Smoke from newly lit fires was rising into the calmness of the early morning air as I rode back into the garrisoned settlement of Athelney with our gruesome cargo. The gate guard, seeing our approach from afar, had recognised that something unusual was happening and had called the guard Captain.
I left our grisly burden in his charge, with orders to send a messenger to the Court, and began to make my way towards the stable to have the horses fed and attended to.
‘One of these is my Lord Devlac, he was a right noble.’ observed the young Captain coming uncertainly after us. ‘I presume that his body should be taken to the Church, sir.’
‘I think it’ll be unlikely that he’ll be laid to rest in consecrated ground.’ I told him. ‘Whereas, the other may. Just put them both in a shed for the time being. Someone from the Court will send you orders.’
Justice of a sort I suppose. Devlac the erstwhile respected Court advisor, lately murderer and crazed gambler, would be buried outside of the walls, probably at a cross-roads. While the remains of Gault, his blackmailer, a sadistic bully and undoubted cheat, would probably reside in a quiet corner of the Churchyard.
Wearily I made my way back to our accommodation. I briefly brought a tousled Edmund up to date and dispatched Deaks to get breakfast. After a good wash, I lay down on my bed for a troubled nap, with Sim curled up on an old rug by my side. He was soon snoring softly, happy with his company and a job well done. I turned restlessly, my mind full of conflicting memories about the old gardener, death and revenge.
The next few days went by in something of a whorl of time that, in my tired state, laid a mist over much of the memory. In fact I was entering a very busy period of my young life where the galloping weeks would soon soar into months and seasons melt into one another almost without remark.
We travelled to the fort, where Edmund was acting as the caretaker lord, to attend the ceremonial funeral of Osric. The company of engineers in Edmund’s command had performed miracles and had managed to erect a wooden chapel on the site that King Alfred had nominated. The permanent church of stone would be built around the chapel, using the wooden structure as part of the scaffold before it was finally dismantled and removed.
Both my parents were there but the occasion was rather sombre and not the happy reunion that I’d hoped for. Even the King’s proclamation that I be elevated to Companion and Thane did little to bring us closer. They were both as proud as could be of course, maman was positively beaming through her veil, but the closeness that I’d hoped for and wanted, wasn’t there. It was almost as though they had resolved not to interfere with my ambitions and to such an extent, that they had each built a wall of concern and introverted thought that separated us.
To pass the time while travelling to and fro, I had Deaks teach me some common words in the pirate tongue of the Viking. We were beginning to make good progress, my mind seemed to be like a mop, it soaked up as many words as it could touch and I found that I could bring them back with fair ease and accuracy. Deaks was impressed anyway.
On our return to Athelney I was ordered to take Devlac’s accommodation within the Great Hall. As a security measure, I had the heavy chest pulled across the trapdoor. It was a good room, considerably larger than any that I’d been used to, and it was well lit with a pendant candle-lamp and tall narrow windows. My old rooms, where I had stayed for all those years with Edmund, were given over as accommodation for the newly, though late, arrived academics from Italy. One room was set aside as a school for teaching as many of the local children as could be spared, an interesting and brave new venture by Alfred. He originally suggested that I give a hand in running it, but finally agreed that it would be better accomplished by one of the foreign scholars. They had a fine command of our language and I was available for advice or help. So far it was progressing well, but was causing a lot of negative mutterings amongst many of the nobles who were worried about giving the lowly peasant the knowledge of written words and numbers. I knew that this was probably the more frightening to them because, many of them were disadvantaged by their own ignorance and illiteracy. But I thought that they should be watched and perhaps, somehow appeased.
Whenever I could find some spare moments, I would make my way to the company of these elderly foreign gentlemen. They had brought a great many books with them from their monastery in the mountainous regions of northern Italy. Most were copies of course, but amongst them were several original volumes, created by an ancient Greek scribe, that concerned the firmament and the apparent movements of the stars.
One of the old men, Julio, had travelled widely in his younger years and could hold my attention for hours at a time with stories of distant lands, people and wonderful animals. It was through this old scholar that I developed my interest in the night sky and how the positions of the various star groups could help with guiding one’s travel across the open oceans and spaces of our world. We passed many dark evenings theorising and testing mathematical predictions that were described in the Greek books. We thought, after lengthy study, that the books were probably made from a series of journals that had been originally written by a sailor of considerable intellect and experience. I was keeping a modest record of our own discussions and exercises, and it was I thought, beginning to take the shape of a useful treatise.
The Viking Lexicon project occupied most of my waking hours and was growing at a considerable rate. I was writing down the Norse equivalent of our own words, where there was one, on wax covered tablets. These were then taken to the abbey where a dedicated young monk carefully transcribed them onto parchment and made a copy at the same time. It was all being cleverly put together in an alphabetically governed list to make the search for a particular word as simple as could be.
Several evenings each week I practised the language with Alfred. He already had a rudimentary knowledge and before long we were able to get by tolerably well.
It was on one of these evenings that the King gave me the shock deadline of just one week before we would depart on our spying mission. The heathen festival for the end of the Old and beginning of the New Year was already beginning. Although the occasion was of course the same one, the many different Norse clans and their leaders could not agree on a finite date. The result being an extended orgy of celebrations that culminated in a period of feasting and drunkenness that lasted for a whole week.
We concocted an elaborate web of stories to explain our departure and absence from Wessex, as undoubtedly, the invaders would have their informers just as we did. And what a catch the King would be, the consequences of such a ransom demand could not be contemplated. We both decided that, although he had a good idea of the business at hand, Deaks would not be party to the plans. He would be held incommunicado for the duration of our tour into enemy held country. A sterner monarch would have solved the problem with a war axe, but Alfred was more enlightened.
All that week, I practised the harp until my finger tips developed hard calluses and I worked at the juggling and conjuring tricks that I had been taught until they were as smooth as best silk. The Queen had one of her ladies make me a cap of shiny, bright yellow and brown satin that had tiny brass bells sewn into its top. It jingled quite merrily as I tossed and caught the wooden juggling balls, or apple substitutes.
The day of our departure approached with a speed that was only matched by my growing fear. Most of the day before we left Alfred spent calmly with the Abbot in prayer, confession and theological meditation.
I’m afraid that I spent the day sharpening the edge on my dagger and, after I had made provision for the welfare of my animals and Deaks, I went walking long and hard through the local hills. Whatever I did, it seemed that I couldn’t shift the dark feelings that pervaded my natural fear and nervousness. It was a feeling that sat at the back of my mind like a cold eye. I’d had them before and they usually preceded a personally catastrophic event. I had never spoken of my premonitions to anybody. It was a serious legal matter to set any credence against apparently supernatural occurrences and was punishable by a fiery and painful death at the stake.
The next morning I was up and ready to leave well before dawn, having slept poorly the arrival of the time to depart was something of a relief. So that our movement would attract the minimum of interest, we left Athelney in those densely dark, cold hours immediately before dawn.
We rode as far as a large farmhouse near the village of Cheddar, where we left our horses with a trusted loyalist and continued on foot. The drover’s lane that we followed headed upwards into the hills known as the Mendips and would eventually lead us into the wasted territory now held by the Danes. Once there, we would take any opportunities as they came, but at the same time, trying to stay out of trouble and away from too much popularity. Staying out of trouble was second nature but, even though I say it myself, our act was pretty good, so some prominence above our minstrel peers would be a real hazard. I hoped that I would be able to live up to my Royal companion’s expectations.
As we walked we chatted and I was quite amazed how much we seemed to have in common, Alfred certainly went to great efforts to understand his people and to know their everyday troubles and worries. His chief concern at the present was how to feed the hungry mouths of his growing army and their followers. My suggestion of using the farming experience within the military groups themselves had been implemented, but at this end of the year, the scheme could only hope to provide a supplement to the provisions. Levies had been made on the land-owning Thanes that could assist but even this source was much depleted by the raiding Norsemen. Eventually our talk petered out and we strolled along in pleasant, companionable silence.
The road followed the land’s contours at the base of a steeply rounded range of hills. The ridge was the highest ground in the area and, never having been this way before, I was fascinated by the unfolding view of my homelands behind me. The air was clear and I could make out the area that held our home of Athelney and even further beyond. To the west there was the timeless glitter of the Severn Sea with its marshy fringes. There were the far shores that would rise, beyond the smoky blue haze, to the fort at Cynwit where my father held the King’s Court and my maman ejected the scoundrels and swept the filth from the homes and streets of the township. For a heartbeat, my sight misted as I thought of them all. Not a one of them knew what I was about to do.
Ahead, the road appeared to come to an end, but as we approached the spot, I saw that it turned abruptly north and, crossing a shallow ford, entered a deep chasm. A broad enough way, but eerie in its purple shadows and chill silence.
A buzzard whistled its shrill mewing call from above us as it soared out onto the air from the shear face of rock. We watched it for a few moments as it wheeled and brushed the cloudless sky with the soft fingers of its wing tips.
Alfred strode into the gloom of the rocky pass, I hesitated, my fingers absently feeling at my throat for the solid iron of my cross. Luckily, my regal companion mistook my superstitious gesture.
‘You’ll not need our Lord’s special protection here Ranulf.’ Alfred smiled and gestured the road with his arm. ‘It is a place that is looked after nowadays by an old monk. He’s a bit of a hermit, but a splendid old fellow. You’ll meet him shortly, I’d intended spending the night here.’
I shuddered inwardly and forced my legs to follow, cursing my strong feelings of premonition. Crossing into the shade of the gorge felt as though I had stepped across a dark threshold into another place. The mew of the buzzard sounded now like a mournful lament as he soared high above us in the sunlight, turning and wheeling away back towards the mouth of the rocky cleft.
The floor of the gorge became steeper and, for a time, narrower, as it wound its serpentine way into the heart of the hills, at several places we had to scramble over the results of large rock falls. Some of the boulders were as big as a house and had left deep scars on the cliffs above us where they had broken away and plummeted down to the bottom. On our left the stream bubbled and rattled over its rocky bed, hemmed between its shaded grassy banks. Stunted and gnarled thorn trees dipped their ancient roots into the crystal flow and several times my glance caught the fleetest of glimpses of the brilliant blue kingfisher as it darted, swooping from branch to water.
‘Around the bend is a sight worth seeing.’ said Alfred, peering up the slope.
As we rounded the bend, the gorge became narrower still, but also treeless and a uniform, rocky grey. The root of the stream, which gave birth to the gorge’s fragile, sparse fertility, unexpectedly bubbled and gushed out of a smooth shiny hole in the floor of the solid rock, as though it couldn’t wait to hurl itself into the gloom of the chasm.
‘Where can it come from.’ I wondered aloud, my words hardly rising above the gushing, gurgling hurry of the spring.
‘Some say that, years ago Saint Joseph himself came this way and called down a miracle when he dug his staff into the poor soil.’ answered Alfred. ‘But I am given to believe that it is drain water from a sunken cavern within the hills themselves. I understand the monk knows more, but he can be difficult on times and may not tell us.’
Not far above this phenomenon we came across the dwelling of the old monk. A projecting ledge hung precariously over the solid blackness of a cave entrance, the heavy door-curtain was laid aside, fluttering its edges in the breeze. The surface of the cliff either side of the naturally formed porch was stained an oaken shade of golden brown from the smoke of countless wood fires.
A fall of rock on the opposite side of the gorge had been used to fashion an enclosure for a few animals and poultry, it was here that we found the sprightly old monk. His high, domed head was totally bald, which made the usual tonsure quite unnecessary, but any missing growth above was compensated by the thick white beard that, brushed into two points, hung like huge tusks to reach his belt. Unlike many of his profession, his body was as slim and straight as an athlete and beneath the twin clouds of white eyebrows, pale wolf-like eyes soaked up every detail as they watched our approach. His dark robes were made from a material that, even from this distance, looked as rough and coarse as a hog’s back.
‘Good day to you Friar John.’ called Alfred as we came closer. ‘I hope you are well.’
‘Never better my lord.’ his eyes lit with pleasure. ‘Who’s your young friend. I don’t think we’ve met.’
‘This is Ranulf, a fellow musician and tumbler.’ answered Alfred laying a hand on my shoulder. ‘Perhaps you would allow us the honour to entertain you in return for some supper.’
‘I shall welcome it....And your company.’ he wiped his hands in a twist of straw as he closed the gate on his makeshift pen and came towards us. ‘But first something to eat and a mug of beer, I’ve a new brew that looks promising.’ his mouth was mainly hidden by the long moustaches but his eyes were alight with the sincerity of the hidden smile. ‘Even a robin sings but poorly on a dry throat.’ he chuckled.
The monk led us into his home, inside he coaxed a fire into life and lit a couple of smoky torches which he fitted into niches that had been formed from natural cracks in the rock. The floor was swept clean and, in the central area, it was laid over with dry rushes and bracken. Around the walls were rough wooden boxes, and on naturally formed shelves, were neatly arranged books and the good fellow’s writing equipment. At the far end of the narrow cave was the monk’s sleeping area, a simple palliasse with neatly folded blankets and a tasselled cushion, one of the very few luxuries. To one side of the bed was a heavy leather screen or curtain, perhaps leading to a food store I thought.
‘Please, make yourselves comfortable.’ he invited, pulling a couple of the smaller boxes nearer to the open hearth.
Gratefully we settled onto our seats and massaged knees that had begun to ache from the damp winter chill and the uphill march. Deftly, as we looked on, he moulded some dough and spread it onto a flat cooking iron which he had placed over some hot embers at the side of the dancing flames. The smell of the warming dough was enough to remind the stomach of its windy emptiness.
‘Right we are then. Ale next. Perhaps you would give me a hand young fellow.... er, Ranulf. I’ve to tap the cask and an extra hand is useful. We’ll leave you with the fire if we may my Lord.’ he gestured to a pile of dry and split logs as he lit a fresh torch.
‘Of course sir, glad to help.’ I answered stretching as I stood.
I followed, and the old man pulled back the heavy curtain covering a concealed opening at the back of the cavern.
The light from the torch showed a tremendous sight that made my eyes start and my breath catch in my throat.
The torch light was picked up by glossy slabs of pink rock, magnified, and thrown around a glistening, sparkling cavern that was easily bigger than any cathedral that man had constructed.
Natural pillars of an almost translucent, glasslike stone stood between the floor and the high vaulted ceiling. Some were slender while others were as thick as a man. The random, scattered positioning of these columns muffled our footsteps with a myriad of fluttering echoes and obscured direct views in any direction.
‘A more impressive cathedral than any Bishop could hope for. Or in the case of most of em, even conceive.’ said Friar John proudly.
The monk’s few words gave me an insight into his opinion of ecclesiastical authority. And maybe that was why he was here I thought.
Unerringly, Friar John led me along a sandy path between pools of crystal water.
‘Could this be the cavern that gives birth to the river that surfaces outside.’ I asked him, shivering slightly from the chill air.
‘As far as I can tell, where we are stood was once the original water course. But, centuries ago, a fault must have appeared in the gorge and the water diverted into it, reappearing where you saw it, some way down its original track.’ his eyes twinkled in the lamplight, like chips of pale gemstones. ‘I’ll show you some other day. If you come to visit me again.’
We reached a shallow pool that had been trapped, waist high, in a rock basin. On the edge of it, nearly one third submerged, was a wooden cask, lying on its curved side.
‘The water is almost ice-cold and cools the beer beautifully, it gives it a taste that I’m sure you’ll find quite different from the usual.’
Humming to himself he hammered home the wooden tap and carefully eased the spile plug in the top. Gently he poured off a jug full and passed it to me.
‘If you carry that one I’ll bring another. It’s not often that I have Royalty to supper.’ the beaming eyes still glittered, he winked conspiringly. ‘I’ve known who he is for some while.’ He confided quietly. ‘He’s often been by, but prefers to stay unknown.’ he nodded to himself. ‘But, if that’s what he wants, then so be it.’ He turned back to his barrel. ‘Your name is also familiar, though I must admit the songs tell of someone perhaps, just a trifle broader.’ he chuckled.
As he finished the job I looked around at the staggering beauty of the place. No plants grew here of course, and although it should have felt eerie and frightening, I felt only peace. It was difficult to remember that we were on a level with the trail outside and not deep within the earth’s belly. The silence was so heavy that I could hear my own breath as it left my body.
The torch flared and guttered once or twice and the swooping darkness that dashed at us from the cavern’s depths was total and grew to be almost palpable before the torch’s stuttering flame found new fuel on which to feed and sent the shadows flying back to their cracks and corners.
John led the way back to his living quarters, torch in one hand foaming jug in the other.
As we came through the curtain he said. ‘I make this ale using the water from the cavern, it’s......oh!’ he broke off and, hurriedly dropping the curtain, rushed over to Alfred. ‘What on earth! Have you been asleep man, or is your nose as devoid of sense as your brains.’
He set the beer jug down and rescued a blackened loaf of charcoal from the cooking iron.
‘My apologies Sire.’ mumbled the Friar. ‘It’s of no consequence. I’ll make another, it’s just that, well, provisions are a little low this year.’
Alfred sheepishly bowed his head. ‘It is I that should apologise. But it was the very problem of food supply that was absorbing my thoughts. My people starve, John.’
The charred loaf was replaced by an iron pot of thick stew and the monk sat next to the glowing embers where he could give it a stir from time to time as he warmed himself. Outside, the sky had lost the pale golden light of the setting sun and was already turning a brooding purple, a gusting wind swirled the few stray leaves as it swept the dust into the air.
I pulled my small travelling harp from its sack and checked its tuning as we sipped at the frothy mug of heady, crisp beer. Whether it was the relaxing effect of the Friar’s ale or a natural release of tensions I’m not sure, but we gave our best performance ever. The monk was full of praise and declared us indeed, ready to turn professional. I had the distinct impression that, although Alfred was aware that Friar John probably knew his true identity, it amused him to keep up the pretence, which allowed the monk to get away with many liberties.
We woke early the following morning to find swirls of rain had replaced the evening’s dust and dry leaves on the now squally wind. I hugged my rough cloak tighter about me as I poked about the animal enclosure looking for hen’s eggs that our host had assured us would be available. Eventually I managed to find a half-dozen and only one was broken. The chickens didn’t seem too pleased to release the results of their labours to my care and one, an enormous black and white beast, tried to chase me out of their corner. She was lucky not to be an addition to the good Friar’s delicious stew pot.
We breakfasted quietly after a short service conducted by the monk. Each of us was caught up in our own thoughts and the many possible destinies to which the new day might lead. In my case, I was lost in contemplation of the unknown into which I was about to plunge, but Alfred’s preoccupied calm was infectious and reassuring.
By the time we were ready to leave, the rain had stopped, but the wind tugged enthusiastically at any loose item that it could, and produced a mournful tune as it moaned its way through the rocks of the gorge. We bade the Friar farewell, wished him good fortune and, with our heads tucked well down, we again took up the path of our broken trek.
The route lay steeply uphill and took us through the gorge and then across a treeless, exposed summit plateau. The wind swiped across this flat ground with the vigour and ferocity of a stooping hawk, every other step was a struggle for balance. How I missed my fine woollen cloak. The piece of coarse sacking that I pulled about my shoulders, more in keeping with our pretence, was not very warm or windproof.
By midday we had crossed the range of hills and were heading for the outskirts of a substantial barbarian settlement that had grown around a cross roads and the upstream fording place of a broad river. The weather had brightened and we found some shelter from the thrusting wind to stop and rest. As we opened the food parcel that Friar John had sent us off with, we viewed the scene below us. I hadn’t realised that the invaders had settled so close to our beautiful Wessex.
Barges were being rowed up and down the river, we assumed that they took provisions out to the island fortress of Steep Holme in the estuary and maybe returned loaded with their catches of fish. From our vantage point we watched as in turn a succession of these small, flat-bottomed boats docked, unloaded and headed off downstream again, all very orderly. They were obviously handled by experienced seamen, as hardly a one was badly positioned in the near gale force gusts that still swept the countryside. British boats, such as they were, would still be lying low and wouldn’t venture out until there was almost a flat calm. We desperately needed sailors and ships.
Within the town’s sturdy walls, the roadways were broad and laid out in a grid fashion with well built thatched houses lining each side. At the centre of the road network was a large square of open space on which a market was taking place. At the northern end of this square there was a large, imposing hall that would probably have two floors. It was here, Alfred told me, that the local Viking lord, Halfdan held his court. And visits from Guthrum, the Norseman King himself, were not uncommon.
We continued on our way, cautiously linking ourselves to what seemed a farming family that had brought a cart laden with market goods and tubs of what could be mead. I was pleased to find that, without much difficulty, I could understand most of the conversation and found out in some detail what was going on in the town.
It seemed that Halfdan himself was expected back that afternoon from raids in the east. Rumour had it that the army had been successful and were bringing back incredible riches, slaves and produce. When the lord arrived he would declare the holiday open and the feasting would begin to celebrate the coming of the new season. Prayers would be sent to Freya for a fruitful new year and offerings would be made to Thor for continued success against the weak and cringing British.
Some of these disparaging statements provoked a stirring of the rage madness within me, but this time it wasn’t difficult to control it, there was so much to see. Much of it impressive and directly contradicting the images of the vicious pirate dens that I had been brought up on.
We continued along the rutted lane down onto the valley floor, where our party joined another group of people heading for the town following the remains of an old Roman roadway.