The Tax Gatherer (Part one)

Osulf peered into the darkness, straining his eyes trying to penetrate the thick velvet curtain. It was no use; the darkness was eternal, and the moon, cruel mistress, had forsaken him. The rain did not help his plight, lashing against his face and hair, soaking his dark cloak and freezing his mail, biting into his tunic underneath to chill his sodden bones. Rain, like tears, fell from his cheeks. Fate knew what he planned, and she was not making it easy. The forest was thick, the trees were nothing more than skeletons’ shadows now in the gloom, yet when he and his retainers had entered they had been glorious giants, standing in the splendour of their own colours and scoffing at the tiny men who wove their way between their legs. Osulf listened to the rain hitting the leaves, sliding along them and elegantly diving off the soft sides to the floor. His warriors waited in grim silence, hoping the town lay close; otherwise they would be stranded in the dismal forest until morn, where they would be discovered and butchered. None carried shields, they needed speed and surprise tonight, and they would only have hampered their progress. They had painted their skin black with mud and charcoal, so as to be one with the shadows that engulfed them. They crept forward stealthily, wind among the trees, a full body of armed killers, but also a whisper.

Praying fiercely that his guess was correct; Osulf led his men further into the rain soaked shadows, brushing aside leafy barricades as softly as he could, his feet squelching and sinking into the mud. At his hip lay his sword, Wulfrun, and his seax Ceolwærc, a gift from his uncle before he had gone south, before the Bastard came. She reminded him of better times. She was a beautiful specimen; with a wonderfully carved handle, ethereal in hue, with a blade so sharp and keen that she would slice any man’s heart, any foe’s flesh. He had played with her a little, but never yet had the pleasure of her company on a night such as this. Though his mind wandered as he walked, it kept pace with the task at hand, always listening, searching for signs of life, for signs that they were closing in on Newburn.  

 Eventually noise drifted to them. Not the voices of the forest, the spirits and animals which dwelt there, but the noise of man. In the dark silence it came almost as a relief to hear the sound of one of their own. To be in these woods at this hour, unable to speak to your comrades or utter a sound, was to be within you own head; looking at your own soul. Listening to you own demons in the dark.
The shadow warriors gripped to the noise like a drowning man a float in the storm, they aimed for it, twisted their bodies towards it like flowers in the sunlight. Pace by slow pace, they crawled to the sound of life. Human life, such a comfort to them in this dark place, the shadow world where the spirits of the dead watched, the ice fingers of the otherworld snatched at your skin, colder than the rain which fell, lasting. A comfort to keep them moving, to keep their spirits up; they imagined the roaring fires, the free flowing ale, the smell of the roasted meat, the taste, all captured in the wisps of echoes which reached them now. Such a comfort between these looming giants, lumbering shades which sucked up all sound and joy and left them in this chilling void; a comfort, a voice, a life that they would soon make as silent as the path they tread towards it.

With every step Osulf’s feet sank further into the mud; each step became an effort, an immense battle to free his foot from the vice like grip yet to keep from stumbling, from showing his tiredness to his command, from making a sound that could betray them. His mind grew heavy with the weight of his limbs, and he thought to how he had come to be standing in this bog of a forest.

He couldn’t really remember the death of his father. Even now Eadulf’s demise was a controversial topic, as was the identity of his killer. Osulf had only been young when it happened, so his memory was hazy at best, and even if it were pristine his political knowledge had been next to nothing. He trusted his uncle’s word though, and his uncle swore that it had been Siward who had done the deed. Nevertheless, It had happened, the head of Bamburgh was removed and the body slumped to its knees. Cnut appointed Siward as earl, and the family’s power had diminished.

The thought of his uncle was sometimes enough to bring Osulf to tears, though he could never release them. Never. And certainly not tonight, tonight was too important for tears, for even the thought of tears. Even so his heart sighed at the memory of his uncle, for he had been old enough to comprehend politics, and certainly murder when his life was extinguished. This understanding brought him more sorrow than his own father’s; it did not ease the pain, nor the burden which passed to him following the murder.

Tostig had followed Siward, and never had such a treacherous cur walked in the guise of a man, especially not from such an esteemed family. The apple had rotted long before it fell in Tostig’s case, thought Osulf. His rule had crippled Northumbria; the Scots invaded regularly, and because Tostig was friends with their king he did nothing to defend the poor who were forced to watch their women taken, their sons slaughtered and their meagre treasures stolen. His taxes crushed the people, and anyone who protested was slaughtered for treason. Prominent noblemen began to disappear, as did wealthy merchants from York, and the men of Bamburgh knew that it was only a matter of time before the swords came glinting for them in the moonlight.