The Shieldmaiden's Honour: The Song of Madron Book 2 (The Song of Britain 9) by James Calbraith

Author:James Calbraith [Calbraith, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-12-14T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XI

THE LAY OF BADUWRAEC

“Let her go.”

The two brutes release me from their clutches. Despite Nerthwini’s assurances, the Frisian guards treated me like just another prisoner of war when I appeared with her at the gates of their camp.

Up close, the Frisian settlement looked in as terrible shape as its inhabitants. There were barely any tents or solid shelters, like Baduwraec’s cabin; most Frisians slept under cloth or straw spread out between poles, in holes dug in the sand – or simply on blankets on bare ground. The few supplies gathered for the siege were all piled up in the open in one corner of the camp, with no cover or roof to shield them from the elements, and barely any guards watching over them.

Baduwraec may have succeeded in gathering his people in secret, and in numbers which surprised the Franks at first – but he failed to turn them into an army. I don’t see anyone training or tending to their weapons. The smiths have let their furnaces run cold; most men are already sound asleep. The only thing preventing the Franks from overrunning the camp right now are the fortified guard posts on the narrow causeway, but even those would eventually succumb to Sichild’s attack – if only she knew how poorly defended the crossing was. She’s missing her chance; by dawn, the Frisians will have their veins burning with henbane – I spotted a vast cauldron of the brew simmering away under guard next to Baduwraec’s cabin – and will present a much more difficult obstacle.

I rub my sore arms and look around, searching for somewhere to sit, but the only furniture in the sparsely decorated mud hut is a small table, strewn with the remains of a meal, a three-legged stool on which the warchief himself sits, and a sprawling bedding of sheepskins and furs. From under the blankets peek the pale, bare legs and arse of another young girl, too drunk to even notice my entrance. Nerthwini, standing by my side, glances at the girl with disgust – and a hint of pity – but without surprise.

The cabin is filthy – there are bits of meat and breadcrumbs on the floor and table, and a large dark stain on the bed; the whole place stinks of vomit, ale, farts and sweat. Baduwraec’s clothes are in no better shape, covered in grime and dust. It’s hard to believe his two handmaidens were gone only for a day. Does he have no other servants? Or is it always like this, despite Nerthwini’s and Asterga’s best efforts to keep order?

The warchief lifts himself on one buttock and scratches his arse. He’s not an old man, but he’s balding, and has an unseemly shadow of unshaven, greying hair on his cheeks and neck. A band of sculpted bronze in the shape of a two-headed dragon, polished to resemble gold, adorns his arm, the only mark of his status. It’s a wonder how any woman could find him attractive enough to share his bedding.

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