The sun blazed high over the square outside Sedgebury's meadhall as Osythe, Óswine, and a growing crowd of witnesses gathered to see the duel. Only three paces from the meadhall's doors, a dueling-cloak had been spread over the stones of the path. It was worn from the feet of many disputing warriors; the color, once a rich scarlet, had faded over the generations.
In spite of his recent illness, Léofric Thane had risen from his bed to preside over the dispute. The blue mantle draped over his shoulders and the neat braids of his long white beard did little to hide the frailty which had eroded his strength over the years. His daughter-in-law Wulfthryth, the wife of his eldest son Léofred, stood behind him; her face was a stoic mask. Her hand rested on his shoulder, ostensibly as a show of loyalty, but all of Sedgebury—having heard of the Thane's illness—knew she stood to steady him.
As Óswine approached, the whispering throng parted to make way for him. Armed with sword and shield, he had left his mail left behind as per the terms of the duel, yet he wore his embroidered tunic and half-smile better than any armor.
Clearing his throat, the Thane lifted his head and looked to Osythe, then to his son. "Before your grievance can be settled, there are matters of importance which we must address. Do you both understand what has brought you here?"
Óswine didn't even wait for her to speak. "An insult," he said, turning his cold eyes toward Osythe. "Father, this wealh has wielded her venomous words in an attempt to make a mockery of me." Husbands turned to their wives and sisters turned to brothers as the crowd began to whisper once more. "And what was the nature of this insult?" The Thane's voice was thin, so Wulfthryth repeated his words in her clear contralto.
From behind Osythe, Alweard raised his voice: "I believe the word was 'swine.'" The corners of his mouth twitched, threatening to draw upwards into a smile.
"It should have been a lethal offense," Óswine said, "but I am generous and wish not to see a woman killed."
“I am no wealh,” Osythe stated firmly. “I possess not their false tongues, and being an Eorling woman of honest stock, I spoke only the truth.” She made no attempt to hide the wicked smirk at her lips, nor her delight in the man’s offense. “Or should I rather gaze upon a pig and call it ‘man’?”
"Once again, this woman seeks to dishonor me." Óswine's lip curled as he spoke. "It seems you are just as short in insults as you are in stature, whelp."
The crowd began to murmur at their exchange, only to be interrupted by Léofric. "Silence!" If the Thane had intended to shout, his cry emerged as more of an aspirated sigh. "I did not call you all here to bicker and whisper among yourselves. We are here for one purpose, and one purpose only: to see justice fulfilled in accordance with the terms of those ancient laws of Eorl." He looked to Osythe. "What is your name?"
“Osythe, daughter of Cadda,” she said. Despite her height, she bore herself well even under the burh’s many eyes. Her spine was straight; her head held high and arrogant; the shield upon her arm her father’s before her.
"So it is Osythe, daughter of Cadda, who wishes to challenge my son," the Thane said wearily. "Very well." Turning to address the two challengers, he said, "I trust that you two know the terms of the duel, but for the sake of justice, I must repeat them. Five times shall you circle the cloak. When you raise your blades, you shall not leave it until blood is drawn; to step off the cloak is to forfeit. Osythe, you will strike first; then my son Óswine may strike. The first to draw blood shall be the victor. I will have no blood on my hands today."
"I understand, Father." Though he spoke to Léofric, Óswine's gaze never strayed from Osythe as he began to pace around the cloak. "I would promise not to bruise your hide too badly, but you are a soft creature as all maids are. After all, it would be futile to try not to bruise a peach as it strikes the ground.”
She gave a bright and raucous laugh at that—her own tunic, unadorned save by the leather belt at her waist, did little to soften the hard angles of her body beneath it. Osythe matched his steps, slow but ready. She eyed him as the wolf watches his prey, waiting for the perfect moment to leap. Then, quick as an adder, she thrust toward his face. A braided lock fell free from his beard as her blade passed down in an attempt to his leading leg.
Blading his body, Óswine quickly swept his leg out of the way of her blade. He saw the opening made by her low slash and stepped forward into her guard, his sword flashing in the sun as its wicked blade swung toward her right shoulder. Yet Osythe raised her shield against his blow and lunged, wasting no time in sweeping her blade toward his inner thigh. His shield was little use against her cunning attack; the shieldmaiden’s blade sliced his leg and drew blood.
As hot blood stained Óswine’s breeches red, a chorus of gasps and cries arose from the crowd. Among them, Alweard was quick to see his friend’s duel come to an end. “Léofric Thane, do you see your son’s blood?”
“Hold!” said the Thane. “It is decided.”
Osythe stepped back, the defiant smirk at her lips threatening to grow into a wild grin. “I hope I have not marred your hide too gravely,” she stated, loud enough for those nearby to hear her boast. “For you have indeed proven a soft creature, Óswine, as all maids are.”
“Insult me again,” Óswine growled, “and I’ll give you a gash to match mine.”
“That’s enough, Óswine!” Wulfthryth’s eyes were gray with anger as she glared at them both. “Enough blood has been shed today. Save your blades for the barbarians outside our walls.”
Osythe sheathed her sword, bowing her head respectfully to the Thane and Wulfthryth, though she gave Óswine no such honor. Óswine did not bow to her either. Instead, he turned on his heel and began to stalk off, pushing his way through the crowd as he went.
Wulfthryth frowned as she watched him go. “I will talk some sense into my good-brother,” she said, her mouth drawn into a thin, tight line. She nodded to Osythe and bowed her head to the Thane before taking off after Óswine.
As the veil of ceremony was suddenly lifted from the gathering, Osythe stretched idly. Her stride as she went to join Alweard in the dispersing crowd was almost jaunty, her grin at last in full bloom. He answered her grin with a wry smile of his own and clapped her on the shoulder. “You fought well, shield-sister ... as I knew you would,” he said.
“I expected him to last longer,” she remarked. “The man is too heavy on his feet. It has been so long since I fought a duel so proper—nay, so lenient...”
“He is not young,” Alweard said softly, “and I think he underestimated you.” He shook his head. “Not all duels are fought over mortal injuries. It is better that way.”
“Aye, when the enemy lurks beyond the walls, certainly. Death is better spent in battle.”
“Indeed.” He glanced over his shoulder, watching the Thane’s own family help him back into his hall, before looking back at her. “I thought we were supposed to make allies, not enemies,” he teased.
Osythe snorted. “They require our aid whether they like us or not,” she said flippantly. “I care little for the feelings of thin-skinned boys in the shape of men. They shall suffer my presence for as long as they require the help it brings.”
A gentle laugh escaped Alweard as he shook his head again in a vain attempt to hide the curve of his smile. “You are right,” he conceded, “though I have no doubt that they will grumble with each step they must take alongside you.”
This story was written as collaboration between Osythe and myself.
