The Midgard Serpent: A Novel of Viking Age England (The Norsemen Saga Book 10) by James L. Nelson

Author:James L. Nelson [Nelson, James L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fore Topsail Press
Published: 2020-05-19T20:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Four

High state and place, kindred, a wealthy crown,

Triumphs, and spoils in glorious battles won,

Nobles, and cities walled, to guard his state,

High palaces, and his familiar seat,

Whatever honors his own virtue won,

For love of heaven hath left, and here retir'd…

Epitaph for Caedwal,

King of the Saxons

The fighting was still going on, the battle fully involved: men shouting, screaming, killing and dying, weapons clashing, the splash of men and gear falling into the brackish water; but all of Felix’s world had closed down to the twenty square feet around the king.

“Lift him, lift him! Careful there, you clumsy imbécile!” he shouted, directing the house guards in how to lift the old man by shoulders and legs. In the intensity of the moment he had to remind himself to speak English, not Frankish. “Bring him back to the afterdeck, quickly now! But be careful, damn you!”

Æthelwulf gasped in pain as the men lifted him, and then, to Felix’s relief, he began to curse and protest in a strong voice as he was carried aft over the blood-slick deck. At the break of the afterdeck they laid him down. Felix knelt beside him and leaned close to examine the wound that the spear had left.

“Get me some water!” Felix snapped. “And see if that priest is still alive, the one who knows the practice of medicine!”

The king’s mail shirt was torn in the wake of the spear point, a mess of silver links and bright red blood, and through all that chaotic damage Felix could not really see what sort of hurt had been done. He gently lifted the edges of the torn mail and pulled them aside, but there was nothing to see but blood-soaked cloth and flesh and more glints of silver. Blood still pulsed from the wound, but slowly. It was not spurting out in great bursts and Felix knew enough about medicine to know that was a good thing.

“Water, lord,” one of the soldiers said, holding out a bucket.

“Pour some, there, over the wound, gently now,” Felix said and the man did so, washing the blood away and revealing the torn flesh below. And something else. A heavy silver cross the king generally wore around his neck, and apparently had been wearing between his mail and his padded tunic. Felix could see where one of the arms was bent, where, he suspected, the point of the spear had hit and deflected off, much reducing the power of the thrust.

Thank you, Dear God, Felix thought, and he made the sign of the cross.

“What the hell are you doing, Felix?” Æthelwulf said, and his voice was strong, though Felix could hear the pain in it. “Are you administering extreme unction? Get a priest for that! But I reckon you’re a little early.” He tried to sit up and grunted in pain and the men at his shoulders eased him down again.

Someone knelt at Felix’s side, a young man in mail and a helmet, which he removed and set on the deck. Felix

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