Traveller Inceptio
50

The sky was almost light when Michael roused Eadric. The youth was barely awake as they continued combat training. “Remember, lad, a warrior must always be ready,” stressed Michael.

Eadric placed a wristlock that had him immobilised.

“Good, very good! Remember, you don’t have to kill when you can disable, and the best solution is to talk a situation down, make it less likely to end in conflict. A warrior has to be smart. Your skill with a sword is important, but only used as the last option. If you have to use a sword, use it to kill.”

The monks prayed while the warriors practised the previous day’s unarmed combat skills. Eadric demonstrated the techniques to a level his teacher accepted with a nod.

“You have to practice, lad, practice and practice. But your best weapon is here,” he tapped his head, “rather than here and here.” He tapped his arms and chest. “When you practice enough, you’ll fight without even thinking.”

The two men finished with staff work at which Eadric was perhaps even better than he.

“When we get to Snot, we’ll buy a couple of training swords. Fighting with sticks is one thing, but we have to sharpen up your sword skills so you’ll know how to use your new sword, won’t we now?”

At this, Eadric glowed with excitement.

The party reached the hilltop market town of Ilchestune later in the day. Evidence of the famine was more noticeable. Some of the farms were abandoned and the village looked worse for wear. Ilchestune had over ten times as many huts as Giolgrave, all crowded together in a huddle. As the town was all too familiar with travellers, Michael, Eadric, and the monks attracted no undue attention. The small town stank of dung. A few spear-bearing warriors stood watchfully. Michael immediately received respectful nods, for sword-bearers were uncommon. There was an air of tension and they heard the first whispers of Vikings. One woman, from whom they bought a thin stew at a cost that had the monks gasp in horror, told Michael of rumours of Vikings having landed in the north. None knew if the news was anything more than mere tales. The monks found a stone church and the party stayed with the Ilchestune monks, who offered their simple fare and vermin-ridden straw pallets upon which to sleep.

The people they encountered seemed fearful and edgy. They heard how some townspeople and farmers had already fled to the countryside to take shelter in the numerous caves in the area. Others took advantage of the unsettled society in general, charging too much for the necessities of life or preying upon the weak and fearful. There were rumours of beatings levelled against men and women simply for their food and possessions, so the local monks succoured many who were in desperate need. Their advice was that unless theirs was a mission sent of God, to return home and avoid Snot. The normally civilised administrative centre was now a place where civil conduct was increasingly uncommon, and residents were soon expected to leave in droves.

Based on their hosts’ advice, Michael decided it wise to depart before daybreak, so they gnawed on their breakfast of hard bread while they walked from the town. Snotengaham was not far away. As they travelled, the path became uncommonly busy. Travellers walked with their bundles in the dim morning light and occasionally a cart drawn by a hardy pony or ox, obviously the property of a wealthy trader, trundled past. There was always a protector armed with a club or staff, and though they nodded a respectful greeting to Michael, Eadric and the monks, there was a fearful tension, not unlike what Michael had experienced in conflict zones in the Middle East and Africa.

Most travellers on the road were content, in a most un-Saxon manner, not to converse, and though attracted by the monks, were wary of the armed men travelling with them. The fields through which they journeyed were largely abandoned. As they drew closer to Snotengaham, the air of fear and unrest became more palpable, as if a stench filled the air. Michael was fully alert and walked at the back of the troupe, Eadric at the front, spear ready. A thin mist drifted across the meadows. Michael knew danger was more likely when visibility was low.

The sun rose and the mist soon cleared, but a grey day heralded. Their mood was as gloomy as the skies. Heads down, the monks trudged on, mindful only of getting to Snotengaham. Their wide-brimmed hats hid their faces as they constantly prayed for God’s protection.

Midway into the morning, they passed the body of a man partially hidden off the path. Eadric had found him when he had walked into some bushes to pee and had spotted the man’s bloodied head. At his cry, the others ran to his aid, to replace him crouched by the body of an elderly farmer. Michael moved the naked body, and as it hadn’t yet stiffened, he suggested it had only been there for a short time.

He explained to Eadric and Brother Horsa, “See here, the floppy body shows that the man has only just been killed, that the killers may be close. Keep sharp! They may be watching us even now.”

Eadric glanced around warily, as did the monks, who looked terrified.

“After a short time, the body stiffens like a board, only to become floppy again after about three days, by which time the smell of death and decay is obvious.” Michael crouched and pointed at the man’s beaten body. “This poor man was struck in the ribs here, breaking them. As he fell, he was struck in the head, I’m guessing by a club, as there are no cuts and the marks are too broad and heavy for a staff. Would you agree?”

Both Eadric and Brother Horsa nodded. Eadric looked sickened at the sight of the body and Brother Tondbert had his hand to his mouth, his eyes bulging in horror. Brother Oeric grimly looked on, saddened he was to see more death, having plainly seen too much of it in his life.

Michael nodded. “If you have the time, and you’re observant, you can determine how a person died. This can help tell you, in some cases, who killed him. Eadric, roll him over.” Michael looked at Eadric, who had to gather his courage to touch the dead man. “Unfortunately, Eadric, you have to learn to accept sights like this, and worse, if you’re to be a warrior. You can feel sympathy for the man, but you must detach yourself; we call it being ‘professional’. You must learn to be a great warrior without becoming a beast. Here, help me carry him and we’ll bury him.”

They settled the body into a hollow where they scraped soil together and then covered the mound with limestone rocks piled by farmers. Whether this man was the farmer, or just a traveller, was impossible to tell. The fields seemed abandoned, so they journeyed onward, Michael continually scanning the surrounding countryside for anyone who could be the murderer.

“You have to actually see, lad,” he explained to Eadric. “Use your eyes as well as your ears, nose, and that feeling you get when something is about to happen. Think like a hunter. You know the feeling?”

Eadric nodded.

Michael nodded in reply. “It’s a sense that warriors develop that can save their lives and the lives of those around them.” Michael placed an open hand on his chest. “Feel it, lad, feel it. You’ll know what I mean soon enough.”

They passed through a few villages, little more than clusters of huts, but despite the monks, their passing was given scant attention. The lack of welcome was a daunting sign. Normally monks were made welcome and children or the sick were brought to be blessed. Food was also given freely on any other day, but not today. It seemed all were fearful of violence. From the Vikings or from thugs, who could tell?

They hadn’t travelled far when they caught sight of their destination. Snotengaham was a large collection of huts that smoked with the usual family cooking fires that left a pall over the town. It was the Danes who transformed the once insignificant Saxon village into a fortified burgh, one of the Five Burghs of Danelaw. Now again under Saxon rule, the town was still fortified with a deep ditch dug and an earth rampart topped with a wooden palisade. It was a settlement built for war. A busy town with a population of more than a thousand souls, Snotengaham was an administrative and trade centre that even included its own mint.

Michael and his companions cautiously approached and, with other foot traffic, walked over the ditch. The first line of defence was only metres deep and it looked like some recent, half-hearted efforts had been made to redig what was now a shallow marshy ditch Michael doubted would be effective against any determined enemy. Timber gates were open, and before the gates, cattle and sheep milled at a noisy livestock market that stunk of urine and dung. There was considerable traffic around the narrow streets as a few heavy carts drawn by stunted oxen or small scraggly ponies vied for a clear path between the foot traffic. Farmers carried bundles of produce; long-legged bristly pigs carried over shoulders and geese or scrawny chickens slung, feet tied, by the bundle over poles. Food was obviously selling at the best prices, especially as uncertainty gripped the town. The main thoroughfares were dangerously narrow, so the movement of humanity and animals churned up the dust and became a cacophony of animal cries and curses blended with the yells of merchants selling wares.

Michael looked to Eadric, who appeared overwhelmed, for he had never before seen a crowd of people he didn’t know. The monks seemed lost and even Horsa blinked in the sudden noise and confusion. Though business in Snotengaham appeared brisk, there was a furtive air as if untrusting of their fellows, for hands hovered ever close to their seax. As Eadric and Michael moved through the press, most gave the warriors a wide berth, perhaps a sign of respect, or the understanding that frayed tempers could mean a sword or spear would kill before a well-aimed seax was drawn. Michael warned of the potential for light-fingered thieves, so they travelled closely together and ignored the hawkers while they following Brother Horsa’s directions to the monastery at the eastern edge of the town.

Michael thought little of Snotengaham. The buildings were crowded so closely that eaves overlapped and the smell of raw sewage, rotten vegetation and decaying meat indicated that waste pits weren’t maintained. A disaster was just waiting to happen: whether of sickness or of fire, who could tell? What was obvious was that it was not a town prepared for war.

The monastery, named after Saint Benedict, was outside the town’s protective palisade and was somewhat larger than the sanctuary at Giolgrave. A number of larger buildings were built near a stone and timber church that had the luxury of a round, glazed window. Most of the buildings were decorated with fine carvings and paintings not seen in the simple forest village. As they arrived at the gate, Brother Oeric called out to a portly monk to advise the Abbott, Brother Anna, that the brothers from Giolgrave had arrived. The monk gave the sniff of indifference, “The Abbott is a busy man, my brothers. He has much on his mind in these troubled times.”

As he turned to go, Brother Oeric called out again, “But, brother, he awaits us! Please take us to him, for we are engaged in the Lord’s work.”

The monk frowned. “We’re all engaged in the Lord’s work, brothers,” he said as he shook his head in irritation. “Well, come now. Follow!” He gestured imperiously and reluctantly led them across a large and spacious courtyard. There they gathered self-consciously outside the entry to one of the larger buildings. He curtly told them to wait. There was little shelter, so a thin drizzle threatened to soak them. Some moments later, the monk reappeared. “Well, come! Come,” he ordered curtly as his pale hands waved them onwards, his expression disapproving.

They entered an attractive reception area where fine, woven hangings adorned the walls and gave a warm, though overbearing air. The monk tut-tutted at their muddy feet and the footprints left on the timber floor before he led them to a carved door, knocked, and entered without awaiting a reply. The monks removed their wide brimmed hats and held them nervously at their chests. They were travel-stained and weary, their hair in disarray.

They were bid enter and the Abbott, Brother Anna, rose from behind a large desk at which he had been reading a parchment. Michael’s first impression was of a bureaucrat, soft, pale, and self-important. His tonsure was impeccable, as was his attire, similar in styling to the Giolgrave monks, yet of much finer wool. A large, ornate silver cross adorned his neck. As he moved to welcome the monks, he looked to Michael in disapproval, though he greeted the brothers warmly. There was a hug and a brief kiss on the cheek. When Brother Oeric introduced Michael and Eadric, Brother Anna barely nodded, not in the least interested in the monks’ escort.

The warriors stood to one side, ignored as Brother Anna returned to sit on his richly upholstered, throne-like chair. The monks sat, awed, on a hard bench as if they were supplicants before a king holding court.

Abbott Anna looked at their filthy shoes, their robes, and the humble packs and raised his eyebrows in disdain. “So, your Abbott Aldfrid did not come to us?” he asked as if affronted.

“Nay, Lord,” began Brother Oeric. “His duties in Giolgrave——”

“No matter, no matter,” Abbott Anna huffed as he spoke over Brother Oeric. “So I must deal with his servants perhaps?”

“But my Lord Abbott——” began Brother Horsa.

“Brothers, do you know of this? Of the great work that will be required of you?” The Abbott shook his head as if peeved. He raised his eyebrows in irritation as he spoke. “Well, may the Lord bless us, brothers, for at least you’ve arrived safely. For we have laboured mightily in the Lord to bring this people to the truth, fed the hungry, and comforted the afflicted. At this time of unrest, we give thanks——”

Michael stepped forward, for it seemed this arrogant Abbott was to continue speaking over the brothers, and he deemed it wise that he and Eadric depart before he said or did anything he might regret.

Brother Anna opened his mouth at the affront, but Michael made it clear he was no-one’s servant.

“My pardon, Brother Oeric, while you’re engaged with Brother Anna here, we must take our leave. We have pressing business to which we must attend and we will re-join you on the morrow.”

Brother Oeric stood and clasped Michael’s hand in heartfelt gratitude. “God be with you till we meet later, Lord Michael.”

Michael nodded to his travelling companions, and last of all, the Abbott. Brother Anna he nodded to in parting. The Abbott ignored the warrior as oafish and insufferably rude.

As he departed, Michael turned. “Brother Anna, we request a safe place for our belongings while we are in Snotengaham,” he asked with a small smile. “It would be a shame to injure anyone foolish enough to be tempted by what we carry.”

The Abbott waved the men off. “Yes, well, replace the brother who you met before. He is my assistant, Brother Earconberct.” He then made a point of turning to the brothers, pointedly ignoring Michael and Eadric. Michael knew better than to be annoyed by a man such as Brother Anna. Eadric meekly followed. They looked for the monk. He took some replaceing. It was not as if the monastery was a large facility, but after asking for assistance from some of the other monks, one finally led them to the cellarium, where the monastery food and provisions were stored. As the monastery was a refuge for the poor and needy, the cellarium was a large storage area where quantities of grain and drink were jealously guarded. The door to the cellarium was solid, like that of the Abbott’s chambers, but ajar. When their guide called out Brother Earconberct’s name, they heard sudden movement. The monk soon appeared. He had an indignant look, especially when he saw that his activities were disturbed by such as Michael and Eadric. The monk’s breath smelled of wine and Michael surmised he had been sneaking a tipple from the abbot’s store. On being asked for a secure place to store their belongings, Brother Earconberct, with a self-important huff, led them to a small storage room nearby. He pushed the wicker door open and pointed, expecting the gear to be thrown onto the mouse-ridden straw.

Michael pursed his lips and glared at the monk, to whom he had taken an instant dislike. “Brother Earconberct, we apologise for taking up your valuable time, but the Abbot has given permission for us to store our travelling packs in a safe place. We have valuables stored therein and if we placed them in an unsafe place that you recommended and things were stolen, well, would we not be required to take out our displeasure upon you? Now, we don’t want that, and you don’t want that, so please assist us and we’ll leave you to your busy day.” Michael rested his hand on his sword nonchalantly, his message clear.

Brother Earconberct’s eyes narrowed slightly in alarm as he stared at the two warriors and suddenly took an interest in the safety of their property. A sheen of perspiration appeared on his smoothly shaved top lip. With a not quite furtive glance at Michael’s sword and Eadric’s spear, he quickly led them to a storage room with heavy walls and a thick wooden door secured with a large, cast-iron lock. The warriors nodded in satisfaction. Michael stepped into the room.

“Wait here!” he ordered Eadric, and closed the door. He placed his pack in a corner, removed a small sack of coins and tucked his pistol into the back of his breeches, hidden by his tunic. He pocketed more of his valuables, a few camera buttons and the handset, though he felt the vital electronics in the pack would be of little interest. Most of the remaining coins and ribbons he secreted into a compartment at the bottom of the pack, not effective if the whole package was stolen, but good enough to dissuade curious fingers. He left a few items to be found easily and then allowed Eadric entrance.

Once Eadric had stowed his gear, they opened the door.

“Thank you, Brother Earconberct. We know our property will be safe in your kind care,” said Michael.

“When might you return for them, my Lord?” the monk inquired. These were the first words he had spoken and he tried to look past Eadric to see what was of so great a value.

“We might be only a moment, we might be long. That is not a matter truly?” asked Michael.

“Nay, Lord, nay. They will be safe.” Brother Earconberct bowed his head in apparent humility.

Michael wasn’t convinced. He didn’t like the monk’s shifty demeanour: imperious one minute, coolly cooperative the next. He wasn’t joking that he would take out any displeasure on Brother Earconberct if any of their gear was touched, but they couldn’t comfortably travel through Snotengaham’s crowded lanes fully laden as they had been. With the crowds and the heightened potential for lawlessness, they might experience an attempt at theft. Any altercation would only cause undue delays. Michael wanted to concentrate on replaceing Godric’s brother and collect Eadric’s sword. He hoped they could leave this monastery and its unwelcoming residents soon.

The day had become rainy and the roads of Snotengaham were slippery with mud and waste, both animal and human. Many of the men they saw showed evidence of past conflict, through a missing limb or a scarred visage with lost ear or empty eye-socket. These were a people used to war and looked not at all eager to engage in it yet again.

Requests for guidance saw them pointed to the blacksmith’s shop, a small hut that differed from most others as there was an adjoining awning that would have been innocuous but for the smoke and steam that showed it to be a place of activity. A couple of the small Saxon ponies tied to a rail awaited shoeing. Heavy tools hung on the walls and a small anvil set on a low stump dominated the shop area. A charcoal fire burned brightly in the corner where a pair of leather bellows sat idly. They were used to feed air essential to heat the fire to temperatures that would melt metals.

A muscular, bearded man pummelled iron to form a thin sheet that could be useful for a pot or a helm. His assistant was a sturdy young man, while another man pounded away on another anvil as he formed a horseshoe. Even though Snotengaham might be in turmoil, the work of a good blacksmith was always in demand. A second young man hurried with a sack of charcoal to stock the fire pit. At their approach, the bearded man stopped his work and looked up with a smile. “Greetings, my Lords. How can I assist you this day?” he called above the din. His smile was lopsided, as if half of his face was damaged, and he missed a few teeth. There was a more than passing similarity to Godric of Giolgrave. Like Ceolwulf the blacksmith, the workers in the smith wore heavy leather aprons and sleeveless tunics that showed the well-muscled arms of their trade.

“Greetings to you. We seek Desmond the blacksmith,” responded Michael.

The man raised his eyebrows, perhaps at the accent, or was it because a stranger sought his services? He nodded politely, “Well, you’ve found him, friend. How can I be of service?”

Michael gestured to Eadric, who stuttered, “I am Eadric, son of Godric of Giolgrave. I have been sent to visit you, uncle. This is my travelling companion and friend, Lord Michael.”

“Ha! Eadric! Welcome, lad. Welcome!” boomed Desmond and he dropped his hammer to embrace his newfound nephew with a sweaty hug. He kissed the lad’s fuzzy cheek with gusto, held him at arm’s length and nodded with approval as he squeezed his shoulders and felt his muscles. “Aye, lad, I see your father and mother in you, and you’re getting a bit of strength in you too. That’s not a bad spear either, though that spearhead could do with some attention.” He gave a lopsided smile again and he pounded the blushing youth on the back, his face alight in joy and affection as he called to the other workers who had paused in their labours.

“Eadric, meet my sons, your cousins and kin.” He gestured to the young man at the anvil, dressed like his father and with arms that were going to match his before too many summers passed. “This is Hengist, my eldest son.” He slapped Hengist on his sturdy shoulder and the lad beamed and nodded as he clasped Eadric’s arm in friendly greeting. “And this is Irminric, my second son.” Irminric placed the sack of charcoal by the wall and walked across to greet his cousin with a smile. Both Desmond’s lads were sturdy and blonde, their hair tied back away from the flames and sparks of their trade.

Desmond placed a heavy hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Lord Michael, welcome to my humble workshop. So you’ve travelled from Giolgrave with this lad? I’ve not seen him since he was shitting yellow.” He had a smile as big as his arms and Michael suspected that the lopsided nature of the smile might be the scar of an old wound.

The smith’s eyes wandered over Michael’s attire and rested on the swords a moment. There was a slight frown but the big man tried to hide his curiosity. He smiled and gestured to the others in the shop. “And there is my youngest son, little Berethun.” Unseen behind a log-pile, a small boy of about five years played happily. On hearing his name, he popped up to reveal a round, happy face. The cast of his eyes, and his tongue poked between his teeth, showed him to be a Down’s Syndrome child. Berethun rushed to his father’s arms to be lifted to greet his cousin and a new friend. His brothers patted him fondly on the back and the small lad opened his mouth in delight.

Eadric smiled. “Greetings, Berethun. I am your cousin Eadric. I am most pleased to meet you.”

The small boy’s smile grew even wider and he covered his eyes in mock embarrassment, which caused all to laugh.

Desmond continued his introductions. “Ye must also meet a mighty blacksmith and my colleague and friend, Osric.”

The tall, slim, bearded man politely hovered in the background, his strong blacksmith hands and leanly muscled arms a contrast to his placid disposition. A hand was raised in shy greeting.

“Well let’s not stand here. Let’s take you to meet Mother and the girls or we’ll never hear the end of it.” Desmond laughed, and Berethun still in his mighty arm, they walked from the shop.

A few flat stones had been placed between the blacksmith shop and the hut, no doubt in an effort to reduce traipsing mud and ash into the home. A wicker fence separated their home from the busy thoroughfare, though the noise of nearby traders was a constant reminder of the bustle of the busy town.

Having heard the laughter in the blacksmith shop, a handsome woman stood in the door. Her body stout from childbearing, her pleasant face lit up at the sight of her men. Only a brief introduction was required before Eadric and Michael were swept into her bosomy embrace. Edyt, wife of Desmond, had heard for months that Eadric was likely to visit and she made it plain how thrilled she was to have Desmond’s brother’s son in their home.

Two lovely girls were also in attendance, twins Linette and Torctgyd, rare in that they were identical and both had lived. Aged about twelve years, they stood with their mother until they bustled in preparation of the evening stew, especially urgent as they now had two more hungry men to feed.

The men washed and chatted as the meal cooked. Eadric told of life in Giolgrave, a place their hosts treated as impossibly far off, exotic and mysterious in the dangerous forest. They saw Eadric’s journey as heroic, for they rarely left Snotengaham, and the young girls gazed at their dashing cousin in obvious hero worship.

Osric was called from the shop for his meal, the fires covered with ash and the tools secured. Hefty portions of eel stew were served with the usual hard bread. As Eadric’s guest and travel companion, Michael was given every courtesy, his weapons wrapped in their belt and, with Eadric’s spear, stored carefully out of the way. After dinner, tales were told over a gritty beor. Eadric spoke about Michael, his time in the village and his music and skills.

“Well, Lord Michael, we must give heed to my nephew’s praise for your skills,” said Desmond. “I pray we can be blessed with your music, if that pleases you. But before that, we see you are a man of authority as a wielder of swords and we, better than any, appreciate the cold gleam of well-made steel. As men who work with blades of all kinds, we would be fools not to notice your weapons have a look that differs from our work or the work of others we know of. Can we, in friendship, take a look at your swords.”

Michael knew the request would eventually be made, and because of their hospitality and as they were Godric’s kin, could never deny them. In Saxon society, the request to inspect a sword was a mark of respect he was fortunate to have thus far avoided. Godric hadn’t seen Michael with his swords, but had been entertained with his mandolin, while Ricbert, thegn of Deor-lean, had been too self-absorbed. To inspect a warrior’s sword was a chance for the telling of tales, and was an important part of concourse between warriors. As swords were so costly, they were only worn through the generosity of a king, or were captured in battle and were heirlooms passed on from father to son. To wear a sword was a symbol of status, importance, and wealth, and each blade was surrounded by stories and a certain mystique. Michael knew he was most unusual in that he wore two.

With a mental cringe, Michael gathered his precious swords together. He gazed down at them a moment and then selected the longer of the two. Grasping the scabbard in his right hand and the long hilt in his left, he displayed the sword as he had been trained. He raised the scabbarded sword horizontally in front of him and then unsheathed the sword only a couple of palms. As the afternoon light shone on the exquisitely crafted blade, before a master sword-crafter’s astonished gaze, he removed the length of the awesome blade for their inspection.