Almost all the village sit circled around the bar. Elswith stands atop the counter.

“Aethelred, my lad, get a chair. Same for you Berthold.” The two teenagers swing chairs into the space in front of the bar. A couple large men slam Alwin into one chair and Godwine into the other. They sit face to face, the locals of Houe watching them intently.

“Now, this is a court of justice, witnessed by Elderman Jedbert and all members village, albeit drunk, will act as jury. Elderman Jedbert, please proceed.” Elswith says, nodding towards an elderly man. He uses a large stick to push himself upwards into a barely standing position.

In a croaky voice, he reads, “These two men… Aldin?”

“Ehm, Alwin, sir.” Alwin says.

“Alwin, Alwin. Yes. Alwin and Goddin.”

Godwine screws his face at the old man.

“These two young men were found fighting, with swords, outside the tavern, on an evening of great remembrance and celebration for the heroic actions of the late Pendraic.”

The crowd mutters ‘here here’, with some raising their cup in respect.

“Alwin was found with his sword drawn at Godweed, er no, Goodwith? Who seemed to not only be on the verge of tears, but immensely overpowered by Alwin and, to be honest, being a right ass.”

Godwine frowns.

Alwin and the townsfolk chuckle.

“I will allow each defendant to debate their case. Godpine, you will start.”

Godwine shakes his head. “Godwine, sir. My name’s Godwine-“

“Oh just shut up you swine!”, Jedbert says, whipping Godwine’s legs with his stick. The crowd cheer.

Godwine shuffles in an uncomfortable disgruntlement. He clears his throat.

“I, Godwine of Sussex, was tasked to deliver a message on behalf of King Osmund, to… congratulate Pendraic’s family on his heroics and offer them a royal visit! Then, out of nowhere, this madman attempted to mug me. Out of nowhere, I say!” He jabs his wiry finger in Alwin’s direction.

The crowd murmur.

They wait.

And wait.

“Is that all, Godwine?’ says Elswith.

“Well, yes.”

The crowd murmur once more.

“Alwin, please make your case.” She sits down with her arms folded.

Alwin stands. The females in the crowd let out a swoon.

“I arrived in Houe this afternoon with one clear goal.” he says, turning to face the crowd.

“I am here to investigate the Mercian attack that sadly took the life of Pendraic, your husband and hero. I have grounds to believe Godwine, who is loyal to King Osmund, arrived here with intent to not only murder landlady Elswith, but to also take the innocent lives of young Berthold and Aethelred.”

The crowd break out in outrage at such an idea.

“Settle down everyone. Settle down. I’d like to hear more about this claim. Please proceed, Alwin.” Elswith says. The crowd settles.

“Thankyou.” Alwin says, nodding his head to Elswith.

“Godwine, like myself, works as a messenger for his King. I am aware of this fact as I have done dealings with various lords and ladies who have mentioned a ‘Godwine’ before, usually in times of strong critique, especially from dissatisfied ladies.”

The crowd laugh.

“Messengers must remain unarmed in deliverance of messages, as although we have weaponry at our disposal, it may only be saved for wartime encounters. Why would someone delivering a message of goodwill be hooded, with a sword drawn and peering through a window?”

Various responses of agreement spray out from the crowd.

“I concede for the floor to your lady.” He strolls back to his chair and sits.

“Very well. We will take a vote. Everyone line up and tell me who you believe to be guilty.”

One by one, local drunkards line up and approach Elswith, delivering their vote. Alwin looks Godwine up and down. He was a weak looking man of little proportion. He has long gangly brown hair that resembled twigs in a soggy forest, clumped together by rain and mud. He fiddles with his belt strap.

The local maidens join a queue built solely to meet Alwin, adjusting their hair and plumping their breasts.

“Hi.” A smaller maiden says in a quiet tone.

“Hello.” Alwin replies, smiling warmly back at her.

This lady is particularly interesting. She has black hair and almost black eyes that are complimented by a soft chocolate brown undertone. Her skin was of a slight olive, and her eyes slanted in a way that was neither Anglo, Saxon or European for that matter. Alwin is well-versed in world knowledge thanks to Aurelius. A former Roman Legionary, Aurelius had seen plenty lands far and wide, amassing not only equipment, but also maps and thus, knowledge. Alwin has heard countless tales of unusual peoples with unusual customs.

“Where you are from, lady?”

 She glances in an instant. She pauses before speaking. “Truthfully, I don’t know.”

Alwin takes a moment to analyse the girls face. She blushes some more, his gaze intrinsic, scanning every inch, every blemish, every freckle.

The girl investigates Alwin’s dark blue eyes in return.

“They all assume me to be, well, of a disturbed lineage. A cursed soul damned for eternity. Devil spawn.”

Her eloquent tone was surprisingly noble. Her freckles seemed to pop out, as if to remind onlookers of her beauty, should they get lost in her dark brown eyes. Alwin looked around at the room. It did seem that this girl had a certain aura, with locals keeping an extra inch of distance between themselves and her. Their glances at her seemed uncertain, as if they reluctantly accepted to breath the same air as her.

“Alright everyone, gather round please.” Elswith says.

Bodies of excited locals cross between Alwin and the girl. Her eyes remain on Alwin.

“The vote is in, and to no one’s surprise, Alwin is found to be not guilty.”

The crowd cheer in a mixture of celebration and laughter.

“Alwin must now defeat Godwine in 1 to 1 combat.”

The cheers stop in an instant.

“Combat?” Godwine raises his head from his hands.

Alwin walks from left to right, sizing up his selection of weapons which lay on a makeshift carpet upon the mud before him. Rain begins to fall, turning the mud into a swampy sludge. The crowds gather round, slipping and sliding their way into a square shaped ring.  

The axe. Quick, easy to use, lacks defensive abilities.

Godwine stands across from Alwin. He has already chosen a longsword, which he swings around, fuelling the crowd to raise their energy. His expression looks peculiar, as if a new life has been given to him. His weak gangly build transforms into a wild coyote of unpredictable. Perhaps he thinks this is his chance to save a disastrous situation. He can go back to Osmund with a success, with a kill on his resume. He weaves his shoulders from side to side and cracks the stiff joints in his neck.

Alwin looks back down. The longsword is tempting. A true duel of equal manner, but he knows all too well not to fight fire with fire. He wants to be awkward for his opponent. A longsword would be too predictable.

He moves on to the dual daggers. The fastest choice by far, but least damaging. It would take plenty of attacks to topple Godwine in this seemingly wild mood of his. He picks up the dual daggers, rousing a chorus of grimaces and chuckles from disbelieving onlookers. Bets are being whispered amongst them, with Godwine now the favoured. His ominous longsword and infectious sudden passion bursting a wave of belief in the slight man.

Alwin was by far the favourite before the mock court case, but now, it was clear to everyone that Godwine could see blood. It was starting to make sense to Alwin why Godwine was entrusted with such a task. He had that thirst for blood in him, it just needed to be activated.

Alwin spins his daggers as he starts to walk around the perimeter of the circle formed by the raucous drunkards. Godwine stands breathing in the centre of the circle, his eyes transfixed on Alwin’s head. Each breath increases in speed, matching his growing internal rage. Alwin spots the girl in the crowd. Alwin smiles. He had to win this. That girl was interesting enough.

Alwin makes his move.

He fakes an attack, baiting Godwine into a violent swing forward that causes him to slip, but not enough for him to fall.

Godwine roars. The crowd roar back. He wants blood. The crowd wants blood.

Before long, the crowd chant his name. His breaths become quicker and quicker. His hands trembling in unconscious fury.

Alwin stops. He waits with the daggers now behind his back and with a small grin.

“Get him, Godwine! He’s mocking you!” a voice shouts from the crowd.

Again, he chops his longsword downwards at Alwin and this time, he connects. A cut bleeds on the right side of Alwin’s cheek. A small slice, yet one that fuels Godwine’s confidence tenfold.

The crowd roar again. Godwine roars again.

“I WILL KILL YOU! I WILL!”

Alwin walks around the perimeter whilst Godwine yanks his now bloodied sword out of the wet mud once more. Alwin’s expression becomes stern. Godwine had a taste.

“I WILL TAKE YOUR LIFE!” Godwine screams.

He swings once more.

But this time, Alwin is the one who hits.

One dagger, stabbed into Goodwine’s abdomen. The other dagger, instantly dispatched into his back.

The crowd falls silent.

Alwin grabs both daggers in tandem, sliding them out of their fresh fleshy crevices. The noise of skin being carved is now the only sound to be heard. He begins to twirl, slicing and stabbing his way around the pain frozen Godwine’s body. He spins. He slices. He weaves. Both his hands work in a choreographed cleaving of devastating precision.

Godwine’s disastrous screams are surrounded by a deathly silence.

Yet Alwin does not stop.

He stabs and grabs the daggers, unleashing a rapid rapture of damage, tearing apart the limbs and ligaments of his unfortunate prey.

He doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t stop.

Until Godwine’s carcass falls.

Alwin breathes deeply, entranced in a flow state of relentless punishment. His eyes are almost shut. His hands, red from intense grip. He lets out a large outtake of breath and drops the daggers.

…

“MONSTER!”

Alwin climbs onto his horse, a scrap of bread in his mouth and his hood up. The crowd have all since returned to their homes. No one person said anything to Alwin, nor acknowledged him. He was, to them, a monster. A danger.  Elswith hastily dragged Godwine’s barely alive body into the tavern. Alwin’s attack were brutal, but surface level. He made sure not to kill Godwine.

The young Aethelred looks out of the tavern window at Alwin, a mix of disgust and awe upon his face. Alwin glances at him. Aethelred quickly scurries away.

The scar on his cheek stings. His first ever wound from battle. He kicks his feet on his horse backside and begins his slow trot away from the village.

“Hey, wait.”

Alwin continues.

“Hey!”

Alwin stops. He adjusts his gaze.

“Oh. You.”

The girl stands, soggy.

She doesn’t speak. She just stares.

“It’s best for you to stay away from me.” Alwin begins to turn.

Rain falls. She is unmoved.

Alwin looks at her. “You’re soaked.”

An aggrieved frown dominates his once charming face.

She walks towards him and starts petting his horse.

“It’s okay, Alwin.”

His grip loosens.