For DARKEST BEFORE DAWN, I'm keeping a record of the scenes I 'cut' - not just from the final draft, but from earlier ones as well. To give you a 'taster' of what's to come, I'll be sharing some of the most interesting bits and pieces from work in progress.
The following scene, which I've cut from the first draft, gives a bit of background to the hero of the story, Maric.
Enjoy!
***
Maric rode up the incline towards the gates of
Bebbanburg. His gaze shifted east, where he could make out the low, rocky
outline of Farne Island, out to sea – and immediately regretted doing so. The
wide seascape, wide swathe of pale sand and dunes brought him swiftly back to
that day, two years earlier, when he had arrived here with Penda.
That day, he had ridden up to Bebbanburg with
joy in his heart and hope for the future. Osulf and Elfhere had ribbed him
mercilessly about his buoyant mood; the rest of them had complained about sore
arses and empty bellies, but he had only noticed the fantastic scenery.
He had been a different man then. Now, he was
aware of his tired limbs, chilled feet and hands, and hunger. Today, the view
merely appeared cold, bleak and lonely. There was no joy in his heart; no hope
for the future.
Maric rode towards the end of the Northumbrian fyrd, well behind the king and his
ealdormen and thegns. He rode with a
small group of Mercian warriors, all of whom were still recovering from their
battle wounds. After a splitting headache for two full days, Maric’s only
injury was the laceration to his upper arm, which had been tended and bound.
Now, seven days later, the scab itched mercilessly as it healed.
Osulf and Elfhere had not travelled north with
him, as Maric would have liked, for they were both too badly injured. Elfhere
had been fighting a raging fever when Maric rode away from the River Winwaed,
and Osulf had lost his injured eye. If they survived their injuries, Maric
would be reunited with them both at Tamworth.
Maric rode into the fort, one of the last to do
so, and followed the tide of men and horses up towards the inner perimeter.
Already, he could hear the shouts of victory, the blasting of horns welcoming
Oswiu and his men home. Folk had gathered on the side of the wide dirt road
leading up to the Great Tower, their cheers deafening. Maric saw the happiness
and pride on their faces and wondered at the scene in Tamworth, when Paeda
arrived home, puppet to a new lord. It would be a much more somber welcome, if
any at all.
Inside the wide stable yard, Maric dismounted,
stretching his legs and back, stiff from a long day in the saddle. Then, he led
his horse – a stocky bay mare who had once belonged to a Mercian ealdorman –
into the large byre that flanked one side of the yard.
Inside, chaos reigned as men and horses jostled
for space. Maric joined the other Mercians at the far end. They were a sober
lot, the look on their faces – a blend of misery and humiliation – reflecting
what he too felt. He unsaddled his horse and rubbed it down, tuning out to the
raucous voices around him. The Northumbrians deserved their victory but he was
in no mood to join them.
The mare began helping herself to mouthfuls of
hay, while Maric took an armful of stale hay from the bottom of the manger and
made a bed for himself at the far end of the stall.
He settled down on to it, sighing in relief,
and trying to ignore his protesting belly. He had not eaten since dawn, and the
smell of roasting mutton that wafted into the byre from the spits opposite,
caused his mouth to fill with saliva.
I will eat
later, he promised himself, once the celebrating
has died down and my gloom does not appear so out of place here.
With that, Maric lay down on his side, the
sweet smell of hay and horses filling his nostrils. Then, he closed his eyes,
blocking out the world, and welcomed the heavy curtain of sleep.
***
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