger Deormund about finding a maiden. He understood and approved of his son’s dedication to his herd. But mostly, he appreciated the steady flow of coins that entered the family home, for Deormund unstintingly shared his hard-earned income with his parents. His elder brothers had chosen to gain a living in Kent. They kept a tight knot on their purse strings. In any case, Cynebald was a family man: his priorities lay justly with his wife and two girls. Cynebald’s skill as a smith and reputation as a good husband and father was well-founded—he chuckled at his unintentional pun, causing Mistig’s tail to wag again—“Well-founded, are you with me, boy? Founded, foundry, see?” He laughed heartily and the hound leapt away from his embrace and began to bound around, as much as to say, haven’t we work to do?
They had, but Deormund was waiting for the wind. He needed to capture a new stag, preferably four years old or more. It was the right time of year for trapping because the fierce stags shed their antlers this season, so capturing one would be less dangerous. The old boy that serviced the hinds was long in the tooth. Time for fresh blood. The wind was a problem; he had waited three whole days for it to strengthen. A stiff wind brought the deer out from the undergrowth to cruise along the downwind cover in untroubled search for feeding opportunities.
“You’re right, my lad.” Deormund addressed the hound, whose short ears were pricked to catch the nuances of his master’s tone. Was this an allusion to work? There was nothing Mistig would prefer at that moment than a headlong chase after a stag. “We should take the ferry.” The dog barked and wagged his tail in approval: he knew the word ferry meant work and exercise.
Deormund hurried home to collect his hunting bag and money pouch. The former contained a net to snare his prey, as well as twine and a rope for a leash. As soon as his mother, Bebbe, saw him swing the pack over his shoulder, she asked, “Are you off to Harty Ferry?”
Deormund sighed heavily, knowing that admission would lead to the usual request. “Ay, I’m away before the wind gets up.”
Sure enough, the little woman, who was only tall enough to reach his breastbone, clutched his arm. “Wait, while I ready a package for our Eored.”
She fussed around, wrapping cured sausages into linen cloth. She grasped a string net containing winter apples. “Here, put these in your bag. Eored should be fattened up; he was all skin and bones last time he came over. I don’t know what you two have in your heads—un-carded wool, like as not! A man needs a good woman to look after him. Take our Cynebald, for example, he has two beautiful daughters!”
“Ay, that’s all I need, another three women to nag me!”
He snatched up the proffered packages, stuffed them into his backpack and grinned provocatively at the tiny, loving woman, another lynchpin in his perfect life. Why should he swap her expert care and attention for a younger, inexpert version?
“I was going to stay with Cynebald, Wilgiva and the girls, but a visit to Oare will do just as well, I expect our wheelwright will be pleased to see his brother.”
“Of course he will! Besides, Oare is only across the creek from Faversham; you can call in on your nieces easily enough.”
She smiled fondly at her tousle-haired son, thinking proudly what a handsome catch he would make for some young woman. The object of maternal machination dodged through the door, accompanied by his impatient hound, overjoyed at the sight of his master’s pack, a guarantee of adventure. As he hurried away, his mother’s call to find himself a maid in Faversham was lost to his distant hearing.
The boatman, seated at the door of his hut, greeted them with a cheery wave as soon as they came in sight. Deormund and his hound were regular and valued customers, crossing the channel at least twice a month. Helmdag, the ferryman, liked the young deer herder who neither haggled nor failed to pay the fare, unlike many others. The boatman charged his passengers according to the weather conditions. Sometimes crossing the Swale set his toned muscles afire, other times the boat seemed to shoot across the three-hundred-yard stretch of water.
“You know a thing or two, lad!” The old ferryman tapped the side of his hooked nose. “Favourable current, backwind and no ebb plume from Conver Creek. I’ll have you over there in a heartbeat!”
Deormund grinned, knowing it meant the fare would be lighter on his purse. The hound, used to ferry travel, was already sitting beside the rowing boat, his tail thumping the ground.
“Can you take me right into Oare Creek, Helmdag? I’m going to call in on our Eored.”
“Right you are.” the ferryman’s strong pulls had sped them beyond midstream. “Is the young fellow still unwed?”
Deormund groaned inwardly. What was it with the people of Harty Island? Why could they not leave him and his brother happily unbetrothed?
“I hope so,” he said, after a brooding silence designed to dissuade the boatman from further questioning. He had little success.
“You know how people will chatter?” the ferryman continued. Deormund nodded, he did know only too well. “I heard he’s walking out with the miller’s daughter. So, it’ll be your turn next, young fellow-me-lad!”
With a stern expression, Deormund muttered an oath that was lost in the wind, which only served to earn him a broad grin. Much more of this and he’d threaten to become a hermit. Slipping a coin into the boatman’s hand, he made his pleasant farewell, watching Helmdag pull strongly away from the wooden platform into the midstream of the creek. Mistig, already sniffing around this less usual landing place, re-established familiarity with a clump of heather.
“C’mon, Mistig, we’re bound to catch Eored unawares!”
At the name ‘Eored’, the hound yapped and pranced around his master’s feet, almost tripping him and eliciting a very unhuman growl that served to calm his exuberance.
Head bowed over his work, which consisted in repositioning a reinforcing panel on a cartwheel before nailing it into place, Eored saw only his brother’s feet.
Without raising his head, he said, “Good afternoon, Deormund. What brings you to Oare?”
“Have you grown eyes under your hair? How did you know it was me?”
Eored straightened. “By your shoes—few people around here have footwear made of deer hide. Besides, I could see Mistig’s huge grey paws next to you.”
At the mention of his name, the hound began the ritual festivities, tail wagging, bounding around one of his favourite humans. As expected of him, at least by the dog, Eored ruffled his fur until the animal rolled onto his back to expose his stomach for stroking. Eored, who loved Mistig as if he was his own, obliged.
“So, what brings you to Oare?” he repeated.
“It appears that my mission is to fatten you up and check that you’re betrothed.”
The wheelwright tipped back his head, unwise in his squatting position over the hound, wobbled, and stood. “How is our mother?”
They chatted over such pleasantries until Eored suggested an ale in the nearby tavern. It proved to be a drink that would unexpectedly change the perspective of their sedate lives.
At the next table sat a man with a black eye and dried blood in his blond beard.
“Looks like he’s been in a fight,” opined Deormund idly.
“Frodwin? That’s odd. He’s a peaceable fellow, a sailor, he works out of Faversham for a trader in sheepskins and wine. They take the wool to Frankia and bring back wine. Let’s cheer him by offering an ale. He must have a tale to explain the mystery.”
A few casual remarks and they were soon engaged in conversation with the eager recipient of the ale.
“What happened to your face, friend?” Deormund asked.
As suddenly as a windswept cloud passes in front of the sun, the trader’s countenance darkened.
“I’m in trouble now. Have to find another captain. I’ll wager someone will want a man of my experience. He’s dead, see?”
The brothers rightly assumed he was talking about his former employer. This, he confirmed. “They drowned poor Oswin in a barrel of red wine. Held his head under till his soul fled. That’s how I got this swollen eye, trying to save him. I also got a lump on the back of my head that left me senseless. When I came to, there was no sign of our captain. They must have thrown him overboard. At least, they were carousing and half-drunk on the wine, likely their drunkenness helped me. They used my mates and me to roll the wine barrels over to the side and hoist them into their vessel. A beauty of a ship, theirs, long and narrow; I’d reckon twenty oars each side.”
“Pirates then, but who were they?” Deormund asked exasperated.
Frodwin touched his bruised cheekbone gently but still winced: a gesture that the brothers separately thought reminded the sailor of his misadventure.
“They call themselves vikingar, which means sea-rovers in their language—another word for what you said, pirates!”
“Do you know whence they hail?” Eored asked.
“Where are they from? In my experience as a trader, I’d say they are from the far north, at the edge of the world. Take my advice, if you come across a vikingr, give him a wide berth. Those fiends are merciless—take what they did to Oswin because he tried to defend his goods.”
“Yet, you live to tell the tale, friend.”
The trader gave Deormund a sour look. “Ay, only thanks to the cask lid they’d prised off and flung into the sea. When we finished shifting the barrels, they had no further use for us and hurled all five into the sea. None of my mates can swim and they all drowned.” His voice caught, causing him to pause to suppress his emotions.
The brothers waited respectfully as he took a long swig of ale. Setting down his beaker, he resumed his tale. “As I said, I was lucky. You can’t stay afloat for long in these clothes, but I managed to reach the lid and cling on. I wager they were too drunk to notice, which accounts for why no arrow or spear struck. Saved by an act of scorn, for contempt was what it was when the vikingr flung the wooden cover into the sea. It buoyed me long enough for the current to bring me ashore. I reckon they must have boarded us a mile or so out of Herne Bay, where I washed up.”
“In your misfortune, you were lucky, Frodwin. Another ale?”
“Ay, don’t mind if I do. But mark my words,” he stared hard with his unsettling injured eye, “if ever you come across the vikingar, expect no mercy.”
That observation would return to haunt the brothers and shake them out of their perfect lives, miller’s daughter and all.
NORTH KENT COASTAL AREA
798 AD
Saewynn, the miller’s daughter, whose pretty face, characterised by a liberally freckled turned-up nose and framed by flame-coloured hair, instantly endeared herself to Deormund. Following the rule, love me, love my hound, the deer herder beamed at the slim maiden who, upon encountering them as they left the tavern, ignored the two men in favour of Mistig by squatting and flinging her arms around the shaggy beast’s neck, squeezing him to her breast.
Releasing her over-willing captive and looking up, she addressed Deormund. “What a lovely hound! What’s its name?”
“I’m Deormund,” he grinned, “and yon’s Mistig.”
The girl, realising her gaffe, flushed to the roots of her ginger hair. “Forgive me! You are Eored’s brother, the deer man.”
Deormund threw back his head and chortled; he wasn’t about to spare her.
“Deer man? Well, I’m not about to sprout antlers if that’s what you think!”
“Oh, come on!” Eored came to her rescue. “You know what Saewynn means.” He smiled at his betrothed. “He’s all right when you get to know him. It’s just that—” he bit his tongue, leaving them both curious.
“What?” she asked
“Ay, just that … what?” Deormund growled.
Eored racked his brains for a credible alternative. None came, so he completed his thought. “Just that he’s not used to a maiden’s company.”
From the expression on Deormund’s face, he knew he had blundered. Neither of them got another word out of the deer herder until they entered the wheelwright’s small home. Not that it mattered, because Eored and Saewynn chattered all the way, absorbed in each other.
“Here, Mother sent you these. She thinks you need fattening up,” he said, at last.
“Nay, my Eored’s fine as he is. Besides, after our wedding,” she gazed lovingly at her man, “I’ll care for him well. We’ll have no lack of freshly-ground flour for baking.”
“So, when—”
“August. I’ve spoken to Father and the priest,” she said quickly.
Deormund glared at his brother. “Don’t you think you should go home and tell our parents?”
“We’ve only just decided. We’ve been together since before Yuletide—it’s not been so long.”
“Ay, well, why don’t you two cross over the Swale with me when I take my new stag back?”
“You’ve still to capture it,” Eored pointed out reasonably.
“I can sniff a change in the wind. I’ll be hunting tomorrow and have you ever known us to fail?” He gestured to the hound stretched like a shaggy rug in front of the newly lit fire.
“Our Deormund knows his trade,” Eored said.
“Is it hard to catch a stag, Deormund?” the young woman asked.
He studied the oval face and thought, Eored’s caught himself a lovely hind. He appreciated the sincere interest in her eyes as she asked the question.
“Not if you tackle it correctly, Saewynn. That’s why I mentioned the wind.” He explained how he meant to set about it, casually throwing in the fact of the shed antlers.
“Ay, those would be a problem, I can see that. But what about when you’ve netted the beast? Doesn’t it take some controlling?”
“It does,” he eyed her figure, “it’ll weigh about twice your weight, but when it realises I mean it no harm, and it’s safely noosed, I shall lead it to the ferry. There are plenty of hinds on Sceapig to calm its nerves.” He said this without considering his audience. Again, she flushed, making him feel clumsy and insensitive.
“Well, it’s Nature,” he said defensively, earning himself a sweet smile and confirming his positive impression of her.
The three ate a pleasant meal together until afterwards, Saewynn declared she had to go home. The brothers agreed to meet the next day at the ferry, at midday, with or without the woman, according to her father’s ruling.
Deormund knew before rising that the wind had strengthened. He could hear it whistling around the roof of his brother’s house. Devouring the crusty bread not finished the previous evening, he decided not to wake Eored since the dawn had not yet broken. No problem with Mistig, already sitting by the door, eager to bound outdoors. Deormund obliged, unlatching the door, settling his pack on his back before following the deerhound along the road towards the Forest Ridge. It was a long march, hence his early start. If he wanted to meet his brother at midday, he had to consider the time needed for the return.
Mistig bounded ahead, occasionally halting to check on his master and racing up to him only to lollop forward again, continually repeating the performance.
Dozy dog, you’ll double the travel! Aware the hound revelled in exercise, he thought no more of it. After an hour of marching, the wind ruffling his hair and even snatching his breath away on occasions as it strengthened, he smiled to himself. Perfect conditions for capturing a stag.
He knew exactly where to place his net since this was the third time he had set out on a similar venture. Now the rising ground showed the forest on its ridge. That was his destination, just half a mile away. As he gazed up at the woodland, he imagined the activity therein at this time of day. Swineherds would be driving pigs along the main drove ways to the commons or dens. Deormund knew that in recent times, these clearings on the higher and better ground had become settlements. In the past, transhumance took place, the hogs could be many miles from the homestead; the changes made sense to him. Not that the villagers’ activities particularly interested him.
Instead, he’d arrived at the area of concern to him: the fringes of this chalkland forest. He led Mistig to a track between two stately beech trees, ideal for hanging his net. Under the scrutiny of the intelligent hound, he removed it from his pack and spread it untangled on the grass. Taking his twine, he tied it just above head height around both trunks before tightly attaching his dangling net at its top corners. Next, he took two wooden pegs from the bag and pinned the lower edge into the earth. He used his weight to press each down with his foot, not hard enough to fix the net too firmly but so that any prey driving into the net would pull it free to complete the entrapment. Once the operation was ended, with the sagging belly of the mesh on the ground, all studiously watched by the hound, he headed several hundred yards farther up the edge of the forest with the wind behind him—an essential detail, because the buck could scent more than a hundred yards upwind. That was why he chose a place downwind at a fallen tree, so that he could sit on the trunk.
Judging that a couple of hours had elapsed since the dawn, he decided that soon a stag would break from cover to cruise with the wind along the woodland margin in search of food—if not, he’d send Mistig to chase one out. The hound, trained for months to do this, had succeeded twice before. Deormund had faith in his companion who, so giddy when not stalking but dedicated when at work, now lay with bearded chin on his crossed front paws, staring studiously along the line of the forest’s edge. His master noted the gentle tremor running down the hound’s body, a sure sign that the dog was like a coiled spring, suppressing his excitement.
Mistig suddenly bounded to his feet and was away faster than the wind. The deerhound had seen the stag before his master had even suspected its presence. Deormund leapt to his feet, snatched up his bag and shouldered it as he ran, never taking his eyes off the pursuit. Trained to perfection, Mistig only revealed himself some twenty yards from the net. At that point, he barked and accelerated, cutting off the startled and speedy stag, which, in terror at the sight of the snarling grey beast, swerved into the trees for cover, not suspecting the trap. When its charging hoofs took the deer into the trap, its headlong rush and weight pinged out the two pegs, ensnaring the struggling creature in the netting. The more it struggled to free itself, the more it became entangled. When Deormund arrived, out of breath, the beast was kicking and writhing in vain.
The deer herder, not forgetting his debt to Mistig, found a piece of his mother’s sausage, preserved for the occasion, giving it to his worthy companion with words of gratitude and encouragement. Only then did he turn to inspect his flailing prize. It was a rusty red beauty: he reckoned, although the threshing about made it difficult to judge, that it stood about four feet, six inches tall. He would only be able to gauge its age by looking at its teeth; for the moment, he was happy to believe it was a five-year-old. This beast would have no trouble in ousting the old stag on Sceapig in the rutting season.
Ignoring the creature’s panicked attempts to free itself, Deormund took his knife from its sheath and cut the twine attached to the beeches. Far from releasing the stag, this manoeuvre entrapped it further so that now it lay in the net on the ground, its eyes bulging and terrified. The deer herder prepared a rope noose, knotting it to slide and tighten easily, leaving a leash of eight feet. He did not wish to sustain a similar painful blow from the beast’s hoof as on his first capture, which had left him limping for days and with a month-long bruise. Experience had taught him to be nimble and quick on his feet.
Now came the delicate part of the task: extrication. To do this, first, he took the loose end of the rope around the nearest beech trunk and tied it off, leaving the noose very large. Next, he knelt beside the animal and began to talk soothingly to it, making calm, reassuring noises as he freed the head and upper body from the netting, gently stroking the deer into stillness. The legs had to remain entangled until the last moment. As soon as he could, he slipped the noose over the beast’s head and tightened it carefully around the neck. The time had come to free the limbs, which he did bit by bit, until the animal was cleared of netting. Released, the stag leapt to its hoofs and made to bolt, only to pull the noose tighter still around its neck. There it stood, captured, trembling and uselessly shaking its head.
Ready to dedicate time to his equipment, he rolled up the net and packed it away, slinging his bag onto his back. Deormund then walked to the captive stag, where the creature shied away with the little slack the rope gave it. Gently, delicately, the deer herder stroked the velvety muzzle, soothing it again with murmured words. He noticed the nascent antlers, congratulating himself on an excellent morning’s work. His hand slid along the cord until it came to the knot at the trunk. Knowing that it had been pulled tight by the stag, he grasped the rope with his left hand, hooking it under his armpit for extra security while sawing at the knot with his sharp knife. No point in trying to unknot the cord after it had been so tightened. At last, he was through it, sheathed his blade and seized the rope, now a leash, with his right hand.
For the moment, he would need all his strength. Right about that, he dug his heels into the ground as the stag bucked and tugged to escape. Steadily, Deormund hauled the creature towards him, stepping back out of the woods as he did so. Realising that there was no escape, the deer turned and, as the herder hoped, walked towards him. The stag lowered its head in a classic threatening gesture, readying for the attack.
“You’d better not do that when you’ve grown your antlers, my beauty!”
Mistig dashed over and, placing himself between the stag and his master, bared his fangs and growled ferociously as the captive rethought its strategy. Again, it turned to flee, but Deormund held firm and drew the would-be fugitive back out of the forest. The battle of wills lasted half an hour but ended in submission, as Deormund knew it would. By that time, they had travelled a mere eighty yards.
Thenceforward, it was a question only of leading the reluctant creature downhill. Judging by the sun appearing momentarily between scudding clouds, he had a good hour to reach the ferry.
“I told you he’d do it!”
Deormund heard Eored’s exulting cry from the jetty, as he rejoiced with Saewynn. She was overcome by the beauty of the stag and found the courage to approach to stroke its muzzle, much as the deer herder had done earlier. Passive and cowed, the creature submitted, much to her delight. Deormund was under no illusion: the hard part was yet to come—they would have to persuade the beast into the ferryboat.
“Over on yon pole, blow the horn, Eored, while I hold the deer still.” He understood that the horn blast would not only advise Helmdag that they needed to cross the channel, but also terrify the startled stag.
The blast, after setting the animal bucking and kicking, brought a cheery wave from the boatman that Eored replicated. Once the boat had arrived, Deormund pulled the leash down the bank, but the terrified animal dug in its hoofs, stubbornly refusing to budge.
“Give me a hand, Eored. Nay! Not behind its rump if you value your clean breeches! Push its shoulder, that’s right!” Between them, they succeeded in forcing the stag into the craft. Helmdag’s strong rowing, aided by a stiff crosswind, transported the four humans and two animals across the Swale.
The stag did not show the same reluctance to leap out of the boat. Deormund almost lost his hold on the rope as he struggled one-handed to find his money pouch. Handing the cord to his brother, he settled the fare for everyone.
“We’ll lead the deer—look, it’s already feeding!—towards the rest of the herd and then let him loose.”
They bade farewell to the satisfied boatman. It had proved a good day’s work for him and the deer herder. As for Saewynn, she was anxious about meeting Bebbe, though convinced she could charm her husband, Asculf, the shepherd. She had likely underestimated how much Bebbe wanted her two younger sons to wed. Unbeknown to her, Saewynn would have an ally, not a jealous mother, to deal with, but she was right about Asculf.
Having approached his herd to a suitable distance, Deormund loosened the noose and allowed the stag to shake its head free. Oddly, the creature stood stock still for a moment, bemused. Raising its snout as if to sniff the air, it suddenly bounded at impressive speed towards the other deer. There would be no trouble between the two stags until the rutting season in September. Deormund did not doubt the outcome. They would both have ferocious-looking antlers by then.
Unknown to him as he considered this, and equally unknown to the loving couple, significant events would take place before the rutting season—one of them within a few days.
SCEAPIG (ISLE OF SHEPPEY)
798 AD
The world that Deormund considered so perfect was knocked awry after two blissful days. It is usually the way of things; just when everything appears unsurpassable, trouble befalls.
Those two days saw Saewynn accepted into the family, to Eored’s unbounded joy, and the new stag’s straightforward assimilation into the herd. The deer herder decided to delay his work to enjoy the presence of his brother and allowed himself to succumb to persuasion, accompanying the couple around Sceapig, visiting their favourite boyhood haunts and regaling the young woman with anecdotes from their youth. Amid much laughter and invigorating races on the meadow, they paused to study the rich fauna on the northern shore. Saewynn delighted in spotting an osprey and watched enchanted when it swooped to catch a fish in its talons.
“I’ll wager you’ve never seen that before,” she exulted, “admit it! I’ve brought you luck.”
What sort of luck, they found out the next morning when trouble, in the form of Lord Octric, rapped on the door.
“Where is that layabout of a deer herder?” the thegn’s son barked at the flustered Bebbe.
“I… I’ll call him for you, Lord.” She squeezed past the nobleman, noting his horse tethered to the fence and the presence of three other riders, who had dismounted and were holding their horses’ reins.
“Ay, do that and be quick about it, slattern, or you’ll feel the flat of my sword.”
Eored, from his bedroom, had heard the abusive language directed at his mother, so it was all Saewynn could do to restrain him. But being lighter and no match for muscles acquired by hoisting cartwheels, he dragged her, still pleading with him, into the main room and thus, into the sight of the young nobleman.
“My, my, what have we here?” drawled Octric, gazing lustfully at the pretty miller’s daughter. “What’s a lovely creature like you doing in this hovel?”
Eored’s rage, simmering, was about to explode, but luckily for him, his mother reappeared with Deormund in tow.
“Lord Octric! What brings you to our humble dwelling, without Thegn Sibert?”
“My father is on his sickbed.” The nobleman modified his tone because, despite his arrogant bearing, he had respect for the deer herder, to whom he had come at his father’s bidding for hunts two or three times a year since when he was a callow stripling. In those days, he had envied Deormund his strength and expertise and, above all, his free and easy life in the open air.
“I hope your father is not too ill,” Deormund said, sincerely, because the thegn and he had an understanding. The nobleman had always maintained respect and his side of the bargain.
“Not too sick. The doctor says he overindulged at the table and should soon be back to his old self.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. I expect you have come to arrange a hunt, Lord Octric.”
“Ay.”
“Well then, as with your father, you will choose a beast and I’ll prepare it for tomorrow’s sport. Shall we go?”
Deormund had not failed to notice his brother’s angry expression and how he had pulled Saewynn to stand behind him, nor Octric’s over-appreciative gaze when the woman retreated into the room, whence she had appeared. The deer herder needed no further reason to lead the thegn’s son outdoors, across to his horse.
“I’ll run on ahead, then you shall choose your game.”
Deormund set off at a fast pace across the heathery turf, Mistig shooting past him. Physically, he was in good form, for his work required plenty of exercise. Even so, he could not maintain the sprint for more than three hundred yards and began to slow. He heard the drumming hoofs behind him but was not ready for the stinging blow across his buttocks. Halting to rub his burning flesh, he glared up at the rider who had delivered the blow with the flat of his blade.
Lord Octric leered down at him, laughing mockingly. “Why are you lagging? Do you think we have all day to waste, ceorl? Now, start running or you’ll earn another taste of my steel.”
Deormund had no choice, being an unarmed man against four warriors. As he ran as hard as his body would allow, he brooded that he might have fought the lordling had he been alone—scant consolation, this idle dream of what might have been. Back to the problem in hand, he halted. A running man and four cantering horses would disperse the herd all over the isle. Nobody wanted that, not even Octric, who wished to hunt on the morrow. Seeing him stop, the thegn’s son drew nearer, unsheathing his sword, his intention clear.
Deormund spoke swiftly. “Lord, we must approach slowly on foot. You will recall how we always approach the creatures with your father.”
Reluctantly, the lordling sheathed his weapon and leapt lightly to the ground, handing the reins to one of his retainers.
“Wait here, you three. The ceorl and I will proceed alone.”
‘Ceorl’, is it? I could push him off a cliff and say he slipped!
For love and respect of Thegn Sibert, he knew that he would do no such thing; anyway, this part of the isle was devoid of cliffs.
“Steady, Lord,” he reminded him. “We’re upwind and can’t get too close. When I come alone this afternoon to catch the beast you choose, I’ll approach from yonder direction. You can see them from here well enough. Which one will it be?
“That one,” Octric said without hesitation, pointing.
Deormund’s heart sank. He could not sacrifice the new stag he had just captured with so much difficulty. His mind raced. Could he substitute it for the other, the older stag, on the morrow? Nay, the haughty swine would notice the switch. He tried persuasion.
“Nay, Lord, not good meat. You’d be well counselled to choose a tender hind for I have no doubt you will make the kill.”
“Of course I’ll make the kill, ceorl. Think yourself lucky you will not be my prey! A ceorl does not gainsay his lord.”
“My lord’s son. Your father never treated me in this way, Lord Octric.”
“Do not bandy words with me, ceorl, or it will be the worse for you! I told you, I want that buck.”
“But Lord, I strove so hard to capture it but three days ago. I plan to use him to improve the breeding stock.”
“Since you are so clever, deer herder, you can go and ensnare another.”
Deormund groaned, “Would that it were so easy! I beseech you, see there, that’s a beautiful hind!” The young nobleman’s eyes flashed and he grabbed Deormund by his arm, pushing his face to the deer herder’s. Deormund shrank from the overpowering proximity as Octric began to speak.
“Listen well, there’s only one beautiful hind that interests me on this damned island and it’s the one back in your hovel. So, heed me well. It’s either the deer or the girl—I’ll have one or the other—and maybe both,” he muttered, but Deormund heard him.
“Very well, you shall have the stag. Tomorrow, ride to the forest on the Ness.” He pointed to the north-east where the promontory plunged in the sea.
“There you are, that wasn’t so hard, was it? But I’ve half a mind to thrash you, anyway, ceorl!”
Again, the enraged visage thrust towards him.
A flash of grey and Mistig stood facing the lordling, growling aggressively.
“Go away, Mistig!” Deormund changed his voice to a scolding demand. “Go, I said!” he pointed towards home. The hound hung its head, tail between his legs, then, before Octric could react, bounded away to the building they had left earlier.
“Lucky again, ceorl; I’d have taken its head as swift as a blink.” The nobleman pushed his blade back into his sheath.
Fool! Had I not stayed him, the hound would have ripped your worthless throat out!
He smiled at the thought, but should not have, because a bejewelled fist smashed into his face when he least expected it. A gem cut into Deormund’s cheek, leaving him bloodied and procuring a scar later that would ever be a reminder of that day.
Deormund was not a violent man by nature, but his stinging buttocks and aching cheekbone might require a measure of revenge. For the moment, he swallowed his pride and lied.
“Begging your pardon, Lord. I should never have contradicted you. It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t, ceorl. Remember your father is a lowly shepherd, so your lands, flocks and herds and aye, even your womenfolk, are ours by rights!”
Deormund followed the nobleman a few paces behind back to the horses. He wiped his face with his sleeve. Shocked at the amount of blood staining the cloth, his resentment simmered.
“Be sure the stag is in the Ness Woods tomorrow—you know the price of failure,” Octric leered, making a lewd, unequivocal gesture.
Deormund went to his boulder seat where he did his clearest thinking. His thoughts were in a tumult. First, he would not sacrifice his stag, but if he didn’t, the lustful nobleman would seize and rape his brother’s betrothed. He could not allow that. Nor could he warn Eored; his brother was the most hot-headed of the three. Octric and his bullies would have no compunction in slaying a rebellious ceorl. How could a good man like Thegn Sibert sire an arrogant brat like Octric?
Desperately, he hung his head, which was the moment he saw something that gave him an idea. The thegn was on his sickbed, therefore Octric would be in charge of the hunt. Perhaps I can use the stag, after all, he thought, as he bent to pick up the smooth, round stone, weathered and deposited there by the sea. If Octric behaved as he thought, he would want to slay the stag alone, to take the glory. Therefore, he would abandon his retinue to gallop ahead on the first sighting.
I know the lie of the land on the Ness better than anyone. It’s full of sinuous gills connected by narrow ‘shaws’, the ‘rewes’, or what others would call thickets. Ay, there’s just the place, though it will take careful planning. He turned the smooth, weighty stone in his hand, studying it attentively, then brought it to his lips to kiss before slipping it into his pocket.
All I’ll say, back at the house, is that I’m setting up a hunt the same as ever. I won’t mention any of this, not even to warn Eored to flee. I won’t, because I’ll make no mistake. Only I’ll know about this; I can practise in the morning.
With that, he took out his antler whistle, gave it a blast and waited.
“You are a fine fellow. I know you would have done for the swine if he’d laid a hand on me—well, he did, but only after you’d gone,” he said to the dog, whose head cocked to one side as its tongue lolled, “luckily for us both, old friend,” he concluded, but then uttered, as an afterthought, “We’ll sort Lord Octric out in the morn.”
Mistig barked happily and, as Deormund rose from the boulder, bounded towards the house. Look at him, without a care in the world! That’s how I should appear to my family.
It was impossible to maintain this resolution, because he walked into a heated exchange between Asculf, his father, and his brother. The shepherd had returned home from lambing, in high spirits, only to find his middle son tense and brooding.
“Ah, Deormund, thank goodness you’re back, see if you can get some sense into your brother. He says Thegn Sibert’s lad was eyeing his betrothed; she’s with your mother at the moment. I’ve tried telling him, we can’t stand up to the lords who rule over us.”
“Well, I can and I will!”
“Keep calm, Eodred. Step outside a minute. I need to have a word with you—alone—” He cast a warning glance at his father, who shrugged and nodded.
When they returned indoors, Eored’s face had cleared of thunder. “It’s all right, Father, I’m sorry. I just lost my temper. Lord Octric isn’t like his father, but maybe he’ll become a wiser man with age.”
The shepherd bestowed his youngest son with an authentic look of respect. “Well, I don’t know what you said to your brother, Deormund, but you’ve got him talking sense, at last. I began to despair. I did so!”
Deormund smiled and settled for silence.
If only you knew what I said, Father dear, you wouldn’t be so content!
SCEAPIG
798 AD
It is no easy matter to kill a hare with a slingshot from twenty-five paces, a feat accomplished by Deormund several times since childhood. A superlative combination of skill and eyesight is needed to achieve the exploit. When he rummaged through his storage chest to retrieve the weapon, he had a larger game in mind. The beauty of a sling is that it is lightweight and easily hidden on the person. Another of the secrets of its successful use lies in the choice of missile. The deer herder had chanced upon the perfectly-shaped smooth stone the previous afternoon. It lay snugly in his pocket.
On his way to collect the stag, again by noosing it and leading with the leash, he would search for other similar stones to test that he had not lost his slinging ability.
Used to rising before the dawn, he did so once more, knowing that the arrogant lordling needed little excuse to chastise him.
He’ll want his day’s sport spread on a platter, Deormund thought bitterly, before snatching a crust of bread and a slice of mature sheep’s cheese. He ate on the move as he hurried by a circuitous route to the meadow, thus ensuring that he was downwind from the herd. In his right hand, he carried a coil of rope that ended in a wide loop; casting the noose was another of his talents, essential to his trade. The herder had perfected this technique because the management of the herd called for two-yearly culling. If he did not capture the beasts, there could be no cautious thinning of the population. No lynxes, bears or wolves inhabited the island, so Deormund took their place as the predator, but only for selective slaughtering.
The early morning sun spread a comforting glow across the estuary. The deer were already grazing; their feeding ensured no chance of long grass or tall shrubs on the meadow. For this reason, walking was easy and silent underfoot, allowing the deer stalker to steal unnoticed towards the herd. To his satisfaction, the stag he sought grazed among the nearest hinds to his approach, so, at the last moment, he grasped the noose, widening it before sprinting forward. Simultaneously, he spun the rope around above his head, gaining momentum until, with precision, he released it to sail over the head of the alarmed and fleeing animal. In seconds, the cord pulled tight around its neck. Almost as if resigned to a familiar fate, the stag skidded to a halt. Its grazing companions had all fled to remain at a hundred yards’ distance, staring back as if anxious about the fate of their consort.
Deormund understood them and his captive, to whom he spoke soothingly as before, leading the animal easily this time, away from the herd and towards the Ness Forest.
“Don’t worry,” he told the stag, as if whispering confidentially to a friend, “I will not let them hurt you.”
From a young age, his father had permitted Deormund to explore the forest, without fear of wild beasts, and Asculf worried only about the unexpected rills and treacherous declivities. For that reason, he pointed out all the dangers to his sons. Not a single corner of the woodland remained unknown to the youngest. Therefore, whilst sitting on the boulder the previous evening, Deormund had decided where to place the stag. Touching the stone in his tunic, he considered that if fortune smiled upon him, he might not even be the direct cause of the lordling’s demise. The forest boasted a particularly dangerous gorge, where one could arrive at a gallop without the horse sensing the danger: the ideal place to lure his victim.
Deormund’s plan was diabolical and premeditated; nonetheless, he had scruples. Only the threat of choosing to sacrifice the hard-gained stag or Saewynn’s virtue, drove him to set the trap. His liking for the scoundrel’s father, Thegn Sibert, caused him further pain, but frankly, he saw no choice. If Octric did not plunge headlong into the gorge, he would be ready with his sling.
I’m not a coward: I sought this not. Besides, if I’m discovered by his followers, I’m a dead man!
These were his thoughts as he led the stag around the farthest edge, to the opposite side of the narrow ravine where an abundance of undergrowth sheltered him from the onrushing pursuers. He looked into the large, brown eyes of the gentle creature.
I hope to God, I’m right about this, otherwise you’ll finish up dead meat first, my friend.
Embracing the stag around its neck, he slid off the noose, but for his plan to work, he had to hobble the animal, so he transferred his grip to the hind leg where, with a deft manoeuvre, he slipped the noose around the limb and pulled it tight. The other end of the rope, he tied around a sturdy trunk. Before settling into a hide whence he could keep an eye on the opposite side of the gorge, he led Mistig back around to the trail on the other side.
“Go! Fetch the riders!” The expert hound, used to many previous deer hunts, understood its duty and bounded away. Deormund, who did not doubt Mistig’s abilities, hastened back to the shelter he had chosen: a hawthorn bush. Dispassionately, he watched the stag kick at its tether, but soon lose interest in favour of the tempting grey lichen growing on a fallen trunk. With grim satisfaction, he noted that the rope, hidden by the tall undergrowth as planned, could not be seen from the opposite side of the chasm. An approaching rider would see only the head and shoulders of the beast.
When it came to hunting, Octric and his friends were disposed to rise early, so to Deormund’s relief, he soon heard the distant thumping of hoofs. Mistig appeared first and, as trained, stood pointing his snout in the direction of the quarry. A deerhound must not frighten away the game when hunting.
The sound of drumming hoofs drew nearer, matched by Deormund’s accelerating heartbeat. According to plan, the deer herder spotted Octric galloping headlong through the trees. The rider saw the hound, knew the significance of its frozen pose, his eyes following to settle on the stag, so, spurring on his mount, he nocked an arrow. Deormund readied his stone in the sling whilst admiring Octric’s horsemanship. It was no easy matter to hold on to a galloping horse with the knees and, at the same time, wield a bow and arrow. As he had hoped and planned, he did not need the sling. Octric’s steed, realising the peril, at the last second hunched its shoulders to dig its forelegs into the ground, pitching its unsuspecting rider over its head into the rocky gorge. Quickly, aware of thundering approaching hoofbeats, Deormund hacked through the rope, releasing the stag to bound away, still trailing the cord. If caught, the deer herder knew he would be in serious trouble, but he hoped that the plight of their master would put an end to the hunting.
Mistig had run to the edge of the chasm to stand there, barking frantically. Deormund could not allow himself to be seen, so he remained concealed, contenting himself with envying the hound’s vantage point. Could anyone survive the fall? He fervently hoped not, even if, for the moment, no blame could be attached to him. Nay, he would stay well-hidden and hope that the deerhound would not betray his presence—that would be a disaster!
Alerted by the hound and the riderless steed, the Octric retainers reined in. The oldest among them, quick to understand, bellowed orders; Deormund recognised a Dorset accent.
“The horse has thrown Lord Octric into the chine! You two, climb down, careful now! See if he needs aid.”
The chosen men dismounted, peered over the edge and started the treacherous descent. At the bottom of the ravine, a stream ran through rocks where the battered body lay motionless. Deormund did not know what they would find, although he suspected. Their voices drifted up indistinctly, so it wasn’t until many minutes later, when they had climbed laboriously back up the side, their curses ringing out as footholds proved unreliable, that he heard: “There’s nought for it. Lord Octric’s gone; his skull is smashed. God rest his soul!”
“We must bring up the body. His father will want a Christian burial,” the leader said.
Deormund took the stone from his pocket, laying it on the ground, for now he would not need it.
I don’t have his blood on my hands!
He stopped his conscience-stricken reverie when he heard his name mentioned.
“We’ll need rope to recover the body. The deer herder will have it. Let’s ride back. Master Deormund will know what to do.”
To the deer herder’s relief, they turned their horses and rode away. His relaxation was greater still when he saw Mistig bound after them. He was safe. But how could he get back home before them?
Gazing thoughtfully at his chosen stone, he picked it up again and slipped it back in his pocket. Even taking a shortcut, he could not match the speed of their horses. Eored would have to provide the rope they required in his stead. He would go down to the meadow as if nothing had happened; there was always work there.
The question of the stag trailing a cord troubled him, but he doubted that the beast would find its way to the pasture with people around. It would remain under cover, feeding contentedly. Deormund smiled grimly. Saewynn’s virtue was intact and no longer endangered.
If he hadn’t died, he’d have eaten my stag and taken my brother’s wife, too. I’m sure of it. God forgive me, but he had it coming.
Before the deer herder left the woodland cover, he found a small glade, where he knelt, bowed his head and prayed.
Lord, I cannot confess my sin to any man, but I beg your forgiveness, for You are a just God and Protector of the weak. Help me repair my sin by aiding others in need. He paused, lost for words, never having found prayer easy, then ended lamely, Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Amen.
From the glade, a narrow trail led down the side of the promontory to the shore. Changing his mind about the meadow, with the tide low, he could walk along the shore. There might be some cockles for his mother’s pot and they would provide a convincing excuse as to his whereabouts during the tragedy. There was a place about five hundred yards ahead where he was sure to find a plentiful supply. Taking off his shoes, he waded into the shallow water and let a wave refresh his tired legs before twisting his toes into the sandy bed. Soon, he had brought several cockles to the surface, which he picked up, throwing back a small one, keeping the large, which he thrust into his tunic with the slingshot and stone. Before long, his pocket was bulging, so he recovered his shoes and laced the thongs around his ankles before setting off with a cheery whistling towards home.
His eye roved over the waves. What was that in the distance? A ship with a square sail emblazoned with what? There was an emblem. He squinted against the strong light. The billowing cloth depicted a black bird with outstretched wings—a raven maybe. Not understanding the significance of what he had just observed, he put it out of his mind; after all, there was a stag somewhere trailing a rope—the only tangible proof of his guilt. First, he would take the cockles home, play the innocent, then maybe get Mistig to help him round up the elusive deer. Octric’s men would be too busy recovering the body and taking it back to Faversham to catch him covering his crime—if, indeed, ‘crime’ was what it should be considered.
Crossing the meadow, he came upon Mistig, bounding towards him as if he’d been away for a month. He bent to stroke the fussy hound, but their reunion was abruptly interrupted.
“Oi, Master Deormund! Come quickly, you’re needed!”
The Dorset accent identified the rider.
“What’s wrong? Did you miss the stag?”
“Ay, we did. But the worst of it is we lost Lord Octric.”
“Lost him? What, has he gone astray in the forest?” The convincing tone and surprised expression came naturally and deceived the retainer.
“Nay, I would it were so! He rode ahead of us all and plunged into a chine.”
“Is he…is he—?”
“Ay, dead! It is a great misfortune, Master Deormund. With our lord still recovering his health, an’ all—this will set him back.”
“If he’s dead, why do you need me?”
“We must recover the body. We’ll need ropes. I asked your brother but he says you’ll know where they are.”
“How hard is it to find my ropes?” Deormund grumbled. “Let’s go. I have cockles for mother’s pot.”
“Ah, so that’s where you were.”
Deormund smiled inwardly, hastening towards the house, only vaguely worried about the rope-trailing stag.
Deormund rode out with Octric’s men on their master’s horse. The deer herder pretended he didn’t know which part of the forest the body lay in but insisted on a description of the place.
“Ah, I know the likely spot,” he said convincingly, “it’s dangerous, right enough,” and led them there.
They recovered the body using a litter and ropes. The difficulty of the recovery underlined the danger he’d mentioned.
“Lord Octric must have spotted the stag across the gorge,” Deormund said ingenuously. “His horse will have stopped just as he was aiming, I’ll wager.”
