The Lady of Mercia's Daughter by M J Porter

Author:M J Porter [Porter, M J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-08-23T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

I am not a patient woman. I’ve learnt that lesson well since I arrived in Nottingham and walked straight into a fight, one possibly orchestrated by a member of my extended family.

It’s barely been ten days since the battle, but I chafe at the delay. I ride far to the North of Nottingham, toward the boundary with the ancient kingdom of Northumbria, disintegrated now into smaller parts, some parts ruled by York and its archbishop, and some governed by the House of Bamburgh. I need more information on which to base my next move, and it is far too slow in coming.

Ælfstan has returned to Cousin Athelstan, his words about my uncle clamouring in my ears. Ealdorman Ælthelfrith has remained in Nottingham, waiting for news from Wessex, and I, well I have struck out to the North. I hope to find Rǫgnvaldr or at least someone who might know what Rǫgnvaldr is planning. But to be honest, riding out, being with my horse and my warriors, male and female, is freeing in and of itself.

I might be trying to run from my destiny, but I prefer to think that I’m racing toward the future. Rǫgnvaldr might not yet have had success in the north of Northumbria, but he soon will. I don’t doubt that York will fall prey soon enough to the charms of a Dublin Viking, especially one who can lay claim to being a member of the mighty dynasty of Ivarr Ragnarsson. My worry is that he has the support of Wessex as well and that his actions are being as controlled as any Viking’s can ever be, by someone who should support me in my position. Rǫgnvaldr’s very timely arrival near York coincides too closely with my mother’s death for me to think there’s no coincidence.

I expected better from the father and son who rule in Wessex, but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Powerful men rarely seem content with what they already possess. Even my grandfather, the supposedly near saintly king Alfred was torn by his constant need for more and more of Wessex, never content with the small pocket he initially retained. He saw it as his God given right to reclaim land taken by the Vikings. I see Mercia as mine, but I don’t think my uncle and his son do.

It’s a matter of a few days ride from Nottingham to York, or at least it can be, at speed. I’m taking my time, trying to root out any other packs of marauders who might roam the waterways, or who might have taken horses and be coming further inland. It’s as good as an excuse as any to be free of Nottingham and out and about, ready for any attack that might come.

What started as an expedition to the burhs to check that they were ready for an attack has become more than that. I now feel as though I’m constantly on guard, as though I stand ready for war with every breath I take.

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