The Amber Treasure

by Richard Denning

  Chapter Three

  The Warrior’s Way

  Early on a cold morning, a few days after Lilla’s visit, I was summoned to the path in front of the Villa. Here a cart was being loaded with produce from the farm. Jars of preserved fruit sealed with honey were stacked next to barrels of smoked meat. Dried vegetables in pots were also added, along with sacks of flour milled on the Villa. Two large cheeses and a good number of jars of beer completed the collection.

  It was time to take the Feorm to Lord Wallace in Market Wicstun. The Feorm was the due and payment Father made to his superior lord. In turn, Wallace would pass on to the King a portion of what came to him. The estates of the more senior nobles and that of the King relied on this obligation. In exchange, the King and his lords offered security and the protection of their swords against any enemies.

  Once the cart had been fully loaded, Cuthwine backed our oxen between the shafts and our party gathered for the journey. My father was going, as was my brother, along with two men from the village. I would not be much use unloading the cart, but I think my father felt that it was time for my education in our traditions to begin.

  It was half a day’s journey to Wicstun – oxen are ponderous creatures and travel but slowly - and we reached it when the sun was high overhead, warming us on this clear, but frosty, morning.

  Wicstun had several score houses, two alehouses along with a blacksmith and other workshops. Looking back it seems funny to me - now that I have been to the great cities of Eoforwic, Ceaster and Lunden - that Wicstun seemed such a huge place. Yet, back then, it was with wide eyes that I stumbled along behind the cart.

  We stopped outside the largest building in the town. This was the hall of Lord Wallace who was the most important noble in the south of Deira, made even more influential with the proximity of the temples and the royal estates at Godnundingham, just an hour or two further away to the northeast.

  My father went inside and came out with an older man with grey streaks in his beard. He was a little shorter than my father, but somewhat larger in the belly. He walked over and patted me on the head and then smiled.

  “So, this is Cerdic then, Cenred: another fine son and a credit to you and Hrodwyn. Ah, I see you have a good Feorm for me again this year. Even with the drought and those blasted locusts earlier this summer, you have not failed me.”

  “We have good land and good men to work it, my Lord,” my father replied.

  “Well, let’s get it inside then,” Wallace shouted over his shoulder to his servants and then, quietly to my father, he added, “the usual delivery for Eanfled, I take it?”

  My father glanced at me before replying in a rather gruff voice, “As always, my Lord.”

  Wallace nodded and they passed me to supervise the unloading of the cart, leaving me wondering what they were talking about. Who was Eanfled?

  It did not take long to unload the cart, but I noticed that they had left two sacks of provisions at the back of it. When I pointed this out to Cuthwine, he told me not to mind them as they were not part of the Feorm.

  “What are they for then?” I asked.

  “I said don’t mind them!” he snapped back at me.

  Father then took us to the blacksmith to order some nails and have some tools made that our own smithy could not manage. The blacksmith was a bald-headed man with hugely muscular arms, which strained and bulged as he hammered a rod of steel. He was making a sword: alternately heating the metal in the forge, hammering it on the anvil and plunging it into water, throwing up a cloud of steam and smoke.

  As my father entered, the man nodded at him then put the sword and hammer down on the anvil. The two of them, along with my older brother, went over to the corner to examine some nails. The sword was still glowing and it drew me towards it as if by some sorcery or magic. Perhaps, I mused, the blacksmith was enchanting it. I had heard tales of such things. But, then again, swords needed no spells to draw me to them.

  I glanced at the others, but they were still eagerly haggling over how many pounds of nails could be bought for a pfennig. I looked back at the sword, itching to hold it and I reached out my fingers and lightly touched the blade. With a yelp, I snatched back my hand and sucked the finger tips: the sword had still been red hot.

  Father came bustling across the room, glared at my fingers and then slapped me firmly, but with no real spite, over the back of the head.

  “Fool, you’ve burnt your fingers. They’ll blister and fester, if we’re not careful. I guess while we are here, we must see if the healer woman is at home and can treat that.”

  He shook his head and tutted, then stomped back to finish his negotiations. While he continued to haggle, I noticed he kept glancing over at me, as if weighing something up. Finally, he nodded to himself, as if a decision had just been reached.

  We soon set off again and I expected us to go straight home but instead, we deviated down a side road. A short way along it, the cart slowed and I could see someone not far away.

  She stood beside the road in the late afternoon shadows that formed under the eaves of a house. As we approached, my father, who was sitting on the front of the wagon, seemed to stiffen. I looked at my brother and was startled to see that he wore a scowl. The woman stepped out into the road and my father, jumping down, went over to her. They spoke for a few moments and then he handed the two sacks to her. Without any more words, he then walked back to the cart.

  When he had gone only a few paces, she called to him and he turned. She was gesturing into the shadows where I now saw that a boy, perhaps a little younger than I and with brown hair like his mother’s, was standing. The lad looked up at my father, eyes hopeful: desperate even. My father stared at him for a long time then he shook his head and turned away. The boy’s eyes became wet and he ran over to his mother. She held out an arm and embraced him. They turned back towards us and I could now see that both of them were staring, not at my father, nor at Cuthwine, but at me and upon both their faces was an expression of utter hatred. Shocked and mystified, I looked away.

  The cart started off again and we moved away, down the road, towards home. As we passed the last house in Wicstun, I twisted round and glanced back up the lane. The woman had gone, but I could see that the boy was still looking our way. Even at this distance, I could feel the strength of his feelings towards me. Confused, I turned and leant forward, towards my father and opened my mouth to ask a question, but then I saw Cuthwine shake his head and I held my peace, as we returned home.

  It was only a few days after this that my father came to Eduard, Cuthbert and me, while we were helping Caerfydd repair the roof of the great barn in preparation for the winter storms. This is to say, we were fooling around and he was doing the work.

  “Cerdic,” he shouted over to me from the Villa, “come here and bring the boys.”

  I exchanged a worried glance with my friends and saw that the same thought was passing through their minds: we hadn’t done anything wrong today − had we? But my father was smiling when we reached him.

  “Today, it is time to begin to leave childhood behind and set out on the journey to manhood. You are all old enough to learn the arts of war, for the day may come when you need to defend your family and lands: just as your fathers and grandfathers have done before you.”

  As he spoke these words, I saw that he had put on his sword − his brother’s sword. It was hanging from a baldric – a strap worn over his left shoulder - so that the blade lay against his lower chest. He noticed I was looking at it and pulled it out, holding it in front of his body.

  I had admired it often before: it was a great blade of shining steel, which my father polished every evening. It had a bronze guard and a patterned pommel. He swung it swiftly round in an arc, so it cut the air with a faint whooshing sound. Sunlight reflected off the blade and for a few moments, I imagined my father in the role of the heroic warrior in one of Lilla’s tales. His voice brought me back from my dreams.

  “This,” he said,
with a proud voice, “belonged to Cynric, my brother and your grandfather’s eldest son. Before you were born, there was some fighting in the North. King Aelle was always trying to find a way to defend us against the superior strength of the Welsh kingdoms and make us stronger than they. One day, the chance came. The kings of Eoforwic were not afraid of us, but they saw a threat in Bernicia, Firebrand’s lands around the River Tweed in the North. They marched there, but were slain in the battle of Caer Greu,” he paused and looked at us, perhaps trying to see if were following all of this. We had heard it all before, of course, but listened attentively. He told it well, but not as well as Lilla.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “Aelle now saw an opportunity to expand our holdings and secure our grasp on these lands and he summoned the warriors. Your uncle Cynric went away to war and he fought in several battles. In the last one, he was leading a small force of local men from this area. He was sent away from the main army to prevent a relieving force of Eboracii and Elmetae reaching the city. It was a hard battle and all the men including him were slain, save one. However, they had died for a cause, for the enemy army was defeated and ran away to Elmet. So, Eoforwic was finally captured. Aelle won the war and our people have been safe ever since.”

  I glanced at Cuthbert. I knew his grandfather was one of the men my uncle had been leading that day. The tale was often told on feast days: it was the campaign that finally secured Deira as a nation and had given us peace during my lifetime, just as the recent victory at Lindisfarne had apparently assured the safety of Bernicia, our brethren in the North. Cuthbert looked proud. Eduard, meanwhile, was staring at the sword with longing.

  “Now, the main weapon used in wars is the spear, but you will find that some men do own a sword too − particularly men of rank and wealth, for blades are more costly to make,” my father was saying, as he put the sword away.

  From the Villa came the sound of a wooden spoon being clattered against an iron cooking pot and from the kitchen door drifted the smell of herbs and cooked meat. The midday meal was ready. The workers were making their way to the great barn where they sat down to broth, bread and a goblet of ale. My father glanced that way and gestured with a finger.

  “Right then, off you go for food now, but tonight after the evening meal, come to the east paddock and we will begin,” he ordered.

  The afternoon seemed to last forever but finally, after a meal that held little interest for us, Eduard, Cuthbert and I rushed to the east paddock. We were the first there, but shortly afterwards my father arrived and with him came Grettir. He was one of the older men from the village and owned some land to the north, granted him by my grandfather. My father turned to us and spoke.

  “Grettir here was with my brother in the wars. He brought his body back for burial. He is the most experienced fighting man in the village. I have asked him to teach you about weapons and fighting, in the time he can spare.”

  We turned to look at Grettir. He was a broad-shouldered man in his late forties with black hair and a beard, both of which had wisps of grey and silver. He had not said much to me when we had met before around the village, but had usually nodded and given a grunt of acknowledgment. He was carrying a pair of wicker shields and some wooden mock swords.

  My father went over to the gate and climbed up to sit on it, so he could watch us. Grettir walked over and tossed Cuthbert and me a sword and shield each. The shields had a strap behind the centre and we grasped these.

  “Now boys: step apart about five paces and face each other,” Grettir ordered. We moved to comply. He went on, “Now, attack each other.”

  Cuthbert and I exchanged glances and shrugged at this. I braced the shield against my chest and extended my right arm, so my sword was pointing at my friend. Cuthbert tried a different approach and ran straight at me. That took me by surprise, but the threat of the attack was blunted when he tripped over the sword and ended up rolling head-over-heels straight into me, knocking me flying, so that we both went down in a heap. From the gate I heard Eduard collapse into a fit of laughter. Sounds of giggling from beyond the wall hinted that some of the village girls were watching this. My sister Mildrith bobbed up over the wall and back again. Then I saw Aidith, Cuthbert’s cousin take a quick peek at me. My father turned a stony face towards them and they disappeared again, with more giggling.

  “Get up,” boomed the voice of Grettir, like a wave hitting the rocks.

  “You!” he said, pointing at Cuthbert. “If this had been for real, you would be dead now. You must learn self-control; you are not in one of the sagas now.”

  Cuthbert’s face was now glowing bright red and his hands were shaking.

  “As for you, Master Cerdic, your posture was all wrong. He should not have knocked you over. You should have been in a position to take advantage of the folly of your foe − not end up in a tangle of legs and arms.”

  Grettir picked up my shield from the ground where it had fallen and then took my sword. He held the shield away from his body, in front of him so that it was turned towards Cuthbert, who was staggering to his feet a few yards away. He then twisted his whole frame, so it was facing to Cuthbert’s left. He held his right leg straight, but bent his left knee a little, so he was leaning forward. Finally, he thrust his sword into the air, slightly above and to the right of his shield.

  “This,” he said, “is a warrior’s posture. Observe how I advance.”

  He moved his left leg, still bent at the knee forward a pace and then brought his right leg forward still straight. He advanced again, left leg bent and right leg straight. While he moved forward, he still held the shield braced away from his body and had his sword at the ready position above the shield.

  “In this way, a whole army can stay together, advancing as one with shields ready to protect you and your fellows and swords ready to strike at the foe,” Grettir told us, as he continued to move towards Cuthbert. He reached my friend, who had now got himself into something resembling the warrior’s posture. He looked terrified at the arrival of Grettir in front of him and half closed his eyes.

  I heard a derisive snort from behind the fence and saw that Aedann was standing there watching us and looking scathingly at Cuthbert. My father saw this as well and his face hardened. He then lifted one finger and pointed back towards the house.

  “You, slave! Get away, this is no place for your sort!” he shouted. Aedann flinched at that as if he had been struck and slunk away, humiliated. He waited until my father turned his back on him and then shot him a glare full of spite and hatred.

  Grettir continued his instruction. “You can now strike the foe in three places. You cannot hit the body, as it is protected by the shield. You can strike down onto your foe’s head thus,” at this he moved the wooden blade down to just above Cuthbert’s head. My friend gave a whimper, which caused Eduard to giggle again, this time earning him a clip over the head from my father.

  “Or,” continued our teacher, “you can angle the blow to his right arm; his sword arm. The third target would be his left lower leg which is visible beneath his shield.” Swiftly, Grettir knocked Cuthbert’s sword out of his grip and then slapped his shin. Cuthbert yelped again and hopped around rubbing his leg, whilst sucking his fingers. Grettir grunted at these antics.

  “You will endure greater pain than that in battle, if you do not learn to pay attention. Now, pick up your sword,” said Grettir. Cuthbert, obviously fearing another blow, moved quickly to comply. Our instructor turned back to me and threw me the other sword and shield.

  “Begin again,” he ordered, “and this time try and use your shield to block the other’s attack.”

  I adopted the posture that Grettir had done and found that I could advance on the opponent in steps, while holding the shield ready for defence and the sword for attack. As we closed, Cuthbert tried to bring his sword down on my head. I shifted the shield up and deflected the blow. I then returned the same blow and as I expected, Cuthbert shifted his shield in imitation of the defence
I had used, so I adjusted the angle of attack and brought my sword down onto his left shin and was rewarded by feeling it hit home.

  “Good work, boy,” said Grettir. My father and Eduard applauded, whilst Cuthbert groaned again and looked even more miserable.

  So, I began to learn the trade of the warrior. Over the next seven years when Grettir was free to teach us, we received instructions in the art of warfare. We learnt about the use of the bow, sling and the small throwing axe − the francisca. These weapons were used by skirmishers to break up enemy shield walls. We also were taught about how the long knife, called the ‘seax’, was the basis for the other name the Welsh sometimes gave to our race: Saxons.

  “But, you will not see the seax used much in battle except in dire need. It is more useful in hunting,” Grettir commented.

  Grettir proved to be an enthusiastic teacher and took to his task with zeal. There were times when he got together boys of families from around the nearby villages. My brother, Cuthwine - who was also being taught by Grettir - along with three older boys, my friends and I, would form a shield wall and defend against teams of youths our tutor had invited along.

  “Individually, you are weak and vulnerable and no one protects your rear or flank, but together you are strong. Your fellow warriors defend you and you them,” Grettir would say.

  So the years passed and we boys grew up. Eduard and I developed into tall youths, although Eduard was broader in the shoulders than I. Cuthbert, being three inches shorter and much thinner, lagged behind us. Eduard would always win games of strength, such as wrestling and lifting weights at festival times. However, Cuthbert began to show greater agility. He became accomplished at juggling − a skill I was never able to master. As for myself, while I was not as strong as Eduard or as agile as Cuthbert, they both deferred to me in decisions about what games to play, or where to go exploring. As the years went by and the boys we had been became young men, I found that I enjoyed leading them.

  Of course, it was not just the boys who grew. Mildrith, my sister, began to change from the rather clumsy, slightly plump girl to a slim but tall adolescent. We were past fourteen by now and I noticed increasingly that my friends’ eyes began to linger in her direction. They strenuously denied this when I asked them about it: Eduard always had a joke to explain staring at her. “I was just thinking that from the side, when she holds her arms out, she looks like a scarecrow!” he said with a snigger one afternoon when I had caught him watching Mildrith walk past. Cuthbert, however, would just blush and turn away, or rapidly change the subject. I sneered with derision at them both.

  “You boys make me sick! I’m going to be a warrior one day. Do you think I am going to have time to pay much attention to girls?” I said, feeling I had scored a point. At that moment I turned my head and saw Aidith running after Mildrith. She wore a loose-fitting green gown that hung from her shoulders and as she ran there was a mixture of bouncing and swaying within the dress that was ... well ... quite distracting. I stared at her, open mouthed and I felt a tightness come to my throat as well as a stirring of interest between my legs. She saw me looking, smiled at me and then waved, before running off. I knew my ears had gone bright red.

  “Ah! I see that now, Cerdic. Girls clearly have no effect on you at all,” said Cuthbert dryly and Eduard roared with laughter.

  Aedann was also maturing. Being a slave, he was not permitted to join in the training for war, but I’d often see him lingering in the shadows beside the barn, or sitting up a tree watching us, unless my father caught him. If that happened, he would be sent away with a clip to his head. Aedann’s eyes were darkening to a deep green, his hair to jet black. I hardly ever heard him speak and whatever thoughts he was having, he kept to himself and just studied us in silence.

  We boys called him Loki because, like that god, Aedann seemed to be able to disguise and conceal himself, appearing suddenly from the shadows. Loki was also the god of trickery and deceit and we began to think of Aedann that way. We started talking about this quietly, when he could not hear us, but over the years he had stumbled into us as we joked about him and he must have heard what we said, because we could see him getting angrier with the passing months.

  Aedann was a slave so had no rights or recompense for any hurt he suffered. He could do nothing and did nothing, save bite his lip and stomp off away from us: until one day, when Eduard, Cuthbert and I had been practising with swords and were coming back to the Villa hoping to steal some bread. Aedann came rushing out of the kitchen door and collided with Eduard, knocking him down on his arse.

  “Clumsy Welsh bastard: you should watch out for your betters,” Eduard snarled at him, then shoved Aedann from off the top of him and tossed him down into the mud, outside the door.

  Aedann’s tightly bound fury exploded. Like a snake leaping up to bite at its prey he surged up from the ground, punched Eduard and then kicked at his shin, all the time swearing and cursing in Welsh. Eduard was stunned for a moment and then swung his fist round to connect heavily with the slave boy’s chin. Aedann was heaved through the air, hit the door with a splintering crash that knocked it off its hinges, then slid down it to the ground.

  The noise must have been heard all over the estate. My father and Grettir came running from the barn and Caerfydd emerged from behind the ruined door and bent to examine his son: a crumpled heap on the ground.

  “What in Woden’s name happened here?” Grettir demanded of Eduard. My friend was standing glaring down at Aedann, breathing fast, his fists clenching and unclenching.

  “This little runt hit me; that’s what happened,” Eduard shouted, pointing at the Welsh boy. My father turned to question me.

  “Well, son,” he said, “is this true? Did Aedann attack Eduard?”

  Everyone now looked at me and their faces each wore a different expression: Cuthbert’s shocked at the sudden violence, knowing that this was not the full story but unsure whether to speak; Eduard’s demanding I back him up. ‘This is about loyalty, Cerdic,’ his expression was saying. Caerfydd’s face was tense − afraid for his son − and hoping I would say something to help him. Grettir, impassive: watching how I would deal with the situation. Finally, I saw Aedann’s face. He looked at me like a warrior looks at an enemy who has captured him in battle. There was defiance and there was hate, but there was no hope of mercy.

  I hesitated. Maybe this then was the moment for mercy; the moment to show Aedann that his blind hatred was wrong. I could speak the truth; say it was an accident and flared tempers, but nothing more. I could have said that we had teased the slave and called him names and that was why he was angry, but I did not. I kept silent and just nodded my head and I let Aedann be punished. Now, so many years later, I still regret the choice I made.

  Father's face darkened as he turned to Aedann. “On your feet!” he hissed.

  Aedann did not try to defend himself. He stood sullenly, not speaking or saying a word, his dark gaze fixed on me.

  A slave hitting a free man could expect death but, after his temper had died down, it was Eduard who stepped in and actually defended the boy, saying perhaps he had spoken harshly. So, instead of being hung, Aedann was thrashed by Grettir. Our tutor used a birch branch and with every swing you could see Aedann wince in agony, but he never cried or yelled out, not even once. He just kept on looking at me as if all of it was my fault.

  He was right of course ... which only made things worse.