To Run at Night

by Troy A Hill

  “Paega said to find you,” Derog said. “I’m to help you watch.”

  “Help? What ye gonna do, hold my eyelids open.”

  "Paega said I was to watch when you dozed," Derog said. "He said ye be sleeping too much instead of watching the road."

  "He can come watch the road himself then," Dugga declared, and settled back into his hideaway in the brush.

  "Ain' ye worried about the Fae?" Dugga said and tried to sit in the brush. This wasn't the most comfortable bush to sit in. "Me gran said that if I fell asleep in the wood, either Lord Fadog's men would find me, or worse the Fae would. I might die if a Fadog guard found me asleep. But I didn't want no mischief from the Fae. What they do kin be worse than death."

  Derog shifted about and tried to make such a comfortable spot for himself in the underbrush. The foliage and grass here weren't the most comfortable to sit in though.

  "Stop yer squirming" Dugga growled. "There be no elves, no pixies, no faerie lights in these forests. Them be old gran tales. Keep yer eyes on the road down there." He pointed a dirty finger toward the old Roman road where it ran between two hillocks and curved off toward the south.

  “No, not that way,” Dugga chided him. “There be another watcher around the bend to catch any coming that way. We watch to da north. Up that way.” The dirty finger poked hard in the direction Derog hadn’t been looking.

  “Any women in these wagons?” Derog asked.

  “What you need to be stealing a woman for?”

  "Lord Fadog make all the girls go to the keep for his Teulu men first," Derog said and sighed. "Me girl got taken and never came back. One of Fadog's men took her. Wouldn't take her to wife though. She is carrying his bastard now, on her hip. If she stays at the Caer…"

  “Whatsa Caer?” Dugga asked, his eyes closed again.

  "Caer is the big hill fort where Lord Fadog keeps his Teulu, his war band," Dugga explained. Didn't these Saxons know anything? Still, he kept his voice quiet and patient. Just like his gran had told him before he left.

  “Since the only way Fadog or his man will care for her lad,” Dugga added, “is for her to stay up at the caer. If she comes back to the village, she’d be hungry like the rest of us. Up at the Caer, she and her boy kin eat. Our village barely got any food left after Fadog’s men come through each fall. Course, she’ll just get used by Fadog’s man. And make more bastards fer him.”

  “That why you’re here?” Dugga asked. Derog wasn’t sure if he was curious, or just asking to be nice. Dugga shrugged anyway.

  "Paega said I could eat if I came and helped," Dugga rubbed his belly. "Lord Fadog said Paega could have three of us to be his new men. As soon as I heard we'd have food, I knew I had to come with Paega. There be little food back in Fadog. Most of it goes up to Caer Fadog. At least my old girl and her boy get to eat." Derog shut his eyes and crossed himself like he'd seen the priest do. Priests didn't come to the villages often in Fadog. They stayed mostly up at the keep. His gran said prayers were just for the lords in the caers, not for the villagers and yeomen. No gods ever answered villager prayers with lords like Fadog taking all they had.

  “So, what do we do when we see someone?” Derog asked.

  “We sneak back over the crest here,” this time Dugga hooked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the top of the hill. “We start waving the flag. Someone back at camp will see it, and Paega will get the men set to ambush them. If we hurry, we can join in.”

  “But won’t King Penda send men up here?” Derog asked, his voice back down to a whisper. “If we keep robbing the merchants? Even Lord Fadog won’t mess wif King Penda.”

  “Not with Oswiu of Northumbria making his life rough over by the wall.” Dugga chuckled. “The kings are all about land and their fyrds.”

  “Whatsa fyrd?” Derog asked.

  “The army,” Dugga said. “I forgot you’re Cymry. What do they call it over there? Was it Fat-dog ye come from.”

  “Fadog, in Powys,” Derog replied with a roll of his eyes. Dugga hadn’t even opened his eyes. The portly sentry still leaned back into the brush, not bothering with the road below. “We call the Lord’s guard the teulu. And the army is the nifer, that be all the fighting men the king or lord can call.”

  “Don’t need no fyrds nor whatevers here,” Dugga said. “Now shhhh and watch fer the wagons.”

  “How can ye watch with yer eyes closed?”

  "You watch with yer eyes," Dugga whispered and interlaced his fingers across his chest. "I'll watch me own way."

  Derog shook his head but didn’t say anything more. What had he gotten into? Paega told him to help Dugga. Now he could see why. Lazy lay-about. But, Derog was the new man. No sense in putting a bur in the blanket by complaining. He’d do what he’d been told by Paega, no matter what this slackard Dugga said. But, he’d keep his eyes open for the faerie folk, too. They were tricksters that wouldn’t do you right. That he knew.

  3

  Clergy

  Brother Mihangel watched Lady Meron as she slept on the trip. They had traveled through the morning and were well into the afternoon. She hardly moved, and he wasn't sure she was even breathing, but a hard jolt to the carriage from a missing stone in the road, caused her to slide her hand behind her back and adjust the pillows. She kept her eyes closed and settled back again.

  The monk pulled out his knife and tried to work on adding another swirl to his carved walking stick, but the carriage bounced too hard several times. The knife slipped and nicked his thumb.

  He shoved the offending digit into his mouth. The taste of blood tingled on his tongue, but only a little. He pulled it out. Another small drop welled up, but no more. Just a nick in the skin. The woman across from him took a deep breath. Her eyes flicked open.

  “Perhaps,” Lady Meron said from her nest in the pillows, “you should be careful, and wait until the carriage stops. Neither of us needs your blood spilled here.”

  "Ho, there," the carriage driver called. Their wagon lurched as the horses slowed. Despite Lady Meron's presence, Mihangel risked pulling the curtain back. He could see little beyond the countryside behind the carriage. Lady Meron occupied the bench along the back wall, so he faced the rear and not the front.

  "Your pardon, milady," he said and put his hand on the door latch. "I must relieve my bladder. I'll see what the fuss is while I'm out."

  “Of course,” she said, and carefully slid sideways along the wooden bench, so she was in the shadow of the door.

  Brother Mihangel was quick in his exit and tried to close the door with care. He had seen too many people suffer from pains in the head like Lady Meron did. He knew that loud noise could make matters worse for them.

  The carriage driver was already standing at the scrub that was well off the road. His tunic raised above his belly and the tinkle of water streaming onto the leaves and soil below drifted toward the monk. An amulet of a hammer hung from a string about his neck. Thunor's sign. A Pagan. No matter, he thought. He'd been side by side with many such men. Stout of body, and strong of character, despite their religious differences. Mihangel liked many pagans better than some of his Christian brethren. Especially better than the Roman clergy. The way their bishops treated the Cymry clergy, as though they were uncultured fools made his blood simmer.

  "What is the bother ahead?" Mihangel asked as he stepped in next to the driver and raised his own tunic and unlaced his trousers.

  "Bah," the driver proclaimed. He tied his britches tight about his waist as Mihangel's bladder sighed in its own relief. "There be a wagon ahead with a broken axle. Look to be two of yer priests of the White Christ with them. Noisy lot they are. Demanding we take them on. Eadwig is trying to calm them now."

  “Helping others in need is the way of our Lord and Savior,” Mihangel said and raised his own britches again.

  “Other than Eadwig, ye and the lady be among the few with the White Christ in this caravan, good monk,” the driver said. He smiled as he said it. “But hospitality be the way of Wode
n and Thunor too. Only make war on those who do you harm. Help all others.”

  “Perhaps someday,” Mihangel said, “men will learn that war is not the best way to settle differences.”

  "Perhaps, monk," the driver said and smacked him on the shoulder. The driver's smile showed no ill will, so Mihangel leaned on his walking stick as he walked with the driver back to the carriage. His left knee still bothered him, and he winced as he caught a rut in the road on his last step.

  “War injury?” the driver asked with another slap on his shoulder. “What is a monk of the White Christ doing in war?”

  "I'm just getting old," Mihangel said with a grin and returned the good-natured slap on the driver's shoulder. "Drive us gentle, if you can. Milady inside is in a delicate way."

  “Aye,” the driver said with a nod. “She pay Eadwig enough and give me extra coin. I doin’ me best. At least as well as this here road gives me.”

  “Good man,” Mihangel added. “Thank you.”

  He had one foot on the iron step that hung from the carriage side, and his hand on the latch when Eadwig led the priests his way. The hairs on the back of Mihangel’s neck started to twitch. This may not be good for Lady Meron’s condition.

  He twisted the latch and climbed in quickly.

  “Perhaps you should sit by me, good brother,” Lady Meron said. He was quick to latch the carriage door behind him. She had sorted out her nest of pillows. Several were already on the front bench. Another three off to her side.

  “Right in here,” Eadwig deep voice boomed from outside the door. “We’ve got two passengers already. Milady has hired the carriage, but I shall inquire as to whether she’d be willing to share.”

  Lady Meron already had her hand on the door latch.

  “Of course, I will,” she said in a voice that was both understanding and authoritative. Her hand pushed the door open. “Be quick good sirs. The bright of the day sets my head to pain, and my vision to spots.”

  "As you desire, dear lady," one of the priests said and clambered in. Mihangel eased himself onto the bench next to Lady Meron and tried to shift his feet and stick out the priest's way. His knee popped as he twisted about. Damn injury! He gave it a good rub as the priests climbed aboard. Lady Meron had kept her hand on the door and shut it at the very second the second man was inside.

  “Must it be so dark?” the second one proclaimed. He tried to slide the curtain from the small window.

  “Yes, it must,” Lady Meron said, her voice harder than before. “As I said, the bright of the day sends my head aflame with pain.”

  “Of course, my lady,” the first priest said. He touched his compatriot’s arm to put the curtain back as it was. “Allow us to present ourselves.” He gave a slight bow, barely even a nod in her direction. “I am Father Wemba, and this if Father Hedda. We are traveling on orders of His Grace, Honorius, Archbishop of Canterbury.”

  “Welcome good fathers,” Lady Meron said. “I am Lady Meron, and this is Brother Mihangel of … was it Gwent you said?”

  Mihangel nodded but continued to rub his knee. Something about these two made him uneasy.

  Father Wemba's hand twitched. He raised it, as though he expected Lady Meron to bend and kiss the ornate gold ring on his hand. The ring matched the finery the two priests wore. Their robes and cloaks appeared to be of finely spun wool. Delicate embroidery graced not only the cuffs of their sleeves but also the neckline and shoulders of each tunic.

  Mihangel glanced at Lady Meron. Her clothing looked to be of the same exceptional wool quality, but the embroidery seemed plain and common compared to that of the Saxon priests. And her dress was far better than his simple monk's tunic. Even the bronze crosses upon their chests were more ornate than his simple dark wooden cross. Their holy symbols were inlaid with silver, and both sparkled in the occasional shaft of light that snuck in as the curtain jostled with the movement of the carriage.

  His cross, though, had intricately carved Celtic swirls that seemed to dance together in a mixture of song and dance, like a bard weaves verse and melody.

  “And you good, brother,” Father Wemba said. A coy smile danced across his face. “You are one of our Walhaz brothers, are you not?”

  Mihangel wanted to wince but kept his face neutral. Walhaz… the Saxon term for foreigners. Among the Anglo clergy, it had grown to be an insult.

  “Yes, I am Cymry,” Mihangel said with a forced smile.

  “Brother Mihangel has graciously agreed to be my spiritual companion,” Lady Meron said, “as far as our paths follow the same road.”

  "Of course, milady," Mihangel agreed. He was relieved that Lady Meron had seen the power play that this Father Wemba was about to launch, and to countered it with her own status.

  “If I may ask,” she added, “what brings you out to western Mercia?”

  "Relics, my lady. We search for holy relics," Wemba said. Hedda shot him a glance and frowned. "None of that, Father. We are among good Christian folks here. Are we not my lady? Your accent seems strange for a Saxon. Are you Walhaz too?"

  “From the continent, Father,” she replied.

  “And a follower of the Christ?”

  Lady Meron smiled at him for several seconds, then began to sing in Latin.

  "Ave Maria gracia," she sang, her voice quiet yet beautiful against the harsh backdrop of the rolling carriage.

  Fathers Wemba and Hedda quickly clasped their hands and bowed their heads. Mihangel did too but kept his eyes open. These two priests still set his senses off in a way he hadn't felt since… well … before he took his monk's vows.

  “… plena dominus tecum,” Lady Meron continued, “benedicta tu in mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventris tui ihesu. Amen.”

  "Amen," all three men said together, and their hands moved in unison to make the sign of the cross.

  4

  Waiting

  "Someone is coming," Derog whispered. He nudged the sleeping man's foot to rouse him. Dugga took his eyes off the road and pulled his head back through the brush to make sure the other bandit had roused himself.

  Dugga pushed his woolen cap up off his face. Then he cracked an eye and looked at him through the slit.

  “What it sound like?” Dugga asked.

  “Horses…”

  “How many?”

  "I don't know," Derog whispered, frustration gripping him. If Dugga hadn't been sleeping the day away, he'd know these thing. Derog was unimpressed by the man he was supposed to be learning from. Even now Dugga had his eyes shut.

  “Two horses,” Dugga said, and opened one eye to glare at Derog “No wagons. You woke me fer two lone horses?”

  "There might be more than two," Derog said. Exasperation gripped his face. Why did Dugga have to sleep instead of doing his job?

  “Shhh… just wait…” Dugga pulled the cap back down over his face. His chest settled back into the soft breathing of near sleep.

  After a moment, two horses with riders came into view. The bend at the north end of the road was still forested close to the edge, so it would be another moment before he knew if the riders were alone, or merely the vanguard of a wagon train.

  The riders let their horses trot until they came abreast the patch of scrub atop the hill where Dugga slept, and Derog hid. Well, Dugga had been sleeping. He stood and waved to the two riders.

  “When are you going to get a new hat, Dugga?” The man was dressed in leathers, with a sword on his belt and a shield on his back. The other man wore a simple tunic, but also had sword and shield. Bows and a quiver of arrows were tied to each saddle as well.

  “Good day sheriff,” Dugga called. “I dunno. I like this cap.”

  "Wagon train about three leagues behind us," the man… sheriff, Derog reminded himself, said. "Who is your helper?"

  Dugga grabbed Derog by the arm and tugged to get him to stand.

  “Say hallo to the sheriff,” Dugga growled.

  Derog bowed. “Derog, milord.”

  “Tell Paega to take enough
wool out of my share to get you a new hat, Dugga” the Sheriff yelled back. “And one for your new friend if he lives through his first time.”

  “You are most kind sheriff,” Dugga called out. “How many wagons?”

  "Half-a-dozen," the sheriff called back. "And a carriage. Make sure Paega knows I told you. I'll expect my share soon."

  “Paega knows,” Dugga called back. “We all knows that.”

  “I’ll await my share in a few days then. Good Day, Dugga.”

  Derog bowed. The sheriff and his man rode on down the road.

  “Why didn’t he say ‘Good day ta me too?” Derog grumbled.

  “You be the new one,” Dugga said. “Get three wagon trains under yer belt, and ye be worth his notice.”

  “Three?”

  "You got to learn not to be stupid. You do something stupid, and you'll either die by the hand of those we liberate the goods from. Or by Paega's hand if yer too stupid during the liberation. Or, if you're real stupid, the sheriff will ride out and have a public hanging of you to show the thanes he enforcing the king's law."

  Dugga nestled down in his soft patch among the underbrush again.

  “You know where the flags are on the back side of the hill?”

  “Aye,” Derog said. He had seen them. First glance he had given a start. “Thought they was a Fae trap. Bright cloth peeking out of a bush. But, I remembered what Paega had said about waving the flags. I nudged ‘em with me boot to make sure they be just normal pieces of cloth. No faeries inside.”

  “Ye and yer faeries. Go wave the yellow one toward Paega’s camp. Once they see you, they’ll wave a green one back,” Dugga said and cocked his ugly woolen hat back down over his eyes. “Then come back here. But be quiet.”

  5

  Dinner

  Brother Mihangel leaned back against the carriage wall. Despite the Roman road rolling under their wheels, this was not a comfortable seat. He needed to stretch his legs, his back, his arms, his neck… well, everything.