It was fully three days before I was conscious again and in some semblance of control. The shaft had neatly pierced my forearm through the fleshy parts immediately above the wrist. The head of the arrow, luckily for me, hadn’t been made with deep hunting barbs so it didn’t cause too much damage when it was so roughly pulled out. What wasn’t so lucky was that the arrow hadn’t been very clean, which had caused the wound to quickly become infected. This, coupled with my already weary condition, induced a feverish response that, by all accounts, was quite dramatic in the speed with which it took over.
When I came around, I couldn’t think where I was. The bed was comfortable and there was a smooth sheet drawn up to my chin. The room around me was smaller than I was used to, but furnished with the familiar type and style that I had grown up with, including a heavy chest and two deep, high backed chairs. I could see that clean rushes had been spread on the floor and a sprinkling of meadsweet blossoms gave the air a pleasant perfume.
I felt cold and curiously light headed. Turning I noticed that my left arm was above the covers and bandaged with a strip of clean linen. It felt strange, almost detached, and there was a painful tingling sensation in my fingers. As my returning awareness sharpened I became conscious of another presence. Tilting my head back I looked into the smiling face of my guardian, a tired, grey-looking Edmund.
‘Good to see you back with us Ranny, my young warrior.’ His voice rumbled a little with an unaccustomed emotion and he leaned forward so I could see him without twisting.
‘Where are we?’ I asked. My voice sounded odd, not like my own.
‘Athelney, lad. They’ve given us these rooms in the Abbey.’ Edmund looked around gesturing through an open door. ‘We’ve been here for three nights now.’
Gently he lifted my head so that I could drink some water, the sweetest that I could ever remember tasting.
The following days melted into a blur of sleeping and waking. Every time I awoke Edmund was always there, sometimes accompanied, but often quite alone.
I was brought to my senses on several occasions by the touch of cool, gentle fingers, which belonged to a nurse of the Royal household, as they changed the poultice and dressings on my arm or, by the same hands, washing and feeding me. Sometimes I was given tasty vegetable soups but often it was a bitter tisane infusion of herbs.
Slowly, over the course of ten or twelve days, I regained my spirits and strength and was able to get out of bed and move, albeit shakily at first, around our quarters. With the assistance of some carefully supervised exercises, I was able to get some strength back into my weakened left arm.
Of course, one of the first things I wanted to know about, was the safety of our guides and friends, and if we were still outlaws. The news was not all good.
I learned later that Sheriff Morfann had been taken to task over the cowardly attack on us by his man Dilwyn. But he had managed to divert the blame and talk his way out of trouble. Edmund felt sure that, somehow, he had been forewarned of the King’s intention to send an officer of the Court. But to openly make allegations of subterfuge against the Sheriff would literally be a deathly serious matter and probably best left until any firm evidence that could be had, was gathered.
But the good news was, the King himself had rewarded not only Hugh and Paul, but their whole community by granting them a Charter which recognised them as a village with all the benefits of lands and laws for their protection. The land given to them was in the form of a large island in the marshland bordering the Severn Sea, which they had called Western Isle. They would now of course have to contribute to the defences of the land through the King’s system of Fyrds but that in itself could also be a boon by providing the villagers with their own stock of trained men. There was no news, as yet, of Paul’s younger brother. But Edmund promised to try to discover his fate when he had time. He was becoming quite busy and, for half of each day, he was training the men of the local Fyrd so that they would begin to behave as a controllable, disciplined fighting force. One of their first tasks would be to join Lord Osric’s men to finally root out the poachers in the Kings hunting forest.
As my health improved I became more and more impatient to begin my studies. I had visited the library and had been shown the rows of beautiful books on their little benches and just longed to be allowed to read what I could, and leaf through the exquisite pages. The abbey was a relatively small concern with only a score or so monks and just a few stone and thatch buildings. But those that it did have, were well maintained and had been well built, in a light and airy way that was easy to keep clean.
The atmosphere around the place was always bustling and busy, but in a calm and orderly fashion. The good monks ran a small dairy as well as an extensive garden for vegetables and fruit. And within this walled garden they kept swarms of honey bees in little wooden huts with conical thatched roofs. The majority of the honey produced went to make a type of mead wine that was renowned as being the very best in the whole of Wessex.
I was strolling around this garden one morning when one of the kitchen scullions blocked my way. He was about my age but a little taller, red headed, with a long body and short, bowed legs. His deformity was so pronounced that his shirt and breeches had no chance of meeting and a strip of once white skin was permanently exposed. But the most noticeable thing about him was his face, which he habitually thrust forward, in an aggressive pose.
‘We heard you’d not been well.’ he said, more of a statement than a question. ‘You better now, then?’ he continued.
His eyes looked in two directions at once, and I felt a bit awkward about which one to watch.
‘Why, yes. Indeed I am.’ I answered, and made to go around him to continue on my way.
‘What’re you here for then?’ he asked moving across in front of me on his short bandy legs.
‘To further my studies I believe.’ The ignorant rudeness of the scoundrel was becoming irritating.
‘Nah, that’s for girls and old men.’ he sneered. ‘I want to learn to fight. That big friend of yours said he’d teach me if I wanted.’
‘Then I dare say that we shall meet again. I’ve to get back to my warrior training soon.’ I managed to step around him and began to hurry along, back towards our quarters.
‘Oh! Proper mister hoity-toity aren’t we.’ he taunted thrusting his jaw forward even more. ‘Anyway, you’ve to come with me. Now, right away. I’ve been sent to bring you.’
‘Where are you supposed to be taking me?’ I asked turning to face him again.
‘You’ll see soon enough. This way, and hurry, the Bishop wants to see us and he don’t like to be kept waiting.’
And off we went, back through the gardens to the main building of the Abbey.
All the way I wondered what someone with the rank of Bishop could want with me. It must be bad news, I decided. My imagination ran away with ideas that something may have happened to maman or my lord Odda. Maybe a fire, or worse, perhaps a Viking raid had reached them.
I was apprehensive and anxious by the time I was ushered into a small yard. The scoundrel guide was obviously enjoying his upper hand in the affair and with a proprietorial air, he announced our arrival to the only occupant, who was sat on a small stone bench.
‘Ah! Well done Deaks, my young man. Bring the boy here.’ the man beamed and added, huskily. ‘Come, stand by me.’
With some relief I saw that the scullion’s Bishop was in fact the Abbot. I had not met the good man but had seen him inspecting the small Abbey estates and Edmund had pointed him out once or twice. Expectantly, I stood in front of the learned gentleman hoping to hear the plans for my imminent future. I couldn’t help myself but smile, Deaks, the ignorant kitchen hand, looked so much like a drooling gargoyle as he leered around the Abbots shoulder.
The Abbot’s few words did much to broaden the gargoyle’s grin but they did much more to shatter mine into a sombre gloom.
‘So you are the weakling son of our great Odda. The young man who falls ill from a scratched hand. You look well enough to me.’ he cocked his head to one side, as though expecting an answer.
I opened my mouth to speak, but failed to find any words.
The Abbot looked at Deaks and smiled. ‘You will start work this afternoon with old Stygs, the estate gardener.’ he nodded. ‘We have no passengers here you know. We all pull our weight.’ he smiled as he carefully placed his finger tips together in front of his chest. ‘Your days will be completed by rigorous training in combat and swordsmanship, with our loyal servant Deaks, under the tuition of Master Edmund who is, I believe, your guardian.’
My indignation and anger had become controllable and I answered carefully.
‘Thank you Sire, I’m sure it will give me the opportunity to repay you for your kindness during my sickness and to learn the arts of the soil.’ I bowed with a serious formality. ‘But, might I enquire about the plans regarding my academic studies?’
Deaks bent his head, and I’m certain that he whispered something to the head of the small Abbey.
‘You may have an hour or so to read from the Great Bible, after matins every morning. Attending our devotions is also something that you will begin. Both you and that man-at-arms that brought you here.’
My breath came in small sobs of disappointment. ‘Thank you Sire. Where might I find Master Stygs?’
‘He’s a gardener. The good Lord help us, try the garden.’ said the Abbot with a loud laugh.
With my cheeks burning I bowed and left the yard, and, as I closed the heavy gate, I could hear the sniggering laughter of delight coming from the courtyard behind me. I turned and, blinded with tears of anger and disappointment, ran from the wretched spot towards the walled garden in which I had recently found such pleasure.
A quick glance around the old grey walls showed that the place was still empty. Wherever Master Styg the gardener was, he wasn’t here. I sat heavily on an upturned tub under the sweeping branches of some young apple trees. My position needed some serious thought. It was doubtful if my guardian, Edmund would be able to overturn the decree of such a locally powerful person as the Abbot. But he might be able to give me some ideas on a course of action that would bring me into the eye of the King.
I was completely lost in my thoughts when a large, wet, black nose snuffled in my ear. The rest of the scruffy grey head came into view along with the body and a tail that wagged a little doubtfully. I tried to push the big dog away, its cheerfulness didn’t suit my melancholy mood. But steadfastly it refused and insisted on sitting next to my tub and leaning against my leg. Absently my fingers ruffled his shaggy coat, it was surprising how he seemed to lift my sagging, gloomy spirits.
‘Ah...I see you’ve met old Sim.’ the voice came from behind me and made me jump. ‘I’ve seen you wandering through the garden several times.’
The little man looked at me intently as he leaned on the slender handle of his spade. It looked as though I had met Master Styg the gardener. Sim the dog looked up at him and his expression looked as close to smiling as I’ve ever seen a dog manage. The gardener wore a curious smock and his breeches were bound into gaiters above his boots, his nut coloured, lined and leathery face was wreathed by silvery-yellow coloured beard and hair that appeared even paler in contrast to his complexion. His eyes were a curious pale gold that almost matched the colour of his hair. It was the piercing, expressive quality of those eyes that held my attention. He pulled at another tub and sat himself on its edge so that he faced me, his feet only just touched the grassy floor of the orchard.
‘Well now my young man. What are you looking so miserable about. The sun is shining and it’s a lovely day.’ his voice was quiet and the eyes seemed to peer deeply into the forlorn cavern into which my young, newly troubled life had fallen. ‘My name is Styg, I’m the gardener here.’ he made a sweeping gesture around the large enclosed plot. ‘I’ve heard of you. It’s a small village and most of us know a bit about everyone, although there are some that invent the details that they don’t have.’ he smiled and settled himself to listen.
Although I had no conscious intention of confiding in anyone, excepting Edmund, I found that I was rattling away as though he was an old friend. Try as I might to bridle my tongue, it seemed to find an encouragement of its own and I gave almost a full history of my trip and travelling experiences. Styg nodded seriously, smiled and ‘tutted’ at appropriate places, several times he anxiously looked about us to see if we were being watched, but nobody came by. I wound up my tale by informing him that he had a new assistant and I was it.
Styg was quiet for what seemed a long time. I worried that perhaps I had just dug myself into an even deeper hole by telling him so much. But when he spoke he surprised me.
‘I’ve heard that version of the tale already. Or at least, one that’s very similar. It came from a kitchen maid and, as you say that you’ve not spoken to anybody else she must have got it from someone with knowledge of happenings within Cynwit. I will carefully try to find out where the story came from.’ he paused, thoughtfully.
‘Do you think the maid will be truthful. And...discrete.’ I asked, wishing that I had heeded Edmund’s advice to say nothing to anyone.
‘Oh, quite certain. She is my niece, if that were not so, she’d not have told me. She has a quick wit and will, I’m sure, be pleased to help.’ Styg pushed himself from the tub. ‘You must promise me though, that you will never speak of these things to anybody. Really, you know, you shouldn’t have told me.’ The pale eyes shone as he smiled. ‘And now, I suppose, I must find something suitable for you to do.’
I was duly set to work swinging a scythe at some tall grass in an overgrown corner of the garden. Sim the dog stayed with me, it seems that my antics amused him, for whenever I happened to pause and glance his way his long tail thrashed and scattered the cuttings. My hands quickly became sore and the swellings of blisters bubbled up on my tender palms. I persevered, but found it to be one of those jobs that looked a lot easier than it actually was. The area that Styg had used to demonstrate on was a uniform swathe of green turf. The rest of the patch was a series of savaged tufts, but I had finished.
When the gardener came to tell me to pack up for the day his expression betrayed his words of praise at my having finished the task. To help heal my throbbing hands he gave me a cream made from the juices of a herb that he aptly called Wound-bane. It stung like fire as he smoothed it in but after a short while the soreness all but disappeared. He promised to teach me to recognise and use some of the more readily available, wild herb remedies.
I left the gardener’s tool hut with a present of some apples in a small sack and, with a much lighter heart, headed towards the thatched cottage where we quartered. Maybe life wasn’t so very bad after all.
Edmund was there before me, busily dressing the side shoots and small branches from a couple of hazel sticks. He looked up and smiled as I entered.
‘I have heard what happened.’ he said quietly. ‘Master Deaks lost no time in telling the kitchen staff, who may be relied upon to dutifully spread any story.’
‘I should have known that this might have happened to me.’ I said, echoing Styg’s recent observation. ‘There are it seems, many jealous and petty people here.’
‘That’s been our main problem since we left Stowey. Many people see you as being chosen by the King for special treatment, perhaps above their own heads and they will press you to cross swords just to prove their own perceived worth.’
‘But I’ve not yet even been presented at court.’ I complained. ‘I don’t even know what our King looks like.’
‘Patience Ranny, all these things are part of the fate that has been woven for you. I have no doubt that the court will hear of your prowess as a swordsman and warrior soon enough. For that is the sort of news that they listen for.’
All the while he had been talking, Edmund had been working away at his task with the staves. To the end of each he had fitted what looked like small fish baskets.
‘Take one of these and try it for balance.’ he offered. ‘It’s called a Single Stick and is the way in which I began my own training in the arts of the sword.’
Tentatively I swung the stick in circles then copied Edmund’s examples of lunging, feinting, thrusting and cutting. He explained that some schools preferred the Cutting style of attack, using the swinging action, but he had found the Thrust more effective, having greater range, accuracy and above all, speed.
By the time the rascal Deaks arrived for our first lesson, I had managed to perform the feint and secondary attack with reasonable, beginner’s success and was taking a well earned break with a beaker of cow’s milk.
My self-declared antagonist’s face dropped like a stone when he was introduced to the Single Stick.
‘I’m not a child!’ he complained angrily. ‘I don’t play with toys.’
‘You are right on both counts.’ answered Edmund. ‘You are not a child, and these aren’t toys.’ deftly he threw a weapon to Deaks who was forced to catch it. ‘As your first lesson, allow me to show you the value of the Single Stick.’
With the ease of an expert, Edmund broke his opponent’s weak guard and, using the thrust technique, drove the breath from Deaks’ long body with a controlled, smoothly executed lunge. Slowly the lad crumpled to his bandy knees, gasping for breath and clutching at his belly.
‘Allow me also to demonstrate who the instructor is. I talk, you do.’ added Edmund turning to me and winking above a wide grin.
That evening’s training was passed in the same manner as many others that were yet to follow, strengthening exercises for the wrist and arms and endless, endless practice at the various techniques. The session culminated in a controlled sparring match between we two students. As a rule, I managed to demonstrate a superior co-ordination and developing skill, while still managing to be on the receiving end of several purposeful hard knocks that were delivered by means of tricks and deceptions.
The following morning, well before sunrise, we were awakened by the insistent jangling of a hand bell. Both Edmund and I wrapped ourselves into our heavy cloaks and stumbled out into the ice-brightness of a clear starlit sky. I pulled the cowl hood closer and numbly shambled along, following the dark bulky shape before me. The old chapel was almost full by the time we managed to get inside and, despite my youthful, righteous intentions, I have to confess to falling quietly asleep for most of the lengthy and monotonous devotional service.
I had become snugly warm within my cloak-cocoon and did not welcome the sharp elbow that brought me back to consciousness. The discomfort of my empty stomach was firmly overshadowed by the painful aches that radiated from every muscle and joint of my tired body. For several moments, I seriously thought that I was about to die.
A monk was waiting for me, holding a thin, smoky candle.
‘You’re off to the library it seems. I’m going back to bed.’ whispered Edmund. ‘Hope you don’t have any questions, these fellows take a vow of silence during their early years.’ he grinned around a stifled yawn as he went out through the main door.
I coaxed my horribly stiff and aching legs to take my weight, and painfully hobbled after the monk who was, I supposed, going to guide me to the library.
A page had been marked in the Great Bible with a beautifully enamelled, golden book mark, on the edge were incised the words “Alfred had me made” in Latin. The monk opened the pages and inserted the marker into a space made in the wooden coverings of the spine. Stretching myself to full height I began to laboriously read from the splendidly coloured text.
As the days passed, the silent monk encouraged my interest in books and brought out a variety for our silent study. My favourites were the ones about far off lands and their people but we also looked at other subjects such as poetry, mathematics and geometry. After my session in the library, the end of which was often well after daybreak, I only just had time to eat a hot, cereal and milk porridge for my breakfast before making my way to the garden and whatever task was awaiting me.
Often, by the time I reached my training with Edmund, I was exhausted and annoyed him on several occasions with lapses in attention. Deaks however was not slow in taking advantage and gleefully added to my collection of bruises and cuts. I quite cheerfully resumed my earlier hatred of the Abbot’s grinning gargoyle and learned several of his low tricks, which I returned with perhaps more spite than skill.
My days were spun together into an indistinguishable web of time, the days flowed unnoticed into weeks and steadily the seasons of the year hurried by. The early mornings became slightly easier with practice and my naps during the service seemed to be unnoticed.
It was in the garden, playing with Sim, that I first had the germ of an idea that could focus some attention onto my broadening shoulders and unreliably deepening voice. By chance I discovered that the dog, rejected from the hunting stable for being too old, had an extremely sensitive nose. We developed a game where I would hide something and, when told, Sim would unerringly lead me directly to it. To take it a stage farther I needed to see if the long legged hound could adapt the skilful game to find a person after I had given him some belonging or other to sniff.
Having learnt my lesson regarding confidantes, I enlisted the unwitting assistance of Edmund. I borrowed one of his neck cloths and, when we had a rest break during the morning, I took Sim near to our quarters and held the piece of material against his nose. We shot off at a bounding pace. Sim tore into the house and with a leap, jumped onto the happily sleeping form of my faithful guardian.
Edmund’s reaction was, to say the least, predictable. Though what he was doing sleeping at this time of the day I didn’t know. He swung his feet to the floor and stood in a crouching, defensive stance. Through bleary eyes, he recognised my beaming face, and both relieved and angry, cuffed me round the ear. Even through the ringing I heard the warning rumble from Sim’s throat as he showed he wasn’t too impressed with my rough treatment.
‘Get that hairy, flea ridden bag of bones out of here.’ Edmund spluttered crossly, but wisely he backed off a half step. ‘He sounds like a bit of a nasty creature to me.’
‘He’s a good lad.’ I ruffled the thick hair on Sim’s head. ‘Come here boy, and sit down.’
With his best manners evident, he planted his rear on the stone floor, strategically between Edmund and where I stood.
‘Really, he’s a friendly old boy, and quite clever. Particularly with his nose.’ I sat on the couch, into which Edmund had so recently been snoring, while he warily perched on the other end. ‘And he’s at the centre of an idea of mine.’
‘Rattle away young man. I’m sure I’ll get used to him. If I have to.’
Edmund listened patiently to my plan, which I hoped would bring my name to the notice of the King, or at least someone privy to the court.
‘Well, it’s a novel scheme, and that’s a fact.’ Edmund scratched his ear and smiled his sceptical smile. ‘I still say that your main chance is through diligent work with your studies and our swordsmanship training. You are almost ready to swap the Single Stick for a good steel sword.’
‘Oh, I still want to work in those directions, but I feel this chance could be too much to miss.’ I was almost pleading. ‘If you could just arrange for me to meet with Osric. Just casually would do.’ I crossed my fingers for luck.
‘Tis strange that you mention him.’ said Edmund. ‘I saw him only yesterday, he asked how you were getting along.’ he thought for a moment. ‘I think I could do what you ask quite easily. I’ve to take him some men in a day or two, can you be ready by then?’ Edmund’s hand had unconsciously strayed to tickle Sim’s broad shoulders and he jerked it away when he realised.
‘I should think so. Could you get me enough leather or light braided rope to make him a long leash.’
‘That’ll be no problem. But maybe first of all you’d better ask old Styg if you can use him.’