Traveller Inceptio

Michael wearily supervised the posting of sentries before a brief but heartfelt service for the slain. Brother Oeric was superb, describing how they had died in defence of their families and of God’s truth, so they would be blessed greatly by the Lord. “After all,” he said, “had not their final act been to swear an oath on the sacred relic? Did not the Vikings suffer greater losses?”

The women wept for their men and the rest of the villagers mourned with them. Each dead man was well known in the small community and had been part of their village family for as long as anyone could remember. Graves were dug in the rocky ground, each body wrapped in a cloth shroud, gently placed into the earth, and buried. The villagers then each took a stone, of which there were many, and piled them over each grave. Holy water sanctified the area and each gave their support to the grieving families. Half a day earlier, these brave men had laughed and joked, or prayed quietly, and now they were before their maker. Michael suspected Ceolwulf, the raging bull, had died as he had wished, in combat defending his village. His invaluable Viking sword was buried with him.

Relatively minor wounds were bandaged and wounded hearts and minds soothed by families and friends, but the pall of weary anguish settled over them. The small conflict had been exhausting, physically and emotionally, and the combatants looked drained. Hilda did her best not to fuss overtly over Godric, while his sons stared at him with hearts bursting with pride. Their look said it all, for they realised their father, the leader and village administrator, was a warrior as great as Ceolwulf. Suddenly Godric had grown in stature in their idolizing eyes and Michael saw him wink at them as he hungrily ate his stew. After he completed his meal, he called them to him and hugged them close, patting them on the backs, and then took little Cyneburg to his knee. She pointed, wondering, to bloodstains that soaked the neck of his tunic, so he bit her fingers playfully and she giggled.

The warriors took inspiration from their thegn. Even Michael was impressed at how he had returned from the horrors of battle to be with his family, loving them and showing them his strength. Michael suspected Godric thought he may not have them for much longer and now loved them with all that he had.

After the meal, Michael played his mandolin, dedicating tunes to each of the fallen. The villagers tearfully sang along, their pain shared. Tatae sat by his side, her hand on his thigh, and Michael noted most of the villagers sat closer together, as if this might be their last day on earth. Hugs were given more freely, smiles weren’t as bright, but were gentle and accepting, as they sang and drew strength from each other. Brother Oeric sang with gusto as poor, damaged Aedgyd, even prettier in the firelight, sat with Eadric, their young fingers entwined.

In the darkness, the fires burned brightly. There was no need to hide and their singing would only tell the Vikings that they would not despair. They stared into the bonfire, eyes shining, their thoughts far away.

The alarm call from the darkness came as a surprise and the villagers immediately fell silent. Michael swiftly handed his mandolin to Tatae and ran to the village entry, pulling on his bolstered sword. He felt battered, sore, and could barely move, but his discomforts were forgotten. He had no time to even wash and hadn’t donned his light armour, so cursed his stupidity at being caught unaware.

Eadric and Hengist ran with him. He heard Godric curse and shout orders as the hunters reached for their spears.

The warrior who had called the alarm was Aeoelhun and he squinted into the darkness. Beside him, Yffi’s dogs stared into the night, alert as their noses twitched with the scents of hidden intruders. Aart looked confused, his tail wagging one moment, and then leaning forward as if uncertain whether to attack.

Other warriors arrived and they looked out past the remaining spikes. They had decided not to bother with rebuilding the spiked barricade, the narrow entry sufficient to guard. Let them come. They would be ready.

But now? Was this a night attack by the superstitious Vikings? Perhaps it was the missing scouts, but would the dogs not know?

They listened intently, and from the darkness heard a low whistle. Then a voice called, “Hunter, yo still is ugly!” followed by soft chuckles.

***

Godric looked to Michael, who stood as if stunned, while the other villagers frowned in confusion. This was a strange tongue. Michael tilted back his head, laughed, and let out a whoop, loud enough to be heard at the Viking camp. Spears ready, the villagers watched, open-mouthed, as Hurley emerged from the darkness. He looked as cocky as ever, and best of all, he wasn’t alone.

There, in the shadows, were others. They walked carefully through the remnants of the hedgehog and the Saxons, bone-weary after a battle where friends and brothers had died and many were wounded, saw a sight they would never forget. Not only was there Hurley, but nine other warriors. All had the carefree arrogance with which Hurley and Michael strode the earth; that quiet confidence of seasoned fighters.

Godric could say naught. He just huffed through his moustache and recalled his terrible disappointment at Hurley leaving. Now he was back, with more of his brothers no less. He looked to Michael and exclaimed in bewilderment, “Why did ye not say?”

Michael just smiled for the first time in many a day and felt as if a huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders. “I couldn’t say, Lord Godric. Let me tell you, Lord Hurley must have moved heaven and earth to bring these men.” He laughed loudly and slapped Hurley on the shoulder as the others smiled whitely in the darkness.

***

As Michael and Godric entered the cave, their faces were wreathed with smiles. Behind them the villagers saw Hurley and men like them: tall men, strong men who were quick to laugh together. Each bowed like lords as Michael introduced them to the gathered villagers of Giolgrave. Godric knew the villagers loved Michael and were wary of Hurley, but how could they ever become used to these men? There was a giant called Morris, a redheaded warrior named McFee who looked like a heathen Pict, and there was a swarthy-skinned foreigner of a sort none had ever seen. Dark of hair and brown of skin, he was called Parker.

***

Michael laughed at Parker’s inclusion as they clasped arms. “How the hell did you manage this one?” he cried and Parker rolled his eyes.

“That’s Hurley’s story to tell,” he chuckled.

Leishman happily petted Aart and Beomia, who leaped about as if he was long-lost kin. Yffi looked bemused, for his dogs had never fussed over anyone like this, but for him, of course.

Leishman laughed and said in his terribly accented Aenglish, “What wonderful dogs are these?” He chuckled as Aart almost took his face in his powerful mouth, covering Leishman’s face in slobber in his desire for affection.

Leishman just had a thing with animals.

After initial greetings, the new arrivals began to unpack. Michael looked on, somewhat puzzled as they carried larger, regular military kit rather than their own handcrafted packs. Some were filled with medical supplies, but the rest were stuffed with plastic bags of food.

“What are you doing, Hurley?” he exclaimed sharply. “You know these people aren’t permitted to be tainted by our technology”.

Hurley shrugged. “I know, Hunter, I know, but after what we’ve been through, and will go through when we return, we can’t dig a deeper hole, old son. The lads thought we would give these poor bastards a treat or two, so we brought something to brighten their lives.”

Michael watched as Morris squatted by a young boy whose da had been killed. The big Canadian took a chocolate bar out of the pack and offered it to him. The lad just sat, curious, the red on black branding inspected in the firelight, the boy and his mother smiling nervously. They had no idea what the giant stranger was trying to tell them. Morris showed him how to open the wrapper. Once he gained the courage to try it, even in his grief, the boy smiled his thanks. Nothing had ever tasted so good.

Others in the team assisted in the care of wounds, cleaning and stitching the odd laceration. There was some discussion in Latin with a stunned Brother Horsa on the use of some of the herbs and mushrooms, as the treated wounds were clean and well cared for. The puffball wound dressings appeared to have some positive results.

Gradually, all in the village were succoured by the ‘ministering angels’, as Brother Oeric called them. Each were highly trained in field medicine and equipped with first aid kits for a platoon. Unlike Michael, who was tactful in his medical interference, they assisted in common complaints suffered by the villagers. Three of the knapsacks contained dried fruits and full leg hams. The women were puzzled by the plastic covers as well as the wet hams that were revealed, so different from the dried hams of the time, but on sampling the deliciously odd-tasting fare, they momentarily forgot their fears for the battle on the morrow.

With the children sugared up in a way never before experienced, the villagers chatted happily into the night. Even those who experienced serious losses found comfort from the angels, guided by their heavenly commander, Lord Michael.