Book 4

Cuthwin adopts the life of a traveling scribe. How a time of peace and prosperity came; also, through tragedy and the intercession of evil men, how he and Cwenburh become father and mother to Eadrig. He relates and describes his travels throughout Mercia and all England. Our truthsayer observes and learns the ways of the commonality and how ordinary folk prosper and how they are taken low by earthly circumstances, including famine and disease. Lastly that when great men turn against the preaching of Our Savior, they are seized in the foulness of pitiless sin and become lost souls, swept into the eternal fires of the Archfiend.

 

We spent the winter establishing my new trade of letters in Hereford. It was a time of gathering and learning skills necessary in setting up a traveling pavilion as scribe. At this time mine was an unknown public trade among the diverse community that moved from market to fair from spring through autumn, a sort of traveling village.

It was not a type of life without its own practical issues, for moving one’s home and business nine months of the year from village to city demanded skills of transport and business combined. There was a great and I feel wise tendency for traveling pavilions of similar businesses to stay in company and follow similar if not the same begang²⁷ on yearly rounds.

This type of circuit was not the same each year because great men of monastery, church, or manor had authority of each town or city; hence they could change the fairgeld charged during fairs and markets. Those who did business on the begang kept well abreast of their changing circumstances. In one city, when a tax of a pound silver was demanded one year, this made that city impractical. However, the following year it might be half that.

My concern was the quality of my craft and our transport, and Cwenburh’s of business. The constant network of talk and gossip was the life’s blood amongst diverse businesses. The steadiest flow of information occurred mostly during winter when we stayed in one place.

And this wintering spot, which varied person to person, became comfortably accommodated for us in Winchester, the capital of Wessex, a stoutly walled city promising the protection of diverse thanes with housecarls of nearby great men.

Yet a grim hand reached out and visited terrible pain on us and many more; Eadrig was not two years of age when a scourge of righteousness fell over the whole of the country. All those guilty of fornication—or party to it—were condemned by the Archbishops of Canterbury and York during high meeting of all churchmen in that holy city. Their severe resolve resulted in a Writ-of-Penance that rapidly went around all counties.

Saints’ days and celebrations central to markets and fairs, they declared, had become scandalously desecrated by the mortal sin of fornication. Lords, their housecarls, then all thanes with their men were commanded in the name of God by this holy writ to eliminate this scourge, which soon thereafter was made a royal decree by King Harold.

In fact, it was maintained during this conclave that the King’s creeping ague was punishment upon His Highness for allowing unrepented sins-of-the-flesh to descend upon the Lord’s kingdom on earth.

These outrages of the body, it was held, were too often ignored—or even partaken—by powerful men, their housecarls, and thanes. Hence, contrition must be done by carrying out annihilation utterly of those who purveyed base immorality in the past or now.

It was during this time that Matilda was, we heard, burned at stake along with all her sisters. All across Mercia and Wessex, and into Anglia, their sisterhood was scourged from the land, mostly by fire. The horror of this news beat us low, for we had knowledge of this community, as it were, and knew that Our Lord always granted forgiveness and pity, especially to those who asked it. And Matilda, for one, was of a deep religious nature, and her worries about Eadrig’s soul prompted her in fact to yield his care to us.

By her demise we became the only guardians of Eadrig. She would, when alive, take great risk to occasionally visit, especially during winter. Matilda needed permission of that gargoyle Gertyn, Alfred-of-Ayles-bury’s widow, to visit. A procurer by her nature, the greedy old bag was always in fear of her bonded ‘daughters’ running off.

I was forewarned about this shameful wrath through Cwenburh during the spring fair in Marlborough. For when great men make armed violence upon poorer people, they begin for a singular purpose—such as cleansing the land of harlotry. However, during their selfish actions, darker self-serving purposes expand. Finally it encompasses all people, innocent or not, how otherwise these men hold in scorn.

This invariably included those to whom they owed money, or who in previous dealing shorted them sufficient geld when asked.

Throughout the country, all healing women, always alert to such paroxysms of morality, scattered like sparrows, hiding their pavilions and properties and taking secure concealment until things passed. And healing women were not the only craft beset. Several freebooting thanes, deep in their cups, came into my pavilion on the prowl ‘for fornicators,’ they said. They kicked over several cases of unused vellum and growled, “They say you convey messages with demons here.”

A long time before, I had fashioned a fine ash cudgel, and I grabbed that while Cwenburh took up a pot of boiling water, so discouraged they went off, most likely to seek out more drink.

It did no good to yield before such scum, for they would only become more emboldened. They understood that if they overstepped their warrant, the undersheriff, and certainly the Hundred, would not stand by them.

But, nonetheless, they harried everywhere that spring and summer, until the manufactured outrage passed. But it was too late for poor, dear Matilda and nearly all of her ilk; a few were excepted if they had protection from the patronage of clerics or land owners interested in their own personal needs.

We said many prayers for her soul at all the towns we plied that spring, summer, and fall. Matilda was a sweet girl who gave life to Eadwig. She knew the violent swings of her living, and as it turned out showed much sad wisdom in her actions. We swore never to allow Eadwig to forget his mother and how she sacrificed before God for his well being.

It was the murder of those who had helped us in Hereford so unyieldingly that began a lifelong instruction to me how God’s words can be twisted for the warped motives of great men and women. Also, how the teaching of Our Savior can be utterly swept aside by the pestilence of money and land.

Then power itself becomes blacker than the eternal pit.

This led to our own sin, for we could not bring ourselves to forgive nor pity churchmen who did foulness to Innocents under the guise of holiness. Cwenburh never went to church again, but kept the Sabbath at home in prayer and peace; her only exception being Christenings and Marriages.

I never tried to persuade her otherwise. To the contrary, in the concealed corner of heart, I hoped unrelentingly for those false churchmen’s damnation. May God forgive me.

Without anticipating it, financial security was extended to us by the Grace and Generosity of God. My skills, perhaps because of their newness and by finding a niche starved of service, increased until they were in high demand. It also expanded steadily until it included not just letters, but simple constructs of agreements, such as marriage and merchet contracts, minor charters, and writs such as that of manumission.

Soon I found there were not enough hours in the day, and I wrote myself sore-of-hand. It is an exciting and flattering thing to find one’s skills in high demand, and it invites the sin of pride, a most seductive indulgence.

But the greatest event—and a direct result of having resource—was the taking of the Holy Sacrament of Marriage between us. It occurred in the handsome city of Bath at the great Abbey during Saint Bartholomew’s Fair and Festival on the last year of King Harold Harefoot (1040).

To be wedded in the shadow of the holy St. Alphege was a great celebration of God’s generosity. We afforded a humble mass with passing of the Sacrament of Marriage, and it remains the greatest experience of my life under the blessed auspices of Our Savior.

At our marriage celebration, Cyrus the Great lifted us aloft—each by one arm, while Eadrig stood on his shoulder thumping him on his vast brainpan. We had become friends with many who plied the seasonal circuit. Cyrus and his great, parsimonious employer and agent Ahulf became our oldest comrades on the begang.

Sadly it became evident that we must faithfully and patiently serve penance—perhaps for being young and foolish, and wanton in our ways. The generosity and kindness of God for saving Cwenburh’s life came with this provision: Her child-bearing days ended during that siege of illness; she and I were not to have children together.

“This is why He has given us good Eadrig.” Cwenburh was certain of this, so bore herself proudly serving this contrition. For myself, her time carrying child—especially at its birthing—was so horrible, I indulged in the sin of selfishness. If the price of having Cwenburh in good health was for her not to bear children, then God’s exchange seemed great wisdom to me.

I never voiced this with anyone for it was anything but a saintly reflection.

Cwenburh made an aggressive, feared factor for our business. She developed a keen business eye. Though she increased wisdom and craft to deal respectfully with people, she lost none of her tartness if they should cross us.

“Cuthwin never commits to writing on speculation.”

That was her absolute regulation; she collected coin up-front, and it had to be in the King’s true-minted coin. She now wore her marriage clasp openly on her plain but well-woven Flemish kirtle. If one of the various women-folk asked—which most did—where she got such a fine item, she laughed and said I had bartered with a savage for it, a far northern Chieftain, to win her hand.

“I am not taken to wife by just anyone.”

For she was almost exclusively of great joy and cheer, unless under the duress of an ague. Likewise if someone tried hoodwinking her in price or agreement, or worse yet, transgressed upon a friend or loved one, she became an indomitable fighter never backing away from combat and severe words.

Yet Cwenburh’s kind heart and lively spirit came with a price for a husband. When good Eadrig was not quite four, while at the great St. Swithin’s Day²⁸ Fair at Reading, I ended a day transcribing letters. My eyes were sore and my hand sorer. Cwenburh had warmed rocks for my arrival from work, and while wrapping my writing hand in the wonderfully soothing thick cloth with the rocks, I saw two infants in the corner.

They were just in their creeping stage, on a floor cover in the corner of our living pavilion amusing themselves with carved animal bones.

Eadrig, a calm and serious child, supervised them.

Cwenburh returned to work on a door hanging.

“They are twins, Husband, and aren’t they beautiful girls?”

“Where is their mother?”

“She was burned at the stake by those bastards two Ides of April past. The kind butcher’s daughter was wet at that time, but cannot sustain them. Her marriage contract to a well-heeled baker needs exclude them. Her mother refuses to keep them on. She is a great pitiless sow.”

I was left to study the crown of her headrail as she worked. Her scheme unfurled before me as a carpet merchant might toss his ware before a customer—or a cloth merchant a bolt of linen or wool.

I recalled that desperate time, how her soul and spirit took in the great Norman hound we rescued. She decided overnight it should stay with us for the rest of its life, despite the fateful incongruity of it. Then there was Eadrig’s placement with us, as it were, and how this forecasted Cwenburh’s lifelong vocation to rescue and care for those violated by harsh fate.

Indeed, through the years, at an appropriate time in her many conversations, she would say, “God’s will is not imparting misery on the innocent or the poor. And certainly not our Savior’s way. I cannot speak for the Holy Ghost.”

Those within hearing would gasp at this sacrilege, but she meant it and was not partaking in sarcasm.

So I rested—felt the swelling go down in my hand—and reflected how our situation before God had improved so drastically since those years before when times were bad. Though we were not rich like landed or privileged folk, compared to that first winter at Hereford, we were improved vastly, thanks to God’s graces.

And we did indeed have Eadrig.

At this moment I knew it was no use arguing, for though we imparted much to any poor folk we encountered, we still had bounty accruing. In truth we spent little save on business and plain living. Our wedding and feast had been our grandest indulgence. But, as I recall the evening I was introduced to the girls, I did make the perfunctory husbandly motions of being involved.

“So, Cwenburh, how is our treasury?”

“Oh, very well, Husband. But I lament your soreness—your hand will not last much longer. So we must save.”

“And rightly done it would be. Maybe we can sell these two imps to Danes when we reach the coast. As fair-skinned girls they would bring much.”

This was approximately how I concluded the moment, as aged memory serves. It was my way, and Cwenburh’s, to bring resolve to potential conflict with humor. What did it accomplish to sound a matter and raise ire when it was clearly ordained by God what should happen?

The twins were named Matilda and Elesa and had not been Christened because of fears surrounding their heritage. The scourge leading to their mother’s demise had not completely dissipated. Despite this, when a calmer day arrived, Cwenburh decided it was time for them to take Holy Water, for cursed agues take little ones so rapidly.

It was a few months after taking them in, just prior to the festival and market of St. Luke’s Day²⁹ at great Abington. She had begun negotiating for a personage to administer the Holy Water through the offices of a town priest. I should have intervened, but hoped it might go uneventfully.

He at once brought up their parentage.

“Since these are not yours, Daughter, whose are they? It is important to the Holy Father these Innocents’ parentage was not product of sin or heresy.”

In truth the more his holy and personal offices were compromised to christen such babes, the higher his benefice would be in performing the sacrament. These fees were non-cloistered holy men’s entire means of making coin, which often supplied the ample demands of good living, frequently including wife and family.

Herself already had her fill of corrupt or righteous churchman, so negotiations degenerated into ill feelings and words to match. Events did not go smoothly.

By the time the wardens came to me escorting Cwenburh and our twins—for I was at work erecting our pavilions, along with our fellows—these officers were in great cheer and joyful temper, and narrated the great argumentation that had erupted to me and others. Their words held out no surprise for me.

“Indeed, Master Cuthwin, it was a great day! This wife of yours told the greedy fuck that for all she knew His Graciousness the Bishop was their father. So there will be no christening there, by God!”

There was indeed a great hew and cry among the parish clergy and word spread with glee among folk preparing for fair and market.

Cwenburh was in our wagon, and I found her taking a cup of ale—dabbing a bit of bread in it, and treating both the twins and Eadrig, who as always begged for a morsel. Her nose was still filled with fire, and she did not care if there would now be a fine involved and possible punishment.

“Anyone come here bold enough to punish me, and I will hurl boiling water or pee over them. I did nothing less than unloose deserved scolding upon a thief.”

It was with pride, God help me, that I saw fire in her. The right nature of her instincts could never be extinguished. So I partook of a brief repast with her while her raging spirit soothed.

The aftermath I could soundly handle.

The wardens would be eventually back, I knew, and would carry warrant from the Undersheriff, or perhaps directly from His Grace the Bishop. This great cleric held charter of many local soke and his own proud demesne, though charter for the market and fair was held by Father Abbot of great Abington Abbey.

I took immediate occasion to personally visit our treasury—for the end of it would be paying the required fine for the incident. What I saw there delivered a sound punch to my middle—testimony to Herself’s understatement and frugality.

“Great God! Cwenburh. We are rich!”

“Husband, you know nothing of money. We are but modestly kept, by the Grace of God. Edsil the Butcher has three times that, God be Praised.”

As it turned, our means were more than sufficient to overcome the twin’s dilemma with Christening. I turned my attentions for remedy of the twin’s problem to the cloistered world of the venerable Abbey, a world so like Peterborough I took to its ways as a hound to meat.

I knew those who lived by The Rule in Cloister often looked upon uncloistered parish clerics with scorn. Indeed, Cwenburh’s recent conflict met with sympathy when I contacted one of the Brothers. This soul in turn sounded the matter with the Abbey Sacrist. Within days—during St. Luke’s good festival—we withdrew to a small chapel ancillary to the walls of the Abbey of Abington. There, the Innocents Matilda and Elesa took the Holy Waters and made us joyful indeed, God’s Will be done.

We were a family of like christened souls, and were all content. Prayer of thanks was made to Our Savior and to St. Luke, who was the patron saint of scribes. By this time, I was twenty-eight years of age, and indeed Cuthwin the Scribe.

During the years following the commencement of King Edward’s rule (1042), there occurred a great famine and scourge of boils and ague countrywide. For the first time I saw want and misery bring low an entire country. Though strong walls and flooded row-ditches may stop an invasion of mortals, nothing stops famine and disease. What began during winter in the south, swept north as fast as a draft of fever through the warming seasons.

Animals died by the thousand-fold and prices for bread were driven so high it became impossible to buy. A great oven-like heat and drought locked the country, and the grain crops with others failed, and finally fairs and markets came to all but a halt.

A most miserable pile of vegetables and poorest quality spelt-bread was costly, and soon our family treasury was almost empty. The great flesh we had put on in the good times—nearly ten years of it—went away in autumn and winter.

As I recall, a sester of wheat cost somewhere around sixty pence. Hence, wheat and finer grains, and their products, were beyond reach of ordinary folk, and certainly the poorer among us.

A shilling bought little or less at market. What grew cultivated or raised upon croft was virtually no more. Beasts of field and forest, as well as God’s bounty from tree and shrub were so hungrily taken, even they were driven high in price or trade.

Fate trapped us upon the Welsh marches in Ludlow, for there the disease took our draft animals, as it did most our begang fellows. What few fairs and markets remained south and east were shuttered. So as the Holy Book teaches, “Whether a tree falls to the South or North, the place where it falls, there will it lie.”

So we remained the year and then some at fateful Ludlow. It was a time when we became instructed in the terror of unmet needs.

For a while such disaster bade well for Ahulf the Broker, and indirectly benefited Cyrus the Great, for that year they kept to the same circuit as we. Yet even after a while, Ahulf had nothing to buy or any means to pay in the event a customer offered him an advantageous item.

“That man would buy a Saint’s toenail, and sell it as an arm bone,” Cyrus would joke. Cyrus’s wife and children were in the south, and he was desperate to stand with them during these times. The larger the town or city, the worse the times were, for many people were living close-packed; these times brought on even more demons and ill-tempers.

Because of this, Cyrus risked the long trip south a few days after Michelmas, which indeed was a dismal time by contrast to all the Michelmas days I’d known previous.

Ahulf, knowing that without Cyrus, outright disaster would come upon all his diverse businesses, therefore left with Cyrus, the great man towing everything in a pull-cart. Like so many sorry souls, when Ahulf and Cyrus set out south, the road swallowed them whole.

We never saw either again, and years later heard from Cyrus’s wife that when he left for the north with our begang, prior to the famine, that was the last she saw of her ‘giant.’

I often prayed for God to have mercy on their souls.

The winter in Ludlow was harsher than in the more southerly Winchester, plus at risk of raids from nearby Wales. The Welshmen were always on keen lookout for advantage upon we Saxons whom they hated dearly. But that winter was cruel; snow and ice locked the town, and with famine atop it, people began to die, most from the cold.

In the midst of this misery was His Grace, the Bishop of Ludlow. This was the same red-headed cleric who took us prisoner, hanged Alfred-of-Aylesbury, then deceived his older brother, His Eminence the Archbishop of Hereford. We hardly held him in reverence or hope of kindness. If not for the cleverness of Sidroc-the-Old, we would have all been slaves for all His Grace intended.

His Grace’s vast blackstone residence was an opulent eye in this storm, and at its rear door town-folk would go for used trenchers and any scraps tossed from it each Compline.

Remembering her time at wild crafting, Cwenburh, weather permitting, children in tow, would head out of town to glean from fields anything to grind down into flour; especially prized were acorns in the woods. This source lasted until she and other women encountered His Grace’s men. They drove the women from the woods, occasionally breaking bone or inflicting contusion.

His Grace’s pigs had priority to fatten on their usual autumn fare of prime acorn.

The womenfolk turned to gleaning in hedgerows for herbs, roots, nettles, and wild grasses. I was, God be praised, able to contribute through occasional small tasks of my craft; my customers came solely during these harsh times from His Grace’s household, which galled me, may God forgive.

These I insist pay me in foodstuffs, no matter how meager. My payment would, I guessed, have to be stolen by them from within, but I prayed for forgiveness if this was so. Even a joint well-gnawed was good for soup when boiled long enough.

Roots, ordinarily scorned, were like gold during the sharp edges of winter. And that winter was the cruelest of any. Worse, fuel for any fire began to become historical. When any ague and boils struck, death was almost predetermined.

Our shelter was two of our pavilions made into one, braced against the outside walls of the town close to one of four gates. The River Teme, which quickly froze over, was before us, along with the stone bridge crossing. A pitiless wind blew down it from the harsh mountains of Wales.

Early on I was compelled to resort to cudgel to protect our cart from being broken apart for fuel by others, desperate—who already had burned everything burnable to keep warm. At that point, they still feared serious injury over cold.

They were fearful and perhaps ignorant of how the woods and hedgerows must be daily gleaned. Even those who labored thus found meager reward. All energy possible would be spent for the tiniest bit of fuel to be used sparingly in shelter, whatever it might be.

Finally, the burden of seeing children die of the cold and want of food turned the folk outside the town walls, as well as inside, to heinous, desperate wrath. As always, the Evil One fishes the most troubled waters.

Initially this rage was visited against us strangers who had become stranded at Ludlow. Seeing the turn of the blood’s temperature, I had quickly relinquished our cart to the bedeviled crowds of men and women. A tiny wedge of our shelter, by giving them the cart, went unharmed. But how long might that last?

Since no one had food, and quickly anything burnable had been consumed, strangers were no longer the limit to this wrath.

Both his Grace’s residences and two of Ludlow’s church residences came under siege.

Terror resided everywhere. Desperate to control the mob, His Grace’s thanes and their diverse men rode out from his residence visiting stark violence upon the rioters, for their Godless transgressions reaped pitiless revenge. But such was their extreme of hunger that even while death blows fell upon them, other thanes were dragged from their horses, their beasts killed and hacked up for meat in the midst of things.

Because of two separate such episodes of rioting, by the time spring came upon us, many widows and orphaned children had died, and little hope could be held out for our future. All life was now in ugly flux.

But with the sun, the River Teme thawed, and with the great river returning to life, its bounty began to stir. Where the river was navigable, the `ability for a poor boatman to come and go was now possible.

Our lesson in the misery of want continued, however. Now His Grace decided it was not enough to rain violent control on people. The severest justice of the church must also be visited on those who rioted. Several of his housecarls and household folk were killed and maimed during the upheavals, and a half-dozen churchmen and their families assaulted—their homes completely ransacked for anything of value. One deacon had his brain pan caved and now lay fish-brained.

So on days leading up to the Festival of the venerable St. Patrick, the trials and hangings began.

Dozens of executions occurred each day on the direct order of His Grace. Even those in positions of authority viewed their continuance excessive. Finally, the Undersheriff came and dictated a letter to me, circumventing any Ludlow churchmen. It was to His Eminence’s Secretary in Hereford, who was his cousin. By this it was hoped His Eminence, of supposedly a kinder nature than his younger brother, would order mercy shown.

Only then would order and peace return, for much repair had to be made.

When Cwenburh suggested a price, the Undersheriff responded gruffly that I would do it gratis or we might all end up being hanged.

Despite this ham-fisted treatment, he was known as a right, God-keeping officer of the town, and was desperate for order.

In fact, it was his oldest son—a lad known for great feats of speed afoot—who would run the entire twenty leagues to Hereford in one bound, as it were. I was told the letter would reach His Eminence’s Secretary’s hand within six hours times, such was the prowess of the young man.

His Eminence did respond, requesting his brother to show God’s mercy. Sadly, however, not with the speed by which he was requested, so many more died during the days before and after Saint Patrick’s Festival.

With the return of wild fowl and fish in the River Teme, His Grace’s housecarls became ever-vigilant to poachers, hanging some caught. All fish, fowl, and eel belonged to His Grace or His Eminence’s thanes.

But desperate people were many and the country—the Welsh marches—were wild and rugged. The press of urgency makes men clever. I benefited, for being Cuthwin the Scribe, no one suspected my earlier craft on the fens and along the river Nene. Hence, at night when I sneaked out, I was able to tend snare and trap, yet was never suspected, and Cwenburh had the good sense never to appear better off than others. Even the humble muskrat makes good broth, and by and by the spring advanced, and the weather returned to center.

Business, at first meager, resumed. I remember transcribing various ‘2-Pence Letters’ (as Cwenburh came to call them) for local churchmen, which are small letters taken straight to vellum—brief scripts.

In one, a subdeacon told a distant cousin that many wretched people dwelled in the demesne and wetlands and they were possessed by demons. These fiends compelled weaker souls to steal His Grace’s and His Eminence’s creatures to sustain their sinful, corrupt bodies and families.

When he left with his letter—grousing about me charging a poor churchman for such a simple act—Cwenburh and I were barely able to resist a prideful chuckle. At that day’s meal we enjoyed cold grayling and broth, and would this evening.

“This day, Cuthwin, grace said before our meal will pray for the redemption of these fornicators and blasphemers who pass for Our Savior’s servants.”

When I admonished her for painting all churchman with a common brush—that she must show respect for the Holy Church, she persisted: “If that red-headed murderer is part of the Holy Church, then oxen recite gospels and roosters say the Holy Words.”

It was another of her condemnations for His Grace, whom she loathed more than anyone else.

It was during the week of Whitsunday³⁰ that we and a few other followers of the begang managed to muster enough resources together to hire two former housecarls as protection. We would make our way from Ludlow while the weather was fair.

Ludlow was a low and miserable place after the retributions for the riots. Though we, as a group, made friends there, we also made enemies within the residence of His Grace and other manors of his sworn men. We who followed the traveling life were suspect in their eyes.

“Our Savior fed hosts of the poor on a few fish and loaves of bread, and I give these folk more than that”: This thought was commonly attributed to His Grace, as in what he told his thanes and housecarls.

There were only a half dozen of us remaining to form a train, and indeed we were greeted by an armed thane and his men on our way out the road that followed the River Teme. They squared off with our armed escort and we menfolk who carried only cudgel and haypitch.

“His Grace gave you thieves no leave to depart his precincts. You owe him rent and fines for his creatures which you stuffed in your fat paunches—poached from his Grace’s demesne and waters. And he will have it before you leave, goddamn you all.”

But one of our guards was armed with a Pict short-bow, a lethal and fast weapon close-in; furthermore, he was greatly prized for his accuracy and extraordinary speed. He had come at a dear price, but once paid, was loyal.

All eyes were on that lethal bow. The leather-crafter, our spokesman, was anxious for peace, as were all of us, so he said, “As true Christians, what you say is untrue. Have those in power not sent you into harm’s way without care to your well-being nor your families? Do you not see this?”

The thane was mounted, along with two of his men—the others afoot, like us, save for two of the donkeys who pulled our two carts. But their mounts—all of the wretched animals—had bones and ribs showing, and it was a miracle they had not been consumed during hard times. They could barely manage any burden at all.

The entire thrust of this outrage was coin, and we all knew that if the thane returned without anything, he would in turn be fined or somehow docked items of value. Why else would he come on such a fool’s mission?

So all of us in conference decided we could muster four shilling and a few pence together to resolve this peacefully. While we talked our bowman kept a ‘kestrel’s mean eye’ on His Grace’s men—and them on the bow. Our counter offer was taken at once, but the leather-crafter added wisely, gesturing to me, “And I would inform those necessary that if they pursue this falsehood about us, we will dispatch a letter to none other than Archbishop Eadsige-of-Canterbury. In it we will inform him of His Grace’s outrages, and provide proof of them.”

All in the land knew of this great prelate’s loathing for the brothers His Grace and His Eminence. Also, that Archbishop Eadsige consecrated King Edward and had great sway with him.

My craft as scribe, in an ironic pass, became equal to that of a bowman with a Pict short bow, for His Holiness Eadsige had a hundred thanes and each of them a hundred villains. These would willingly ride west to reclaim in the name of the King all demesne and soke in holding to His Eminence and corrupt mitered brother, then skin each alive.

In this memorable way we left Ludlow, and to this day I have never returned there, initially for the bitterness of memory and also for lack of reason. Years later, the Norman invaders made short end of His Grace, Bishop of Ludlow.

The years immediately following the cursed famine, so-called by folk who lived through it, saw a slow recovery to life as it was before. We followed the begang, of course, for what other life did we have? But it was a lean circuit, beginning with Cwenburh and me carrying many of our necessaries upon our backs.

The twins and Eadrig followed, and if fortunate enough, they could ride in the tiny cart drawn by a single donkey—our entire company.

In my view the aftermath of the cursed famine was worse than the event itself. In addition to the lean times, necessaries such as an armed escort were not possible. Further, the road, towns, and even small crofts were choked with orphaned children and children and mothers with no support.

For these the famine continued.

Where would they live? What would they eat? Who would care for them? The healthier children were subject to all sorts of predations. Even those with a mother surviving who had not deserted were hard-pressed to survive.

Rogue bands of cotsets and diverse criminals wandered; sheriffs and undersheriffs were slow to eliminate them or did nothing at all. This human misery went unnoticed by landed thanes, their tenants and subtenants. Indeed, often they took part in the victimization of the poor and wretched as it offered them a plentiful supply of nearly unpaid labor.

Some of these miserable souls gathered around prominent monasteries, such as Peterborough or Shrewesbury, and the monks there dealt with them as they were able because of their sworn observance before God and the rule of St. Benedict. Yet even then some Abbeys and Monasteries, may God forgive me for recollecting this, did nothing but drive these wretched souls away. City and town clerics were less help, and great men of diverse elevations did little or nothing.

In the far reaches of the land, balls of fire and scourges of flames beset bad and good alike. These catastrophes were guided by the vengeance of God who was punishing the evil amongst the faithful.

But in recollecting these times from my own personal observations, I emphasize that no general statement about charity towards the poor can be fairly made about any specific persons or group. Every party and group had both merciful and cruel souls. None were exempt from the sin of selfishness and violation of our Savior’s most central act, that of mercy and charity towards the poor.

For those traveling between fairs and markets, it was a dangerous time, and often it was necessary to stay in one place—or, at best, travel shorter routes to poorly chartered fairs or markets. So many adversely struck by the cursed famine businesses remained poor.

And these times were personally devastating to kind Cwenburh who witnessed especially the homeless children with profound sorrow and spiritual distress. Though always braced outwardly, I knew her toughness was powerfully tried. We constantly took homeless wanderers under our wing, sharing what we had when in fact we had little ourselves—our own children wanting for necessities.

“How might we recover if our resources are constantly drained by our charity? Look at us, Cwenburh!”

“We must do as best we can, Cuthwin, through God’s help and the words of our Savior.”

She weighed no more than six stone³¹ and had not regained her former fine flesh. It would have been useless to argue with her and add to our already difficult times. Our own children took to giving charity as the water bug does to the pond, and especially Eadrig, a serious child. He was always somber of purpose and possessed Matilda’s spirit by blood and Cwenburh’s by example and love.

The twins Matilda and Elesa, however, would have tried the patience of Holy St. Nicholas Himself. Many times—not just now but throughout the troublesomeness of their childhood—Cwenburh was taken with great temper, hiking up her kirtle and chasing them about with great oaths and a switch. And God help me, I would intercede on their behalf, despite their guilt and mischievous natures, and all three of us would occupy troubled seas that day.

I remember, fondly of course, Eadrig lecturing the twins on better comportment for Christian young ladies—them listening intently, always intending reform. Waifs traveling with us would experience these scenes with awe, not remembering such times in their own lives.

Many a night following the cursed famine, our quarters—wherever they were—appeared more a camp of wanderers than of a scribe and his family.

It was close to the eighth year of King Edward’s reign³² when we made winter quarters near Wilton that Cwenburh came in contact with Wilton Abbey and Abbess Herelufu and her dedicated nuns. This Abbey was richly endowed of lands and means through chaste Edith, wife of the King.

This Abbey was great for its charities in number, magnitude, and nature, and this was because of the thought and strength of Mother Herelufu, herself a daughter of a great Earldamon. And it was through this powerful Abbess’s ideas of charity, many of them new and held in dubious regard by the Abbot of Wilton, that Almoner Gunnhilda entered our life.

By this time, we had recovered most of our former economy and health. Eadrig was part of my activities, having learned to write a good hand from myself, almost as easily as teaching him the ways of mending a simple leather strap. In truth I was proud to instruct and to watch him learn so readily.

I, for one, would watch in wonder as he wrote with either hand almost equally well, for I had not seen that, even in the Scriptorium at Peterborough. Further, he had over time scrutinized my three priceless books I managed to buy piecemeal over the years: King Alfred’s Psalter in our language, the venerable King’s translation of The Consolation of Philosophy by the great Boethius, and diverse excerpts from the Bible in Anglo-Saxon, Norman, and the language of Rome.

Through good and bad times, I built these up, for a man whose business and love is language, it is unwise to languish in mind. So at just eleven years of age, our boy was an eager and important part of our means on the begang. All would have proceeded without event if not for this first winter at Wilton and Wilton Abbey, in reality two abbeys in one, both apart.

From this unlikely and most unexpected direction conflict came into my life, and I was not equal to it, may God forgive me and those whom I afflicted.

Gunnhilda at Almoner-of-Wilton Nunnery sought help from womenfolk who followed the begang and wintered there. She was an aggressive, resolute officer, and most effective when dealing outside cloister.

Often with a pair of monks struggling to follow in her wake—for nuns who didn’t occupy office never went outside cloister—she would follow a route in the pursuit and assigned purpose of Mother Abbess’s charities.

In these efforts, Gunnhilda required womenfolk to separate from the nuns in the Abbey. They were needed to help with the dozens of female waifs now growing up in a series of buildings abutting the Abbey.

“And not just well-born girls, but any under God’s skies. Just think what otherwise might befall them if not for Mother Herelufu’s ware.³³”

Cwenburh was Almoner Gunnhilda’s foremost recruit. That first winter—when the ware was in its development—there was much to do. During it I lost the labors of Cwenburh in my growing list of winter projects.

For now I was reserving longer and more thoughtful commissions for the months when I was in one place. A most important craft was in psalters for more monied freedmen of station and soke, though usually only for town and city clerics who could read and required several personalized copies.

One day Gunnhilda brushed into the small shop I rented, almost knocked over Eadwig in her wake, and in her brusque way announced, “Mother Abbess needs a letter sent directly to the King Himself, and you shall have the great honor of doing it.”

I told her at once I did not get involved in the doings of great men and women, and she must seek out loftier craftsmen than a mere begang scribe.

“Mother Abbess nor I nor our sisters write at all, or expertly enough. She orders it, and it is not your purview to deny it, Cuthwin-of-Alnwick. You and yours live and breathe on her demesne and at her holy offices.”

“And, Reverend Mistress, it is because of the well-being of my wife and children I do not involve myself in the acts and business of great people. I am a freedman, I pay my taxes to Mother Abbess and Wilton Abbey, and I am an honest, God-fearing man in good standing. I must do what is best for my family.”

Then after spitting fire and smoke, she was gone, vowing great retribution. Eadwig thought a moment in his calm way, for he was studying the Norman language in order to expand our services, and said, “She is a very overpowering Holy Woman, Father, is she not?”

At Vespers there were few words between Cwenburh and me, and later as she administered the warm stones to my writing hand, we avoided eye contact. Eadwig and the twins felt the discomfort in the air. I knew that after prayers at Compline when the children would be put to bed, a questioning wind would commence.

In sounding our differences, not unusual with us, we did not become disrespectful of each other’s offices, for after that first year together, we never repeated those youthful follies.

But the truth was that by using me, Mother Abbess was attempting to get around Father Abbot, and thereby the Bishop of Salisbury, conducting some sort of intrigue. The three were at constant odds and loathed each other endlessly; that was the truth of it.

“But Cuthwin, you were rude to the Mistress Almoner, and she of such great charity and giving to the little ones.”

“Dear Cwenburh, once you become a link in the chain of such powerful people, even if only by simple obedience, you risk destruction and ruin, and that is a fact. In the name of God and Our Savior you have seen that yourself.”

“Do you resent so much of my time spent away from here? Is that part of this, for you are always so respectful and circumspect with Holy people?”

And, this was the first time this issue arose—this fulcrum which could bring friction between us. Cwenburh’s sense of charity was powerful and giving, and may God forgive me for impeding it, no matter how lovingly.

By denying her question—and I did—I did little to convince her; also, wisps of guilt nibbled at the kernel of her question—if there be some truth in it.

Yet I was a student of events which are often like crumbs—leading in a certain direction where their eventual destination can be anticipated. The more keen the student, the shorter the trail of crumbs needed to be.

I did not want this situation to arise again.

At once I decided not to winter at Wilton again, even though—at the confluence of two rivers, and kindly accommodated by weather and resources—it was a good place. Returning instead next winter to Winchester would eliminate the matter. So I decided to bide the issue, easing through it with as much peace as possible, and—above all—to veer out of harm’s way and keep our family free of thorny issues.

Within a week of the encounter with Reverend Almoner, I found myself looking at an elderly woman whom I knew to be a non-cloistered factotum for Mother Abbess. She was an elfin woman with wide blue eyes that locked on her subject with a mixture of wonder and craft.

“You do such wonderful work, Master Scribe. It is God’s gift. Mother Abbott needs discuss this gift with you. Might you attend after Sext?”

It was less than a week after Reverend Almoner’s visit, and I was not unprepared for its consequences—Mother Abbess rarely requested and was never denied when she did.

A scribe’s wishes are nothing compared to the power of an Abbess or Abbot.

She received me in her residence: One portion given to her public necessities, the other inside cloister.

She sat on a stool working at her spindle; the room was unadorned, keeping with her avowed demeanor of humility and plain living. I knelt. She rose and made the sign over me. I kissed the crucifix that hung on a long, simple braided rope around her neck.

Abbess Herelufu was a comely woman, cousin to Queen Edith, and of great family, often discussed with pride by those at Wilton for Edith was raised there. These were influential and wealthy people with concerns not of ordinary folk, free or otherwise.

She signed a dismissive gesture to her factotum and we were alone. She bade me to rise. Abbess Herelufu sat back down, and did not resume her work, but looked me over as a wife would a plump chicken.

There was something—a tiny motion—it might have been a shrug and sigh; then she did pick up her work, but rested it in her lap

“Abbot Denewulf remembers you from Peterborough where he was Prior, years ago.”

I felt as if kicked in the middle—Denewulf was a common name, and I had foolishly never expected the Prior of Peterborough—so far away from Wilton—to be the same as the feared Abbot here. I tried to keep my composure, but she must have seen her news struck home.

“Abbot Denewulf wants me to turn our poor waifs out. And Reverend Abbot makes abundantly clear to His Grace the Bishop that offering shelter and charity is one thing, but raising them from girls to womanhood out of cloister invites sin and diverse evil doings. In short, he opposes the ware—holding the idea of a ware being against the order of things, hence God’s will.”

She smiled a bit, then did shrug.

“Father Abbot has great influence, and despite the King’s charter making specifically ours a double monastery, Father Abbot persists in his position. That is, as being superior to my office and all weaker women who stand before God and Holy Benedict’s God-given Rule.”

So this was the argument—it was always something like such amongst the influential at court. More germane to me, the severe Reverend Denewulf would, of course, have told her everything concerning myself directly or indirectly. This would certainly include Cwenburh’s bondage, escape, and my dealings at the great Monastery, including owing money.

But I knew common Hundred law relented a debt after so many years, and indeed those years were double-passed. However, a bonded woman never was free of, in Cwenburh’s sad case, the nature of her birth—as daughter of a slave and her owner.

She allowed me time to follow this trail of crumbs to its proper end—not needing to say what I must conclude: Cwenburh’s long-ago status the two of us never discussed because of its thorny and intractable nature. Now it could be alleviated or just as readily revealed. Cwenburh and I were in her pincers.

“So, Cuthwin, to gently explain Reverend Almoner: The letter, before God and Our Savior, is not to the King but to his august consort, Gentle Edith. But true enough, it needs be of the highest quality and of the most somber nature. My gratitude for your craft will be in a Writ of Manumission for sweet and charitable Cwenburh, your wife. As elected Abbess, it is within my power to do that without prejudice.”

“And, Mother Abbess, when must the letter to the Queen be completed?”

“I set out for Court within the week, God willing.”

It was all done as the powerful get it done, by compulsory order or its close sibling. Such events are conducted above and beyond the feelings of ordinary folk who spend years learning their crafts—ultimately, they are on the beck and call of their betters when and how they require them.

Contrary to all my instincts I crafted a fine letter which evaded the purview of the Bishop His Grace and Father Abbot. I counted the blessed weeks when I would be away from Abbess Herelufu for good.

Some days later Cwenburh—who had been very pleased at me for relenting and crafting the letter—greeted me after my work. She, I assumed, remained ignorant of the reason I did so. Though a holiday, I had worked beginning at Prime, for I had a backload of work.

The children, including the serious Eadrig, had gone to a Saint’s Day show with the baker’s wife and her children; in fact, we were to attend later.

Feeling the balm of the warm stones creep around my wrist and hand, I looked over and saw her Writ of Manumission on a block—an edge of approaching spring light illuminating it.

“Mother Abbess has freed me, Cuthwin. I am a free woman.”

“Yes, it is God’s will, and a joy to me.”

“It is in your hand, but witnessed by His Grace and Ealdorman³⁴ Fyndson.”

“They applied their blessed hands after I had crafted the document. I do many writs, as you know. But that was a special joy to me. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Oh, it was all of that.”

She sat next to me, not busying herself with readying to go, and she seemed anything but joyful. I looked at this woman who had been with me constantly now for a decade plus five—since she had been an impish girl. Her intelligence was great. Yet those outside, I guessed, saw her as a capable, compassionate, busy wife and business partner, and she was.

But her intelligence was her own and subtle. I perhaps allowed myself at times to forget it as well. She was never slow observing causes and effects. At once I knew she either smelt the foul odor of the deed’s truth, or actually knew it, then she passed along a fact most alarming: “I was visited by Reverend Prior yesterday. He says that Eadrig’s prowess has gained the attention of Reverend Guthrith, and most of all Abbot Denewulf. He made special mention of your masterful decorative hand at letters. This means, Cuthwin, Eadrig is being eyed as a possible oblate at the Abbey.”

My memory about this moment is crisp and will remain so. Brother Guthrith was Master of the Scriptorium at Wilton, and he viewed me with unblemished disapproval. I had gone against the order of things and God’s Will by learning my craft, and worse—plying it in trade.

But certainly in the eyes of Father Abbot—enabling the Abbess to circumvent the normal order of things was another, fouler matter. Taking Eadrig to tonsure would add to his motive.

And Reverend Guthrith? He was a cruel and inept monk, and I would sooner Eadrig work in a watermill than under his eye. Anyone with any sense knew this as well. Abbot Denewulf’s vengeance had begun. He would have Eadrig.

All thoughts of attending a Saint Day celebration drained from me in a moment, leaving a void.

“And what did you tell the Reverend Prior, Cwenburh?”

“First, you tell me if writing the letter to the Queen, which has started these troubles, was done against your will—somehow using my long-ago status as lever?”

Her eyes went to the writ—mine followed. She knew the answer; my policy of avoiding the doings of great people was absolute—then, and now. And at that moment, we were seeing the wisdom of it, God forgive me for such prideful reflection.

“It was.”

She put her own hands around the warm stones—sharing with me their balm, in fact reaching further and taking mine in hers.

“Well, wise husband, Cuthwin, I told Reverend Prior to attend the stables and couple with the animals, thereby giving respite to young, powerless girl-waifs who are years from being women.”

“Oh no, Cwenburh! Jesus save us! We are lost!”

The dark business of gossip about Reverend Prior and others had it so, and God forbid, many folks in neighborhood knew it to be true.

And within the moment, I looked at this wife of mine, and her eyes—and especially the animate corners of her mouth. These informed me at once, with a sort of relief, that her tale dealt a bit of revenge upon me for excluding her from the original truth of the dealing.

“Cuthwin! You think I would do that now? No. I said nothing of merit, one way or the other. Even Reverend Mother Almoner must pretend the unseeing about that pig so averts eyes heavenward.”

So we sat there next to each other, our hands warming on the rocks, and sharing in the knowledge that we must go very soon—that the one advantage we had was freedom, plus the honest coin we had put by. And above all we had Good Eadwig and the girls to consider now.

I knew that it was God’s hand which guided us now, and would—I knew—see us safely gone from selfish minds who sowed power for selfish reasons. These mighty ones enjoyed benefiting from the good but passed any bad to those who worked day to day, year to year. They saw this spinelessness as God’s ordained right.

It was that way then and it is the same now.

God favored us by the King holding court far distant from Wilton at Sussex, and Edith his noble consort was with him. So though it was known that Mother Abbess carried a letter to Lady Edith, and who wrote it for her, nothing was known with precision about what it conveyed, save myself and Mother Abbess.

As I had learned on my first job of scribe—with Sidroc-the-Old—adherence to absolute confidence with all clients was necessary if I were to survive as a scribe, or at all. Even to this very day, seventy years after writing that letter, I adhere to that swearing, though it originates from myself.

But I knew the contents of the letter would not alleviate ill-will between powerful figures at Wilton, but increase it. So in view of the good fortune of this delay, I decided to launch upon the begang early that year. We needed to get clear of this snarl of acrimony.

Further, since we occupied the demesne of Mother Abbott specified to her by Royal Charter, my coming and going was technically beyond Father Abbott. He would surely keep me pegged to him until he knew precisely what was in the letter and had his revenge. The Abbey’s Scriptorium benefiting from the gifted Eadrig was only, to him, a side benefit.

But I would rather face the perennial fires before allowing that blackguard to have my beloved adopted son.

We traveled far north that year on the great Ermine Street Road, heading for far York where we would commence our business on St. George’s Day,³⁵ which fell well after Easter. That year it was maintained we would do well to begin there and work south until the cold fairs and festivals of autumn.

It was an opportune time for attending business at northern fairs and such, for in the long-ago wake of the cursed famine, Northumberland had made the greatest rebound. Further, as I traveled back south, I could attend letters-to-family and business to see they were dropped off at appropriate places, which Cwenburh added to their fee, may God forgive us.

“It is not cheap, venturing throughout the country,” she would tell our clients she judged to be somewhat more monied than most.

Our traveling family, as we craftspeople termed each other, was large, for many were eager to strike out for richer grounds. We made a great adventure of it for the children, and Eadrig was full of facts about it—he being our traveling wise man in such things.

“Uncle, they maintain that sullen, vengeful dragons fly up and down the great rivers in Northampton.”

And he would raise great commotion amongst the twins by drawing such creatures on discarded pieces of vellum, thusly his superior hand provided much entertainment for the children of the train and also the adults. First and last, he was a boy of nearly thirteen now, and would have his sport with youngsters, as God allowed to those enjoying the carefree years of youth.

But viewing these drawings also provided great increase in scrutiny of Selvig and Essox, our guards—the former a grand old warrior, and the latter a clever dwarf, as alert as the hedge stoat.

They spoke a strange tongue, were kinsmen, yet got angry if anyone asked if they were Danes. Whatever language they spoke, they were as fluid as robins, for their Saxon was poor indeed—Selvig’s most rudimentary. He had fought in many armies and places, was grandly illustrated with scars and gouges, and swore by his axe and buckler.

At Huntingdon we paused over a long holiday in celebration of two saints. I returned to our pavilion to find great solemnity greeting me instead of the usual joy of kinship.

Eadrig sat in the corner showing his psalter to the twins once again, reading to them quietly one of the psalms. He had crafted the smallish volume over several years in memorial of his mother Matilda.

And it was none of your apprentice work, but a masterpiece for any age. To think a young craftsman, not quite out of apprenticeship, would produce such a fine volume. As mentor during its creation, I was enormously proud.

“Cuthwin, your nephew has a question for you, of which I would not discuss with him, and strongly disapprove of. You must intercede.”

Cwenburh was not often angry with Eadrig, in fact rarely so. But she was now, and out of a corner of my eye I glimpsed a broken switch, and saw a welt upon the side of Eadrig’s neck. This was a most extraordinary situation. Eadrig was calm, looked from his reading and wondered if the twins would fetch us sweet saint’s bread the baker made that morning. This was indeed a task beloved to the imps.

He gave them a few coins, and they went off. He knew their absence was wise at the moment—always a precocious lad.

When alone I learned at once the time had come for we three. Truth never abandons those who follow the way of Our Savior, which certainly was Eadrig’s way.

“Uncle, I have for many years heard that my mother was of uncertain morals; in fact, the word harlot is applied. Is this true?”

“Husband! I will not have sweet Matilda called such, in the name of our Savior who values above all forgiveness. She gave you life, for all your knowledge, Eadrig!”

Wrath was fully in her nose, and it would not do at this moment to have this out before faithful Cwenburh—it just was not in her nature to allow a beloved friend be maligned, even by one to whom she was devoted.

I asked her to excuse us with all patience, and Eadwig and I went for a walk. We strolled out from the town’s precincts towards the countryside, in fact where an ancient watermill labored and eelmen trapped. The trees had leaved out fully—birds were returning and setting up their spaces with song. Beneath, cows bedded, chewing their cuds and slapping at the advent of insects with their tails.

It was a peaceful backdrop to what must be brought forth.

He was Matilda’s son, and I knew she would want him to know everything as he entered manhood, and this is what I did, as kindly and directly as possible. We were both people who lived by words.

Dear Matilda had saved Cwenburh’s life, and likely mine as well. And more than that, voluntarily relinquished the one she loved more than anything in the world, which was Eadwig, doing it for him and leaving him to God’s will.

I explained how innocent children—infants, after all—like Matilda are sold into slavery like spindles or swaths of cloth, and are possessed by their owner for the remainder of their life. Furthermore, how they have no choice, none whatsoever, in their lot, and do what is compelled, and without foreknowledge or prejudice.

It is what they do each day, during—in this case—a very short life and manner of survival.

When I was through, he made the sign—and called on me, at that moment, to pray with him for Matilda, and we did. I asked if he held his mother in poorer judgment knowing that truth of matters.

He seemed taken aback, as I hoped he would be, for I had come to know and love him more than any man could a natural-born son, thank God.

“Oh, no, Uncle. Of course not. I will always value and love her memory; if anything, even more now.”

At that most inappropriate moment, even a poorer memory than mine would recall the boisterous interruption: Two eelmen became involved in a shoving match over several sticks of eels. During a Saint’s celebration they should not have been working, but despite this, were extracting God’s bounty from the stream to sustain them in their cups which they had abundantly indulged.

Eadrig went over calling for peace between them, in the name of the Holy Saint, and calmed their donkey, who had joined in the fracas by braying its lament, refusing to accept the loutish eelmen’s burden.

They were coarse with Eadrig, who returned to my side and shrugged it all off, and we proceeded back to town. He and Cwenburh, of course, would later embrace, for the great heat would have diminished in her blood.

And it was God’s Word which provided me a future truth, first seen by Cwenburh. For several weeks, she lamented same during our most private moments. But it was on this pivotal day, while stopping by the river to study a kingfisher diving for small fish that I overcame my fears: “Eadrig, I think we will soon lose you.”

“Oh, I would never abandon you, Uncle or Auntie.”

“I know, but you must. Your God-given gifts are such that you cannot peddle letters from pillar to post the rest of your life working for pence. God calls you to greater things, and you know His truth. You have asked about great scriptoria often.”

And we traveled back to our pavilion, my arm around him, knowing that we must now plan for this, and do it well.

Since this great adventure north would take us through Peterborough, it was incumbent on me to do more than simply ply old memories there. I knew that Eadrig’s best course must be taken with the finest advice available, and such advice must be sought. Peterborough was the one place I knew it to be available.

I had kept close track of events at Peterborough Monastery and township, natural for me since I was more of Peterborough than Alnwick, my birthplace. And in the years of my business, which was the exchange of information over distances, it was easier for me than others.

I knew my teacher and master at livery, Gilbert, had died years previous, and that most others had too, save a few. And one of these, praise God, was Father Abbot Elsin Himself. Years before he had gratefully withdrawn to the life of an ordinary cenobite. Citing infirmities, he resigned as Abbot, retired to private quarters in advancing age, and resumed the contemplations dear to him.

But the fact he was a venerated and influential counselor throughout western Christendom pursued him everywhere.

It was fourteen years since Cwenburh and I set eyes on our native fens. By this time one would think, Eadrig, Matilda, and Elesa had grown weary of our stories there, but they claimed not, in fact urging us in the telling.

We had become quite the jongleurs. But now that everyone saw the real country of our youth, they seemed to be satisfied with our strengths as storytellers.

Our trip across the fens was only a few days past the Festival of The Annunciation.³⁶ And though spring arrived several weeks before, it was a wet time to travel. The road, never good, was troubled with streams overflowing, and bridges half-submerged by spring waters.

For all of us in train it was imperative to reach York for St. George’s Week festival. We could not take long at Peterborough.

We were not more than half-a-day in Peterborough than Cwenburh, via the quick network of gossip, was an authority on events, which of late had turned intense between Old Father Abbot and the new Abbot Leofric. The King had been consulting often with the Venerable Elsin about the current great troubles, and the aged man wanted little of this.

Hence, when spring arrived, Venerable Elsin took to his beloved fens to live simply upon a raised-reed house with one attendant. It was early for his move, for those wise to the fens knew high waters were still at hand and the ancient sage might float out to sea. Also there were few comforts—but he told all he was closest to God and his Son, Our Savior, only more in veneration to St. Guthlac, to whom he prayed thrice daily, and whose Festival Day was close at hand.³⁷

Some would assume, most tellingly the King, he cleverly designed distance from matters of the court.

When the King’s messenger found Old Abbot Elsin retired to the fens, he ordered Abbot Leofric to command the Venerable Elsin to return ‘where people who loved and cared for him could look to his needs.’

And here the conflict warmed, especially in the telling of it—for the old man was dear to the folk of Peterborough. Father Abbot would never order Venerable Elsin to do anything, his love for him was such. Lastly, and perhaps most significantly, the saintly man was leather-headed, and would not have obeyed anyway.

Hence, the week previous, two powerful Ealdormen and their party came from the King to consult Elsin and found the venerated man still upon the fens. When they went to consult, they were subject to hardship and even humiliation when one fell into muddy water and needed to be hauled out, contrary to the dignity due such great men.

Cwenburh reveled in the situation.

“Now, the fox is loosed in the yard! And Father Abbot is in great disfavor from the King.”

In the end there was no way for us to see him save to venture out, stand hopefully on the boat landing—like all such landings in the fens—blow a great horn, and hope to be recognized. Worse, evidently his attendant was known to be grumpy and contrary, even to the Ealdorman’s party.

“I think, seeing who sounded the horn, he shall pee on you,” guessed the nephew of the leathermaster, our train’s leader.

The next morning Eadwig carefully packed up his mother’s psalter, and with it a gift, which by tradition on the fens must remain secret from fellow pilgrims. We packed a great quantity of good smoked eel and bread with a tank of fresh ale.

Ours was an expectant train which traveled single-file out the dike-path, which divided three ways at the landing. All around us swallows swirled—looking for early spring repast, for these hardy spirits preceded others of their kind hoping to gain advantage over slower travelers.

Gleaming white egrets fished—looking steady-eyed at the muddy water, moving stealthily through the reeds—then of a sudden striking out, and coming up with a struggling fish. Our youngsters looked on with fixed wonder.

I listened and gazed at this long-missed panorama. It was difficult for me to keep from talking on about the old memories.

“Soon, the frogs will begin talking, even during the morning. There are great times with those.”

Several times Matilda and Elesa attempted to play in the turbid spring water which surrounded the trail with raised dikes and passages atop them. These industrious passages were crafted over generations of work by those who lived and died on the fens.

“Did gnomes or spirits build these, Mother?”

And Cwenburh fielded the dozen questions at a time the girls had, with Eadwig doing his best to help—their minds as quick and unquenchable as a tree full of rooks.

At the landing were a half-dozen shells and larger flat-boats, several more elaborate than normal—the only clue of trappings beyond the ordinary. And as with most landings, on a pole hung a great ox horn.

My excitement rose as I took the instrument, remembering the ways of its blowing.

All looked on as I took the horn, inflated myself like a bagpipe, and let fly, sounding a deep, long call—feeling pride at remembering. As the bellow of the horn faded, the stillness seemed even quieter.

We looked out on a sea of reeds, rushes, and tiny islands still not grown lush yet, but swaths of green signed early return growth. Below the rising sun, the complicated patterns of islands and channels wove their vast maze. These would puzzle any save those frequenting the byways of the fens—as movable as the tide itself over time.

It was a spring day. The clouds sailed in from the sea and a lusty brightness took hold of their edges by the rising sun—which later would dissolve them away to allow the land its full bounty.

Then we saw an object coming our way, still far from us.

And at first it was only tiny, and finally distinguishable was a boatman—one man poling along, his strokes even, unhurried—head up, alert to who waited.

All watched expectantly. He took up his pole, allowing the craft to drift towards us as he looked over this strange lot of pilgrims.

And at the moment, we both recognized each other.

“Jesus, Our Savior; is that you Frog? Do you remember me?”

“Young Cuthwin, I do indeed. Who is this horde you have brought with you?”

The girls hid behind Cwenburh; Eadwig stood straighter, yet at the moment looked to me, for I had spoken often of Frog, my greatest teacher at wildcrafting.

Frog tied off at the landing, stepped out, and we embraced; he had aged mightily, and in fact was missing two more fingers and part of an ear.

I made introductions with my family, and he took a long look at each, nodding as he absorbed each detail, his mind and eye like an osprey.

He took a breath that signaled a resigned penitent, but it seemed suspect. He gestured in all directions.

“Well, here I am. My uncle saved me from the gallows. The Undersheriff finally caught me at the traps, but Uncle Elsin used his great influence. And I had to swear on my mother’s—his sister’s—grave to serve him for five full years in good faith and obedience. No better woman than my mother lived anywhere. So see what I’ve come to. I carry on like a damned monk.”

I had not known Father Abbot was his uncle, but it went directly to those times years ago when he often asked after Frog. Frog looked Cwenburh up and down, making her blush.

“By God, Cuthwin, you have yourself a handsome wife. I stole many a fat fish from Wilfred-of-Loe’s weirs, and was the better for it, the tight-fisted bastard.”

It was the scandalous stuff. His position of contrition and penance had not ridded him of a frank tongue nor dulled his memory. Cwenburh gasped a bit, as did the girls, and then laughed under cover of her kirtle. Eadwig appraised him, and could not withhold a smile at his tart words.

Without further word, we set off; Frog poled the larger of the boats, while I did the smaller, following in his wake with Eadwig—the lad deeply and freshly astounded with every reed and backwater of the fens.

Ahead, the reeds and floating plants parted, then closed back around us; the girls and Cwenburh chatted at a high rate, and it was a wonderful time, praise God for his gift of the beautiful fens.

And soon, in more open water, we came upon the house and it was larger than most. The poles were taller, stout, and higher above the water. Plus, a yardarm extended to lift up burdens from the water, and the steps up were masterfully crafted; and sitting atop the peak of the house was a plain wooden cross.

Frog made fast at the base of the stairs.

“Himself will be overjoyed by this menagerie of plain folk you bring him. He is bored with grand people of great purpose and issue, the greedy bastards.”

As we climbed the stairs, from inside emerged Old Father Abbot—older, more stooped, and helped along with a staff, smooth with use. But his eyes had not aged a jot, and they looked at each of us as we came out onto his level, but stopped on me, and he smiled grandly.

Frog made introduction to those he wouldn’t know. We went down, all of us, on our knees so he could make the sign over us. Unlike sturdy-hearted Cwenburh, I have a too-ready way with tears and sometimes embarrass her. Yet, God forgive, the fact was, I was no gladder to see anyone else in my life outside of Cwenburh, even at those quietest times when she is starting the fire and greeting the new day with prayer, and singing gently a tune of her childhood.

It was a great morning, and soon Cwenburh was at ease, for talking with Father Abbot was like gossiping with any ordinary Saxon; indeed, that language was his favorite of the many he spoke—it flew fast and furious. And God forgive me for talking outside my place, but in truth, Father Abbot loved gossip, and would listen fondly to it—and partake briefly, until he would nod, asking forgiveness for his temporary lapse.

Then return to eager listening.

Finally, it was time for business, and he closely examined the psalter Eadwig had made—a tiny thing, lacking rich makings, but so elaborate in its doing. He was awed as others had been.

“Words of praise have preceded you, Eadwig, and they are accurate. Cuthwin, you are a great teacher, but surely this is the work of a prodigy—in miniature, may God praise.”

“If you would only bless it, Father Abbot; it would be a glory to his mother, may Our Savior forgive and ease her soul.”

“Forgive, Cuthwin? No, I think instead we should pray to forgive her murderers.”

“By Jesus, even I will say holy words over that.”

And all looked to Frog, whom we had forgotten for the moment. Eadwig handed over his psalter as Father Abbot was helped to his knees by Frog, and everyone joined in prayer as he blessed the psalter.

At Sext fatigue overcame him—by that time Himself had been awake since Lauds. He aired advice for Eadwig: “He should travel to the great Scriptorium at Monte Cassino in Italy; there is no greater place to see and learn great writings of all kinds. There writing and words are the highest praise men might commit in physical form—and accompanying art work—to the glory of God and our Savior.”

We all looked to one another—for this advice struck us as if Father Abbot had suggested Eadwig venture to the sun or moon. No one could speak—how might I respond? Finally, despite its source, I raised the obvious with Father Abbot: “But Father Abbot, a young boy going that distance with little means, the ways of the world—and of the roads—are fraught with death and injury every league of the way, God Forgive me for saying. We love the boy too much for that.”

He nodded, took the last bit of ale, and gestured to Frog, and with a bit of a shrug—in fact, at the moment I thought he might ask for more ale, “Frog will take him. He is expert in the way of the road, and I have a most urgent letter for His Holiness in Rome to be carried by the King’s escort who will soon arrive here to take it. The two will accompany them. Then he looked sadly to Cwenburh adding, “. . . and Mother Cwenburh, he must part from you very soon, as necessity demands.”

Frog took this in with no more note than he might an errand into Peterborough. “And I needs carry a weapon, Uncle. King’s escorts are brainless sots.”

Father Abbot closed his eyes for a moment, as if Frog’s harsh practicalities might vanish. He looked at Eadwig, reached out and took him by the shoulders. “You Eadwig, do you intend to take tonsure at the end of all this?”

“Yes, Father Abbot, as God is my witness.”

“Good, then your obedience will start now, at my word. You are to have possession of a letter of personal nature to Father Abbot in Monte Cassino—we were student-oblates together those years ago. Frog will return with the response, for I yearn to hear from him while both of us are mortal souls.”

Struggling to rise, he made sign over us all, added that weariness was overcoming him rapidly, and that Frog would take us back. His wit, though, still moved with rapidity and clear direction.

“So, you and your begang will have one more day here? Eadwig will stay on at the Monastery with me until I leave two days after Saint Guthlac’s great celebration. But only to France to see the legate. The King insists I start no later than then. I come in on the morrow; we shall meet then at Father Abbot’s residence.”

On our way back to the landing, Matilda and Elesa wept. They were not so young as not to understand how events stood. Eadwig, their brother—great companion and teacher—was leaving their life.

Frog seemed out of sorts, and tying the boats up, stood on the dike top, in fact taking me aside a bit: “The Old Man is sly. He goes to Rome. He knows that the so-called escort carries the King’s command for him with it.” He tossed a hostile gesture towards the distant King’s Court, “. . . so the King will impose a sentence of death, the bastard—commanding an old venerable man like him to Rome over his own fucking problems.”

He cast a look out on the fens, being delivered of so much life in the strengthening spring. He took heart and gave me a parting slap on the back and returned to his boat.

That evening late in our pavilion, I let Cwenburh know how it really stood with the old Abbot being ordered off the fens to traverse a ruthless road. Together in the dark, we prayed at length for Father Abbot, Eadwig, and the querulous Frog. We were proud of Eadwig and for such a wonderful mind and soul God allowing to enter our lives via his beloved Matilda.

Cwenburh only said what I thought—as well as Frog and others: “Such an ancient as Father Abbot will never survive such a trip. What sort of man is King Edward?”

“He is the greatest and most powerful man of all, and only God has command of him. Kings do what they please.”

In the dark, holding each other, both of us recalled the night—how Matilda scooted under the wagon at the camp of Alfred-of-Aylesbury.

She had sidled up beside us, still yet a girl, uncovered her bosom where Eadwig sucked. “This is my newborn, Eadwig. I have spit on the hot stones, and they foretell that he will be a great man.”

These were her first private words to us. Then she plied us for stories of our adventures—and how we had told her truthfully of our flight. We never thought such a soul could not be trusted. And her gift of trust and right carried to Eadwig.

That God’s supposed ordained servants ordered her death flew in the face of right faith and belief. No—the act of murdering good Matilda and her sisterhood was by Satan Himself, his craving for souls always unquenchable. And any who did His bidding became damned before God.

The months following Eadrig’s departure at Peterborough were sad for both us and the twins; also all members of the begang missed him as well. Despite his youth, he shined good spirits on us all.

Business at York, as we had been advised, was lively—moreso for me, as my valued and beloved assistant was gone. And finding business so venturesome, the begang, in a group decision, plied its way north, finding great profit as it went.

I became overwhelmed with work. I kept alert for any replacement, and eventually, that late summer encountered Ligulf-of-Darlington.

Ligulf was greyed, and earlier in life was a clerk somewhere, but he fell into disgrace and cast off to wander the country. He only alluded to it indirectly, and we never pried. It was enough that Ligulf was practiced in writing both Saxon and the language of Rome. Yet he was vulnerable to strong drink, poor meek soul that he was. He took direction well, though, and Cwenburh kept a weather eye on him after we gave him pay—just before each Sabbath.

We thereby always knew where to fetch him on the morning following each holy day. He certainly was no substitute—even by half—for Eadrig, but he took some of the pressure from me. He did simple missives well, though on some days had unsteady hand. So when recovering from his cups, he was of no use.

At the conclusion of St. Giles³⁸ Festival in Durham, our train set out south through prospering countryside with thoughts to avoid the Northumberland harsh winters. Praise be to God, it was a bountiful year, and fields and forests were festooned with God’s riches. Indeed, throughout the land working folk busied with winter preparations, as well they must.

Our train’s business of proceeding south was keen—anxious to make as much daily progress as possible along the Northumberland Road, not a bad one for its kind. We added one extra guard to Selvig and Essox, a friend of theirs from previous battle-strewn days, skilled with lance and swing-ax. He mounted a massive but ageing horse he called Pisser, and both were favorites with the children. We carried all our coin now, and were especially aware of the notorious hazards of the road.

It was our fortune to encounter hunting parties of villagers, tenants, and sub-tenants bristling with pig-lances, thinning out the fatter wild pigs from those ranging the thick woods—property of rich thanes and tenants. On this year especially, the forest floor was rich with pannage, choice stuff for owners.

From these parties we purchased quarters of fat wild pig, and elected—especially if the weather was fair—to encircle and camp in the country.

Such times were our reward for enduring the begang—not having a home, save our pavilions and what we might fashion to augment them. The tiny villages and surrounding crofts were busy with the business of country and stream—especially with the now-fattened livestock which Saxons held dear to their life of independence.

It was close to the River Tees we made such a camp and rested. We looked forward to good traveling, for Edmund the Leather Craftsman predicted good weather in the coming days. It was here three mounted men abruptly approached overland—their mounts caprisoned and themselves armed, clearly not out for leisure or sport. Having been caught unmounted, our guards moved between them and our train.

Expected were their demands for writs-of-passage, possibly posturing for bribes for their own reward in secret from the reeves or sheriffs.

One was clearly in charge, richly clothed and braced, his horse the same. When Edmund bravely walked past our guard, he bowed and, after identifying himself, invited them to our repast. Their mission was not a repast nor writs or coin.

“I am Aldwulf-of-York, I come to fetch one Cuthwin the Scribe for High Reeve, Sigald, thane and loyal servant of Earl Siward.”

Cwenburh held me by my arm for an extra moment when I moved forward. “Careful, Cuthwin. These men bring trouble.”

I moved on and, identifying myself, asked after their mission’s purpose.

“My mission, Cuthwin, is to bring you to the Great Manor of Earl Siward, for you are wanted at once by the High Reeve, Sigald-the-Dane.”

“For what purpose?”

“For the purpose of obedience—I don’t wonder after purpose, and you shouldn’t either if you want to keep your head on straight.”

It took even more courage for Edmund to step before me and hold up his hand for peace—and our guards prepared for the worst. He appealed to Aldwulf for more reasonable and less harsh grounds of talk. Aldwulf would have none of it.

“If you think the protection of these three mounds of shit give you strength to question my purpose and means, think again, old man. I come for Cuthwin the Scribe. When it comes to the wishes and commands of Earl Siward and his High Reeve, that is the beginning and end of it.”

I had never been subject of such a request, and wondered at the nature of it. I brought up the central truth of things: “I am a free Saxon, and cannot be taken off like a bondsman or miscreant; I have family and belongings, and have done nothing wrong.”

“You are annoying me. Are you coming or not? If not, I’ll just dump you off before Sigald-the-Dane in whatever condition I can, telling him I’ve done my best.”

Sedrig readied his weapon and planted himself firmly between all of us and Aldwulf.

“You will not take him by force, you tongue-heavy lout!”

Essox readied his bow, their friend managed to mount his horse Pisser, though without saddle or livery. He had hastily armed with lance.

There was violence in the immediate offing—all the harmony of a peaceful day unraveled in the space of a few moments talk. I would not allow myself to become the topic of harm to anyone.

“I will come, but you must tell me for how long? If consultation about writing or a brief task, I needs know, Sir.”

“Know!? My place is not to know and neither is yours; our place is to do.”

At this moment, the unexpected erupted—a surprise more for Aldwulf and his men than myself knowing her like I did. Cwenburh stalked angrily around our guards, stood staunch, feet apart and started in: “I will not have you spirit off my husband as freebooters might oxen or sheep. I am wedded to Cuthwin—bound to him under the word of God and sanction of our Savior.”

At the same moment one Emily of Portsdown, Edmund’s wife, cried in outrage from within their largest wagon. The great lady, nearly deaf, of great flesh and plagued by various aches of her bone ends, struggled against her two daughters to get down to earth and confront.

“What is this shit!? We have writs clear out to the heavens. Who bothers us, Husband?!”

This was the last development Husband Edmund could tolerate, and he withdrew some, commanding her to return—ordering daughters to push her back in, to not allow their mother free exit. Meanwhile Cwenburh did not relent.

“Only God pulls asunder wedded free Saxons, and how might we know where you fetch from—where is any writ? Any order? You could be from the Archfiend for all we know.”

Emily, undaunted, cursed and pushed her way by attained footing. Dragging a daughter on each arm, she entered the fray shouting instructions to the skies: “Put an arrow in the bastard, Essox, you little turd. We pay you enough!”

Aldwulf whirled his horse, confronting Essox, then back—for Cwenburh had moved even closer, and I grabbed hold of her, pulling her back.

“Peace, Cwenburh. Do you want to get us all killed?”

Worse, had not only Edmund’s commands gone unheeded by the wrathful Emily—both daughters began scolding the Earl’s men for disturbing an old lady thus. Their pleas, however, flew in the face of actions: Once riled, wife Emily was feared more than dragons or beasts.

“By God, who are these ruffians that plague us so? Where is your spine, Husband!?”

Seeing the disarray the situation was descending to, one of the accompanying thanes of Aldwulf laughed—shook his head and looked to the heavens.

Aldwulf saw this and became even angrier.

“Silence, you harridans! I swear by God above, I’ll kill every goddamned one of you.” Then he too looked to heavens and declared, “. . . what have I done, God, to deserve such adverse duty before my Lord.”

“Before your Lord? What sort of Lord demands kidnapping free Saxons from the road—who have every writ of passage so deemed, and paid high coin for them, too?”

Voices became so raised and swelled with temper that not one hundred paces distant, Essox’s donkey heard and for its own reasons began braying so loudly as to deafen all.

Edmund stood bravely, but the scene had become so rattled by high noises and voice that he looked back then forward: Armed men were to the north, and his wife, daughters, and Cwenburh shouting, and the donkey braying to the south. Essox was ready with his bow, and could not attend his donkey—and the eyes of Aldwulf moved from Essox to his other antagonists. Now two other of the wives joined in the fray.

It was disorder itself that ironically decreased the ugly tension that had arisen through Aldwulf’s harsh manner and threats. Now his two thanes, both young and of active eye, allowed themselves to exchange appraising glances with Edmund’s daughters, young and fetching in their simple dress.

“Oh, fuck all! I want Silence. Silence! Silence! Quiet that fucking donkey, Goddamnit! Otherwise I will go back and return with forty men, as God is witness.”

I gathered enough wit and presence of mind to believe the origin of this mission was indeed at Earl Siward’s court, and his name attached to anything carried almost as much authority and weight as King Edward himself. Indeed, every Saxon—all residents who lived or wandered the land—knew well the deeds and powers of Earl Siward since childhood.

Though now of great age, all commonality knew too well his continued authority and unrivalled wealth throughout Northumberland, and even beyond those borders. His High Reeve would be fully bestowed of that authority and reach.

I appealed to reasonableness of this Aldwulf whose manner had not begun reasonably. Edmund and the other men did as Aldwulf ordered—I too asked for quiet, stepped almost to the stirrups of the man.

“I am a scribe, Aldwulf-of-York. So I need equipment even if for brief work or simple consultation, I must know what to bring and how long I will be absent. I am a craftsman with practical demands.”

He tossed his head, took off his helmet, and glared down. “And I do not know Cuthwin the Scribe.” He sighed, with feigned exhaustion, and glared at one of his men who approached the two young women, striking up conversation. The spirit of his business had suddenly become milder, despite his initial blackish tidings. “I do know that the High Reeve doesn’t beckon people on order of Lord Siward for small, brief talk. So that is as much as I might guess. Come fully prepared. But, by God, come you will. The more willingly, the better nature you will find the High Reeve. This disorder,” and he gestured towards our train, “will favor no one.”

I asked for time to talk with my family, meaning Cwenburh, and was given it. Almost dragging her to the rear, I went to our two vehicles, one a wagon, the second a covered trap.

At once, I saw that—as I might have guessed—the timid Ligulf had fled. Cwenburh kept a weather eye on Aldwulf-of-York and the scene around him. He still squared with our guards.

“Cwenburh, for God’s sake, these men come from the court of Earl Siward, the greatest of men. He does anything he wishes with anyone.”

Matilda and Elesa ran up, laughing—now ten years old, they still saw more humor than evil in this world.

“Mother, Ligulf peed himself and is hiding by the spring.”

Nearby the stonemason and his sons struggled to quiet the donkey, so there was still much ambient chaos; Cwenburh ordered the twins into the trap.

“Cuthwin, we are free. They are slavish brutes and have no business with us; no writs. Nothing! They are dung-covered fucks on horseback.”

“Jesus and the Holy Ghost protect us, Cwenburh! They come from Earl Siward. No one would weave that as a tale. Look at his dress and mountings. Earl Siward is more powerful than all—friend of the King and Himself half ice bear. Put a stop to this unthinking wrath of yours. There are the others’ welfare to consider—two-dozen people, our friends and all they own. He only wants me. We must think and do so fast.”

Craft and caution dictated I go alone, then re-join the train as it went south, even if I was absent for a number of days. I would take the smaller of our horses and a kit of portables to craft basic work.

“Oh! On whose dragon’s teeth?! Not mine, by God. You’ll not go anywhere without us.”

We argued—at odds, our voices getting louder—and within a few minutes discovered all looked at us, for peace had been attained overall save our division within audible to all. Aldwulf looked on with smugness—satisfied at seeing me struggling with his diminutive tormentor.

I reflect back the decades with regrets, as the aged will do. My responsibility as husband before God and teachings in the Great Book was clear, even if requiring means forceful.

Love of a woman, even one’s wife, cannot forgive ignoring Scripture. However, Cwenburh and I had been together fifteen passages of the four seasons enduring all varieties of evil and joy. Though Saxon husbands rarely rough-handed their wives, they certainly commanded their family with firmness, and a good, holy wife obeys, as directed in the First Book of Peter.

On this day I was not equal to these holy directives, and failed to stand firm. Therefore Cwenburh and I, with all we owned, departed our friends and companions and trailed off to Sigald-the-Dane, High Reeve for the great Lord Siward.

Edmund assured he would not fail to inform this untoward development to the Abbot of Peterborough, who through Old Elsin, had significant regard for me.

What good might this do? I did know by not continuing south much business would be lost. We had a remunerative number of cold fairs expecting Cuthwin the Scribe in the south.

I have always suspected God was punishing me for not assuming the often uncomfortable role needed to keep a family in safe circumstances. We rode on toward the court of the High Reeve looking into the deceptive north wind, cunningly lacking its later cruelty.

I remained morose throughout the inauspicious ride to what we eventually learned was the grand estate of Oakheath Manor, one of Lord Siward’s holdings north of the River Tees near Gainford. I was sullen over Cwenburh being so irresponsible a mother to expose Matilda and Elesa for no reason other than her stiff-necked humors.

Aldwulf rode without word, surely nursing bad feelings in wake of the chaotic delay and disrespectful scene that, of course, would be conveyed to the High Reeve. Great men only respected the rights of a freedman to the extent it suited their purposes.

All manors owed allegiance to a great earl like Siward; in fact, even the Palatine Bishop of Durham struggled to stand equal before him. Of Danish birth, Earl Siward had northern roots to account for scores of marvelous stories, including a claim that his grandfather was a great ice bear who ranged northern wastes eating animals whole.

The Old Earl ironically stood contrary to his fellow Dane in his adopted land, a powerful northern sentinel for King Edward. Earl Siward and his sons could serve up mere freedmen such as myself like pickled eels for repasts—these acts practically beyond the law of Saxon King Edward.

It was this order folk knew.

For Saxons and any in Danelaw, it was a part of the real fabric of life and fable in everyday life, teaching the common folks the order of position, and their own God-ordained place within it.

So tossing up one’s free status in the face of one such as Aldwulf on a mission from Earl Siward’s High Reeve was an act of insolence and futility.

My progress was steeped in a gloomy fog as I walked along beside our cart. Finally, I took some cheer—there was still time for a last-pitched siege of Cwenburh’s prideful stance.

Progress was slow and Aldwulf left us to serve as vanguard and to sleep in comfort in the Manor for we instead needed to overnight along the river Tees. Himself left the two mounted drengs—for such is what they were—to overnight and escort us to our destination in the next day.

They shared our evening meal with us, but refused comment on anything remotely concerning our purpose, adding, “Aldwulf is our lord and a mean bastard, when he instructs us to say nothing, we say nothing. Too much has been said already.”

Nearby was a good-sized manor, and several of its occupants came out and visited with the drengs whom they knew. Even the unquenchable cheerful twins had caught the sour mood between Cwenburh and me. By her quick words—hasty, and ill-thought—I had little room to negotiate with the High Reeve.

With her and the twins there, he had my family.

Feelings of regret did not come readily or sometimes at all to Cwenburh. At this point, I hoped she perceived the gravity of our situation. For a show of spirit and womanly opposition, we were now pole-axed. Several leagues behind us was the begang, traveling in the opposite direction along with all her acquaintances, friends—those whom she loved for years.

Old Emily would sleep comfortably this evening with those she had grown old with, and the only consequence of her was action was the absence of her friend Cwenburh with whom she joyfully gossiped interminably.

I swore to have it out with Cwenburh—we were not at the Lord’s Manor yet. The dreng’s orders did not explicitly include her or the twins. It was essential I try again to make her see sense and go back. For now, with others in ear-shot, I would bide my time.

Before the true dawn, I was up, and I saw our escort still slept. Parting the hanging over the end of our wagon, I got in, I tied it fast behind me—Cwenburh was up at once, staring at me, knowing I had serious purpose. I kept my voice very low—this meeting I wanted only between us.

“Cwenburh, by writing letters of import for anyone under allegiance to Earl Siward, I will become a walking threat if allowed to roam free once more. Likely as not, I will never leave the proximity of such men again while he lives. And you being my wife, these corrupt men will think you privy to at least some information sworn to the husband. For the love of God, you must get out now.”

“I will not.”

She drew her legs up to her bosom and allowed her hand to move the cover over the twins more; summer was failing, and the night coolness had begun. She refused to look at me.

“Cwenburh! For the love of our Savior, listen: There are great troubles now in the land between violent forces who struggle for power and money. Earl Siward is the hub of this. For years God has blessed us by keeping such avarice and pride away from us. Certainly you see this Cwenburh!”

“I see my vow before God as wife and mother, and that only.”

“Then before God as it dictates in the Great Book, you must obey me, your husband.”

“I will not. My vow before God and our Holy Savior comes before that in any book, Cuthwin-of-Alnwick. I’ve faced more deadly foes than those bastards—for and because of you—and I will continue to do so.”

A vertigo took hold; I pressed both my hands to my head and leaned against the rib of the cart’s covering. I drew away—forces were overwhelming me—with a severe and meaningful tone, which came out unexpectedly as a growl. I pushed on in unusual anger: “Goddamn you, Cwenburh-of-Loe, you will obey me. You will!”

“Goddamn you, Cuthwin-of-Alnwick, I will not.”

It was hopeless. Dealing with Herself was akin to conversing with stone.

I slipped back out, my anger urging me towards crazy things—instead I stalked over to the nearby spring and sat, enduring the darkest thoughts in memory. I knew in heart and mind, those like Earl Siward were bringers of evil and misery for plain folk. Why in heaven or hell could not Cwenburh see that?! I loved dearly this recalcitrant wife who refused to benefit from her wedded husband’s foreknowledge.

God forgive but I had ceased struggling to yield Christian forgiveness to those who were power-hungry and avaricious and who stooped to every conceivable sin before Our Savior, including murder. In the coming lent, again, I would pray and sacrifice for the holy strength to let my bitterness pass and take my Savior’s kindness into heart and soul about these beasts who went adorned as human souls.

I sat in this shadowed wedge of peace. Looking about at the elms and oaks, their leaves just barely touched by advent of autumn, who might guess my fear and hopelessness before God? All now rested on our Creator’s shoulders, and there was nothing I could do.

The Great Manor and rich sokes at Oakheath Manor occupied a deep oxbow in the River Tees diked off generations ago to turn to the richest of fields. We arrived before Sext, and passing by fields, we saw the great teams of ox and their tenders straining to look us over—these strange new arrivals.

Knowing people of village and croft, I was sure our appearance had not gone unanticipated. Words carrying news traveled at greater speeds than any ox or mule. Unlike most manors, Oakheath was not set amidst the fields. Instead it was built along the River Tees itself—the river to its back, the sokes and demesne of the Lord spread out before it, and the Manor and adjacent dozens of crofts and adjoining structures at its front. This way any approach by hostile forces was far more difficult—a defensive wall requiring much shorter length.

And unlike lands to the south, those in Northumberland and Durham were sites of warfare in recent years, so the walls around Oakheath were well kept—the gates double, and of weighty construct. Lookout platforms were to the side of each, standing a rod above all else.

Hostile invaders coming upriver could be seen in advance and the horn then blown. Surprises from the sea never promised anything but ill. But only one lookout was manned this hour and he glared down at us while we passed beneath.

Within Manor confines, structures of wattle and daub were kept well protected with white wash. These were extensive and at center no more or less complicated were constructs of simpler, smaller structures. This is unlike today’s pretentious Norman styles to match the owner’s wealth and position—stone and rock being the finest and most ostentatious.

At the time of Saxon King Edward, even a High Reeve such as the harsh, tragic Sigald-the-Dane maintained the practical directness of Saxon design. Function was always mainstay to those who kept a foot planted on everyday demands and needs.

Aldwulf-of-York awaited on a raised wooden landing—an area where goods and such were received and dealt with by various offices within; also, an aged and/or a richly fleshed rider could mount and dismount horse with dignity.

Aldwulf held arms folded over his chest and looked down at us—a superior smugness, one that foretold that a reckoning awaited within.

“Welcome to the Manor of Sigald-the-Dane, Cuthwin the Scribe. Sigald is within completing midday prayers. So wait and you will be called, for he is eager to see you.”

The pair of drengs, their duty hopefully over, were anxious to return to their lands. While passing close to me, one took note he was not seen and warned in a low voice, “Be cautious now, Cuthwin the Scribe. From the look of the bastard, the arrow is fully notched. God keep you.”

At that point housecarls came out from a side door—four of them—their corporal still gnawing a joint, then tossing it to a second who caught it and resumed—the former wiping his hands on his breeches. He squinted up at us and exchanged sarcasms with the drengs, who left at once. Then two serving women came out behind the housecarls.

“We are to take your woman and children within.”

“I am a free tradesman. My family stays with me until I know the nature of my calling.”

“Oh! A haughty one, are you? We have heard that. Well, you will soon learn there are no bishops or whore-mongering monks to interfere here.”

But they stayed in place, neither advancing nor withdrawing. Cwenburh sat in place on the cart, and I stood to the side of the trap; the twins clung left and right side of her who was the last bastion between them and the Great Man’s pleasure.

Cwenburh now realized circumstances confronted us as grim as any before.

Seeing developments, the serving women tried to withdraw, but the corporal seized the joint from his comrade’s hands in mid-gnaw, hurled it off, and yelled, “Hold! you bags of guts, until told to leave.”

We held our peace uncomfortably until within minutes a tiny gnarl of a man limped out, helped along with the use of a staff—a badge of office at his chest. His staff was intricately designed. At his side was Aldwulf. The official pointed at us with an emaciated hand, twisted as a cypress branch by the bone disease.

“You, Cuthwin, will follow me within. I am Bedalf, the High Reeve’s clerk.”

“I wish assurances from you my family will remain here unharmed while I am within.”

“You might have considered their welfare when you allowed your wife to cast insult and outrage on the Undersheriff, which has thrust my Lord into a bad humor, Cuthwin the Scribe, no doubt about it.”

It was shock added to misfortune—I had never seen an undersheriff go about without their medallion of office around their neck or at least upon their mount’s livery. Even at this moment, Aldwulf was without this medallion, but there was nothing in law or practice that locked him to wearing it.

The clerk’s eyes traveled to the cart then stopped on Cwenburh and the twins. He raised his free hand—as diseased as the one holding his staff—and gestured towards the Manor.

“Go in, and your family can wait. For the time.”

The corporal waved his men and the women back inside, then walked closer to our trap and wagon. I followed the clerk and Aldwulf—Undersheriff Aldwulf as it developed—inside.

Two house serfs pushed aside a rich hanging, more elaborate and fine than most. They clamped it open at the command of a booming voice from inside, for the weather had become warm under the midday sun.

Inside, the very last wisps of a morning fire rose lazily, traveling a crooked pattern towards the hole in the arched roof overhead. This and two other doors admitted profuse light, and in it I saw sitting in a grand carved chair—a sign of power and rich providing for the High Reeve—Sigald-the-Dane.

He stared into the remnants of the great fire hearth, over which was suspended by stout gaffs enormous iron pots, each worth a fortune. Two women worked there under his gaze; each took a handle of a great pot and struggled out an opposite doorway.

They showed me to his front by pressure put on my shoulder; Aldwulf bade me to bow deeply, and when I rose I was eye to eye—the High Reeve being higher, situated in the grand chair.

“So you are Cuthwin the Scribe?”

His voice was deep, emanating from his vast, corpulent body; he was clean shaven, yet the Saxon words were roughened by their treatment with his Danish-speaking tongue, but nonetheless clear, foretelling many years in this land.

“I am, Your Excellency.”

“According to Aldwulf, you were not so respectful of his office when he came to fetch you.”

“I was not aware I insulted him, Your Excellency. It is not my way to insult anyone. I did not, though, realize his high office, nor did the others, a medallion of office not being in sight.”

“Do these wandering tradespeople expect me to go about night and day with my medallion hanging out of my ass?!”

And then they all—clerk, Aldwulf, and the High Reeve—burst into laughter, the High Reeve’s deep and resonant, like two stones being banged together underwater.

When they settled, Sigald took a great, patient breath and explained I had been honored by Earl Siward Himself to be his personal scribe.

“And now you have sullied this honor by being a churlish fellow. No one spits upon a great benefice from Earl Siward without penalty, Cuthwin the Scribe.”

I made my apologies, pointing out I had shown no discourtesy to anyone, and that I was a tradesman following the begang, and it was my place. And that all of us should—must—keep to our places. I, not knowing the purpose of the extraordinary summons, was curious about it.

At that point the women returned—I assumed for the other pot—and the clerk Bedalf shook his staff at them: “Out! You slatterns! We are at business here!”

“And I am at business here, you twisted little turd. You surely are not going to heft this brute nor certainly clean it,” retorted the elder of the women.

But this time, the clerk was not involved in the laughter, which was even lustier on the parts of Sigald and Aldwulf, Sigald even allowing himself a clap of his hand against his great thigh.

Such was the Manor way—for the business of each Saxon’s workday went on like a troll’s giant steps, unstoppable by such superfluity as protocol or manners.

The Clerk groused something I could not make out. And again, Sigald recovered himself and returned to his purpose, his voice reflecting a rapid decrease in interest of the situation concerning me or any other scribe.

“In any case, I will not sit here and bandy words with a tradesman: Suffice it to say, you are now the personal scribe to Earl Siward, The Great. You will be compensated with fairness, and I shall defer to my firebrand clerk here other details, save one: That wife of yours is fined five pounds silver. If you lack this she will be flogged for her outrageous impudence to an officer of Earl Siward. Consider yourself a lucky fellow before God and our Savior, Cuthwin the Scribe. Now, that is all for now.”

I had wit enough to keep words to myself, and readily followed the clerk out the same portal; this time Aldwulf stayed behind. Returning to the platform, the clerk stopped above, gestured to the Corporal, and pointed to both myself and Cwenburh, who was understandably relieved at my reappearance.

“Now, Cuthwin, the five-pound silver, or the corporal will carry out the sentence-right now.”

I looked at Cwenburh with all the meaning I could muster—parceling up a plea for common sense and bare survival in one vast breath presaging my request: “We owe the court a five-pound fine directly in lieu of a whipping. Fetch the box. The clerk’s duty is to collect it at once.”

Cwenburh was keeper of our treasury and factor to all things dealing with coin. She had sewn coin into Eadwig’s spare blouse, plus a clever hidden compartment in his thick-soled turnshoes.

Her bartering terrorized me—each penny and shilling dragged out of her in bargaining was a great effort. I was constantly reminding her of courtesy to clients who were short of money—or who claimed to be short of money, for she was hard pressed to believe their stories of need.

She looked up in abject horror at the clerk on the platform, and just barely kept from tears, which to me, who knew her so well, was the giveaway, for she never wept.

“We have not such a sum in all the world, Cuthwin.”

The clerk’s gnarled old hand moved a notch higher up his staff, and with the other he gestured to the corporal.

“Then, bitch, my corporal shall whip you forthwith.”

I stepped back up to the platform, and seized the clerk’s staff one hand above his misshapen talon: “If you or your thugs touch my wife or family, I will never write one letter for Earl Siward. I am now his scribe in service. You can take your chance with the Earl or his functionary for so eternally alienating my services, you little thief. Stay your hand if you have wit about you, and be patient.”

We both knew where the five-pound of silver was headed—a bit for him, a little more for Aldwulf, and most for the High Reeve. Now, eye to eye, he certainly saw that I meant what I said, and I was summoned here to function in letters—beyond working at livery or mill.

I pushed his staff aside a notch, turning to Cwenburh, and now I had my own temper to deal with. Though rarely up, when it was I would be adamant. She knew this.

“Cwenburh, fetch the five pounds at once, and give it to this person, and by God and Our Savior, we will hear no more of damnable avarice.”

Throughout the process of being shown to the tradesmen quarters and settling in, I remained in temper and sour mood. The previous three days had showered disaster upon us. Though she had gone contrary to my sense and wishes, I had to remember our plight was no fault of Cwenburh. She did what habit dictated by playing the knife too close to the bone. I, on the contrary, was born and raised at Manor, and knew only too well their raw-boned ways; my mother had died on one. I had spent my early years in its service. Indeed I had risked life and limb escaping—and the experiences of one’s earliest days are etched deeply upon memory.

And Oakheath Manor was ominously grand beyond any I had known.

For the moment, the distaste of our fate was assuaged when we saw our quarters were substantial: A large house with surrounding modest croft for a garden and stock, itself abutting the end of the wall that extended into the river, then curled inward, a dozen feet high, and made of stout wattle and daub with many posts laid crosswise.

It looked to the open south, and would offer much warmth when winter’s short days offered scarce sunlight in these northern lays. Bedalf the clerk had retreated inside with the five pounds, to divvy it up—to take partial credit for the fleecing given us.

Cwenburh was going through the pangs of losing such a sum, and finally when out of earshot of anyone, told me, “We lost one-half of everything we have ever earned to the bastards, Cuthwin.”

“They will be after more, seeing how readily we managed five. Be careful in everything you do concerning these people. All the rules are theirs. There is no law but the Earl’s law. And the Earl’s law has no regard for flesh nor blood, freedom nor bond.”

Several wives of tradesmen called striking up talk with Herself. I led the twins away—down to the river. The bank was steep, and I kept an eye on them, though still managed to ruminate on the future and how vastly different it was.

The two girls, now daughters to both our hearts, kept close to me, for the troubles and unkindnesses visited on us had broached their naturally joyful spirits. Smoke from nearby fires increased as Vespers approached, though now the keeping of hours according to The Rule of St. Benedict were far, far away, at least in spirit.

Cwenburh had been given small, newly picked apples, and she found us by the river, and taking her knife, cut them into fresh quarters for us. I began for no other reason than the immediacy of things, to recall my days on the Manor at Alnwick—my first memories of my mother working at the massive hearth.

And they all listened, ate the apples, and were together on the bank of the Tees. This flow of God-giving life was low and lazy in the late summer, a dimpling of a fish here, a scattering of skitter bugs under bended willow—the fish chasing these morsels down.

My account was interrupted by the sharp ‘smack’ of a kingfisher setting into the water on its downward swoop, and coming up with a struggling fish in its beak, landing within view. The twins marveled, and Cwenburh pointed at it, and explained the way of these tiny, beautiful birds—God’s gifts for human eyes, perhaps his most generous.

She said how they, at one time, were fairies, but who had gotten at cross purposes with the spirits of the woods and waters for not marrying lascivious trolls and elves who always desired them. And all at a once, they were turned into simple, tiny birds, to feed upon fish their entire lives.

And so, for now, we ate apples and shared each other’s presence, another of God’s gifts so easily taken. Why such a gift was included in the odious power of Godless souls is only answerable by the Ancients.

As the months of autumn passed at the Great Manor at Oakheath, the enigma of our fate increased. A lunar month elapsed and I was not called to inscribe a single letter. Our house was left in rough condition by the previous occupants—a liveryman, actually—who had died the previous winter. The rather large garden that occupied our croft was unplanted and we had to purchase most food items at market.

Cwenburh, a woman who enjoyed market days, was however uncomfortable with the mood at Oakheath.

“There is something wrong here, Cuthwin. People’s tongues are tied.”

This discomfort, among others, gave her a turn towards an uncharacteristic irascibility of spirit—which began understandably enough after the thievery that greeted us.

“I suppose, Cuthwin, the great thieves have not discussed pay with you yet, nor have you asked. These market people are fleecing us, thinking we have ample coin to pass along.”

I reminded her of my inactivity thus far, so my question would be ill-timed. But she remained critical of the state around us, including my efforts to bring our house in readiness for winter. But I avoided argument, especially with her.

In a further dark development, various manor peoples began to notice and remark how close the twins were to womanhood, and what sort of bride price such a handsome pair might fetch. Cwenburh, as any Saxon mother would, had ambitions for them both being settled on those of the begang, and she made this clear. For the first time she became unpopular with other women at Oakheath who considered this a show of pride. Cwenburh was resolute.

“One savagery they cannot do is abduct the twins, for then they would outrage God’s Order of things.”

Yet God’s Order at Oakheath was out-of-balance, or ‘cockeyed,’ as Cwenburh put it. A priest and his deacon attended a small run-down church called St. Budoc’s Chapel, a pathetic structure often with more poultry than souls inside, the former feeding on various bugs that lived in the descript roof and walls.

If Cwenburh ever resumed church attendance, it wouldn’t be St. Budoc’s, and even I was hesitant on Sabbath—and others too. For religious matters were long-in-the-tooth at Oakheath. Earl Siward infamously showed lifelong disgust with the church.

And this did not go unstated. The shriveled clerk Badalf claimed in open market that powerful Bishop Ethelric committed unspeakable acts with farm animals. Great hilarity greeted his words, but laughter at great men’s expense has a manner of returning by the path it departed.

It was clear that Earl Siward—including his High Reeve, Sheriff, and all under-officers in Siward’s many lush manors—were emboldened because of their famous Lord’s close ties to the King. Hence, they were frequently at serious odds with Bishop Ethelric, infamous of temper and mood as Earl Siward.

I became amiable with Sceaf the Miller. Old and infirm, he had passed his duties to his sons and grandsons years before. He spent the autumn days at the river fishing. He would converse, but never of daily events of Manor, but only those beyond its border.

“I tell you, there is a storm brewing between Earl Siward and Bishop Ethelric. Ah, and it could drive a month of gales and tempests. From friend to foe—always the same with those two.”

Finally I was called by the High Reeve’s messenger boy to appear in order to draft my first letter. Taking up my tried and beloved equipment in its carrying case, my heart rose to renew my craft of a dozen-plus years. The High Reeve became forthcoming about my duties: “This is a letter to the King. So it must be handsome—fulsome in its meeting to the eyes at court. This was Earl Siward’s idea when fetching you here. He had seen some of your art at York this summer.”

As I learned, letters between powerful men are artful in what they do not say rather than what they do. They are often not interesting, even more mundane than those missives between wealthy merchants. In a contrary fashion, minor officers and ordinary people do not mince words, and say outright what they mean. Often they are so outright, I feel responsible as a scribe to suggest words of easier, less mean-spirited tone.

And in this first letter to the King—I had one day to prepare it prior to the courier going south—an ominous note was sounded when the High Reeve affixed the Earl’s great seal to the wax and signed the Earl Siward’s name. Then it was inserted into a courier’s purse and sent at once on its way to court. This letter never saw the eyes of the great Earl Siward.

When I rushed to ask about my remuneration before he withdrew, the High Reeve looked down at me—his great eyebrows shot towards the middle of his brow: “I shall think on it, minus your rent, of course.” And waddled out, his vast bulk heaving right to left like a ship at sea.

A wifely silence greeted me, these becoming more frequent. The long nights of winter were coming on. Cwenburh was dour about the lack of information concerning pay and rent and imagined many varieties of skullduggery on the part of them all. She seemed to imply—when she did speak of it—that my lack of assertiveness lent itself to such a slighting.

This less-than-unkind assertion was more frequent of late. I allowed myself to think on other issues. I was bothered about developments regards the signature of the letter, though who signed a letter was as confidential in my eyes as what was in it.

Through the years there were many instances when clients signed a letter with another’s name. But a great Earl writing in the first person to the King Himself, was a serious concept to me. Was not a bad or inaccurate word here or there—imparted to none other than a King—of the highest concern to even a mighty personage like Earl Siward?

I had illustrated the margins of the letter—though rapidly—with handsome figures and additions for the Royal Eye equal to any cleric at court. Though Eadrig was more talented, easily, I had the more experienced eye and hand.

The normally grumpy High Reeve was impressed with my work.

“This is indeed well done with such a short time allowance, Cuthwin. Let the Bishop’s catamites try and equal that!”

So having me as scribe removed any cleric from the direct route between Earl Siward and the King. Capable scribes and illuminators not part of a church or monastery were almost unheard of in the days before the coming of the Normans.

Those few who knocked about the country, like Ligulf, my short-serving scribe, had hands unequal to work demanded by great men and such. With me, Siward’s court had notched a piece into place secure from any prying cleric’s eyes. Yet to also exclude the great Earl Siward was itself grave business even for his High Reeve. I was a cog in intrigue, whatever it might be.

These developments were part of my unwelcome future at Oakheath as I prepared for winter. And it was when St. Catherine’s Day³⁹ grew near, that the first word about our plight arrived from outside this auspicious Manor.

Soldag the salt pedlar arrived on St. Catherine’s Day. He and his train of donkeys traveled with his usual assortment of sodden, unruly assistants to do heavy lifting, for Soldag was elderly and battered by a lifetime of wandering and contrary living. Like many salt pedlars, he lived a free-ranging existence, never following a regular circuit or trade route. I found a cautious few of these ragged wanderers made excellent couriers for letters with necessity of delivery the year written.

“One salt pedlar or another will be by,” Cwenburh would recite with knowledgeable breath.

I had fashioned my own tradesman’s seal designed after a cross; therefore, this added emphasis when Cwenburh would remind them that the fires of hell would sweep them up if they violated the contents. The deciding factor for our use of a particular salt pedlar was how eager they were for the extra coin given—for they would want more in future. It was profit for them for no extra effort or outlay.

By All Soul’s Day,⁴⁰ salt supplies had fallen dangerously short and the bounty of salmon and other fish swarming the Tees badly wanted salt to keep through the winter.

Soldag feigned no knowledge of me, and it was his old wife who passed the letter from Peterborough to us, and Cwenburh guaranteed ample schillings for carrying a return missive I would write that night.

The letter was from the Prior of Peterborough Abbey on direction from the present Father Abbot and was entirely disappointing. They learned of our plight through Edmund the Leather-crafter. Father Abbot advised me patience and the acceptance of God’s mysterious ways, and above all to pray for Earl Siward. This great personage needed God’s strength all through these ‘times of troubles’ during which no mere monk could offer any help. When I read the message to Cwenburh, she scoffed and tossed her head in frustration.

“Other than they have no belly to do right by God, what does that mean, Cuthwin?”

“There is great trouble upon the King, but I know nothing of it, save that it is growing, and he requires Earl Siward’s allegiance. And in God’s name, we must let it stand there, Cwenburh.”

We sat there captive to the stupidity and waste of great men’s devious and violent ways, so contrary to the Grace and Word of Our Savior. Everyone was cowed by them, for in the end, it were those with sword and other weapons who ruled. Even Father Abbot could not challenge the will of the King.

The plain folk who worked and prepared victuals for each winter were without power over fate, save what the Lord might provide.

Cwenburh sat beside me, uncurled her apron, and revealed shelled walnuts, their meats shiny in oily halves. Taking my hand in hers, she put two of them in it and snacked on the first herself.

There were so many things to ask or to impart between us, but the silence in the house was rare, for the twins were always rambunctious—with a half-dozen ideas each half-day for one thing or another.

Grayness had settled over Cwenburh and me, for rumor between manors along the Tees had it that marriage negotiations were in the offing. It would begin with the ceremonial delivery of a marriage braid, and we knew the rumors to carry truth—for Matilda and Elesa were fetching and healthy, and both held much promise to a freeborn husband and his family with land and means.

These negotiations called for keen mind and planning for any Saxon parent even with a single daughter, but for two at one time, it promised exhaustive discourse and bargaining. And I knew that Cwenburh—who considered our presence an outrage, and unlawful—was sorely placed for her role in this. Worse, the twins heard the same rumors—even prior to Cwenburh—and were anxious at their calling, marriage being so mysterious and unknown to them.

So we ate walnuts in silence, and finally finishing this repast, Cwenburh said, “Answer Father Abbot as you wish, Cuthwin, but please ask after my dearest Eadwig. I pray every night for him, and give thanks for his having departed so close to this calamity. He is, thank God, free.”

Before she could rise, I took her by the arm, and gently sat her back down. “Cwenburh, know this for sure: I would pay any amount of money, yield any property, before seeing harm come to you, and I say this before God. It is my husbandly duty I cherish most.”

She rose, looked back at me—holding her eyes directly on mine, as was her way when intending emphasis-of-meaning: “Cuthwin, I knew and loved you for the man you were the moment I laid eyes on you at the table of that swine, Wilfred-of-Loe.” She allowed something of a half smile, and added, “. . . my error is sometimes forgetting that, God forgive me.”

This has remained the highest praise ever given me during this lifetime, and I am grateful before God. I prized her words from she who was my wife. Her words visit me to this day, over fifty years later. Though the country has changed from under me—now old and cripple, marooned in a strange, even crueler world—her words remain my joy, Praise be God.