by A. J. Lake
Edmund clenched his fists. No! He would not even think the word. He noticed Elspeth watching him with a worried look. Curse her, she was always watching him. He quickly bent down to pull a gorse thorn from his leggings. He couldn’t let her see him being cowardly again, not like on the ship. He was a king’s son. What if they could see him now in his father’s great hall? Edmund the Puny! Edmund the Frightened Mouse!
He took a deep breath as his Uncle Aelfred had taught him years ago, when he had woken from a screaming nightmare. ‘Remember, little Whitewing, if you pretend to be brave,’ Aelfred had said, ‘you will be brave!’
Edmund straightened his bruised back and squared his shoulders. He had survived the storm, the shipwreck, the dragon, the savage sea. Now he had to go home as fast as he could so his mother would not fret over his death.
He set off again with a more determined stride.
At last they reached the top and rounded the headland. But when Edmund saw the village huts strung out above the stony bay, dread rolled back like a tidal wave. He heard Aagard call out ‘Medwel’, but whatever else the old man said was lost in the roaring inside Edmund’s head.
It was the village from his dream! There were the thatched houses encircling the green, with fish-drying huts in the middle and scrubland all around. Below the settlement a pebbled beach sloped down to the sea, where several small craft were hauled up high above the tideline. It was almost impossible to imagine fire and slaughter riding on iron-shod horses in this wild, beautiful place. But Edmund had seen it happen!
As the path widened, Elspeth ran past Aagard towards the village. The old man quickened his pace behind her, as if fearful of the news that might greet her. Edmund stumbled after them, his head filled with nothing but images of torch-bearing riders and soldiers wielding swords on defenceless men.
But inside the village, all was peaceful. There was a whiff of fish from the drying-sheds. Outside their doors, women were gutting and splitting herring. A pot of gruel bubbled at a communal hearth. On the scrubby patch of grass amid the houses, a clutch of bare-legged children hooted and rolled with two scrawny puppies.
When Edmund caught up with the others, Aagard was talking to a ruddy-faced woman. He heard her say, ‘Hale and hearty as ever was. And all thanks to your good healing, Master Aagard. We thought we’d lost our babby for sure.’
Her words washed over Edmund.
This can’t be the place I saw. There’s no danger here. They’ll think me a madman if I start blabbing about raiders.
A shout from the woman jerked him from his thoughts.
‘Last night! The two of you came out of the storm unharmed? Well I nev—’
Elspeth broke in impatiently. ‘Have you found anyone else? Did anyone wash up here alive?’
The woman looked at her in astonishment. ‘Alive? Why, we’ve scarcely found a splinter of wood to light a fire! Nor even a drowned body so far.’ Reading grief beyond words in Elspeth’s stricken expression, she added hastily, ‘But you could ask the menfolk, they were still out searching this morning …’ Her voice trailed off, but Elspeth was already running down to the beach.
Aagard looked as if he longed to stop her, as if he knew there was no point, that only two of them had survived the storm and the sinking of the Spearwa. Instead he said to Edmund, ‘We should move on as soon as we can. If the sword shows itself in the open, there will be danger for both of you.’
Edmund stared at him. It was not for Aagard to tell him when to travel; it was not for Aagard to tell him he was at risk because an enchanted sword had somehow attached itself to the boat-girl’s hand. If the danger was that great, Edmund should travel alone. He had a kingless court waiting for him.
He opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. He would be no more use on his own than a damp kit. His mind was befuddled with dreams; he did not know which way to go, and most of all, he was scared. Scared by the storm, scared by the visions of sword-bearing men on horses, and scared of the dragon he had seen in the sky.
Elspeth dragged herself back from the beach, her legs sinking into the shingle with every step. The fishermen she had spoken to had seen no sign of a survivor from the Spearwa. One old man reported that the ship had burned as it sank, and what wreckage had been washed ashore was blackened and charred.
‘’Twas the biggest mystery for sure, young miss,’ he had said, ‘that a fire could have raged in seas like that. But flames there were, hotter than a forging fire by the look of the wood.’ He was amazed that Elspeth had escaped the wreck. All the fishermen had looked at her with awe in their eyes. And even a hint of fear, as if they suspected her of being a mermaid or a sea-sprite. There could be no other survivors, they were sure.
Offering clumsy thanks, Elspeth turned blindly back to the village, her eyes brimming with tears. But by the time she reached the houses, the tears had blown away. What use was crying? She had nothing left but the port she called home, and she would need all of her strength for the long journey east.
Aagard greeted her without comment, though she could see at once that he knew, and she was glad that he asked her no questions. Edmund said nothing either. He was tense and white as sea spume. Neither of them offered any objection when the woman whose baby Aagard had saved invited them to eat with her.
Elspeth sat by the fire pit in the woman’s cramped hut, chewing an oatcake without tasting it and letting the talk drift over her.
‘The road eastwards is well marked, and safe enough if a traveller keeps to it,’ Aagard was saying. ‘Or it was, two years ago. And there are those in Wessex who will offer us shelter. We will leave as soon as we have eaten.’
Elspeth wondered what she would do when she reached Dubris. Her father’s house was small and bare; his real home, all his wealth, had been the Spearwa. Aunt Freda, her father’s sister and Elspeth’s only other living relative, would take her in, but her house was already full with three girls who sewed and spun and giggled about husbands. No! Elspeth couldn’t stay there. The only place she could really be happy was at sea. She would find a Dubris shipmaster to take her on; someone who knew Master Trymman had schooled his daughter well.
There was something else too. She had to go home to find out for certain that her father hadn’t found his way there by some other means. If she had been saved by a piece of jetsam, then why not he? Didn’t he always, always go home to Dubris, a fair wind filling his sails as he tacked round the point into Dubris harbour?
The pain in Elspeth’s heart lightened a little. Aagard’s speculation about the state of the roads was of no importance to her. She had to head for the nearest port. It seemed the boy no longer meant to go to Gaul, so she did not have to worry about that either. Perhaps they could travel east together by boat.
Elspeth glanced across the gloomy little hut to the pale boy. Would he want to go with her? Maybe not. He was so reserved, so caught up in his private thoughts it was as if it would harm him to speak out loud.
She was surprised when he suddenly stood up and faced Aagard, his jaw set as if he had made up his mind to do some difficult task. He fumbled at his throat with trembling fingers.
‘P-please take this, sir,’ he stammered. ‘I-it will go some way towards repaying your hospitality.’
As Aagard took the small object, his grizzled brows shot up. Elspeth saw a silver clasp in his palm, shaped like a flying bird.
Aagard handed the clasp back to the boy. ‘It would repay me many times over,’ he said, ‘but this is too rich a gift. Keep it, Edmund, and keep it hidden. The gratitude of your family is no small thing, I know that.’
To Elspeth’s growing confusion, Edmund turned redder than a radish, and took back the clasp without a word.
As they left Medwel, Elspeth ran to catch up with Aagard.
‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I cannot come with you. I have decided to go home by boat. I must find the nearest port and a shipmaster who knows me.’
Aagard turned on her. ‘No!’ he said fiercely, and before Elspeth could
protest, he seized her by the shoulders. ‘You must not go by sea,’ he said. ‘Neither one of you. You must realise that you have enemies now, and the sea routes are watched. There were eyes in that storm.’
Elspeth felt the ground sway beneath her. ‘But how can I not go back to sea? There’s nothing else …’ Her voice tailed off.
Aagard’s eyes flashed. ‘Trust yourself to a ship again,’ he said, ‘and the dragon will find you. He is conjured in storm and there is no escape for you at sea. Look what happened to your ship. Hardly a timber left. At least on land, there are places to hide, and people to help you.’
Dragon? Elspeth frowned. Had she had heard him aright? She glanced at Edmund, and was astounded to see he was nodding.
‘He’s right, Elspeth,’ he said. ‘We have to travel by land.’
Elspeth stared numbly at him. A dragon meant to hunt her from the sea? And Aagard and Edmund believed this? The sea was the only life she knew. If she could not have that, what did she have left?
Suddenly a jolt of cold power raced up her arm. For an instant she felt the silver gauntlet on her hand, the weight of the invisible sword hilt in her grasp. And a voice deep inside her head whispered:
You have me, Elspeth. You have me.
Chapter Six
By sunset they had travelled several leagues from the coast. At Edmund’s side, Elspeth trudged in silence as if each step dragged at her heart. He felt a stab of sympathy for the girl, noticing the way she repeatedly rubbed her right hand. Whatever enchantment had made the sword come and go, it had clearly left some trace on her skin.
Edmund decided she was owed more explanation about the danger they were in than he and Aagard had given her, but he did not know how to start. Haltingly, he told her about his vision in the storm and the old man’s account of the dragon, Torment. But of his newly discovered power, he said very little. He still could not even bring himself to utter the word Ripente, let alone believe he was one. As he spoke, he was relieved to see Elspeth tilt her head to listen, as if she believed what he was saying and knew that she couldn’t shut herself off in her grief and pretend there were no such things as dragons.
‘Aagard is right about the danger being greater at sea,’ Edmund concluded. ‘I wouldn’t trust to a ship again – not along this coast, anyway.’
‘But you were meant to sail to Gaul,’ Elspeth remembered. ‘Your father wanted you to join him there. Will you not go at all now?’
Edmund shook his head. ‘I must go home to Sussex,’ he said. ‘My mother will hear about the wreck, and I need to let her know that I’m still alive.’ There was something else too. The dream of pillaging soldiers flooded Edmund’s mind, and even though they had not been the Viking raiders that threatened his home to the west, he knew his mother’s decision to send him away had been wrong. He should not have left her to face the threat of raiders alone. But he could not tell Elspeth this without giving away more than he wanted about his true identity, so he quickly steered the conversation away from himself.
‘And you?’ he asked. ‘Will you stay in your father’s village?’
Elspeth smiled bleakly. ‘It’s the place I know best … on land.’ She did not seem willing to say anything else about her plans, so Edmund let her walk ahead as the path narrowed and fell back to look at the unfamiliar countryside around them.
The coarse clifftop scrubland around Medwel had given way to well-kept fields. When they were walking three abreast again along the edge of a field of clover, Aagard announced that they would spend the night at the settlement of a friend of his, a local thane named Gilbert.
‘He owns a dozen hides of land hereabouts,’ Aagard explained, as they approached the tall wooden palisade surrounding the village.
The men at the gate welcomed Aagard in, and Gilbert himself, a big, fair-bearded man, seemed more than pleased to see him. The thane led them past the crudely thatched homes of slaves and bondsmen, and past workshops and storerooms, to his longhouse. It was a narrow, rectangular building many times bigger than any in Medwel. Inside, Gilbert’s household was already at supper, sitting at two long tables made from broad planks of wood resting on sheaves of straw.
‘Radegund!’ Gilbert called. ‘We have three more guests! Aagard is here, and two poor souls he rescued from that shipwreck two nights ago.’
The lady of the house looked up from the pot she was stirring and sent a slave girl scurrying off for more salt pork.
‘We’re honoured with guests today!’ she told Aagard, gesturing him towards one of the tables where some seats were still empty. Two burly men looked up as she passed; Radegund introduced them as Deor and Dagobert, brothers who were returning west from a trading expedition. At the far end of the table another guest nodded to Aagard. He was a small, sharp-featured man, neither old nor young, lean and compact in frame and dressed plainly for travel. He glanced incuriously at Edmund and Elspeth as they approached, but as his gaze passed over them, Edmund felt the man read him like a book; as if his ancestry, past and future had been written on his face.
Aagard stopped to greet the stranger. ‘Well met, Cluaran,’ he said. His tone was cordial, but Edmund detected a cautious edge as he added, ‘I wondered if you might be here.’ He turned to Elspeth and Edmund. ‘This is Cluaran. He –’
‘I’m a traveller, a dealer in old scraps,’ interrupted the man in a light, musical voice. He had a lilting accent, unlike any that Edmund had heard before. ‘I pick up odd fragments of songs and stories and pass them on in return for my supper. I’m honoured to meet you, lady, young sir.’ He bowed his head humbly, but Edmund caught a gleam of mockery in his grey-green eyes.
‘Cluaran is a minstrel, and a fine one,’ their hostess told them, serving them with bowls of barley broth. ‘He comes here every year with his songs and all the news of the kingdoms. You’ve come at a good time. There’ll be merry-making tonight!’
Edmund was used to dining at his father’s court, but he had to admit that Gilbert was a generous host. He saw Elspeth’s eyes widen at the sight of the heaped platters of bread and meat; saw her nod speechlessly when a slave came around with a wine flask.
‘Be careful!’ Edmund warned as she took up her cup. ‘It’s strong stuff if you’ve not had it before – it’s not like ale.’ But he was too late; Elspeth had already taken a deep draught. She spluttered and dropped the cup, sending the golden liquid splashing across the table. The two trader brothers sitting opposite drew back in exaggerated alarm.
‘No need to throw it away, girl, if you don’t like it!’ called one, while his brother sniggered.
Elspeth stared down at the table, her cheeks turning scarlet. Edmund waved a hand to summon the nearest slave girl, and as she mopped the spilled wine he gave the smirking men a look that he had once seen his father using on an ill-mannered messenger. It did not have quite the quelling effect Edmund remembered, but both men gave him uneasy glances and turned back to their food.
‘My thanks for the warning,’ Elspeth whispered wryly when the slave girl had gone. ‘But where have you been, that you’ve drunk wine? No one that I know drinks anything other than ale and milk.’
Edmund was saved from having to answer by the minstrel, Cluaran. The tables fell silent as he took up his harp and began to play: first a lively catch that set everyone clapping and shouting, then the sad strains of ‘The Wanderer’s Lament’. By the time the slaves came to clear away the empty platters, he was half-chanting, half-singing the tale of ‘The Booty of Annwvyn’. Edmund knew the story well from his mother, but he was transfixed by the man’s strange, soft-pitched voice. Even Elspeth smiled as the minstrel sang of the giant who was mistaken for a mountain and the quest for a cauldron which brought the dead to life. Gilbert roared his approval and sent over more warmed ale for the singer.
Finally the minstrel laid down his harp to a general cry of disappointment. Edmund watched the man curiously. He was undoubtedly popular, but no one went to praise the minstrel’s performance to his face; nor did he seek an
yone’s company. He sat alone on an upturned barrel at the end of the table, drinking his ale in silence. Only Aagard, after a while, went over and talked with him briefly.
‘Is Cluaran a friend of yours?’ Edmund asked when the old man returned.
Aagard did not reply at once. When he did, he seemed to frame his words very carefully. ‘He has been of help to me in the past,’ he said. ‘And I to him, I believe. He can be a good ally in time of need. But no, I would not call Cluaran a friend.’
The minstrel ate alone the next morning as well. Edmund saw him sitting on the far side of the fire while the trader brothers ate at the table with some men of the household, all talking cheerfully. He, Elspeth and Aagard were seated with their host. Gilbert had been at pains to make them welcome; they had been given good straw beds in the hall itself, where the fire was kept burning low all night, and offered as much bread and cheese as they could eat for breakfast. The thane seemed sorry when Aagard told him they planned to leave, and shook his head to hear where they were going.
‘You know your own mind of course, Master Aagard,’ he said, ‘but you’ll have a long walk to get these two youngsters back home, and there are sorry tales coming out of Wessex lately, tales of lawlessness beyond ordinary thieves. They say King Beotrich’s own men go about demanding tribute from all and sundry, and no one stops them.’
‘So Cluaran told me last night,’ Aagard said, his tone bleak. ‘Yet we must go.’
Gilbert’s broad face brightened. ‘Why not travel with the minstrel? He’s headed for Wareham; that’s on your way, more or less. He’s known in thanes’ houses across the land. He could vouch for you, where you’ll be a stranger.’
‘Cluaran travels alone,’ said Aagard, glancing over to where the man sat at his meal, ignoring all around him. ‘He would not welcome company.’ But there was something about the old man’s look that suggested he was not altogether decided in this.
They were ready to go as soon as they had eaten. As Aagard took his leave of Gilbert, Edmund hovered at the door, anxious to be off. He saw Cluaran striding towards the gate with his pack and harp case on his back; heading out alone, as Aagard had said. Edmund was not sorry to see the man go. He had not liked that penetrating look when they had met the minstrel for the first time. Besides, he wanted to take the fastest route home, not travel on some minstrel’s route from house to house.