Book 5

How great tragedy strikes Cuthwin at Oakheath; his life is hurled onto the edge of the Eternal Abyss by Demons of Greed and Violence, thereby falling into disarray. How he struggled with terrible adversity and wanders Northumberland questing for any sign of his family. Seeking peace at his childhood home of Peterborough, he instead is subject to calumny and must seek sanctuary. This concluded, he ventures back north resigning himself to the foul vicissitudes of fate and the workings of evil-doers. Despite this, God has mercy on him, and he begins to experience reversal of bad fortune.

 

On the second day I was able to feign meeting Soldag the salt pedlar by chance. I had known the rogue for close to a dozen years, and he was always the same, crafty of eye and cautious—and always on lookout for extra coin. The repugnant clerk Bedalf had just concluded a negotiation for geld with Soldag. Before leaving to scamper back to Sigald, he saw me; a glint of smugness was distinct in his tiny pig-like eyes. Lifting his staff, he poked it in the direction of the manor.

“Himself intends to travel tomorrow morning—striking out for the Manor of the Great Earl Siward—and he will take you along. Make sure you are ready at Compline, for with the bell we are off.”

I had no inkling of this trip, but why would I? These sorts traveled frequently and I was but a conscripted servant. With my family at Oakheath, I would come back with the faithfulness of a rising sun and the greedy swine knew it.

Soldag and I held conference under the privacy of an awning stretched between his two carts.

“Cuthwin, you seem to have changed life styles.”

He hid my reply letter to the Prior of Peterborough, then fish-eyed the ten schillings I placed atop the cart brace. He swiped his old paw across his frazzled mouth and its drooping mustache. He wanted more.

“Ah, Cuthwin, these are bad times. I could have my balls cut off if they caught me with such an article—or worse. I tremble for the danger of it.”

“When did events get so bad, Soldag?”

“Oh, there are great tensions between the King and those here in the north. Everyone speaks of it.”

I began to take back the coin and gestured for return of my letter; I sighed with great disappointment, for I had heard of no such troubles. “Still,” I added, “I could understand before God and Our Savior how you could not carry it.”

Of course the old stoat was anxious for the coin, and immediately added that for a few extra shillings and on the strength of our ongoing friendship, he would undertake this awful risk.

I left him with the letter and his shrewdly wrought fee, resolving, when asked, to mislead Cwenburh in the amount extracted from me, for the sake of peace-of-mind. For in truth, I knew there were troubles upon the lofty levels of the Earldom and country itself.

I gathered this not from the content of the letters sent from the Manor, but from the royal couriers arriving—on some days two or three. Of course, since the High Reeve and his clerk were fluent in both languages, they had no need of me, and it was noteworthy—to me—that so few letters went out in response to the royal missives.

And no texts of the letters I crafted revealed anything of unusual merit regards troubles or threats; instead they were of placid and steady tone.

By the next morning, I had prepared a sort of traveling craft-case and in truth it was stuffed with more necessities Cwenburh claimed were required for my trip.

“For all I know, dear Cwenburh, I might be crafting letters in the midst of a copse or field—I need room for the necessities of my craft, for the love of Jesus.”

She had misgivings at my departure, as did the twins—for during the eleven-plus years they rarely saw me leave for more than a day. I promised great benefices upon my return—and Cwenburh asked to keep a weather eye out for news of the times.

She too felt unsteadiness within Oakheath Manor. Now both watch towers were maintained day and night On nights, distant watch fires were lit: Twenty furlongs or more before the walls, they cast light over the fields. Those coming up to the fires would be illuminated from the towers, but themselves be blinded of objects beyond it, such as the walls and those who might man it.

Now this could mean little, for often freebooting raiders, notorious brutes, were rumored to be in the country, and fires would be lit and towers manned by keen eyes.

So residents thought little of these signs. Those womenfolk who would talk with Cwenburh told her we were new and would soon get used to the ways of a great manor.

At the time for departure, we said prayers together, and Cwenburh kissed me farewell, and said, “Remember, Cuthwin, Our Holy Savior on the cross and the sign of his passion, and what it conveys to us.”

At the time, since she was always a most devout but plain-speaking woman, I simply took note of the unusual artfulness of her farewell. As we rode off, my family looked on until I saw them no more.

I was surprised at the fast pace we set—me mounted on my trap’s mule, a tame beast the children named Puddles. The capaciously fleshed Reeve traveled atop a gigantic satin-black steed—massive as an ox. In fact, this magnificent beast was one of a pair—the second following unmounted to serve relief when its mate became sore-at-back from the weight of the High Reeve.

These two were profusely caparisoned, the jewels of our procession, which in the manner of such a train involved nearly two-dozen thanes or housecarls, all mounted and armed. Alongside him was his toady Bedalf on a tiny white pony.

Young factotums ran alongside the procession to fetch and carry, and in all we were an imposing force.

No brigands and freebooters would think of harming us.

Puddles was not used to a high pace, and would not—or could not—keep up, and I often had complaint from the Undersheriff—for once again, Aldwulf-of-York was present, and commanded the protecting train. He finally threatened to slay Puddles if he did not pick up, claiming we would eat him that night.

I did what I could, beating on the poor creature’s flank with a switch, for Aldwulf’s sense of humor was too often blended with the serious. After a surprisingly brief repast at Sext—with the High Reeve shouting out that daylight was wasting—we set out again after helping him switch great mounts.

We continued into a valley that was narrowing, with thick groves of thorn and beech extending to the bottomland which soon separated the two with not more than five furlongs between the forested hillsides. Here Puddles just stopped; the animal was spoiled and fat, always pulling our trap at snail’s pace in the begang, and I knew the end had come for it.

While I struggled with it, Aldwulf came back fast. He was angry, and one of his men accompanied—for now the train was several furlongs advanced of me.

“There it is,” he looked at me and shook his fist at the creature. “You see, Scribe, they are good for nothing but grief.” And he then motioned to his man, and, while whirling his horse about, barked, “Give it several moments to recover itself, for sake of God’s kindness, then slay it.”

And galloped off. The dreng left behind took off his helmet, for though late autumn it was a warm, clear day, and at once I saw he was one of the two who had originally spirited me from the begang those months ago. This was to prove God’s good fortune.

I used an old trick with Puddles. I had kept the paw of a cat in a pouch. I had remembered this over those many years from my years at the stable.

“What’s that dried thing?”

“Cat’s paw. Puddles hates cats, and will search them out to kill them.”

It stirred the recalcitrant creature, and looking around for the enemy, its ears went back—and it stomped its front hooves.

Now, more than eager to move, the young man reached down and touched me on the shoulder—casting a nervous gaze towards the Reeve’s procession, now at the point when, following the narrow valley, it was going out of sight.

“Wait, Scribe.”

He put his helmet back on, and there seemed a force in his voice that reminded he was fully armed. Seeing they were out of sight, he looked down at me. His eyes narrowed and he gestured towards the hillside.

“Get quickly into the woods, and flee. There is much retribution ahead, and it will be grim indeed. Now I must slay this animal to display blood.”

My mouth dropped open—struggling to find words, I appealed to spare the beloved but bothersome creature.

“Do what I say! I am told to slay both of you. Spare yourself—in the name of Jesus. I am a croftsman and cannot kill an innocent, unarmed man, but I will if I must.”

He then drew that massive broadsword, and I leaped away as it came down on Puddles, killing it as neatly as if he wielded a bolt of lightning.

Then, wheeling his horse he kicked into a full gallop away. Knowing something hideous was at its start, I pulled—fought to get my traveling case from under Puddles, saying a quick prayer for the beloved family animal and myself.

With the case so heavy, I struggled off through the chest-high grasses, entering the shady midday shelter of the woods. I continued uphill, my heart throbbing, gasping for breath, for it had been years since I had roughed it overland.

Reaching the arched backbone of the hills, I cast looks north and south. Which way should I go? Certainly Aldwulf would discover his dreng’s disobedience and seek me out—probably sending several to do so.

I decided on the opposite direction they would expect, and proceeded north—parallel upon the hill’s spine in the direction of the Reeve’s train—away from Oakhurst Manor. The case’s broad leather strap ached—I had strung it across both shoulders and upper arms, leaning into my burden.

This was entirely undoable for any distance, and I had not gone a league when I came across a massive pile of boulders protruding from the dark earth and litter, piled up through the ages. This, and those like them, were common upon hilltops, and made excellent promontories.

Here I collapsed—ruing how fat and lazy I had become over the years of being a scribe. I thought desperately of Cwenburh and the twins; I wondered what sort of evil had come upon this day.

Having at least the good fortune of high ground, I unburdened and, staying on my belly, crawled atop the highest rock, and two-hundred feet below and five furlong distant from me, three mounted men waited patiently on the high ground.

And it was then I witnessed a most extraordinary and grisly deed. For indeed, it was the Archfiend or his minions who ruled that day, and I know that to be true to this hour.

The Reeve’s procession swerved towards a defile, now apparent to the west. None of my former party could see the three awaiting men. And when they did emerge into sight of these three, the Reeve and his toady halted at a half-pace, but his men closed in and it was Aldwulf who reached over and took the reins of the massive steed that carried its master.

The High Reeve’s own men were betraying him—or had.

The factotums afoot fled like hares towards the woods, but were intercepted by two of the drengs who had taken up rear guard—and from horseback struck the Innocents dead with battle axes.

I guessed the calumny underway had been fully planned by Aldwulf; his men were its legs and hands.

Seeing how it stood, Bedalf threw himself off his horse, but as he went to kneel before Aldwulf, another behind him unsheathed his sword and beheaded him—so swiftly, that it seemed hardly possible. For I had never seen warfare—where armed drengs plied their duty to their masters. Trained men became fiendishly adept with arms, and here I saw it in fact.

Only at this moment, the three men awaiting led their horses at an easy walk forward. It took no great perception to discern that the middle horseman was a young noble of great authority, for his steed was elaborately caparisoned in silver and gold; his body armor gleamed, cleaned and polished daily, no doubt.

They rode up to Sigald-the-Dane. The man, certainly an Earldamon said a few words, almost as if in greeting, then he drew and brought the death knell down the middle of the vast man, almost cutting him in two down to the saddle.

Blood rolled over the unfortunate horse, but the Reeve—both halves leaning in opposite directions, stayed mounted.

Perhaps it was the result of his blow, and this mawkish sight, that caused laughter from everyone—audible even from where I hid. While some began to outrage all the bodies, Aldwulf—joined by the two alongside the Great Earldamon, Himself—remaining mounted, commenced to carefully search the Reeve’s baggage.

It does nothing to continue in detail about that hour and narrate the foulness that unfurled below me. Suffice it to note it is the Holy Teachings that tell us that men imbued with greed and power who do such violence must answer before God for their misdeeds.

I knew that when finished with this outrage, they would backtrack and my escape would be noted, and I was the dead man’s scribe—privy to whatever betrayal or crimes he was conducting, or at least as they would think.

Taking precious little time, I opened the case and lightened it: Keeping food and spare clothing, which was very little, I dumped all else on the ground, for letter writing was glaringly off-purpose. For my scribe work, I did have two small knives and a few tools of more general use, and of course I carried my old knife in belt. I picked it up, sad it was still heavier than wanted, for the case was leather and mounted upon crafted frame.

I thought at the moment of taking out the clothes, using them as a hackensack, and casting away the case, but for the time, opted against this.

I proceeded as rapidly as possible north—once again, staying contrary to the direction of home. It was my second best advantage; the first was that all the men were mounted heavily armored and would have no chance whatsoever of chasing a fleeing person in heavy woods—especially one who kept his head.

After that, expecting a scribe to lack any skills in the woods or at croft, they would insist on staying mounted until Aldwulf saw the fruitlessness of their pursuit. Then, only if ordered, would those most subservient, leave their mounts, lighten their personal armor, and pursue on foot, carrying light weaponry.

Time was with me.

Daylight would be lost before Vespers, for it was late autumn, and the north sky would swallow the sun earlier each day. The night before me would be a three-quarters moon.

Traveling rapidly by night, I would at wisest opportunity, reverse direction and head back towards Oakheath Manor. Having traveled this land all the previous fall and summer, I knew its lay in general. Though I would not equal a native-born person, I did have general knowledge of the rising range of hills and mounts. I would be familiar enough with proximate larger towns and villages and which lay in what direction.

And more than all, the River Tees and its tributaries would be my master guide, for the courses of rivers and streams were my mentors.

With the moon fully risen, I kept it well to my right, skittered from one hilly range to another. I would climb to the first arched back of a ‘Giant’s Shoulder, which is what countrymen called the piles of bounders, common at hilltop. I encountered one of these soon enough.

Because these are popular night camps for such miscreants as poachers and thieves, I used caution upon approach.

Turning south, what I saw caused me to nearly cry out. A great light pulsed far distant on a precise point of the horizon: A fire consuming great quantities of stick, wood, and straw could be none other than a village burning—and in that direction, there were was no such large settlement other than Oakheath Manor.

Fires by accident were common in villages, and indeed all human settlements, but on this particular day and night, assuming accidental fire was far-fetched.

Aldwulf and his party, perhaps with the Earldoman leading, returned and put Oakheath Manor to the torch. Whatever transgression the High Reeve committed was reaping thorough retribution.

Wild with the darkest thoughts, my caution discarded, I proceeded to the bottomland and, by the setting moon, walked quickly south. Knowing the ways of greedy, violent men, I assumed them to be more eager for booty than to disarm and follow a runaway scribe—and no officer would risk ordering such a profitless enterprise when there was a rich manor to loot.

When the moon first touched the western horizon, it was not yet Lauds. By this time, Polaris had risen over my left shoulder, and I carried forth—by now my pace driven by desperation. I stopped only for water.

At this time when I was losing all moonlight, I saw the first column of wolves⁴¹ paralleling my course south. At their rate of travel, they made many leagues each hour. Despite my desperation to go on, I was terrified of these ranging beasts, and swerved away from level ground, and took to the edges between forest and lowlands. I had to be prepared at a moment to become tree-bound, the only defense one armed or unarmed man had.

Frog was full of wolf stories, as were all men plying the out-of-doors at night. The beasts were a menace to herdsmen, and cunning beyond what one might expect of a Godless creature on four legs. Indeed, many swore them to be inhabited by demons who sought to carry your soul to a nether world populated by fiends and goblins, your flesh being their reward.

You rarely saw them but heard them frequently all through nights adjacent to their hunting grounds. Nights, especially those with any favorable moon, were their stalking time, particularly in winter.

All beasts of croft and stable would be completely ill at ease through the nights, and needed extra oversight and soothing.

By sunup I had seen close to a hundred of the beasts, some in packs over twenty, all threading their way towards Oakheath. Keen in sensing flesh, this explained why they had no interest in a single person such as myself.

At this moment I steeled myself, for surely a calamity had overtaken Cwenburh at Oakheath. I prayed to Our Savior that his mercy was with her and the twins.

Despite all efforts, I did not come within view of Oakheath Manor until past Sext that day—by this time I had been steady paced for nearly the full turn of the moon and sun. Despite my frenzy, I approached the expanse of croft between me and the River Tees with stealth—staying low and looking out where the Manor and diverse structures had stood. I would do no one good dead or in chains.

My spirit sagged when I saw Oakheath Manor was not there any longer, at least in substantial form.

The walls were mounds of smoldering ash exhaling sad, twisted cords of smoke that drifted eastward with the late harvest wind.

One of the watch poles had been pushed back up, supported hastily, and I went lower still when I spotted a single watch atop it. He shouted at some of his fellows on the ground and began to climb down, but was threatened back up with a staff-bearing elder who sidled forth like a land crab—and there was something familiar in him.

It was Soldag, the avaricious salt pedlar.

I followed the edge of the croft towards the portion of the burnt wall that met the Tees. Soldag or no Soldag, I maintained caution. I emerged from the massive poplars and oaks at the portion only a furlong or less from where my abode had stood. It was burned utterly; nothing living remained.

I came closer to Soldag and the watch tower—then saw the first pile of smoldering casualties, victims of the slaughter. Caution was cast aside; I came out into the open, looking over and up at the pile, the stench of it having remained with me since. At the moment, I lost stomach and fell to one knee, retching and weeping in the same moment.

“So it is you, Cuthwin? You are not slain?”

Pressing my palms against the ground, his voice seemed fractured. Before me, Soldag’s turnshoes were a blur—he bellowed once again at the watch: “You worthless turd! Climb back up there. They will be back. Either they will pull your nuts off or by God I will do it first.”

Helping me to my feet, he turned me away from the ugly pile and looked me over. My eyes cleared and I looked out on the manor house, its former greatness now in slabs and pieces, smoldering.

Taking the back of my head, Soldag put a vial to my nose, and at once an overwhelming smell of mint cleared me.

“Oh, yes! That does it for such situations, Cuthwin. Come over here and sit. You are due many shocks, I am sad to report. Seems Sigald-the-Dane was pissing in his own bed, and that says it all.”

I saw Soldag’s men looting the remnants of the Manor. They had backed a cart up to a portion that was mostly unburned and were loading booty rapidly, shouting at one another.

Soldag swore to himself, then pitched into another loud howl, quite a feat for such an elderly, knotted man. “Goddamn you all! Fight later, get booty now! I will decide what goes to who, you witless oafs. Now hurry!”

In ordinary voice, much like describing the price and quality of salt that year, he took his staff, gesturing this way and that.

“Important skill to learn, Cuthwin, is to search where drengs and their halfwit scum have not when fleecing a rich manor. It is surprising how much they miss. Back through my seventy years, I have much experience, God forgive.”

“Have you seen Cwenburh or my twins?”

“Those attacking afoot stripped the bodies of anything of worth. Children would all be taken live as loot, of course. They stacked the adults as you see, then befouled their mortal remains by fire.”

“And Aldwulf, was he behind this foulness?”

“I cannot say. I was some hours distant when I saw the fires, and learned details from the three that survived.” He pointed behind what had been a woven rick for grain. “They are over there dying. One or two might still be alive. I do not know if they were the attackers or the attacked.”

Again he leapt up and, waving his staff, spewed outrage at his men. I forced myself on. I was desperate for an eye-witness account of what happened to my family and at once searched out the survivors.

The three were not of the Manor or Village, and had deep, fatal wounds; they were hirelings who followed their sponsors, armed only with cudgels or staffs, their pay being loot. These three somehow fell into bad ways with those armed with steel.

Two had died, and a third still lived. His remaining eye looked up at me, sapped of its color with approaching death. His mouth worked at words. I knelt and asked, “Can you tell me what happened to the women and children?”

“Mother,” he muttered.

And then he died.

Though returning thanes and company were not spotted, Soldag called his party off, eager to escape. He offered me advice: “They are looking for you, Cuthwin the scribe, surely as birds have feather.”

“Do they know I live?”

“What difference! In fact, you do, so get out; in a few hours, the wolves will return, at the least. I would offer you shelter, but if any of these high-born pricks found me giving comfort to a treasonous High Reeve’s scribe, we would be goners, no matter how far distant from Oakhurst. I am sorry for your loss, Cuthwin. But the dead are no longer with us. Take it from an old dun—save yourself. Look to your left—there lies one of the scum’s cudgels, and it is a good one . . . and you will need it.”

And he was gone.

In later times I have reflected on Soldag, and all such men who take opportunity in grisly circumstances, but I had no such contemplations on that day. I thought only of facts—the fate of my beloved Cwenburh and twins. Taking up the cudgel, I braced myself stronger than ever before and began looking through the pile of dead souls. Words used to describe such a ghastly task would be unequal to the task, God help us all.

At nightfall I had, as Soldag suspected, found no children, just adults. Even determining this was difficult in the wake of the outrage of a funeral pyre.

When the sun sank in the southwestern horizon, at its lowest point dusky shadows extended shrouds over the remains. I saw movement in the croft, great furred backs and tails, occasional heads looking out. The wolves came in several directions without a sound.

Retreating to a massive oak, I ascended it, hauled up my case, then my cudgel, and secured there upon an immense arm of the ancient tree. I turned my back towards the remains of the settlement and Manor and faced the Tees, its waters threading towards the sea.

Through the night the sounds of the beasts struggling over the bodies were appalling. There had been no livestock left, such being walking booty. Different groups of the ravenous animals fought over possession of this or that, and I prayed most the night that none of the spoils would be Cwenburh.

Somewhere towards Lauds, I felt the Lord’s scorn upon me for my selfishness. Shamed, I prayed for the survival of others and for the departed souls being so desecrated.

I allowed dawn to declare a strong presence before descending, cudgel at ready. I staggered at seeing what remained of the grisly pile, and had to brace against the rising stench of it. I withdrew towards the edge of the croft where thickets greeted the field, but heard cries and whimpers. Investigating, I discovered one of the consuming beasts, maimed in the fiendish struggles with its kind, two of his legs nearly bitten and torn through.

It tried to run from me but could only manage snapping and snarling in its ghastly fury. Its green eyes had every bit of savage life it was born with. For the first time, may God forgive, I felt anger and fury mount—more than at any time in the three days since my donkey had been decapitated—the beginning of this carnage. This beast’s bloodied fur, its bared teeth—untamed eyes glaring—challenged every precept that differentiated beast from God-given souls.

Such bestial fury through the curse of Satan was a contagion—moving from beasts like him into a human soul who lost God and Our Savior’s good words. This base animal was as evil as the immoral Sigald-the-Dane—and within an instant my cudgel was brought down with all my strength upon the wolf’s head with the ugliest result.

Perhaps I could think I simply put an end to its plight, but this was untrue. For the time it took my cudgel to sweep downward, I fell prey to Satan’s most seductive words for retribution: It was certainly not any form of mercy towards this beast’s misery.

Now that I dictate these doings and reflect back at that moment of violence, I offer it as proof for the folly of people calling me Saint or Holy Man. I am no more saint or holy man than any ordinary person who has threaded his way through this life.

When, on rare occasion I thought of myself shriven of all and able to join God with a decently cleansed soul, I think of that wretched animal snapping and snarling at me and I feel my cudgel as it traversed down. Ultimately all God’s creatures have the right to his Eternal Mercy, and mankind too, no matter how badly it conducts itself. We all live under the heavens’ immutable chance for forgiveness.

I believed that then, yet as God is my redeemer and eternal Pardoner, I suffered so numerous blows, I grew unsteady at heart regards men and women now, a half-century later.

Men returned to Oakheath Manor late in the second day. I heard them shouting—and the sounds of their horses crashing through underbrush. Climbing a high oak at the second evening, I looked back and could see the towers back up, and dozens of men—and women—moving about beneath.

Indeed, those responsible for the High Reeve’s end were re-establishing the demesne and all extended crofts quickly. Boats plied up and downriver as search parties afoot looked on both banks. Thank God, they did not have hounds.

Most were no more or less adept at forest and field than any cottars or those used to walking. Avoiding search parties like these was easily done, if one kept one’s mind and wits carefully honed. I did not—could not—assume they were looking for me, or were not. Caution and stealth were now the constant of each passing hour.

I accelerated my withdrawal downriver and struggled for an assessment about the standing of the matter in wake of this catastrophe. I had to keep rational. I had no indication whatever that Cwenburh was dead; most notably, despite a difficult search, I had not found her bridal clasp from Hereford in the embers. The murderers and their scum looted everything, but in their haste—or simply repugnance of the process searching the burning bodies for loot missed some. Most notable were metal clasps. I found nearly a dozen of them; they remained recognizable though damaged.

As the cynical Soldag had predicted, I found no children or youths, for these poor souls—which would include Matilda and Elesa—brought premium prices on the slave trade.

And God help us all. What came of Cwenburh if not murdered on the spot? Always wary as a wood rat—she could have escaped, and if a miracle would be granted by God, she had done so with the twins.

If so Cwenburh would flee as far away from Oakheath as physically possible, and seeking them out was my highest and holiest duty. And if I must search, and I must, then it was necessary to discover if I were indeed a wanted man. But if I were thought dead, I was blessed by such misinformation. Also this meant the good soul who spared me would escape terrible punishment for his disloyalty.

Any place frequented by travelers along the well-traveled road to Durham Town would be filled with rumors of who was wanted, for what, and where. Retreating towards trouble and not from it was always my most unexpected hence trustworthy ploy. This would indicate Durham Town as my wisest destination. The origins of all the wickedness at Oakheath was there.

In the ensuing weeks, it was as if the butchery at Oakheath had never occurred. No one claimed to have heard of it, nor had seen anyone looking like Cwenburh or the twins. They would certainly stand out—for no other reason than Cwenburh’s nature, plus the flaw upon her face, and the twins because of their appealing looks.

Were such outrages as Oakheath so common, they were not worthy of travelers’ curiosity and gossip. The winter would cease for nothing, but moved over Northumberland turning things grey and naked—skeletons against the sky. Visiting birds were gone, animals went into burrows or laid low, and people traveled less.

My outer garments fell into tatters, and those spare I carried with me in the case experienced the same. Not only had I lost several stones, I allowed an unruly beard to grow, and within several weeks of moving slowly north and northeast—always wary—I was quite a different-looking person than I at Oakheath.

Save my scribe’s case.

Before going into a peopled setting, I would hide it, for its fine and specialized construct would certainly draw attention plus undermine my story of being an itinerant liveryman looking for work.

It was now past St. Nicholas’s Day. Winds rose from the sea, and frost swept into my body as I struggled daily for warmth. I made hot camp during day to warm rocks, and bedded them under soil and litter at sundown, sleeping atop them, a skill I learned as a herdsman in the north. But mornings came cruelly late, now well after Terce.

Finally, after many weeks of plying within and without of Durham Town’s precincts for any information, I decided I was forgotten, as indeed was the entire incident. Concluding that caution was no longer necessary, I began to risk traveling openly. I had a few shillings and could buy a winter outer garment of the roughest sort and a few other needful items. I gave thanks that stealth was no longer needed, for cold camps at night were for younger, happier men.

I had stayed twice at combination livery-and-grain houses; at the time of King Edward, their proprietors made good coin providing them as makeshift stopping places for the commonality.

Still, by habit, I had hidden my box not too far distant, and carried only roll—a makeshift purse. And on one evening two riders rested their animals overnight, and bedded within with myself and others. They were not thanes or drengs, but rough and tarnished by travel and the making of many cold camps. Having means for ale, they fell halfway into their cups, and regaled other travelers with their adventures and travels.

They were coinmen.

“Why, once we apprehended a cotset who yielded us a pound of silver. He had buggered a great Lord’s daughter! Now there was the luck.”

There was laughter at this as everyone saluted the fall of sodomists and how justice stalked all evildoers. A cartman asked who they sought now, and what their worth might be.

They recited a list of various criminals, describing each one. Then one pointed to the rafters of the stable and, with mock dignity, intoned, “But the number one enemy of the Earl and King we pursue is Cuthwin-of-Alnwick—great purveyor of treason to both our Earl Siward and the King, may God help him, for we surely will not.”

A traveler—a musician—entered the talk. “Surely, this infamous scribe must be half eel to have escaped young Earl Siward.”

Both coinmen went somber—and confronted the poor soul, their ale-induced fellowship gone.

“And how did you know him a scribe, Fellow, and it was the young Earl and not the Elder interested?”

“Well, I have heard.”

“From who? Tell us. This fucking scribe wasn’t even known to be alive until not two weeks back, and then only to a few. So, from who?”

One was on his feet and beside the musician in an instant, grabbing and pulling him up as if filled with rags: “So, from who, you little turd?”

Several travelers withdrew out the heavy door hanging into the cold, and others went low into the hay and feed; I drew back behind a paddock barrier, but watched and listened, my innards chilled into a knot.

“For the love of God, friends. I am just a musician, have mercy.”

Both coinmen were beside him now, and a knife appeared in one’s hand as if materialized by a demon. He placed it under the musician’s ear. “So, from who did you hear this profitable news? Otherwise, I will start with your ear and work down, you piece of shit.”

“Please, I heard it a week back from a salt pedlar named Soldag. He had made good coin for selling the information, and he told me he sold it to the Young Earl, I swear to God.”

They released him, and with a violent kick sent him off, throwing his belongings after him.

“Get out of here you little worm—get out into the cold and freeze!”

Others who had not already preceded the musician did so at once. Both coinmen, now in poor spirits, returned to their bedding and sat; their silence could be heard everywhere.

Finally, one kicked his cup sending it bouncing against the beam behind me. He spit into the straw and looked momentarily towards heaven, “Well, Brother, soon half of Northumber will be looking for this damned scribe. We should have . . . .”

“You are the sot who flapped his mouth about it. We had the inside word, and the advantage. First to the trough is the key to our trade, goddamn you.”

Then his comrade spotted me—or a bit of me, protruding behind the barrier.

“So, who is there? Have we amused you, Neighbor?”

I moved into view and held out my hands. “I am a liveryman looking for work and know nothing of anyone’s business but my own, and keep it that way, friends.”

“A liveryman?”

“Yes.”

They looked me over a second time, then returned to their morose thoughts, one standing suddenly—looking knowingly to his fellow. “I do not favor it here any longer. There is another sack of fleas downroad a league. We will go there.”

And they did, despite the hour. At that moment I would not have given a ha’penny for the hide of that musician, for he spread news that could eliminate their advantage—the poor man was in their way.

As they led their animals out, one hesitated and looked at me. “Make sure you keep to your own business, Liveryman.”

And they were gone.

Quickly, I left by another way and made for where I had hidden my case and made cold camp. Should I curse the day I met Soldag the salt pedlar? I suppose I might have, but such was the character of that ghoul and scavenger that selling information about a living person seemed mundane in such a cursed soul.

I had befallen knowledge through God’s Will that unknown might have cost me far more than nights in cold camps. Somehow Soldag had not found advantage of place to sell the information for several weeks, and perhaps did not even know I was assumed slain.

That night, I wondered after the young man who had spared me, and what might happen to him when it was found by Aldwulf-of-York his man disobeyed his order and his weak-heartedness had come to the knowledge of a man greater than he.

In my prayers that night, in addition to my family, I added the young man, whose name I did not even know, and through the years pray Our Savior will look kindly after him. I owe him time and it can never be repaid.

My scribe’s case, unique and elaborate in craft and design, was my lingering problem, yet my heart sank when I thought of abandoning it. I knew no matter how I looked in attire, it would identify me as no ordinary wandering cottar or freedman, and that could bring on disaster.

It had been a great holiday gift from not just Cwenburh, but others in the begang, including and especially Edmund the Leather Craftsman and Analf the Joiner. There was no other portable case like it. They designed it for my work after years keeping their clever craftsmen’s eyes on my needs.

And of course Cwenburh was at center of the idea and afforded the materials, rich in wood and leather of the finest kind.

To me it was beyond worth, yet whenever I hid it, its retrieval would draw me back. But these were life-threatening times, often necessitating flying for my own safety and certainly not returning anywhere. I felt the fool for not disposing of it earlier.

Lamenting the need through the night, at dawn I knew I must take anything of necessity from within, and as one might burn the remains of a beloved animal, bid it farewell. Scraping away ice and snow, I started up a larger fire than usual.

I began my sorting.

Since it contained what few basic tools of my trade remained, it became—atop that personal significance—a most agonizing task. Its weight had raised calluses on both hands. Carrying, even dragging it over, up, and down daily, I wore rubbings across both shoulders, despite the padded harnessing I fashioned.

At least this burden would not be missed. So placing the most necessary items within a makeshift wallet, I hefted it a few times and confirmed its ease of carry.

Prodding the fire high, I dragged the case towards it and took sorrow-laden breath. Had not our Savior wandered with nothing but his staff by which he drove the money-changers out of the temple? Did this teach me not to cling to material items?

I went to close the lid of the case, when an item caught my eye. I opened the lid again; on the rich cloth lining within—itself fashioned with loops and hooks for many items—I looked closer. The lining was entirely visible: There, on the upper and lower right inner edges of the lid, burned skillfully into the cloth were the figures of two tiny crucifixes.

These were fresh additions.

With a gentler, more appraising touch, I hefted the lid and realized it was far heavier than I ever remembered it, especially empty. Cwenburh’s strange words of good-bye following her farewell kiss returned to me of the sudden.

Taking my small knife, I cut away the cloth covering of the lid, and between it and another cloth were six wide ribbons, themselves sewn into the cloth; running my fingers down the first, I felt they were double-layered, and between them were sewn coins.

This was the same work, or similar to it, Cwenburh provided Eadwig for his journey south to Rome and beyond. Continuing with caution, I cut out the ribbons. Concealed within were fully two pounds of silver pence, and the tiniest, most artful piece of jewelry: a peacock with tiny green eyes. It was gold.

So within was a fortune, by our standards.

Through that morning, watching the case burn to fine ash-grey embers, I thought back to the moment of our farewell, and wondered—marveled—at Cwenburh’s gift, for she was born with instincts laced with the fey.

She carried in her mind great whirling bestiaries from which she spun tales. Also, she saw fate and other great visions in many natural markings, and always trusted to her instinct for the future, and we would argue about this in the friendly way we did. We were great at such discourse, and the children—and especially Eadwig—would listen with wonder and amusement as we traveled.

“Auntie,” the serious young scholar would ask, “. . . have you seen these griffons actually pick up people and fly away with them?”

“Only after eating moldy bread!”

She would toss her head back—swipe the air at me, and warn, “Make sport of me, Cuthwin. By Our Savior, I shall pray keenly for you after one swoops down and spirits you away—poor doubting soul you are, scornful of God’s natural creatures.”

So this fire that now consumed my beloved case radiated memories imbued within its fabric: voices and times of the past, near and far. Cwenburh, in her craft and knowledge of me, would not tell me of our fortune contained herein, for I would have shunned the entire case rather than leave them without all we had worked and traveled for.

I was out of tears and laments. I now thought of Herself: A marvelous blessing God gave me—young and foolish—on that day at Loe a full sixteen turns of the seasons ago. Had she been taken from me by that same God? I bent towards the fire, now sinking low like all earthly fires, and prayed for God’s mercy. A greater spirited soul had never ascended before her, nor would it after.

I sat praying, not wanting to turn my back on the burning core of the fire; I swung a bit, left and right, hesitating. A voice within warned, Cuthwin, you must carry on.

I wandered until winter without learning anything of my family nor of what happened at Oakheath Manor. At Middlesbrough were haul-outs and yard-arms where ships came and went with diverse cargo. Also, this area’s misfortune was that invaders from overseas beginning long ago would often land and up-to-present strike havoc wherever they raided.

After some time here I met a leather merchant, a good soul who for a few pennies allowed me shelter in his stable after I had bought repair material for my wallet and other portables. After several days, seeing that I was on something of a quest, he asked after it.

I did not lie, but told him generally I had lost my family in these troubles, along with the tools of my craft, I being a liveryman. And it was here I found the first true information, and it proved dismal indeed. The merchant lived in the area for many years. He was anything but strange to the slave trade.

“These sordid men who deal in slaves come with ships of many oars, the bastards. Oh, they make a life of it, they do. I see them all, for they use leather restraints coming and going, for the pigs cannot afford chain.”

“Then, in the last months have you seen twin redheaded girls just short of age?”

“God help me and you, I have. Sold oversea—were hotly contested by several of the Danes.”

He could see I was struck dumb—it told him the truth of it and he lamented such business, a kindly man.

“Oh, I pray for your loss and God’s mercy. I beg for forgiveness by Our Savior’s virtue for being the bearer of this information. By now they could be thousands of leagues distant in any direction of the heavens. I know this is meager enough balm, but God spared them—your daughters live and are worth more healthy than otherwise. This awful assurance and prayers is all a poor leather-monger can offer.”

I prayed that night that God would be kind to Elesa and Matilda, for only he knew where they were. Even the King himself lacked enough resources to dispatch ships over the seas and into countless harbors in search of our poor wretched girls.

The chances of Cwenburh surviving continued only as the merest thread of the possible. But, I—despite the devastating outcome for Elesa and Matilda—would carry on hoping for the intervention of Our Savior. One thread was Cwenburh: By the act of hiding our funds with me, obviously she anticipated something dire.

She was not one to be caught unawares. I deeply felt she lived.

Having purchased warm but coarsely woven clothing to maintain an impoverished appearance yet survive the raw winds, I went to Durham amidst Twelfth Night celebrations. Having done business there in late summer, I was more confident with the surroundings.

Though not prime time for pilgrims to pray before the shrine of St. Cuthbert’s, this greatest of God’s servants incorruptible remains still drew faithful from all Christendom. Because of this I had ready my excuse for wandering there; and more shelters for travelers, nowadays called ‘inns,’ rather than religious premises, made daily living more comfortable.

Still, I slept light and looked and spent like one with only the lowest of means rather than a freedman with a fortune of silver and gold bound around his upper thighs. A knife, cudgel, and sober man offered little or no reward to predators who preyed on weaker and more promising targets.

But by the spring of that year, I lost heart at finding word about those who survived the devastation at Oakheath. However, I did learn it resulted from the treachery of High Reeve Sigald, the details seeming to revolve around money stolen. The mounted caparisoned warrior who cleaved him was young, certainly not the aged Earl Siward.

But it was Sigald’s foulness and greed that resulted in the ruination and mayhem at Oakheath; that all save Sigald and possibly his clerk were innocent of wrongdoing meant nothing to great men steeped in anger. I was able to gather no more information despite a grueling winter wanderings, town to village—back to town.

I greeted spring at Great York—a town larger than all others, well south of the troubles in Durham. Without any word at all, I fell into a despair and was weary of plying the roads and paths—with risk hidden at all corners and junctions.

Knowing I must continue—Cwenburh would be sure of that—I decided to return to the begang by way of Peterborough, and resume my former identity. While venturing south, I would write a letter explaining our family’s misfortunes to Eadrig—and possibly to learn something of him, especially if Frog had returned from his great ambulation.

A raw, unyielding winter held on to land, sea, and mountains, driving back the coming spring—snow falling late, ice locking everything unseasonably. This drove thanes and cottars to delve further and further into winter and spring supplies until there were no more to be had.

Making my way across my old homeland on the fens, my spirit, instead of being enhanced, fell. I saw the cruelty, again, of winter’s hand; yet this year the grip of winter relented, and I did thank God and Our Savior. I knew too well what it was like when folk died in famine. With the improvement in weather, the worst of this would be avoided.

Yet the cruelty of bad men was impervious to even the powers of weather, being driven instead by the darkest of shepherds. Our land fell prey to them, absconding our fates from under the eyes of God and Our Savior whose absence challenged faith in their eternal goodness.

I prayed to shrink away from these thoughts, but doubts began to grow within, as wayward seeds sprout after being scattered by the most ill winds. My faith weakened.

When I slogged through the spring mud and the familiar gates of Peterborough town, I sought out Edmund the Leather Craftsman’s son, who had given us so much help the previous summer.

His wife was shocked when I came to the door and identified myself—for I still had full beard. She cast a wild look back, and lowered her voice—it being stern and sharp: “What have you come here for? Do you want us ruined, like you and your family? What took you to fall in with such evil men, and to involve poor Cwenburh and the children. Get out before I tell the guard, God save your soul.”

And the door hanging swung close, and I saw it being tied firmly down.

This was an extraordinary greeting. How might they be so misinformed after the letter I sent about our abduction to Father Abbot through Prior Wulfgar? I explained precisely the nature of our abduction—and reading his response I knew he understood. I stood, staring—had this woman taken leave of her senses?

Surely her husband had not.

Yet they were as one in such matters of local knowledge and fact, or at least seemed as much in my memory.

I sought out a wine and oil merchant who kept a pilgrim’s shelter used by those not partial to the rules of Monastery hospitality. He had never known me.

There—after thought—I shaved, went to a merchant and bought clothes, clean and moderate to the eye, and for the first time in a hundred-plus days felt a little of my former self.

When I returned to pick up my belongings, thank God I spotted the Guard and the Undersheriff before they did me. Backing into hiding, I heard them heaping foul language on the merchant for giving me shelter, and what I heard shattered my already tattered hopes: “Give shelter to a traitor, you prick? We should hang you here! Now where is he, or it’s the worse for you?”

It was my own acquaintances who now turned me over. Only a halfyear before they gave us profuse hospitality and information.

Traitor?

I at once hid deeper in the darkness between houses and sheds. To leave Peterborough—wending my way along narrow raised dyke roads and expecting to avoid mounted men—was impossible. They would ride me down like a dog.

I whirled, and knowing the way only too well, made for the Monastery gate. Reaching the Monastery ground proper would be my only chance for fair hearing. Also, the proof should be kept in the Scriptorium folders—my letter to Prior, and the return copy to me, as weak as it was.

“Stop right there, Cuthwin-of-Alnwick!”

In the long row leading to the Monastery gate, the mounted watchmen emerged on the far end. Cut off from it, I knew that any entry gate must now do.

And it was Our Savior who watched over me: A nearby side gate was wide open, for at the moment a shepherd was pushing six fat ewes into its premises, and though my desperate retreat startled animals and shepherd, like the once agile youth I had been, I vaulted over the sheep and landed inside Monastery grounds.

Here, the law was Father Abbot and the Lord.

Carrying cudgel and with a knife at my waist, I made my way to the front of Father Abbot’s quarters, and by that time, there was such a commotion, including the ringing of the Monastery bell, that several monks at office gathered, and, putting down my weapons, I turned to the closest: “I am Cuthwin-of-Alnwick. I seek Holy Sanctuary from these men, who falsely accuse me and mean me harm.”

It was a whirl of events: The Undersheriff rode up, his great horse gasping steam from nostrils, wide with excitement. He pointed at me—actually thrust his arm at me in sword-like motions. “This man is a traitor. He has inflicted treason on the King by consorting knowingly with traitors. No hearing is needed, before God.”

The guards ran up, not far behind; bent over, their slothful ways in town not equal to sudden exertion, they struggled for breath.

At once I recognized one of the monks as an oblate, and another far older without any sign of office at his waist—yet he quickly ordered in the language of Rome for the oblate to run for higher authority.

But he held up a single hand, standing between them and me.

“Reverend Prior will be here. Stand fast, please be to God. There is request of sanctuary here.”

Prior Dundage walked sedately into the court, and though far greyer now than when—years ago, he had been Gardener—still possessed the sheer height of command—being taller than any then and now.

The Whipmen followed, and two other Brothers—both held office, one Subcellarer, the other Sacrist—and in fact still Brother Aethyl, now bent and carrying a great staff. He looked me up, then down—shook his head: “Oh, Cuthwin, still up to your rascality?”

“Rascality!!! This turd has committed treason against the King.”

Reverend Prior raised his hand, pointing at the Undersheriff. I’d forgotten that his voice was as commanding as his presence.

“Where are you, Master Undersheriff? Must I remind?”

Reverend Prior motioned towards my weapons, flicking a tiny gesture to the oblate at his side, and he at once swept them up.

Prior Dundage took his time, looking me up and down—back up at the Sheriff, who, remembering his place, calmed down. Undoubtedly, half of his family would owe rents and other fees to the Monastery, and a Prior was the leading edge in the pursuit of such matters.

He took a breath, deciding something, and asked where the King’s Warrant was for such an arrest of a free Saxon craftsman.

“I don’t have it at hand, Reverend Prior, but follow direction from the Lord High Sheriff, now two days’ distant.”

“Cuthwin, what do you say? God help you if you lie.”

“That I am innocent of such crimes, and am a faithful servant of God and follower of the loving words of Our Savior, Jesus Christ. I would swear my innocence as bond against seizure by the Archfiend.”

He looked up at the Undersheriff and pronounced temporary sanctuary for me until Father Abbot returned from France. “He escorts the mortal remains of the Venerable Elsin, more honored than any other man by all within and without cloister at Peterborough.”

The Undersheriff became sullen, for clearly there was abundant reward for me, to be shared with the dogs behind him, and he withheld swearing, but his neck and jowls swelled like a rooster.

“Lord High Sheriff, Reverend Prior, will hear of this by courier, and he will not be pleased, and I think Canterbury will not either.”

“God’s grace and love go with you; and Father Abbot’s love and reverence for Canterbury and all there is widely known. But this matter must wait; Cuthwin, on my orders, will remain within and be held account for any true warrant.”

After the Undersheriff turned tail, conversation amongst Brothers began; but Reverend Prior held up a hand, directing Brother Aethyl to escort me within. I was taken to one of the havens for wanderers and pilgrims. Since I had nothing but myself and what I wore, Brother Aethyl glanced about to check we were alone and had enough sense to see I was altogether sad to hear of old Father Abbot’s death.

It sapped any relief enjoyed from receiving sanctuary.

“I shall bring you blanket, spoon, and bowl. We are keeping a day and night vigil for the Venerable Elsin who we all loved, me no less than all, and certainly you as well, Cuthwin. He was fond of you because of your love for Waddles, that cursed donkey of his, may God forgive me.”

I sought out a tiny chapel used by travelers, skipping the repast at Sext. I had lost so much, and now Father Abbot Elsin who spared me from terrible consequences of my youthful adventures. I thanked God in prayer that he lived to give sign over Cwenburh, Eadwig, and the twins Matilda and Elesa. And, once again, me.

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Abbot Elsin lives in heaven, assured of God’s eternal grace. I believe this to the present hour despite my numerous weaknesses of faith which would have alarmed this most sacred of men.

Christendom with England had lost much with the departure of Abbot Elsin. In the wake of all my loss, I cared little about my mortal person; hence, I lived under temporary sanctuary soundly enough. I was plagued by no worries; if hanged, I would meet my end shriven and join those I loved who dwelled above in the comfort of Our Savior.

I asked for chores at the Livery from Elfgar, now Liveryman of Peterborough. He was a terse, massively built Saxon, a great nephew of Gilbert—who began his apprenticeship under my former teacher and loyal ally.

I occupied myself with repair of tackle; while working I prayed for the souls in my past, including Frog and Eadwig. I hoped he would have word when Father Abbot arrived with the remains of the venerable Elsin, for Frog would never abandon him until home on the fens.

Despite the advent of spring, bad times still carried on from the long winter. I would save my bread, and breaking it into pieces, feed it to the pigeons who lived in the stable. I hoped for forgiveness remembering I bagged these birds, who also had sanctuary. My planned escape those many years ago remained vivid—and how Abbot Elsin gently applied for mercy for them after convincing me to stay.

By this time, my belongings had been the route of trade via the wine merchant. But they received reprieve by order of Reverend Prior; hence were returned to me worse for wear. He ruled all with a stern, steady hand in Father Abbot’s absence.

The funerary train of the Venerable Elsin arrived with great sorrow and ceremony at Peterborough on the same week the first swallows returned to the fens. Abbot Leofric accompanied the vanguard, walking barefoot and wearing only sack-cloth and a simple wooden cross strung along a coarse fiber line.

Behind came the remainder—great men and scholars of Monastic Houses in France—friends and associates of Elsin. Some walked, and a few who were elderly rode. We all lined both sides of the gates of Peterborough Monastery, the bell striking regularly, singing out mournfully these somber hours.

Outside the gates, all were on their knees while Father Abbot elevated the cross about his neck, announcing in the language of Rome there would be fourteen days of mourning. During this time the Abbey and Town would observe solemn vigil—celebrating Holy Elsin’s transport to the eternal joys of heaven.

No business beyond that necessary to attend daily sustenance was done for those inside the walls and in cloister, excepting for tending to the needs of honored guests, who arrived daily.

The Venerable Elsin’s remains were opened to viewing and prayers by ordinary folk outside and inside the Monastery confines, then afterward only for churchmen or officers of the land.

I attended these through the entirety of the first day and well into the third, then returned to my quarters unable to sleep because of demons of past times. Giving up, I went to the livery resuming work on a complicated length of trace. It was not quite Matins, the oblate on fire watch was already asleep like so many before him, and I worked on, contented with the moment.

Only the beasts moved in paddock and stall as I worked.

From the corner of my eye, I saw movement through the top slats between myself and the entrance. At the moment I heard the bells announcing the cessation of viewing for ordinary folk. Whoever it was held a moment, cautiously.

Then, satisfied it was safe, into view came an elderly woman, but one who walked erect and strong. She hesitated, swept away a head-covering revealing bright blue eyes darting left and right, making sure no one was near save the sleeping oblate. I at once recognized Esa, Wife of Ordgar, the fisherman and eelman.

When passing through the previous year with the begang, I heard Ordgar had died, and the fishing enterprise was no longer expertly conducted, but time prevented me from visiting this kindly soul, God forgive me.

“Cuthwin-of-Alnwick, events have gone badly for you of late, God help us all.”

She kept her voice low, but I recognized it at once. She was invariably kind to me, for one who knew almost nothing of my mother, Esa held special sway.

“It is true, Esa. You look well, and my spirits arise to see you, God knows.”

Then we embraced, retreated to a nook in the livery, and from beneath an outer mantle, badly tattered, she took a small sack with bread and dried fish.

“This is for you, made the best way.”

Lowering my voice more I asked after Frog, and why he had not returned with his Uncle’s procession, for I knew he had knowledge of Eadwig.

“Oh, Cuthwin, would you not guess!? Without protection of his beloved Uncle, his enemies raise old issues and want to hang him. He disappeared before Abbot Leofric took ship in France with Great Elsin’s mortal remains, God be Praised. He is a cunning one.” She paused, checked to see the oblate still slept then added, “. . . he is on the fens, the rogue, what there is left of him. Know this: Your Eadwig is arrived and safe at his destination, God be Praised.”

She, of course, had seen Frog. He emerged from hiding and confided recent events only to Esa, for whom he had powerful affection. I gleaned this by watching and listening those years ago, mainly in wake of one incident: Frog embarked on a great rout when he got word—incorrectly as it happened—that Ordgar had beat Esa. He meant awful retribution.

When he returned—having first visited his cups grandly—he acknowledged his was a false start, and that Ordgar was a good sort.

Now, for sure, I wanted to see Frog badly, and she took my hand, squeezing it with her powerful Saxon-wife hands.

“He cannot come here, and for the foreseeable future you cannot go there, and God forgive, I will skull either of you who try. Somewhere in you, Cuthwin-of-Alnwick, is a streak of Frog.”

She kissed me, covered up against the night cold and left me with the provisions and utter joy that Eadwig has reached his destination. My adopted son was with Holy Men and going about his great purpose given to him by God.

Upon cessation of the holy vigil and the funeral mass—full of singing and great words of praise, closed to the commonality—Venerable Elsin was interred at the Monastery.

Within a half day, I looked up from where I read in my quarters, coming eye to eye with the Whipmen—whose duties had shifted for the better to messengers for Father Abbot.

“Cuthwin-of-Alnwick, you are wanted at once before Father Abbot.”

I followed them over that familiar path, last taken when only a youth. Now instead I saw a different Father Abbot behind the same simple table, Reverend Prior standing to one side. My gut tightened when none other than the Undersheriff and the High Sheriff—though unarmed—stood to right and left of him, their eyes fixing on me like a kite spotting a fat grasshopper.

I knelt, received the sign, and stayed there.

The High Sheriff stated the King’s case, which was simple: The King had ordered warrant on the basis of sworn testimony from Earl Siward, his numerous thanes and loyal tenants and subtenants in his Earldom. Earl Siward assured the King that anyone who had cooperated and done tasks for the wayward, greedy traitor—the late High Reeve of Gloucester—was a traitor and must face judgment.

At that he moved his hand to the warrant, already unrolled before Father Abbot, who made no move, no response; his right hand held a large cockle shell, which he would examine absently, then put down—tap several times—as these arguments played out.

Reverend Prior Dundage motioned to my letter to Father Abbot through him, and a copy of his response, adding simply, “Father Abbot, these are true letters written prior to events.”

Father Abbot looked directly at Prior and nodded. “I have read all these.”

Again, he raised and lowered the cockleshell while ruminating, tapping it once or twice, turning it around, yet did not speak. With no exception, if Father Abbot doesn’t speak, no one speaks without permission. But a High Sheriff is a powerful person, used to his privileges of office. He gestured to the writ and said, “The King expects each of his subjects to do his duty.”

It was a bold and careless offering; he was not on his own ground. The cockleshell was set down firmly, and Father Abbot lifted up his head, looking at the High Sheriff with a strange, unreadable countenance.

“And we have great love and affection for the King and Queen, but the issue here is of sanctuary for Cuthwin-of-Alnwick, which I grant indefinitely. I see here a loyal, good soul wrongly accused, who has lost his family after odious abduction by those vacant of our Savior’s sacred words. He and his family carried the blessings of the Venerable Elsin, and produced a prodigal son who serves the Church before God and Our Savior.”

Then straightaway he stood, made the sign over us all, and exited by the private entrance, though first turning the cockleshell sculpted side down, and straightening it a notch.

The High Sheriff and his underling swelled in their wrath, and after a nod from Reverend Prior, the Whipmen made to escort them out. The High Sheriff raised an arm, pointing at the departed Abbot.

“The King will hear of this within the day, or two at most, Reverend Prior.”

“No doubt.” Then Reverend Prior looked at me, and gestured to me to stay where I was; then watched as the angry officials followed the Whipmen out.

Prior Dundage was equally unreadable as Father Abbot—he gestured for me to rise, and thought a moment. “You are knowledgeable about the ways of a Monastery, Cuthwin, and know what Sanctuary is, and how those with it conduct themselves. There is no need for you to work or such. Prayer is your best refuge.”

“I will pray, Reverend Prior. But I also wish to work, as I always had. I would like to do copy work; my hands require the practice.”

“There is a different Master and Assistant Master of our Scriptorium and I must ask them. I caution you against hope for their consent. They both know you plied the skills learned here for profit throughout the realm. This raises issues, Cuthwin. So be patient.”

There was noticeable ease of Monastery folk towards me, and for the first time Liveryman Elfgar had more than a simple word with me, and complimented my craftsmanship. I told him I would serve anyway I was of use. I did not hear back from Prior Dundage, so assumed no word meant my desire to practice my craft met with scorn. No surprise there.

Time was of no consequence to me, nor what the King might or might not do. God had taken everything from me I loved, save Eadwig, who lived far distant and safe, God be Praised for this gift, if for none others.

I would hear of word about Frog from time to time through Esa, who I found with little surprise had gone to care for him upon the fens.

“He is infirm now from the wanton ways he followed, and needs a wife. His wits are still about him, though, without doubt, and he can yet rob a trap or two, though he says all we eat or trade is honestly gotten, God forgive him.”

I spent hours in contemplation and ruminations about the fate thrust upon all of us who work and survive from season to season by our wits and hands. If God had mercy on us, why did he rain misery mostly upon us, and so comparatively little on the cruel, greedy souls who held vast offices of authority and lands?

Then too were churchmen of town, village, and manor who often strayed from Our Savior’s words. They would sell all sorts of benefices supposedly given to plain folk through the goodness of the Lord.

Worse, those ordained before the great office of the Bishop of Rome or his delegate to celebrate the mysteries and give absolution lived lives often contrary to how I understood them to be proscribed.

I had spent thirty-plus sets of seasons watching these things. While enjoying sanctuary at Peterborough, I spent four more years without word of anything, though snippets from the south informed that Eadwig knew my state but was rightly warned away from writing to me. I was, by Royal decree, a traitor, and any letter might be intercepted and used mightily against the sender, even a son.

And then Earl Siward, Earl of Northumberland died, God help him.

I knew this would change, or might change, my situation. The greatest and most wrathful of great men cannot defy death. For outrages from the likes of Earl Siward sent me spinning into an abyss of self-pity and even heretical views. I believed mindless Fate ruled beyond any realm held by God, and that Fate was more in league with Satan than it was God.

I told no one, not even my confessor, a simple priest/monk named Issin who worked sometimes as Gardener when the appointed Monastery officer was ailing. He tried to assuage my soul of my prideful enmity over past events: “Cuthwin, my son, such calumny befalls most poor folk in this cruel world and you cannot separate yourself from the whole—for all are able to be forgiven by God.”

I would say my penance, work at harness and tackle, and watch one day turn into a week, and it into a year. How deep is mortal folly to view such as I, Cuthwin-of-Alnwick, saint or saintly. In truth, I struggle through prayer and sacrifice for redemption of my own soul and to save myself from the fires of the Archfiend, greedy reaper of wretched souls.

When I learned King Edward issued me clemency, I felt very little by way of joy. He signed a writ freeing me of false accusations by those who duped the late Earl Siward with false statements; however, I never came to feel any gratitude to his Royal Person.

I felt grateful only to Peterborough Monastery which gave me sanctuary for those years. I do recall thinking what I might do. First thought was I might become an elder oblate, and stay there—perhaps this way gaining admittance to the Scriptorium. I had not practiced my craft in five years, and did not know what skills I might yet possess.

The liveryman—who had grown great friends with me—voiced warnings about the entirety of the good news.

“First off, be cautious of what Kings say—good or bad. I would not believe them. Those noble turds cannot tell truth from their own spittle. I would watch your backside outside these walls.”

He and I sat before a hot brew of wild serviceberry leaves, his specialty.

When I confessed thoughts of becoming oblate, he slapped his knee and looked to the rafters overhead. “Oh, may God and Our Savior bring you to your good senses; you know better than that. Save for a few of these monks, most could not raise a pimple on Abbot Elsin’s ass, God forgive me. His holiness and my kinsmen Gilbert’s mastery of craft is why I came to be liveryman here, none else. They are with God now.”

He continued, raining diverse opprobrium on all Monastic offices. In the four years there—though I slept in privilege in sanctuary quarters—I heard much. There was substantial truth to his words.

He twirled his empty cup, looking reflectively into the small fire in his workshop and night-quarters.

“I had a good wife who gave me many children and died giving me a ninth, God keep her. Now my eldest daughter mothers the lot, a good soul. I have yet another marriage suit for her. It is as good a bride price as a father might wish, and I cannot deny her this.”

It was the way of so many folk: The eldest daughter would mother the remaining siblings until the father re-married, or she might leave to be married, the marriage contract forbidding her continued care of her siblings.

I had made hundreds of contracts in my time, and some were bitter indeed for a remaining parent, especially a lone father with many children.

It was now mid-summer. The kindly weather lent itself for travel, and if I were not to become oblate, I should leave. But first I would seek out Frog, for I had wondered if I might take pilgrimage oversea, taking Eadrig half the fortune Cwenburh had left us—which I kept safe always. It belonged to all of us, and there was no trusted way to get it to him other than on my person.

I did not know, however, where Frog hid; great and minor officials wanted him for past warrants, and now new outrages.

God and Our Savior, I was sure, extended forgiveness to Frog: For as a kite cannot keep from eating fat insects, so it was Frog resumed his thieving and diverse outrages, even though mostly crippled and no longer able-bodied.

And in less than a week after news of my writ was public, Esa came to market to sell some split-reed baskets, always premium items. During those times we met openly.

She heard of my renewed freedom at market the previous Sabbath and, like Elfgar, advised caution.

“Good Cuthwin, use wise sense. Rich, powerful men can’t be trusted—you must give clouded water time to settle, God help us. Give up your name for time being; Frog’s main weapon is that people do not know him by sight. He changes names like he might turnshoes, the poor heedless sinner.”

For me to see Frog strained even Esa’s resourcefulness. Several rewards were offered for him, a few by the Undersheriff, others by rich thanes who owned vast holdings. These great men held in demesne, croft, river, and wetland those God-given resources which Frog utilized as skillfully as Esa wove her baskets. Unfortunately for her, it was common knowledge that Esa knew the whereabouts of Frog, but she never offered proof enough for her own warrant.

In Esa, Frog met his match for caution and resourcefulness.

“Oh, yes. I am always followed when I leave market. They think I don’t see, but I do. God help me if I were ever to try and trade fish or fowl, they would warrant me at once.”

Finally, after a week I returned and she asked if I remembered where many years ago—almost two decades—several eelmen butchered a stolen calf, and were summarily hanged. I did. In fact, it was called locally Hangman’s Crossing, for two prominent raised pathways parted the fens there.

Close by was a dilapidated boat-landing. There at Lauds at the setting of the half-moon during the next few days, Frog and I could meet, having yet a few hours of dark.

“If on the third night, he does not show, I would continue on, for God was wise in putting off the meeting of you two.”

How she regularly got to and from where they stayed, she did not mention.

At that same market, I bought several sets of turnshoes and a new heavy-made traveling wallet. Much walking was ahead; furthermore, I was given my knife and cudgel back.

The last step prior to departure was to seek permission from Father Abbot, who was about to attend court to the south. Prior Dundage escorted me in and reminded to thank Father Abbot Leofric for representing my interests over the preceding years.

Abbot Leofric stood looking out a window with glass. It was the first I had seen, and when I knelt, I struggled to keep my head down and not stare.

He asked me to stand, smiled, and beckoned me forward. “Tap on it with your fingertip. Most glass I’ve seen was exceedingly dark, or colored—used in artistic celebration from scenes of Our Savior’s Passion.”

And he made sign over me, and in fact he and Reverend Prior then said short prayer for me.

I rose, thanked him and respectfully slid ten shillings upon his table.

“You have sheltered me all these years, and my wife Cwenburh and our family would want Peterborough Monastery to have benefit of our past blessings through Our Savior, God be endlessly praised. All I ask are masses be said for Cwenburh and our two girls, wherever they might be, God help them.”

I was humbled when Father Abbot, then Reverend Prior, embraced me in turn. They assured I would always be welcomed there. With that great spiritual and kind conclusion, I left Peterborough Monastery and town for the first time in four-plus years.

Of course, great stories were told many times about the hanging at the crossing of dyke/pathways during the time of King Cnut. This infamous locale was distant from where most might suppose Frog might come and go.

I arrived there the first night under a luxurious half-moon, which festooned the fens with its vaporous light. Under it, nightjars hunted, and secretive bats darted down into the reeds, then up—fluttering in place a moment as they ate their prey, then flew down for another.

The powerful memories of the fens overwhelmed, and the remains of the old boat landing brought back better times. In the relics of two fen-boats, actually piles of pieces and splinters, I made my camp and admired all above me. The moon set perfectly in the northwest, and now complete darkness cloaked all. Yet, after eyes adjusted, the stars and objects strewn above illuminated faintly as they arrayed towards the mouth of the Great Ouse.

“If you intend to travel on the continent, you’d better be more aware than this, Cuthwin-of-Alnwick.”

Frog emerged from the reeds, quiet as a stoat, and offering the shortest of embrace, checked about, then sat on the old wharf, keeping as wary as the fox.

The five-plus years were hard on him; the hand with missing fingers was stiff with bone ague and he favored entirely the other. He had a great cleft over his right eye, and in the darkness I could make out no more.

Perhaps, I did not want to; time and harsh living were his lot, God forgive his ways.

He told me how the journey to Monte Cassino Monastery went with him and Eadwig. He scoffed, recalling how their progress was painfully slow with the Venerable Elsin and the King’s Escort.

“The whole snarl of them, save my uncle, of course, were fornicators and swine—crooked bastards. They skimmed money everywhere with shelter keepers, and I trusted them no more than I might snakes. The holy men were not much better, just stupider.”

Seeing the way of things, the Venerable Elsin, now growing weaker each day, ordered Frog to separate, and make his own way—making four times the daily distance. Though Frog did not say as much, his character would conflict with the escort and the clerics.

Frog removed his hat and motioned towards the distance—perhaps, in his mind, the Rome of years before.

“So indeed, with Himself commanding me, I left—Eadwig in tow. You know, Cuthwin, that boy is a marvel of patience and intelligence. We became great friends, and he is equal a student of wildcrafting as you were. Though unlike yourself when young and adventurous—he kept strict the Commandments.”

In just three months’ time, a wonder of progress, they reached the venerated ancient Monastery at Monte Cassino where Saint Benedict founded all that became The Rule.

Wondering after my destination, Frog took me by the shoulder and gave it a shake.

“If you go to France, you will not last a month. Their ways are a plague with the foulest sort of robbers and murderers up every tree, behind every rock and stump. Holy Pilgrims, if they traveled alone or as a few, have their things relieved from them. Even I had uncommon close calls, and me with your dear Eadwig entrusted to me.”

His plan back then was simple as it was potentially slow, but it used the imagination of survivorship: He lived off the land and waters as best he could, kept close to the coast warily contacting no one, and making camp in a secret place, often cold if he thought caution for the best. It was essentially the same going south.

“When we did enter village or town for market, as we left we were always followed by human jackals, who soon lamented their mistake—they crashed through thickets like pigs. I should have slit a few throats, but because of Eadwig’s pleadings, broke a few arms or legs with cudgel. They would flee yiking like dogs, the foreign-speaking brown-eyed fuckers.”

At that, there was an awful shriek—at once, both of us knew it was a careless muskrat snagged by the great fen owl, dark and deeply spotted—its life ended at the cutting ends of the soundless hunter’s massive talons. Despite his decades, Frog’s head turned at once in that direction, and he shook his head at the work of nature, so dumbly cruel.

Any further thought of traveling south on the paths through Normandy and beyond chilled within, and I knew at once, my greatest strength still lay in writing.

“Frog, I think I must first write letters to good Eadwig. I know of ways to send them south. I could not send or receive letters while in sanctuary without involving whoever I sent with treason in event they were intercepted.”

“Oh, a great pig’s snout for all that treason, sanctuary, writs, freedom, and prayer means—all that shit. Stay on the fens with Esa and me, Cuthwin—we will steal the fuckers blind, and eat hearty during all seasons. You have a great gift for it.”

Despite the clandestine nature of our meeting, he laughed at this thought—slapping his thigh with his good hand then of a sudden taken with a cough. He knew I would not do that, but I felt richly complimented he thought me capable.

Quieting, and spitting out great phlegm, he nodded, looking over at me. It was now the false dawn, and he and I looked out upon that and knew soon he must withdraw. We both gazed at the expanse of fens as the light eased across it, and we shared this peace of our God-given souls, though I know Frog would never admit as much.

“Cuthwin-of-Alnwick, we have shared many sunrises, but I’m afraid this is the last we will witness together.”

“May God help you, Frog. You cannot go on as you are; they will eventually catch you.”

“So? I have the one great gift anyone could have, and they won’t harm her. I tell you Cuthwin, Esa is too smart for any of them.”

It was difficult, this parting—made moreso by how much this soul had imparted to me, making so much possible. Not the least of these gifts was making me wise in wild-crafting, enabling Cwenburh and me to survive, first as youths, then, when older—and under God, keeper of our children.

We embraced, and he faded into the rushes like he had appeared. I only barely heard the sound of a pole against a boat, then nothing.

And he was right: I never saw Frog again, but I have always prayed that Our Savior’s eternal forgiveness embrace him, and that God preserve his soul. For Esa, she had no need of my prayers. Save for Cwenburh, no finer soul lived under God’s grace.

I thought this day on the rich providing fens that perhaps hundreds of more days were before me. Little did I know that as only God may command, my time ahead turned into twenty-times that.

Day spread out its candle of golden hue throughout as I walked away from Peterborough, unsure of what to do, and even more—where to go.

Mine was a hollow freedom, may God forgive my lack of gratitude.

Knowing I must have time to pray and consider all, I took shelter at the Spalding Monastery. And, may God forgive, I decided to yield to the expediency of untruth in God’s own house, telling them I was Egbert-of-Alnwick. I thank Our Savior that the humble monks extended hospitality to me, and asked nothing more of my name.

I decided to take Esa’s wise words to heart: “You must give clouded water time to settle, Cuthwin.” I must live on in untruth if I were to do any of my former family any good—and to reaffirm Cwenburh’s good sense in providing me with the family’s fortune, most still bound around both my limbs.

At chapel I performed many stations of our Savior’s Passion, and while doing so I decided to return again to Northumberland where the outrage occurred. To do otherwise was to forever leave behind even the most delicate of hopes.

Acquiring surface, quill, and pen, I wrote three letters more or less identical to Eadwig, telling him I would settle in York, and the name I adopted.

I wanted to take no chances it would not reach Eadwig: During the ensuing weeks, I selected three different carriers: one of church, the second a merchant, and the third a three-times Pilgrim resolutely set again upon Jerusalem.

I dawdled north to Great York, and in the leisurely interim grew a close-trimmed beard and became accustomed to identifying myself as Egbert-of-Alnwick. I decided not to return to any begang, but instead remain in York. While wandering I learned nothing—accomplished nothing—so staying put I could do no worse.

The York of that year—the decade before William the Bastard laid murderous waste to it—was a mighty center of Saxon and Dans law life. It was the largest town I visited on the begang. During our prosperous dealing there six years before, I became familiar with the layout of York. Some say its buildings went back to times when giants ranged the earth, wrestling with loathsome dragons and other such beasts for possession of the rich lands.

I recall now a half-century later, I returned to York in the late summer when they were still digging out from a terrible late spring flood that occurred the same year. Though God blessed the Vale of York with that opulence, this fertile land and waters could become hostile and flood.

York was a port city. Shallow-bellied ships transported goods upriver from deep-watered Hull, their holds stuffed with materials from all over the God-endowed world.

On the week of my arrival, the tides were bad and nearly a hundred of these smaller river boats crowded the course. Their crews were mostly in their cups, and factors and other merchants had even more time to negotiate and wheedle. The boats’ holds were filled with larger, more profitable merchandise, mostly wool or hides of ox and other beasts, and of course the vast barrels of cured eels, prized in all Christendom.

So all was in chaos, made moreso by priests and other religious sentinels in keen expectation of their benefices. These sorts walked here and there, ringing bells and blowing horns—shouting warning and invocation against all, for it was the sixth day, and approaching Sabbath. Righteous gelds would be levied in the name of the Archbishop, who along with these officers, would take a share. Ultimately the Archbishop held all power in York and could never be disregarded in business matters.

But despite these officers and their authority, a considerable show of roguish behavior greeted me the day of my arrival.

Several dozen boatmen lay hold of one of these greedy church officers (May God forgive my saying such) and took away his bell. After rousting him overhead, they tossed him in the river. They then gamboled along, ringing the bell in his stead, and in their crude Danish tongue invoking everyone to commit all sorts of sin and disgrace. Laughter followed them everywhere until the Archbishop’s mounted thanes appeared.

Cunning, despite being steeped in heavy ale, the boatmen scattered like fleas. Frustrated, the mounted thanes took to beating anyone they saw laughing at the expense of God’s ordained men.

Such was York in the days when Saxons ruled, before the greedy Norman had beaten Saxons with their demonic horses and sullied our land with rock and stone castles filled with criminals and excommunicates.

I set about my plan in earnest, for in all this chaos, one Saxon with ideas for a business would not even be noticed.

In the twenty-plus years since I commenced life as a scribe, the craft caught on somewhat and it had sprouted into a recognized occupation outside of monastery and church. There were not a few around who wrote and read Saxon and the language of Rome—some, even the Norman language.

On my way to York, I always stopped either at fair or town to see a scribe’s work, which varied from poor to acceptable. None, in my view—and may God forgive me for the sin of Pride—did expert work. They wrote letters, and had done with it. Yet their prices reflected an opinion of themselves beyond the actual. I made mental note of all these.

My first efforts in five years while writing the letters to Good Eadwig were painful, but demonstrated that almost twenty years of craft, learned at one of the finest scriptoriums in Christendom, imbued skill into my sinews.

In York I decided to combine my two crafts: One was dealing in writing materials, including the many inks and fine quills and growing use of copper point—priceless implements. Also, I would in an adjoining half-shop, as it were, return to the business of a scribe, first exercising muscles and knowledge long dormant before opening that portion for the commonality. I expected only top form in myself.

At last I made use of the coin gained through one business to open another. Yet true to the way of things, a snarl of city, church, and other laws, regulations, and diverse officers needed payment; otherwise nothing could be done. So I played things keen with coin and word.

An approach had occurred to me some days earlier, in the form of a wreck of a shop along the river bank. It was owned by an old dissembling devil by the name of Idwal-of-York who claimed he was Saxon, but spoke with the mark of the Welshman. He would become angry when anyone, even innocently, asked after his Welsh blood.

“You snouted pig. An illiterate like you would not be able to tell the difference between someone from Wales or Geatland.” And he would eject them from his shop. Back when on the begang, and in search of vellum or parchment for finer writs, I would enter to find him in an ale-stupefied sleep, wrapped in a floor covering.

He took a liking to me, and considered us fellows-in-knowledge, he claiming literacy in ‘several languages of great sophistication,’ which he was not. Once, curious about his origins, I employed craft, may God forgive. I had come by a letter littered with so many Welsh word forms I found it almost incomprehensible. Taking it from me, despite being bleary-eyed to the extreme, he read it with ease, and said it was some sort of brutish stupidity, and for me to have nothing to do with it.

“All Welshmen copulate with beasts and wild creatures that dwell in lair and forest,” he said.

Now five years later I found the shop in even greater disarray—half filled with mud, and even a few dead birds, who never again would see distant marsh or lands. The shop reeked with stench. Idwal teetered on an upper platform, and what little merchandise he had was strewn here and there, some of it spoilt.

He looked at me over the rim of his cup, while in mid-argument with an unseen woman at the rears. He cursed her profusely in Danish, then turned to me: “What do you want?”

“Vellum.”

“I do not have any, may God help me.”

“What surfaces do you have to write upon?”

“Ask after his bare ass. That would make great surface,” and a stout Danish woman swept aside the door hanging and stormed in, managing this comment in mangled Saxon. She snatched the cup from him and gestured towards me with it.

“What did you want? I own this eyesore now.”

“Actually, Mother, I want to buy this shop, complete with license, writ and charter, and of course merchandise and furniture.”

“How much?”

“Five shilling.”

“Pig’s ass! Twenty.”

“It is not worth half that. Ten.”

“Fifteen.”

“Twelve.”

She stopped and thought. Despite his mental state, Idwal’s mental processes caught up with events. His brow furrowed, and he reached out to the woman; his knobby hand belied his voice—signing more a plea than a remonstrance: “Who said I wanted to sell, you unparalleled harridan, you backdoor whore?”

And in a first for my forty years, I saw a wife draw her thick arm back and soundly backhand who I supposed was her husband, sending him head-first into the foul muck, some of it a half-leg deep.

“I own it, and will do with it as I please, like you did, you little Welsh fucker,” then wiped her hands upon her apron, nodding with finality. “Done. In silver pence, eighty of them—each with King Edward’s figure upon it.”

And it was this way, using the Venerable Bede’s reckoning, in the year 1056 past the time of Our Savior’s birth, I came to own what I deigned to call Eadwig’s Letter Shop, in York, upon the bank of the River Ouse.

My shop took all my resources to bring to fruition—to represent an outlet where anyone or any group could access reliable writing equipment and surfaces. But from the very first—after I’d hired a boy to scoop mud from the floor—I crafted a wall sign reading, “I am missing my wife Cwenburh-of-Loe. For anyone who knows her whereabouts and can describe her, I will give 5 grams of fine gold.”

And though my business increased steadily through fall and winter—some customers read, some not—yet the words on the sign spread. Finally, a subdeacon, greedy and heavy with ale and meat accrued through geld of his office, came in and pointed to the sign with his staff.

“Only the Archbishop or Earl Themselves may post such a reward. I fine you five shilling for such impertinence, but you may keep it posted. And where, in the name of God and the Archbishop would a nubbin like you come by five grams of gold?”

From my time in Hereford in wake of our poor child who died in birth, I had no use for malfeasant church officers. But unlike Cwenburh, I held my temper and instead used wiles, God’s gift to me.

“It is not my sign, Your Holiness, but done by me in interests of my brother-in-law, who is illiterate. He murdered a priest and his poor wife fled in fear of his temper. Oh, he paid extraordinary weregild to Father Abbot, may God forgive him.

He stepped back wiping the ale-induced sweat from his roundish face.

“God protect us from such men!”

I took out a bucket of stout ale, richly done, and paid my fine. He stuffed it in his wallet and we struck up conversation about another matter entirely.

After imbibing his share of ale, he left, and I knew would hear no more from him, save for an occasional petty renewal of his fine. By this time, I had been established in York more than a year and had taken on a young apprentice named Oslaf-of-Hull. He looked up from his bench when the wretch staggered out.

“Master, do you think he might be that stupid to believe your wild story?”

I drew myself up in great feigned indignation, and thoroughly reprimanded him for assigning such mischief to his Master. And going out to replenish my bucket, I opted I might assign extra work to him, and he shook his head, for God help me, my sense of irony is easily gleaned.

In years following, I had people who knew a Cwenburh approach me for the reward, but they always had the description wrong—anyone who truly saw my Cwenburh would remark after the formation of her mouth, and of course her nature.

I received two long missives from good Eadwig. My heart would soar each time I did. In them he would sorrow to the diverse tragedies subsequent to leaving us, yet now he primarily worried after me, his ‘father’—which is how he addressed me, making me proud. He prayed for Cwenburh, who he likewise called ‘mother,’ and also the twins, his sisters. God, he maintained, had made them his family in addition to the blessing of having good Matilda as his first mother. Eadwig assured God would show mercy upon them, and forgive those who enslaved them.

During the second letter he informed about the recent completion of Holy Pilgrimage with Father Abbot to St. Joseph of Campasino. There he had received a holy sign that Mother Cwenburh lived. And also, in sure sign of his obedience to The Rule and God, he pled with me to revert to my true name, for it was a great name indeed.

“Father, you cannot involve yourself on continuing deception, in God’s Name.”

And on this second letter, I learned he had raised his goals and was on the way to ordination.

And such was our great reward, only if both his mothers could know.

The first sign advertising the reward for Cwenburh yellowed and was eaten from its place by vermin, so I put up another. So much time passed, I lost count of the number of signs I had gone through.

I made my regular devotions at the many churches and chapels in York, but my spirits flagged as did my body. Though I took caution to be in best form during my times at work, on off-times I began to imbibe in heavy ale. By Compline most days, save the Sabbath, I was solidly in my cups. The ale purchased the benefit of allowing me to sleep, yet it did nothing for a heavy heart.

I maintained a modicum of control on this for I saw too many souls lost through the cups. And the craftsmanship of my work, God be praised, once again returned to center. Hence, my business increased even more until Oslaf and I could barely deal with it. Oslaf was a wonderful apprentice and, three years shy of his journeyman time, he was doing premium work. His ill fortune was ambitious parents, his father a prominent fuller. Also at odd intervals, I kept two youngsters as couriers and for odd jobs.

God and Our Savior be praised, all but me seemed content enough with the daily business.

I could dictate or write another long tome about the working life and skills of a journeyman scribe, but I will allow this brevity to suffice: Much of the skills needed for working as a scribe have less to do with writing and writing equipment and more to do with patience and perseverance.

Many clients have their stories crooked—fixed in their heads in ways difficult to write on surface, if not impossible. They are a jumble, and Saint Paul Himself could not make sense of it.

A scribe is obliged to take a client through their missive step by step, and put it in a sort of order. And one day in the midsummer prior to King Edward’s death, a particularly scatter-minded clerk sat before my desk. He struggled with the topic of the letter he needed written. Venom and parsimony clouded menial thoughts.

“I tell you, Master Cuthwin, by withholding price this scum of a Reeve is trying to shit all over my Master with this barren business, and it is false. May God strike me if she isn’t as fertile as a young mouse. He owes my master coin and much of it.”

It was late into the morning—his business was about the sale of a slave woman who was promised by the seller, his Master, to be fecund, yet turned out to be barren through an old injury occurring prior to the sale. The seller, his Master, vehemently denied this.

“And I must say that the other my Master owned—a God-given mirror image of the one he sold—had many children, and died having a fourth, may God bless her departed soul.”

“You mean they are twins by birth?”

“That is it. Exactly.”

I knew from the initial outflow of his information, this slave had originally been sold to his master ten years previous. My attentions drew keener.

“Hair color?”

“Red! Should we mention this in the letter?”

“Perhaps, also their names.”

“Names! Slaves!? My master is High Reeve to Osmod-of-Melter and such a landowner owns fifty slaves and does not know the names of all his fucking slaves, Scribe. This asshole of a Reeve will know who I mean.”

Completing the letter, I feigned how lucky this foul swine was: That very day I was traveling to the township of this miscreant Reeve who was complaining in petition how grossly he had been hoodwinked. “. . . And I will deliver it in person, with no extra fee involved, for you and your master do much business here.”

It took me only a few hours to prepare my traveling belongings and to make sure that Oslaf not undertake any projects that taxed him too greatly. After assuring he had stock, I told him I would be gone for possibly a week. He was surprised by the suddenness of my trip, and had to constrain himself not to ask why. I think something was lurking in my heart—making it sink: I strongly suspected I had located either Elesa or Matilda.

I was torn from the death of one to the continuing life of the other, even though enduring the misery of a slave. I cursed myself for being misled so easily to think they had been sold overseas—not questioning it. Having been sold, or somehow being sold back into our country, it opened rights due to free-born Saxons.

It was late spring and good weather. I set out for Doncaster at top speed, ignoring the spreading magnificence of the land and waters. But that was the first day. It occurred to me, despite this anxiety—even excitement—that I had become cooped up in the large town of York. I was born and raised in croft and open land, and being confined amongst buildings and the chaos of living close to hundreds of other souls did me little benefit.

In Doncaster I sought directions where the manor was and reached it just before Terce on the third day. The Reeve at issue was a stout Saxon whose name I am proud not to remember, functionary to a wealthy tenant with two hundred hides from King Edward.

When he heard the letter, I initiated the ruse I had decided upon: “Actually, I am more than just the bearer of a letter. I am to be one of the witnesses before the Hundred on this matter. So I must see the woman to fulfill my duty. Even perhaps talk to one close to her, so I might bear witness of what you say to the Hundred.”

“Good enough, Fellow; there is not much to see nor witness, but what there is will suffice for proof against that pig you represent.”

He instructed a sub-Reeve to accompany me to nearby stable and barn with cottages to one side.

What I saw caused me to curse God for the first time in my life. It was poor Matilda, whose namesake was so important in my life, in all our lives.

She was crippled severely, walked with difficulty, was blind in one eye, her features were askew and, worse than all, her mind was gone. At the base of her brainpan was evidence of a horrible injury—a deep indentation, which was so profound it was difficult to understand how she survived.

Seeing my horror, the sub-Reeve laughed, and gestured towards her—a sweeping motion, as if casting seed upon soil.

“There she is, Scribe. She eats and shits. She is not fertile and has not enough sense to bed a man properly. We were sold an old herring as a fresh young salmon.”

Overwhelmed, I was taken with vertigo and sat before I fell. He left chuckling, leaving me to a maelstrom of thoughts. A kind woman offered me ale, then went to Matilda and put her arms around her. She sat her close to me and explained, “They say it was a demon so plagued her, but if it was, he had a Saxon or Danish hand on that cudgel that knocked her senseless.”

“Has she been that way long?”

“Always—in the five years I have worked here. On good days, she can attend simple things; on others, she sits there and drools or weeps.”

Since it was growing late in the day, she offered me shelter for the night. On the following morning I decided to complete business and set out by Terce. I was in the most severe mood in all my memory.

I returned to the Reeve who, mindful of his great position, kept me waiting before coming out to do business.

“Here is my offer: Take her back, for half her purchase price and I will add nothing for her keep.”

There was no reason to dissemble any further. I felt beyond propriety or consequences. I would harness the truth and trust it would confront an animal like the Reeve, scaring him sufficiently to keep his lord and himself out of trouble.

“Who you have here is my freeborn daughter, Matilda, a healthy and normal Saxon girl stolen by unlawful scum and sold into slavery. So you have traded in a freeborn subject of King Edward. I will take her and if you hinder, you will be impeding one who does much business with the Archbishop of York. It will be bad enough now, but at least you can maintain ignorance. But no more. I have told you plain.”

“This is an outrage!”

“Enough of that, Reeve. What depraved cotset hurt my daughter so? Does anyone know?”

“How? Who? It happened at your client’s sokes—with little view to property. So take her then. And by the way, how will you get her back to York? Carry her on your back?”

“You have guessed right, Your Honor. She appears to weigh little more than a lamb.”

“Lamb!”

Word quickly spread how Matilda would leave the demesne of the Lord not as a slave but as a freeborn woman violated by beasts. Out of direct view of the manor, a half-dozen women and even more children gathered, shedding tears and making their goodbyes, though for the moment Matilda remained oblivious. The children petted her arms and then she did look to each of them with a trace of a smile.

My host for the evening, eyes narrowed, reminded me: “See the evil-doers hang by their balls, Master Cuthwin. They have ruined a wonderful soul.” And she gave me bread and cheese for the return trip.

“Matilda, you need ride on this seat.” I tried to smile, but little came of it, “. . . and I will walk one way and you will look over the top of my head counting swallows like you once did.”

I set out on a slow pace, my wallet slung at a side, Matilda on my back. It was not a dozen furlongs before she rested her head upon my hat. I tried not to be angry and not to yield tears. By God I would see justice done.

I did not pray.

Even God can deal out a death-blow to the human heart so powerful it presses you to the ground forcefully separating despair and faith.

My soul was cold to the touch for ensuing months. I made Matilda comfortable, hired an elderly Danish lady to come in, and had a carpenter construct an alcove for her in my small quarters.

Oslaf learned to keep silent regards any questions about her, for he at once perceived my less-than-benevolent state, and in fact witnessed worse. Now he—and all—knew my true name and the story behind things.

He was present in the shop when that human foulness—the clerk in employ of the perpetrator‘s Lord—Osmod-of-Melter—came, having heard of my return. He was eager for a response to his query.

He carried his wand of office, and a youngish boy attended him; the stupid fellow stood before me, puffed up like a fens toad.

“What is this, Scribe? You did not notify me of your return on my Master’s business.”

Without word I showed him to where the Danish lady was working yarn; that day Matilda was able to hold up her arms as device.

“My God! In the name of heavens, you brought her back! So you may keep here, then, you fool.”

“Who did that to her? And where are her nephews or nieces—her sister’s children?”

He noticed the strain in the air; even Oslaf withdrew from his bench, watching. The clerk lost spine—his eyes narrowed, and his lips began to quiver. His tiny attendant scrambled off.

“What is that to you? That is not your place, Scribe.”

“Because they are both my adopted daughters, raised from infants, and I have fair witness to that. They were free souls, stolen from my home, and at least one maimed in a blow delivered by a criminal. Further, any sale of them after that is contrary to Saxon Law, and writs and receipts are not only no good, but can be used as testimony in my claims.” Here I plucked his wand away, “. . . and if my nature did not make me averse to it, I would brain you or any other thieves or murderers who followed. Now get out from here, you vile bastard, and tell that to your cursed master, this Osmod-of-Melter. And tell him I will see justice is paid, and then, goddamn every soul of you at Melter!”

And I broke his wand across my bench.

That day I wrote to Eadwig, telling him how Matilda still lived and her condition following the tragedy of her kidnapping. Also, how guilty I felt not pursuing his sisters in England, instead believing a single man, who indeed could have been a demon.

And worse followed bad: The next day I found the Danish woman amusing herself by mistreating Matilda during the time she must make water, and I kicked her bodily from the shop. I had never before struck a woman.

Oslaf, who was only months from completing his apprenticeship, implied he would be leaving then to work at a cousin’s some distance from York. I guessed my mean-spirited state had turned him contrary to buying into my shop.

This was unfortunate. My shop was, despite all this misery, a success, and any enterprise proximate to York dealing with writing and its accoutrements came to me for supplies and services.

I sat in my quarters and Matilda lay sideways on her palette. I knew I could not care for her alone, and though I had more than sufficient means to hire someone, might not the same thing happen again?

It is against the nature of things to purchase love or care with silver. I could not resolve what to do, yet I loved Matilda. While she lived, I would do anything for her, just as any of her family might.

“Cuthwin?”

I was knocked sideways by the sound of my true name, and at once was eye-to-eye with Matilda—a single clear, beautiful blue eye.

“Cuthwin?” she repeated.

“Yes, Matilda?”

“I am Matilda. Yes.”

She nodded, rolled over and looked at the ceiling; then after a tiny dash of a smile, nodded off. There are not sufficient words or lamentations in the soul to convey this moment’s import. Half in a daze, I pushed slowly through the hanging that separated both shops from my quarters, looked at Oslaf and said, “She spoke my name and hers. May God forgive me.”

The day the Archbishop’s Canon appeared with his assistant for the second time, Matilda was now speaking sentences—simple yet distinct, always referring to items around her. If I asked her if she was happy, she would nod and assure me she was.

If she was hungry, I would hear, “Matilda is hungry, Cuthwin.”

These words brought me more joy than any time subsequent to my departure from Oakheath Manor a decade before. And this cheer was not even sullied by the serpentine world of words and diverse legal matters resident in such personages as one of the Archbishop’s legal canons. This scholar cost me dearly, but in the crime perpetrated on the twins, justice must be had. Even though a civil matter, this scholar’s knowledge would work sense from the convoluted ways of law.

He was a loquacious fellow—with a sad fondness for complexity. The more of it he saw, the happier he became.

“Cuthwin, this business confounds. You used a false name, swore to it, and now bring writ against an honest Saxon thane and/or his officer for bonded souls not yours, but the offspring of yours. You are under Writ of Bonus Activas to stay away from Osmod-of-Melter’s sokes. God forbid you do that again. That business promulgated harsh times.”

It was true: One day I set out to confront Osmod-of-Melter, and when I reached there I was immediately driven away. Thank God, I carried staff and had knife; otherwise, I think his threadbare housecarls, emaciated and lack-luster as they were, would have assaulted me.

As to using another name, I knew there was nothing under canon or civil law against using a false name as long as you didn’t swear to holy or royal contract using it. I was not a scribe for so long without learning a little law.

This Canon would drink ale, slap his hand to his forehead, and marvel at this matter’s labyrinth of issues. This was his third session, and each time cost me dearly for his tribulations. After each concluding moment, he drew himself up into robes, and with his student and page walking before him to clear away lesser mortals, would stride off muttering how unique my petition was.

Oslaf was not of high opinion of the Canon: “I tell you, Master Cuthwin, he is upon your back like leeches.”

Oslaf mentioned no more about leaving, and when the day passed and he became journeyman, we celebrated mightily with all tradesmen around, for this is a great time. The next day he came to me, excited with news that would change much.

“Cuthwin, a girl named Gunnhilda-the-Mute has taken to hanging around our residence. My mother, charitable soul that she is, feeds her. She sleeps in the stable with the family donkey. Though struck dumb by God, she understands well enough, and might work well to look after your poor Matilda.”

So that winter Matilda and Gunnhilda-the-Mute developed affection for each other—one afflicted soul reaching out to another, God’s mercy be praised.

The holy days were spent in prayer and, amongst the more boisterous, celebrating. Though I could not bring myself to pray—and certainly not to attend church with regularity—I did my part enough to bring no attention to my uncertain spiritual state.

As is becoming clearer, Time confirms that the stuff of sainthood resides far from me, for it is known widely that saints do not lose faith—never let go of their faith in Our Savior and his Father. Not even death through holy martyrdom separates them from the beauty of faith and constancy.

I believed in the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, but I had no faith in their benevolence and involvement with the commonality, in ordinary folk who by then—I had watched close to fifty years—were subject to affliction of sorrow and violence just as ants or swarms of bees might be. Often evil times not only passed over great men, but some were its perpetrators.

And when might there be a reckoning? This awfulness finally overfilled my cup when I saw dear Matilda so senselessly maimed. I promised everything humanly possible and not to rely on God. These human foulnesses of right and wrong who brought such horror on my daughters would feel man-made justice.

“Master Cuthwin, two young frauds are out in front claiming their fortune in gold. I have driven them off twice, but they come back, I am sorry to report.”

Oslaf and I became used to such claims. At minimum those knowing a Cwenburh were a weekly occurrence, and I interviewed each, regardless of how flimsy their stance. But this time, I found, was as Oslaf described: One claimant was a young man just experiencing the rising of pith, the other a girl younger by several years. He spoke for her: “This sprig knows a Cwenburh, as God is her witness. She and I were sold to a fuller, and are on way to his establishment here in York.”

Behind them, the fuller’s man lurked—a massive cottar carrying a staff, his eyes grey and pig-like. The young man—rather than he—seemed to be in charge.

I looked them over and saw at once the girl had either no vision at all, or very little. She squeezed her eyes tight looking for me until I spoke: “If so, what does she look like and where is she?”

“I cannot see, not well. Her face was always a blur, Master.”

Oslaf sighed and looked askance at this three-person show.

“Then how can you describe this Cwenburh?”

“She is old and kind, and not called Cwenburh, but Mother. I only know her name because I overhead her tell one of the girls. She takes care of girls in the name of God and Our Savior at Saint Mary’s. Until Mother Margaret sold me to a fuller, I lived there as well.”

The tiny Saint Mary’s Monastery was only a league from the wall of York, and if this Cwenburh had been my wife, surely by now—with the sign being up—I would have heard of her prior to these two—if indeed they were speaking the truth.

“Master Cuthwin, this little one has been put up to this. I say call the guard and have their livers boiled,” Oslaf advised.

And in a rustle and scramble of turnabout, they fled as sheep escaping the shearers—the massive fellow following, staff thrust lively into ground with each step.

I stood there only mildly surprised at what lies people perpetrate for silver or gold.

“Oslaf, who read the sign to them? My sign? Did you?”

“No. Somebody told them about it, the little swine.”

Despite their apparent falseness, her words gnawed at me. For Cwenburh did at one time take care of girls, and was ambitious to do so again. And she would, of course, seem old to a young girl. But if they had both been sold to a fuller from this place, why had not the boy been able to describe her?

It bothered I had not asked after this.

It was late spring coming into summer, and I had in mid-winter previous purchased a tiny pull-wagon at good bargain, using it later to give Matilda and Gunnhilda rides. These outings they loved. The next day was beauty itself, so we went afield, ascending the river path which passed close to the Monastery of Saint Mary. So while passing, I thought to check out the meager thread of information.

Leaving Matilda and Gunnhilda on the edge of the croft adjacent to the Monastery walls, I gave Gunnhilda a stout bell in event she needed to summon help.

Supposing that such a holy place for women would never grant me admittance, I sought out the public gate where alms were given or asked. But when I rounded the corner where the river met the wall of the Monastery, I instead encountered an outer building—connected by covered walk to the main establishment.

I heard the screams, squeals, and such from young girls at play easy to follow. The building surrounded a square, but before it were four massive oaks—one with a swing. And under this, enjoying the fair sunlight, were several dozen girls.

Watching them, sitting on the edge of a horse trough was Cwenburh-of-Loe holding a switch across her ample lap.

“Oh, the noise! May God and Mother Abbess forgive us all. If you must murder each other, be quieter about it!” she cried to the girls.

My legs might have grown roots that reached deep into the earth, so transfixed was I. Though she had aged, it was Cwenburh-of-Loe as surely as I was Cuthwin-of-Alnwick. At that point, she swept vacantly in the air—perhaps at a bot fly—with her switch, then, looking left, she saw me.

I stood only twenty paces off.

Like me, she appeared to have taken immediate root into earth through the wooden trough. It took no vast perception to tell she recognized me at once.

We had both frozen so perfectly in place that if viewed by others, we might have appeared to have turned to stone via the divination of Cwenburh’s elves or fairies.

I cannot guess how long we might have continued dumbfounded, transfixed by this miracle of place and time. But the children ran up, clamoring, laughing: “Oh, Mother. Have you seen a ghost?”

She looked at them, and handing the switch to the largest child said, “Edith! You have the switch and you are now in charge. I have a visitor to attend.”

The youngsters looked to me knowing this change was on my account so were very curious.

Cwenburh rose from the trough and, as if sleep-walking, approached, a step at a time. She put a hand to her mouth, stifling a gasp, and kept it there.

She stopped a half-dozen paces before me. When I tried to form words, I found a bound tongue. I tried again and managed, “Jesus, Our Savior, is that really you, Cwenburh-of-Loe?”

“Yes, as God has desired. Are you my husband, Cuthwin-of-Alnwick? As God is my witness, they told me you were slain those years ago.”

“I was spared by a good soul and have sought you out ever since, not knowing if you were dead or not, may God be praised, though I am not worthy of it.”

She resumed, closing the distance, and when before me raised a hand and put it on my chest, pushing slightly. “It is you. You are not a phantom.”

I clasped her hand to my chest and began an emotional dissolve. Though all the little ones were looking with eager eyes on their mother and this visitor, I ignored propriety and lifted her hand to my cheek, her touch so long absent.

“Cuthwin, you are not going to weep, are you? Husband, you are made of such gentle cloth.”

“Oh, no more, Cwenburh. I am roughened much.”

This strangeness was too much for the young girls; despite their colleague with the switch trying to hold them back, they simply rushed around her and surrounded this woman—their mother—all asking questions at once in several languages.

Cwenburh gently withdrew her hand, fell back into her motherly tone, and pointed at the switch: “What is this mischievousness?! What might you do if Mother Margaret saw you!? Now Edith, take these ducklings back to their pond or I shall use the switch, and do it surely. Now, and no questions.”

The little ones’ wonderment brought us back to the reality of this day—the ten years receding for the time.

She looked after them, and while doing so leaned against me. I knew without her saying that these tiny creatures were loved unquestionably by her; further, that I must fit back into her life gently and with patience. I was but a letter writer; she was, however, the lifeline of these little spirits, just experiencing the onset of a life that needed as much preparation by love and care as possible. And how infrequently children received these when abandoned.

My mind moved to a single issue, for there was a terrible shock in store for Cwenburh not one hundred paces away, and I had little time to brace her for it: “Cwenburh, I have news of the twins and it is not good. Prepare yourself.”

Now she took firmer hold of me—this time to keep upright.

“God spare me. Last I saw, the bastards knocked me out looking for where I hid them. When I woke,” she looked up at me, “they were gone and there was fire all around me.”

“They were sold into slavery. Elesa has died, but I have Matilda now, though she was injured by brutes, and is not right in her senses. She is behind me—beyond that wall with a deafmute, her friend and caretaker, by name of Gunnhilda.”

I led her by the hand, rounded the edge of the wall. Gunnhilda had Matilda out of the cart and was fashioning a bird nest from grass and straw, or rather Gunnhilda was while Matilda looked on following each of her friend’s moves.

They did not see us at once, but since Matilda was in full view, Cwenburh brought her hands to the side of her head, drawing a great breath.

“O, who has done this to her, Cuthwin?”

“I am not sure, but it was on the soke of a creature named Osmod-of-Melter not ten leagues from York.”

Cwenburh moved towards her slowly so not to startle her. When Gunnhilda looked up, she did start, dropping her work. Cwenburh reached and touched her arm, “Gunnhilda, don’t fear me. I never did you harm, child.”

She knew her! But how could a deafmute understand?

“She is deaf, Cwenburh.”

“Gunnhilda is very clever and can read the words in one’s lips. So at one time she could hear. The poor thing ran away from here.”

Then she turned to Matilda who picked up the nest and sorted through it. She looked up at Cwenburh, reached out and took a strand of Cwenburh’s hair between thumb and forefinger; holding it for a moment, she let it go and asked, “Mother, where is Elesa?”

Having Cwenburh back in my life and me in hers was a wonderful gift from God, but it came with a not-insignificant problem in the form of Mother Margaret, Abbess of St Mary’s Monastery. She was an aged cousin to the deceased Earl Siward—a family still powerful. Yet the charter for St. Mary’s was small and had never benefited from an Abbot with ambition, and though a ‘double’ monastery, the male component still tended to have precedence.

This Abbott was a weak sort, and years ago had yielded any authority to Mother Margaret, also his cousin. No sort of preparation by Cwenburh would have fully braced me for a woman like Mother Margaret.

“Indeed! A husband reappears after ten years; how extraordinary. And Cuthwin-of-Alnwick, where were you keeping yourself these years?”

She was hard of hearing and pig-headed, and neither of us knew if she wasn’t hearing because it did not please her or if she seriously had not heard. Her question, once again, ran over the top of both of our previous explanations, and by the time we completed our first ’examination’ by Mother Margaret, I was ready for holy orders.

“She is a loving soul and cares for the little ones beyond measure, and is God’s sole protector of them.”

Under a two-day furlough, we were permitted to return to my shop in York. Cwenburh was under command of Mother Margaret to serve at least another six months in service to St. Mary’s, and—she had told Cwenburh in private—“. . . do not yield to the demands that all husbands feel is their right.”

“But Mother Margaret,” she responded, “he is my husband before God, sworn in the Holy Sacrament.”

“Very good. I’m glad you agree, my daughter.”

We stopped at an ale shop, bought something for the Sext meal, and sat on a bench at a nearby church, a woolen wrap around us both. It was an utterly clear day, and the wind had desisted, leaving it crisp and beautiful along the outer perimeter of York. Sparrows, laboring throughout winter, sought out crumbs at once.

But bright day or dull, it galled me to have this old woman intrude herself in this miracle—how we had found each other.

“Did she hear you?”

“I cannot say. It is difficult. She is seventy-plus years before God on this earth.”

Cwenburh saw I was saying much with eyes only. We partook silently in the hearty cheese and heavy wheat bread—an indulgence of good times. I forced myself of an earlier resolve, to not insert myself in her life too gracelessly; and I certainly did not need counseling from a difficult old woman, Abbess or no.

She broke off crumbs for the sparrows and looked sideways at me. “Cuthwin, we have been apart for ten years. Now we get Sabbath together, and sneak at other times—as we did at the old mill house when not much more than children”—she smiled and brushed off her hands of crumbs—“. . . that is something of our vigorous youth that God has given us in return.”

“And I say before God, Wife, it is winter and we are no longer children.”

“Cuthwin, it will be for not much more than five months, and I get to have Matilda several times a week at my room.”

“Thank God our daughter is female.”

“Gunnhilda is female, and she stays with you.” She began to put things away so we could get back to the shop before Terce on this Sabbath, and I caught the oddness of her last statement. Looking steadily at her, I was about to ask about it, when she continued: “Gunnhilda is a fetching young lady, though mute. Did you take her to bed before I came back into your life?”

“What! God forbid! She is a child, Cwenburh.”

“She is sixteen. Her appearance tempted several priests, but Mother Margaret was quicker than a cat seeing it. During the uproar caused by this, the poor thing ran off. One of the lustful clerics is older than you, may he be damned to hell. The barnyard prick could have gotten her with child. Like you, she is a gentle spirit. You could father a child with her and you would abide both.”

I could not hide my confusion at a number of issues her words tossed into the fray.

“I believe we were both present when exchanging holy vows and repeating them to God and Our Savior, were we not? I did not know if you were alive or dead, and you were alive, God be praised.”

“I bedded a man for nearly three months; I would have died otherwise, that second winter after I escaped—I just could not survive out. I made my confession, have prayed for forgiveness. I am weak. I should have told you before. . . .”

The bread and cheese turned to stone in my gut. I looked over at this good, God-given woman, my wife, and saw in her eyes lingering abject misery and hardship.

“Cwenburh, you would have been a fool to not have, you must know that? Why ask forgiveness? It is they who should ask forgiveness of you. God has allowed this foulness just as much as Satan, and brought us both low—allowed our innocent child to never draw breath—then killed one of our twins and mutilated the other. Forgiveness be damned!”

“Oh, Jesus forgive you, Cuthwin; you are not lost, are you?”

“Are any of us the same after Oakheath, and all the wretchedness that followed?”

There could well have been many things said at this moment, but we used the good benefit from the wisdom we gained after twenty-four years of cruel experience by staying silent.

To survive, we both had yielded to ugly realities—doing things we never wanted: I by losing so much of my faith, and falling into bitterness with Our Savior’s teaching, and Cwenburh by losing nearly all those things a mother most values.

She stood, extended her hand and turned towards York. “Cuthwin. Husband! Spring will be here in a few months, then I will move from St. Mary’s into your shop—our shop. I must let the little ones down easily—plus teach that young novitiate how to mother, poor thing. And resist Mother Margaret’s constant ploys. Now come along.”

When extending her hand to me, she smiled, and for that smile I could have gone on pilgrimage to the ends of the world; hence, we joined hands and returned along the path into York.

We were just six days into the year⁴² when every bell in Great York struck out, peeling the lament. King Edward had died in the south, attended with all the greatness of his court and entire Witan,⁴³ and immediately it was decided that Earl Godwinson would be King. He was crowned and anointed at once.

It was much news to arrive at one time and all York was in tumult.

He had reigned for twenty-eight years, in fact since I had been twenty-three years of age. I could barely recall another King on our silver pence.

“Master Cuthwin, in all your years, had you seen King Edward?”

“No, Oslaf, I have not.”

Oslaf furrowed up his brow, looking out the shop upriver towards the Cathedral. I kept my own opinions, busying myself with an ornate psalter for a wealthy churchman. My work, God forgive my pride, was now up to its best, and such a commission was not only a flattery for my craft, but enabled me, even at a half century, to improve.

I would soon begin another, but this one for Cwenburh, though the stubborn lady still could not and would not read. But she could hold it at prayers and that was enough for the effort and love I would put into it.

Events of great people in the south had little currency with me.

This is the situation with those who work: We must do it to survive, and often, as the Bible teaches, take joy in our work if lucky enough to be free. There are inevitably other daily problems and situations connected with work and family. Ultimately though, after giving ample thanks at church and prayer, we are left to meet our responsibilities.

The lofty and powerful had their own pursuits and grand enterprises, and that was God’s order of things, and each of us under the sun looked after our place.

On Sabbath that week, Cwenburh admonished me while at dinner of plump guinea fowl; Oslaf often joined us in our tiny household—Gunnhilda having something to do with this. “Husband! I have seen a vision—we will see the new King. They say he has but one leg, and the other is wooden up to his hind quarters.”

Matilda—who was beginning to track more and more conversation—laughed, and Gunnhilda joined.

“Oh, for the love of Our Savior, Wife, where did you hear that?”

And so it went, never relenting. I carved the last of the bird and aimed down its unfortunate limb at them all. “Soon, this King will be dragging his tail behind him, spitting fire, and shedding scales onto the faithful.”

But I was mocked, and these were Sabbaths of good fellowship—such a relief from the week of hard work, and the excitement of rumor bursting every conversation.

Within weeks my personal aversions to business of the south came to an involuntary end. All freedman or freedwomen of means and property in and proximate to York were requested under Holy Declaration by Archbishop Aldred to attend the great Minster of York. There King Harold would make declaration two days hence—the coming Sabbath.

“See there, Master Cuthwin, good Cwenburh was of right vision.”

I assured Oslaf she was right almost half the time, but he did not see the humor in that.

In York my fellow shopkeepers often gathered during cold winter times at the stout barn and group of sheds the collier kept for coal and peat. There was a rich, amply fed fire, itself the social point where gossip and all sorts of talk dominated. I was careful to attend often enough not to be held as haughty or seen as holding myself above my place as an ordinary craftsman, always a problem for a scribe.

But on this day, when this uncommon summons loomed, all were anxious, or worse. They knew too well their money interests depended directly on the affairs of archbishops, earls, and wealthy thanes.

But the King? And one newly crowned? We of York learned of the King’s death in one breath and in the second the crowning of another.

This rush was an issue.

Many were suspicious of a king wholly decided in the south without approval in the north. They were specifically most unhappy with His Eminence, Archbishop Aldred-of-York.

“He was there. They say he even consecrated Harold Godwodsen. He might have represented his flock better.”

Tempers rose and settled in the flock like a great beast breathing. I knew that to say anything, even a whisper, against the King was treason, and I had had my fill of that. And to voice disparagement about the Archbishop was no less foolish.

When asked, I was careful to say few words. Those I did use did not indicate a commitment, save to say I had never heard of any great man taking trouble to speak of serious matters to the commonality.

Reaching home, I felt my head swirl with the arguments and alleged facts and claims. Matilda and Gunnhilda were busy at their wool-crafting. Serving me dinner, they watched me carefully at my bread and stew. I guessed with dismay the volley of speculation about our new King was not over.

Gunnhilda gestured to me, then made sign to Matilda—who motioned emphatically towards me again. They had developed between them a complicated system of signs and interpreted word through lip movement, gesture, and even odd grunts and laughs. Matilda dawdled her spoon in her stew—she didn’t eat much—and looked up. She spoke slowly so Gunnhilda could read me: “King is a dwarf with one ear, tiny, little.”

I shook my head—adding emphasis to my weary denial: “The King is not a dwarf. And he has three ears.”

To get these two laughing was my only escape to the peace of reading the Bible or another good book—then they would leave me alone.

Mother Margaret had, Cwenburh said, declared Harold Godwinson a rogue and no king of hers. Despite the Abbott’s command, she took to bed with an “. . . ague peculiar to those of great age.”

At the great gathering I would have complete company: It was Sabbath and Cwenburh would not miss such an event. We decided to load Matilda in the wagon; of course Gunnhilda wanted to accompany, and with her came Oslaf, my journeyman, a freedman and very interested in my business.

On the great day we set out along the River Ouse on an extraordinarily cold January morning bundled in the warmest attire possible. Thank God and Our Savior I could afford same.

In the days before, Normans scattered the land with their elaborate stone constructions, and prior to its destruction a few years later, York Minster below was stone, but above was of wood, and loomed a hundred feet above the city, it being the highest structure in all of the north.

The gathering was to be at Nones.⁴⁴ This itself was strange for on Sabbaths the Minster was busy, it housing many altars and places of devotions and sacrament, not the least being baptism founts and alcoves with hangings. In these, sinners were shriven prior to taking the Holy Sacrament. Hence, Archbishop Aldred, a most devoted Eminence, would have to clear the capacious structure of the faithful.

But that is what His Eminence did, this extraordinary act tipping the scale for this occasion’s exceptional nature even more significantly.

The Minster’s two grand stained windows were striking visual elements of its imposing façade. These reflected the low, weak afternoon light in an eerie halftone, creating two large membranous eyes that gazed out on the people of York who wended their way towards it.

The sun itself, setting so extreme in the southwest, seemed to indicate—to remind all—where the profound events had unfolded in the previous two weeks.

I don’t know how many thousands dwelled in York then, but since it was before William and his Normans destroyed it during the invasion and battle, there were far more people than years later, God save their departed souls.

At least several hundred were already there just before Nones. For a keener view of events, I knew utilizing another entrance would put us at advantage. Veering around the steps that led to the yawning double doors, we trekked the snow-strewn path towards the east side entrance admitting us to the transept. Doing so, we made entry into the middle of things.

Events there were in great excitement.

It was a scene of wardens and guards being ordered about right and left by a tall, elderly priest—he creating more havoc than order. I recognized him as Father Deacon of the Minster.

“By Our Savior’s Grace, all of you see no one comes into the house of God armed.”

Of the moment, from the direction of the choir, a bishop unknown to me entered, wearing plain habit, but with the special fringe unique to that office; plus, unlike an ordinary poor cleric, the cross and chain were of gold—jeweled and fine.

“Please, Father Deacon, remember Our Savior is the Prince of Peace; all will be settled and go well. His Eminence would see it no other way. So let us have peace, God be praised.”

He smiled genially—gesturing expansively for us to rise, for all had gone to their knees. Switching to the language of Rome, Father Deacon—who stood a head higher than most with a nose like goshawk—followed the bishop, imploring one thing or another until they went out of sight towards the front.

From behind we were being pushed forward, for others also schemed this a better place to enter and view events.

The remaining authorities were subdeacons, their meager, threadbare robes hastily patched or tied together. They moved in to exert the tiny authority they did have. They were a pathetic lot, lucky to have tiny benefices by which to eeke out a living from the faithful.

A liveryman and his wife, known to preside over the largest and best-endowed livery in York, pushed by them and proceeded haughtily into the shorter section of the nave. His stout old Saxon wife looked admonishingly at these deacons who made to catch the husband’s elbow.

“What is this?! We will stand where we please in the nave. This is our church.”

And there was subdued laughter, and these puny men became indignant. “This is God’s House, and we its minders! Must we call the beatle!?”

But this only resulted in chuckles, for these mawkish enforcers were notorious drunks and fornicators, and on any Sabbath would be lost in their cups by Nones.

Between the nave and the choir was posted a line of wardens and guards. They were not deacons or subdeacons, and their presence was unusual: No ordinary sort, even if in their cups, would go beyond them.

Behind us the entire Minster filled, everyone pushing chest to back, and the talk rising to a drone. It was past time and yet no great personages appeared beyond the barrier of guards. Children were chased by the subdeacons; they, however, evaded the awkward clerics by dodging around them and scooting between adults. There was laughter here and there. Children were not expected nor supposed to attend, yet a few mothers could not resist violating this unspoken protocol, knowing a memory of a lifetime would be unfolding.

The result was an increase of noise until the drone became a steady, low roar. Finally, the elderly Deacon Priest stepped onto the first steps of the choir, banged his staff down, making a great racket.

He leaned forward, his imposing frame a pillar and shouted, “Silence in the Minster! You all know about prayer, do you not? If you cannot have patience, then pray for our beloved departed King and his grieving widow.”

Despite the enormity of the cathedral, the priest’s voice rivaled that of a hunting horn. Everyone hushed in fear he might level that voice at them.

Bishops and their entourages commenced entry from right and left of the ambulatory, the former bearing their mitres, attired in the elaborately embroidered vestments of their office. We all knelt—a sea of people, causing a rumbling bespeaking the presence of several thousand.

When Cwenburh whispered if one were the Archbishop, I shook my head and with a gesture bid her wait. He was not in evidence.

A few of the very aged clergy upon the choir were provided finely carved benches—for they could not stand long, nor get to their knees—nor rise, even if they did.

It was the same amongst the commoners. Those who needed them either brought stools themselves or by a family member. All others stood.

Without announcement, fanfare, or indeed any sign at all, save for the sounding of a small bell, Archbishop Aldred entered. Everyone—even all clergymen, despite their offices—knelt. Following him were even more churchmen, and I supposed, members of the King’s court, for they were not dressed in vestments.

All knelt on the platform or steps leading to the expansive and grand altar, probably in order of grandness.

But His Eminence—of great age then, thus a small boy following him in event he needed help—ascended all the way, turned and looked out. Unlike everyone else, he wore only black vestments, plain, save for a great chain and crucifix around his neck, still swinging slowly at his waist.

He carried the imposing golden mitre of the Archbishop’s office, and wore the pallium from the Holy Father—its whiteness glaring in contrast to all the other blacks, but even this lofty accoutrement was adorned with a black ribbon across it.

He spoke loudly in the language of Rome, and gestured for all to rise, and when the commonality—confused—did not know if he meant them as well, he raised his voice, and his Saxon rang out in great voice, “All rise until told to kneel.”

It was dim in the Minster, and massive chandlers were carried in alight. With all of us so packed, the grievous history of fires in the Minster came to mind. It gave me not a little balm to see that each of the stands of candles was monitored by a young acolyte with a wetted blanket.

In increased light, I saw the men of court wore scabbards without swords. No one entered a church armed, yet empty scabbards meant their weapons were not far behind. This explained the earlier upset.

Then Harold, King of England, entered from a separate entrance in the ambulatory. He was alone.

When the Priest-Deacon with the massive voice stepped forward to announce, Harold held out his hand, stopping him, his gesture preceding the Archbishop’s, who did the same.

Harold had none of the dozen malformations and strangenesses of body reported during the preceding days. Contrary to all that, he was well-formed, and a head taller than everyone on the altar save for the Deacon-Priest. His hair was striking—completely white and long, resting across both shoulders as might a ruff, his squared features clean-shaven.

He was no longer a young man, but he moved without a sign of age. Even more curious than His Eminence’s plain black habit, the King wore unadorned clothing, far more modest than those of his court who stood to the right and left of him.

These great men too were confused for not having been bid by the Archbishop to kneel again before the King; but there was no doubt of it, the King had declined this, and his word carried.

Then I and all others became riveted by an extraordinary event no one had anticipated save the King and Archbishop.

The Archbishop extended his arm, and bade the King to ascend the steps and stand next to him. A priest emerged from behind and moved forward carrying a small crown on a silver cushion. His Eminence handed his mitre to the boy as the priest presented the crown to the Archbishop.

The Archbishop elevated the cushion and crown intoning, as best as I might recall, “I Aldred, Archbishop of York, servant of Our Savior, consecrated this man, Harold Godwinson, King of all England, after he was designated same by our lawful Witan. I did this through the will of the Almighty and authority of that same Witan plus our Holy Father Pope Alexander, Bishop of Rome and all Christendom, may God be praised on the highest level, Amen.”

But instead of putting the crown upon Harold, he lowered the cushion, holding it before his chest.

Then Harold stepped forward and, though his voice was strong, it did not carry as well as the Deacon Priest or His Eminence. But most were close enough to hear easily: “I will not wear this crown until my loyal subjects of York have honest say in this, and this is why I have come here. To stand before you. What have you to say? As God is my witness, none shall bear malice from me for any question.”

But every freedman present knew full well that if the Witan elected Harold, Harold it was. Though Northumberland had much of Saxon England’s power then, which now seems so long ago, it is different today. But, wisely, the new King wanted our approval.

The wealthy liveryman, who to this day I view as the bravest freedman in the Kingdom, shouted, “Your Highness, will there come trouble from overseas for this?”

Harold smiled, looked to all sides of him, and despite the tightness drawing across the faces of those from court, extended his hand to the east. “Yes, it will. But I know in my heart,” and he extended both arms towards all, then allowed them to fall to his sides, “. . . that every loyal God-fearing Saxon and soul of Daneslaw, especially those of Great York, are more than equal to any and all troubles from without.”

Then, as in a single germ of impulse, all started in one shout, spreading to the entire congregation—thousands of Saxons, “Let Harold be crowned King Harold.”

With that, the Archbishop handed off the cushion after removing the crown, and Harold turned and was crowned King of England.

Looking back over the subsequent years, and all the infamy and disaster that followed that afternoon, I still cannot help but respect King Harold’s candor, for he was right about the troubles, but tragically wrong about prevailing.

He was to live only ten months more, and would die a Saxon’s death in defense of his people and home. Any Saxon lamented that day, or would, but any of his subjects present that day at York Cathedral—at that hour—were convinced of King Harold’s God-given grace and love. We believed he would drive away any who would make slaves of us and render the Saxon life and kindred into ashes and ignominy.

And so it was at that moment, my desire for renewed faith in God began to return, though it would take more time subsequent to the ghastly sight when I first saw the terribly maimed Matilda.

Finally the day arrived when I had a decision before the Hundred. The relationship between the Canon and Cwenburh was contentious, making the scholar work harder for his fee. Worse, she forced him to be more direct in explaining things and work with renewed alacrity.

“I think this wife of yours, Cuthwin-of-Alnwick, must be the very severest sort of woman to live with, as God is my witness. You have my sympathy and admiration.”

The decision was sweeping: The technicalities were more crisscrossed and complicated than a spider web bridging a wooded path. Cwenburh would have none of the long explanations other than understand who was paying his fees.

“Yes, Mistress Cwenburh, an outstanding decision. But now the serving of the order and collection of the weregild is another matter, of course.”

“Of course! But not like your fee, Master Canon.”

I managed to extricate the Canon from the shop before he was further admonished by Cwenburh—her blood quite up.

“For God’s sakes, Wife. It is Sabbath.”

Matilda sang along with one tune or another in her head while Oslaf read to Gunnhilda from the Bible in the far corner—she watching his mouth intently, smiling with the process of hearing the right Word—and admiring the reader. They had fallen under a sweet spell.

Cwenburh fixed Matilda’s hair while pointing hither and yon with the brush and planning retribution upon the very elements. I faced her anger squarely—it was an old situation that came easily to me.

“Cwenburh, we cannot afford thane, even drengs—or whatever—to go out and serve the writ, let alone enforce it. Osmod-of-Melter has toadies and his own drengs, and they will protect him for the life of them.”

Later, in my alcove, which was now our bed and only truly private quarters, I convinced her of the futility—even danger of life and limb—of going out to Osmod-of-Melter’s without force of arms.

We became quiet, enjoying this time that was denied us for so many years. Then, Herself drifted to other matters; she felt very much as a protective aunt to Gunnhilda.

“You know, Cuthwin, Oslaf’s parents will absolutely disapprove of Gunnhilda as wife. That cannot be. You know there is trouble coming there?”

“Yes.”

The poor girl’s deafness would be viewed as a demon’s curse by his parents and family—a very stiff-necked religious family, to the person.

In my heart, I was sure there was far greater trouble coming our way, carried by its own share of demons. As Cwenburh slept against me, I reflected on the King’s assurance that there would be trouble, and when it began it would—like in times past—commence in the north.

Wealthy York being prime reward for the victor.

Before first light, we walked back to St. Mary’s—once again risking admonishment for spending time together somewhat past Sabbath. These times of stealth were tiny payment for our miraculous coming together, though I would air a few husbandly complaints. As Herself went out of view behind the wall, a last gesture of departure, it occurred to me she was now proximate to the half-century mark.

The terrible times left her with something of a limp, and she had scars over one eye—their cause never given. Her long, fine hair when freed from its bounds was nearly all grey, with only a few central streaks of black. But in body she was still as solid as a block and more generously fleshed.

“Are you still smitten with me, Cuthwin?”

And it was true, we did exchange such stupidities still, as old as we were. I could not wait for this spring to arrive, to be free of Mother Margaret’s avaricious hold on Cwenburh’s place and time. It would pain Herself, I knew, to part from the homeless waifs, and there would be many visits.

That was just part of how things worked with Cwenburh-of-Loe. Through the week it was a lonely time for me. How quickly the human spirit is spoiled—going from being used to absence, to a rapid desire for constancy of people and things heretofore absent.

At our livery, gossip session rumors from the south would be bandied about, and most concerned with William of Normandy.

“He won’t sit idle, that one won’t.” The woolen merchant was the most traveled of the shop owners in York, and he stood before the fire, warming his backside and espousing the politics of the matter: “Normans are a greedy lot to the man of them. And Duke William no less. After all, he is a bastard born and swollen with the heritage of Norse raider, the turd.”

And back and forth the pros and cons of the matter would go. My concern was that it was only a few days from Shrove Tuesday;⁴⁵ it was not season yet for warfare with the sea to traverse with many boats carrying an army and horses.

I was beginning a plan—that when Cwenburh got free from Herself at St. Mary’s, to sell the shop to Oslaf, whose family were increasingly anxious for him to have it. With the funds we then had, we could move far south and acquire a small croft in a remote area. There we could enjoy liberation from daily labors while still young enough to be relatively free from aches and agues that gain increase with age.

What is living if not dreams?

The weekday loneliness and the press of these plans—atop my desire to renew my faith in the words of Our Savior—brought me to the small church of St. Mary Bishophill, as had become my habit. It was quiet here where my struggles to pray to reassert faith could be carried on more personally.

Certainly, I needed spiritual guidance on how to proceed. All was accelerating at an uncomfortable pace as we approached Easter. If only Father Abbot Elsin still lived.

I had donated a bench within, and it sat in the shadows before a massive candle that marked the hours, itself casting a most peaceful, ethereal light.

“Why are you not on your knees to pray, my son? Do you sit before God?”

This deep, masculine voice yanked me around, as if I had a cable attached; looking at me was a tall priest, a cowl pulled over him, just the hint of his face. His habit however was not that of a poor local priest. This churchman I did not know.

“I am sorry, Father, but I thought I was alone, and I had forgotten myself in thought.”

“I forgive you, my son.”

And he slowly moved back his cowl, and there older, grown into a fine man—a priest—was a person who no ageing or costume would conceal to me, his father.

It was Eadwig.

I now maintain to all that the greatest relief God may endow upon the cruel separation from loved ones is revealing them, for me there is no greater joy.

Eadwig and I took hold each of our shoulders, turning a half circle and examining one another; finally, we simply embraced, making open declaration of gratitude before God. Then we sat upon the bench and talked, and the words came as if a spring-swollen stream burst through a barrier of branches and weeds.

He had but a few days in York. Eadwig had gotten permission to travel with all speed north from Canterbury where a legate from the Holy Father was holding hearings of sweeping import regards the current and mounting troubles.

Indeed, Eadwig served the Legate as secretary and interpreter, for by this time, his imposing brain was stuffed with diverse languages and works of vast knowledge. Of course by letter he knew of his mother and Matilda, but I assumed he had seen neither. No words could brace him for Matilda, yet, I struggled to do so. He put his hand to my shoulder: “Father, it was at your shop I found out where you prayed. I saw her. May God forgive those responsible for what happened in act and intent. I find it difficult to say that, may God forgive me, dear Father. But it is true. I loved my sisters truly.”

Such harshness even of Eadwig was testimony to her injuries, for my spirit turned darkness when I first saw her.

“Their fate—Matilda’s current misery—made me say hasty things that have thrown my soul into question before God. Cwenburh, who has always possessed the stronger of faiths, worries about me. She is strong enough, but I struggle with the matter, Eadwig.”

From within his habit, he took out a writ from a wallet, and held it up, opening it for me to read. He had anticipated the entire matter of serving the writ.

It was short and direct: Four days ago, Eadwig was given powers of inquiry by Cardinal-Bishop Columbus, Legate from His Holiness. Eadwig had translated with rapidity a long legal tome from the Greek, a language strange to his Eminence.

“He asked me a return favor but I asked none. He insisted, and I told him of the evil fallen to my twin sisters, and I wanted to get to the bottom of it, as did my mother and father. And we shall do this, Father Cuthwin, though I know it might be viewed as prideful. For God gave me the power of languages.”

We walked to the shop in a troubled silence, for it was too late to venture forth to St. Mary’s for all were abed there. Before walking into the shop, I turned to Eadwig, “You know, there will be severe moments out on that turd’s sokes if writ is served. Osmod-of-Melter is a violent, hateful swine with many toadies.”

“We must pray for God’s will to be done, Father. What he did met the disapproval of civil law, and now he must face God’s.”

There was steel in his voice and words, and I knew this plan would go ahead, and do so with alacrity.

When we entered the shop, Oslaf and his father waited there to discuss our upcoming sale. They became flustered by sight of a cleric in high garb. Gunnhilda went to her knees, whereas Matilda just reached out with a big “Hello Eadwig,” for they had talked and became at once siblings again—all in several minutes. Eadwig laughed. “Up! For the Love of Our Savior, I’m a monk and priest, not a Bishop!!”

It was only at that moment—when there was a chance to sit—when I noted that Eadwig seemed beset by an affliction of his bone-ends.

“I rode here on a dispatch horse with two of Earl Leofwine’s thanes and their drengs—assigned to assure my well being. God help me. I usually walk everywhere I go, thank God. For love of my family I made this exception. Now see how I am rewarded.”

He so confessed with a great laugh and slap to his backside.

Eadwig returned to being every bit a Saxon in a Saxon household where bone ends were of prime concern: He was at once administered strong medicine by Gunnhilda, who was learning the ways of wildcrafting from Herself, who had begun almost at once to instruct her in the ways of being a wife. She half-pushed, half-helped him down, drew up his robes—which brought on great laughter—took off his turnshoes and began to apply the salve and rub it in.

And God help us all, he was so trapped we all took advantage: He was plied ceaselessly for stories of faraway places, and he was as much a storyteller as both his mothers. It went this way into the evening when all curiosities were justly served by us.

It was as little past Matins when finally we rested.

It was approaching mid-morning when we arrived afoot at St. Mary’s Abbey. I know it might be better for me not to go along—for Mother Margaret would have nothing of a husband during the week—with Eadwig along, I thought she either might make an exception, or perhaps through simple respect give us leeway.

I sat to one side when Eadwig saw his mother chasing after children in the yard with tiny mantles in each hand, for it was a raw, windy day, and a few of them were not properly protected. A young novitiate attended—Cwenburh’s student replacement.

The young woman saw Eadwig first and next Cwenburh. She motioned for the novitiate to continue the chase of the girls, then walked towards Eadwig, who had moved back his cowl—protection in the cold morning wind.

When she saw me sitting discreetly to one side, the cat was at once in the barn, and she ran forward and embraced him, and he her. They talked—she in fact whooped—and casting a look at me over her shoulder, and with Eadwig gesturing to me, they entered the Abbey proper. I knew they were going in to get permission for a family gathering from Herself.

Eadwig was always a strict observer of protocol and respect to elders and those of position—he knew the order of things.

I knew them, but didn’t like them.

The young novitiate herded the children in—or at least out of my sight. And the wind increased, and I moved further into the lee, and settled—and was experiencing the trepidation—anxiety—of venturing out to Osmod-of-Melter, trying to factor how it might be done painlessly—with no violence.

But another danger intruded: Mother Margaret swept into view, caught sight of me and walked towards me, another novitiate in tow. She—as was her unnerving practice—looked me up and down, as if I had been a demon sprung from the earth.

“Father Eadwig will join you back in town, Master Cuthwin. He has deigned to bless us with midday prayers, and with his mother take joyful repast herein.”

I felt my knees meet the cold earth; she made sign over me and left before I had cleared the end of the fence.

Joy, fellowship, and the humble status of plain Saxon folk and how they enjoyed good times meant little to Herself. I sought wisdom and restraint to think nothing more of it, and while returning—my back to the wind—found solace in the more immediate concern of this dismal business pertaining to Osmod-of-Melter.

Early the next morning Eadwig led me to where the squires were equipping each thane’s courser with proper drapings. They would not have burdened their fine beasts with such equipage on the express ride from Canterbury, so had borrowed some from local notables who played host to them.

Eadwig frowned.

“Please, may God forbid, good men, I want no harm to come to anyone this morning. Remember the words of Our Savior.”

It is not often that truth and reckoning are meted out at the same table and often it is not sightly. The elder of the two thanes looked sadly at Eadwig. His face sported a scar over his eye and, not yet fully clothed, he displayed on his forearm a scar from a burn.

He bowed to Eadwig; his voice kindly, contrasting with his bleak, pitiless countenance, spoke: “Father, bless you. Yet I served under arms these twenty years. And I have sworn to Earl Leofric to advise as well as serve. I tell you, give your father Cuthwin the writ. It needs be in his hand. Attend today elsewhere, Father, and let us to this Osmod creature and do what needs be done as God wills. These things often get ugly, and are no place for a man of Peace, let alone a Holy Person of your fine makings and high standing, God help us. May Our Savior curse me if I say wrong.”

The other thane nodded, and gestured north—as if pointing to the distant Osmod. “My cousin speaks true, Father. I have spent years squeezing out pence and shilling from these little toads, and they piss in every direction before yielding, pardon my crudeness, Father.”

Eadwig had the authority to go—but I knew thanes, and the violence they could mete out.

“Eadwig, they say right. Gunnhilda will attend your bone ends, and those in my shop will be honored. Remember you need rest for the trip south, God help us.”

He and I looked at each other, embraced, and he said he intended to visit the Minster then allow his bone ends to be assuaged—he had that edge of a smile that was uniquely his before the age of five.

The elder of the two thanes mounted and looked at me—nodding, and gesturing before him: “Master Cuthwin. I am John-of-Canterbury, currently thane to his Eminence Archbishop Stigand. When we arrive we must show solidarity and be stouthearted, beg your pardon. This brief errand is a break in the monotony from court and church matters. But my cousin and I have done our share, God help us. And our two drengs who follow are not without experience. So this said: Do you want to serve this writ and see it through?”

It was plain. Those sent with Eadwig were beyond your ordinary guard. I had four hardened warriors with me—and I had witnessed what such men could do. But I took harsh grip on the situation: Osmod-of-Melter was a base murderer and violator of free women born and their children.

“Yes, I am, as God is my witness.”

The two thanes nodded to each other and we set off.

Not having mount, I rode double behind one of the drengs, a massive fellow with a long bow alongside the flank of his horse, its wood a high gloss from years of use. The day became clear and notably warmer. We all rode along silently, and John-of-Canterbury must have ascertained our destination earlier, for he went directly.

He was a somber fellow, along with his cousin, and though the drengs began to talk one to the other, I was frankly anxious about the upcoming and listened to nothing but an inner voice warning me of impending brutality.

People meeting us along the road would see the mounted armored riders and caparisoned horses; their eyes would widen in fear and anticipation.

We arrived at the southern bounds of Osmod-of-Melter’s sokes before Sext. At this, the two drengs—one giving me hand down to the ground—after gesture from John rode off in opposite direction going out of sight.

“Master Cuthwin, walk ahead of us with the writ, but stay close to my horse, and get behind it if there is trouble.”

At the high-wall John’s cousin took the horn from its sling and hurled it into the shrubbery, laughing.

“Wouldn’t touch my asshole to that.”

So with no warning we passed through into the manor proper. There was a scurry of surprised serfs, free workers, and housecarls coming to alert and going for their respective places.

Emerging from the closest structure was a man I deduced was the elder Osmod’s son. I heard from the liveryman he dealt with daily affairs, the father being infirm.

The wretched clerk I dealt with in my shop—how I first came to know of things—came out with a pair of housecarls, who immediately withdrew, being quicker on the uptake of things. I assumed they went to arm. There was no sign of the Reeve.

The son and his toady approached another dozen steps, then stopped alongside each other, their eyes locked on the lavish mounts carrying their riders with heavy arms. The clerk moved his gaze to me, disdain written across his thin rat-like face. He motioned towards me with his staff.

“This is Cuthwin, the gnat who made all this trouble.”

I wasted no time.

“I am serving proper writ from the Hundred. I must have it read to Osmod-of-Melter, or have him read this fair copy Himself.”

“He has the ague, and cannot come here. I can hear it for my father. I am Osmod-the-Younger. Then having done with your business, Cuthwin-of-Alnwick, I want you off our demesne and sokes.”

The clerk looked nervously towards closest shelter; clearly the son responded with more strength than this little fellow thought healthy.

Just then, with something between a snort and shout, the Reeve loomed into view; deep in his cups, he staggered towards us, raising his arm: “By God, young Osmod, I be your father’s Reeve.” Half dressed, he finished tying his breeches up and the same moment pointing away from the manor. “Get the hell out of here, all of you. Cuthwin-of-Alnwick, you miserable swine. Your writ isn’t worth the paper to wipe my ass with.”

John-of-Canterbury’s comrade and cousin urged his horse forward a few steps and once proximate to the Reeve hammered down atop his head with his chain-mailed fist, knocking him unconscious. This was done offhand as if working a gate latch. He laughed and shook his head.

“Drunken fuck.”

Outraged, the son raised his hand a sudden, giving signal to others, shouting, “Have it that way then, you bastards.”

But when nothing happened at his sign, he looked around helplessly; the clerk gazed transfixed; the Reeve stared dumbstruck, a ragged head wound bleeding profusely.

John-of-Canterbury’s two drengs rode in. Each carried one of Osmod’s housecarls across the saddle, dumping them off before the son. One dreng hurled a broken bow towards a paddock. Both housecarls lay beside the Reeve, they too senseless. One’s legs twitched in ugly spasms, then stopped.

I don’t know if I blinked or looked away, but whatever I did, when my attentions returned to the son, John-of-Canterbury’s broadsword was to his neck. Lifting slightly, young Osmod stood on his toes to avoid having his throat slit.

“No more of your stupidity! We will talk with Osmod the Elder. Now fetch him,” he looked to one of the drengs. “Go with this piece of shit, and see he does it.”

“No one needs fetch me, you bastard.” An ancient hobbled along before a house slave who carried a stool. It was Osmod the Elder, and with a glance, all of us saw that he was a personage very different from all before us. He was gnarled—scarred about head and face; the arms and hands projecting from his tunic were as sorely used as the rest of him.

The stool placed, he sat—moved his staff before him, took a left and right grip on it, and looked over his visitors—nodding. Only one of his eyes functioned, the other squinted and long absent.

“I am Osmod the Elder. By way of God, the King, and Earl Siward, I am the owner and master of this demesne and surrounding sokes these forty years. Though I am seventy and eight, if I were armed properly and of fair bone and muscle, I would take broadsword to you all and dance in your guts. Now read me this writ, though I can guess its content. Go ahead, don’t shit your breeches. Read, you lettered prick!”

I was flabbergasted to witness a swing of spirit and energy so extreme and sudden. John-of-Canterbury smiled widely, and exchanged respectful looks with his cousin, then quickly returned a weather eye to its ancient speaker. I stood there, and John looked to me and nodded. “I would read, Master Cuthwin, before someone gives this old boar a weapon of some sort.”

So, I did. Finished, I looked up in time to see the elder swing his staff and strike the young slave across his chest.

“Bring me ale, Godammit! And serve these two thanes some as well—they look of tougher thread than the piles of fish guts I preside over!” And while the lad fetched, the elder looked to his son with disgust. “By God, your mother was made of bone and cleverness, but in forty years you learned nothing.”

After slaking his immediate thirst with a gulp of ale, he handed off the cup to the boy. Our two thanes drained theirs and tossed cups back to him.

“First off, I bought both the twins as slaves along with others. And where does it say a landed thane who has served Lord Siward faithfully for fifty-plus years cannot buy and sell slaves? Heh! You will get nothing from me on strength of false writings.”

When I started to respond, John held out his hand, stopping me.

“We are not here to argue. Get the coin, now!”

His son looked up, and interjected, “We do not have such a sum, for the Love of God.”

John eased his horse forward, and while passing the son, back-stroked him with the flat of his sword, knocking him flat to the earth. He glared down at the father.

“Listen, Osmod-of-Melter. You did duty to Earl Siward so know I will get the silver one way or the other. I have served Great Lords for twenty years, and you know their ways as I know those of the late Earl Siward. You are an ancient thane, so in respect I give you this one chance. So far, little has happened to anyone of merit.”

The old man thought—looked to each of us, and shook his head as he saw his son struggle to regain his feet. He nodded—as one would recognizing the coming of foul, unstoppable weather. He gestured to the son: “Get it.”

“What?!”

“Get it, I said. You don’t know your bung from a rat-hole.”

When he returned with ample leather sack, there was little talk: The elder explained gruffly that the twins’ children had died during a great ague, “...along with many of my other bondsmen,” so he included their weregild. There was no mention of their fathers or how Matilda became so maimed. So the matter was over.

When we turned back on that wretched soul’s sokes on our return, my wallet was heavy with silver, but my cart heavier.

John drew a hearty breath, and nodded, observing, “That was far easier than I had anticipated.”

Then began chatting of great matters to the south, and I rode behind clinging to the dreng, my stomach ill at ease. I was not sure who was hurt or how badly, and indeed had not seen the stricken bowman move after being dropped to earth and his spasm cease.

When I cast a parting glance back, no one attended him or his comrade. Melter and its master was a heartless place and sadly their brutal way of doings things had been reciprocated in a way contrary to Our Savior’s teaching.

Our daughters Matilda and Elesa met disaster there, and silver was not justice. I had grown up with Saxon common justice, but now that it supposedly was completed, it seemed lacking before God. But once again I was confronted with this reality: What more could a common person do? It had been a Godsend, if it could be termed that, that powerful men at arms had come to our service, if just for hours; otherwise, no form of justice would have been done.

I returned to my shop and learned Eadwig was at St Mary’s Abbey with his mother. It was Friday, and poor Cwenburh—in my view—was still confined by the Abbess. I was in a dark mood, but it helped when they both entered the shop at Compline, a bright surprise to end the day. Eadwig was proud of his diplomatic skills.

“Abbess Margaret bade Mother early reprieve due to my departure tomorrow.”

Cwenburh hugged me with unusual intensity, for she had imagined great harm coming to me at Osmod-of-Melter’s, despite the men-at-arms accompanying.

I briefly told both what happened, and that I was of a dark frame of mind. Cwenburh braced against the unfairness of it. It was enough we both realized that.

Eadwig was silent, then the inevitable question arose: “Was there violence?”

“I’m afraid there was, good Eadwig.”

“Did harm come to anyone?”

“It did, but pray God, not death. But that was never far off if there had been further argument about any matter.”

“Upon returning to Canterbury, I must make penance, if that is possible. I just could not see any other way, God help me.”

Cwenburh sat, and I was surprised that her temper had not risen quickly; in fact she held, and was instead sad but collected about the hopelessness of pursuing it any further, at least in this life.

“God help us, Eadwig. And the twins, and their children and all other souls held in bondage by that gnarled old wolf.”

We sat there. Guilty? Horror stricken? I cannot say then as now. Matilda and Gunnhilda had made many stacks of the silver coin, and were counting them—then arranging and re-arranging them. We looked at it—as though it were dead cat meat. Cwenburh stared up at Eadwig, then to me.

“Would such a pig tell the truth about the children of both?”

“I think to save weregild, Mother, he would have.”

Eadwig in one breath said what I feared, then dissipated it in one statement: “If I had time, I would go out there. But I received dispatch from His Eminence the papal legate today. I must go.”

There was a strained note in this news—he looked to each of us.

“I have kept a truth from you, and I hope you forgive me. It appears my election as Abbot of Eynsham Abbey is a foregone conclusion. After the end of proceedings at Canterbury, I go there to assume my responsibilities and meet the Reverend Brothers. I will pray fervently for the forgiveness of those who so violated our family throughout. May God and his Son, Our Savior, help and guide me.”

“An Abbot! May God be praised. Wonder in heaven! Matilda must revel to see her boy so honored. And me, your second mother, God be pleased.”

And Eadwig looked at me.

“And the only father I knew. How does he feel?”

I could only steady myself at the impact of the news—our Eadwig, an Abbot.

“Oh, Son, I cannot describe the joy.”

He went on to explain how it might not be a joy, for he was a compromise candidate. A corrupt Abbot had utterly denuded the Abbey of all funds. In recent years it had shrunk in number and local attention of holy influence that all monasteries must have.

“Yet those brothers, including their Prior, are suspicious of this strange Saxon candidate pulled from the edges of Christendom, as they probably see it. A plant by the Archbishop of Canterbury, who,” he ducked a look towards the floor, and shrugged, “. . . now, being without any funds, our first duty will be to beg for everything. But, that is part of the rule.”

He ceased, laid his head atop Matilda’s and since she had now fully recalled her brother, on one level or another, she had found renewed devotion, God be Praised. Cwenburh rose, looked at me—it was strange, even fey, but the same notion swept over us as if we were one. Cwenburh gestured to the silver, “Not with that would you need beg. God cannot put the twins’ pathetic remains of justice before man to any better, more lasting use than with you, their brother for such Godly enterprise.”

“Oh, Brother, that is right. It is so shiny. It will make good work for you in faraway Bethlehem.”

We cannot know how Matilda became fixed on the idea of Eadwig living and working in Bethlehem. Had it been Gunnhilda? But she knew Eadwig did not live or work there. We all looked at Matilda, and at the moment I remembered both Matildas—one’s soul inside the other.

There was a scramble of emotions, and when Oslaf entered, he found this strange, silent family scene—sitting around a King’s ransom of silver, or so it looked, as if we had just summoned it from the earth.

When he looked every way at once like a confused owl, I could not help smiling, then outright laughing, “It is fine, Oslaf. Come in and help us with Father Abbot’s funds.”

And I am afraid that did nothing to put the poor lad to rights regarding that strange circle. For a circle is what God or fate had cast around us all. It was not a full circle, but we all savored that moment in hopes of times to steadily improve. But justice, there it was—the missing arc for those who worked with lands and skills, at the mercies of more powerful men and women.