THE LAST KING OF MERCIA

THE LAST KING OF MERCIA,  by David Barber, Artwork by Miguel Santos

 

The old king is dying.

Around the death bed

his brood of sons

wait their chance

to seize the crown.

The Witan divided.

Words spoke in secret.

The treasure room keys,

hard glint of silver.

Pouncing on weakness,

Welsh raid the border.

Kinfolk are summoned

to ride with the king.

Only a fool leaves

rivals behind.

Remember the Thanes

not heeding his call.

The duty of kings.

A Welsh treaty made

by arrangement of marriage.

She has no English

and is not comely.

Priests will teach her

to kneel like a Christian.

Feasting his earls

with gifts from the war chest,

the heat of his gold

warming the winter.

More tributes unpaid.

Bards sing of softsword

and men without heirs.

A king needs strong sons.

The Welsh wench is fruitless

for all of his ploughing.

Invited by Churchmen,

he sits like a stone

while they quibble in Latin.

They have a chained book

chronicling the times.

Here is your own name,

the year of your crowning,

then empty parchment

for monks to set down

the deeds of your kingship,

so men may remember.

Raids by the Dane.

Murrains of cattle.

An issue of coin.

Archbishop Eanbert

receiving the pall.

Plans for a meeting

with kings in the North

to settle the border

that came to nothing.

This was the year

the comet-star came,

omen of ill-luck.

The king’s face at table

sours the feast.

A reign of hard blows.

The shield of a kingdom,

heavy to hold.

Like footprints in snow,

our life in this world,

Eanbert tells him.

Have faith in the next.

He dreams of a book

that magically speaks,

struck mute at his touch.

An uncle and brother

lead Danemen against him,

fools to think Danes

will honour that pact.

Summoned to arms,

men keep to their burghs,

awaiting a victor.

Out of a snow storm

comes the shield wall,

a forest of spears,

their war horns rejoicing

how few the warriors

sworn to die with him.

This nameless field

where it all ends.

Fearsome the king

embracing his death,

none can withstand him.

A harvest of foes

reaped by his sword.

Oath-sworn, his men

sell their lives dear,

but Danes are too many,

from all sides their spears

strike down a king.

Snow writ with footprints

like letters in blood.

A page freshly turned

that waits his last word.

________________________________________

David Barber lives anonymously in the UK. His ambition is to continue doing both these things.

Miguel Santos is a freelance illustrator and maker of Comics living in Portugal.  His artwork has appeared in numerous issues of Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, as well as in the Heroic Fantasy Quarterly Best-of Volume 2.  More of his work can be seen at his online portfolio and his instagram.