by Leah Fleming
They were baptised in the Christian faith but Fritha preferred the old ways, the runes, the spells and charms, learned by rote at her own mother’s knee. The old gods were more sympathetic to womankind, for Erce was the Mother of the earth and growing things. Fritha always carried the nine sacred herbs: thyme and fennel, full of power; mayweed against skin rot; plaintain, the mother of herbs; stime to fight pain and poison; mint, sage, wormwood and the blessed rue.
She stirred the pot dreamily, wondering as she gazed over at the others, busy about their tasks, if they too had misgivings about striking out alone, without other company to make a stouter band of travellers. They would be easy pickings for brigands and marauding Danes from the northlands.
Poor Lull, little more than a child bride, now so swollen and fearful. Fritha could never tell how a birthing would go. Each of hers had been different. She was glad she had plenty of peony seeds to make a brew for the labour. Lull was a strange, silent girl, friendly and helpful sometimes, then lost in a mist of moods, distant, forgetful.
Beorn would not dream of letting his brother travel alone and forced his woman to leave their hut. It would perhaps have been better if the girl had stayed. She was holding them back by her feebleness. Little Wynfrith at five was more of a helpmate to her mother than this dreamy girl. Wyn would have to mind the baby so that the new mother might spin and weave cloth for them from the hedge rovings they were gathering along the track. In the sack was madder root, woad and onion skins to dye the wool yam, a task which Fritha enjoyed above all others. How she loved to mix the colours! But it would be many weeks before they were settled enough even to think about fancy stuff. There would be so much else to do if they were ever to fill their bellies. Everything looked so grey and drab and unpromising at dusk.
When it was almost pitch black, night calls echoing across the treetops, they sat round the circle of firestones to draw breath and sup their stew with relish. The moon was high and bright; the wellspring gurgled in a soothing sort of way.
The night was calm and mild and Ranwulf slept where he ate. Baggi lifted him on to the mat of ferns and covered him with a thick overmantle. Soon Wyn was asleep and Lull moved closer to her own wagon with Beorn. Baggi stoked the embers thoughtfully.
‘It takes some out of you, all this travelling. I’ll need no rocking tonight. Tomorrow we’ll get a good start. Take the day fresh, keep heading north-west.’
‘Must we? Lull can’t go much further. She looks off to me, yonderly, as if her time’s coming. Why don’t you scout around with Beorn, check out the forest edge? Give us all more time to come to, clean ourselves up a bit. I could bake some stone bread, make milk porridge for a change if the goat will drop some milk. Don’t you think?’
Fritha touched his leathern arm and smiled her gap-toothed grin. Baggi scratched his head and in his straw-coloured hair and rough wool tunic. Beneath the straps of his leather sandals his feet were black.
‘We’re all flea-bitten, dust-covered and mud-caked it’s true. Go on then, you’ve twisted my arm. But only the one day, mind. I’ll rise at first light and give this place the once over.’
‘Thanks. You’re a good man, Bagwulf. Even if you’re a slave driver, moon-touched and as restless as the sea tide!’
Fritha supped from the mead beaker. She was proud that her man wanted more for his family than sharing a cramped hut with his kin; thought more of himself than to spend his nights at the ale bench. The two brothers had sawn and hammered and fashioned tools, sometimes until cock crow. She was touched by the quality of his handiwork. With this soothing thought, her eyelids began to drop.
The travellers slept soundly, undisturbed until the cockerel stretched its neck in the cage and crowed. Fritha woke with a start. Baggi was gone, Beorn still snoring. Wynfrith and Ranulf were nowhere to be seen. Trust them to tag along with Baggi. His little henchmen, he called them. It was turning into a beautiful sunrise, everywhere decked in spring green, that special freshness of new growth. The dew sparkled on the leaves and the scent of the forest bed was as good as a feast to her nostrils.
Fritha built up the fire to get the stones hot for baking and searched in the cart for the flour cask. When she turned round Baggi had returned dangling a cock pheasant, its bright plumage brilliant in the sunshine. ‘Look what I’ve found for us. It fell into my path.’ He laughed. ‘Get that in your stewpot before any one sees it.’ He turned towards the stream. ‘Where’re the bairns?’
‘With you… I thought you’d taken them with you?’
‘No, they were fast asleep, dead to the world when I left. They must have gone rooting for you downstream. Our Wyn is good at finding mushrooms. They won’t have gone far. The hound must be with them too.’ Baggi smiled but it was a thin smile and he struck out along the path briskly. ‘Wyn! Ranulf! Come and break your fast… now!’ There was no response.
Fritha ran to the other cart and shook the couple inside roughly awake. ‘Quick! Rise up… the kids have gone off the track somewhere. Just wait ’til I get hold of that little mischief… she’ll get such a wallop! I told her not to wander.’ But Fritha felt an icy coldness in her heart.
‘Don’t worry, they won’t have gone far. Their bellies will guide them back. You’ll see.’ Lull tried to be a comfort but Fritha was having none of it.
‘You stay here and keep shouting. I’m going back the way we came. Perhaps they’ll be laiking downstream. Little Ran loves to splash about in water.’
She headed down to the ford, grasping her overcloak around her. Suddenly the sky was overcast and the chill wind bit into her face.
‘Come on, childer, come back now! This is no time for hide and seek,’ she called desperately.
*
By the second nightfall there was still no sighting of child or hound. All day Beorn and Baggi combed through the undergrowth, beating with sticks, calling out, penetrating further and further into the thick forest, leaving runic carvings on tree trunks as sign posts back to the carts. Only the scattering of birds disturbed the air, and black ravens watched silently from high in the branches.
Lull paced round and round the fire, reciting the old charm and adding new exhortations:
Erce, Erce, find each child, fetch the childer,
Bind those rascals tight and bring them safe back.
No ground shall keep them stuck or hidden.
No dragon’s feast are they.
Whosoever steals them shall never thrive.
May they wither as fire withers wood,
As bramble and thistle hurt the thigh.
Show us thy power, thy skill to protect.
Thrice round the fire I go…
She felt sick in the stomach but kept up her vigil. Soon they would stroll back hand in hand, unaware of the anguish they had caused. They would be beaten soundly for their naughtiness by Baggi, though he was tearful with thanks for their return. Then they would set off and leave this cursed place and journey onwards. Soon they would laugh at their fear. That was how it must be. But as the shadows lengthened and the weary men returned, fearful now of the worst, only Fritha remained hopeful.
‘Wyn is a sensible lass. She’ll find shelter in a cave or hollow, give Ranulf water from the stream. With water they will live and the nights are not cold. And the hound will guard them. He’s old but his teeth can still draw blood.’
She sat hugging her knees, half in a dream, letting the fire go cold, watching the water bubbling from the spring. We must wait by this spring until they return.’ She refused to see the worried looks of the two men. Two lost bairns and now a mad wife, that was all they needed.
No one slept that night, taking it in turns to pace around the fire. They could hear the howl of a she wolf, the screech of a vixen, but not the sound of children crying to be found. By the third day Fritha had eaten nothing. She tied strips of hemp cloth to the branches of the wellspring as votives to the water spirits to help in the search.
The men circled and recircled, each time taking another direct
ion, hearing only the echo of their voices in the valley. Until finally, to their joy, a voice called back up to them.
Baggi tore excitedly through the bracken and found a wattle and mud hut, a hermit’s cell, where a hoary old man stinking of rancid neglect stood with staff upraised, ready to defend himself.
‘Peace, brother! Why such a rush on such a beautiful morn?’
‘Have you seen our childer, a boy and a maid, this high? They wandered off from our cart. I heard you calling… thought ’twas them.’ Baggi sagged with disappointment.
‘Nay, brother, my eyes are misty. I see no one but scent the air like a deer. I will pray for their souls and safety. How long did you say they’ve been gone?’
‘For three moons since dawn.’ All the strength was seeping out of him as he saw Fritha waving frantically from the high bank, waiting for a response, hoping with every breath for good news. How could he share what was in his heart, the fear that his bairns were lost, never to be found? That some cruel fate had lured them into the depths of the forest and it was all his fault.
‘Fret not about what has befallen them. Search and ye shall find. Trust in the Lord Jesu and His Saints, pray to the Blessed Chad for a miracle. He will find them else bring you consolation. You must bear what must be borne. Travelling is a mighty dangerous thing even in the summer months. Perhaps someone from the clearings high in the far forest has found them – the shepherd or the woodburners. They are kindred folk. Word will travel down with the pedlars and packmen, holy men will pray for them and pass the word. Stay awhile until you have proof of their fate.’
The hermit made signs of blessing but Baggi took no heed. He plodded back up to the ridge with a heavy heart.
‘Who’s that down there? What news? Is there hope?’
‘There is always hope, Fritha, while we have breath.’ He sighed, trying to hide his fears from her. How he cursed himself for risking this trek. It was all his idea. He had forced the pace, bullied them into this madness. How could he ask them to move on now?
Fritha’s cheeks were hollow, her bony figure hunched and suddenly shrunken. She was his helpmate, his breadmaker and latchkeeper, following him so trustfully. He had torn her from her kinfolk, and now something had torn her bairns from her hearth. He could not look her in her grey starved face. He could not face those burning dark eyes. She was of British stock, had the knowing without words, that gift of truth-divining as if she was feeling his thoughts.
‘Are they are lost to us?’ she croaked in a thin broken voice.
‘The holy man says we must pray to the Saviour God for help. Our bairns may be safe in a sheep clearing with the wool gatherers. The forest is holy land, a wilderness of heath and scrublands stretching far to the west. We are still in Mercia. Over the big river is Dane law. We will not be welcome there. You must be brave.’
‘Are you telling me to stop the search? That all is lost and we must leave our bairns to the mercy of the wolves, for the ravens to peck their unburied bones? Bagwulf, I’ll not move one inch from this spot until I know their fate. Go on yourself but don’t expect me to get in the cart. What’s the point of making a homestead if there’s no son to plough it after we’re dust? Don’t think I’ll go on another measure. I’m rooted here where you brought us all and here I must stay.’
Baggi crumpled at her words as if stabbed by spears. Fritha stood dry-eyed and ice cold in her fury. ‘Time enough for tears when we find their bones but I’ll never come with you. I make my homestead here.’
It was Beorn who broke the silence, hearing their raised voices shouting, blaming, punishing each other. ‘I didn’t want to have to speak of this yet but on my last circle far out… there was fur and blood, the remains of a hound – a grey hound with brown streaks. I saw nothing else. I didn’t want to dash your hopes that the hound was still guarding them. The ground is torn, he must have fought to the death… with something.’
‘Let’s see it, show me! Up where?’ cried Fritha, suddenly alive, tearing at his grey woollen sleeve to drag him away.
‘Stay, lass, there’ll be nothing to see now. The ravens were waiting to finish their feast. Come sit with Lull. She fears her pains are coming. Help her bring new life to us all. The shock of this has let down the birthing waters. Please, Fritha, we’ll not give up hope yet. Baggi and I must build a shelter round the fire.’
‘This is no place to build a homestead.’ Baggi shook his head, all the strength leaking out of his belly.
‘Brother, you’ve had your say long enough. Here we stop for the summer at least. This will clear well enough for me. It’s high, away from swamps, the ground is solid, there’s water and sun from the south. Scrub is always easier to clear at the edge of a forest. I’ll travel no further with you and Fritha is too heavy in heart to move on. Get the tools out of the cart while I gather sticks. We can plait some walls, build up the firestones.
‘It’s better to be busy and doing. Better than roaming the forest on a fruitless chase. I’m sorry but you know what I fear. I wanted to shield you from the truth.’
For the first time in his twenty summers, Beornwulf felt he was in charge, making the decisions for all of them. Cruel fate had stopped them on this trek. Here was where they were meant to stay. If he wished to go on Baggi must travel alone and that, he was sure, his brother would never do.
*
Fritha was sitting hidden from the others by the wellspring, her wellspring. Her prayers hung in tattered rags on the overhanging branches of the willow tree, the water spirit deaf to her pleas. Her heart was filled with yearning for her kids. In her imagination she was clasping them to her bosom, feeling their hot breath, the soft down of hair on Ran’s head. Never to see them again… Her heart was numb with shock. She could see no colour only darkness and trees. Heavy was the wound she bore, like a knife thrust in her side. Soft sounds of a lullaby stuck in her throat as she rocked her empty arms. Gazing deep into the water she thought she could see their faces glimmering up at her. She cried out and turned away.
Suddenly there came another cry. The groan of a woman straining in labour. Fritha turned from her hidey hole as if in a trance. She was living in a half-remembered dream, a tale sung by the minstrel with the lyre in the mead hall. The cries grew louder, pulling her back, and she made for the cart to aid Lull.
This was a good sign surely, thought the two men as they nodded together. Now they must set to work on their homestead. By sunset with a bit of luck a wattle hut would be raised, a fire lit and a new bairn would be at Lull’s breast. How Fritha would react to that, did not bear thinking of.
The Search
In the days following their fruitless search Baggi and Beorn gathered staves and prop posts, cut and lopped down branches, plaited wattle walls, fixed them into a ditch of stone footings, criss-crossed the roof and wove in heather and ling to thatch over the roof, leaving a hole in the centre for the smoke to escape. Lull nursed her baby daughter whom they sprinkled with dew, raised to the moon and named Hilde. It was a strong name for a girl but any baby would need to be tough to survive here. The bairn was swaddled in tightly to its mother in a makeshift sling, close to her breasts. Lull was afraid to let the child out of her sight.
Fritha took no interest in the baby once it was delivered safely. She could hardly bear to look into the soft pink face and blinking blue eyes. Every waking moment she busied herself with a hundred tasks and the rest of the time roamed alone over the tracks, searching, searching, for her lost children. Once she saw a traveller, rushing upon him like a mad beast and badgering him to tell her if he had heard of any children rescued from the forest in other clearings. He was almost scared to reply that he had not.
As the moon waxed and waned and high summer burned through the leafy branches on to the clearing, her spirits sank deeper into hopelessness. She withdrew into a sullen silence but worked like an ox, following the plough as it churned over the dark red soil, picking out and clearing away stones, gathering furze and kindling for the fire, tying the
m into thick prickly bundles. She scooped up the precious dung for the midden to feed the winter soil, letting it stink and dry in the open air. No wonder she fell asleep on her feet as she stirred the supper pot.
The men chopped down trees, split the timbers and loaded them on the cart, trundling the wood off to harden and dry in the clearing. This would make the stout walls for their winter dwelling. It would be a race against the season to plant out barley and peas, beans and oats, flax, hemp and linseed. The hens, fenced off in their own croft, clucked over a brood of chicks and soon there were spare cockerels for the pot.
Lull busied herself collecting rushes for the bed straw and lamplights, carrying water from the stream to douse the dry plantings, taking care never to stray far from the site or disturb Fritha at her digging by the well. She cured animal skins, carded goat’s hair rovings into balls to spin from a shoulder spindle. They would need more cloth for the baby’s wrappings and fresh undershifts for their rough cloth tunics. She was not fit yet for heavier work, feeling faint and weak if she walked too far in the sun.
It was Fritha who tended to the fire and the cauldron, gathered greenshoots, nettles, fungus and herbage for the pot. Often she found herself yearning for the old huts far away, for her kin whom she would never see again, for the Maytime feasting and dancing, the time of visits and merrymaking when hawkers peddled their gossip from clearing to clearing, relaying messages and greetings from far-flung members of family. Here it was all back-breaking hard slog in the heat of the sun and she could see no point to it. Beorn was their leader now. He had a child even if it was only a girl to marry off and find a bride gift for.
They had all helped to make a patch of bare earth for her, closer to the water and her spring; a leek and kale plot for the sowing of winter vegetables and pot herbs, for onions and greenshoots. Digging over the soil, clearing away roots and stones, flinging them on to a heap, was strangely satisfying. Raking over the tilth, planting out her precious seedlings and cuttings occupied her hands but not her mind. There was only the memory of Wynfrith tugging at her skirts, wanting to help, to share the task. The child would wait for the plants to rise straightaway and grew fractious when everything took so long to appear out of the soil.