Paths of Exile

by Carla Nayland

  In many ways it was a pleasant time, for the world had suddenly shrunk to one farm, nine people and a dog, and it was easy to forget that they were on the run from war and murder. What spoiled it was a growing atmosphere of disquiet. The dog kept a stern and disapproving eye on them when it was not out with the sheep. The young girl viewed them in wide-eyed terror, as if she expected them to eat her alive. The pretty woman and the matron – labelled by Drust the Flirt and the Expert – were always stealing sly glances in their direction, but fled if approached. Only the shepherd seemed unworried by their presence, and he did not seem to have registered their existence. Severa herself seemed to grow less friendly and more anxious as they recovered, as if she expected them to assault her or steal the chickens. It was annoying, a little hurtful, and distinctly insulting.

  Severa sometimes thought that if she had known they were warriors she would have left them on the moors to starve and good riddance. To be sure, they seemed harmless enough, and the young captain – Steeleye, if she believed the name – was quite polite. But Severa had been brought up on lurid tales of Saxon and Pictish raids, of villages torched, animals slaughtered or stolen, men massacred, women and children abused and taken as slaves. The High King Arthur had won his reputation fighting the Saxons, and as he was the greatest king Britannia had ever known, it followed that Saxon raiders must exceed all others in inhuman savagery, with the possible exception of the Picts. It was not much comfort that Steeleye was obviously Brittonic – despite his rather scruffy beard – for the district knew from frequent and bitter experience that Brittonic bandits were as plentiful as wolves and more destructive, and his unwillingness to tell her his name or business only confirmed they were up to no good. The only possible comfort was that they had obviously lost their last fight, which suggested they were not very competent thieves, although they would be more than a match for four women, a half-wit and a dog. Sometimes the three who were not hurt exercised with their weapons, and though Gwen and Blodwen thought this was very exciting as well as scary, to Severa the powerful muscles and glinting blades were merely chilling. Even the killing of a single sheep or pig, if they grew bored with porridge and decided to help themselves to a roast dinner, would be a serious loss to the village. And they could do much, much worse than that. What had possessed her to invite them in? She must have been mad.

  Severa woke, as she always did, before dawn and reluctantly. Mother of God, but she was tired! You really needed more than four women and a half-wit to run a hafod, and it had been a long, hard summer. She rolled out of her blankets and into her clothes, making a mental list of all the things that had to be done that day. Too much to do, as usual. So she had better make a start. The village depended on the hafod for a large part of its food supply, and if she shirked the work here the whole village would be hungry this winter.

  Outside, it was just getting light. She let the chickens out of their shed, and noticed that the door to the fodder store was standing open. She peered in. The tramps, and all their weapons, had gone. Sneaking off into the night like the thieves they were –

  The sound of splintering wood made her spin around, to see with horror that three bulky dark figures were climbing in over the smashed gate. The pigs squealed and the sheep bleated, all scrambling on top of each other to get to the far end of the yard. The dog flew at the intruders, barking and snarling.

  “Saxons!” she screamed. “Saxons!”

  More bulky figures were visible behind the first three, and she had a terrifying glimpse of heavy clubs and glinting blades. This was what every farmer prayed would never happen, the sudden eruption of brutal violence into their unremarkable lives. Gruffuyd came bounding out of the house, seized the wood-chopping axe and rushed at the intruders, roaring with inarticulate rage. Severa thought of the knives and sprinted into the dairy. She tripped over an empty pail, fell against a table, and snatched up the biggest kitchen knife, the one she used for jointing chickens. She ought to be able to do some damage with that.

  A bulky figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the growing light. She stepped forward, knife in hand.

  “Come on, you bastard –”

  How could anyone so big move so fast? He pounced like a cat on a mouse, she stabbed the knife into empty air, and a burly arm went round her neck and a hand clamped over her mouth. She bit it, hard. Her assailant yelled and slammed her back against the wall with a force that half-stunned her, but she still had hold of the knife. She twisted in his grasp and stabbed him in the chest with all the strength she could muster.

  He didn’t die. Instead, he bellowed like a furious ox, thumped her in the stomach, smacked her hard around the head and wrenched her wrist until she thought she would faint with the pain. The knife clattered to the floor. She cried out, and the man hit her, more than once. Outside, she could hear shouts and shrieks, above the noise of panicked livestock and furious barking.

  “Bitch!” snarled the robber, in Brittonic, and slapped her again.

  “Need a hand here, mate?” a familiar voice asked from the doorway.

  The tramp she knew as Steeleye was standing there, with a long dagger in his left hand. There was blood on the blade.

  “No!” growled the bandit. “Who the hell are you and what do you want?”

  “Same as you, but you beat us to it.” He came in, cautiously.

  The bandit backed behind the table, dragging Severa with him, and drew a sword. “Drop the knife.”

  Steeleye obliged. “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.” He took another step into the house. His face had a hard, calculating look.

  The robber flailed the sword. “Keep back!”

  Steeleye’s expression became ingratiating. He held up his left hand. The right was clearly visible in the sling and both were empty.

  “Calm down, mate. Your lads are rounding up outside. Not a bad haul for a fleapit like this. How about we help you drive the beasts, split the profits and share the women?”

  Severa glared at him. All her worst fears were confirmed. He ignored her, keeping his eyes fixed on the bandit’s face, and came a little further in.

  “You can’t drive them all on your own and neither can we. So we join forces and there’ll be more to go round. Six to four, fair and square. Or two to one if you like, you’re better than we are.”

  The bandit was not good at arithmetic. His brow creased. Severa took the opportunity to grab for a cleaver hanging on the wall, but he was much too quick for her and jerked her arm until she screamed.

  “Here,” Steeleye said, alarmed, “don’t break her! She’s worth money. I know a slaver who’ll give you gold for her, mate. You want a hand with her? She’s a lively bitch.” He was edging closer. “Here, tell you what. I’ll hold her for you, and then you hold her for me.”

  “Judas!” Severa was sobbing with pain and impotent fury. “I cure you, I give you food and shelter, and this is how you repay me! Thieves! Murderers! I hope you rot in hell for all eternity –”

  She was aware of a sudden blur of movement, then she was thrown sideways and fell to the floor amid a cascade of empty bowls and settling pans. There was a crash, a bubbling yell, something warm and sticky sprayed across her face, and a heavy body thudded down on top of her.

  She lay still until the world stopped spinning, then decided she was probably not dead and struggled to lever herself up. The thief was sprawled on his back across her, with Steeleye’s small eating knife embedded in his throat. He was very dead. The table was lying on its side and the floor was apparently swimming in blood. Steeleye was crouched on hands and knees, very pale and swearing under his breath.

  Severa tried to imagine how much it must have hurt to throw his whole weight across the table with a broken shoulder and a half-healed wound, and failed.

  “Why –?” she choked out.

  “Because,” he said, between gasps, “I can’t throw a knife left-handed to be sure of hitting him and not you. So I had to get close enough to jump him.”
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br />   He rocked back on his haunches, put a hand to his shoulder, and swore again. “Should have practised more – ”

  He retrieved his knife and wiped it and his hands on the dead man’s tunic, then looked across at her.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Severa shook her head and stared uncomprehendingly at the body sprawled across her. There was blood all over its chest. So she hadn’t missed after all.

  “The knife,” she said vaguely. “What did I do wrong –?”

  She was not expecting an answer, but Steeleye leaned forward and inspected the body with a professional air.

  “Looks like you held the knife high and stabbed down. Amateurs usually do. Next time, hold the knife under the ribs and stab upwards.”

  The dairy was suddenly full of people. Someone hauled the body off her, and then her arms were full of Luned and Gwen and Blodwen and the dog, all hysterical but apparently unhurt. They stumbled outside together, clinging to each other.

  Outside, the hafod looked as if a storm had struck. The gate was smashed to pieces and the woods and field were full of panicked livestock. Bodies seemed to be strewn all over the yard. Severa stared vacantly, numb with shock. One had a shattered skull, and one lay on its back with a spear sticking in its belly. A detached hand lay in the mud with its fingers curled up like a dead spider. The only men standing seemed to be the four tramps, all splashed with blood and looking hardly less savage than the robbers.

  “You’re not going to hurt us –?” she stammered.

  “Of course not,” Steeleye said wearily, “what the hell do you take us for?”

  She still could not grasp what had happened. “You – you – killed all of them?”

  “What, did you want to keep one as a pet?” he said acidly. “Of course we killed them. Let them escape and they’re buggers to hunt down.”

  “But – there were so many –”

  “Six,” he said dismissively, “and not very bright, either. Lilla was on watch and heard them coming a mile off. Unfortunately we were waiting to jump them until they were all in the yard and you screamed first.” He glanced at Luned, who was sobbing and clinging to Blodwen, and Gwen, who was on her knees being sick, and his voice softened. “Send them indoors, Mistress. This –” a gesture encompassed the shambles in the yard “– is not a sight for women. But would you come with me, if you are well enough? I have bad news for you.”

  She followed him to one of the bodies, which was covered by a blood-soaked cloak.

  “Your shepherd, Mistress,” he said quietly. “I am sorry. I shouted at him to stay back, to leave it to us, but he did not hear me.”

  “He would not have understood.” She touched her temple. “Poor Gruffuyd was only a baby, up here. How –?”

  Steeleye caught her hand before she could touch the cloak. “Don’t look. I am afraid he is not a pretty sight. It was quick, if that is any comfort. He would not have known anything about it, and you may trust me on that.” He paused. “I gather – the older lady –?”

  “Blodwen.”

  “– is his mother? She should not see him, I think. Can you break it to her?”

  Severa nodded, still dazed. It all seemed so unreal.

  He glanced at the cross round her neck. “You are followers of the White Christ? Should we bury him?”

  “I am, not the others. But yes, bury him. Please.”

  Blodwen screamed and wept all day and the other women tried, without success, to comfort her. The four men beat a hasty retreat from the hysterical huddle in the house and proceeded to get on with clearing up. This at least was familiar territory.

  They wrapped Gruffuyd’s body respectfully in two of the thieves’ cloaks to act as a shroud, found some spades in a shed, and buried him solemnly under a rowan tree in the woods. They did not know the dead man’s god, so they buried one of the thieves’ spears with him – reckoning that he had died like a warrior and therefore deserved it – and honoured him with bits and pieces of the rites sacred to Thunor, Woden, Lord Frey, the Great Mother and even some half-remembered Christian prayers Eadwine had heard at Father Ysgafnell’s monastery. No doubt this would cause some confusion in the afterlife, but at least it should ensure a considerable welcoming committee for his soul and the gods would just have to work it out between themselves.

  The rest of the bodies were hauled deeper into the woods, where Ashhere and Drust dug a big hole and Lilla, with a little help from Eadwine, stripped the bodies of valuables and weapons. Between them, they yielded one good-quality cloak brooch, some eating knives, three more spears, a moth-eaten shield and a sword. Drust took the shield, the others shared out the spears, and they insisted that Eadwine take the sword.

  “It’s a good sword,” Lilla said in some surprise, giving it a final polish. He turned it so that the light caught the writhing patterns indicating a high-quality pattern-welded blade. “There are runes up here by the hilt, look. Can you tell what they say?”

  Eadwine traced the marks with his finger. After some study he realised they were not Anglian runes after all, but Latin letters. He spelled them slowly out to himself, trying to remember which shape stood for which sound. Father Ysgafnell had explained the numerous inscribed stones in Eboracum to him with commendable patience, but it was a long time ago, and he was starting to feel faint with pain and weariness. He tried various combinations until he found a Brittonic word that made sense.

  “Bright - blade,” he said, at length. “Brightblade. Seems appropriate.”

  Ashhere rested on his spade and leaned down for a closer look. “I wonder who he stole it from?”

  “It could easily have been his own.”

  “A bandit?” scoffed Ashhere. “Never!”

  “Come down in the world, lost his lord and his lands. Like us. Hasn’t it occurred to you that this is how we’ll end up, if we can’t find a king to give us refuge? Thieving from peasants who’ve nothing worth stealing, until we clash with a stronger band, or some lord who takes his duties seriously, and that’s us down there.” He gestured at the bodies in the ditch. “If anyone even bothers to bury us.”

  He could not repress a shudder, and Drust took his arm. “It hasna happened yet, and ye’ll work out where we are sooner or later. Yon lord in his stone fort might help us.”

  “He owes us a favour,” Eadwine agreed, “since we’ve just done part of his job for him. I’ll ask – ”

  He stood up, rather too quickly, and swayed.

  “Not today,” Drust said firmly. “Ye’re going to get cleaned up, and then sleep while we finish the work. Ye’re no use half alive.”

  Eadwine really had little choice but to follow the advice, partly because they threatened to sit on him if he did not and partly because his injured body was beginning to complain vigorously. He ached all over, and he had been very lucky not to reopen the wound in his side. He lay down in the hut and went out like a snuffed candle.

  He slept all through the racket they made rounding up the straying livestock, cleaning the dairy and blocking the wrecked gate with thorn bushes, and even through the mournful complaints of the cows that were still in milch, who lowed piteously and continuously until Severa pulled herself together enough to relieve their discomfort.

  It was long after sunset when he woke, to find the others sitting cross-legged around the fire drying their damp clothes and philosophically sharing a basket of nuts, mushrooms and berries.

  “Didn’t know where they keep the food and we didn’t want to disturb them,” Lilla said, seeing that Eadwine was awake and offering him a handful of kernels. “The witch – I mean, Severa – looked like a sleepwalker when she was milking the cows.”

  “Makes a change from porridge, anyway,” Ashhere said, grinning. “You feeling better now?”

  “Much. Is there any water?”

  Drust dipped a cup in the bucket and handed it to him. He drank, gratefully.

  Someone knocked at the open door, and a woman’s voice said hesitantly, “May I come in?”


  Severa stood there, looking very pale and shaken, holding a platter and a jug.

  “Of course, Mistress,” Eadwine answered, astonished. She had never knocked before. “It is your house. You will forgive me if I do not rise.”

  She came in and handed the platter and the jug to Drust, who happened to be nearest.

  “Bread and milk,” she apologised. “I’m sorry, there is nothing else, we have not cooked pottage today.”

  “I think we can bear the disappointment,” Eadwine said gravely, and was surprised to hear a muffled snort from behind him. Ashhere’s Brittonic must be coming on.

  Severa did not seem to have heard. “I am sorry –” she said. “I – I misjudged you. I have not thanked you –”

  “There is no need, Mistress,” Eadwine answered gently. “I am sorry for your loss.” He gestured to the open door, where Blodwen’s abandoned sobbing still echoed through the hafod. “Poor lady. How is she?”

  “She will recover. For Blodwen grief is violent but it is short. When she lost her fourth husband she wept for a night and a day, and then began looking out for a fifth. It is a good way to be, I think. Life goes on.”

  She took another step into the hut, and to his surprise she kneeled down so that they no longer had to look up at her.

  “Steeleye –” she began, and broke off, twisting her hands together.

  He was going to have to get used to that name. “Yes?”

  “I – I – came to apologise,” she said quietly. “For calling you Judas. Not that I suppose you have any idea what it means, but it – it is an insult. I was wrong. I am sorry.”