Traveller Manifesto
62. Aengland - 11th Century

Aengland – 11th Century.

It was in the hall of Thegn Conrad where Michael gained a true appreciation of the skills of Wasdewy the Scop, for he was a performer the likes of which the Traveller had never seen. For a fleeting moment he wished he had his cameras, for the historians would have gained a most valuable insight into the true heart of the people they would later call Anglo-Saxons.

The hall was unkempt and dinghy, as if age and acceptance of the lot of a hard life had eroded the observance of pride in their meeting place. While the rushes on the timber floor were fresh, piles of extinguished embers and benches prone to splinters gave a decrepit air.

But, good to his word, Wasdewy was received with cries of welcome from the highest to the lowest. Children gathered and watched as adults hugged the scop with fond familiarity. As his travelling companions, Michael, Tatae and Brother Bertwald were welcomed as family, while little Genovefa was soon the centre of attention. It was not long before the monk was whisked away by the resident priest while Tatae was welcomed into the arms of the women. Typical to Tatae, she was soon squatting by a hearth as herbs and other ingredients were eagerly supplied so she could prepare her various concoctions. She looked radiant, her status as healer once again recognised as of immense value to the people around her.

Michael was again struck with the cost their flight would have had on Tatae. She had been torn from her community as a tree was torn out by its roots. Her rank as healer and spiritual leader had been snatched from her. Though she had never complained, now she and her child were little more than refugees.

It was later in the evening when they were invited into the presence of Thegn Conrad. Though his long hair covered the earholes left by his mutilation, the two triangular holes of his nose were not to be hidden. His open orifice in the centre of his face seemed to draw attention to his blue eyes which glared out at the world in the anger of the betrayed. “Aye,” whispered the scop as they entered the hall. “The Thegn is known to struggle with his affliction, for he was a comely lad and popular with the women. While we all thank the Holy Mother that he is alive, he wonders why he would be afflicted so. He believes God himself struck him down.”

As at Giolgrave, the entire village gathered. While many could fit in the hall, others crowded the doors and looked in through the windows. A steady drizzle caused the crowded building to become stuffy, but Michael was thankful his family did not have to brave the chill this night. As was his right, Wasdewy introduced himself and then Michael. The thegn nodded and passed a fleeting, envious look over Michael’s handsome face before the scop placed a bow to his instrument. There was a deep thrum and the tempo and excitement built before his fair voice was raised. He launched into tales that sounded a little like the legend of King Arthur. Michael looked around him at the faces as they shone in the flickering firelight, their eyes far away as they dreamed of bold deeds and brave men. Having warmed to his topic, Wasdewy then recited the illustrious lineage of their Thegn as a descendent of the great King Penda. Michael knew the Scop was a walking library of Anglo-Saxon lore, that in his head swam the lengthy genealogies of those of note in both Aengland and Weala. He could recite legends, tell stories, and remind all who listened where they stood in the rich history of the peoples whose blood flowed through their veins. Peoples known by modern historians as the Celts, Britons, Romans, Saxons, and Vikings all mixed their family lines to swirl and coalesce into a people who would later be the people of Great Britain of the 21st Century.

As his beautiful tenor rang through the crowded hall, the people sat silently, utterly absorbed by the scop’s magic. Even Tatae sat by Michael, captured by the rare beauty of the moment. She held his hand and shed silent tears. Thegn Conrad seemed mollified, his eyes sadly staring into the fire in front of his wooden throne. As no scop could never write their music down, their art was one of memory and improvisation. Yes, the 21st Century historians would have given much to have witnessed the events of that evening. Wasdewy then showed his versatility by playing flutes he had made from the bones of a deer. They sounded much like a modern recorder that children play in schools.

The scop could have played all night, this much all knew, but courtesy caused Wasdewy to invite Michael for his contribution. To follow such a performance had him embarrassed, that his offering would be of no consequence following the weighty pronunciations from his new friend. All looked to him in curiosity as he hefted his mandolin. With a shrug, he committed himself to the moment.

Immediately he began, the change in tempo was jarringly obvious and Brother Bertwald and Tatae leapt to their feet to dance. The joyous, light-hearted tunes soon had all jumping and laughing, in as much as the crowded room let them. Not having been a huge club attendee, Michael could only imagine the situation to be one, giant 11th Century mosh pit. Wasdewy joined in with his instrument and voice so they almost sounded like a band at a modern pub. The Traveller felt a jab of nostalgia at the thought of a scene he would never again witness.

Beor flowed and the mood became riotous. Aside from the steamy, muggy atmosphere with the smoke and reek of damp wool and body odour, one event took place that gave a unique perspective to the evening. Amidst much back slapping and jesting, one of Thegn Conrad’s senior warriors stood and cast his arms wide, which had the nose-less Thegn laugh uproariously. The room quietened and the warrior became the centre of attention. He gave a yell and pointed across to one of his fellows and began to chant out what sounded like a type of poem.

But what a poem.

…

When it comes to hard work

He will run for his life

To spend the day in bed with his young wife

If she’s not around

That doesn’t worry Slog

For he will take up

With his neighbour’s dog

…

And on it went.

As each barb was launched, the friends of the poet would roar with laughter while the target, named Slog by the others, acted ever more dramatically offended and scandalised.

In the end it became his turn and, well soaked with beor, he leapt onto a table and roared to make himself heard.

…

For with a gal he dare not linger

For he has a tiny cock

Like a little finger

He has a squeaky voice

Like a little bird

But his smell is strong

Like a big fat turd

…

To Michael the cadence seemed like modern rap and thankfully Wasdewy came to his rescue to explain what was happening. “Aye, ’tis flyting, Lord Michael. It is a ritual of sorts, where men with a quarrel exchange poetic insults rather than sword blows.” He paused to laugh at a particularly imaginative riposte before he continued. “Men here have been so engaged since men have been men. Besides, it stops many a needless death.”

“Oh, this is funny!” exclaimed Michael. He had not laughed like this for as long as he could remember. “Do you flyte, my friend? I imagine you would be better than anyone,” he laughed. The atmosphere had become hilarious and there were roars of riotous laughter.

The scop immediately sobered. “Ah my friend, I dare not. It is a form of fun in the feasting hall, yet if was practiced by such as I, I would be expected to win and my comments could cause offense or even grave dishonour to be brought upon this house.”

Michael nodded and there were cheers as Slog was considered the winner. He was invited to scull a tankard of beor. Once he downed his drink, he invited his opponent to share the occasion as all called out for Michael to play yet another happy tune.