There are too many of them. We will neither escape their bloodstained lances nor the ravenous fires with which they burn down our houses and villages. Perhaps I die today, but my scramasax will make sure that I am not the only one.
I gaze over the dismembered bodies that cover the ground. It will be a feast for the wolves when the scent of death beckons them hither. Whoever survived the slaughter amongst us will not linger to save the fallen from the scavengers and give them a decent burial. For the hordes will return and spare no one, not even women and children. Norþhymbre is dying of raging flames, murder and destruction, and the enemy will not stop until they have broken our will and made us submit to their rule. Or until the last one of us is dead.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. We have been battling them for what feels like an eternity, trying to keep their fierce riders from our life and limb, our goods and chattels. They are relentless. Anyone who stands in their way is skewered with a lance or struck down with a well-directed blow from a sword.
We cannot but stand in awe as Byrhtnoð and his men did in the Year of Our Lord 991 when they watched the Norþmenn wading over to them near Melduna. Wodon þa wælwulfas, for wætere ne murnon… But our enemy fears neither water nor fire – possibly not even God or the Fiend. Our weapons are no match for their merciless thirst for blood, which they greedily quench on thousands of my fellow countrymen.
I have fought until the end, but now, hope is leaving me. I am exhausted. Our weapons drip with the blood of many of their riders and horses, but we cannot win. I have lost everything. Their horsemen have butchered my father, raped and stabbed my mother and two of my sisters, set fire to my homeland. They round up the helpless like cattle and slaughter them with a single blow of their swords. May God keep my three younger siblings safe in the woods, to which they have fled. They may yet survive. But for how long?
I take a deep breath and put down my makeshift fire sling – the flames in the stuffed bucket are all but extinct. Another rider joins the rows of warriors surrounding us and urges his horse forward. There is a large dark spot on the instep of his foot. The Frenchman I fought with in our kitchen. His helmet shields his face, and I search in vain for a sign of hate. Instead, he looks down on me almost benignly. Is he waiting for his brothers-in-arms to drive their lances through my body and make me pay for the wound I inflicted on him?
Another rider shouts something, whereupon the others make way for what seems to be their leader. Like a king, he sits on his mighty warhorse and rides forward with his chin held high until he is right in front of us. The one who shouted pulls up beside him, and they eye us from head to toe.
With a sneer, the leader sits up and speaks, but I do not understand a single word. The rider next to him asks, in an accent I do not recognise, “Hwæt is þin nama?”
They have a wealhstod who speaks my language? I tighten the grip on my shield and the rope of the bucket with its weakly flickering flames. Then I lift my chin, “Ic hatte Oswulf.”
“Hu eald eart ðu?” the language master continues.
“Ic eom nigontinewintre.”
From the corner of my eye, I see that, like me, Ulfgar has not lowered his spear and shield, as if he were expecting an attack at any moment.
My foe from the kitchen makes his way past the other riders to the leader. They talk briefly. The leader nods. With a stern look at me, my foe points to his foot. Then he turns to the language master. While he is talking to him, his gaze keeps going back to me, with only intermittent glances at Ulfgar.
The language master introduces my foe as the French master of arms, who has been watching me since the fighting began. It has surprised him to see the two of us hold our ground against some very experienced warriors.
“You are a worthy fighter, young Englishman,” says the wealhstod. “Thibault would like to see you fight on our side.”
Thibault? Who is Thibault? I look at the master of arms, who nods almost imperceptibly. My hands tremble with anger. I tighten the grip on the handle of my shield and pull tight the rope on the bucket. “Næfre ic sceal wigan for wuldre Angla banan.”
The wealhstod raises his eyebrows. How much of my words he passes on, I cannot say, but the leader continues to stare at me without even batting an eyelid. “Hwær sind þine ældran, Oswulf?”
“You want to know where my parents are? Why do you not ask your spears and swords with which you slaughtered them?” If they were not sitting on their horses, I would spit into their faces. Instead, I lift the bucket and swing it over my head in ever-increasing circles. “Min fædre wæs Osfrið, Morkere eorles and Haroldes cyninges ðegn, þe ge acwealdon. They are both dead. But I am still alive.”
With a shrill neighing, two horses jump back from the thing that comes flying at their nostrils, but the riders quickly bring them back under their control. The circle of spears around us is closing in.
“I would rather die than betray my country,” I cry out.
The leader’s face darkens. He hisses something incomprehensible. The wealhstod and the master of arms give him a look that swings between worry and annoyance. It seems their liege lord is slowly running out of patience with this stubborn Englishman.
My friend Ulfgar stands in silence, watching, shield up, spear at the ready.
The two Frenchmen talk at their leader. I stop whirling the bucket and pointlessly try to read their lips. Finally, the leader raises his hand, and the two fall silent. He speaks at length. I put the bucket down slowly and listen. Again, I do not understand, but some words sound like the names of the English eorles. I eagerly wait for the wealhstod to explain.
He confirms the names, but his words are like lumps of earth thrown onto someone being buried alive. The eorles are at King Willelm’s manor house in Normandig. The language master does not call them prisoners, but how could it be otherwise? In Eoforwic, the French have rebuilt the two castles, this time in stone, so that they will not again fall victim, like dry twigs, to the flames. A French abbot who is an old friend of King Willelm’s is soon to take over the office of archbishop. The few English nobles and rebels still alive in Norþhymbre will perish because the French destroyed their land and all the food supplies, from Snotingeham through Eoforwic to Dunholm. Famine, misery, disease, infirmity and agony await all those who oppose the king, and death will be a welcome relief to their suffering.
Every sentence from the wealhstod hits me like a spear being thrust right into my heart. The southern and eastern parts of Englaland are firmly in French hands, and the north will not hold out much longer.
What are we still fighting for? The French are taking our land, and we cannot stop them.
With his eyes sparkling like a deceptive layer of ice reflecting the rays of the winter sun, the leader beckons, and two of his men emerge from nowhere, pulling at some ropes with three little human figures attached and stumbling behind them.
As I look at the prisoners, my whole body goes limp. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. As I exhale, the last hope escapes from my body.
“We found these children up a tree,” the wealhstod explains to me in a calm, almost soothing voice. “They kept shouting your name as my men here were trying to get them down.”
The leader grunts a few words in French, and it takes a sharp command from him to prompt the wealhstod to translate his words. “Do you know these three… urchins?”
I chew on my lip and exchange a look with the trembling children, who stare at me with pleading eyes.
“Are these your brothers and sister?” the language master is asking, but he already knows the answer. Surely, he has spoken to them, and they have told him everything because he speaks their language.
I take a step forward, followed by the spearheads, and look the leader in the eyes, “If you kill them, you are next.”
The wealhstod translates. A scornful smile spreads across the leader’s face. With a voice like hoarfrost, he speaks to me. The language master lowers his eyes briefly before translating the words into English. “Are you threatening me, Englishman? Look around you! Who do you think will die first if you make even one false move? You are lucky that my master of arms appreciates the way you fight and wants you in his service, for if he did not, your filthy English mouth would have been kissing the dirt of this forsaken village long ago.” He points to the three children, “We will take them as a pledge. If you do not do as you are told, Sire Geoffrey will have all of them killed.”
Sire Geoffrey. Lord Geoffrey. So that is the name of my family’s butcher. The man I am to work for from now on. My new lord. If I refuse, they will kill my brothers and sister. Ulfgar and I will take some more of them to their graves before we also die. If I agree, I will betray my country, my family, my king, but I will save the lives of my siblings. Can I trust the words of a Frenchman? Will he not kill them anyway? The French claim to be powerful, yet the leader needs a pledge for me to surrender. Is he afraid of me as long as I am not lying dead in the mud in front of him? Should he not in that case make sure that his watchmen keep a close eye on me instead of using children against me?
“Well, young Englishman,” the wealhstod interrupts my thoughts, “how do you decide?”
My brothers and sister are waiting for my answer with open mouths.
“Where are you taking them, and how can I be sure that you will treat them well?”
Lord Geoffrey squints his eyes, but before he can say anything, the master of arms talks to him and then nods to the wealhstod. “Thibault himself will vouch for the welfare of your siblings.”
It is hard to see Thibault’s face behind the nose guard, but he lacks the pride of the leader. He does not gloat over the misfortune of others and almost looks at me like a father trying to save his son from certain death. If there is one Frenchman whom I should and can trust, it is probably him.
With a sigh, I let the rope slip through my fingers. The fire in the bucket is only a flickering little flame that the next breath of wind will blow out. My will is broken, my strength exhausted. I can hold out no more. “I believe you, and I agree. But before you take us away, I must give my wife, my parents and sisters a burial that is worthy of good Christians.”
The Frenchmen exchange baffled looks as the wealhstod translates. To my relief, the leader nods. They do not dare to refuse me this. At least they are in awe of God’s power.
Ic ðancige ðe, Dryhten min.
But relief soon gives way to an eerie feeling in my belly, as Lord Geoffrey turns to the language master, pointing to Ulfgar. “Are you Oswulf’s brother?”
Even before Ulfgar answers, a burning pain passes through me, a foreboding of death that drives beads of sweat onto my forehead. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. My body is numb, and I hear Ulfgar’s words, only muffled, as if he were speaking through a heavy wooden door.
“I am his friend and brother-in-arms. My name is Ulfgar, son of Godric the Smith.”
I slowly shake my head. I feel a “No!” forming on my tongue, but a gag of air seems to block its way out. He will die.
A word from the leader. A thrust with the spear. A gurgling sound. Ulfgar’s heavy body collapses.
“No!” My scream comes too late. I rush to Ulfgar, who was alive just a moment ago and who now lies dying on the thin blanket of snow.
At Lord Geoffrey’s muttered command, the wealhstod and five other Frenchmen dismount. Two of them pull me up and take away my armour and weapons.
“We will also bury your friend as befits a Christian,” I hear the language master murmur. “Where can we find your family, Oswulf?”
I am only half listening, but I nod and point to our manor. The language master grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me along, “Come, before Sire Geoffrey regrets his decision.”
We stomp across the ground, littered with dead bodies, towards my father’s manor, which, rather than being a home, is now an early grave for most of my family.
I press one last kiss on my wife’s icy lips before we wrap her and the others in linen sheets. We lower the blood-smeared corpses of Godgifu, my sisters and my mother down into the trenches that we dug in the garden behind the great hall. Then it is Ulfgar’s turn, and it takes three of us to lift him.
“We shall meet again in a better life, Ulfgar,” I whisper and throw the first clod of earth onto my loud friend, who, from now on and forevermore, will be silent.
Next to my father’s body, I fall to my knees and bury my face in his tunic. My body trembles – in grief at my father’s death, in anger towards those who killed him, in guilt for my shameless pride and disregard for my father’s words. It is my fault that misfortune and doom came upon my family and my home village.
I clutch my father’s upper arms. How often did these strong arms shield me when I was little, and what did I do when they needed me? I sob and cry like a little child. One last time, I lean towards my father’s ear. “The French will pay for what they have done to us,” I whisper, fearing that the wealhstod might hear. “I will avenge you, Father.”
I nod to a Frenchman and reach under my father’s shoulders. Together, we put the body into its final resting place and shovel the earth back onto this last grave.
My head is humming and buzzing as if someone has hit me with a stone. The life I have known is over. I have lost my wife, my family and my friend. I am leaving my home village for good and will spend my life as a servant to a Frenchman. Instead of upholding the honour of my homeland as a ðegn of Eorl Morkere and King Harold, I trample it with the feet of a traitor.
Silent on the outside, full of questions on the inside, I mount the horse that one of the Frenchmen is holding for me. One last time, I look back at what I leave behind. Ledlinghe is burning – but they have not destroyed everything. In fact, some huts and sheds stand unaffected by fire and weapons. Here and there, a chicken clucks and dares to come out of its hiding place. Those who survived, here or in the woods, may not have lost everything, at least for the moment. I failed to save my family, but Ulfgar and I may have spared a few others a terrible fate. We lost the battle, and yet we may have won after all.
As a last memory of Ledlinghe, I seal this glimpse of hope in my heart before I urge my horse on and follow my new lord to his manor house.
We head southward. Dusk slips its icy fingers under my clothes, and I can feel the sweat freeze on my skin. My body aches, I am tired, hungry and thirsty, and I pray to God that I can get off this horse soon and have a piece of bread and a cup of ale. Should I not have died on the battlefield like my fellow countrymen? What will become of me amongst the French? They will make fun of me and order me to do all the dirty work they do not want to do themselves. Should the son of a ðegn really spend the rest of his days living in thrall to a French nobleman? What if the master of arms finds that my fighting skills are not as good as he thought? What happens to me when he no longer needs me?
The riders around me could not care less about my fate and what happened in Ledlinghe. They chat away cheerfully in this language that sounds like a thick brew of snuffling and singing. I hear them, but I can neither understand nor turn a deaf ear to their words. Like ravenous maggots, the sounds eat their way through my ears into my head. If the French let me live, I will one day, surely, lose my mind from hearing them speak.
The sun melts into the horizon and bathes everything in a red-golden light. In the distance, the roof of a manor house rises up, surpassed only by the tower of a nearby church. The buildings and the area seem familiar and yet strange, as if I have been here before, although I cannot remember when and why. Good and bad memories flow through my mind, but my tiredness obscures them from recognition.
Behind me, two Frenchmen lead the horses that carry my siblings. The two younger ones seem to be asleep. Their slumped bodies sway along to the rhythm of the hoofbeats. The eldest sits tensely in the saddle, frowning as he looks at the passing landscape. Our eyes meet. I am unable to smile at him encouragingly, so we only gaze at each other, both of us lost in the turmoil of our own thoughts.
As we pass some peasant huts, it slowly dawns on me why I know this place. Pictures shoot through my head like lightning. Stanfordbrycge. Father. The night ride with Ulfgar. A torch. Curious people. A little woman smiling at me. The herb hut. Father lives. King Harold is dead. Wilburgfos! What are we doing here? Is Lord Geoffrey planning to raid another village? Is that why they’ve taken me along?
The Frenchmen show no sign of aggression or restlessness. As if they were going home, they follow their leader, past the wooden building of the Benedictine monastery and on to Wilburgfos Manor. Little patches of snow glow on the muddy ground like guiding lights. Apart from a few pigs and a flock of chickens, which flutter wildly from the horses’ hooves to safety, nobody pays attention to us. Have we become so used to seeing French riddan passing through our villages since the bastard became King of Englaland?
It has only been a few years since I was here, and yet a lot has changed. Is it just the season? When I first came to Wilburgfos, it was autumn. Now, it is winter, but the snow is melting, and the first buds are already heralding spring. The last peasants drive their oxen back home from the fields where they have ploughed the soil for the forthcoming seed and spread the dung. But where are all those who do not work in the fields? Weaving clothes at home, mending tools, feeding the animals?
At more than a man’s height, a fence surrounds the manor and shields it from the peasant huts of the settlement. The wood looks fresh – there are no rotten spots or other signs of weathering. Even in the dark, we would have noticed such a high barrier. They must have built it after we left, but what for? It would be of little use to Kjetil to fend off a group of French warriors. Perhaps a pack of wolves or a band of robbers is roaming the woods around Wilburgfos.
Two elderly women fall silent as we approach them. They watch us with a mixture of curiosity, caution and disgust and start whispering as we pass. A group of children playing just outside the gate of the fence pauses and stares at us, wide-eyed. A boy, no older than the French rulership in Englaland, points at me and calls out to his playmates, “Englishmen!” In spite of all the evil that has befallen me, I have to smile at the little boy’s excitement.
We finally reach the yard in front of the great hall. Four men approach us. A smile plays around the lips of the first one as he greets Lord Geoffrey in French and lets his curious eyes glide over me and my brothers and sister. Next to him, I recognise the man who welcomed us at the manor back then and supplied us with clothes and weapons. Cen… Cenhelm? The father of the high-spirited Cenric! My English heart leaps. I would like to have a few words with Cenhelm, but he is already leading two of the horses to the stables.
As I dismount, I wonder what the purpose of our visit here in Wilburgfos is. Perhaps we are still too far away from Lord Geoffrey’s lands, so we will spend the night here. Or maybe we do not have to go there at all because Lord Geoffrey does not want any Englishmen at his manor house and is leaving us here in Kjetil’s care. I take a deep breath and look at my brothers and sister, who huddle closely together between the big Frenchmen like young birds in a nest who have just caught sight of a foe.
“Ic eom Frederic. Wilcume!” Two friendly blue eyes look at me. Before me stands the man who greeted Lord Geoffrey a moment ago.
“Ic ðancige eow, Frederic,” I reply. “Min nama is Oswulf.”
“Frederic insisted on welcoming you in your language,” explains the wealhstod. “He is Sire Geoffrey’s seneschal and looks after the manor when the liege lord is travelling. And since the two of us will be dealing more often with one another from now on, let me also introduce myself – my name is Walchelin.”
“I thought Cenhelm was in charge of the manor.”
“You know Cenhelm?” Walchelin asks.
“We met him when we brought my father here after the battle of Stanfordbrycge.”
“Well,” Walchelin begins, after translating for Frederic, “a lot has changed here since then.”
“So I noticed.” I point to the wall of wooden stakes around us, “I do not remember the fence being there then. Does Kjetil fear for the safety of the people in his manor?”
The look of the two does not bode well. Another seneschal. A fence around the manor. “This is not Kjetil’s manor anymore, is it?” Secretly, I pray that they will contradict me.
A translation is not necessary. Frederic shakes his head.
“Kjetil is dead,” Walchelin says. “Almost two years ago, Sire Geoffrey took over the manor as a reward for his services here in the north.”
Kjetil is dead. Sire Geoffrey is the new owner and Lord of Wilburgfos. Lord Geoffrey of Wilburgfos. We are not travelling any further. We have reached the end of our journey. I will live at Lord Geoffrey’s manor house and work as one of his English slaves. Surrounded by Frenchmen whose orders I must carry out and whom I must serve. Oh, Father! What shame I have brought to our family and our country!
I feel a hand on my shoulder and look up. Frederic smiles as he speaks to me.
“Frederic invites you to the great hall,” says Walchelin. “You need to eat and drink. Come!”
As if it had been waiting for its cue, my belly grumbles. Although I am still dazed by what I have just experienced, I nod and follow Walchelin into the manor house.
In the great hall, the warmth of a blazing fire caresses my aching body. I stretch my limbs and inhale the smell of food and sweat. The large, golden-yellow flames in the hearth throw flickering shadows onto the faces of the people inside. Servants hurry back and forth with bowls, loaves of bread and jugs to supply their masters with food and drink.
Surrounded by a handful of Frenchmen, Lord Geoffrey sits at a raised table from which he can overlook the entire room. With a fleeting glimpse at us, he turns to the man beside him, a ruffian with wild, dark hair and hands that move about like flushed-out birds.
Frederic points to two empty seats at one of the long tables, says goodbye and takes his place at the feudal lord’s table. While I make my way to our seats with Walchelin, many observers follow our movements. Some of them need no words to show their disgust at the uninvited guest. Others look in amazement. Only a few look curious.
Where is Cenhelm? What about Hild the healer? How is Lady Edeva? Is she dead too?
My eyes search in vain for a familiar English face. I am surrounded by clean-shaven Frenchmen with ridiculous haircuts.
Maybe I should take my meal somewhere else. It is only a matter of time before they close in on me.
“Sit down, Oswulf!” Walchelin’s voice tears me from my thoughts. He points to the space next to him.
I step over the bench and slowly sit while staring at the tabletop in front of me to avoid their gaze. I feel hot. This is what a bear must feel like when they lead him to the fairground, only to be torn apart by wild dogs as dozens look on. “Walchelin, I really do not think I should—”
“Do not think, Oswulf, just do as I say!” Walchelin beckons a servant. “You are now part of Sire Geoffrey’s retinue, so you will eat when and where we eat.”
The girl fills our cups. She is still young, not fifteen winters old, with long blonde hair. She smiles at me before turning to other thirsty guests in the great hall. I watch her go. We share a single fate. We serve the same French ruler. Trapped amongst foes who stole our fatherland from us.
Opposite, a man lifts his cup in my direction and shouts something that I cannot hear amidst all the noise. He nods resolutely at me and lifts the cup to his mouth.
I nod, hurriedly reach for my cup and put it to my lips. I am so thirsty that I take several gulps at once.
A tingling sensation trickles down my throat. It tightens my cheeks. My tongue rears up like a young horse that is feeling a saddle for the first time.
Ðis is laðlic! I spurt out a broad mist of spray.
The man next to me bursts with laughter, and others join in. I wipe my mouth and stuff a piece of bread into it to get rid of the disgusting taste.
Walchelin bends over to me with a worried face. “I suppose you have never tasted French wine before?”
“How can you drink this stuff?” I say, chewing. “Is there no decent ale at a French manor house?”
Walchelin sends out a servant, who soon returns with a jug and pours me a yellowish-cloudy liquid. “This is probably more to your liking.”
I carefully take a sip. The herbs in the cool, tart barley juice tickle my throat, before I greedily empty half the cup. As I wipe my moustache in relief, two children are watching me from behind the tables and benches. The older of the two is a blonde boy, perhaps four winters old, leaning against the wall with one shoulder and wrinkling his nose at me. He looks like a fox cub sniffing at something, only to move on in disgust. He withstands my gaze.
I sense an aversion – dare I say, hostility? – in his inexperienced eyes. How the French must hate us, when even small children look at me with such contempt. I take another sip and peer over at the girl next to him.
While chewing away on one finger, the little thing smiles at me with a mischievous glint. She takes the hand of a woman, probably her nurse, and points in my direction. Then she drags her companion towards me, stops at a safe distance and looks at me with sparkling eyes.
“You already seem to have an admirer,” mumbles Walchelin.
“Who is this?”
“This is Adelais, Sire Geoffrey’s daughter. A clever girl, though very headstrong.”
I smile at the little one, and she smiles back broadly. Like little Eda, when she was her age.
“That boy over there is her older brother, William. Sire Geoffrey loves him dearly, especially since his…” Walchelin pauses and peeks at Lord Geoffrey, who is still engaged in heated discussions with his hairy neighbour and Frederic, “since his first wife died while giving birth to Adelais.”
The little girl utters some scraps of words and sounds that are obviously aimed at me.
“I assume Sire Geoffrey married again?” I ask.
Walchelin rises, “Indeed, he did. And here comes his wife. Let me introduce you to her. She will be pleased to meet a fellow countryman.”
A fellow countryman? So, Lord Geoffrey is married to an Englishwoman?
Walchelin leads to me a tall, slender woman with a baby in her arms. I meet them halfway and bow to her.
“Dame Edeva,” Walchelin says, “this is Oswulf, son of a ðegn and English warrior from Ledlinghe. He will assist the master of arms Thibault in teaching the squires. Oswulf, this is Dame Edeva, Sire Geoffrey’s wife and your new mistress.”
Dame Edeva. I know this woman. That is Lady Edeva, Mistress of Wilburgfos.
Lady Edeva regards me, “Ic ðe wilcume, Oswulf. Your face looks familiar. Have we met before?”
She may only be five winters older than me, too young to show signs of old age. And yet the three and a half winters since we last met have left deep marks on her youthful face.
“After the battle at Stanfordbrycge, you were kind enough to save my father’s life. My friend and I brought him to your manor that night, badly wounded.”
“That was more than three years ago.” She stares into the void as if the memory were taking shape in the air in front of her. “You came with a friend. How young you were back then!”
She is almost as tall as me but slimmer. Her light skin looks pale. In her eyes lies a sorrow that I do not remember from the time when her first husband, Kjetil, was still alive. But that was a long time ago. Maybe she is just exhausted from the upheavals on her manor, her new husband and his new customs, maybe from a stressful birth.
“I guess there is no need to ask about your father’s health.” The bitterness in Lady Edeva’s voice is unmistakable.
“He is now in a world without sorrow. My friend Ulfgar has gone with him. They will wait for me there.”
Lady Edeva lowers her head. On her arm, her son gargles to himself. A bonny little fellow with attentive blue-green eyes and light-blonde, fluffy hair. He stretches out his left hand and tries to grab me.
“Hwæt dest ðu, Hroðgar?” Lady Edeva looks at the little boy, who eagerly continues to stretch out his arm.
When he catches hold of my moustache, he giggles and fumbles with the hairy structure that he knows only from the English servants and peasants and not from his father or his fellow countrymen.
What am I doing? While I am drinking ale and amusing the lord’s children, my siblings might be sitting in a dark hole, with only just enough water and bread to keep them alive as long as the French need me.
“What about my brothers and sister?” I ask the wealhstod.
“Fear not,” Walchelin replies. “They are being taken care of. You can see them again tonight before you go to sleep. Tomorrow, Sire Geoffrey will send them to the manor houses of other French barons. Wilburgfos Manor is too small to accommodate four more Englishmen. They will be fine there, Oswulf. Not all Frenchmen are monsters, though it may seem so to you.”
I am not convinced by Walchelin’s words, but I cannot change the decision. At least Lord Geoffrey’s men captured my siblings alive instead of killing them like most of the others.
Lady Edeva gently pulls back the little boy’s hand. A painful smile flits across her face. “If you want to ease your heart and pray for the dead, speak to Father Leofric. He will gladly stand by you in this difficult hour, as he did with me.”
“Leofric is still alive?” I dimly remember the slender figure of the priest.
“The French are devout people. In their homeland, there are many cathedrals in honour of the Almighty, and they have also built many places of worship in Englaland. They need the English priests to convey the Good Tidings in our language and to keep the services going.”
It hurts to know that the cleric was luckier than my family. I thank Lady Edeva and promise to see Father Leofric first thing in the morning. It will do me good to speak to another Englishman.
“Come, Oswulf!” the language master beckons. “Thibault wants you to meet the barons. None of them knows yet that you will be taking over some of their sons’ weapons practice.”
An unpleasant heat rises in my body as I follow Walchelin to the elevated table in the great hall. “I am to teach Frenchmen how to fight?”
Walchelin nods with raised eyebrows. It is hard to tell which one of us believes more ardently that the master of arms has lost his mind. “Be prepared for some unpleasant remarks, but stay calm, and nothing will happen to you.”
I shrug my shoulders, “How can it be otherwise? I do not understand your language and will not know what people are saying.”
“I shall translate what is necessary for you,” says Walchelin.
So, only part of what they say. Not all the slander and abuse they will let loose in the face of an Englishman amongst them. What gift have I that Thibault or another Frenchman wants? They will hate me. How could I ever agree to this? I would never have entered their service of my own free will, but I had no choice.
Thibault asks for silence. His voice is restrained, but it does not allow any contradiction. The hairs on my forearms stand up. It becomes quiet in the great hall. The ordeal begins.
It does not take long before the first men heckle the master of arms. The tone of voice and the grim face of the callers leave no doubt that I am not welcome here. I feel like a horse at the market that the buyers consider too expensive for what they see. Who would buy such an animal? No one. Especially not if it is of English descent.
I listen to the protestations and try to memorise the faces and the voices, even though I do not understand the words. It will not be the only time that these men will make my life difficult. I must be prepared for it.
Thibault takes the hecklings calmly. He answers briefly but firmly, silencing the grumbling barons.
“What did they say?” I murmur to Walchelin without taking my eyes off the crowd, which continues to eye me suspiciously.
“Oh, nothing we did not expect. What is this English bastard doing here? Do we not have enough able French warriors? You are just waiting for an opportunity to take revenge on us. It is understandable that these thoughts will concern them.”
My heart and soul are rebelling against the prospect of spending the rest of my life at a French manor house, pretending to be one of them. I am not, and will never be, one of them, even if I am to teach their sons, who are hardly younger than me. The French hate me because I am English. The English will hate me because I sup with the Fiend. I work for the French, and yet I am neither a servant like the English nor of equal rank to the Frenchmen. I am an outsider to both sides, outcast from my father’s lands and a stranger in my new home.
Despite the warm food, the fire and the many people heating the great hall, I am freezing. The glances cast at me pierce through my skin like the cold steel of a metal blade. With Ulfgar at my side, I would show them why I am here if they dared to compete against me and my friend. My friend. I press my lips together. The French must not find any weakness in me, for they are like wolves who mercilessly follow the bleeding game and once they have ensnared it, tear it to pieces. But they shall not succeed. Not now, and not as long as I can prevent it. The son of an English ðegn does not give in so easily.
I clear my throat, “Thibault?”
Thibault pauses in his explanations and looks at me.
I clear my throat again and step forward. Two men put their heads together and whisper a few words. I nod to Walchelin and speak.
“My name is Oswulf, son of Osfrið. My father was a ðegn of Eorl Morkere and the last English king, King Harold, who liberated this country from the Norþmenn. As a young warrior, I fought in the battles near Eoforwic and at Stanfordbrycge, at an age when your squires know the battlefield only from stories and tales. In battle, I defeated many Frenchmen who were older and more experienced than me, and together with my brother-in-arms, I saved my home village from being pillaged and destroyed. Your master of arms has seen me fight. In fact, we faced each other in single combat.” I turn to Thibault, who points to his foot with a quick nod. “As you can see, I survived this fight. If your master of arms, of all people, wants to save the life of an Englishman, he will not do so without reason. If you are still not convinced, then I challenge each one of you to fight against me. On your own, if you dare.”
Walchelin reluctantly translates my last sentences for the breathless audience. For a long time, there is silence. Some rub their chins, others exchange glances showing amazement or indignation or both. Initially, they just whisper, then the first men rise and speak up.
A cry in French from behind me tears through the noise, “Silence!”
All fall silent. Lord Geoffrey speaks angrily to his men. The standing ones sit down one after the other and do not dare raise their voices again. When Lord Geoffrey has finished, he turns to Thibault, who gestures at us to get back to our seats.
“Come!” says Walchelin and heads for our bench. “We have waited long enough for food.”
I chase after him, “What did Sire Geoffrey say?”
“That he expects his men not to question his decisions and that they should pass on any complaints about you to Thibault, as he is personally responsible for you and your behaviour.”
Further down the table, Thibault is picking up some bread and dunking it into his bowl. He lifts the slice, dripping with thick vegetable soup, in my direction and then takes a hearty bite.
As I dip the spoon into the steaming pottage in front of me, I watch the master of arms chatting with the men who surround him. My life depends on him. Losing his favour means certain death for me. And the same fate for my siblings.
Most of the Frenchmen could not care less and simply shovel the food into themselves or cast fleeting glances at me while chewing away on the vegetable pieces of the soup. Some, however, do not touch the food but follow my every move, frowning, as if they are waiting for me to pull a dagger out of my sleeve and fly into a frenzy.
I try not to lower my eyes when they look at me. They must not think they have already won.
Again and again they exchange short sentences with others while keeping an eye on me. They are talking about me. If I let their words and behaviour intimidate me now, I will have a hard time in their midst. I would be a disgrace to my father and my family.
The pride of being English suddenly burns and gnaws at the feelings of hopelessness and cowardice that cloud my thinking. Like two wild animals, the two sides fight in my chest. “He who does not fight is worth nothing.” It takes a while, but my pride finally gets the upper hand and forces my despair to its knees. A wave of power floods my body, straightens it up, makes the stares bounce off me like blunt arrows on heavy battle dress. They will see that the son of a ðegn cannot be frightened by a few harsh words. I will show them that it takes more than that. One day, they will regret having turned against me.
My gaze wanders to Thibault and finally to the language master. How far can I trust them? They seem to mean no harm, but they are French and bound only to their liege lord. How can I be sure that they will not betray me as soon as it is to their advantage? “Tell me, Walchelin, how come you speak my language so well?”
The wealhstod wipes his mouth with a linen cloth, “That is very simple, Oswulf. My father was a baron from Normandig and came to Englaland when King Eadward was ruling. He took a liking to this country and the pretty women here, and he married one of them. So I grew up with a nurse who taught me French, but my mother spoke to me in the language of the local people. I am not a master of it, but it is enough to mediate between the two peoples.”
“What do you think about bringing an Englishman to a French manor house to teach French boys how to fight?”
Walchelin laughs, “Thibault is a brave man. He fears no danger.”
“You think he is mad?”
Walchelin shrugs his shoulders and scrapes out his bowl.
Maybe he is. But his word has enough weight to change his liege lord’s mind and save me from certain death, at least, for the moment.
After dinner, I visit my brothers and sister in the shed. Eda is already asleep and lies, curled up in a heap of straw. Oswine is struggling to keep his eyes open and soon is also sleeping peacefully in the straw. Only the eldest, Wigstan, is still sitting upright next to them, staring at me.
“What will they do to us, Oswulf?” he asks quietly.
I stroke his blonde hair. He is the eldest of them, but still so young. Only a one-day-old chicken has downier cheeks than him. “They will take you to other manors tomorrow.”
“But it is wrong.”
“I know, Wigstan. But there is nothing we can do about it. You should give thanks to God that we are still alive.”
“But what kind of life will we have? We are in the hands of the enemy. We—”
“I know it will not be easy, but you are alive, Wigstan. And so are Oswine, Eda and me. God has saved us from the fate that claimed Mother and Father, Æðelflæd and Wassa. Now, we must put our lives to good use.”
Wigstan chews on his lower lip and looks at me for a long time. “One day, I will take revenge on him for this,” he whispers with a coldness that is not like him at all.
He does not say the name, but I know he is talking about Lord Geoffrey. I nod and put my hand on his shoulder, “Yes, maybe you will. But you should try to sleep now.”
When I come back to the great hall, two servants are clearing away the remains of the meal. Some people are already lying on the floor, tucked up in blankets and sleeping. A few French instructions echo through the room. Someone hands me an old woollen blanket.
I search for a free place and go to sleep with other Englishmen. I wonder what they think about me. An Englishman brought here by the French. Maybe they know nothing about it. Maybe they do not understand their French masters any more than I do and simply carry out the orders they receive from a language master like Walchelin. I look out for the wealhstod and Thibault, but I cannot see anything. The sun set long ago, and the fire in the middle of the great hall gives only a faint glow. I am too tired to look for familiar faces in this light, so I stretch out, pull the blanket up to my chin and close my eyes. Dryhten min, you took my parents and my siblings from me today, but you spared me. Help me to be strong and to do my father honour as befits the son of a ðegn.
In the morning, I bid farewell to my brothers and sister. Wigstan and Oswine go to the manor house of William de Perci, Lord Geoffrey’s liege lord, in Cattune, north of Wilburgfos. He will probably send them far enough away to stop them from conspiring with me. As for little Eda, Lord Geoffrey will offer her as a servant to one of his vassals, like cattle on the market. I pray to God that she will find someone to marry her in a few years’ time and free her from a life of poverty and servitude. As the daughter of a ðegn, she deserves better than that.
The three of them are sitting on horses with an uncertain gaze as the animals carry them into their new lives. They have escaped death, but will their lives be better? I try to be grateful to God for protecting them during the battle of Ledlinghe and pray to him to continue to protect them on their new path. That is all I can do. The helplessness is killing me. I am doomed to watch the Frenchmen dispose of my brothers and sister as if they were goods for sale.
They disappear through the gateway of the fence. The Frenchmen who sent off the mounted troop turn to their daily work as if nothing has happened. I am left alone in the yard.
Thibault picks me up with two guards and leads me into the armoury. He talks to me, but only when he points to a stack of weapons do I realise that he wants me to clean them.
He leaves the armoury with a stern look at the guards. One of them stands at the entrance, the other takes a position directly in front of me at a due distance. He grunts some words and beckons with his chin for me to start. I look at the stack of weapons: a few swords and two lances. As I reach for a sword to inspect the blade, the Frenchman pulls his own and points it towards me. He says something – probably a threat, judging by his narrowed eyes and posture.
There are two of them, but they wet themselves with fear. It is hard for me to stifle a grin, but inside, I am laughing aloud. What reputation must precede me at this manor house when two seasoned fighters startle as I pick up a sword!
I turn the sword in my hand and look at it from all sides. It has the right feel and shows not the slightest damage. Its blade is flawless and sharp. The French know their craft and look well after their weapons. It is all in exemplary condition, although a little dirty.
Sitting down on the bench, I reach for the rag that lies on a bucket full of ashes and wipe the blade with long strokes. From the corner of my eye, I can see my guard’s sword hand twitch whenever I reach out for another weapon. It makes me chuckle.
When I have finished, my excitable watchman examines the result. He seems satisfied because he nods with a grim face and points to the door. As I rise from the bench, my gaze falls on a scramasax hanging in a leather sheath on the wall. I immediately recognise it as the scramasax that ended the lives of many Danes and Frenchmen on the battlefield. I know it well because it is my father’s sword, crafted by Ulfgar’s grandfather. He made the hilt from the horn of a deer that my father killed when he was sixteen winters old. The blade bears his name in runes to protect him. Now, the knife hangs there, unheeded and useless, so close and yet so far. I feel the urge to go and close my fingers around the rough horn hilt. To feel this infinite strength and power within me.
The guard gives me a push. I leave the armoury, followed by the two Frenchmen. They give me further orders and drive me forward to the small chapel of the manor. A man in a black robe is standing in front of the entrance, talking to a maid. When he sees us, the maid moves away, and he turns towards us.
“Father Leofric?” I ask.
With a merciful smile, the frock-wearer nods. “You must be Oswulf. Lady Edeva told me you want to make confession and pray for the dead.”
“Yes, I do, Father. I am only a young warrior, but I have brought endless suffering to my family and my village. Many people had to die because of me. I was disobedient and disregarded my father’s request. The Lord has punished me cruelly for this crime. I need to confess my sins to you so that you may free me from my heavy conscience and pray for my soul and those of the deceased.”
Father Leofric points to the door of the chapel, “Let us go into the house of God then, so that you can repent your sins and ask the Lord to have mercy on you.”