A fierce wind whips through the forest. A yellow moon hangs low in the autumn sky. Its light casts long shadows that creep like fingers from the trees, reaching past empty furrows, stretching over raked fields, and climbing across huts and stables till they reach a great hall, thatched and timbered. Cracks of firelight wreath its grand and imposing door, guarding a tumult of bawdy voices within. But outside the night is cold and tense, poised on the edge of a knife.

“Come out ya bastard!” cries Cyneheard.

Nearly eighty men crowd behind him, swords and axes glinting in the moonlight. The raucous voices inside fall silent. Cyneheard holds his breath. 

The door slams open. Cynewulf, King of Wessex, strides out naked as a newborn hog. He grips a sword that overawes his limp sausage.

“Who the heck–”

“Remember me, you codswallowing arsewipe?”

Cynewulf’s eyes adjust to the darkness, widening in brief bewilderment at the presence of so much iron. Then the wind pricks his skin and stirs his mead-mellowed mind to waking.

“If it isn’t crud-for-brains Cyneheard. I should’ve made sure you were dead after killing your brother.”

The King doesn’t wait for reaction. He charges the assembled melee, sword held high, his pale spectral form presaging the ghost he’ll remain for eternity. But Cyneheard is ready. With a roar, he and the men behind him rush the King. Iron meets flesh. The first man to reach Cynewulf falls to the ground, hot blood spattering the King like rain. Within seconds, the remaining men surround Cynewulf, striking out, rending bloody gashes on his hale figure. But Cynewulf and Cyneheard only have eyes for each other. As they lock swords, the other men fall back.

“You shoulda brought more men. These bastards couldn’t kill a cow.”

“Stuck you easy enough. They’ll stick the heifer you got inside too.”

Cynewulf sneers as his strength wanes. “Eawynn’s no cow. She’s got the spirit of a wolf. You’ll see.”

“Mutt, cow, we’ll take her just the same,” Cyneheard spits, sinking his blade between Cynewulf’s ribs. The King gasps and gurgles, his lungs filling with blood as he falls wide-eyed to the ground. Cyneheard steps back, pulling the warm blade free as the King’s blood showers his hands.

But the battle has just begun. Cynewulf’s retainers now rush from the hall, weapons raised to avenge their King. They are just under a score, but among the best in Wessex. Though unprepared for the fight, these men have no fear and close fast in combat; Vengeance and valor drive them, coloring their vision and heightening their fury. Cyneheard’s sword catches the savage stroke of an axe but many of the men with him are caught off guard by this unbridled ferocity. Three or four fall at once to vicious blows.

Axes and swords cut the air as they hunt for flesh. Hands grapple, tug at jerkins, close on throats. Skilled fighters fall to young men, cut down from behind while locked in battle with another. Blood paints weapons, cloaks, and skin as butchered bodies steam in the icy air. Men curse as they swing their blades. Blows come without warning. The night is alive with men seeking death.

But Cyneheard has the numbers. The King’s retainers die one by one, taking at least as many with them to the arms of Death. Soon they all lay slain, tangled corpses that glow in the moonlight.

After the last man falls, Cyneheard stands among the corpses, blood pulsing with the thrill of battle, of victory, of a long sought revenge. Men wipe their swords on the bodies of his foes as they pant with exhaustion. A few wrap small wounds while others tend to the gravely injured. Cyneheard looks past them toward the entrance of the hall, glowing from an unseen fire within. There’s one more to kill.

A few men have already entered to see if any retainers remain. Cyneheard joins them, stricken instantly by the splendor of the place. It’s not the most sumptuous hall he’s seen, but after nearly three decades in exile, it seems to radiate luxury. Not since the days of his brother’s kingship has he gazed upon such magnificent gilt plate, lavishly carved furnishings, and richly woven hangings. A half-consumed feast is laid out on a massive table. A dozen seats have been knocked from it in confused desperation. Wine drips from a toppled pitcher to form a red puddle on the floor. 

“We got the mutt!”

Cyneheard turns to see a naked woman pulled by two men into the firelight, her clenched fists flailing in their arms. She’d been hiding in a back room where Cynewulf had bedded her.

“You must be Eawynn,” he says with a wry smile as they drag her closer. 

She spits, the slime dripping down his leather vest. With a hand still caked in Cynewulf’s blood, Cyneheard wipes it and smears his filthy palm across her freckled face.

“Do with her as you will.”

He turns to examine the room’s finery. One of the men pushes her against the table. Then, a scream. Cyneheard whirls round to see the man holding his throat, blood spurting between his fingers. In Eawynn’s hand is a small dagger she’d concealed in her fist. As she backs away, the other man pulls out a long dagger of his own and steps towards her.

She shakes her head. “Poison,” she warns, holding the knife out before her, the dying man’s blood dripping down her chest. “One cut and you’ll die in agony no matter what you do to me.”

The man stops short and looks to Cyneheard. But Cyneheard only laughs.

“Conniving hag. You’ll never see the sun again.”

“I don’t intend to. But then, neither will you.”

Cyneheard laughs harder. “You think you can take me? Poison or no, I’ll kill you faster than a cow in Blod-Monath.”

Now it’s Eawynn’s turn to laugh, eyes wide and unblinking. “No, I imagine you will. But Cynewulf’s men will come for you. Even now, word will be spreading that the King of Wessex has been murdered,” she says, nodding toward the back of the hall. A small door leading toward the stables has been left ajar. 

Cyneheard smiles, “And? With Cynewulf dead, I am King through my brother’s right.”

“You think men of Wessex will respect a traitor? You killed their beloved King, the man who defended us from the Mercians, the man who spared us tyranny at the hands of your murderous, unfit brother. Cynewulf’s thegns will come and cut you down.”

“Let them try.”

He raises his sword and knocks her knife aside. With one quick stroke, Cyneheard slits her throat. She crumples to the floor but makes no move to staunch the wound. As blood gurgles in her throat, she laughs, looking up at him with sanguine smile until the last light leaves her unblinking eyes. Cyneheard stands over the dead woman and spits disdainfully. “More like a pup than a wolf.”

His retainer stands uncertainly. Eawynn’s blood pools around his boots, mixing with that of the other man’s, now dead. “She could be right sir. We should retreat, gather more men to claim the throne.”

Cyneheard glares. “We have men enough here. It’s my throne by right. The people of Wessex will rally to my sword.”

The rest of the men now file into the hall and witness the morbid scene: the woman’s pale lifeless body, their dead comrade beside her, an abandoned banquet still set upon the table. No one makes a sound. Cyneheard turns to them and spreads his arms, blood-drenched sword in hand.

“My brothers, welcome to the victory feast! We have vanquished our enemies. We have secured my right to the throne. Tonight we dine on the food of our foes and celebrate the glory that God has granted me.”

Bolstered, the men turn from the bloody mess and roar. They storm the table, trampling the dead in their hurry. Soon they are drinking, eating, and carousing, the recent carnage a distant memory.

As the feast subsides, each man finds a space in the hall to lay their head. Cyneheard sets a watch, posting two retainers outside. While the exhausted men sleep, he pours wine into a goblet and sits before the fire, brooding over his victory.

He’s longed for this night for nearly thirty years. Cynewulf had started this feud, convincing the council to depose and then kill his brother, the rightful King Sigeberht. When Cynewulf took the throne, Cyneheard had to flee, living on the run till he’d found men to back his claim in exchange for future spoils. It’s been twenty-nine years since those days of treachery, twenty-nine years he’s spent waiting for revenge.

In silence, he stares into the flickering flames, now lost in thought. The wind begins to howl as it blows through the surrounding woods. It whistles through cracks in the hall, timbers creaking and groaning. Slowly the fire dies in the hearth. Outside, animals of the night hoot and call, rustle and slither, hunting their prey in the undergrowth. In the darkness, every sound can be an enemy, a predator, a hunter come for a meal only found in death. 

But as dawn begins to break and the wind begins to slow, Cyneheard hears other sounds. At first it’s faint, a patter here, a murmur there. Then comes the light swish of leather, a slight clink of iron. Soon it’s clear. There are men, many men, assembling outside the hall.

He whistles for his watch. There’s no answer. He begins to shake men awake one by one, motioning them to be quiet, to prepare for battle. As the men ready themselves, concern in their eyes, he knows he has to speak, to appeal to those outside as rightful King.

He goes to the main door and shouts through it, “I hear you men of Wessex, come to avenge the usurper Cynewulf. I respect your loyalty. You have been steadfast in your service. But I am your King by right! Lay down your arms and join me in triumph at my coronation.”

Cyneheard waits by the door, listening for response. But all he hears is the wind, still sighing through the trees. He begins again.

“The men gathered here must be great warriors, men I’d be proud to have by my side as loyal thegns and even ealdormen. After I am crowned, I will give every man here a grant of land according to his status. Together we will make Wessex the envy of all Britain.”

Again, he listens. Again, all he hears is the wind. He turns to look back at the men now gathered in the middle of the hall. They are stiff, prepared for battle, but fear lights their eyes. There’s no telling how many men are out there.

He turns to the door and shouts again, backing away, “We have gold and silver! Precious jewels and magnificent carvings! All can be yours without a fight, and more after I am crowned.”

Silence again, stretching with the dawn as it creeps across the clearing. Then, a voice speaks.

“Save your bribes, your pleas, your worthless tribute, traitor. We will never serve the man who slayed our King.”

With that, the morning silence shatters. Cries of wrath and rage engulf the hall as hundreds of men rush toward the building. Axes beat, swords smash, and spears rail against the walls, then the frame, then the doors. As the wood begins to splinter and the early glow of dawn shines through the cracks, Cyneheard knows the truth. This night of vengeance has been his last.