The Briton and the Dane: Timeline

by Mary Ann Bernal

  “You must never tell me untruths,” Aedre said outright, “and before you speak, know that I was in the chapel last night.”

  Gwyneth was at a loss for words, not knowing how to react, let alone what she should tell the woman. Aedre might have overheard all that was said, which was nothing she did not already know. She decided to confide in Aedre because a mother’s love for her child was above everything untoward in the world. True, Aedre had not given birth to Erik, but she had raised him as her own. Gwyneth had always been a good judge of character, and her gut feeling was to trust her.

  “You are agreeable to keeping an eye on Rheda and learning what you can?”

  “I have left word in the kitchens that she should seek me out,” Aedre said. “I plan to visit the abbey for a few days. We shall be gone before you leave.”

  “Thank you,” Gwyneth whispered, “but there is something else.”

  “Everything was revealed to me last night while I was in prayer, but do not be troubled. I would give my life before betraying you or Erik. Do not tell my embraced son what I have told you until you are well on your way. We are in the Lord’s hands, Gwyneth. Trust in Him.”

  Chapter Eight

  The warriors atop the gate tower watched a small band of riders leaving the citadel beneath the midday sun. The heat was bearable because of crisp wind gusts blowing from the sea. Erik chose to follow the coastal road, which was patrolled regularly by the king’s warriors. Even though Gwyneth had only ridden a few times when participating in a reenactment one autumn, she was comfortable on the horse that Erik had selected. Traveling in a carriage would have only hampered their progress. She did not argue when Erik had insisted she wear men’s clothing, preferring breeches in lieu of lengthy dresses. Up until the night she was transported back in time, she had always worn pants, saving the evening outfits for university functions.

  If they rode hard, it was possible to reach the abbey at Canterbury by the end of the week, but Erik preferred traveling at a slower pace. Gwyneth was overwhelmed by the striking setting, which had been devoured over time by technological advances. She had to quell her jubilation as they rode through the villages along the coast. Most had not survived years of bloodshed, and their names were just a postscript in history books. She was tempted to visit the abbeys, wishing to examine the architecture while catching glimpses of daily life: the men toiling in the fields, women tending to the animals and vegetable gardens, and the merchants selling their wares on market day. She observed their habits, their dress, their bonds of friendship. The distant sound of pealing bells was heard throughout the day and into the night, calling the faithful to prayer. Gwyneth realized the importance of the Lord in their daily lives, which was no longer evident in her century. Yes, she was as guilty as everyone else, but she could remedy it now, while there was still time.

  “There is an abbey nearby where we might spend the night,” Erik told her as if he had read her thoughts. “If it pleases you.”

  “Oh, Erik, it does please me. Would there be time to attend one of the prayer services? Would I be able to speak with the holy men and women? Would I be able to see their library, if there is one?”

  “I am sure the Brother Abbot would not mind,” Erik said, smiling as he nodded to Wynstan who dug his heels into his horse’s sides and galloped towards the monastery.

  The exhausted travelers arrived at the holy dwelling as the sun was descending over the horizon. Sparkling stars appeared in the darkening sky as Gwyneth and Erik were escorted to their chambers by a young novice. Once the door was closed, Gwyneth embraced her husband, her eyes glowing when she noticed a likeness of the Virgin mother holding the Christ child in her lap. She examined the painting closely, trying to discern the artist’s identity, but his name had not been preserved. She was drawn to the Crucifix hanging on the wall, and she knelt on the cushioned prayer kneeler, crossed herself and started to pray.

  Erik stood at the solitary window, which overlooked the nearby forest. He glanced at the heavens, thanking God for His gift of Gwyneth while trusting the Lord to guide him. He did not understand why his son could not be born in the citadel, yet he would do what was expected of him, just as Joseph had obeyed the Lord when he took the Virgin Mary into his household. Erik’s beliefs were firmly entrenched into his very being, and it was this blind faith that Gwyneth could not understand.

  “Shall we join the men for the night meal?” Gwyneth whispered as she wrapped her hands around her husband’s waist.

  “The meal will be simple,” Erik replied as he faced his wife and kissed her lips.

  “I will relish whatever food is placed before me, but something is bothering you. What is wrong?”

  “I do not understand why no one must know of the birth of our son, and why he must be born in St. Gall.”

  Gwyneth did not know whether or not she should tell him the truth. Erik was not simple. He was well aware that she could answer any questions he had about the time he lived in. She wondered if he was curious about who would succeed Edward once the king died. She knew she would want to know, but essentially, that was cheating, was it not? No one knows what lies ahead, and that is how it should be. What if she told Erik just enough to put his mind at rest? Would that be sufficient, or would he want to know more? Once opened, Pandora’s box could not be closed, and that was what Gwyneth feared. Words spoken could never be rescinded and would those words affect his behavior?

  “I have never asked you anything about what is going to happen, and I hesitate doing so now,” Erik whispered, “but if you could just tell me why, just this once.”

  “My love, my silence protects you. If people know the future, it changes the way they behave in the present. I have witnessed such behavior, which is why I am hesitant.”

  “Forgive me, I shall not press you further,” Erik said. “Come, let us eat.”

  “St. Gall is located in a country that will be called Switzerland. There will be many conflicts, but Switzerland will remain impartial, which guarantees the survival of its citizens. Our son and his descendants will thrive because their blood will not be shed on the battlefield. That is why,” Gwyneth whispered.

  Erik was startled not only by the outburst, but also by the enormity of what he had just been told. Now he was at a loss for words as he glanced at his wife who appeared anxious while awaiting his reply. He took a deep breath as he mustered the courage to speak not the words that Gwyneth hoped to hear, but the truth.

  “You are saying that my country will be ravaged by endless wars!”

  “I did not say that,” Gwyneth replied tearfully. “I knew I should not have told you.”

  “Gwyneth, I did not mean to upset you,” Erik told his wife as he held her in his arms. “I promise you that I shall speak of this to no one. Whatever must be done to protect our son, will be done. You have my word. And I will question you no more; I promise.”

  ***

  Abbey visitors were served meals in a dining hall located near the kitchens. Gwyneth tried to have a conversation with the novice attending to their needs, but the girl only nodded and kept her eyes lowered as she filled the bowls with vegetable soup. Wynstan sliced a loaf of day-old bread while Bryson poured the ale, but the men waited until Erik thanked the Lord for His bounty before eating. Gwyneth crossed herself, mumbled “Amen”, and sipped her beverage. Praying before eating was almost nonexistent in her world. Certainly, during natural disasters, those affected prayed to the Lord for His mercy, but society as a whole, controlled its own destiny because of technology. She was sorry to admit that her relationship with the Lord was nominal, just enough to satisfy the local priest who visited the ruins whenever she and her students worked at the site.

  Gwyneth was unusually quiet, preferring to listen to the conversation as the men spoke of their families. She glanced at the horseshoe ring, which Erik always wore, and wondered about the origins of the ornament. She would have to ask Aedre upon their return as romantic thoughts flooded her mind. Had there been a firs
t Gwyneth and Erik, and if so, the ring could have been a gift. And if that was the case, the story would have been handed down through the generations.

  “My lady,” a child said, tugging at her arm. “If you wish to see the library before you retire, I can take you.”

  While Gwyneth told Erik of her intentions, she noticed the boy staring not only at Erik, but also at his ringed hand. She bid goodnight to the warriors as she took her leave, following the lad out of the room.

  “My name is Gwyneth.”

  “I am Andrew, and I am pleased you grace our abbey.”

  “Tell me, Andrew, how is it you are here?”

  “I was promised to the Lord upon my birth, and have been living with the holy brothers since I was five summers. In two years time, I will become a novitiate, but I am impatient.”

  “The time will go quickly, especially if your days are filled with tasks,” Gwyneth said.

  “It is true, my days are long, but I am not complaining. The Lord has given me a wonderful gift that I cherish.”

  “May I ask what is your gift?”

  “I have been taught lettering and have been illuminating sacred text. But my true calling is to paint. I have created a likeness of the Brother Abbot, which hangs in his private quarters. He was most pleased with my work. Once I am tonsured, he will send me to Rome to paint His Holiness. The people will flock to our abbey to see a likeness of the Vicar of Christ.”

  “Would you show me your work, if that is possible? I would like to purchase one of your translations.”

  “I believe that is easily arranged,” Andrew said as he escorted Gwyneth into the library.

  Wall torches burned brightly in the large room, which housed several rows of shelves overflowing with books. There were multiple desks lining the walls where scribes spent their days, laboriously copying not only holy manuscripts but a variety of subjects that had survived the Norsemen’s numerous raids.

  Gwyneth walked through the aisles, reading the titles as her fingers gently touched the books. She held her breath when she noticed the one title that might give her some insight on Erik’s ancestors. The Burhs of Alfred the Great. Her hands were shaking as she opened the delicate parchment, turning the pages with care as she scanned the antiquated writing. The words were easily read since she had spent years studying calligraphy and the Anglo-Saxon language. The list was lengthy and accurate, and she was elated. She had reached the “W’s” and was trying to control her emotions when she saw the heading Wareham. Her knees felt weak, and she had to sit down, but she was exhilarated. Wareham had been a training ground for the king’s recruits, just as it was to this day. There had been quite a few commanders, the first name mentioned was Lord Richard, but his son Stephen had also commanded the citadel. There was a reference to another son, David, who had commanded the Burh of Chichester. However, there was no mention of an Erik or Gwyneth. Disappointed, she closed the book and placed it upon the shelf. She wondered if Andrew might be familiar with the names of the noble families, but Lord Richard had lived more than one hundred years ago. Yet she would not be dissuaded.

  “Andrew, have you heard stories of a Lord Richard who had commanded the citadel at Wareham in King Alfred’s day?”

  “There is a book,” Andrew replied as he searched the titles. “Could he be mentioned in this genealogy?”

  Gwyneth turned the pages, reading every name, so she would not miss what she was looking for. Years of research had taught her to be thorough when seeking the truth. She was almost at the end of the manuscript when Richard of Wareham was mentioned. He and his wife, Branda, had three children. Stephen, David and Gwyneth! Her skin tingled when she read the entry, and she was near tears when she read the name of her husband, Prince Erik of Esbjerg. She was overwhelmed with this exceptional find. Her Erik was a direct descendent of the Danish royal line, and she wondered if his enemies were aware of his lineage.

  “Thank you, Andrew,” Gwyneth said, embracing the boy. “You have been most helpful.”

  The chiming bells calling the faithful to prayer reminded Gwyneth of her promise to attend the service. She was delighted when Andrew said he would accompany her to the church where she praised God for revealing the truth of Erik’s heritage.

  Chapter Nine

  Canterbury was aflutter with pilgrims making preparations to leave the famed abbey for the port of Sandwich. Men who had yet to make a will sought clerics familiar with the law while women whose absolution for their licentious behavior would only be granted after completing a pilgrimage to Rome, listed their names with the Bishop’s assistant. Novices loaded a wagon with provisions for the sea voyage while Benedictine monks filled a chest with items meant for the Holy Father.

  Erik and his retinue rode through the pilgrim’s gate amidst the commotion. Gwyneth realized the ship would set sail once the pilgrims were on board. She would not have time to walk the grounds and speak with the holy men and women serving the Lord since they would be sailing with the pilgrims. She was looking upon buildings that would disappear by the next century, and she missed having a camera. She was sorry that she had not been forewarned, but the technology would have been looked upon as the devil’s tool. She would just have to commit to memory everything she witnessed as she followed the men towards the guest houses.

  As the warriors led the horses to the stables, Erik and Bryson sought the administrative buildings, which left Gwyneth under Wynstan’s protection. Since time was short, she needed to decide what was most important, walking the grounds, or visiting the sickrooms, or the chapel, or the library, or even the piggery.

  “I know that look,” Wynstan told her. “Perhaps you might wish to see the resting place of the venerable Augustine. He is buried in the portico, which is easily accessible to the many visitors praying for his intercession.”

  “Yes, that would please me,” Gwyneth said. “You have been here before?”

  Wynstan nodded as he led Gwyneth towards the church. She was thoughtful as she remembered the life of St. Augustine. It was another find, which she would never be able to document. This was the original burial place before the revered saint’s bones had been moved to a tomb within the abbey church where he remained into the twenty-first century.

  The atmosphere was tranquil as Wynstan and Gwyneth came upon the holy dwelling. Shrubs lined the walkway and prayer benches had been placed on either side of the rock-covered mound. A choir of songbirds chirped softly atop the nearby trees, their voices floating towards the heavens, which was accompanied by the sound of rustling leaves.

  The ethereal sensation was not lost upon either Gwyneth or Wynstan as they sat upon the prayer bench. Wynstan closed his eyes, lost in prayer while Gwyneth stared at the grave marker. She felt a presence, or believed she did, which made her uncomfortable. She did not believe in ghosts or spirits until now, in this world where superstitions were rife. Also disconcerting, was the people’s relationship with the Lord, a relationship that was lacking in 2066.

  “Do not be afraid, my child,” whispered the wind.

  “What did you say, Wynstan?”

  “I did not speak, my lady,” he replied, keeping his hand on the pommel of his sword. “We are quite alone.”

  Gwyneth felt cold as if St. Augustine’s spirit was upon her. She stood up, but she was unable to move. A bright light appeared before her, yet she was not afraid. Wynstan crossed himself when he saw Gwyneth’s face. She was looking at something he could not see, and he fell to his knees praying.

  Time seemed to stand still, or so Gwyneth thought, but in reality, that was not possible. She sat down, noticeably shaken as her scientific mind tried to make sense of the experience. There had to be an explanation for what just happened. Perhaps particles from space had entered the atmosphere, creating a glow when hitting the ground. Were not comets sighted by the ancients and were they not considered omens? While that might explain the light, what could explain the image?

  “My lady, do you need a healer?” Wynstan asked, quite concern
ed.

  “No, carrying a child is natural,” Gwyneth whispered, “but tell me, what did you see?”

  “The color drained from your face and your body stiffened. I feared you were possessed,” Wynstan told her while crossing himself again. “But there is no evil where the Lord lives, so I prayed you would overcome your illness.”

  “Do you believe in visions?”

  “I have heard stories of angels appearing to warriors on the eve of battle. Is that what you saw? An angel?”

  “Yes, he was holding a sword, and his shield was aflame,” Gwyneth replied, “but what does that mean, exactly?”

  “I do not know. Come, we must find your husband,” Wynstan said as helped Gwyneth rise.

  Gwyneth took Wynstan’s arm, grateful for his strength as they returned to the guest houses. While she was troubled by the vision and what it meant, she was more concerned about revealing the truth about her condition. She had yet to tell Erik because she was unsure, so why the revelation? She was not thinking clearly and was thankful that it was Wynstan and not Rheda, who had heard the words. She was becoming too familiar with her new environment, which quite honestly, shocked her. Too many lives had been lost when men were betrayed. And if she was not attentive, she would suffer Erik’s fate.

  ***

  Erik noticed Gwyneth’s ashen appearance when she entered the room. He was puzzled as he glanced at Wynstan while holding his wife in his arms.

  “I have not been harmed,” Gwyneth told him, “but I cannot explain what I saw.”

  “We were at the portico,” Wynstan interjected.