Traveller Inceptio

Morning found the combatants unbearably stiff and sore, not only from wounds, but also strained muscles and the discovery of nicks and bruises ignored the day before. Edyt and Brother Horsa insisted on checking each wound thoroughly and Michael was impressed at how the puffball pads seemed to have helped the more superficial wounds.

Of grave concern were the telltale signs of infection around Irminric’s deep leg wound. His leg had swollen overnight and he had become feverish. Morning found his eyes bright, but haunted.

Brother Horsa shook his head sadly. “The heat from his leg wound will likely become worse,” he muttered to Michael quietly. “I’ve seen this before. I fear the lad will die.”

Michael frowned and looked at Irminric thoughtfully. “What of the others?”

Brother Horsa nodded. “Oh, aye, their wounds may look nasty, but they won’t risk life.”

“Well done,” praised Michael. “The puffballs and your infusion work well.”

Brother Horsa simply nodded as he inspected Irminric’s bandaged leg and shook his head sadly. Michael knew the wound would begin to smell, and with his blood poisoned, the young man would suffer greatly. Within days, he would be gone. He looked at the others. All were engrossed in breaking camp, so he reached into his pack, collected his medical kit, and removed a hypodermic syringe. He knew that to administer penicillin would kill the infection, but could also prove fatal if Irminric was allergic to the drug. The lad was too weary to be concerned and didn’t even seem to notice when he was jabbed with the needle. The penicillin, considered a miracle drug when first invented, would kill the infection enough to allow natural healing to take place, but they had to move. He and the others had a better chance of recovery at Giolgrave.

It was mid-morning before the party was ready to travel when Brother Horsa and Edyt checked Irminric’s wound again. Expecting a smelly discharge, their surprise suggested there could be some hope.

The grey weather was about to turn to rain and it was important they reach shelter. Michael felt unbearably stiff and sore, but had no obvious signs of internal bleeding, so he led at point, determined to gently exercise his crippling stiffness away.

The track narrowed dangerously and their difficulties multiplied when they were compelled to wrestle the cart over creeks and around rocky outcrops. Despite delays, they made good time. With Irminric a passenger, Edyt hovered over him. Her obvious relief showed their morning fears unfounded as his infection cleared and he slowly returned to his normal self. His mother shook her head and put the good fortune to the power of prayer and the toughness of her son.

“Who could tell why some wounds became fatal and some not?” she asked Michael as they walked and she expressed her thanks for the intervening power of God as she prayed the merciful healing would continue.

They identified horse tracks on the path, but determined them to be the tracks of pedlars who regularly found their way to Giolgrave, their small ponies loaded with goods the locals could not make. The path to Giolgrave was deserted, not unusual as the villages prepared for the autumn harvest. It was a time for celebration and thanks. Despite the poor rains throughout much of the land, Michael knew Giolgrave farmers expected a good harvest that would carry the villagers through the deprivations of winter in relative comfort. Their spirits began to rise.

“Oh, ’twill be good to be home.” Eadric smiled. “Imagine my ma and da when they see Uncle Desmond and his entire family. Imagine! Oh, to be by the fire and Ma will make her stew. We can drink beor and you can play for us all,” he added.

Michael smiled, barely listening, his thoughts on Tatae.

Eadric and Hengist walked at point when Eadric raised his fist to halt their progress. Michael hobbled painfully forward, keeping to cover where the lads crouched, peering to a cultivated field that indicated the village was close. Hengist pointed and they saw a body lying partially over the track. Michael and Eadric crept forward and saw what they dreaded; a Giolgrave farmer had been speared. He had tried to drag himself from the field when he was speared again for his troubles. Michael recalled the man, scruffy and bearded, a simple man who enjoyed a good laugh at the celebration as others danced. He had been killed because he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Michael felt a chill that had nothing to do with the quiet drizzle settling over the field. The body was stiff and ants had already started at the man’s eyes, creating small mounds as they built their trail. Michael looked at Eadric, who was stricken. To witness the deaths of strangers was one thing, but to experience death so close to home was unbearable.

Michael asked, “Do you know how many could have been working this field?”

Eadric nodded sadly. “There would have been three workers.” He pointed over the heads of barley that swayed in the gentle breeze. Normally a peaceful scene, it now took on a measure of menace, of hidden death that waited like a beast to consume the unwary. “Shall I look to see if there are any others killed? These were good men and they’ve never done any harm.” His voice shook with emotion.

“Nay, Eadric! It seems our Viking friends were part of a larger force. If this man’s dead, then the others are either dead, or have fled and will be hiding. If they were attacked here, there’s a grave danger that Giolgrave has also been attacked. I only hope all escaped safely.” He held his talisman, a habit he had developed, and for some reason he wasn’t afraid for Tatae, illogically sensing she was safe. “We must make all haste, but we must be careful.” He clapped Eadric gently on his good shoulder. He could see the fear in the lad’s eyes. Michael knew Giolgrave had always been safer than other villages because it was off the main roads and hidden in the depths of the forest. Godric had told how marauders had previously given no heed to their area, let alone a remote, small village at the end of a path. Michael wondered what could have led the Vikings this way and hoped vainly that the Viking penchant for fiery annihilation did not extend to the village he had made home. He thought again of the buried children, then of Abbot Anna’s monastery in Snotengaham. Even monasteries weren’t safe.

Michael had seen this sort of thing happen before. He had seen villagers slaughtered and their homes destroyed by Taliban or ISIL simply because they were in an area controlled by an enemy. The sight of children and women slaughtered by militants always frustrated modern soldiers as the deaths seemed senseless, as if the militants had been worked into a vicious frenzy where all life was forfeit. From his observations of Nether Haddon and their battle at the riverbank, the Vikings killed as if they enjoyed it. What made these times worse was that all deaths must be from a blow or a stabbing thrust, not from the barrel of an AK47 or a grenade launcher. Here the killer had to pursue terrified innocents, tear infants from the arms of mothers and stab or hack at them, to sever limbs and disembowel regardless of sex or age.

This close contact was difficult, bloody, traumatic, and honest, for to kill a man from a distance was nothing compared to staring into his eyes as his body stiffened and his life left at your hands.

Their weariness temporarily forgotten, Michael, Eadric and Hengist jogged painfully back to the cart to tell what they had found. The party moved forward, ever vigilant, with the children huddled silently as they passed the farmer’s body. A frustrated Irminric rode with his mother. He still wielded his spear, but his injury kept him from walking with the men.

“Tell her, Lord Michael,” called Irminric.

“What?” asked Michael, whose turn it was to walk with the cart. He would never admit that he took some strength from being able to lean on the cart as he hiked.

“How you visited and made me better,” persisted Irminric with a frown.

Michael smiled. “Lad, you live because of the skills of your mother and Brother Horsa, and by the grace of God.”

“But I saw you. You came to me and fixed me,” insisted Irminric.

Michael shook his head. “That would be dreams: delirium caused by your wound.”

Michael saw Edyt look at him oddly, so he smiled and gently patted her hand.

Giolgrave was in a valley and as they drew closer, a smoky haze drifted above the trees.

Michael walked forward to stand with Desmond at point. He nodded at the haze. “That doesn’t look good,” he said, suddenly afraid.

Desmond shook his head as he asked, “And if the village is gone?” His swollen face was a mask of concern. Thankfully, his leeches had finally dropped off, gorged and swollen, leaving small circles of raw skin.

Michael made no comment, but only motioned the group forward.

As they walked ever closer, there was a stench of burning and Michael’s gravest fears were realised. From their northern approach, the roof of the village hall would normally be visible above the hedges, but there were no roofs to be seen, though the hedges were still intact. Eadric gave a moan and looked around as if he had woken from a dream to find himself in a strange place. Though abandoned, none of the fields had been burned. They saw the first signs of a Viking attack as a man Eadric knew well lay dead, his chest smashed with the distinctive axe signature.

Eadric crouched by him as he quietly told them, “This man was Wyman the pedlar. He would visit once a moon and bring iron, cloth, and things some of the women loved. He wore his traveller’s hat.” His voice shook, so he stopped and wiped tears from his eyes. “He travelled with his son, Sherwyn. I used to talk to Sherwyn about the things he’d seen. They had a pony…” He stopped to take a shaky breath.

Desmond placed a comforting hand on his nephew’s shoulder and looked to Michael. “When?”

Michael knelt, examined the body a moment and looked around carefully before he stood and spoke quietly. “Two, maybe three days. They would have killed the pedlars as they arrived, before they could raise a warning.” He imagined the panic as the idyllic village peace was shattered by axe and spear. The gates built into the hedge were open, as usual, but through the gateway, not a building could be seen. Smouldering embers were all that remained of a peaceful Saxon village. Michael knew he had idealised the place, its peace and tranquillity, free from the conflict other villages and the town of Snotengaham suffered. To see the dream destroyed, as if a giant child had stamped on the village in a fit of malice, was a terrible blow.

Eadric moaned, gave a small cry and suddenly dropped his head, passing his hand over his eyes. His shoulders shook as he quietly wept, his mouth and eyes wide as tears poured down his cheeks. This was the only home the lad had ever known. When on the road, Eadric had told Michael of his dreams of glory in conquering Vikings in a far-off places, or even defending his home if it came to it. Now there was no home. The hall and the hunting trophies were gone, the blacksmith shop destroyed, and Godric’s family home was merely a charred patch. With the buildings all burned, Michael found it difficult to recall where the huts had been located. A few badly scorched sleeping pallets were all that remained.

Eadric stood, arms limply by his side, mute with horror. Michael could see his thoughts. What of his family, his strong father and warm, loving mother? Were they gone? What about the little ones, baby Cyneburg and young Wuffa, or Saba, Achae and Eabae? Would they be found slaughtered, like the children of Nether Haddon? The destruction did not only affect Eadric, for a moan of loss escaped Desmond’s lips. He gazed over the charred remains with a hollow, lost look. Edyt had her hands to her mouth. Her eyes streamed. Aedgyd and the children looked lost and the young warriors watched the ruins vainly for danger, but there was none.

Michael and the others turned suddenly at the anguished cries of Brother Oeric and Brother Horsa as they spied the smoking void that had been the monastery. The wooden buildings looked to have taken the brunt of the Vikings’ attack. Almost every building had been burned to the ground. Gardens had been trampled and, through the hacked hedges, a few brown-clad bodies could be seen. Michael could see only a couple of bodies in the village. Both looked of the elderly, cut down as if in afterthought. Most of the villagers may have escaped to their shelter in the forest and on mentioning this hope to Eadric, the lad only nodded. With the monks’ loud cries, they jogged painfully with Desmond to the monastery, leaving the others to guard the women and children at the cart. Hengist poked at nearby wreckage in a desultory manner, careful not to be burned as glowing coals still littered the denuded area.

The two monks wailed at the destruction of their home: their place of worship and their sacred vows. Brother Oeric dropped to his knees, sobbing at the burned frame of the church while Brother Horsa could barely contain himself as he stood behind his Brother and wept, his hands on the older man’s shoulders in comfort. Only the church’s lower stone walls remained. Michael knew they also wept for the dreams shattered: the work of one great man, Abbott Aldfrid, destroyed.

Eadric stood grief-stricken as Michael and Desmond carefully inched forward to examine the church’s fiery ruins. They found the stones still baking hot, as if the conflagration that had destroyed the building was only recent. Looking into the coals and ash on the stone flooring, Michael saw what he feared most; the white gleam of scorched bone. Using the handles of their spears, they carefully poked and prodded, and found no less than seven bundles of bone, charred and shattered by the heat. Desmond moved a skull, blackened and broken, and Michael identified one split by an axe.

Michael muttered to Desmond to surmise quietly what had happened.

“I think Vikings arrived seeking loot and murder. Most of the villagers must have moved to a safe place, because there are only a few bodies to speak of. Most of the monks chose not to escape, so when the Vikings appeared, they fled to the safest place they knew, the church. At least one had been struck, so the other monks dragged him to the church to pray and conduct last rites. The Vikings set the church ablaze.”

Desmond only grunted, his face haunted.

Michael passed a weary hand over his face, imagining the panic and despair as the building caught alight. The timber and thatch would have burst into orange flames and a great heat while the monks prayed and died as they cried out to God. Their bodies would have been consumed while the Vikings joked and celebrated, probably with looted beor. He saw the Vikings had found the beor, for the beor shed was the only building that stood. The barrels of beor were gone and even the large cauldron in which the raw beor was brewed was missing. Michael shook his head at the Vikings’ craven lust and stupidity. To have drunk the raw beor would cause stomachaches and some cases of the shits. The missing cauldron was mute witness to what they really valued.

There were renewed wails of horrified grief from the monks as they spied the charred bones and Michael ran to make them be quiet. “Brothers,” he urged, “be silent! I fear there may be a Viking camp nearby. They wouldn’t have travelled far with the beor.”

Desmond swore, suddenly fearing anew for his family.

“Brother Oeric, we must go!” urged Michael. “We must find the villagers and make sure they’re safe and then we can return.”

Michael deeply felt for Eadric and the monks, for their world had suddenly collapsed around them. Eadric’s hands shook and his face worked as if the child wanted to cry, but the man stopped him. His titanic internal conflict was evident as Michael clapped him on the shoulder with a show of confidence he didn’t entirely feel.

“We’ll find them, Eadric. Villages can be rebuilt.”

Red-eyed, Eadric nodded dumbly, his hand on the hilt of his new sword. The lad shook his head as if to chase away his deep emotion. “Is this what it is to be a warrior?” he asked. “Is the death and destruction to be your own?”

“Any death and destruction isn’t good, Eadric. A true warrior protects the weak, not murders them,” reminded Michael automatically as he hauled Brother Oeric to his feet. “Come, Brothers, let’s find the villagers and Abbott Aldfrid. Once you know that he and the other brothers are safe, we can return and bury these poor souls with full honours. We must fly from here. Now!”

Brother Oeric looked up at Michael. His face was swollen from weeping and his mouth struggled. He placed a hand on Michael’s arm and spoke softly through his heart-rending sobs, “Know ye not, Lord Michael. Brother Aldfrid has gone to our Lord. Our brothers would not have perished thus but for Brother Aldfrid being here.”

Michael turned in shock, struck to his soul. “No! How can you tell?” He suddenly realised the truth. Someone was struck and Brother Aldfrid, realising the hopelessness of the situation, would have tried to create a diversion while other monks escaped. Some would have stayed and together they perished. Michael couldn’t allow himself the luxury of weeping, but his heart felt torn. The others watched him as he rallied himself. They relied on him. With a heavy sigh, he locked the feelings away, but a furious anger grew. “We must go and find the living. They’ll need our care,” he declared gruffly.

Eadric looked even more distressed at the news of Brother Aldfrid’s possible death and he blindly followed, tears clouding his eyes.

Michael had seen this before, the numbing shock as lives were shattered and dreams dashed through the mindless destruction of war. He paused to look across the scorched earth. Smoke rose like wraiths as a light rain settled in. The drizzle dampened their spirits even more and Michael feared they could fall into despair. It was vital these people found a purpose, a need for their continued striving for a life that could again contain happiness.

Michael noticed a figure emerge from the forest. He signalled an alarm and Desmond instantly held his spear ready while Michael drew his sword. It was vital any Viking was killed quickly and silently before he could inform others.

The figure spotted the group and, rather than run off to raise an alarm, raised his arm in friendly greeting. There was something about his dress that Michael found jarringly familiar. The figure looked friendly enough, and though his face was hidden by the hood of his cape, there was a jaunty ease in the way he moved. Recognition and hope dawned and Michael held his sword aloft so the man could see it clearly. He saw a white smile under a warrior’s bushy moustache as the stranger pulled his cloak aside and pulled an argent blade free, not in threat, but in recognition. A terrible burden was lifted from Michael’s shoulders as the stranger pulled back his hood to reveal a face he knew from too long ago.

As he walked closer, Hurley looked at the group of shocked Saxons and Michael, who smiled despite his heartbreak. “Doctor Livingstone, I presume?” Hurley said in 21st Century English, and he gave a small laugh.