Traveller Manifesto
59. Aengland - 11th Century

Aengland – 11th Century.

After repeatedly swearing he was harmless, Michael finally managed to allay the man’s fears enough to greet him warmly. Heavily armed as he was, he had no desire to terrorise anyone, least of all an unarmed man. He was reminded of a similar occurrence when he had first Travelled to Saxon Aengland and met the lonely monk in the forest.

Oeric, dear friend, how I miss you so.

The stranger seemed to almost faint with relief at the sight of a woman with a babe and a monk. Their presence meant the likelihood of his own demise through the actions of a warrior and hunting dog vanished and his overwhelming relief made him almost garrulous. “My name, yes, it is Wasdewy,” he exclaimed, though he spoke it as if it was Gwasdewi, or at least that was what they could make of him, for his accent was atrocious. “I am to go to Beormingahām, for there I am known by Thegn Conrad. It is time I return, for times have been hard in this country and I desire the table of one who is known to be generous.”

“That is our destination, good Wasdewy,” replied Brother Bertwald, who also seemed excited at the prospect of conversation with a new acquaintance. Michael realised he had not been the most agreeable of companions for he, in his concern for his wife and daughter, had been prone to long silences while Tatae plainly distrusted the monk and spoke with him even less. She spent her time caring for Genovefa, who was released from her embrace only rarely. On occasion, Michael carried his daughter and she seemed to delight in cooing at him with bubbles and smiles as she tangled her pudgy fingers in his beard. She was the most magical, beautiful creature he had ever seen and he doted on her every whim. Her future looked to be as one that was spoiled rotten. He just couldn’t help it.

The rest of the small party introduced themselves and, at her welcome, Wasdewy stared at Tatae a moment in open astonishment. Tatae was not ignorant of his fascination and stared back at him in amusement, which soon transformed into wonder when he ventured a few words in a language Michael could not understand. It sounded as if it was of the tongue Tatae sometimes used in worship. The scop seemed as if he was about to drop to his knees in reverence. He clasped his hands together and continued in an outburst of liquid prose that was almost a song. She glanced at Michael as she replied, the words like song as Brother Bertwald looked on in dismay and increasing alarm.

They shared a brief conversation until Wasdewy paused in apology. “Ahh, my new friends. Please excuse me, for dear Sister here has the look and the tongue of the Mothers who visit our villages in the forest.” He chewed his lip as he looked to Tatae with not a little wonder.

“Where do you live?” asked Tatae, plainly captivated with their new acquaintance.

“I? Well I live where I can, good lady, though I have been a regular at the house of Thegn Conrad. He is, by nature, generous and enjoys the entertainment I offer. You see, I am a scop and a keeper of wisdom, stories, family lines, and songs of our people.”

“Ha!” cried Michael in delight. “I knew it! A real scop! Finally I have met one. I play music for entertainment and dance, but a scop is one with whom I would like to speak when I can.”

The scop inclined his head politely and looked Michael over with a frown, as if he had never before seen a musician who was also a warrior, which was what Michael plainly was. For a moment Wasdewy looked to treat Michael’s statement as if in jest, but deemed it wiser to let the warrior have his way. “Well, my Lord, I would be delighted to discuss music and poetry at length if I could but travel the road with you,” he asked.

Michael almost laughed in delight as Tatae and Brother Bertwald looked to him with beseeching eyes, like children pleading for a new puppy. “Okay, let’s do it!” he declared. “We would love to hear your tales.”

Their new friend gave a deep bow and, with a sweep of his hand, bid them welcome. He then dashed off to collect his pack and instrument, and they were soon on their way. He was utterly charming and made a most significant contribution to their no longer silent passage, for he talked almost incessantly. It was as if he considered their invitation to discuss his tales as an obligation to drip feed them his ocean of traditional acumen. Wasdewy was like none Michael had experienced in his sojourn in Saxon Aengland. For one thing, he was not what one would describe as truly Saxon. Though he was taller than the slaves of old Giolgrave, he was dark-haired and fair-skinned in a way that was markedly different to the people generally described as Saxon or Dane. Those warring peoples were cousins, having originated from the lands of what can be generally described in the 21st Century as Scandinavia and Holland. From the far west of the Aenglish lands, Wasdewy was of the regions that bordered the Weala or Welsh and, at times, seemed as wild and untamed as Tatae.

After some hours hiking, they decided to rest and Michael was free to inspect the instrument Wasdewy carried. He called it a rebec, like an oval violin with 3 strings of gut played with a bow. There was no neck or fingerboard. When asked for a demonstration, Wasdewy sat and lovingly caressed the instrument as he bent his head to adopt a more sombre air. He then raised his head and, with a voice like an angel, sang a genealogical lineage of a noble family, the rebec accompanying with little more than a melodic drone.

His audience burst into cheers of applause as he finished with his head bowed. Wasdewy accepted the all too familiar adoration with a nod and smile, his performance lending solemnity and dignity to their humble gathering.

Wasdewy then stood and bowed to Michael, for he had also agreed to a performance.

The Traveller had played his instrument, which was a crude representation of a mandolin, at many a gathering. He recalled his first performance to the vibrant community of monks in old Giolgrave and his heart constricted in pain at the memory. He had upset poor Brother Cearl and to make amends hoped to smooth emotions by playing a tune or two. To his surprise, Brother Oeric and Brother Cearl had reacted so joyfully that most of the monastery soon danced and kicked up their feet in delight. At the invitation of Abbott Aldfrid, that evening the then stranger to their community played for the assembled monks, the noisy celebrations attracting the attention of Giolgrave’s Thegn Godric. What followed was the village midsummer celebration where he had become welcomed by the villagers and where he met Tatae.

He had much to be thankful for, at how his amateur strumming had enabled him to successfully integrate into their community. For that was his initial mission. Now his mission had become his life. As he handled his mandolin, the memories of Brother Oeric, Abbott Aldfrid and Brother Cearl almost brought tears to his eyes. They were friends who made a stranger so welcome he had become one of them. The Generals thought he had achieved that objective all too well. Distant memories gave his arrival and integration into Giolgrave the illusion of having been a simple process, now romanticised in his heart and mind as a time that was all too perfect.

He missed them, his monks. He missed his home and he missed Giolgrave. The nostalgia and homesickness flooded in a wave that was surprisingly deep and he almost had to restrain a quick wipe of his eyes with the back of his hand. As the others watched, Michael settled himself onto the log and looked up, suddenly embarrassed. How could his crude strumming and plucking compare to the skills of one so highly regarded as Wasdewy? A scop was a cultural institution, while he was simply a hack. Yet, he conceded he had brought joy to many.

With a mental shrug, he began.

When he had learned to play, Michael soon identified that simple tunes would serve his purposes best of all, so rousing tunes that the Saxons enjoyed, tunes such as ‘Yellow Rose of Texas’, ‘Michael Finnegan’ and ‘Waltzing Matilda’ had been quickly established as favourites. There were others, of course, and a few tunes he had made up, more collaborations from modern compositions than anything of any creative ability. But as he played, his doubts soon fled as the others began to dance and jig. Tatae held Genovefa as she spun in a twirl, while Brother Bertwald seemed to adopt the dance steps of the monks of Giolgrave, which seemed little more than to take giant steps in place, interspersed with the occasional leap into the air.

Wasdewy danced with his arms out and he spun at times like a helicopter. At one stage Michael feared for his safety, that he would soon tumble to the ground in a dizzy heap.

Yet they survived and, at the end of his performance, he was gratified to witness their delight. “What manner of music is this?” gasped Wasdewy. He, more than the others, seemed astonished at the pace and emotional jolt Michael’s music had delivered. Then, in his excitement, he babbled on in a language none, not even Tatae, could understand. In the end they had to slow him down to understand anything he said.

While he was effusive with his praise he was particularly fascinated by the mandolin itself which, Michael was forced to concede, was fashioned after instruments that were not to be developed until further into Aengland’s future. So Wasdewy gasped and cooed over the smoothness of the timber, of the fine timberwork, and the strings. ’What manner of gut is this?” he asked. Michael winced, for the nylon strings were not easily explained away. He had become impatient with the fragility of strings manufactured from the intestines of sheep raised by the residents of Giolgrave. His omission in replacing the modern strings with traditional materials caused a momentary flash of panic. Nylon was a material unimaginable to the people of Saxon Aengland.

Somehow he managed to sidestep the issue, but he knew it would return.

When the rain ceased, they continued their journey to Beormingahām. The countryside again became populated with farms, though the few farmers and labourers with whom they stopped to chat were barely understood. They were at the frontiers of Aengland, at the far west of the kingdom of Mercia. Wasdewy declared that the people of the area were known by many as the Beormingas, or Beorma’s People. Who Beorma was, he couldn’t say.

They soon passed through a village of Estone, with a small mill and humble stone church the only signs of community prosperity. The farms seemed to be slowly recovering from the conflict that had too recently wracked the region.

Wasdewy was recognised on a number of occasions and the farmers whistled and waved in friendly greeting. At this, the scop took heart and laughed. “Well I’m not forgotten, that’s for sure, though I hope my welcome is as before. It has been some years”

“So, welcome home?” suggested Michael.

Wasdewy chuckled and sighed. “Oh no, Lord Michael, my home lays far away, far to the west, where the great mountains bruise the very sky itself.” He sighed again, as if in pining. “I have not been home since I was a lad. No, this journey is as close to home as I have been for many a year.” He leaned close to Michael, so Brother Bertwald also leaned in close to listen. “There is something you should know, for the hall of Thegn Conrad is but a humble one. But that is not because this is the home of a minor thegn. Oh no! Conrad is descended from the King Penda himself through Wulfhere and, truth be told, one of Coenred’s bastards before he found his faith and became a monk. Lord Conrad is a strong thegn and a good man, though he has taken on the mantle quite young because of the death of his father thegn Aldin who, loyal to King Aethelred to the end, died in the battles for Wessex.”

He shook his head as if retelling a tragedy. “At the time, Conrad was a strapping, handsome lad who had been offered up to Sweyn Forkbeard as a hostage with many from the noble and high-born families. Soon after he became King, as you know, Sweyn Forkbeard died and his son, King Cnut, conquered the armies of Edward Ironsides and became regent. One of his first acts was to have his men dump the hostages onto the shores of Sandwic, minus their noses and ears. Some, even their hands, though Lord Conrad still has his.”

Brother Bertwald gasped and Michael swore. “So, we will visit the hall of a thegn with no nose and ears?” he confirmed.

“Aye. I’ll say again. His is not a house of great wealth, especially since he has taken the seat of his father, but peace has reigned and the people have increased their security.”

Michael looked to the dilapidated cottage as they passed an abandoned farm and wondered what kind of reception would come of their visit.