Paths of Exile

by Carla Nayland

  “He was more himself by then, my lady. Better for a man to avenge his lord than mourn overmuch, as the poets say. He called us all together by the pyre and said that it was up to us to make sure that Lord Eadric’s name was held in honour for ever. As long as men respected his name, he would never really die. So he said we would fight for Lord Eadric’s brother until his son came of age, and wherever people heard of our deeds Lord Eadric’s name would be remembered and honoured –”

  Imma sniffed, and Eadwine felt his own throat constrict. To live for ever in song was every warrior’s ambition, to uphold their lord’s reputation every warband’s highest duty. Reputation mattered more than life itself, for while all men died eventually, reputation lived for ever. But it would not bring Eadric back, would not change the fact that he would never see his brother again –

  “– We all knew there was a battle coming,” Imma was explaining to Heledd, who was holding his hand again, “and Beortred was determined we would fight well in it. He even made us do double-duty on watch at the gate all night. Two of us on every post, in case one fell asleep. And in the battle he told us to protect Lord Eadric’s brother as if he was our own lord. You must ransom him, lady, you must! He doesn’t deserve to be a slave!”

  “A slave?” Heledd questioned, startled. “Beortred is a slave?”

  Imma nodded so vigorously it seemed his head would fly off. “Did you not know, lady? I was sure you must have found him, since you found me. He was captured somewhere to the south and when I was sold to the Frisian he was already there.”

  “Is he still there? I can send to the Frisian –”

  “No, no, lady, he was sold. Only a few days after I came there. A buyer came looking for strong men for his lord, who was going away north. I was still weak so I was not good enough. Beortred was. You know how strong he was, lady.”

  “Who was the buyer?”

  “I don’t know, lady.”

  Eadwine heard this as if in a dream or from a great distance. Beortred a slave? If he had been in Aethelferth’s pay, why wasn’t he living it up on his reward? Captured on his way to Aethelferth, and Aethelferth had refused to ransom him? Possible. Aethelferth might well discard a man he had no further use for. But if Beortred had doubled the guard on the river-gate, Beortred could not possibly be the traitor. Unless he had a fit of remorse after murdering Eadric? But then why had he not warned anyone of the plot? No, Beortred could not be the traitor. Beortred was covering up for the traitor. Preferring to risk an attack on his gate – which might well result in his own death and many others’ – rather than reveal the traitor’s secret. Who was it? Whose reputation could Beortred value more highly than his own life? He should owe that sort of loyalty only to his lord –

  Eadwine felt icy sweat prickle down his spine. No, that was impossible. Impossible!

  He found his voice. “When was this? Who was the merchant?”

  Imma’s face screwed up in concentration, and he counted on the fingers of his free hand. “About the middle of October. I don’t know the man’s name. Greasy fair hair, beard a family of eagles could nest in, two teeth missing, limped on his right leg.”

  “Where was he based?”

  “Eboracum.”

  “I don’t like it,” Lilla objected. “It’s too dangerous. What if you get caught?”

  Eadwine laughed softly, settling his pack more securely on his shoulders. “In my own city? Don’t be absurd. Anyway, Aethelferth’s in Bebbanburgh and Aethelric couldn’t catch a cold.”

  “I don’t see why you have to go into Eboracum anyway.”

  “Because,” Eadwine said patiently, “I have to find out who Beortred was sold to and where he was taken. Otherwise we might be wandering round Deira for weeks and that really would be dangerous. Meet me here two nights from now. Don’t eat all the food and keep out of trouble.”

  Lilla sat down on a fallen log with a sigh, watching as Eadwine’s slender shadow was swallowed up in the deeper shadows of the wood. He was tired, but more than that he was anxious. They had left Heledd’s hall the same night as the ransomed housecarl had arrived, and covered the distance to Eboracum in two relentless night marches. Eadwine would only let them rest during the day, when they lay hidden in woods or wasteland, and he clearly grudged even that. Lilla thought he would have run all the way to Eboracum without a break, if it had not been for the need to avoid being seen. Whatever he had inferred from Imma’s story had obviously disturbed him greatly – more, Lilla thought, than was justified by the mere prospect of running Beortred to earth. But his tentative enquiry had been rebuffed with uncharacteristic sharpness. Whatever was wrong, it was something very close to Eadwine’s heart.

  “Cheer up,” Ashhere said, sitting down beside him. “He’ll be fine, and in the meantime we can put our feet up. Mine are killing me.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Lilla looked round, but all he could see was the moonlit clearing in what seemed to be a fairly sizeable wood. “Where are we? Anyone know?”

  “West of the Ouse, about an hour’s walk from the city,” Ashhere informed him, for once not the directionally challenged one. “There’s an old charcoal burner’s hut by a stream, over that way. It’s not used any more, on account of half the logs being rotten, but it’s not likely to have fallen down yet. How about we wait there? It’ll be out of the weather at least.”

  Rather to Lilla’s surprise, the abandoned hut was exactly where Ashhere had said it was, and more or less intact.

  “How did you know this was here?”

  “This is home. Pa’s hall is a couple of miles away, and we own all the land round here.” It was Ashhere’s turn to sigh. “Used to. I suppose some bastard from Bernicia’s got it now.”

  Lilla looked at him in some surprise. “How can you bear it? To have your land occupied by someone else?”

  “Well, if Eadwine can bear it, I’m sure I can,” Ashhere said comfortably. “What is it with you and land, Lilla? Pa got given this estate by the king twenty-odd years ago, Eadwine will give me another when he comes into his own. Easy come, easy go. I can’t see what’s so special about a muddy field or a herd of smelly pigs. Though I’ve a mind to go and see if I can find out what happened to Mam and my sisters. One of Pa’s old spearmen farms just the other side of these woods.”

  Drust’s voice was doubtful. “Ye sure that’s wise, laddie?”

  “Why not? Eadwine didn’t tell us to stay in the same place for two days. Anyway, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, come on, Lilla, you’re supposed to be the bright one. Two days to find one trader? When he’s in such a tearing hurry? I’ll bet you he’s going to look for his girl.”

  In the hall at Eoforwic, Aethelind turned over in bed and prodded Hereward until he rolled onto his side and stopped snoring. He was turning out to be a very satisfactory husband, obedient even in his sleep. Especially since the child she was carrying had started to kick and confirmed beyond any doubt that she was pregnant. Hereward had been as thrilled as a child with a new toy, torn between wanting to show her off all round the estate – look, what a clever boy I am! What a clever girl I married! – and wanting to keep her wrapped in thistledown as if she was suddenly made of glass. He had compromised by inviting every last soul on the estate and everyone else he knew to a feast so huge they had to press the barn into service and the estate stumbled around in a blissful alcoholic haze for days afterward. Even Aethelferth, far away in Bebbanburgh, had sent his best wishes and a gift for the lady by special messenger, a rare honour that had practically reduced Hereward to tears, as he worshipped his king second only to the gods. Indeed, Aethelferth seemed to be taking a particular interest in Hereward. He had attended their wedding, seemed most impressed that Hereward’s bride had once been betrothed to a prince, and made sure to call in whenever he was in Eboracum. Hereward could hardly believe his luck. A beautiful wife! A rich estate, which lay south of Eboracum and had lar
gely escaped the war! His king’s favour! And a baby on the way, the ultimate seal of the gods’ approval! All the local temples were doing very well out of Hereward this winter.

  The temple of Frija was also doing rather well, if more discreetly, out of Aethelind. Truly Lady Frija had heard her prayers! The estate had accepted Hereward as its new master happily enough. Their old lord had been a fair master, and they were sorry he was gone, but he had died in battle, which was the right and proper way of things, and the new lord was young Lady Aethelind’s husband, which was also the right and proper way of things. Hereward was cheerful and approachable, took his duties seriously in settling disputes at the moot, and had a warband powerful enough to protect his new lands from raiders, thieves and the increasingly desperate beggars displaced from burned Eboracum Vale. He settled some of his more senior spearmen as sub-thanes on outlying pockets of land, where they could use the food-rents to maintain their own small warbands and would in due course marry, start their own families, and take up farming – insofar as that meant handing out well-meant if impractical advice, or leaning over the wall of the sty scratching the back of a favourite pig. Eoforwic was well content with its lot. And Aethelind, snuggled under the covers with Hereward’s warm bulk beside her, was well content with hers. She was sorry that Eadwine was dead – she always thought of him as dead, even though she knew he was not, it was more comfortable that way – and she missed the prospect of being a Princess of Deira some day. But she had found that she did not miss being compared to midsummer skies or shining stars at evening or the sparkling of clear water, nor did she miss his stubborn refusal to let her have her own way and live near Eboracum. Hereward’s mute adoration or reliable ‘Yes, my love’ were far more to her taste. Now, though she still shed occasional tears for her lost prince, she could hardly remember what he looked like.

  Chapter 17

  Father Ysgafnell concluded the pre-dawn Mass and watched as the rest of the monks filed out of the tiny church. He must be getting old. How else to explain this grey, sad feeling? He would be sixty-three in a few months. The same age as Peredur, his flawed, beloved king, would have been if he had lived. If he had not gone down beneath the Bernician blades on the blood-soaked field of Caer Greu. Twenty-five years ago, yet it seemed as if it was only yesterday. And now the descendant of Peredur’s murderers – yes, murderers, for it had been no fair fight – ruled in Peredur’s city. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, Ysgafnell quoted to himself. All very well, but I wish You would get on with it. I want to live to see it. He shuffled the chalice and the lamp onto a tray, balanced it on his single hand with the ease of long practice, and pushed open the door to the sacristy, feeling the weight of years on his shoulders.

  A shadow moved on the far side of the door. A shadow that resolved itself into a tall, lean young man with dark hair tied back from a bony hawk-like face. A face Ysgafnell had last seen twenty-five years ago, on the eve of battle –

  “Here,” said a familiar voice, when his hearing cleared, “drink this.”

  Ysgafnell realised he was sitting on the floor – how had he got down there? – and someone was supporting him with a strong arm round his shoulders and holding a cup to his lips.

  “No,” he croaked out, “no – it’s the communion wine – sacred to God –”

  “I think your need is greater than his just now,” said the voice, with its familiar warmly ironic undertone. “Are you not always telling me yours is a forgiving god? Here. Drink.”

  Ysgafnell swallowed obediently, choked a little, and swallowed again. He clutched at the arm holding the cup, a thin, sinewy arm in patched woollen cloth, the bones reassuringly solid under his grasp.

  “My boy!” He let his head sag back against Eadwine’s shoulder. “Oh, my dear boy. I thought you were a ghost!”

  “Mine?”

  “No.” Ysgafnell turned his head, scanning his companion’s face. It was not his imagination at all, the resemblance was there. “No, your grandfather’s. You’re the image of Peredur when he was your age. In looks, that is. I hope you’ve got your mother’s mind.”

  “I rather hope I have my own,” Eadwine said dryly. “Let me help you up, Father. I came to ask you a favour, not to make you faint, but I can’t linger.”

  “Ask away, lad.”

  “I’m looking for a slave trader. Finn Lousebeard, from the description. He trades wine for slaves, so given your god’s taste in drink, you’re probably one of his better customers these days. Can you tell me where he is?”

  “He’s here for the winter, in Eboracum. But you’d best not go near his place. He’s very thick with the Twister’s men.”

  “So I would expect. He’s got a profit to make. But he sold a man I’m anxious to trace, and I need to know who to. All I know at the moment is that it was to someone going north in the middle of October and looking for strong men.”

  “Ah! I can help you there! Finn was trumpeting that sale all over the city. A dozen strong fellows to carry the food and gear for a warband, no expense spared. Why these heathen Saxon imbeciles won’t use horses is beyond me, in my day –”

  But Eadwine had no time for Ysgafnell’s military wisdom, not today. “Who was the buyer, Father?”

  “Black Dudda.”

  Eadwine drew a sharp breath, and the blue-grey eyes became very cold. “For his harrying of the March, of course. I should have worked that out for myself.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Father – what exactly has he done to the March? I noticed there are more beggars on the roads than usual. Alive and dead.”

  “As to the March, I don’t know,” Ysgafnell said doggedly. He had no intention of provoking Eadwine into tangling with probably the most effective and certainly the most ruthless of Aethelferth’s lieutenants. “The beggars aren’t from there. They’re all from Eboracum Vale and Derwent Vale, folk who were burned out and hadn’t got kin to take them in.”

  “Still? Hasn’t Aethelferth done anything about it?”

  Ysgafnell shrugged. “Not his people, not his business.”

  “He conquered them,” Eadwine said through clenched teeth, “so they’re his business now.”

  Ysgafnell shrugged again. “They’re Brittonic, mostly. Why should it bother a Saxon king?”

  “It bothers me.”

  “You’re different. You’re Coeling.”

  To Ysgafnell, whose family had served the descendants of Coel for generations, that was the highest compliment he could pay. He was taken aback when Eadwine turned on him fiercely.

  “That has nothing to do with it. In what way do my father’s people belong here less than you? We were given land on the coast by the Emperors when no-one else would live there for fear of raiders. It was we who fought the raiders, we who kept Eboracum and the Vale safe behind us, and we who had our children taken as slaves. When the last Emperor refused help and left Coel the Old as Protector, we kept faith with Coel and his descendants. We guarded the coast while they guarded the Wall, we fought beside them in their wars. There was as much Deiran blood as Brittonic blood spilt at Catraeth and Arthuret and Caer Greu. And when there were no more Coeling kings we still kept faith and we are still here, still guarding the coast and the March. In what way is this less our country than yours?”

  Ysgafnell tried to take another step back and found he had backed against the wall. Eadwine had never raised his voice, yet the words lashed like a steel whip. Ysgafnell threw up his hand as if to ward off a blow.

  The cold anger died in Eadwine’s eyes and he stepped back. “I am sorry, Father. You need not fear I would raise a hand to you.” He sighed, looking suddenly grim and much older than his years. “I am aware we have not done a good job lately. Both Deira and Eboracum overrun with enemies, and there is nothing I can do about it. For now. But it will be mended one day, Father. It will be mended.”

  Ysgafnell walked his visitor to the gate, as if shepherding a penitent on his way, and saw him off with a more than usually heartfelt blessing. Then he went back to the
church with elastic step and lit a candle in thanksgiving. Peredur’s killers were going to pay at last, and Ysgafnell was determined to live to see it.

  Eadwine paused when he reached the main street. He had no more reason to stay in the city, but it was now broad daylight and would be awkward to leave. The gate was out of the question, as a bored guard was clearly visible in the arch. A stranger would be stopped and questioned, and half the people in the city probably knew him by sight and would not be averse to earning more money than a rich man would normally see in a lifetime. He had a fold of his cloak drawn over his head as if to keep out the wind, and tugged it further forward to keep his face in shadow. Could he climb back over the wall? It had been a simple enough climb in the dark, much easier than scaling the sea cliffs with Lilla in search of guillemots’ eggs, for the wall around this half of the city was reduced to its rubble infill in some places, a legacy of the days when civil authority had broken down but people still built in stone and considered the civilian city wall a convenient quarry. But there were too many people around, he would be seen. He could leave by the river, since unlike the military fortress the civilian city had never had a wall along the river and apart from the wharves either side of the bridge the bank was thick with vegetation. But swimming the river in the depths of winter was not an appealing prospect. More sensible to lie low for the day and climb the wall after dark. He would still rejoin his friends a day earlier than he had expected, since he had not after all had to tramp around every one of Finn Lousebeard’s numerous halls up and down the river. That had been a stroke of luck. The Three Ladies must be feeling helpful for once. He turned back into the interior of the city.

  It looked the same as it always did, with its incongruous mix of towering stone buildings surrounded by little thatched wattle houses, patches of ground cultivated for vegetables or crops, tethered goats, scratching chickens, a few lonely pigs in their pens, grubby children fetching water or minding their younger siblings, stray dogs and a few beggars scavenging for scraps. Occasionally some wealthy man would ride down the thoroughfare that connected the gate with the river-bridge, a trader or one of the remaining Brittonic lords who, unlike their Anglian counterparts, built their halls within the security of the massive walls. The change of king appeared to have made little difference to the Brittonic half of Eboracum. Not, perhaps, surprising, for half a century of dynastic warfare until the Coeling dynasty ran out of kings had accustomed Eboracum to frequent and often violent changes of ruler. The powerful men who were left were those who trimmed their sails to the prevailing wind, and the powerless had little more interest in the occupant of the fortress across the river than they had in the Man in the Moon, provided the fighting happened somewhere else.