A Man's Word (The King's Hounds series)

by Martin Jensen

  Two things supported this option: We would be moving through the jarl’s area as soon as we’d left Peterborough, and we would have the opportunity to linger in Thetford, the most important town in East Anglia and therefore the best place to sniff out gossip and talk.

  Once we agreed on this, I left Winston and Alfilda to finish the packing while I went to find Eadred.

  Eadred lived at the edge of a cluster of houses constituting the monastery’s outbuildings, in a cottage with his blind father, who had been an archer before him but had lost his vision at the Battle of Maldon, where he fought with Byrhtnoth.

  Eadred invited me right in, offering me a seat in the cottage’s single, smoke-filled room. His father’s bench was positioned right in front of the hearth, while Eadred’s own was pushed all the way back against the opposite wall. We sat down on Eadred’s bench while his father laboriously sat up from under his blankets, cleared his throat, and made a wet chuckle as he accepted the tankard of ale his son thrust into his hand.

  They both listened to my news, said they were sorry I had to leave—the old man enjoyed my visits since I would let him blabber on about the old days and moral decline—and assured me their words would guide me as safely through the fens as if they were leading me on their own horses.

  Although Eadred did most of the talking, the old man interjected his opinions at regular intervals. And even though the old man hadn’t been out in the fens for years, it was clear to me his blind eyes nonetheless hid a kind of vision that would stay with him until the day he died.

  “The first bit of the way is easy enough,” Eadred began. “You just follow the old paved road the Romans built many years ago. Of course it’s always possible winter changed things a little, but since there wasn’t much frost, it’s not likely. You should be able to ride as far as the River Nene without problems, because the stones in the road are well maintained that far.”

  The old man cleared his throat, spat on the floor, and said, “The ford is marked with a red cross.”

  “No,” Eadred said, shaking his head. “The ford has moved further north now. You’ll find a cairn about forty paces north of the stone bridge.”

  “On the other side of the river, the pavement is missing,” the old man said, seeming irritated at having been corrected.

  His son gave me a wry smile.

  “That’s right, Father. It’s completely gone for the first five or ten miles, but the track isn’t hard to follow since poles have been set out. Just remember to keep them on your left.”

  “Otherwise you’ll get your feet wet,” the old man teased.

  “Wet feet? They’ll get water up to the saddle at this time of year,” Eadred said. “Then you’ll come to the paving again and follow that all the way to the Danes’ Ford.”

  “And the ford is not actually marked there,” the old man said, holding out his tankard.

  Eadred got up and filled it from the cask, which was covered by a wet cloth.

  “There are a few huts and the folks living there will show you the ford for a gratuity,” Eadred said.

  “Which shouldn’t be big.” The old man raised his left hand to me. “In the old days, people helped travelers out by marking the ford.”

  Eadred nodded in agreement. “But the ford moves because of the current, so now the people who live there keep an eye on it and accept payment for guiding travelers across.”

  “Too bad those Viking bandits were able to find it when they came.” The old man spat on the floor again. “Otherwise I’d still be able to enjoy the sight of a beautiful woman.”

  “On the far side of the Ouse the paved sections come and go. You should pay attention and always stop if you notice the cobblestones under your feet are gone. Ride half an arrowshot apart so you can use each other to maintain a line of sight. The track runs straight ahead, so if you keep in a line the whole time, you can’t get lost.”

  “Yes, that’s how it is all the way to the Icknield Way,” the father said, hawking up a clot of mucus and then rinsing it down with ale.

  “Are you clear on how to go now?” Eadred asked me.

  I closed my eyes halfway, thought back over it, and then repeated the instructions they’d given me. Eadred nodded and refilled the tankards again. We emptied them while chatting. At one point, Eadred suddenly gave me a stern look and asked why I was going to be sure to keep the poles to my right.

  I thought for a moment and then said, “Because . . . because otherwise we’ll sink into the marsh.” Obviously.

  “You certainly will. Especially if you don’t pay better attention.”

  I stared at him blankly, but then I realized: “On my left! You said to keep them on my left.”

  Then he went through it all once more. And then after yet another tankard, one final time.

  The old man had fallen asleep now, but Eadred and I chatted for another while before I left. Eadred walked out with me, and after we’d both peed on a fence, he asked me to run through his instructions again. Which I did to his satisfaction. Then we parted ways.

  When Winston and I rode north on the king’s business last fall, it was on horses from Cnut’s stables. Once we reached Peterborough, no one knew exactly whose horses they were, so they spent the winter alongside Winston’s malevolent mule, Atheling, and Winston had paid the monastery for the care of all three.

  I fetched them in the morning as though it were the most natural thing in the world and saddled first my master’s gray mare, then my own red gelding, while Winston struggled to get all the parcels stowed and secured on Atheling’s back, a job encumbered by the annoyance the old nag felt at being forced to work.

  Alfilda saddled her own woolly mare, which had brought her north after she sold her tavern, made sure that her own clothes as well as her lover’s were cinched on behind the saddles, and then took up position. She smiled as she watched Winston, who was struggling, red-faced with anger, to keep his mule still so that the last small packages could be secured to its back.

  I fastened my own pack to the gelding’s saddle, made sure my sword sheath was nice and secure under the saddle’s left thigh roll, the hilt sticking out forward so that I could easily draw the weapon if necessary.

  Winston bade the abbot and prior farewell immediately after breakfast while I packed up my things. Knowing Winston, I presumed it hadn’t been a tearful good-bye since the monks were surely just as happy to see us go now that Winston’s work was done.

  “You could give me a hand,” Winston said with a scowl. He was now drenched in sweat after his struggles with Atheling.

  “I could.” I nodded. “But you know how well your damned animal and I get along. The second Atheling sees me, he chomps at my shoulder as though it were a tuft of hay.”

  Winston looked angry, but he didn’t say anything. On our various journeys together I had tried in vain to convince him that Atheling was a devilish beast that seized any opportunity to bite, kick, or butt me with his head. Winston would always respond that it was just me, that I didn’t know how to manage the animal properly.

  When he was finally done, he tightened the last cord and glanced from Alfilda to me.

  “We should probably be under way,” he said.

  I took up the lead, followed by Alfilda. We then slowly rode past the monastery while Winston tried to follow, leading Atheling by hand. I could tell from Winston’s cursing that that old hack of a mule was resisting the tug of the rope, so I turned around in my saddle to ask him if he needed help. Winston’s mare, eager to get going after the long winter, was circling the mule, which had sat down on its haunches. The lead between Winston’s hand and Atheling’s halter was taut.

  Alfilda turned her mare around before I even had a chance to ask. With a determined look on her face, she circled back around behind Winston and Atheling, pulled her mare up next to the seated mule and stopped. She pulled her feet out of her stirrups, leaned over to the right and gave the mule a swift and solid kick with enough strength that Atheling got up again
with a whiny bray.

  Alfilda kicked Atheling again, and the still-grumbling beast surged forward so quickly it passed Winston, who nearly dropped the lead in surprise. But at the last second, Winston dug his heels into his own mare and caught up to the mule in two strides. They passed me and my gelding before I got him going again.

  All in all, a memorable departure from the monastery.

  3

  It wasn’t hard to follow the instructions Eadred and his father had given me. The spring sun was shining, so it was a pleasant ride to the River Nene, although we were only able to move at a walk since the pavement had suffered in the many years since the Romans had built the road.

  We rested on a hillock that jutted up a couple feet above the marsh. Even this slight elevation was enough to give us a view over the vast, flat fens. Geese and ducks flew overhead and a yellowhammer sang annoyingly from a bush as the nags grazed and we shared a loaf of bread and some dry cheese from the monastery’s stores, and a nice cask of ale.

  After the meal we rested a bit more and then resumed our ride to the east. We did not see any travelers, save one—a solitary priest riding toward us on a hinny, his head lolling. He greeted us and, without any encouragement, shared that he was on his way from the cathedral in Elmham with a message for the abbey in Ramsey. It turned out he’d never ridden this way before, and he inquired anxiously about the condition of the road. Then he calmly proceeded toward Peterborough, where we had assured him he could find a guide who would take him the rest of the way through the marshland.

  Aside from him, we had the road to ourselves all the way to the river.

  There were no villages or farms out here in the flooded fens, so the rumble of ox-drawn wagons one otherwise encountered when traveling was absent. I learned from Winston, who knows this kind of thing, that the Romans had built this road to ensure their soldiers a quick march to engage the Iceni, who, led by their queen, were trying to throw off the Roman yoke. Since then the road had borne Saxons and Angles, and then Danish overlords, each tromping their way in turn through the countryside to attack Mercia’s eastern border.

  We reached the ford over the Nene later that evening and decided to cross before it got dark. We easily found the spot Eadred had described, but as we started into the river I realized that fords sometimes move, and I bitterly cursed the clergyman we had run into earlier for not describing the ford’s current position to us.

  Luckily I had ridden out first, and Winston’s mare hadn’t even gotten her pasterns wet before I turned my gelding around because water was pouring over his back. Alfilda’s horse wasn’t in over the knees yet and walked willingly back to the shore, where Alfilda and Winston waited as I rode up and down the river looking for a place to cross.

  I finally found it half an arrowshot farther north than the ford, and all three of us managed to cross before it was completely dark.

  We found a dry area a ways up the bluff and spread our blankets in the grass, but there were no trees or dry cow dung we could use as fuel, so we shared another loaf of bread along with some salted leg of lamb. As we ate, we huddled together under the various blankets we’d brought for the horses and ourselves.

  Winston thought I should go back across the river to move the cairn, but I refused. It was dark, and I didn’t think it would do any good since we couldn’t know when the ford would move again. Instead we agreed that we would make anyone we ran into the following evening at Danes’ Ford, or Dena Fær as it was known locally, aware of the crossing so that they could send word to Peterborough and have the cairn moved.

  The night passed without problems, aside from a rumbling I recognized as Winston’s snoring. I lay awake for a while struggling to block the sound from my ears with the blankets.

  When I grumpily asked Alfilda the next morning how she could sleep next to her thunder-breathing paramour, she grinned and showed me two small tufts of wool. She confided in a whisper that the last thing she always did before going to sleep was to stuff them in her ears.

  Although the paving stones were missing on this side of the river, we still made good time since the track was very clearly marked by poles, which I remembered to keep on my left. After a midday rest, the pavement started again, and now it was in even better shape than the first stretch, so we reached Danes’ Ford late in the afternoon.

  We came to a cluster of cottages surrounded by fish-drying racks, and flat-bottomed punts pulled up onto the grass. A fellow with a black beard and a gravelly voice met us and offered us shelter for the night, if we wanted. Otherwise he would take us across the River Ouse for a small sum.

  We accepted his offer of shelter. After a meal of smoked goose breast, salted eel, and sour rye bread, Winston and Alfilda found space in one of the cottages. I preferred to sleep out under the open sky to keep my ears on our animals—and as far away from Winston’s snoring as possible.

  In the morning, Black Beard led us across the river, and it wasn’t until I looked back from the bluff that I saw silhouettes around the huts, including a wench with her skirt tucked up, with whom I would have enjoyed becoming acquainted the night before. But I assumed villagers had learned from experience to keep everyone beside Black Beard away when there were travelers at the ford, and I was sure that the men had slept with their swords at the ready.

  On the third day, I remembered Eadred’s advice to ride single file, and I sent Alfilda and Winston on ahead with instructions to ride with half an arrowshot between them and to listen for my shouts from behind.

  Just as Eadred had said, the pavement sometimes disappeared from beneath our horses. Each time it did, I used my companions to form a line of sight. We made slower progress than on the previous days, but nonetheless we starting climbing out of the fens by late morning. We took our midday meal at the place where the Fen Causeway crossed the Icknield Way.

  We had left the fens behind us—looking back, we now had an unimpeded view of their vast expanse—and had reached the most important track leading south through the land of the North Folk, the rest of East Anglia, and into Mercia.

  There were more travelers now. Peddlers struggled along under the weight of their wares; merchants sat atop donkey tumbrels or wagons, which creaked along; now and again mounted soldiers came rushing out of nowhere and forced everyone to make way; and a few farmers drove their flocks toward the waiting market.

  After we wiped the lamb fat from our mouths, we saddled up again, and turned our animals southward, riding just off the road to bypass slow-moving travelers. By midafternoon we reached the sandy inland, which had loomed above us since we’d left the low-lying fens.

  We had to cross a small river here, too deep for us to ford unless we wanted to move a few miles to the west, so a freckled boy ferried us across instead. He studied the coin Winston placed in his hand for a long time and then spit on it before sliding it into the leather pouch that hung around his neck.

  When we asked whether there was any shelter before we reached Thetford, he only shrugged and then spit again, although this time into the river. It wasn’t until our horses had set their hooves on solid ground that he mumbled only fools traversed the heath in the dark.

  Luckily we found a little hamlet south of the river. Not much to look at, but big enough to contain three farms, two medium in size and one so large that its farmhouse was more of a small hall, a typical one-room dwelling with a hearth in the middle of the floor, whose residents would eat and sleep communally. It was surprisingly large given the size of the hamlet.

  Winston had been in front since we reached the Icknield Way, and he now led us to the hall. He left me holding both Atheling’s and his mare’s reins, pounded on the door with his fist to announce his arrival, and then ducked to enter.

  Alfilda slid down from her saddle, rubbing her lower back, but her eyes were trained on a kite soaring overhead and scanning for carrion.

  I suddenly noticed a pretty young woman emerging from a path between the farms. Her blonde braids hung over her breasts, which s
welled beneath the freshly laundered gray blouse. Her skirt and bare feet signaled she was a slave. She walked tall and looked me in the eye without averting her gaze.

  I waved to her and wanted to say hello, but she continued past me without a sideways glance, disappearing into the hall just as Winston came out.

  “We’re welcome to spend the night here,” he reported, holding his hand out to Alfilda, who took it and accompanied him back inside while I led our animals into a wickerwork paddock I had discovered kitty-corner behind the hall.

  I managed to get the saddles off and brought our things under the cover of a lean-to, all while successfully avoiding Atheling’s attempts to bite me. I thwacked him on the forehead to tell him to behave and led him into the paddock last. He immediately headed over to a frightened-looking filly, who told him with a well-aimed kick to stay over by the far fence.

  A fire roared upon the hearthstones in the middle of the one-room hall. Thick weavings hung on the walls, and the man my companions were talking to seemed self-confident and yet accommodating as Winston introduced us.

  “This is Arnulf, whose bread we have been invited to break,” Winston said.

  I could hear from his tone that we should treat the man with respect, so I bowed and gave his outstretched hand a firm squeeze.

  We were immediately invited to take a seat on the bench that ran along the wall. Arnulf sat down in a chair with no armrests but with a woven seat and backrest. Not just a high seat, I thought, as I gratefully accepted a tankard of ale from the slave girl. I winked at her, but she’d already turned her back to me, so I contented myself by draining half the tankard—no hardship considering the strongly malted, tasty drink.

  Winston and our host spoke quietly while I looked around the hall. I could make out several figures as my eyes adjusted. In the cooking area, the stout mistress was barking orders to three or four girls. A couple of boys sat on the floor nearby, carving spoons or wooden shoes—I couldn’t see which—and three slaves carried out a plank that they set on a couple of trestles in front of the hearth, close enough that the fire would still warm those who sat there, but far enough away that they wouldn’t roast.