Amber Treasure, The by Richard Denning

us.
    Cuthbert was a hundred yards
ahead, approaching the fence around the village. Past him, I could now see
figures silhouetted by the fire moving about and I could hear screams of agony
and shouts of panic. What puzzled me was that no one seemed to be trying to put
out the fire: why was no one getting water from the stream to the south and how
was it possible that the whole village could be on fire? We started off again.
    Suddenly, Cuthbert stopped
running and dropped into a crouch. I caught up with him a few moments later and
he turned to me, signalling for silence − one finger moving to his lips.
He then pointed the same, trembling finger, towards the village.
    I peered through the gloom,
squinting to make out details against the glare of fire. Along the main street
of the village, there were shapes lying in the dirt. It took me a moment before
the realisation came to me that these lifeless lumps were the bodies of some of
the village men folk. A number were lying face down in a pool of their own
blood, whilst others looked like rag dolls that some careless child had
discarded and which had landed on a barrel here, or a sack of flour there. The
screams and sobs we had heard were from half a dozen women and as many children,
who were, even now, being rounded up by a mob of dark-haired warriors, who each
carried a spear and a shield: spears which now dripped with the blood of our
own men.
    “Who are they, Cerdic?” Cuthbert
whispered.
    “I’m not sure, but I guess they
are Welsh − from Elmet,” I answered. “They must be a raiding party. It
looks to me like they took the village by surprise.”
    I glanced again at the bodies in
the street, noticing now that some of them had spears and axes lying nearby and
I added, “Mind you, some at least of our men tried to fight.”
    Suddenly, I thought of my family
and I knew that I must get to the Villa. Eduard joined us at that point,
puffing a little he stood and stared at the sight in front of us. Then, a
moment later, he set off towards his hut. I had been right: it was his hut that
was burning so heavily. If he reached the hut, he ... we would be spotted. I
had to stop him! I launched myself forward, knocking him onto his front. He hit
the ground hard, air whooshing out of his lungs.
    “What in the name of Thunor’s
balls ...!” Eduard hissed.
    “Quiet Eduard, we must be quiet
or we will get caught.”
    “Let me go, I’m going to kill the
bastards,” Eduard threatened, as he thrashed about to get free from me. I sat
on him, struggling to hold him down whilst I tried to work out what to do.
Eduard, though, is the strongest man I know and he was beginning to push me off
when I noticed some activity in the village.
    “Stop it, Eduard: look over
there.”
    Three Welsh warriors had rounded
up all the women and children and had tied their wrists behind their backs. Our
people looked miserable and terrified and most were crying. Several of the
women’s clothing had been torn and some were showing their breasts. For a
seventeen-year-old lad that gave me an odd feeling: seeing in the middle of all
this smoke, blood and death that which at another time would have been arousing,
seemed to emphasise the horror of what was going on.
    A scream from a young woman
brought me back to hard reality and I felt ashamed. The Welsh were prodding the
captives with their spear butts and forcing them to begin walking towards us.
One of the young women − I think it was Aidith − had slipped and
fallen and the lead warrior, a tall stocky fellow with hair as black as night
and cold unfeeling eyes, had kicked her and snarled some words in their
outlandish speech. Almost I broke cover, so angry was I at this outrage, but
something held me back.  Common sense or cowardice? I have never been sure.
    Aidith got up slowly, holding her
side and began walking again, towards the setting sun. The others, wailing and
sobbing, followed along behind like sheep afraid of a dog. No wonder they
cried,