Traveller Inceptio
61

For two more days, they travelled on a road that was little more than a deserted path. Occasionally they passed a farmer still in his fields. If people were to eat, crops had to survive. Some viewed the threat of starvation as greater than the threat of the Vikings, so they worked the land and prayed to be spared from both.

Alric began to walk and he healed quickly, though he finished the days exhausted. Horsa explained that much of his strength was taken to heal his wounds, both seen and unseen. His visceral grief was only surmounted by his concern for his sister, Aedgyd, who soon took to sitting on the cart’s seat. She had not yet said a word, though at the insistence of the twins and their mother, she began to gingerly eat. Brother Horsa brewed a variety of teas when he could, adding herbs and bitter willow bark to ease her pain and promote healing. The swelling of her face began to recede, as did the blue bruises, many of which faded to yellow, though her black eye would take longer. What was of most concern was how she would not speak, as if the horrific deeds committed upon her had gravely injured not only her body, but also her mind, and perhaps her soul. She appeared grateful for the ministrations of the monks and formed a special bond with the twins and Edyt to the point that she became distressed if they left her alone. No man could even come near to her, but for her brother, and surprisingly, Eadric, who had carried her from the woods. Michael could not determine how she would know that it was he who had carried her, but there seemed to be a connection, even if somewhat tenuous.

When not travelling or hunting, Michael and Desmond continued to train the young men in the arts of war. While the monks set up camp and the women prepared food and cared for the injured, the young men were taught to fight with the staff, sword, and spear, as well as unarmed combat. Michael was impressed at how the lads were like sponges: how quickly they learned and improved. The afternoons became a time to forget their exhaustion, though training usually ended with sparring and some hard wrestling, cheered on to calls of encouragement from all in the party.

With Desmond’s permission, Michael also taught the twins some unarmed combat and how to use the seax, identifying how even a small girl such as they could strike an aggressor so they could flee. Michael impressed on each of the group that any assailant, Viking or Saxon, did not expect a monk or a woman to have any knowledge of defence, and that any action on their part could take an attacker off guard. When in attack, they must be ruthless. They were taught to use the heel of their hand into the point of a nose, a stick to stab a groin or an eye, and use their seax to carve into a face. After the experiences of Alric and Aedgyd, they realised that some men were beasts to whom women, children and monks would be considered easy pickings.

They were passing the village of Northwood when they met another party carrying their meagre possessions. Though they travelled in the opposite direction, they were grateful for the invitation to join the Giolgrave-bound party at their overnight camp. They fled to caves in the forest to join others from their village. Michael was impressed that most villages had planned their sanctuary in times of trouble.

“Aye, we just got out in time, I think,” added the farmer who carried most of his worldly possessions on his back.

Their cow accompanied them, a scrawny beast that looked as if it had lived too many summers. They coaxed some milk from its flaccid udder and enjoyed the first fresh milk they had drunk in many a day.

“Last night it was. We saw it: a glow in the sky, far off. We think it was the village of Chesterfield afire,” they told Michael and Desmond, their fear alive in their eyes.

“How far is that?” asked Desmond gently.

Like Michael, the blacksmith sought to calculate their best path to survival. Laden down with children and the injured, they knew their risk of discovery was relatively high.

The farmer and one of the younger men chatted together a moment before they replied, “Well, it’s either a good day’s journey on foot, or two or more days with loaded ponies or cattle. It depends if the destroyers are collecting their loot, you see. We thought we would trust in the Lord and receive their mercy, as the crops will need to be harvested soon. But once we saw that glow, we thought it wisest to flee and hide.”

Michael grew ever more concerned at possible proximity of the marauders. He knew their main army was to head directly to London, though Forkbeard’s lieutenants would be given freedom to roam wherever they might think plunder available. In the relative wealth of the agricultural areas of middle Aengland, rewards could take the form of livestock or valuables from churches. Advanced raiding parties could be slowed to a crawl as they looted villages and farmhouses or amused themselves with rape and slaughter.

The next day they had not journeyed far when Michael saw a flicker of movement in the trees ahead. He was on point with Irminric, so he signalled the cart to stop before he and the lad crept forward. Michael knew the travelling had toughened Irminric who had learned well the skills Michael had taught. Given adequate training, the lads would become a superb reconnaissance team. All of the travellers, even the girls, knew Michael’s hand signals, so as they crept forward, Irminric watched for Michael’s signal as the rest of the group waited, motionless under the cart or in the undergrowth.

After a few moments, there was the sound of stealthy movement, followed by the flash of brown cloth, then a face, as a man peered between the leaves of a bush only a couple of paces ahead. Too late, the owner recognised his predicament and turned to flee, but was brought to earth with a spectacular tackle from Irminric, who immediately had the man on the ground and in a painful wristlock.

He looked to be a lone traveller, and judging by his wailing, was not a warrior. His brown garb showed him to be a monk, a scruffy character with a poorly crafted tonsure. He looked terrified. After scouting the surrounding area, Michael gestured for the man to be brought to his feet and to be quiet, something he did with difficulty, as he sobbed with Irminric’s sharp seax held firmly at his throat. Young though the lad may be, Michael saw in Irminric’s steely eyes that, if directed, the man would be dead in moments.

“Are you alone?” whispered Michael.

The terrified man nodded. He went to speak, but the blade dissuaded any comment as Irminric pushed the monk ahead of them toward the cart.

“What are you doing travelling alone?” Michael asked quietly.

When he saw they were heading for a family group of wealth, the monk visibly relaxed and he began to babble. “I always travel alone, my Lords. I am a monk on my spiritual journey and I bless the lives of those I meet. I am Brother Bertwald, of no village or monastery but where the Lord himself guides me.”

Michael frowned and made a quizzical look to Irminric, who misunderstood and pricked the side of the monk’s throat with his seax.

The monk wailed, “I speak truth, I speak truth! Oh Lord, please have mercy! I only go where the Lord guides me. Some call me a Gyrovagus, a travelling monk.” He rubbed his sore wrist and moaned as he attempted to turn a pleading gaze upon Irminric, but the prick of the knife put an end to that. Michael jerked his head and Irminric took his knife from the man’s throat just as Eadric arrived, having run forward to level his spear at the stranger as trained.

Brother Bertwald dropped to his knees, raised his eyes to heaven and began to pray loudly. If there was any potential enemy in the immediate vicinity, their presence would have been well advertised, so Irminric slapped the side of the man’s head and pulled him again to his feet while Eadric went to collect the man’s meagre travel pack from his hiding place in the bushes.

As they walked, Brother Bertwald breathlessly told Michael he had been travelling south to the village of Ash Bourne in the hope of escape from the invaders. “My prayer is that such villages will be too small for the marauders, when larger towns offer loot aplenty. Small villages will, most likely, not have a priest, so I might be welcome until times become more settled,” he explained. Brother Bertwald was a scrawny little fast talker with a hooked nose. Michael decided was more a likable rogue, than a holy man.

Michael was unprepared for the reception the travelling monk received from the other monks. On hearing of his introduction and philosophy, they were, for reasons unknown, openly unfriendly. The group decided to take a rest and offer him hospitality and a share of some of their food. He praised their generosity and was obviously famished, scoffing down some of the cold stew from the night before while he extolled the cooking of Edyt and her daughters as worthy of angels.

The monks barely waited until he had finished when they angrily turned on him. “If you were what you say, ‘Brother’, ye would not wander the earth teaching whatever comes to ye head, but would be comforted by the brotherhood in Christ and seek his favour,” criticised Brother Oeric angrily.

As he wiped his mouth, the scrawny man reared as if threatened by a snake. “Favour! Favour! Hypocrites! What know ye of favour? Ye who serve Abbots that claim themselves as Lords above us, taking harlots and dressing themselves up in finery while the poor suffer. I teach the word of God, bringing comfort where and when I can.”

Having just witnessed the excesses of Abbott Anna, the monks felt stung, and Brother Oeric’s face turned beet-red. “Ye teach what the people want to hear, straying from the truth, ye goose feather! Ye are blown to and fro by every slight breeze and lack any truth or authority of God. Only by following the dictates of the blessed Saint Benedict can ye control your ungodly urges. Wastrel! Softheaded know-nothing! We serve only God and our lives seek his purity through discipline and prayer.” Spittle flew from Brother Oeric’s mouth and his face screwed up in a contempt Michael had never before witnessed from the gentle monk.

And so it went on. Brother Bertwald gobbled berries offered by the twins as he gave verbose retort that was persuasive, and even entertaining. If the opportunity presented itself, Michael was convinced the good Brother Bertwald would not be above making off with someone’s possessions for the greater glory of God. Ultimately, as the arguments grew even more heated, Desmond quietened the monks. Their language and tone had become unsuitable for the ears of children.

Brother Bertrand finished his meal with a healthy, lengthy burp. “My thanks, my Lord, and to each of you,” he intoned, “but I had best be on my way.”

Brother Horsa snorted.

Michael knew he should not, but had to ask, “Brother Bertrand, would you care to travel with us. In a group you would be safer than ranging this land when times are so uncertain.”

Brother Bertwald looked at the monks, as if tempted, but shook his head sorrowfully. “I am to travel as the Lord guides me,” he explained.

The monks stared at him coldly, but remained silent.

“I will go to farmhouses closer to Chesterfield. The two farmhouses at Robridding burned and the people must have scattered, as I saw them not. In the distance, I saw men I took to be marauders, so I fled and hid in the hills. I’ve been fleeing since. That was but a day hence.” He looked at the armed men around him, and the women and children, pointedly ignoring the monks.

Michael could see his mind at work. A group would mean food and a degree of safety, but could also attract attention. The size of the group may dissuade a small band of plunderers but prove irresistible to an attack force, while he, as a lone monk, would be ignored.

Michael placed his hand on the small man’s bony shoulder. ”May God go with you, Brother Bertwald. I hope we meet again in happier times.”

Brother Bertwald smiled a crooked and decayed, toothy smile, and nodded, bidding a friendly and grateful farewell to the others while assiduously ignoring the monks. Generous nose pointed into the air, with an imperious sniff directed to his antagonists, he hurried on his way, staff in his hand and a prayer in his heart. He headed cross-country to the south, so the party continued on their way.

As he departed, Michael turned to the monks. “Really, brothers? At this time of unrest and conflict from all quarters, can you not put your differences aside?” He shook his head, annoyed at their petty bickering. Brother Bertwald’s news convinced Michael that they should try to travel faster. “Come, people, now is the time to make haste.” He drew Desmond aside and spoke quietly so the others could not hear. “We have to get to Giolgrave quickly. You heard what Brother Bertwald said, that he suspects Vikings to be here any day now. At Giolgrave, we should be safe. We can help the villagers to defend the village if need be.”

Desmond nodded doubtfully. “How can we go faster, Lord Michael? The road is too narrow and we have sick and injured among us?”

He had no answer, but positioned Desmond and Irminric at point and praised Irminric for his action with the monk. His older brother, Hengist, clapped him on the shoulder proudly. Irminric lived in the shadow of his older brother’s achievements, but had proved himself most capable. He proudly led while Michael walked with Brother Oeric.

“Why do you not care for Brother Bertwald? Is he not a brother in Christ? Why do you have anger against him?” asked Michael curiously.

Brother Oeric snorted and Michael heard the word ‘contemptible’ muttered under his breath. Oeric continued as if quoting a set of beliefs from memory. His voice took on a higher tone, as used when teaching younger monks by rote, and he used a more poetic language. “It is well-known that there are four kinds of monks,” he lectured. “The first kind is the Cenobites, like us, those who live in monasteries and serve under a rule and an Abbot.

“The second kind are the Anchorites, or Hermits, those who, after long probation in a monastery, have learned by the help of many brethren how to fight against the devil. These go out well armed from the ranks of the community to the solitary combat of the wilderness. They are able now, with no help save from God, to fight single-handed against the vices of the flesh and their own evil thoughts.

“The third kind of monks, a most detestable kind,” and his lip curled, “are the Sarabaites. These, not having been tested, as gold in the furnace, by any rule or by the lessons of experience, are as soft as lead. In their works, they still keep faith with the world, so their tonsure marks them as liars before God. They live without a shepherd as they are in their own sheepfolds and not in the Lord’s. Their law is the desire for self-gratification: whatever enters their mind or appeals to them, that they call holy; what they dislike, they regard as unlawful.” Brother Oeric snorted in disgust.

He paused in his teaching, his mouth turned down, and he glared angrily back to where Brother Bertwald was last seen. “The fourth kind are called Gyrovagus. These spend their whole lives tramping from place to place, staying as guests in different monasteries for three or four days at a time. Always on the move, with no stability, they indulge their own wills and succumb to the allurements of gluttony, and are in every way even worse than the Sarabaites. Of their miserable conduct, it is better to be silent than to speak.” He sniffed again, looked to Michael and smiled his tooth-decayed smile. “Let us pass these fools over. We, with God’s help, are best to lay down a rule for the strongest kind of monks, the Cenobites.”

Head held high, Brother Oeric strode strongly forward, the sacred relic in its leather pouch as it thumped softly against his hip. Michael raised his eyebrows, amused and impressed by his friend’s indignant passion as to the correct path to worship God. He knew better than to ask of such things again. No matter where or when one lived, it seemed people just could not agree on religion.