Shropshire
Dust flew up around their faces. Ground which was once fertile moist mud had been turned to barren powder by the continued lack of rain. The thatch on the roofs was as dry as tinder and the air was depressingly devoid of the stench of animal dung. Alvar and Helmstan exchanged glances and Wulfgar spoke for them all.
“There will be no food to be had here. Much longer, and we will be eating our own horses.”
Alvar could only nod. Soon, they would no longer have the strength or resources to continue patrolling the land. It was unreasonable to expect even his own estates to continue to provide food and supplies for his entourage. The folk of this settlement had packed what little they had left and moved away. The door of the tiny wooden chapel hung open, occasionally clattering against the wall. There was naught but cold ash in the smith’s furnace, and baskets which should have been in the storage lofts lay empty, some upturned, on the ground. In the burial ground next to the chapel, numerous mounds of freshly dug and repacked earth spoke of the recent deaths. Alvar said, “Come. There is naught for us here. We’ll go on to…” Before apprising them of their destination, he stopped to listen. “Down by the river; shouting.”
They kicked their mounts into a gallop and hastened to the riverside. Once there, Alvar needed no time to assess the situation. A young monk, black habit enveloping his wasted frame, lay slumped against a tree trunk. The blood from the head wound that had killed him had stopped flowing, and a red trail stretched from his temple to his chin. The prize for which he had been slaughtered, a cow with bony haunches, stood nearby, pathetically scratching for grass on the parched earth. The source of the shouting was the two men, perhaps friends, perhaps not, who had seemingly set about the monk and were now fighting over the booty. Wulfgar leaped from his horse and grabbed one of the men, pulling him away from the other, and dragging him roughly to his feet.
The man turned to face Alvar, staring up from eyes sunken into his head. His cheekbones were sharp, foreshowing the skeleton he would eventually become. He retained an air of defiance. “He wants to kill it for its meat.”
The other combatant stood up, hand-saex still poised. “He wants it for milk. Hah! As if a starving beast can be milked. We will die of thirst ere he gets his way.”
Alvar could only concur. “Slaughter it and share the meat. When your bellies are full, make your way to Shrewsbury. Tell the reeve there that Lord Alvar sent you. Nowhere is thriving, but the towns are not as badly off. Maybe you will fare a little better there for a while.”
They did not look impressed with his advice, but he could do no more. Yet if he could not put this right, then who could? This was not what he’d been about when he embarked on his mission, nor was this situation good for England. He knew he was watching Edgar’s legacy slipping away. The laws and structures that Edgar put in place must be adhered to, otherwise it would all have been for nothing, and they would all have to admit that the success of the kingdom had rested on the one man. As soon as he could, Alvar would need to get back to the seat of Government and swallow his pride.
Cheshire
Káta stood by the table in the kitchen and stared at the bare rafters. Just twelve months before, she had met Hild in the lane. Káta had been to take some of the surplus cheeses to the folk who lived beyond the mill, and had also left them two flasks of milk. She smiled to recall Hild’s incredulity that the flasks had contained whole milk, rather than the leavings from the cheese-making. Káta had laughed then, assuring the other woman that the yield was abundant. Leofsige had feared for his head, with so many cheeses smoking above him in the kitchen, although it was true that his head was nearer to the roof than most.
Now even the tallest man in the land could walk round her kitchen without fear. This year, there was no spare cheese, and there would be precious little to put into the stores for the winter. They had turned the hunting dogs loose to fend for themselves, but one had returned last night, starving and diseased, and had not survived the night. It needed to be buried or burned, but Leofsige, one of the few men left on the estate, had gone out foraging in the woods for her, steadfast in his loyalty, and desirous to see her well fed. She had teased him before he left, telling him it felt odd to send a bear to catch a hare, but he had been determined, as cook, to find something for them to eat. And while he was gone, he said, she could watch the cauldron and add water as necessary to keep the stew bubbling nicely, and he would bring a bit of meat to add to it.
Trying to ignore the fact that the stew consisted, essentially, of the water, she ladled more in, and gave the huge pot a good stir. Despondent, she unlocked her spice box, thinking how nice it would be to add flavour to the meagre meal, but she knew even before she lifted the lid that she would find little inside which would enhance the taste. Shaking her head, she closed the box, wondering why hope had ever triumphed over knowledge. She reached out for her leech-worts, briefly entertaining the notion that some of her healing herbs also tasted pleasant. But the thought was banished as quickly as it arrived, for she would never forgive herself if she ate anything that might help an ailing villager. She was not that hungry, yet.
Since the herbs and potions were on the table in front of her, she reasoned that she might as well check them for freshness and potency. Spreading them out in front of her, she began her inventory. She had plenty of dried elderflowers, and there might still be some berries worth picking. The garlic bulbs were ready to be pulled; garlic was always a good standby for headaches and sore throats. There should still be some heartsease to harvest, and she could dry the whole plants to keep in her store. It was too late in the year to collect any more nettle because it needed to be picked before flowering, but the meadowsweet would still be in flower and the blossom was useful not just for flavouring ale, but for easing pains in the joints of the elderly. When the kitchen door opened, she called out to Leofsige that she might need to send him back out again. “I will need some more elderberries, some feverfew, comfrey, oh and marigold.”
“Would that be so that you can cast a spell with it?
Káta felt instantly cold, as if all the blood had drained from her body and out through her feet into the earth. Her heart began to knock loudly as if it, too, wanted to leave her body. She turned slowly, swallowing in an attempt to reintroduce saliva to her mouth. Standing in the doorway, the monk from Worcester was staring at her, his hands tucked into his sleeves. He exuded a sense of confident calmness which she was desperate to emulate. Lowering her chin slightly, she inhaled deeply and said, “You are always welcome at my house, Brother, although I must say I had not thought to see you again so soon.”
The monk stepped into the room and she saw that he had not travelled alone. Two henchmen were visible just beyond the doorway and the noise of horse tack rattling and the scuffing of hooves suggested that there were more men waiting in the yard.
The monk, whose name she did not know, moved nearer. “We were not able to finish our business last time. Our beloved Bishop Oswald is locked up and cannot leave the minster, but we can still do his work for him.” He raised his hand, preventing her speech. “And, before you ask, the lords Helmstan and Alvar are, as far as I can gather, busy over in the east, more days’ ride away than it will take us to get to London.”
Flexing her legs and trying to stop her knees from buckling, she said, “London?”
Panic created a loud noise in her head, making it difficult to hear his words. He explained something about taking her to trial, gave some reason for the location having to be London and she nodded but knew, even as she did so, that she had not listened properly. He repeated the charges against her. The crimes of brewing herbs and reciting curses to ward off nuisances such as wens were risible, given that every woman in every parish used such things in the absence of a Leech. They were no more than spoken orders that the wen would ‘Shrivel as coal on the fire, shrink as muck in the wall, and waste away like water in a pail and become smaller than a worm’s hipbone’. When he came to his las
t, though, she grew indignant.
“Well-worshipping? No, never. A simple rite carried out by the well; that was all. And it was so many years ago.”
He smiled. Had she not known the reason for his presence, she might have thought his expression benign. “You do not deny it?”
“Would it do me any good?”
“And what have you to say of the foul-smelling woman whom you brought to the house of another during childbirth, ensuring that the child was stillborn and could not be baptised?”
Outrage fuelled a burgeoning defiance. Káta lifted her head and said, “I say that without her, Hild would have died along with her child. The bairn was laid to rest in the eaves-drip, thus receiving water from the church roof and God’s blessing. I am a Christian woman, Brother. Folklore and heathenism are not the same thing. If you came out into the world from behind your prayer books more often, you would know this.”
The smile froze. “If, as you say, you are a Christian woman, then you will have naught to fear from ordeal.” He turned and took a step to one side, allowing the men to come into the room.
Her bravery evaporated. “You mean to shackle me?”
“No, lady. Not unless we need to.”
They would not let her ride, but made her walk between the horses. Not only did this make for a hot, uncomfortable and smelly journey, with dust and flies swirling around at her head height, but it also consigned any plans for escape to the realm of fantasy. Helmstan’s rank spoke for naught now, and she was being treated like a lowly churl. She took no exception to her loss of status, but it reinforced the awareness that there was no-one to swear an oath for her, no-one to speak on her behalf, no-one to come to her rescue. The path led them further and further from Ashleigh, from the place which had given her welcome and shelter for all these years. Every impulse urged her to struggle, resist, run back to the haven of her home. With every step forward, the ball of fear in her belly expanded so that waves of dread rose up into her chest and set her heart hammering.
They came to the Chester road, but they would not turn north. From this point, there would be naught that was familiar to her; the terrain of fields, forests, and hedges would be similar, but not known. Would she ever be allowed to come home?
The horses came to a halt and, above her, the men began to mutter. Peering from her restricted vantage point, she strained to see around the beasts and ascertain why they had stopped. Ahead, the path had been blocked at the entrance to the woods. Parched trees had been felled, no doubt with ease, and laid across the track. The barrier had been supplemented with twigs, lumps of earth, stones and a brown lump that looked as if it might be a dead dog. Káta put her hand up to her mouth. With the path blocked, they would have to find another way round, either through the woods, or back to Ashleigh to take the road south of Oakhurst. Had Leofsige organised this; was he lying in wait to effect an ambush? Hope flew back from its banishment and lodged with a tentative grip in her mind, lifting her spirits and calming her heartbeat.
Flanked by the two lead horses, she had no choice but to turn when they did. The rider of the black stallion to her left leaned over and said, “I do not know why you are smiling. If we cannot get you to London, then we will do it here.”
Káta could not look at him but stared at the ground, at a tiny patch of earth where four browned blades of grass stood proud of the dry, sand-like mud. The space between each blade was too vast, as if the earth were gradually balding. Káta continued to focus on the tiny area, while the icy shard of terror worked its chill all the way down her spine.
The rider of the black stallion called out to the monk. “We will have to find another way round. If not…”
If not, then what? Had he made a gesture, bringing his finger across his throat? Káta tried to swallow, but her mouth felt as if she had used her tongue to sweep the hall floor.
The monk urged his horse forward; she heard the hooves moving and his voice became louder, nearer. “My lord is the archbishop of York and the bishop of Worcester. He bade me bring this woman to trial, no more or less than that. Let us see what lies beyond that grove.”
Káta kept her head bowed, but glanced up. To the west of the blocked pathway through the woods was a small cluster of trees that stood slightly apart from the rest. Beyond them lay the road to Oakhurst. Inhaling deeply in a bid to still the noise from her pounding heart, she wondered if, that way, also lay her rescue. Shuffling slowly between the two great beasts she found that her fear was punctuated by the most prosaic thoughts, beginning with the awareness that, up close, horses stank. Then she wondered idly who would watch the stew pot, and how long it would take before the untended cooking fire caught hold and sent the kitchen up in flames. When Gytha returned from visiting family in Northampton, would she find Ashleigh razed to the ground? Lost thus in a diversionary reverie, she was slow to the realisation that the henchman on the stallion had stopped to dismount. He came round between the horses and grabbed her forearm, pulling her out into the relatively fresh air. She breathed deeply, ridiculously pleased to be away from the smelly flanks. But the man’s face told her all she needed to know about his plan. The monk might be intent on sticking fast to the exact specification of Oswald’s orders, but this man was clearly a little more enthusiastic about the remit. Bored by the delay, he no doubt sought to salvage some fun from the day. He stretched his mouth into a horrible line, part smile, part grimace, and marched over to the nearest tree, striding so forcefully that she had to scrabble into a run to keep from stumbling.
The monk began to shout. “I will not be part of this. Further, I will not answer for it. This is not what was asked of us.”
But though the monk would not be part of it, it was clear that he would expend no effort to help her either. Horribly fixed in the present, with no thoughts of domestic detail to distract her, Káta was despondently aware of the sound of the rest of the escort galloping away, and she knew that this was the point at which her life would end, here against this oak tree, and that this man’s contorted face, etched with pleasure and hatred, would be the last she would see.
He reached the tree, turned on his heel and threw her round, so that her back smashed against the trunk. He held one hand across her throat whilst he fumbled at his belt for something. Káta closed her eyes. Either he was intent on raping her first, or he was reaching for his hand-saex. Whichever it was, she had no wish to see.
She heard something odd, thundering, but not hooves. Her assailant uttered an odd grunt of a sound and jerked forward, pressing his weight against her. She opened her eyes and was aware of a flash of something black and long. Widening her eyes, she saw the light brown bumps along its shaft, where the spikes of Hild’s blackthorn stick had long ago been cut off and smoothed. Hild raised the knobbly stick high, brought it down in a wide arc and struck again, this time with so much force that the man slipped away sideways and fell to the ground. Before Káta could think about wriggling free, she heard a high-pitched song and saw a glint of something shiny, and then she looked down to see Leofsige’s cleaver embedded in her attacker’s back. Now her mind began to dwell again on stupid details that came flooding back into her thoughts, and she stared, wondering why there was no blood oozing from the sides of the blade.
Hild stepped forward and gathered Káta into her arms. Sobbing, she repeated, “My lady, oh my lady, my lady,” and Káta, still focusing on the mundane, thought it peculiar that her own eyes remained dry.
Leofsige put his huge foot on the corpse and tugged the meat cleaver free.
The blood began to ooze. It did not pump, as it would from a living body, but spilled its all in a steady flow, much as an upturned jug would empty its contents and then stop. Káta watched it for a while and then shook her head. “What must you think of me, that I did not thank you straight away for my life. Dear friends, how can I ever repay you?”
Leofsige continued to wipe the blood-sticky blade with the edge of his tunic. Without looking up, he said, “We love you, Lady, and would
die for you. Now, word must be sent to Lord Helmstan.”
It was as if she suddenly thawed. The freezing fear had been banished and now came the fire of anger. “No! He must never be told. If he knows, he will come home and the lord Alvar will come too. I will not be used as bait to turn them from their course.” She could not even begin to contemplate which of them would be the most angry. She must endure in silence, because she knew how much Alvar had already given up and she would not suffer to see him lose any more, not on her account. Furthermore, he would feel guilty if he knew that his duty had taken Helmstan away from her at such a time; the man seemed to take responsibility for the wellbeing of the whole world. She did not want that on her conscience, she who was not his wife and all the more dangerous to him because of it. And how would it all be explained to Helmstan? She would die before she caused him any pain, or one second of doubting her love. “Never tell them, never. Do you understand me?”
Hild’s arms were upon hers and the woman was making shushing noises as if soothing a teething child. Káta paused for breath and only then did she feel the tears running down her cheeks, the snot in her nose, and the scratchy feeling at the back of her throat that indicated how loudly she had been shouting. She sank to her knees, still supported by Hild who knelt with her, and she rocked back and forth, permitting the tears to flow. “They must not know, they must not know.”
East Anglia
The wind was incessant and Alvar was growing tired of the endless need to flick his hair away from his eyes and mouth. Crouched beneath his blanket, he looked out across the boggy, featureless landscape and grunted. “I wish I could stop the wind with my shield and push it back whence it came.”
“The folk here call it an idle wind, that does not bend but goes right through.” Wulfgar smiled his crooked smile and hitched his blanket up tighter round his shoulders. Nodding at the sodden coverlet he said, “This wool has been my wind-shield since we got here and it is soaked through. Are you sure you want this land back? You have only to say the word and I will turn this whole fyrd about, and we can be back in my dale by nightfall.” He rubbed his back.
Alvar the Kingmaker Page 30