Chapter Text
The air was cool, a breeze gently blew over the meadow. He would have been chilled if not for the late summer sun high in the sky. The ground was warm on his back and his fingers absentmindedly intertwined around the swaying grasses surrounding him. There was a peace, peace he hadn’t felt in years. Ever since being on the bastard slave ship. His mind started to drift back to the last time he had felt this serene. On the shores of Ireland in the arms of his woman. He quickly banished those thoughts though because they turned into nightmares that refused to leave. No, he was staying in the here, the now. The sudden freedom, the warmth, the solid ground, the stillness, the silenc….
“We have arrived!”
The waving grass above him faded as the back of a horse’s arse came into view and the warmth of the sun turned to a damp, gray chill that invaded every muscle. He had been marching for four days. But it did nothing to stave off the cold and wind that seemed to only increase the further north they went. Summer was long gone and now fall was fast making her departure. The fight at Bebbanburg had been a risky choice for both sides. They could have easily been trapped for the winter, or died marching men home.
But it seemed the Scottish army had luck on their side. If not for the battle then the journey home. The cold had come quickly but the snow had held off thus far. That was a blessing for the army, and therefore Finan, the one and only blessing.
After the first night Finan had been made to walk. His hands bound and a noose placed around his neck. A line leading off both and tied to the rider’s saddle. The rider was the man who had been his charge, the man whose tent he was tied up in at night. There were three others surrounding him. They were at the back of the line, behind the rest of the army. And at first they had found pleasure in tormenting him.
The first morning he was made to walk, Baltair, the man on the horse, would quicken, forcing Finan to do likewise or risk being dragged. The men surrounding him would laugh. But that game soon grew old. Watching Finan run awkwardly and breathe heavily wasn’t enough. So then the men on foot began to play with him. They started out throwing pebbles, Finan would grit his teeth and do his best to hold in the sharp stings when they hit their target. One larger rock caught his cheek and blood dripped from the cut. But they soon tired of that as well. The tallest man of the three came up behind Finan and stuck his left foot in between Finan’s legs, hooking one of them just barely. Finan stumbled but managed to catch himself and not fall. The uproarious laughter from the other two caused Baltair to turn around and he smiled at the game, wise to it now. A few minutes later another of the men came up, this time a portly one with a waist the size of a barrel of whiskey. He knew the man’s game though and was watching, waiting for the pig to make his move. When the fat man did try, Finan easily sidestepped out of the way. But before he had a chance to notice his surroundings, the tall man had come up and stuck his foot out again.
This time Finan failed, he was on the ground and he felt the pressure on his hands tighten, a second later he felt the noose constrict. And then he was dragged. Finan grabbed the rope around his throat, trying desperately to open his airway but it was no use. He was gasping and kicking his legs, trying anything to get his feet under him. His back was being scraped over the rocks scattered on the trail. Some merely scarred the length of his back while others found purchase and dug in. As his oxygen supply was depleted, spots began appearing in his vision and the deafening laughter was being drowned out by a ringing. The world was going hazy, his grip on the rope was loosening as he felt the strength fade from his body. Panic began to rise in him. Involuntarily his body tried to suck in more air but all he could manage was letting out a gasp.
Then suddenly, the tightness was gone. The sky above him became still. His throat opened and reflexively he began to suck in as much air as he could. Finan could hear the laughter grow louder as the ringing grew faint.. He closed his eyes as he tried to steady his breathing. Not yet wanting to face the reality of his situation.
“On your feet!” The man on the horse yelled, breaking Finan’s peace..
The whiskey barrel shaped man that had failed to trip him came over and kicked him in the side then Finan felt wetness hit his face. They were spitting on him. More forceful nudges came from their feet and Finan did his best to get on his knees quickly. A low growl escaped him as the men angered him more than hurt him. The skin on his throat was raw and burned from being dragged. His side ached from the first kick and he could feel droplets of blood running down his back from the rough ground. When he had awoke that morning most of his ailments from the previous day’s battle had subsided. But the headache was returning now and the kick had aggravated the bruising from the much stronger one he had received yesterday from Constantine. Baltair was grinning smugly at him from atop his horse and as soon as Finan’s feet reached the ground he felt a small tug on his neck and then hands. Finan didn’t want to be dragged again so despite the pain and struggle at still trying to catch his breath, he walked. Then he was jogging again as they tried to catch up to the army in front of them.
This happened three more times. Each time Baltair dragged him a little further. By the end of that first day Finan had angry red welts on his neck and his back was full of lacerations bleeding through his shirt from the pebbles and sticks he had been dragged over. That was three days ago. Constantine had seen him the evening of that first night and must have put a stop to it because he was left alone after that. Left alone to follow a horse’s arse and wonder what would become of him.
And now that they had arrived, there was a tightening in Finan’s chest. There were not many options for a captured enemy, particularly when the ones holding the leash were the losing army. He was to be killed or made a slave. And he didn’t think he could bear to be a slave again. All the horrid memories of being on that bastard slave ship came flooding back. He could feel his back burning from the whip, his ankles rubbed raw from the chain and the skin being pulled from his hands when he tried to let go of the oar. No, Finan couldn’t be a slave again, he just couldn’t. He would rather die.
Inside his heart was racing and he was struggling to maintain an even breath. But to everyone else he tried to display confidence, fearlessness. He was being led uphill, along a well worn dirt road. He could not see where they were going as the hills began to rise steeply around him and the path wound through them, twisting and turning. It was plain to see though that this is where the soldiers’ wives had camped, waiting for their husbands return. The women and children lined the road and bowed their heads in respect for their fallen as they passed. But when Finan walked by he felt their glares, their hatred. A few spit towards him, some kicked at the dust. The braver children ran in front of him making faces. Then they started throwing things at him, mostly moldy food, some small stones. He ducked his head and raised his arms, trying to protect himself as much as possible. A particularly large and rotten gourd hit him on the side of his head, bursting upon impact. The angry mob let out an uproarious laughter. He was covered in the stinking guts of the vegetable.
As Finan and the procession took a right he almost let out an audible gasp as he saw a towering cliff before him. In the middle was a stone wall, at least 3 men high. The wall and gate into the fortress were built right into the cliffside. And on either side of the path the earth only rose as the lower land he was currently standing on dipped toward the ocean. This place was even more well defended than Bebbanburg. The gate was small, wide enough to only allow one rider or two soldiers on foot through at a time. As he and his trio of guards passed through, the gate was shut and the screams, wails, and general raucous of the crowd was dimmed. The army continued up the path, houses and shops lining the road. The crowd here was significantly tamer, he could smell the righteousness of the higher born.
Finan watched as the army slowly began to dismantle, come out of its perfect line, unload and strip themselves of their battle gear. Young boys came out from surrounding buildings and began to unload the horses and lead them away. Baltair passed his, for lack of better word, leash, off to the one who had been successful in tripping him. Finan felt a jerk and stumbled forward a step as the footsoldier relished in his brief power.
“Ye feel like a big man besting someone tied up?” Finan couldn’t help the comment. Staying relatively quiet on the journey thus far, his ability to do so was waning fast. He may have been known for his sword skill but his mouth was just as quick and his sarcasm got him in just as much trouble. And if he was going to end up dead, he wasn’t going quietly. Maybe he could aggravate them enough to kill him before he could be sold.
“Don’t!”
Finan heard Baltair shout at the giant holding his rope as the man had started towards him. The beast scowled at Finan while he just gave him one of his shit eating grins. He glanced around again as the path cleared more and more, the men dispersing back to their women or whores. His eyes rested on the king who was in conversation with a younger redhead, the one that had questioned his continued captivity. If he wasn’t mistaken, the redhead was the king’s nephew or some other relation that afforded him a position he hadn’t earned.
Finan continued scanning the area. The houses had progressively gotten bigger and then ended as green space opened up, pastures for horses of the king’s household guard. The stables were to the left and a farrier on the right. Up the road a few yards was another wall and gate. This wall was wooden, only slightly taller than a man and ran to the edge of the cliffs on either side of the road. The gate was open and beyond Finan could see what had to be the king’s castle. It was made of stone, had a wall with walkways patrolled by well armed men and towers with spires that rose high into the air. Winchester appeared a poor monastery compared to Constantine’s home.
There was another unexpected tug and slight stumble on his part as he hadn’t seen Baltair regain control and begin walking through the second gate. Finan wasn’t sure why he was being led toward the castle but was sure nothing good awaited him. They came to a stop before two large, wooden, intricately carved doors that led to the main hall no doubt.
“Lord, what would like me to do with the prisoner?”
Finan kept his outside demeanor nonchalant and tried to appear uninterested. He let his eyes stare off in another direction without really seeing anything as he focused on the conversation that would determine his fate.
Constantine turned to Baltair and then the Irishman. He had almost forgotten the prisoner, his mind had been preoccupied on his next steps during their journey home and then his attention turned toward the grieving widows when they arrived. Their cries and sorrow had driven home the fact that he had lost what should have been an easy victory. That he had lost men for no reason and had likely stoked the flames for continued conflict between him and the boy king Edward. Anger had been simmering since having to cede to that bastard Uthred and it was now boiling over. The need for him to remain calm and kingly was disappearing and he was going to soon be able to react the way he wished.
The king smirked as he saw his captive try to appear uninterested, calm. But he wasn’t fooled, the man was waiting to hear how his life would end. “Put him in the chains. I’ll be down shortly.”