Traveller Inceptio

As he walked with Eadric and the monks, Michael meditatively grasped his amulets as his thoughts again returned to the enigma of Tatae. Afraid he would offend the monks, he couldn’t permit them to see the amulets he wore out of respect for the givers: Yffi as a hunter and creature of the forest and Tatae as the keeper of women’s lore. He had to admit, with more than a little surprise, he actually felt very strongly about Tatae, something his reports could never reveal.

But was it love or just an infatuation?

Tatae had explained how, together, the amulets were of rare significance and would lend protection to the wearer, as well as those who had given them. She insisted that Michael was a balance of the old gods and goddesses, of male fire and female water. To her it was a rare and terribly potent combination. The irony was that the monks believed Michael was their angelic champion and a champion of their faith. How could life ever have become so complex?

The previous day, as they walked through the forest and the afternoon faded to twilight, Tatae had explained, “That place where we were is a sacred place. It is only known to those of us who follow the Goddesses and is a place to commune with them.”

“I like your kind of communing.” Tatae laughed and then frowned at him. “My Lord Michael, not all sacred rights are dull and serious. The act of love is a beautiful, sacred rite and is an old way to commune with the goddesses.” She paused to look around at the dense forest that surrounded them. “There are many sacred places close by. Some are for men, some for women, and each is a place where the Gods and Goddesses demand their price.” She looked at Michael and gave a small smile. “My mother showed me that lovely place when I was a child. She was a keeper of the sacred ways, as were her mothers before her, as long as there have been people in this forest.” She stared at him with her yellow-eyed look, as if looking for a confirmation, then frowned a small frown, gave a wry smile and continued. “My foremothers were powerful in their communities, for they guided the ancient worship of the old Gods long before the Christian monks brought their ways.” They watched squirrels chase each other along the boughs of a great oak. “I respect the monks; I do. Especially Brother Aldfrid. He is a spiritual man. But he doesn’t trust me or my ways. He once told me that the people of Giolgrave couldn’t follow his ways and the ways of my mothers, that they couldn’t serve two masters. The monks only desire my knowledge of the forest and the ways of healing.” She gave a sad shrug, “They’ll never know what I know, for to know what I know, they must follow the Goddesses. Those poor, silly men,” she murmured and she shook her head in pity.

They walked closer to the village, hand in hand, and then parted with a kiss. Tatae’s golden eyes shone brightly. She smiled and skipped like a girl as she went on her way. He watched her go, entranced.

It seemed no matter how hard he tried, Michael was drawn deeper and deeper into the Saxon world, a complex world of beliefs, both old and new, Christian and heathen. Each had binding obligations. He looked to the monks who walked silently behind him, and then to Eadric. They recognised his brooding silence and wisely let him be.

Despite his apparent frailty, Brother Oeric, as senior member of the party in age, and as the most highly ranked by the monastery, kept a brisk pace. He had insisted on being part of the party. As the one who had found Michael in the forest and guided him to the village, the small monk would not be denied.

Brother Horsa was the second monk in their group. The keen scholar was likely to add the most assistance in times of fatigue and hunger through his knowledge of the natural remedies in the forest and fields. He told Michael he was desirous to speak with one of the brothers at Snotengaham, a renowned scholar in healing the sick and comforting the afflicted. If the rumours of the Viking advance were correct, his skills would be sorely needed.

The third monk was a young man newly accepted into the Order. Brother Tondbert was an eager lad of about eighteen years. Tall and thin, he had a protruding, hooked nose, bulging eyes, and Adam’s apple that, together, reminded Michael of a stork. The unfortunate-looking lad appeared to find the company of Michael close to religious ecstasy and he soon found Brother Tondbert staring at him for prolonged periods or rushing to assist where possible. Michael appealed to the other two monks to keep Brother Tondbert busy so he wouldn’t become an aggravation.

As Michael looked at his fellow travellers, Brother Tondbert felt eyes upon him and looked up to beam a googly-eyed, crooked-toothed smile. Michael begrudgingly smiled in return and felt his mood lighten.

They travelled by foot. The villagers didn’t possess enough horses to spare and Godric advised that to travel by horse would only attract attention. The thegn suggested they maintain a low profile to avoid tempting any brigands who might be about the countryside.

Brother Oeric set the walking pace and they travelled with the minimum of delays. The forest around Giolgrave was still dense and could provide ample cover for an ambush, so Michael stressed that Eadric be ever vigilant. As the forest thinned to stands of beech, Michael finally broke his silence to speak with the budding warrior. He asked him of his hopes and dreams and what he expected to achieve in life. It shouldn’t have surprised that the lad’s aspirations appeared little different from the average 21st Century seventeen-year-old, being essentially to get laid and become famous.

They chatted quietly about their childhoods in the country. Eadric would never know how different those childhoods could be, but Michael discussed similarities: walking in the fields and camping under shelter from the rain. Michael couldn’t compare the hard, brown land of his childhood to Saxon England, though Eadric soon relaxed and he found the thegn’s son was a lad easy to like.

“A few years ago I had a pet ferret,” explained Eadric. “I called her Flea, as I found her covered with fleas when me and a couple of the lads raided the ferret nest. Two of the other pups was dead, so we thought the pup’s ma musta been caught by a hawk or a fox. So I took Flea and cared for her, and soon she treated me like I was her ma.

“When I called her, I would make this noise.” Eadric pursed his lips and made a squeaking noise as one would make when blowing a kiss. “Flea would come to me and I would feed her some rabbit. I taught her how to chase rabbits as I made a ball of rabbit fur and she would run at it and bite it. She was a grand little hunter and she would sit on my shoulder. The lads and I planned that, with Flea, we would have plenty of rabbits to eat. She were grand.” Eadric smiled at the memory as his eyes shone.

“Finally, when she was ready, me and my brother Saba, and the lads, took Flea to a place where we knew there were rabbits. We took her and placed her at the rabbit hole and she caught the scent. Her pink nose wiggled and I let her go, and down the hole she went: like brown, shiny water she was. After some moments, I called her, but nothing. I called her again and nothing.

“I sat all morning making that noise till I could make it no longer. Even my mates all tried. By the time we got back to home, our lips were all tired and me ma and da almost pissed themselves laughing.”

The entire group laughed at the tale, chuckling together as they walked. Michael gave Eadric a friendly slap on the shoulder.

The forest eventually gave way to scrubland and heather as the route took in hills with steep gorges that displayed the yellow rocks that gave Giolgrave its name, for Giolgrave meant ‘yellow rock’. Led by Horsa, who knew the road, they made their way north and crossed the Hlada-kill, a crystal-clear river that Brother Horsa said was fed by springs from deep within the earth. Horsa described how the river rushed from a cave. They found it so clear they could easily see fish, even in the deepest waters. They crossed at a shallow gravel bank where they could hop from rock to rock, so avoiding wetting their feet. Limestone cliffs made for spectacular scenery, and the still, clear waters and the abundance of fish and birds in the beautiful riverside forest made Michael wistful of returning with Tatae to fish and loaf away some idle days. The countryside, beautiful in the 21st Century, was now truly stunning, with heavily wooded glades, clear waters, and an abundance of wildlife.

They followed the river eastward before they made their first contact with other people. They were Michael’s first Saxons other than the Giolgrave villagers and monks. He imagined how he and his companions must appear, one moustachioed warrior and a young warrior in training accompanying three monks with broad-brimmed hats, brown habits and shaved faces. All carried walking staffs, or in Eadric’s case, an iron-headed spear.

They heard a cheery hail as a man and young lad carried their catch of river fish laced together by cord and hung over a pole between them. They carried no fishing poles. Michael knew fishing poles would be used in England after another two to three hundred years. The fishermen showed how they made long, nettle-twine lines rigged with baited hooks to be slung between two submerged poles or tree stumps. Twice a day, the men of the village would return and gather the fish, and due to the bounty of the river, it was a most effective way to gather valuable and tasty food.

Like the Giolgrave villagers, the man and his son had a scruffy cheeriness about them. While curious about Michael’s appearance and weapons, they had better manners than to give anything but a cursory glance. They chatted happily as they walked to their village, Nether Haddon, at the junction of the Hlada-kill and the Wye Rivers. Smaller than the village of Giolgrave, without a monastery and priests, the settlement was a welcome stop for a meal of fish stew. There the monks blessed a few babies, visited villagers who were ill, heard confessions and generally offered spiritual support and guidance. Villagers hovered curiously around Michael and Eadric. Michael noticed the lad caught the eye of more than one pretty young lass as they giggled and blushed. In an England dotted with such villages, with travel relatively rare, Michael suspected such a journey by Eadric was as much about prospecting for a future mate as gaining possession of the sword or simply having an adventure.

On talking to farmers, Michael learned there were numerous small villages scattered only half a day’s leisurely journey apart. While not overly affected by the famine that had befallen much of the land, any shortfall from the villagers’ reduced crops was made up by their fishing and gathering. Excess fish were dried, smoked, and shipped in small boats to Snotengaham further downstream.

Oeric refused the offer to stay the night because, at this rate, they would take over a month to travel to Snotengaham, so after a few hours of rest they continued their journey. The local farming country was divided into strip lots originally broken by oxen-drawn ploughs, and this late in summer, the crops were quickly ripening. Crops were plentiful and the people, though concerned about the famine elsewhere, were well fed and preparing for winter. All welcomed the blessing of the priests.

Michael found Saxons to be likable characters. Though they inevitably lacked a full set of teeth, theirs was a life dominated by hard work in providing the simple necessities for their families and community. They were strong and healthy, with the occasional person crippled or scarred by war. Michael suspected any children who suffered deformities would rarely last longer than a year, so most children he saw seemed happy, their bare feet flying as they ran wild. They were often the first to detect strangers and escort them to the village. Strangers were always of great interest and a source of news and gossip.

By the end of their first day, the travellers reached the village of Deor-lean on the Wye River, a place with forest and rich farming country. The thegn of the Hundred was a large, balding bear of a man named Ricbert. Though they often experienced travellers, mostly in the form of village traders carrying goods to the market towns, they rarely had the pleasure of travelling monks and warriors. The local monk, Brother Sigberct, was most excited at their arrival. He offered the monks his hospitality, eager to take advantage of the rare opportunity to discuss less earthly matters. Ricbert welcomed the warriors into his hall, which was much larger and more ornate than the hall at Giolgrave. Thegn Ricbert showed himself to be a man of wealth and influence with no fewer than six sets of costly armour on display. He sat on his raised throne as befitting his station, placing him higher than those in audience, as Michael explained the purpose of their journey.

“And ye, Lord Michael, from whence do ye hail?” interrupted Ricbert. He looked Michael up and down as if he couldn’t place the stranger.

“I am but a humble traveller, my Lord, and do God’s will in these hard times,” responded Michael carefully.

“Aye, but ye didn’t answer my question. Ye look too pretty to be a landless Lord, and ye don’t have the look of one of the King’s brood, though ye might be a distant relation from Normandy. Ye look and sound a little different. Is that what ye are then?” questioned Ricbert.

A number of warriors were on hand and they all carried their swords when outside the hall, a sure sign the fear of Vikings infused their community. They all watched Michael carefully.

Michael laughed quietly. “I mean no harm, my lord. I have been asked by Lord Godric of Giolgrave to accompany his son, Eadric here, to train him in the ways of the warrior.”

Ricbert snorted and then turned from Michael, dismissing him as a person of little consequence.

Eadric was flattered by the important man’s attentions and they continued in conversation as if Michael was no longer present. As the monks were with Brother Sigberct, Eadric and Michael soon relaxed. Their packs and weapons were stowed at sleeping spots on the floor of the hall and they drank beor while they waited for their meal. Michael noted that the beor wasn’t as well filtered as at Giolgrave, gritty chunks of grain suspended in a much thicker and stronger brew. Eadric paused at the drink and then, with a shrug, took a larger swig. Ricbert soon lost interest in his visitors, preferring more to monopolise the conversation or joke with his retainers. Michael was content to listen and learn how meetings in a hall were conducted and how thegns were treated. Much more self-important than Godric, Ricbert fancied himself as a man of action, keen on hunting, hawking and drinking.

When there was a break in his chatter, Michael spoke up. “What of the Danes, my lord. Is there any word?”

Ricbert’s face told all as he ceased his jesting. His eyes were cautious. He leaned forward, though all of the other warriors, Eadric included, could hear clearly. “For years the Danes have fought and plundered from the south, where they land in Sandwic. Ye’ve heard of this, surely?” Not waiting for a reply, Ricbert continued. “They have a commander; Thorkell the Tall is his name. He’s said to be one of Longbeard’s best warriors, the Jormsvikings who serve the Danish King. It’s said they can easily best any normal warrior in battle.” Ricbert’s face twisted, partly in scorn, and Michael felt, partly to hide his fear at the prospect of coming face to face with such a warrior.

A young warrior snorted in derision and Ricbert retaliated. “’Ware what ye mock, young Aelfwine, my lad. These Danes ruthlessly looted Kent in the south as they would. It’s known that the good people themselves banded together and paid a ransom of Danegeld for peace. The Danish King, Sven Forkbeard, has given Thorkell the Tall license to plunder and ravage England as he sees fit. He cries for vengeance for the death of his brother in the great slaughter a few years past.”

Michael watched Ricbert, a man who was afraid.

His was the responsibility to maintain the safety and prosperity of his people. His voice rumbled and he stared into the depths of his finely carved tankard as if for inspiration. “There’s been word that Forkbeard himself could be on his way.” His head came up and he looked around at his men. “Ye all know how Aelheah, formerly bishop of Winchester, was captured at the fall of Greenwich. The Danes had him, a man of great knowledge and godliness, and they pelted him with cattle bones from their feast. The most holy Aelheah fell and then one of the Viking dogs, a man who the holy bishop had, himself, confirmed as a Christian only the day before, decided to split the poor man’s head with a war axe.”

The gathered warriors had obviously heard this tale before, yet they cried out in horror and growled in anger at the retelling. The tale renewed afresh their disgust and fury at the Vikings’ treatment of so holy a man. Ricbert enjoyed his rightful place at the centre of attention and he particularly delighted to inform his visitors on knowledge they wouldn’t possess. “Aye, brothers! The only good news from that horrendous act is that Thorkell the Tall was so sickened, he has now thrown in his lot with King Aethelred. Our good king struggles to control even the smallest part of his land, yet we remain true.”

The warriors all growled in support, their loyalty and courage without question. Faces flushed with beor, they cheered and raised their tankards high before they drank deeply. Michael watched them and wondered whether they would be courageous or if their performance was bluff. Some had scars and others looked untried. He hoped they would perform up to expectations when the opportunity presented itself, which it surely would. Gone were the laughing jests as the men sat, brooding and dangerous, angrily dreaming of Viking throats to cut while also fearing what the morrow may bring. Michael could tell that Eadric had not heard such lurid tales as he sat, wide-eyed and dismayed.

“You’ll be alright, lad. It’s only talk,” suggested Michael quietly.

Eadric nodded, unconvinced. “From my mother’s knee, I ha’ been taught the Vikings are everything of which to be terrified, to be feared and hated as spoilers of the Saxon people.” He looked up, afraid, “We’re all afraid. Why don’t they ever stay away?”

The monks re-joined the warriors as some of the village women brought food into the hall. The night had set in and the beor and some casks of the sweeter mead had worked its magic, though the mood was in need of some levity.

Brother Oeric hurried over and spoke to Michael urgently. “Forgive us, Lord Michael, but we mentioned to Brother Sigberct of your skill with song.” He stood, apologetic, as Michael saw the village priest in conversation with the thegn. He looked to Brother Oeric and, with reluctance, nodded.

With characteristic fanfare, Thegn Ricbert invited Michael to play after the meal was mostly done. Platters of freshly baked trout steamed, served with the ubiquitous forest mushrooms and vegetables. The men picked at the food by hand, scooping the fish into their hungry mouths to then spit the bones onto the floor. Every now and then a dog was fed from the fingers of his master.

Michael found the traditional Saxon hospitality as warm and vibrant as ever. He noted that the communities they visited so far had more women than men. When he made the observation to Brother Oeric, the monk took a swig of beor, chewed the grit, and shrugged.

“Ahh, Lord Michael, you tease me with your questions. I know you already know all about us. Too many of our men are killed in war or to avenge a slight on their honour.” He looked thoughtfully inebriated, which meant he had also enjoyed liquid refreshment as Brother Sigberct’s guest. “’Tis true that some die when hunting, others become brothers in the faith and remove themselves from appetites of the flesh. Then again, some of our sisters make their vows and live a higher life as nuns in the faith. The lot of a woman is not an easy one, my Lord. Without the care of a man, women die when winters are hard or when famine strikes. They are the ones who die first when war threatens. Without a man, a woman is worthless.” Brother Oeric shrugged again and took another swig.

Michael grunted. “’It’s a shame that they should suffer so.”

Brother Oeric frowned. “Shame? Aye, sometimes they live without shame, these wastrels and strumpets.” He nodded in the direction of young Eadric and gave a knowing look as one of the serving women, a large woman some years older than the lad, threw an arm around his shoulders and laughed gaily. “Best care for our thegn’s firstborn, Lord Michael. Loose women tempt too many of our good brothers and indeed steal away their hearts into sin and oblivion. Too many lewd and lascivious acts are committed by our good villagers at feasts and celebrations, by our brothers and sisters in Christ, who are pious Christians one moment and active participants in sin at another.”

Michael recalled the accusations levelled at Tatae after the night of the village celebration on midsummer’s eve and frowned, but Brother Oeric continued unabated.

“Women want a man for one reason: to be safe and have children. Women are like Eve, the temptresses. They are those who would cause us to fall.”

After their hearty meal, the remnants were picked over as Michael collected his mandolin and began to play. The mood lightened and more women appeared in the hall, ostensibly to serve the food and drink, but they stayed to enjoy the rare entertainment. Michael found it prudent to thank Ricbert formally for his fine hall and hospitality and apologise for the fact that he was no scop, before he launched into his playing.

Ricbert sagely nodded in acceptance of his rightful praise.