Book 2

Here begin the wanderings of St. Cuthwin commencing during the troubled co-reigns of Kings Harold Harefoot and Harthacnut;¹⁹ the many counties he traversed and the extraordinary people and places visited, including many God-ordained occasions related here. Lastly, the taking and mastery of his trade which was to sustain him.

 

We ventured away from the sea hence all places we both knew. Our escape took us west up the Great River Ouse. We traveled like muskrats limiting our movements to early morning and late evening. I was sure of pursuit. Cwenburh fought against these precautions and we argued. She would have proceeded without nearly the caution, for after going west twenty leagues or so, she was confident we were beyond the reach of Marvis-of-Tilton or her housecarls and of any potential for pursuit from Peterborough.

“Look at the River, and how it has narrowed.”

And she marveled at these changes. For Cwenburh had never traveled any distance at all in her sixteen years, save her and her mother’s recent retreat to Marvis-of-Tilton at Lynn Regis.

Instead of occupying ourselves with the God-given bounty youthful couples enjoyed since Adam and Eve, we wasted time arguing.

Fortunately, our flight occurred during the bounty of late spring. Further I had skills and experience to make advantage of the season, having a skilled teacher in wildcraft and gleaning such as Frog. I was more knowledgeable of worldly matters, having witnessed powerful men wield authority over matters of coin and property.

Even in those early days, my way was to take on issues slyly, with craft rather than more sprightly methods. Also, my background at Peterborough Abbey, and not least my own personal feelings of God’s Word and teachings of our Holy Savior, meant I observed the Commandments always.

But I learned that Cwenburh, especially with our child each day growing, had no more scruple-of-Commandment than an auburn-muzzled vixen. This meant theft came as natural to her as it did a jackdaw, and this visited troubles between us.

“If up to you and your Commandments, Cuthwin, you’ll christen two corpses by Christmas.”

And at this point I discovered the woman carrying our child was without benefit of our Savior’s Holy Waters. She was as heathen as the Dane of legend who plagued our land for foulness and gain.

I fell into a terrible sadness knowing—without her explaining as much—why this would be. This was the doing of her wretched father, that miser Wilfred-of-Loe. His rat-like reasoning was easily seen.

To begin with, Cwenburh’s malformed feature would be proof positive of a demon’s presence, or punishment for unholy conduct by one or both parents. No one would think Gytha-of-Loe would be the guilty one. If there was sin, all knew Wilfred could supply ample quantity.

Also, he found duel benefit in keeping Cwenburh on croft. It would save Baptism fees and keep him free of possible suspect from monastery clerics—meaning Father Abbot and Prior Denewulf, his disdained landlords.

Yet he knew the deformation of poor Cwenburh’s mouth would eventually harm his purse: Any merchet for her would be tiny. But now, with this development, he was greedy for it. With the benefice of our youthful pairing, he feigned outrage to dip deep into the Abbey coffers, for I was their ward and responsibility.

Despite all our arguments, we never brought up this disfigurement, though I knew—despite her strong spirit—it struck her deep. Now this lack of Holy Water made her already difficult path even more troubled.

During a peaceful time between us, which enjoyed increase, in the cover of early summer rushes and flowering thickets along the Great River Ouse, I told her of my fears: “Cwenburh, we must get you Christened by the Holy Waters—it is ordained by God. I worry for both your souls.”

“And how shall we do that, and keep low as thieves?”

“We must find out if we are pursued. And to do this, like the fox, we must double back and wait—to see if anyone appears.”

By now, I reckoned we’d traveled forty leagues upriver, and I was beginning to agree with Cwenburh that pursuit might have ceased. If so we had vital matters that would be easier to attend.

With a decision to find the truth, we retraced our path downriver a league or two, made hidden camp on high ground—with oversight of the main routes coming upriver on either bank.

Along the opposing side of the Great Ouse was the road bedded and marked with giant rocks, which Cwenburh claimed was the work of gnomes or dwarfs, or even ogres. However long ago its origins, God meant it to benefit all travelers, including those with carts.

I avoided this byway, instead traversing the opposite bank, following narrower paths and wends. But thanks be to God as events developed, I chose to ford back over and make watch by this old road.

I took opportunity of time to fashion and set out better traps. I selected a great chestnut tree and designed an aerie atop. From this I was able to see leagues in all directions, the best view being downriver.

We at once argued about Cwenburh joining me aloft, me absolutely banning such, for she was now mounded in girth. But I no longer would wrestle her to make my point. Such struggles often ended in sport, and the issue or whim of the moment would be forgotten. But her situation had changed.

Cwenburh remained strong as a she-badger losing none of her strength; yet I feared jostling our child within. Cwenburh, true to her nature, once forbidden only prodded her on more. Hence, she was soon perched beside me in the tree’s top, and in truth we enjoyed it there.

The view from such lofty point during the early beauty of summer bore witness to the sweetness of God’s natural gifts. All the great birds from the south were there making commotion along the river marshes and lands.

Their colors, as they flew across the green and bounty of the land, were a greatness to our young lives. All the creatures of air and croft thrived in this weather. No matter how much age has overtaken me, I can never cease marveling at God’s unfathomable mystery giving mankind such richness, then allowing the meanness and cruelty of winter to follow, doing this every year.

By late in the third day, Cwenburh had grown bored in our platform aloft and was attending breakfast below when I saw the two men at far distance making their way up the Great Ouse.

There were two housecarls mounted and begun as mere specks. At first I allowed they could be traveling upriver for many purposes—for in fact, they weren’t the first travelers we had seen on our watch.

But these two wended their way upriver on the bank opposite of the road where the travelers usually traversed—on the bank we had originally taken. And as they grew close enough to see detail, I saw they followed our former path almost precise. When closer yet, I saw what made my marrow chill: Before them, nosing along slowly but with keen purpose, was a great meat hound.

It still being early, the housecarls—if such they were—half dozed astride, keeping an eye on the hound’s progress. The beast’s reddish color and large size caught the eye even more than the housecarls’ mounts. I tossed a branch below, signaling alarm. Fast as a hen-grouse, Cwenburh folded up all, ready to fly. She was next to me in moments—having equaled me in ability to scramble upwards through the stout limbs of the chestnut.

The lush-leafed tree offered complete cover at this awful moment, plus we had the Great Ouse between us and them. Neither of us spoke as they came upriver; moreover, this closing distance enabled me to see their poor livery, still poorer mounts, and the overall appearance of want.

These were not housecarls, but cotsets or coilberts—landless freedmen who lived by their wits, involved in any business for gain. Their wealth was tied up in even those poor mounts, and certainly that meat hound—if indeed they had come by any of those honestly.

I often heard of such men over the years. These were rootless from any soke or manor, and pursued souls free or otherwise who fled owing money and had significant value attached. This made it worthwhile for an Abbot or Prior, or indeed a Lord or his subtenant—to put a price sufficient to make lengthy pursuit of potential value.

Such vultures were called coinmen in our dialect and were held in lowest esteem. But I never heard of coinmen with a fine dog like this, a hound invariably in the keep of great men finely liveried.

“They stole that hound, certainly.”

Cwenburh guessed what I had, but as they came abreast on the opposite bank, we looked over and down at them as they paused at the river’s edge. They were now half a furlong distant.

One made water from atop his mount, causing us a bit of mirth, while the second talked on, but we could not quite hear what language.

The hound flopped down at the once, his great hide rolling about him as he sought comfort. Prominent above all was his large moist, black nose—it thrust out before all.

When they resumed, the hound did not rise, and when they shouted at it, both of us recognized the out a Norman tongue at once. The creature responded, but with hesitancy, until one brought a morsel from his pack. He was stopped by his fellow who instead snatched it away, ate it himself, and cursed the hound.

These were surely the worst sorts of Norman curses, and when they made to use a knotted strap to prosecute their order, the hound slunk off and resumed, or appeared to, for indeed he went off askance.

This was an alliance that did not sit well with the hound.

They would proceed, I knew, upriver about four leagues, until they came across the trail when we crossed over to this bank. Then they would know our ploy and set out faster, without doubt. Also, they would have guessed—if they had wit enough—that we had seen them pass us and knew they used a hound.

So, with their slow progress and the hound’s uncertain application, we had time to decide a reaction to this grim news. With such a hound, these two might pursue us for weeks more, an unexpected situation.

“How much value did they put on me to pursue so?” I asked myself.

It was bitter explaining to Cwenburh the diverse price of poor souls such as we. It was worse for serfs both afoot and unborn—and how a hefty sum of money resulted in this effort. Best to avoid figures.

“There is the both of us, Cwenburh, no telling how much remained on my debt at Peterborough, save it was considerable. So there it is.”

Reward for us loomed. With all the game and fish we consumed, it could be more. No matter how small or inconsequential—these were the property of the tenant or undertenant of whatever lands and waters we passed. At the best, we were just common freebooters, stealing rightful property.

By now on our journey, I had completed fashioning a fine limb of elm into a sleek cudgel—great enough weight and design to have stunned an ox, but light enough to wield smartly. Extending her hand onto it, Cwenburh, now in a temper, suggested an act that, even to this day, astounds me in reflecting on womankind.

“Then since they don’t know we follow yet, we shall lay in wait until the swine are abed, then knock their brain pans loose, and be done with it. It is us and our child, or them, Cuthwin.”

“Jesus our Savior! Then you would have us be murderers as well!”

I added, as I ought, that by committing such a sacrilege against God, how might we ever take Holy Sacrament of Baptism or Marriage. If she thought I would commit such a sacrilege against God, what sort of woman had I fallen in with? And we fell into our worse squall, soon followed by a sulk.

The seriousness, however, was no longer the stuff of young people arguing, but life and death or at least freedom and serfdom. I found steadying resource in necessity, doing what I might to cool Cwenburh, for I knew the plan we must follow to keep our immortal souls. To bring peace I aired it at once.

“You are right. They don’t know we follow for the time. And if we can, we will steal that hound; if we cannot, we will kill it. For without it, the men are useless. And a hound, even a fine one, is not a person before God. And to steal something that is stolen, the Lord and His Son will forgive.”

At this, Cwenburh gave me the strangest look, held for a moment, then broke off while we descended, and I began packing the last of our few things. This complete, she looked at me as someone pondering a riddle. Then, as if satisfying herself to some inner answer, she nodded and we moved on. Cautiously, we retraced our tracks upriver.

In previous days and weeks, we gave habitation wide berth. These coinmen did not, but instead were partial to company and ale; hence, they halted at a mill we had avoided days before. Yet before going in, they tethered the hound distant, gave it a bare bone, and crossed the river paying visit to the mill without it.

By now our eyes were locked on the hound, and Cwenburh most of all, for she pitied the creature’s lot.

“They well know anyone would realize they stole it, so the sly wretches keep it out of sight.”

This far upriver in early summer, the Great Ouse ran low and narrow. It was a ribbon of water—an annoying barrier between them and the hound.

And us. I regretted that aspect.

“Ah! We should have crossed.”

But Cwenburh did not further my own criticism, but watched the two wretches barter with the mill workers, this time in our language. She—mink that she was—lay close to my ear and said, “You are a keen one, Cuthwin. Be patient. I know, if it weren’t for the river, you would charge forth and smash that poor hound’s head with your mighty cudgel.”

And seeing our two tormentors dismounted to take a repast and exchange fellowship with the mill workers—notoriously lonely souls—Cwenburh lay over on her back. She placed her tiny hand atop her swollen belly and smiled, for her mood changed. I was learning her mind better each day and in truth she mine.

I was angry at once.

“So, you tease me to be unable to kill a hound, yet advise me to kill the men. You are surely one of God’s unending mysteries.”

Without adding argument to opportunity already wasted, we picked up, held our things high, waded across out of view of the mill. Now we were on the same side of the river as the hound.

Then, God forbid, it set up an awful howl; its mighty hound’s voice could be heard for furlongs. In a bolt of despair, I realized that with the river crossing, the light summer wind was now at our backs, carrying our scent towards the beast.

It was, I might have known, nothing else but scent driven, and especially our scent.

“Oh Jesus, Cuthwin, it’s taken scent of us.”

That hound was audible out to creation, and I knew at the once the blunder I’d made, and that I must rush forward and stop it, for our freedom was on the verge of ceasing. The hound must perish; there was no holding back now.

Pushing Cwenburh into cover, I sprinted with my cudgel through the dense thickets and brambles, arriving too late at the edge of the clearing proximate to where our pursuers crossed over to the mill. One of them had forded back and was confronting the hound.

I was within a half-courtyard of them, and the beast jumped at his lanyard; but instead of wanting free on scent, he begged for a hunk of marrowbone held aloft by the cruel bastard.

He laughed at it, spoke in Norman—teasing it by tasting the meat himself, waving it in the air—the hound’s great eyes following every hair’s width the bone traveled in mid-air.

Then in our language, “Here, the fat oaf of a mill worker took kindness—and such a lazy bitch as yourself.”

And she fell on it before it struck ground. When the coinman turned to wade back over, I saw he was already in his cups, for he half fell—emitted a curse—recovered and went on.

“Oh, dear me, Cuthwin! The poor creature is a bitch. Look at the wretched animal!”

Typically, Cwenburh had not stayed safe. Her words reflected a croft person’s horror at seeing any fine animal so maltreated, especially a female who had a life of birth ahead. And indeed I had never seen such a fine-blooded hound, nor one in such horrendous condition, a victim, clearly, of heavy cruelty.

Since the coinman was no longer in view, and without a thought or word, Cwenburh emerged and strode over as boldly as if it were a pup rather than a stout-boned hound a stone or two heavier than she.

“God forbid! Use caution, Cwenburh! It has meat.”

And the bitch did growl—she would never yield this rare treasure—her eyes menaced, but only for a moment. For in the way of God’s creatures, it sensed at once Cwenburh meant no harm. Though keeping an eye on her, it resumed its meal.

Following with our carryings, I stooped next to Cwenburh and took assessment. Vermin crawled over it, and her hide and fur were spoilt in many places, and in a few she had chewed or licked her sores even rawer. She was kept not far from starvation, and every one of her ribs and back joints poked out.

One eye was badly sore, and surely was of no use for some time. Yet she was a great reddish hound with ears the size I had not seen, and a great muzzle and a vast, black nose—both which bespoke a keenness of scent unmatchable.

Her legs and feet were as stout as a pony, and the teeth that worked the joint were fine and white, and I guessed this was a young bitch—possibly had never whelped—for her dugs remained tiny.

We’d been privileged to spend almost three days in one place, and, with better traps, instead of snaring scrawny hares, we had caught robust rabbits. Once skinned, they dripped with fat. In a night, I would snare two or three. By this time, we carried nearly four heavy quarters in sack, for despite eating to our youthful content, we cooked surplus.

Of one mind, I handed Cwenburh the sack with victuals, including a dozen duck eggs wrapped in cool bank moss and eel grass. She took out a forequarter of rabbit and held it out.

The bitch caught sight of that fat forequarter as one might a holy relic, and stood—straining against the line that held her to post.

On youthful impulse, I simply untied it and we moved quickly upriver, it following—not forgetting its joint.

And so it was that we came in temporary care of a fine hound, although one in great need of medicines.

Behind us, the vile coinmen capered at board and cup with the millmen, and at the moment thought of little else.

By the following morning, we were at least a dozen leagues up river. We had, with good sense, moved quickly—even using a sliver of a waning moon to thread our way along through half the night.

By late morning Cwenburh and ‘Hilla,’ so Herself named it, were as thick as sisters. She began tending to the poor animal’s wounds at once. Taught well at such skills by Gytha-of-Loe, Cwenburh was knowledgeable in the ways of wild-crafting. She fashioned elixirs and potions from woody leaf and stem, this being the best season for it. By midday, Cwenburh claimed Hilla to be ours forever, fool-at-heart that she was.

I reminded her of the truth about our dubious standing.

“Cwenburh, I saw last summer on Peter and Paul’s Fair at Peterborough Market a finely bred bitch not half Hilla’s noble blood fetch four shilling—paid by a rich thane, tenant to Father Abbot. If a Lord or histhane finds poor folk like us, especially wanderers, in possession of such as Hilla, his men would hang me and enserf you for theft without pause. To grand men we are nothing. A fine bitch, however, is a vital part of sport and chase enjoyed by those who need not toil or spend hours in prayer, but serve in arms to Lord or King.” I refrained from adding how I also saw female and male serfs in wretched flesh brought from far north in chains who sold for less than a fine hound. This sad business, though approved by the King, was forbidden by Father Abbot; yet such evil business persisted outside the walls.

“Why is it that great Lords get their way with beast and soul under the approving gaze of God, Cuthwin?”

She was sad, and talked of tending Hilla—it had been weeks since she and her mother Gytha fled from Wilfred-of-Loe’s lands, and I knew she missed her duties. At Loe these extended to care for all creatures of croft. Cwenburh’s gentle and compassionate nature, despite her cutting use of word and action, knew only affection for animals over her nearly seventeen years.

The miserable Wilfred-of-Loe rarely allowed her to fair or market, nor allowed her to village church, save at Gytha’s insistence on Holy Days. How could Cwenburh know of such as Hilla or grand but ruthless men who put higher worth on sword than they did woman or man born to commonality?

“It is not our place to question if God approves or disapproves of things mortal. Nor might we question the place of his great men, Cwenburh. At Peterborough you could have been whipped for such question.”

She puckered her lips, offered a bit of squint with her mischievous eyes, and tended, “Shit on Peterborough Abbey and your great men.”

And at that—proving again herself incurably blasphemous and plain of speech—we both set to laughter. This prompted great tail-flopping from the hound, who had clearly been long gone from good will or laughter.

Our retreat west had dual purpose, for now there was Hilla’s presence to deal with. Wit must be used.

Climbing aloft an occasional great tree to set direction, we left the river Ouse at a smaller water course. We resolved (at risk of false pride, it was at my initial insistence) that we turn over the hound at Abbey or Priory. These holy places were independent by royal charter from Lord, thane—or any townspeople or tenant; also any King’s Sheriff, Undersheriff, or any hundred owing to them. There the Abbot or Prior held sole justice. Through their high office, each ruled and decided on matters of manor a demesne, and able to give sanctuary.

Unlike the untamable Cwenburh, I had my years at a renowned monastery as Peterborough to expose me to diverse talk about brother and sister houses. This talk included those owing allegiance to our Lord Abbot, but also to other abbots and priors of different charter.

And some of these great men were good and others not so good, and frequently, as kind Gilbert would say in his thoughtful way, “Some are bad of soul and dishonest in deed.” And for him, that was the start and end of talk about such holy offices.

I told Cwenburh it would be dimwitted to stride into an unknown holy place leading such a fine creature as Hilla. It would be equally unwise doing same in a village or town church where almost certainly the priest would be relative or owing benefice to the Lord or Manor born, not unusually a higher churchman.

The only sanctuary granted at a town church was through one’s ample wallet or purse.

And we were united in purpose as we continued traveling upstream along this small running creek until it coursed proximate to a walled village.

I then put a plan into order: While she and Hilla kept under cover outside the walls, I would go in and seek word about a nearby Abbey or Priory with honest reputation.

Weeks before, we established our story in event we encountered people: I was a young liveryman traveling west to Hereford to my eldest brother’s stables where I was to start my tradesman’s life.

I had the rudimentary tools with me, the knowledge if asked to show skill, and the wit to keep to that story without contradiction—as did Cwenburh, who was my young wife with child.

And my story would continue that we were from King’s Lynn where I had served my time with an uncle. Cwenburh knew enough about that town to seem genuine.

But when it was time to leave and announce myself outside the walls, Cwenburh’s resolve became weak.

“Why don’t I tie up Hilla, leave her with good bone, and go in with you. Then, before their own eyes, your story is whole. For it is mostly truth.”

Her eyes were sad and fearful. She knew that Hilla would not enjoy solitude—bone or no bone—and her great baying and howling would be heard back to The Wash.

I sat and made fireless breakfast with her, for that day no one came outside the walls. We had timed this plan to take place on the Sabbath. These were days when travelers most commonly came into walled village to attend church service and refresh their wallets.

We had been together without break for a month. Though often at contention—for we dealt with grave troubles and responsibility growing within her—the tether holding us together grew surer and stronger with each day.

Indeed, God keep us, it would always remain so—and it was those first anguished weeks in flight that wove us together forever.

We ate cold hindquarter of rabbit while Hilla enjoyed both forequarters in a wink. Then, taking prayer together, Cwenburh gave me her blessing and I set off for the walls.

I was young, knowledgeable of more than one craft, had coin and cudgel—certainly a purpose, and had much waiting for me outside the walls. Though never of great brawn, I had my wits and remained vigilant as a rook for anything amiss.

The village was one Wixamtree, and like most villages had walls of wood and stonecraft. But these had been peaceful times free from the hosts for many years. Oldsters remembered violent times, however, and somberly reminded those who now allowed gates to remain open.

Inside, I at once sought the liveryman. This was a traveler’s customary act—a stranger wandering would properly seek a man of like trade. And this custom served well.

His name has left me now these many decades later, but he was a great, thoughtful Saxon who welcomed me and admired some little work I carried. After midday repast, he thought towards my question.

“I would approach Elstow Abbey with unfearful heart, for the Prior is fair, if rough in his ways with the common sort. But, God help him, he is same with those of finer cloth.”

He further informed that the Abbot of Elstow had long ago turned fish-minded because of advancing age. Therefore, by practicality, the Prior functioned in that office for several years.

At evening I returned to Cwenburh with new potables and story, and our reunion was joyful. By this time, love and care resulted in allowing Hilla’s appetite to return. Both of us wished elves would turn her into horse or ox; then she could satisfy herself with grass and browse.

But God in his wisdom made her a great hound—so great, that when she lay over on either of us for a good ear-and-paunch rub, we came close to being crushed. I made humor about her—for she made remarkable time in vanquishing a rabbit—a tidbit to her.

The Abbey of Elstow was within a few leagues of Wixamtree and we reached it within a day but hesitated to make entry. On an elevated hill thick with cover, we allowed two days to pass, watching.

“Once they see us and Hilla, Cuthwin, the cat is freed from the sack.”

Being near to diverse croft and hideage, the area was fertile and well-peopled. My snaring—even of small creatures—was not as fruitful and at more risk.

For a poor person, even this simple gleaning for victual was theft. For ones seeking solution and sanctuary, theft was the worst sort of introduction of character.

Yet Hilla kept us poor-of-food, for she would eat every scrap offered, and beg with pitiless skill for more.

“Cuthwin, I see why only rich people have such blooded creatures as Hilla. She could devour an ox in a week, simple beast that she is.”

So, bracing ourselves, making Hilla fast between us with strong tether, we entered the Abbey at Elstow at midweek just before Sext, giving us time to escape if the worm turned sour.

With these long summer days, we could make a half dozen leagues by dark. And to make sure of our escape, I readied my cudgel—for freedom had become powerful nectar to me, and would remain so, and to Cwenburh, no less. We discussed that morning how best to continue.

“If we needs run, I had better not be shod. Running with these is poorly done.” She tidied up her kirtle, took out her headrail and both our turnshoes from bundle fretting how she might appear to strangers. But in addition to garb, I knew her flaw-of-nature was foremost in mind, as it was to me. I feared the unlucky presence of demon-fearing zealots, who possess little sense and less heart.

Her point of being shod or unshod was practical and keen.

In truth, Cwenburh was not much tamer than a hind, and when running—even great with child—she remained barefooted, like I.

Elstow’s outer barrier had evolved into a tangle of thatch and brush, some now even taken root and growing. Two poor travelers such as we lacked a calling horn to announce our approach, so upon entry we were looked over with caution, until they saw Hilla. Her appearance and standing was such that their curiosity replaced all else, and all marveled at such a beast.

I sought out the liveryman, a compact Saxon, gnarled from heavy work. Welcoming us to his shop, I saw some of his fine crafting, and he was surely near equal to Gilbert. He examined my meager work, and from our discussions and my knowledge, knew me to be as I said.

He made us welcome—chased off children and such from marveling at Hilla. I told him about passing through Wixamtree, and he knew well this fellow tradesman.

Soon, he had sent off for a Brother within cloister.

“I do all their tackle work for animals, as they are a modest monastery and have no full-time liveryman within.”

Soon the Abbey Subcellarer arrived with a young oblate—this official was a Norman named Paul, who was a happy fellow, and stood flat admiring Hilla. His Saxon was clear, having surely been in country for many years.

“In our Savior’s Grace and Mysteries, how did you come by such a grand animal?”

And, as I do when slyness and truth are needed, I stuck as much to the latter as possible, omitting our origins. He would, I hoped, accept without question this explanation.

And he did, asking nothing further beyond the story of how we came across Hilla and the coinman at the mill.

The Subcellarer sent the oblate back into cloister, and sat at repast provided by the wife of the liveryman. His position—as with any Cellarer of Monastery—called for daily commerce beyond the confines of cloister, an exception to The Rule.

And indeed, this tonsured officer took joy in this society. He and the liveryman opined about Hilla while Cwenburh and I sat next to this hound, both of us feeling relieved at benign developments.

When the Cellarer himself arrived with the same oblate, the tone took a business-like direction. He was a tall, straight-spined Brother named Loef—a Welshman whose Saxon was bent and awkward, as Welshman will do with it. He declined repast—or even a seat—and indeed the Subcellarer stood as well, folding his hands and arms before him, assuming a somber air. The Cellarer regarded Hilla from head to tail, and decided, “I must consult Prior; he will want to know of this.”

They made the mistake of trying to escort Hilla off, but she would not go, instead whining and pulling away—seeking out Cwenburh’s flank. Finally, the Subcellarer suggested, “This great animal regards highly this young wife, Brother Loef, Praise God’s wisdom to send such a kind soul to rescue it.”

The Cellarer nodded a sour sort of agreement, and he and his oblate left, and the Subcellarer gladly returned to his repast of beer and talk with the liveryman. Two urchins, grandchildren of the Liveryman, were invited by Cwenburh to stroke Hilla, for the hound appreciated admiration almost equal to food.

Villagers were leaving confines of the crofts for the fields, for it was haying time and work was underway in earnest. I took it as trust we were left alone outside the liveryman’s shop under an outer roof to wait events.

The heat of the day was coming on, and shade and open air was a kindness. Passing by us with tackle over shoulder, the liveryman looked back, smiling, “Brother Paul is discussing the best manner of ridding flour of weevils with my wife, and both can so talk for hours,” but then he glanced towards the monastery walls and added, “Father Prior is often not well in the morning. But he is a fair Brother.”

And left us wondering what affliction gripped Prior on a morning so warm and fair. What the liveryman forewarned was accurate, for we in fact dozed alternately through the morning. It was approaching Sext when Prior Everux arrived with the Cellarer and a single Whipman, without whip, and two young oblates following.

The Subcellarer left table, and attended—both he and the Cellarer standing at each of Prior’s elbow. The wife came in behind Prior with stool, and he sat, sighing with relief as his great stature was so relieved, for he was a towering man.

And I saw at once Prior was suffering from the identical morning affliction I observed so many times years before at Ordgar’s. When he and his eelmen had exceeded modesty in imbibing ale and boisterous society the previous evening, events of the new day were grim and slow to commence.

Prior’s eyes were bleary, his jowls weighted, and he turned away a hot herbal brew with a weak toss of hand. He looked, I feared, resentfully, at us, then at Hilla. He marked Hilla with as keen a look as possible, considering his temporary lapse in health. Under those afflicted brows were not eyes of an eelman.

We all waited for Prior to renew questioning, but he maintained silence. In turn nobody spoke, understanding the great man’s present desire for silence. On the road passing from the village, cart noises and people taking repast out to field marked the passing of midday.

Then of a sudden, a very old Brother hobbled in, helped by a heavy staff—further aided by an oblate. For a moment, I thought the ailing Father Abbot had risen from his sick bed. But this was an ordinary Brother, also a Norman. After Prior motioned to Hilla, the ancient withdrew a step marveling at the beast. He made the sign and all present took note with respectful nods. I saw at once this Brother was particularly venerated.

He bent a little to Hilla; he was very short, and spoke soft Norman to her, as if asking her permission. Then, taking her massive right ear, turned it outwards, and looking up at Prior indicated deep inside the ear, an inked mark—a holy mark it surely was.

Prior closed his eyes momentarily, then stood at once, and speaking a bit of the Rome language, bade the elder to sit in his stead—almost pushing him down over his objections.

Finally, when Prior spoke, he revealed a Norman heritage, and to guess, I would put him not long in this country.

“Do you swear before Jesus Christ Our Savior that the story of how you came by this animal is true? Be careful, boy. This hound is a Chien de Saint-Hubert, its breeding is from the Great Abbey of St. Hubert in France. It is property of Father Abbot there—a most powerful kindly man of God. She has surely been stolen—which is blasphemy.”

“Yes, Brother Prior, it is as I have said. At the mill with such men as we saw. And, in truth, your Reverence, this animal would have perished without the expert care of my wife.”

“Do not show pride in extending plain Christian charity!”

“I cannot see why not; we could have been murdered, your Holiness, in rescuing this animal from such savage men,” Cwenburh rejoined.

All shot a look of shock toward Cwenburh for such talk; my very bowels moved, and the Subcellarer turned away, as if in embarrassment, and the liveryman’s wife disappeared within, like a cony into burrow when sighting a hawk.

“What sort of harridan have you married, boy!”

The Whipman’s instrument was concealed up his sleeve; but now, a knotted leather line sprang quickly to hand. It was the venerable ancient who raised his hand, restraining him.

“The girl is not used to the ways of things, Prior. And in God’s name she has done a great deed for the Church.”

Thank God, the whip disappeared as rapidly as it appeared when Prior too raised a hand and thankfully drew a breath of forbearance.

Cwenburh, seeing the way of things, looked sullenly to earth—probably to avert herself and hopefully conceal her confounding intemperate ways.

Without need of word, all of the Brothers went off with Prior; this time the ancient—with the help of two oblates—pushed and dragged Hilla along, the elderly Brother coaxing her in Norman, patting her as she moved.

Within a brief time another oblate came, sold us a few provisions for the road, and led us to a small waddle-slatted shelter immediately adjoining the wall of the Monastery proper.

“You are to stay within our travelers’ shelter until Prior sends you notice. Repast is laid out in the corner, God be Praised.”

And we were left alone. I struggled to understand how Cwenburh could have committed such a leather-headed blunder. Cwenburh, instead of blessing our luck for having our hides intact, was not in a grateful frame of mind.

“There is no guard. We should fly, Cuthwin. Our story will not stand without further questions from the powers that be.”

I was of such anger with her—having so many times in previous days instructed her how to behave in such circumstances—that I did not care to fly anywhere. If it were not for my child within, I would, for that moment, have no more of her. I should have kept silent, but youthful temper burns fiercely.

“For all I care, you can fly by yourself, Cwenburh. You should have at least taken into account our host, the liveryman and his wife.”

And she shot past, picking up sack, to do precisely that, but God forgive me, I grabbed her—and child or no child, sent her back onto her hind end—stood over her and shook my cudgel in her face. She stared hatefully up—the cudgel was nothing to her anger.

“Oh, Brave Cuthwin! Now you act like Wilfred-of-Loe, who also fancied me, and when I came of womanhood would have sired many a halfwit on me if not for Gytha.”

Then threw herself into a corner, gathered into a furious ball, and covered up her head with edge of her kirtle.

Never before—and never afterwards—did she refer to her father, Wilfred-of-Loe’s, bestial ways.

I slumped to the floor, casting my cudgel away. Inwardly, I long suspected such foulness. Wilfred was a pig, and that was the best he was. I looked at Cwenburh, and I don’t think she wept under cover, for I never saw her weep before, or in fact ever.

But I did.

We sat in the lengthening shadows of the afternoon, and it was late, towards Compline when Prior reappeared—this time he just walked in, with only the briefest of knock on the threshold.

Bidding us rise I saw at once his features, especially his eyes, had cleared and in doing so bespoke a monk of an even judicial temper. The hut was so small he bent slightly to fit inside.

“Good news, God be praised. I sent an oblate to the mill, a good soul swift of foot, but sadly denied wit. Indeed those thieving blackguards are still there, now drinking great lament over the untoward loss of their animal,” and here he let slip a smile. “Good fortune, the mill is ours, and the miller and his two boys are advised to keep them sodden for the interim. Please stay the night here and then continue to your destination in the morning. Please take show of our gratitude—for ours is a poor, small monastery. But in rescuing the fine animal, you have done God’s work for Father Abbot of Saint Hubert, and us here.”

He handed back the coin paid for the provision, and included a travelers’ loaf of rich monastery bread wrapped in cloth with the Monastery emblem dyed atop it.

“It is humbly baked, but even when it becomes stale, it soaks up well. Now kneel, and I shall give you blessing for your travels. Is there anything else I might provide you, good children?”

Kneeling side by side, we exchanged poorly hooded looks: Indeed, there was much he could do. He saw our eyes’ furtive language, despite our silence. He put a powerful hand to each of our shoulders, having us rise from kneeling.

“There is? What is it? If it is mine to do, tell me.”

Prudence should have directed me to go on as we were. But within the breadth of the moments, I risked truth—one thing was needed over anything else, and it was his to give: “Reverend Prior, through circumstances of her birth and background, my wife Cwenburh lacks the Holy Waters, even though of great belief and prayer.”

I saw Cwenburh take her lip between teeth, and, cautiously, she looked up. Prior Evreux took no unusual note of this situation. He nodded and slapped his hands together lightly. At once a lanky oblate entered—his eyes large, innocent; his teeth set poorly in his mouth. This surely was Prior’s speedy oblate, for his legs and habit—even his face—were covered with trail mud and tiny slivers of reed and pieces of leaf.

“Go fetch an available Brother to come with my kit. He will know.”

Oddly, the oblate repeated this word for word, then vanished. Prior looked to me, gesturing outside.

“Now, I need to be alone with Cwenburh to take confession.”

And something so vital to both of us happened in less than the halfhour: Confession was taken, and the oblate returned with another Brother who carried a small leather purse.

In it was the Holy Water, and before us all, Prior anointed Cwenburh in the name of our Savior, Jesus Christ. Such was that God ordained ease in providing so holy a moment by the hands of a kindly man and priest.

No two trusting souls ever spent a night in such joyful anticipation of the new day. As I tell my story nearly eight decades later, I lived to see events—such as with that purloined hound—yield favorable outcomes, but infrequently.

God forgive me, but many times I wished I had foreknowledge that evening concerning how times proceeded for the poor and landless who labored, free or bonded. As years tumbled away, one by one, I learned that such folk as we were pebbles and dirt under heavy merciless wheels of great men and women.

If I possessed such clear truths of the future, without a doubt, I would have taken Cwenburh by the hand, knelt, and prayed to God we stay in Elstow forever, finding any honest work to sustain us.

Having given up Hilla, we changed our travel methods, leaving the river and heading westerly opting to make faster progress towards Hereford. As with many lies, if said often enough, even their manufacturers start to believe them, and it was this way with us both.

What began as a fabrication now came to be hard truth.

“If only I did, Cwenburh, have a brother in Hereford who owned a stable and livery!”

And we found grand adventure in our change of heart. For we knew that Hereford was as good a destination as any for runaways. By now we had a hundred and a half hundred leagues at our rear. It was a month since we high-graded George the mule and fled Lynn Regis.

But without the river or streams, the way increased in difficulty, for hills began to be not only more numerous, but steeper. Both of us were creatures of the fens—the lowlands. But we were young, and traversed what was before us.

Yet in dales and valleys nestling between richly forested domes were settlements and cultivated fields. And trapping small game and wild crafting in general became sparser and called for increase in caution.

Like before, we kept to ourselves strictly. Our way of looking and dealing with events greatly contrasted, and always did: Cwenburh operated by her instincts and feelings of heart while I remained prone to thought and carefully wrought a plan.

“Ah, Cuthwin! You think too much.”

Yet in fact we began to agree more—to argue less. It seemed to me, though I said nothing, that after taking Holy Water, Cwenburh became more anxious about her behavior. She cursed less—certainly aired fewer blasphemies at events, though still gossiped if I did not raise objection.

“Oh, piss on all those who look down on healthy gossiping. I find tremendous pleasure in it; it is how poor people carry truth place to place.”

She had grand laughter in that and, despite my objections, would carry on about someone or another back in the demesne of Peterborough.

We were thus involved early one morning when we came across a reasonably good trail—even road—which followed the course of a small river. And where there is a river I can catch fish.

But we had not gone far, at somewhat past Sext, when we can across a large encampment of extraordinary make-up. Further, it was very early for travelers—no matter how heavily burdened they traveled—to make camp. But this troop had indeed.

At the center of their camp were two of the largest carts I had seen in my nearly nineteen years. As liveryman with a half-dozen years of work at Peterborough Monastery, I saw many carts, for it was an important crossroads where many travelers pass or are destined.

Each great wheel of both carts, had spokes a dozen or so hand-lengths, meeting in hubs locked to massive axels. Camp awnings extended from the sides of one, and the opposing side of the other. But on the second—on the side facing us, a half-dozen people stood—some with small articles in hand I could not distinguish; a tall, elderly man holding a staff bellowed.

“Oh, not that, you great ox! The other words are said just at that point! Goddamn you, your minds are like suet.”

Then those alongside the wagon resumed speaking words I recognized from the Holy Book. The elderly man, whose lips passed profanity, listened intently while holding a hand upright, as if testing the wind.

This strange scene peopled by such extraordinary sorts was just a small part of this party. In the midst was a grand makeshift hearth where large iron cookery squatted, and on a nearby spit, a great joint of meat. There, tending each, a half-dozen women worked—a few older, but most young.

And beyond them, along a running line, were two well-fleshed horses and four fine oxen—the latter nearly red, and of healthy frame. All were attended by a man and two boys.

At leisure around a camp awning were two housecarls. Light armor lay nearby, and a young woman worked washing and attending their feet. They drank ale at fine leisure while being so cared for.

And seeing yet another more shocking scene—Cwenburh and I went flat to our bellies like vixen and fox. To the side of the camp was a half roebuck hanging from a tree.

“God help us, Cwenburh, but they have stolen a roebuck. They will all hang if found—yet look at their boldness.”

Two small children sat beneath the carcass—one using the folded, green hide for stool. Both waved limbs with thick leaves at the carcass, keeping flies from it. Or rather one—the second having lost interest, now tracing figures into the dirt from its imaginings.

Perhaps at that instant, we should have turned tail and gotten away, for such delicious beasts as roebucks are only for the palates of great men. But, the fickle breeze reversed, turning contrary from us to them, and a dog at once caught wind of us. It was the size, at most, of a small badger—and it bounded up hill towards us, barking the alert.

We turned to retreat, me grabbing the cudgel hard—for now, we prized freedom and would maintain it as we needed. At once the elderly man—evidently the camp’s leader—shouted: “Whoever is up there, come out! Do not fear us. We are friends.”

The two housecarls rose and, grabbing short swords, sent the girl to her backside in their alarm.

The elder man shouted at the dog.

“Get back! One day you will get yourself killed and eaten.”

We smelled the food cooking. On second sight the group did not appear menacing. There were women and children, a sight itself lacking menace. The roasting roebuck emanated robust enticement to our noses.

Cwenburh, taking her own mind, stopped, then I followed her lead. After a glance and shrug, we move into view.

“Well come on down, take repast with us.”

The dog came back—though reluctantly. The housecarls returned to their leisure and drink, but all watched as we came in. The women, when they saw Cwenburh’s girth, marveled that she be wandering in the woods like a hind.

“Ah! Your man would have you drop the baby in a wolf den somewhere.”

And it was this way that we met Alfred-of-Aylesbury, Master of Train.

Two of the women explained proudly that Alfred-of-Aylesbury was known by name countywide—even beyond. Mostly, they said, it was for his company’s presentations about the Holy Martyrs and Saints of the Church at Rome.

“We have done three fairs since spring rains, and now make to Shrewsbury for Lammastide Festival,²⁰ there will be prosperous doing for us.”

Like travelers everywhere, they imposed few questions, yet greeted our destination of Hereford with bitter looks—followed by a sorrowful shake of their heads. They motioned to Alfred-of-Aylesbury, who still drilled his troop—alternately screaming blasphemy and holy words.

“Himself says that Hereford is a great sty; invested Holy men root around like pigs, scooping up anything of value—begrudging common folk a ha’penny if they could.”

Gertyn, Alfred’s wife, ruled everyday management of this train, and especially the women. She applied firm oversight and was given to sharpened words. When seeing the girl still providing for the housecarls’ feet, she ordered, “Their feet are too fine—get to the wares.”

She assigned us places under the most distant wagon—Cwenburh could nearly stand beneath this behemoth that was our shelter. I felt and tested the joining of the axel and wheel with amazement.

Flapping from a staff on our cart a yellow pennant of fine cloth with noble’s insignia waved lively.

“Ah, Cwenburh—see! That fine pennant represents the Lord of the Manor’s safe passage extended to this grand a party. So this explains the roebuck.”

And we rested more comfortably—smelled the great meal with easier anticipation. The rest of the day—hour by hour—was a keen curiosity. Most interestingly, a family of dark-featured individuals traveled with Alfred speaking a language neither of us had ever heard.

One of Gertyn’s girls laughed, explaining, “Oh, those are Lombards! Clever with the pantomime for children, always yielding good numbers of ha’pennies and pennies. They are new here in this land—but Alfred is sly that way, offering poor folk new things. Draws folk in from everywhere.”

This young woman—one of over a half dozen—was part of the eager society that gathered around Cwenburh, talking and questioning all in a bustle of her coming occasion.

I wandered off, inspecting the animals, and met the carpenter, a Norwich man—but one who learned his trade in Normandy. Normans produced grand carts, more akin to ship than a vehicle of land.

“Takes us a entire year to make just one of these,” and he gestured to both, “. . . and the rest of your life to keep it going, especially over these shitty English roads.”

His two sons were his assistants—and he was rough with them, for necessity required he also functioned as liveryman, a role he had little skill for. Hearing my skills, he suggested I offer up to Alfred to exchange my skills for accompanying them to Shrewsbury with shelter and food provided.

“I tell you, you’ll put the flesh on with the victuals they set.”

Towards Compline—heavy with meat and bread—we lay in cover, content. Cwenburh told of how she learned that her time was closer than she thought.

“The women here—most have children, as you can see—they think our baby is closer to us than we realize.”

And soon, the large fire had burned down to smolders, and we slept the first unguarded sleep in a human shelter since Elstow Abbey.

Feeling Cwenburh asleep next to me, I thought about talking to Alfred about the carpenter’s suggestion—especially if Cwenburh’s time was closer. With so many knowledgeable women nearby, plus healthy food, such work would be wise. And Shrewsbury?! I had often heard of it in the grandest way.

There was much to sleep on, though, even if we could only know the half of it.

Cwenburh woke me, for her need to make water at night was frequent. I was trying to adjust to her stirrings—when I felt her elbow, and heard her whisper—the tone used when menace was at hand.

“Look! Rats leaving the granary after they let loose the cat.”

The two housecarls—each with a squire—were moving. They had muffled their animals’ hooves with hides, and were leading them out, their stealth extraordinary considering there were four men with two stout horses.

The darkness swallowed them whole while they sneaked away. All this without a sound. At once, the little hound picked up scent, and charged up into the darkness barking, there was a mortal yelp, and then silence—its end violent.

What more was needed? We scrambled, picking up our things, and were moving when great shouts were heard, and a dozen torches set alight.

“All rise! Get your arses up, you bastards. God’s justice is at hand.”

Into the camp charged housecarls afoot—each with a squire at his side carrying a torch burning so bright our eyes were blinded. There was continued screaming for all to rise, and the din was so—children began weeping and carrying on—sleeping figures were kicked by the housecarls and squires. Amongst them rode their spokesmen on a sleek roan caparisoned with handsome layers of hand-designed leather and strapping.

“Shut up! You! Silence these bitches. This infernal bleating.”

But the chaos continued. Alfred had arisen, and appealed to the mounted man: “Good master, we have full permission of the Lord to pass. What is this great disturbance, Sir?”

“You lying prick, you have no one’s permission. I mean to have silence or goddamn all of you.”

One of the invaders grabbed an older women who was running past him crying out hysterically. The mounted man—their Master of Horse as it was—gestured to the two men who seized her, and they slit her throat—tossing her down to die.

The others, seeing this horror, found silence at once.

“Yes! Look on! I will order them to kill every one of you whores and thieves if you don’t do what I ask.”

Another grabbed a child as one might a chicken, and tossed it up to the horseman, who drew a knife.

“And I’ll start with this harlot’s offspring if you don’t obey at once.”

The mother of the child rushed him, and since now there was not a sound being made—he just tossed the child down to her, and scowled in every direction.

They made us all sit in a line facing the fire ordering our hands placed on each knee. At that, squires led all the horses in, and torches were put in place—there was even more light, though sunup was close.

Their work began. Belongings were sought and sorted—different types of property put into separate piles. Seeing how these men were equipped and commanded, I knew this was no troop of robbers or freebooters, but those with money and many hides of land were behind them.

And riding into camp astride the grandest horses I ever saw were three men—holy men. Two of them were very stout, and puffed from the labor of riding roughly. These were helped from their horse by squires carrying small stools—each holy man being carefully guided to the ground.

But not the rider in the middle—the most elaborately mounted and clothed of them all. His mantle was rich—headgear of brilliant scarlet and purple—and hanging before him was a massive gold crucifix on a similar chain bejeweled so heavily it glittered in the torch light like a scattering of ruby-colored stars.

He fairly leaped from horse, hit the ground nimbly, and when he cast back his head gear, a full head of red hair fell about his shoulders. Behind me, the Master of Horse—for in fact, that is who led the invasion of the camp, shouted, “All kneel before his Grace, the Bishop of Ludlow. Kneel!”

We now had to take hands from knees, and shift onto our knees—awkward for those older ones.

The Bishop had fierce eyes—looked around at the piles of property, ignoring those kneeling. He took no time for a blessing. Instead he proceeded to tour the camp, looking first at the large carts. When he put a hand to each wheel, I caught glimpse of gold rings on two of his fingers—bejeweled as well.

Then he went to the running lines. He stepped back to admire the four oxen, slapping them on their ample, fat buttocks. He strode back to the fire, slapped one gloved hand into the other, then locked terrible eyes on Alfred. He stepped over towards him—raising a hand and pointing.

“So there you are, Alfred-of-Aylesbury. You have prospered, you wandering dog. You fled owing His Eminence the Archbishop of Hereford money. Where is it?!”

“I did not know his Grace had received the pallium²¹—though of course he deserves such lofty holy office, in the name of our Savior, Jesus Christ.”

“His Grace asked a question, you prick-with-ears! Where is the money owed?”

The Master of Horse—still mounted—towered above Alfred. The accused gazed up with dignity at the rider, then returned his eye to His Grace, the Bishop of Ludlow.

“In truth, Your Grace, I did not realize I owed your brother, His Eminence, money.”

“Do not trifle with God’s messenger. Where is it? If you don’t have it, it will be taken in kind.”

“In truth, if I do owe a small sum, I was not aware, Your Grace.”

“You owe His Eminence five pounds eight shillings. Now where is it?”

Not just Alfred gasped at this unheard of sum, but others as well.

“For the mercy of God, your Grace, I have never seen such a sum, let alone owed it.”

Then an official—a little man on a small horse appeared, dismounted, and at once I recognized the emblem about his neck—he was a High Reeve, and bowing short to His Grace, a squire set up a table before the fire. His Grace and the Reeve were within just a few feet of the wretched dead woman, her life’s blood drained out in a network of rivulets before all. His Grace still held deathly eyelock on Alfred. His voice fell heavy on each word: “Where is His Eminence’s money?”

The Bishop sat, confident that a fine wooden chair had been readied behind him. He extended a hand, and a cup of ale was thrust in it. He gestured to the Reeve.

“Tell him what’s writ, Master Reeve.”

The Reeve opened a box, took out a scroll, and pinning it open on the table, squinted down. A squire took a torch and held it over him, immediately causing him to cry out, “Not too close, you fool—you will set me afire.”

The Bishop smiled, took a drink—and I saw he and Alfred had not taken eyes from one another. The Reeve began to read in his reedy, peevish voice, “Three years interest on one pound twelve shilling.” Then he mumbled a bit, finishing with, “. . . this being the amount filched by Alfred of-Ayreshire in fairgeld²² from His Eminence after slipping off in the night—that Lammastide, and so forth.”

“Interest! By Christians?!”

Alfred blurted that out before thinking, causing the Master of Horse to draw and use its massive hilt to club Alfred in the head, sending him down in a heap.

His wife cried out and attended. To bide time, His Grace asked the Master, “Have you found the ready coin?”

He somberly shook his head, reached down and grabbed the old woman by the hair—reefing her up off the ground. “Worry less about Alfred and more about you, who I know to be his whoremonger. Now His Grace asked where your ready coin is kept, so tell him, or I shall start slitting throats, you old pig.”

With Alfred on the ground, bloodied, and the slain woman not far away, Gertyn knew better than to trifle. It wasn’t long before a small chest was retrieved and set before the Reeve. Opening it, he shrugged—and droned, “There is only ten shilling here. He has another. This is a dupe to fend off greedy road thieves or stupid creditors.”

Having returned to his senses, Alfred—as much as Gertyn—realized there would be no limit to the slaying until satisfied. With a hand, for he still could not speak, he gestured towards the woods. And soon another box—larger—was fetched, and in this the Reeve was more impressed.

“And, yes, here is far more. Over a pound silver, Your Grace.”

The Bishop nodded, drew off his drink and passed it back.

“There remains four pounds. Now, if you do not have it, the rest His Eminence will gain by impounding all your property.” He turned to the Reeve. “Is there enough?”

The Reeve took a weary appraising look around—now the sun had begun to come up, so there was more light.

“Possibly, Your Grace—close. There are children and young women here, which should help. I need to first complete the initial inventory for accuracy.”

“Good. Hang this dog Alfred for making His Eminence go to this expense to collect. The property and others, bring to Ludlow. Give me the box, for I will return to Hereford. My brother, His Eminence, is soon to depart for great honors in Rome.”

He rose—for this entire time we all had remained kneeling—and just before he and the two holy men remounted, the carpenter dived into the clearing, just missing the dead woman, and in desperate supplication cried out, “Your Grace! I am an honest carpenter just joined Alfred this spring. My family and I know nothing of any but honest dealing these past two months. I implore, we are God-fearing Saxons—I am here solely to keep these great carts on the road.”

“So noted.”

And His Grace mounted, nodded to the Master of Horse and Reeve, and rode off at a high canter, his two clerics lagging behind, somewhat akimbo in saddle.

Even though young, I was a keen student of men’s language by features and body sign. And I noted this Master of Horse did not overly abide His Grace’s words. He closed his eyes momentarily—opening them, he exchanged poorly hooded glances with several of his men and looked on as Alfred was hustled towards a tree. The poor man appealed to all: “Would you allow me to die unshriven?”

His wife—and a few others, bent their head in prayer. In the decades to come, I saw many hangings, but I was never to see one so fast and unceremonious as Alfred’s. He was hanging dead within a few minutes.

The body was still swinging when the Reeve began his tedious inventory. He took out more paper, prepared his implements—pinning paper flat against his table and ordering all of us to be lined up before him.

We were allowed to sit in line again; all of our things were taken and we were sure never to be returned. Anyone young and strong enough for work would become property of His Grace to sell into serfdom, and the rest would either be turned loose to die on the road, or possibly hanged. His Grace, the Bishop of Ludlow, did not impress with his compassion.

I cursed the moment Alfred’s dog came up for us—and the other, when we turned and came down into their camp. Cwenburh kept silent—she too lamenting inward about this ghastly turn of luck.

We looked at each other—of one mind.

If we had the tiniest opportunity and were able to make the thickets, we could flee uphill into thickets where horses would be useless. And at this stage of our wildness, none of them would catch us afoot.

But that tiny opportunity drew even further away when our wrists were bound—mine in back, Cwenburh’s in front. A sharp eye was kept on all, for we were so many shilling on-the-foot, and each of these men would get fair share of all property.

The day grew hot; the Reeve called for water as he interviewed and inventoried each captive’s property—if they had any. He worked aloud, asking each their name and function. If they hesitated, a dreng²³ or his squire would give them a whack, and conversation would resume on a straighter course.

Threats and terrible invectives were the rule of the day.

And all was recorded for eventual oversight by either His Grace or His Grace’s brother, The Archbishop of Hereford. During it all no one was allowed freedom to relieve themselves, for we were no longer humans, but grist for trade.

Finally—and it seemed hours—when it came time for Cwenburh and me, we were lifted from our own foulness and stood before the Reeve. He now had taken off most outer clothing; flies abounded in the heat. The dead woman had long before been dragged away at his order for drawing so many of these tormenters.

Holding his quill with one hand, he called for us to speak. I gave him our names, and our two sacks of belongings were thrown before him. His squire removed things one by one, watched carefully by the Master of Horse—jealous as a jackdaw over a carcass of fresh-killed hare.

I knew my words must be right.

“I am Cuthwin-of-Alnwick, liveryman, and this is my wife, Cwenburh-of-Loe. We are not of this party, but were received yesterday. We are travelers bound for Hereford, your Honor.”

The Reeve’s little snout twisted into a grin. “Well, boy, you joined the wrong party. Repeat what you said—you spoke too fast.”

He wrote slowly and unskillfully, though his use of Roman numbers was sure and fast. Before he finished, the Master of Horse, who sat on a stool overseeing things, suddenly stood—pushing the Reeve’s squire aside. He reached into our few belongings and took out the folded cloth that had held the bread given us by Prior Evreux at Elstow Abbey. Cwenburh, of course, had great plans for such cloth.

He held it in front of the Reeve, looked to each of us, then unfolded it, examining the holy emblem. The Reeve stopped writing at once, staring at it. Another dreng close by asked what it was. “It is the sign of Elstow Abbey, and could not have been stolen.”

“An Abbey? I have not heard of it.”

The Master of Horse drew a resigned breath, saying, “Of course you have not, you stupid turd.”

And everyone laughed at the once, save the Reeve who took the cloth—laying it flat above his paper. “The dye is not yet faded. This is recent. How did you get this, boy?”

I told him, including details.

This put a stop to the procedure—and silence. The Reeve and Master of Horse ruminated. The housecarls close by groaned, saying, “She is heavy with child, young and strong. So what if she has a piece of cloth?”

The Reeve looked keenly to them, then to the Master of Horse—and tapped his inventory list.

“I will need to record it—as property.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

Perhaps even the housecarls did not know, but I did. So listed, it would be read by either His Grace, or worse—His Eminence. And the emblem on the cloth was of the Abbot of Elstow. Anything given by the Prior was equal in stature to being given by Father Abbot.

These protocols were second nature to me. If the Reeve would not list it, which was wrongful, the great men would not know, not on record. But thanks to God and our Savior, we had before us an honest Reeve.

“Untie them. They will go to Hereford under guard for audience before His Eminence’s court. These two have enjoyed shelter and reward by Father Abbot of Elstow and not part of Alfred’s party, God be praised.”

Though rough about it, we were freed and escorted to the cart, and shoved under it. I looked up at our guard—a young squire appointed to watch us.

“Could we please have water?”

He provided it in the form of a half-full bucket, thank God. He tied each of our ankles to the wheel, though a knife’s thrust would free us in an instant, if I had a knife. But our belongings were held elsewhere of course.

We huddled into one another despite the heat of the day. And we sat without word until I heard Cwenburh almost voicelessly praying. Recognizing the psalm, I joined. At that moment we thanked God and Our Savior for that piece of cloth, knowing full well how much good fortune Prior’s loaf of bread had done us.

Subdued weeping prevailed through the night, despite harsh calls for silence. The housecarls and their squires camped close around the fire. The Reeve departed for Hereford with two guards. The Master of Horse, as I thought, retained a minimum of care about the Bishop of Ludlow’s wishes.

For in fact, he was a wealthy Saxon Lord and Tenant who owed service to His Eminence through having vast holdings south of us, and only a few in demesne from the Bishop of Ludlow. This Saxon Lord, in fact, provided all the housecarls, drengs, and squires for this action.

He was called Sidroc-the-Old. Sidroc was attended by two squires, talked to no one, staying aloof, quickly becoming sullen in his cups. With that number of men, they ate the remaining half of the roebuck, giving none of Alfred’s former train anything but water.

Cwenburh and I were close to them at the fire. During and after Compline, his men talked within earshot, especially the squires. Though the Lombards were closer than us, those poor souls spoke not a word of any language in camp.

Cwenburh was as keen of hearing as I, and we learned via his men’s gossip that Sidroc-the-Old did not wish to proceed to Ludlow, and “. . . didn’t care a bit if His Grace, the ‘Bishop of Thievery’ wished him to go north or south. Sidroc-the-Old will go as he wishes.”

All other talk pertained to the sharing of money and property, and there was bitter mention that His Grace of Ludlow had departed with the ready coin.

“We won’t see a chip of that, the bloody-haired bastard.”

There were furtive looks around the fire towards Sidroc, but he was slumped against a pile of hides—occasionally taking swings at the bugs that rose in hordes as the sun sank.

“More smoke! Drive these demons off me.”

And squires fed more green wood into the fire—and volumes of white smoke poured through the camp, the wind being unsteady in any direction, making the entirety seem dreamlike, not part of us.

And we finally slept—not knowing what direction our train would go, no better or worse than the others in party. The answer lay in the begrudging mind of Sidroc-the-Old, and like all great men, he would reveal plans when he wished.

At first light, we were jolted awake with a bellow that if its volume were an indicator, might have been the death cry of a dragon: “Up! Up you worthless pissants! What is this shit? Up!”

Sidroc stood before the fire pissing into it and bellowing orders.

Lying at his feet, his face badly bloodied, was a squire. The wretched soul’s clothing was torn, one shoe on, the other off. Sidroc hurled a gesture at him: “See this fuck! Sleeping on watch. Where in God’s name do you think we are?! This pig could’ve gotten us all killed, but instead got his teeth kicked in.” He allowed himself a great, menacing laugh, packed himself up in his breeches and pointed to his dreng: “He is your squire, Edfel. Slit his throat and be done with it. I could have been a Welsh vanguard. Goddamn if I will pay for this rank stupidity.”

He was in the most fearsome mood I ever saw a man, and he with great power and wealth to do as he wished. We drew back, fearing another awful murder, yet the squire’s dreng, instead of slaying him, motioned for his man to get up and be gone, and kicked him several times while he did so.

Sidroc’s order, thank God and Our Savior, was made in anger and not in earnest. His squire dressed and armed him preparing Sidroc for the day while a second readied his horse. All during it he cursed everyone: First those before him—then his man who suggested cutting the dead Alfred down. This brought to his mind they would leave the rope, and he admonished anyone using costly length of braided rope to hang such as Alfred.

Then, in overall resentment, he launched into diatribe about holy men, which I found a rare scandal for anyone to air, let alone a rich, powerful owner.

His men warmed ale for him, a preparation I had not heard of—and this seemed to settle Sidroc. Drinking, he looked up at the sky, as if summoning a direction from the heavens. Returning his attentions back to earth, Sidroc scowled at the carpenter who was shoved forward into his presence, and I was grabbed and pushed along, not far behind.

“You help me get this catch-all to Hereford and your arse can go free along with your family, if His Eminence’s court so agrees with my wish. Him behind you, too, for your livery and tackle couldn’t last a damned league with most breaking.”

There was no agree or disagree. Though the carpenter tried to bend down in thanks, we were half pushed, half led off by squires without further hearing.

The carpenter looked at me when we were back at the animals, and gesturing to the tackle—and it was a mess—warned, “I see you have the beginnings of a family, and I already have one. In our Savior’s name, I pray to live on as a born freedman to enjoy them.”

We began work most earnestly.

I knew that Cwenburh would be all in readiness for escape, but we were not with fools. She was tethered to the wagon, though I was free to move around. Worse, armed men were everywhere, and all was in great preparation and a hurry. In truth Alfred’s train was no insignificant undertaking, and the day was not yet hot—but would become so.

Himself sat on his horse, now partaking in bread and meat. He resumed his usual silence—his ranting finally over. Instead he watched all with the scrutiny of a peregrine.

Several of his men were key sergeants and they oversaw details of the train—no conversation seemed needed until it came to matters of the captives. At this time, Sidroc was close to me, watching the great oxen be readied for burden.

“If the captives ride in the wagons, Sidroc, we will make better time. We could make Ludlow in less than two days that way.”

“Fine, but we are not going to Ludlow. We are going to where His Eminence would want us—Hereford.”

“That is at least a week.”

“Jesus Christ our Savior! You don’t think I know that. But I also know that if Alfred’s two shitheads betrayed him for money, they would His Grace of Buggery too—and me—to the Welsh, the greedy pricks. We have a fortune here, sparsely guarded.”

Our troubles were such it wasn’t until that moment that the Marches of Wales became significant to me. I knew we were close, and all talk was rife with accounts of the Welshmen’s cruel raids upon the Marches. The King fought with difficulty against Welsh hosts—even moreso than years before against the Danes.

This news moved about us causing much talk amongst his men. Sidroc took a breath and groaned a lament: “I have with me fools and gut buckets! Use your brain pans. If Welshmen lurk between here and Ludlow, and we go opposite to Hereford, that is keen advantage if there has been betrayal. If no, then it doesn’t make any fucking difference does it? Save we get full share—cutting out that greedy brother of His Eminence’s who has already taken Alfred’s coin!”

This was Sidroc’s longest speech of the morning—he shouted it, wheeling his horse in all directions. While speaking he gestured all around, towards the west, the east—then south.

“Does it? You stupid oafs. Now get to it, goddamn you. The heat of the day is coming and it grows late.”

Loading enough water was hard—and the women made to do it, and so Cwenburh was cut free. The thirsty souls made advantage of this, drinking their fill—and asking for food. Realizing the need for haste—and their help—the housecarls and all others said nothing in reprisal, though no food was given.

The carpenter and I faced many problems. We could have employed a half-dozen carpenter sons in addition to his two. These extraordinarily ponderous carts being loaded with baggage and people created impossible problems.

I felt Sidroc must know. I urged the carpenter to so inform: “This tackle won’t stand the heft of loads.”

“The carts will not either—over these so-called roads?!”

“Then he must be told.”

“Will you, then?”

And me being the junior member, I could not, and we worked on. If the tackle snapped—and it would—I would repair it on the spot; same with the carts.

I had learned at a young age how great men swept aside a powerless man or woman’s life and freedom. The horrible day of Alfred’s reckoning via Sidroc-the-Old and His Grace, Bishop of Ludlow, provided fresh and grim reaffirmation. Life was opening an all-consuming maw before Cwenburh and me.

The women and children riding in the carts lasted briefly—themselves begging to walk, the path so cursedly rough. They were allowed such but the adults were tied neck-to-neck like animals. The children were left to wander between them, their mothers crying out to keep free of the unmerciful turn of those great cart wheels.

Housecarls followed behind and in front, and for the first time I noted one had a longbow and arrows. Even a child knew it was impossible to out run an arrow. Escape was not an option.

My opinion of the carpenter rose when two of the housecarls began to whip the oxen, who struggled up hills over difficult ground. He at once stood between them and the poor animals—fine-fleshed oxen.

“Stop that. These are beasts not used to such treatment, and if you keep that up, we will get never get to Hereford?! Leave us to the coaxing.”

And when they whipped him instead of the oxen, the Norwich man grabbed the whip, despite the pain, and would have pulled the dreng off horse, if not a cooler head—one of Sidroc’s sergeants—had not interceded.

“Leave off! Do as the carpenter asks.”

And he went on—the carpenter bleeding from his wound, one eye half closed. We said nothing to one another—but drove the oxen sternly though thoughtfully.

The yokes strained and worked around the great animals’ necks, and his boys trotted along beside, greasing the joints of the carts and yokes. I followed the lead yoke with switch, urging them on with taps on their vast butts. And as it approached Sext, we made temporary camp to rest through the sun’s highest passage.

Seeing we all were due a long trip, the women were allowed to bring out bread for everyone—who had not eaten in a long time. The children nearly choked when wolfing down food.

Spare moments for us tradesmen were spent repairing—for even without people, the carts were hard pressed and needed attention, the tackle and livery as well. To be stopped was to allow at least some serious work on them.

For us, there was no rest.

On the second day of travel—in the settling coolness between Vespers and Compline—a mounted messenger from His Eminence of Hereford overtook us, or actually, encountered us unexpected.

He carried a letter from His Eminence to Sidroc. The messenger jumped from his horse—the poor beast foaming from hard riding—and both man and beast buried their heads in buckets of water. The heat of such a day might kill a horse by its being ridden so—only drastic business would cause it to be thus driven.

Finally, the messenger’s thirst slaked—it was I who attended his poor animal—he stood before Sidroc, who held the letter.

“Is this it? What is in it? His Eminence knows I don’t read—none of us here do. He thinks my son is with me, but God help me, he is not. Now tell me the drift of what’s in this.”

“I don’t know, Sire, save His Eminence’s Secretary thought you would be on route to Ludlow, I did not expect you here, though I thank the Almighty you were.”

Sidroc appealed silently to the heavens—then raised his hand with the letter in that direction, bellowing, “Does any man present read—even if by hit and miss?”

None did. Cwenburh moved around into my line-of-sight and, putting a bucket down before a group of children, shook her head discreetly. I became confused. We encountered so many reversals since escaping that I feared encountering my own ghost under each rock.

I thought she would be for a gamble here. The poor girl had seen such mayhem at the hands of Sidroc and his housecarls that the fear had also struck her.

Sidroc, being ill-tempered and under such threat as he was, switched his wrath to the messenger.

“You useless shit! If His Eminence did not trust you, then why don’t I just slit your throat right here and now and keep your horse. We have need of a good horse. By our Savior’s grace, you can trust a good horse.”

This resulted in laughter the group ‘round—even a few of Alfred’s party followed. This time, all knew it was frustration that did the venting, one of Sidroc’s harmless privileges.

I made my decision. Yes, I regretted coming into Alfred’s camp for comfort of food and shelter, and barely survived it. However, the advantage of reading might well negate a disregard of keeping one’s place and flaunting prideful behavior.

People of power and position fear poor folk who transgress the order of God. It portents unseemly ambitions and possibly the workings of demons. But, it was a combination of despair and craft that overcame fear.

In as low a voice as possible, though I knew all would learn, I said, “I do, Sire. I read.”

Cwenburh put down the bucket, causing a bit of a splash, and dug her hand in her back, her eyes opening.

Sidroc made to shout, then stopped—looked around, and nodded. There was a thoughtful way about him that rendered his carrying-on deceptive. He sensed that the confidentiality of the letter’s contents was more important for that moment than why a liveryman might read.

He led his horse off well out of earshot, handed me down the letter, and ordered me to read.

The message’s essence was that he was betrayed: Dozens of well-equipped men under sway of an infamous Welsh Lord were on their way. Knowing we transported a fortune of goods and serfs, they intended to intercept us on our way to Ludlow. Further, they held his brother, His Grace, hostage, for he was betrayed as well. And lastly, His Eminence ordered Sidroc to immediately re-direct to Hereford.

He ordered confidential response by the same messenger.

Having been a day and a half already headed for Hereford, Sidroc might have viewed his decision with pride, but he was somber. He frowned while his mind turned steadily on the situation. He shouted for water, took the letter from me—turned it over—saw it blank on the back.

“You can write as well as read?”

“Yes, Sire. I will need goose feather some stain and ash. They will serve.”

At that, he ordered camp made—surprising most, but pleasing all—the heat being awful. Immediately he ordered pickets out to high ground, and brambles and rods to be cut for a surrounding barricade that night.

Housecarls and squires exchanged glances, learning the general drift of the letter from his action. Our armed group was such that they knew only an equal number of brigands—or more—could necessitate such action.

They could not know the force was threefold our number—even more.

Faux angel wings from Alfred’s show properties were a good source of fine feathers, and several men, Sidroc and I included, knew the making of crude ink. The stain was blood, in fact his own.

While the messenger waited—a fresh horse exchanged for the spent—Sidroc sat impatiently as I sharpened several quills. We then got down to it—I had not written anything in some time. But they had drilled me so often, and I was so young with hands nimble, I was sure of my strokes.

He was brief—and the only sign he made of his thoughts behind his answer was just before beginning; he disparaged the word ‘hostage’ to describe His Eminence’s brother’s situation, and there was no smile in the saying of it.

Then he told His Eminence he needed a dozen or more housecarls or whoever sent as fast as possible. By changing directions early, he had two or two-and-a-half unhindered days, but they would then be overtaken up by the Welshmen when they realized the change.

“What does that say? I did not say that.”

He pointed to my large penned words at the beginning, and I reminded him it was customary to begin messages to fine figures by invoking our Savior, His Father, and the Holy Spirit.

I restrained a gasp—for Sidroc was anything but joking, and sent off the messenger with a warning not to get caught, and the consequences if it happened: “Your uncle is my undertenant, and if you ride off and get your throat slit, I’ll take it out on him.”

And the man was off, taking a grim hold of his leads. Sidroc meant no overstatement but a promise, and the messenger knew it.

Then when I moved to return to duties—he stopped me by reaching out with his foot. He sat on his stool and drank only a light beer, and pulled me back roughly: “Now by hanging you, I would assure confidentiality. No one here knows that we surely are pursued, or how many there are. And who! If so . . . ,” and he trailed off, and looked at the spreading camp grimly, and I knew what he meant. Most of his men would flee, for Welshman would kill everyone not fit for the serf merchant. Horse, liveryman, and arms of all those slain were valuable of themselves. Further, the Welsh would enjoy slaughtering Saxons or Saxon adherents, perhaps even prolonging its doing.

“I will say nothing but do my job, Sire.”

“Of course you will say nothing, and you will do your job. Especially say nothing to that woman of yours. Otherwise I will have you, your wife, and the whelp in her belly flayed alive. Now get to it, you upstart little turd. I will know the moment you leaked word that a host of Welsh are on our ass.”

It was best I avoided talking to anyone. For all noticed that Sidroc stayed away from ale, on alert, and remained surly. He would have slain someone asleep on watch—in fact, said it—and his eyes were everywhere.

The livery—traces and all tackle—were a frayed mess each day. The oxen were driven too hard, as were most of the animals. The carpenter and his sons did what they could, but the massive carts—buildings on wheels, in fact—were coming apart in joint and coupling.

No one asked what the letter said—nor did I give them opportunity to ask. The bugs arose from a nearby wetland by the bushel-weight, and the fires were made to smoke more—itself not a good thing.

“I want your pickets on the highest places. I want them to look sharp for fires during the night.”

I do not remember the name of Sidroc’s two sergeants, but they had fought together for the King and Archbishop frequently and knew their business—even if the others remained inexperienced.

In fact, I was sure Sidroc had informed his two sergeants what His Eminence had warned. For those two needed no urging from Sidroc.

I made my decision, however. When I lay next to Cwenburh that night, I took her close and told her she—in the event of coming chaos—should keep enough close at hand to survive in the bush, and to escape in the confusion. We very likely would be apart if the fray were to begin.

“I can say no more. But you and the child must survive. Could you find your way back to Elstow?”

“Without you, Cuthwin? Not on my spirit’s posterior. I won’t find my way anywhere. We go where each other goes.”

We were not that far removed from others—we could not argue the matter. I told her life was better than death. It was not just hers but the child as well. Also, that she should not blaspheme, especially now.

I felt in my breast her resolve. Cwenburh was of a nature—and remained so—making me wonder if she were possessed of the same demons that dwelled inside the thorny presence of Waddles, the donkey, who Father Abbot loved so.

Cwenburh’s mind was bright—brighter than the best of us—but her bones, sinews, and God-given stubbornness were soulmates of Waddles. And God forgive me for saying this, even nearly these eighty years hence. But that is part of my purpose herein; no saint, you see, could ever state such trespass on so good a soul as Cwenburh-of-Loe.

In recalling those years along the Marches of Wales I cannot say I ever met a Welshman any greedier or crueler than a Saxon, for they are both God’s creations. However, I was young, having just turned my nineteenth year. I was not yet knowledgeable how brother will betray brother; furthermore, that great Holy Men and ordinary folk when possessed by greed will stoop to any foulness of deed.

But youth is a vulnerable period of life, for a young man’s knowledge is small but opinion of his own abilities large. This is the age that is the sinew—the backbone of armies and brigands who visit violence upon others by the design of Great Men.

So, Sidroc-the-Old—though corrupt of soul—benefited by four-plus decades, much of it in violent struggle. He knew by events His Grace sold out His Eminence, his brother, in hopes of gaining the sale of all our train. This was much more of a sum than I even vaguely appreciated, especially calculating horse, tackle, and weaponry of those killed.

Sidroc-the-Old oversaw us negotiating the remnant of a road to Hereford, urging us along with as much haste as possible. Those first two days after receiving the letter, he even worked us all through the heat of the day. He was more knowledgeable than all of us in tricks to accomplish this. The most valued art was the manner to keep the oxen cool enough to pull; he had them covered with cloth, and a train of the women and boys to haul buckets of water, tossing it over the cloth spread across the great backs of the beasts, and ordering extra rations to the keep them fed and happy.

So doing, they pulled as if it were much cooler.

And nobody, including him, could ride; but tackle was removed or loosened from all horses, and all were given as much water as possible. This was more than the humans, especially the wretches of Alfred’s train.

Several dropped—especially the older women. One of the few elderly men was just left, despite the howls of protest. Most knew—certainly I did—that when one of the housecarls went back after we’d proceeded a way, it was to end it for the poor soul—dead he would be unable to inform about our vulnerabilities.

And at frequent turn and rise of the road, our pair of rear observers would arrive, report, water themselves, exchange horses, then ride out.

Sidroc all the while noting everything.

Then, in God’s unknowing Grace, on the third day—towards None—it was from before us that we heard great horses. At once the alarm was sounded. Weapons were drawn, horses were mounted. We without weapons experienced our innards stretching tighter than drum-tops; children and women dived under the wagons. Hence it was with immeasurable relief and prayers of thanks when the horsemen turned out to be more than a dozen mounted housecarls led by Lenoc, Sidroc’s son.

Sidroc nodded seeing them, asked if they had come by the way of Jerusalem. I remember well his son’s response: “No, father, but we did stop to make fine sport in several of your favorite places.”

It was not only a vast relief to see them, but to learn that Lenoc was just the opposite of his father—optimistic, and joyful of nature and word.

He announced at once that they’d come to kill Welshmen, and looked forward to it. Furthermore, without bothering to keep the fact unsaid, this would include “His Betrayalship,” who he heaped scandalous words upon.

“I will have his red hair in a wad and wipe my arse with it.”

And this resulted in the first laughter heard in days—even from bound, troubled people. For he mimed this act while voicing it—rising high in his stirrups. He criticized his father for allowing Alfred’s women being used so thoughtlessly, claiming he and his housecarls pick of the best.

He ended his sporting words by advising we camp at once—then his father to lead all armed men back trail and kill every Welshman found.

“We look forward to the sale of stout Welsh horse and equipment, Father. I consider the profit for sale of looted equipment all ours for coming here in such damned Lammastide heat.”

Sidroc groused at his son’s behavior, but all became of an easier mood, not only because we were now powerfully defended. We also sensed that Sidroc was helpless against his son’s mirth and impulse, so high was his regard for him. We all benefited that the elder’s surly moods were watered down by Lenoc’s nature.

Lenoc was indeed of a randy, sacrilegious way. He showed this again, by remembering aloud several of the women from Alfred’s last visit three years before. Finally, even Cwenburh had to recognize that Alfred-of-Aylesbury offered more than Saint’s mummings and children’s amusements by foreigners during his stops at fair and festival.

It was then I told her a bit about Frog, those years back, and his sinful debaucheries, ballyhooed by others, if only mentioned in lament by their doer.

“I thought, Cuthwin, harlots were all warty, filthy hags with pestilence about them,” she replied.

For she made friends of some. Such was her spirit that she viewed them with no less kindness or sisterhood. It was God’s gift with people given her, for Cwenburh always kept profuse kindness and love for anyone who did not visit pain and violence on others, no matter their place.

Our lot continued to improve.

At Compline just before, Sidroc-the-Younger arrived—the elder son—and with him were four of his housecarls and squires. His men were powerfully and richly armed; Sidroc-the-Younger was unlike his junior sibling, Lenoc—more like his father, save of even fewer words, and never allowing outburst of temper.

Now we were a formidable army in my view, and there was great comfort, though the night fires were kept going and barricades peopled. Spirited talk—actually gossip—was more common with the presence of Lenoc and his men. Sidroc-the-Younger had no more luck in dampening Lenoc than his father. During the evening, rear-guards brought in a hind and roebuck for meat.

Lenoc celebrated this. He spoke of fattening up the women, giving them back strength. So it was hoped that some of the wild beast’s meat—if only bones—would be given to us. It was at Matins, for indeed we now had a young priest with us, that Sidroc-the-Younger’s squire fetched me.

Himself sat before a station fire, stirring it thoughtfully with a stick, studying the glow of it while talking.

“My father says you read and write?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“I do too. They taught me in the Monastery which is where you learned. I know how I left, my father owns a half-dozen hundreds and the Holy Brothers owe him. But how did you?”

“I’m a freedman; my apprenticeship was served, Sire.”

“You lie.”

“I am a freedman, Sire. A liveryman.”

“If I was given a pound of silver for every liveryman in this entire land who read and wrote, I would have nothing.”

“But, Sire, fact is, I am a liveryman, and an able one, surely you’ve seen.”

“I have. I see much, including some things unseen. You even use monks’ wordcraft.”

He stirred away and thought. It occurred to me that his mistrustful heart suspected I was part of some distant threat sent into Hereford to apprise things. I might, perhaps, be in league with the Welsh or others powerful.

My suspicions were sound, for in the next breath, he said, “We have few friends in the direction of Elstow Abbey, which is a Norman outpost, in my thinking.”

So the cloth with its holy emblem that saved us a few days before—or bought us time—now functioned in the reverse by indicating dark allegiance.

I repeated how we came by the cloth and bread. He removed the stick from the fire, and put it aside.

“What I can do is get that woman of yours with the deformed mouth, stand her by, and threaten to slit your throat until she tells me the truth, you dissembling toad. So tell me the truth and perhaps save yourself. This land crawls with enemies of His Eminence, and so enemies of my father.”

So I did. I would rather that, than risk what he had promised, for like his father, Sidroc-the-Younger did not employ empty threats. At the very least, I could beg for Cwenburh’s life—and the child.

His thoughts—other than giving a toss of his head—he kept to himself. “Return and do your work. I will consider this on our way to Hereford.”

It was with absolute resolve I would keep this interview from Cwenburh. But such was her eye this would be difficult. Returning to our shelter under the wagon, she had questions, and I emphasized how he had quizzed me about my ability in written Saxon.

“He seemed satisfied enough,” I told her, and I believed it.

“He seems a serious, suspicious sort.”

Whether she was sounding me or not, I feigned sleep, and held her to me, which always put her to sleep. Hopefully, by morning her thoughts would be drawn elsewhere. How, I always wondered, at these close, quiet times, could such a tiny bit of humanity contain such ferocity and energy?

For certain, any escape attempt now would be self-destructive—acting as a positive indictment of bad purpose. It was Hereford for us, and there I must use every bit of thoughtful craft God gave me to try and resolve our uncertain situation.