STARLIGHT
A short story set in Anglo-Saxon England
Peter Alan Orchard
Smashwords Edition Copyright 2011 Peter Alan Orchard
For more information on the author, visit
http://www.peteralanorchard.net
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A light rain fell on Ulf's upturned face and he opened his eyes. It was night, still winter-cold and black as pitch except for the stars flung across the sky like splintered ice. The ditch he lay near was dank, foul-smelling, and the iron tang of blood filled his mouth. There was no sound but the wind scything across the wet field, the whisper of blown grass, the scuffle of mice and voles in the bank.
The fight was over and he was alive. Bone-weary, he felt himself over as far as he could reach. No trophies taken, at least. The sting and ache of a million biting ants blazed in his legs, both broken. When I come to, he thought, I'll remember him, the man who struck me down. Yes, I'll remember him for sure. Then: I hope they find me before I die.
The silence of the night spread around him, but within it a deeper, calmer silence. Drawn by it, Ulf turned his head to gaze across the field. Against the night a shadow moved across the grass, a woman's shape, faceless and calm, outlined in stars.
'Hroswitha?' He called, choking, spat out a tooth and called again. 'Hroswitha?'
The woman moved past and away, and he knew it was his Hroswitha, the wife he had left bleeding at home while he fought her attacker in a muddy field. He stared after her as she left him and saw starlight through her shape, saw the wraith gliding footless over the wet grass and knew he was alone.
Ulf hauled himself up on his elbows and tried to catch one last glimpse of her through the darkness, then fell back onto the blood-sodden ground and wept like a beaten child.
The stars paled as he lay there, staring up. The hollow piping of birds ghosted from the wood and the sky lightened. Voices called somewhere and soon Ulf heard neighbours gathering around him, their feet sucking at the sodden earth. Someone whispered, 'He's still alive,' and a hand offered him something to drink. 'Go up the stream', another voice shouted. 'Find the leech.' Grinding his teeth, trying not to groan, Ulf felt branches being laid under him. Stunned into sleep, he hardly saw who carried him home.
When he woke, dazed, he was lying on a trestle. Roof-timbers stretched above him and smoke from a log fire idled out through the doorway. Somewhere a woman's voice muttered.
Ulf sniffed the air. 'Flowers?'
'Bonewort.' The voice belonged to Harald, herbalist and leech, from the next village. 'On your legs. Bonewort, elm and eggs. I've splinted them both, but don't try to move them. We had to give you poppy to carry you here, if only to stop you babbling.'
Harald's angular face appeared, grinning, between Ulf's face and the roof. There was a lump on his forehead.
'You too, eh? Did we see them off?'
'We did. There weren't many and there's not enough to attract them back here. Bigger pickings in bigger places.' Harald patted Ulf carefully on his bruised arm. 'You're a tough one, lying out there all night, but it's lucky we found you. You must have chased the Dane hard to be three fields away.'
'Oh yes, I chased him. He was in my house with two others and I could only chase one. I had a knife in my belt and cut him once or twice, but he had a sword and beat me down. He broke my legs with a branch from the wood then, and ran. He was laughing at me. I saw Hroswitha later, crossing the field, but she was dead.'