Around Sheffield Then and Now, by Geoffrey Howse, Sutton Publishing.
Water Power on the Sheffield Rivers, Sheffield Trades Historical Society,
University of Sheffield, and Sheffield City Museums.
Reminiscing Rivelin by Roy Davey, DS Publishing.
Sheffield archive www.picturesheffield.com
About the Author
Brian Sellars was born in Sheffield in 1941 where he attended St Joseph’s primary and St Vincent’s secondary schools. Aged fifteen he started work in the steelworks as an apprentice electrician, but switched to become a sales rep, and later sales manager. He travelled extensively, mainly in the Far East, USA and Australasia, selling engineering services and capital equipment to oil companies and governments engaged in large civil engineering projects.
Brian has been married over fifty years. He and his wife live in a village near Bath, England. Now retired, he spends his time writing, doing woodwork, exploring old British towns and villages, and doing what his wife calls, “Looking at bumps in fields.”
OTHER BOOKS BY BRIAN SELLARS
The Whispering Bell
Historical fiction for adult readers. An adventure story about an Anglo Saxon warrior’s wife, cheated out of her children, her home and her inheritance, when her husband is lost in battle.
Time Rocks
Stonehenge based, time travelling sci-fi for teenage and adult readers.
Tuppenny Hat Detective
Period murder mystery for adult and teenage readers. Set in Sheffield, England in the fifties, this is a genuine whodunit for young or older folk who like a mystery, without a car chase.
Read a Sample
THE WHISPERING BELL. This historical fiction for ADULT readers is set in the Peak District around 650 A.D. It is an adventure story about an Anglo Saxon warrior’s wife, cheated out of her children, her home and her inheritance, when her husband is lost in battle.
Chapter One
Mercian England circa 620 AD
After the great sickness famine gripped the land, garnishing it for riot and murder. Abandoned farms fell into ruin. Weeds shrouded rotting ploughs in neglected fields and yards. Bands of vengeful wealhs picked over their lost lands, preying on the few English incomers who had managed to save a little food. In smouldering settlements corpses lay unburied, their flesh a gruesome harvest for the dying. Beyond limp stockades and deserted city walls secretive groups of fearful refugees scoured the great shire-wood for berries and roots.
Twice Ettith had defied famine and plague. Despite the aches of her old bones she had outlived her entire family, strapping sons and daughters with their rowdy broods. She was a loner deeply suspicious of others. That was how she had survived so long and though weak from hunger and as frail as a rush-light flame her old eyes still burned defiantly in their waxy sockets.
She came upon a hamlet deep in the forest on a soft summer's morning piped with glistening dew and birdsong. As usual she hid and settled to study the place assessing its situation. Did the inhabitants have food? Might they be dangerous or hospitable? If she saw they too were starving she'd pass them by. It would not be wise to linger.
All was silent: no dogs, no smoke, no hens scratching in the road, no children playing near the pond, no men in the fields, or women hunched over the washing stones beside the well. Like so many farms and settlements she had seen it stood abandoned, stripped and ravaged by plague and famine. Already the greening haze of disuse covered its single street as the forest reclaimed the rutted earth.
"A mouse would be lucky to fill its belly in this place," she said, as if to craning onlookers.
She was about to leave when she spotted a cat cleaning itself beside the door of one of the small, windowless houses. It stopped its grooming and eyed her as she stepped from cover. "Cat is meat," she whispered, stalking it like a wolf on a lamb. "Cat is meat, good meat." Such a cat could feed her for a week or more. "Here kitty kitty."
A sound burst upon her, scaring away the cat. Her old joints froze as stiff as sticks. She tilted her head and flicked her gaze around trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. It was several moments before she recognized the sounds of the snapping crash and rip of someone forcing their way through the forest, with no care for who might hear them. She freed her joints and hobbled back to her hiding place. Moments later a man burst from the tangled undergrowth at the far side of the village. He was short and muscular with greying hair and a thick, wild beard. He wore leather armour and had a sword slung across his back. A stocky saddle pony bearing his shield, spears and a large pack trailed behind him. On the end of a long leash attached to the horse an amiable milk cow followed.
Though weary and bedraggled by his journey, the stranger's fearless bearing showed the arrogance of the warrior kind. He barged into the village, sweeping aside the vegetation, clearly expecting a deferential welcome. Though far from arrogant, the milk cow followed, equally self-assured.
Ettith had not seen a cow for months, let alone a fine, meaty horse. She imagined eating the succulent red meat they could provide. Her mouth watered, though she knew it was a foolish daydream. Without the magic of salt or a smoke house, fresh juicy meat would soon rot into a stinking flyblown mess. She had seen plenty of those.
The warrior was striding through the village searching the houses. After poking his head into several of the meaner dwellings he entered the largest where he remained for some time.
She cursed him for the loss of the fat cat. Her old body creaked as she crouched in hiding. Her stomach rumbled with hunger. Again she thought of roasted cow meat, its juices dripping over a fire. She must have food. Clasping her hands together she prayed for the man to go away and leave her to her scavenging. When at last he emerged from the house, he carried a bundle wrapped in cloth. She thought it looked big enough to be a whole ham or a side of bacon. The certainty that it was food burned into her brain, and again she cursed the warrior. If only she had arrived sooner, that ham, or whatever it was, would be hers now. But what could it be; smoked pig meat, a salted side of mutton? What was this arrogant thief stealing from her?
The man lowered the bundle to the ground and hurried back into the house. He re-emerged carrying a spade. Ettith watched him choose a spot of earth near a small shrine to Eostre, the spring goddess. He poked the spade at the ground a few times and then dug it in deep, piling his weight behind it.
"Food, he's burying the food," she told herself, before doubts dismissed the notion. No, not food, she thought, but what? She stared at the bundle, trying to make sense of the swaddled shape. Is it a little child? She shuddered as the idea that it could be grew in her mind. It could be a bairn – perhaps his own. She smoothed her palms over her cheeks and stood up, watching him work. Sadness chilled her like shadows. She pitied him. Despite her years of trouble and loss, the sight of this lone warrior digging a grave for his small child struck her deeply. She stepped out of hiding and hobbled towards him, determined to offer whatever comfort she could.
Startled, the man spun round to face her, wide eyed. "Oh gods, mother!" he said. "You scared the marrow out o' me. I didn't think there was anybody here."
She was about to reply when, from the corner of her eye, she caught a slight movement in the swaddled bundle. "It's alive!"
"Aye, just about. It's the mother who's dead. The bairn seems right enough," he said, sweat dripping off his nose and vanishing into the wilderness of his whiskers. He studied Ettith for a moment then asked, "You're not their kin are you? I don't remember seeing you before."
"No."
"Aagh — pity. She died just now while I was in there. You'd have thought she was waiting for me. She just handed me the bairn and died - never made a sound."
Ettith eyed him closely. "So, you're not kin either?"
"No, but I knew 'em. Not her so much as her man. He was a comrade, a blood sworn friend," he said. "It's the least I can do for him. He was killed."
He began digging again, but with a fierce energy. Ettith w
atched him, wondering where such strength came from. After a while he stopped and mopped his brow. "I know these parts well, but don't recall seeing you, old mother."
"No, I'm just passing," Ettith said, adding hopefully. "Have you any food?"
He waved a hand in the direction of his pony. "Aye, there's a pack on the horse. I brought it for the woman. Her man was killed alongside me in the shield wall. I promised him. She'll not need it now. I brought her that damned cow too. It's slower than winter honey. Can you take it off me? I've urgent duties. I can't be slowed by a stubborn cow."
Ettith could hardly believe her luck. The pack was full of such food as she had only dreamed of in months; bread, salt pig, cheese, a sack of dried white beans, some coarse flour, a block of salt, honey and a skin of ale. She sat beneath the horse's belly, stuffing her mouth as fast as she could; afraid she may be dreaming and might wake up before she'd had her fill.
When the grave was finished, the man carried out the body of the child's mother and gently lowered it into the ground. Ettith stood beside him looking down at the scrawny corpse wound in a sheet.
"She were a real beauty in her day," he said, his voice thickened by emotion. "You'd not think so now, would you?"
"Huh, so was I, once upon a time," said Ettith.
The man inspected her, unconvinced. "Aye well, that's the way of things I suppose." He shovelled earth over the corpse leaving the face until last.
Ettith left him to his task and wandered towards the dead woman's house, pausing for a closer look at the child sleeping in its bundle of cloths. It was a little girl about three years old. A pretty child, even though her tear-stained face was thin and drawn. Her tiny hands were slender and delicate. A leather thong, shiny with wear curled around one hand and threaded through a hole in a purple gemstone, about as big as a pigeon's egg. Ettith handled it, admiring its colour and river-polished smoothness.
"Is she all right?" the man called from the grave side.
His voice startled her, scattering her thoughts. "Oh, aye she's fine. She just needs a few good meals." She tucked the child in its soiled rags and left her sleeping to go and peer into the open door of the house. Of course, she did not dare enter. It was a house of death. Spirits would still be lurking inside hoping to catch another unwary soul.
The warrior finished his sad work and tossed the spade aside. Wiping his hands on his front, he approached Ettith, stopping on the way to pick up the sleeping child. Ettith watched with trepidation as he tried to gather up the infant. His clumsy struggle to balance the child safely woke her up. She began to howl with such a voice that its echo bounced around the village like the wail of some other-worldly creature. With a pained look the man came close to Ettith. "Do you want to come with me, or stay here? I'll leave you the cow if you're staying. Only, I must travel quickly. I don't want it slowing me down again. Treat her kindly and she'll milk well. Milk's better than meat in these times, old mother."
Ettith thanked him, praising him ecstatically as he mounted his pony. He barely heard her as he struggled to calm the screaming child in his arms. At the forest edge, Ettith stopped and watched him disappear into the enveloping green. A wave of apprehension swept her. Perhaps she should go with him? What was she to do? The solitude and secrecy of her life had become open and complicated. She now had a cow and a great pack of food to protect. Instead of being free to wander she would have to stay put, at least until the food ran out, or the cow died or wandered off. As she reviewed her new situation, she looked around the empty village. Its oppressive silence bore down, intensified by the distant, fading sounds of the warrior's departure.
She was alone now, but for her cow munching contentedly at the living turf roof of one of the houses. The silence heightened her sense of dread. She thought of yoking the cow beneath the pack of food and chasing after the warrior, and was on the point of doing so when a new sound chipped at the emptiness. It was a feeble cry, like a kitten's mewing. With relief, she remembered the cat and looked about for it. Now it could be company, not food.
Again, she heard the sound, but this time it did not seem quite so feline - more like a gurgling cough. It came from the dead woman's house.
"Spirits!" She backed away in terror. "Oh Holy Mother Frigg spare me," she cried, falling to her knees.
The sound grew louder, becoming unmistakably an infant's cry. Something deep inside her awakened, transforming her fears for herself into concern for the mysterious, unseen child. She edged towards the house, trembling at the realisation that she must go inside that place of death. She chipped a handful of salt from her newly acquired supply, and summoning courage, hobbled to the house. As she stepped over the threshold she scattered the sacred charm before her. Her courage stiffened as the charm did its work. Inside the large single room she met not even one lurking spirit.
It was a well-to-do house with many of the trappings of prosperity. There was a sturdy oak table with a bench and stools drawn up to it. A large bed had embroidered curtains. Against the walls were two elm-plank coffers, a shrine to the goddess Frigg, and a standing loom. Beside the loom a finely carved, ash-wood mydercan caught her eye. Beneath its polished lid she found sewing yarns, needles and pins. This she realised explained how two hangings of extraordinary quality, such as only a wealthy thegn might own, dressed one of the room's lime-washed walls. Taken with the loom and the mydercan, Ettith could see that this was the house of a successful seamstress, a woman whose work adorned the houses of the rich.
The child's crying stopped, jerking her from her thoughts. She looked about with a start. In a corner she saw a wooden crib. The babe inside it was a girl of about a year and a half. She was painfully thin, her little bones pushed against her skin. Ettith's old heart went out to her. "Oh my little love, how could he have missed seeing you?" she said. "Trust a man to do only half a thing."
She reached to pick up the child, but stopped herself on noticing that she still clutched the leather thong and its bluish purple gemstone in her hand. Panic gripped her. She had not meant to keep it. It belonged to the little girl. She must give it back. Rushing from the house, as fast as her old legs would carry her, she went after the warrior, calling out for him.
It was too late. He had gone.
….…
Chapter Two
Mercian England 633 AD
The longhouse shuddered, its timbers groaning as a tree, torn from the earth for a battering ram, smashed again into the wattle wall. Scabs of plaster broke away, revealing the coarse weave of hazel lath on oak studding beneath. Smoke rippled down through the thatched roof, smothering beam and rafter. Wynflaed watched it ooze menacingly above her. It swelled and barged, gathering bulk, before flopping down the wall and splashing towards her across the earthen floor.
"They've torched the roof!" she cried, bridled fear cracking her voice. She pressed a kerchief to her nose and tightened her grip on Buhe's hand.
Buhe's father beckoned. Like a rock in a sea storm, he stood amidst the chaos of his burning hall calmly directing his terrified household. "Come by me, you two," he said. "They'll soon be through the wall and the thatch'll go up like a marsh devil when the air gets to it."
Though he tried to appear calm, Wynflaed sensed his apprehension. She allowed herself and Buhe to be ushered away from the fiercest burning, pretending not to see the old thegn's fearful, secret glances at his smouldering roof.
"Pull that table against the wall - get under it," he said, inserting his fist into the iron boss of his lime-wood shield.
Spears punctured the wall. Cold air rushed in, feeding the hot, glutinous smoke. The under-thatch was aglow, as red as sunset. It burst into flame, sucking the breath from Wynflaed's lungs. Noise crashed in through the broken wall, dragging men with swinging swords and axes behind it. In their refuge beneath the table Wynflaed and Buhe clung grimly to each other. Between them and certain death stood Buhe's father, the old warrior, magnificent in his battle harness — though it no longer fitted. He stood his ground, exchang
ing blows with the raiders, mocking them as smoke and the unexpected ferocity of the heat shrivelled their thirst for blood, driving them back through the shattered wall in scrambling disarray.
The old man pressed them, prodding and slashing as they fell back. "Cowards!" he yelled. "You came to kill Uhtred. Well, I'm here. Come and fight me, you scum."
As the last frenzied raiders retreated ignominiously, Buhe scrambled from beneath the table and ran to her father. She was sobbing, but more from love and pride in him than from any sense of fear for herself. She threw her arms around him and stretched up to kiss his bearded cheek. "Father, we must get out" she said, tugging on his shield arm. "I'd rather be fleshered by an axe than fried like pig meat."
Startled, the old thegn gazed into her soot-stained face, as if trying to remember who she was. He looked around his hall at the faces of his frightened servants and then back at Buhe. In her blue eyes, so painfully scoured by smoke and tears, he saw her fear. He gathered her gently behind his shield and kissed her forehead.
"Think of Wynflaed and Luffa and the others," Buhe said. "They might not kill the servants. We have to get them out to give them a chance."
"You're right, little mother," he said. "It's better we die out there where the gods can see us." He took a short dagger from his belt and pressed its handle into her palm looking at her with tear-glossed eyes. "You'd better take this," he said. "You mightn't think yourself quite a woman yet, my sweet Buhe, but those men out there ..."
Buhe looked at the knife, then at her father. Despite her youth, she needed no further explanation. "What about Flaedy?" she asked, glancing towards her friend.
Dance Floor Drowning Page 29