In my head, I see images of horsemen rushing towards me. Men in armour on huge warhorses, slaughtering everything in their path with spears and swords. I feel the heat of the flames that devour the wooden roofs and walls of the huts. I hear the death-cries of the men trying to stop the invaders, the shrieks of the women and the squeals of the children as the hordes kill them indiscriminately, the screams of the dying as they sink to the ground, pierced by the weapons. It smells of sweat, smoke, blood and decay. I try to swallow the metallic taste on my tongue. “I destroyed all of that.”
“You have sinned grievously, Oswulf, but the Lord had mercy on you. He saved you and brought you to Wilburgfos to repent of your sins and save your soul from eternal damnation. Your thoughts and deeds were driven by pride, anger and envy. You bore false witness against others and violated the commandment of Christian charity. You must repent of your sins and turn to God again if the eternal kingdom of heaven is not to be closed to you.”
I fold my hands hastily. “I repent of my sins and vow to do penance for them, Father. Tell me how I can regain divine grace.”
“Under my authority as a member of the Holy Church, I hereby absolve you of your sins. In order that your soul may also be purified, you will fast for three days and keep vigil in the chapel while you say your prayers to God. May the Lord hear you and have mercy on your soul. Amen.”
“Amen.” Relieved and yet with a heavy heart, I step out of the chapel and walk aimlessly across the yard while trying to think clearly.
“Oswulf?”
The young voice that called my name brings back memories. I feel as if I have heard it long ago. I stop in the middle of the yard.
An awkwardly tall and thin young man comes stomping up to me from the side, English by the look of his chin-length light brown hair.
“Oswulf, son of Osfrið?” He tucks his thumbs into his belt, grins broadly and nods. “Well, who would’ve thought we’d meet again! Looking good, my friend.”
“Cenric?”
“You remember my name?” Cenric utters a brief laugh. “I don’t believe it! The master of the battlefield himself remembers Cenric, the insignificant Englishman from Wilburgfos.” He makes an exuberant bow. “I am honoured, eala ðu wundorwiga!”
I look around in embarrassment. Suddenly, I’m almost grateful that the French don’t speak our language and can’t understand the swollen nonsense Cenric utters.
Cenric nudges me on the shoulder. “Tell me, what brings you to our manor house? Didn’t see you arrive. How on earth did you get past all those Frenchmen?” His smile disappears. Before he continues, he looks around then says in a lowered voice, “Things’ve changed here in the last two years. Our new master is an unpleasant fellow, quite different from Kjetil. Sent him off to meet his maker, just like other good folk, when they raided the manor then claimed it for themselves. Supposedly, given to Lord Geoffrey as a reward for his services in fighting the English by some lord in Cattune.” He spits out. “Niþingas! Think they can just stumble in here and take over the manors. Our Lady Edeva, poor woman, even had to marry the new lord. He wanted a French priest for the wedding but had to make do with Father Leofric. Serves him right! His wealhstod never left his side, translated every single word so that he wouldn’t miss anything. Seen the host of servants this fellow’s brought with him? Unbelievable! Whoever they didn’t kill of us English now gets to do the dirty work. They made my father a servant. His work got taken over by two Frenchmen, a friendly one and another with woolly dark hair. Yfel gesiþ, if you ask me.”
I step from one foot to the other. Thibault must be waiting on the battleground to introduce me to his pupils.
“Oh, yes, he also brought his two children and their wet nurse with him. Lady Edeva’s desperate to get rid of her. Always looking at her husband in a strange way. I wouldn’t be surprised if he secretly went after her. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s had his way with other women. When Lady Edeva was pregnant with little Hroðgar – Hroðgar, huh? The French call him Raw-jaire. Doesn’t that sound ridiculous? Anyway, Hild – our herb lady, you remember her, don’t you? – well, she had to look after Edeva quite a lot because the lady wasn’t well for a long time. We even feared she wouldn’t make it and that she and the child would die. So, in the meantime, Lord Geoffrey got his marital dues elsewhere. Was probably famished after the long absence from the manor. He still went on many campaigns during that time and could be away for months. What an animal!” Cenric shakes his head and snorts.
Did he even take a breath in all that stream of words? Before I start pondering the question, I take the chance, while Cenric has shut up for a moment, to point towards the battleground. “The master of arms is waiting for me, Cenric, but it was nice to meet you. Any additional Englishman in this manor house will make my life here more bearable.”
Cenric pats me on the shoulder. “Oh, that’s all right. We English stick together.” His look becomes thoughtful. He furrows his brow. “Well, most of us, anyway.”
“Most?”
“There’s this one guy who showed up here with the French at some point. Not as a prisoner. He seemed to be part of them. He’s not often here because they’re always sending him off, some kind of messenger. I don’t know why, but I can’t stand him. Maybe it’s just because of his silly little beard or his strange attitude. But he speaks English fluently and is polite and—”
“What’s the name of this messenger?” A sneaking suspicion germinates in me.
Cenric waves it off. “Oh, he has one of those Danish names – you know, with that unpronounceable ending.”
Stígandr.
Cenric leans towards me and shields his mouth with his hand. “The guy’s name is Stígandr. Watch out for him! He may pretend to be English and work for us at the manor house, but I don’t trust him. Nor should you!”
He straightens up with a weighty expression on his face and puts his fists on his hips.
I nod thoughtfully. “I will heed your advice, Cenric. It’s unfortunate that I don’t understand a word of French. I’m sure there would be some conversations to eavesdrop on.”
Cenric puts his hand on my arm. “Fear not, my friend! Cenric will initiate you into the secrets of the foreign language.”
“You speak French?”
“Indeed. And not bad, as some Frenchmen have grudgingly confirmed to me. Learned it from Frederic.”
“Frederic?”
“Aye, the seneschal who looks after the manor house when Lord Geoffrey is away. He’s really nice – for a Frenchman! You’ll like him.”
Well, well, well. A Frenchman teaching an Englishman his language. I could achieve much more if I understood and spoke French. I wouldn’t always have to rely on Walchelin, who might not translate everything into English. Besides, I could speak to the French myself or listen in on their conversations. They would no longer be able to simply talk over me in my presence. I could learn many important details about their intentions and plans. “Cenric, we’ll start first thing in the morning!”
Cenric pauses, then smiles incredulously. “Agreed.”
“See you tomorrow, Cenric.” I hurry to the battleground before Cenric might try to fling his arms around my neck in gratitude.
Two youths are already engaged in a fight with wooden spear and shield. Three others are standing on the edge of the arena, watching the fighters attentively. Thibault beckons me to him. Walchelin is standing next to him, frowning at the young fighters’ movements. I sigh. It will take me a while to find my way around without the wealhstod. He is more to me than just a language mediator who converts foreign words into something I can understand. He provides access to the new world in which I will live. Most of the faces are unfamiliar to me, their way of life and customs different from those I am used to from my father’s manor or which I experienced during my first stay at Wilburgfos. Without Walchelin, I would probably be rather lost here.
As I stand next to Thibault, the three youths regard me warily. One points at me and chuckles behind his hand. He whispers something to his neighbour while pretending to throw long hair back over his shoulder. His neighbour starts laughing, but Thibault calls them both to order in a sharp tone. Their laughter dies down, but they continue to eye me. The third one looks around questioningly and then turns to Thibault. From the tone of his voice, I gather that he must have asked a question. Thibault answers the boy before raising his voice and addressing the other youths as well. I listen to the strange singsong as I let my gaze wander over the five squires. I hear my name in Thibault’s foreign speech.
So these are my pupils whom I am supposed to show how to fight with various weapons. I see small injuries on most of their faces, which probably testify to their inexperience with the shearing knife rather than a spear or sword. Apart from the sleepy little one standing right next to Walchelin, they are almost my age. Wiry, tall lads with silly bowl cuts. I will not have an easy time with them, and they will do everything they can to make it as difficult as possible for me.
Before I can start to wonder what is going on in the boys’ minds, Thibault assigns me to my very first fight. At a quick summons, the blonde fighter leaves his battle companion, strips off his shield and holds it out to me, along with the wooden spear and a cocky grin. I accept the weapons while he joins the other two observers, who once again, cannot help whispering.
I get ready to fight and examine my opponent. A strong, red-haired guy with wide jawbones and deep-set eyes. One, maybe two years younger than me. His muscles stand out under his loose tunic. Surely, a good axe fighter.
With one leap, my opponent comes at me with his wooden spear. I jump to the side and aim at his shoulder. He pulls up his shield and swings my spear around with it. It almost slips from my hand, so I fasten my grip and duck. His thrust whizzes over my head into the void. From my crouched position, I ram the blunt end of my wooden spear onto his unprotected foot. He grunts. Before I can fully rise, he slams the shield across my back. I groan and have to brace myself on the ground with my weapon hand. In the background, I hear enthusiastic hooting and shouting. I throw myself forward and jostle his legs with my shield and shoulder. He flails his arms, stumbles backwards two steps and hits the ground. I stab him again, but he pulls up his legs, rolls to the side under the shield and is already back on his feet, his shield in front of him. Yet he has not quite regained his balance, and I kick against his shield and follow up with a thrust at his neck. He tries to dodge my spear and falls on his backside. A moment too long, his shield is on the ground, so I press the wooden stick down onto his chest. He throws up his hands and shouts something. Thibault’s voice rings out too, but I don’t dare turn around. My opponent smiles appreciatively, gestures for me to take the weapon away and stands up. He clamps his shield arm over the wooden spear and holds out his hand to me, accompanied by some unintelligible words. I frown at the others. Thibault grins with obvious satisfaction. The mouths of the four other pupils are open. Even the whisperers are speechless.
Walchelin nods at me. “Go ahead! Shake hands with him! This is Jehan, Thibault’s best squire. You have just proved that you know very well how to fight. No other squire beats Jehan.”
I look into Jehan’s eyes and hold out my hand to him. What would Father say if he could see me like this? I shake the enemy’s hand as if we were allies. I feel ashamed, but deep inside, pride fills my gut. Pride in my victory and its swiftness, which, judging by the faces of the youths, must have been daunting. But they are young. They still have a lot to learn before they earn the rank of knight in the king’s army. Getting the squires to respect me will not be difficult on this battleground. But what will their fathers say about me? Will it be enough for them if I excel in teaching their sons? Only yesterday, I was fighting them as an enemy, and today, barely a day later, I am supposed to look after their sons and live in the same manor house as them?
The wealhstod points to each of the other pupils. “These are Jeannot, the youngest of the group, Roul, Eudo and Eustace – all sons of French nobles from neighbouring manors who are here to become riddan or chevalers, as we call them.”
I look into their expressionless faces. I had suspected that they would not welcome me wholeheartedly, but they seem confused rather than annoyed by my presence and my task. Except perhaps, Roul.
The blonde’s sardonic grin has given way to an upturned chin and downturned corners of the mouth.
Sure, he would like to look down on me, but he is shorter than me and for that reason alone, has to look up to me.
The other two next to him are whispering once again. The last of the group, Jeannot, looks at me dreamily. I assume he hasn’t been with the weapons practice for long. He looks clumsy and thin. I doubt if you can even get a quick movement out of him. But perhaps he will surprise me with other skills.
The rest of the fighting lesson passes without incident. Everyone has to fight me once before Thibault continues with general exercises for the whole group. As I feared, Jeannot is slow, but he aims very accurately. Eudo and Eustace fight decently, but Eudo is too hasty and Eustace neglects the shield arm. Roul is a fanatical, unbridled fighter. He is constantly grunting or shouting. His movements are random and imprecise. He lashes out wildly and charges forward, hoping to catch his opponent off guard. In a battle, he would not survive long. If Thibault has so far not been able to steer him in the right direction, how can I?
When we take the practice weapons away together after the lesson, everyone except Jehan keeps a safe distance from me. He walks next to me and keeps glancing over. If we spoke each other’s language, he would surely exchange a few words with me. But he doesn’t speak English, and I don’t speak French, so I limit myself to smiling briefly at him, which he answers with a nod.
As I enter the armoury, Roul appears in the doorway. He hisses a few unintelligible words, jostles me on purpose and stomps off. Jehan and I exchange a glance. Jehan shakes his head and indicates for me to go inside. Eudo and Eustace give me a wide berth and push their way through the door. Jeannot talks to me in his language and looks at me with wide eyes. Jehan makes a remark, whereupon Jeannot exchanges a few puzzled sentences with him. Then he looks at me, points at himself and the door, and makes a bow, taking his leave. Jehan must have told him that I don’t speak their language. Not yet. But that will change soon if I work hard enough on it with Cenric.
* * *
It is dark in the great hall. Only a little light squeezes through the narrow openings under the roof, even though the days are getting longer now that spring is here. Outside, the birds are chirping. It must be just before sunrise. None of the other sleepers are stirring yet, but I am wide awake. Thoughts are circling in my head.
Those who were at Lady Edeva’s manor house when I brought my father here are not angry with me. They know my past and the reasons that have brought me back. To them, it is clear that I did not enter the service of the French oppressors of my own free will, but that it was under duress and threats – just as they had no choice when the manor house was taken over by Lord Geoffrey and his men. The French have led the English people to believe that our manor houses were rightfully handed over by the king and his tenants-in-chief to their vassals, but that is not what the English have seen and experienced. The people of Wilburgfos too have been prisoners of their own situation.
But those others, new to the manor house to replace the dead, and the people outside the manor, the peasants, the slaves, the women who come to the manor house with their services, tributes and goods, they see only the English stranger who is neither servant nor serf like them, but who sits at the same table as their masters, takes part in their conversations and ensures that the enemy offspring practise the wielding of weapons with which they continue to oppress Englaland. Their looks speak for themselves. They despise me, avoid me where they can, spit on me or insult me when I cross their path.
If it were God’s will that their wishes come true, he would have summoned me a long time ago. But He seems to have determined that I should not succumb to the revilement of my own people. I have survived two great battles and the fight for my home village against experienced warriors. Should I now fail because simple peasants hate me?
A sound makes me hark. A steady, muffled rustling in the rushes. Rats? The noise sounds too heavy for that. I sit up and try to make out something in the darkness. In the dim light of a candle, I glimpse several figures approaching.
“Who a—?”
Someone grabs me and stuffs a gag in my mouth. I try to scream and throw myself back and forth. A blow hits me in the face. I moan. The pain paralyses me for a moment. They drag me out of the great hall. I wriggle and grumble. A fist drives into my stomach. The gag almost suffocates me as I gasp for air. I retch and cough, which only takes my breath away more. They are pulling me somewhere, but I am too busy trying to shake off my drowsiness whilst not choking on the gag and somehow keeping up with my captors. After a while, the sandy ground beneath my helplessly stumbling feet becomes uneven and grassy. I blink and can only dimly make out bushes and trees appearing around me. My captors finally throw me to the ground. I groan. Before I can take the gag out of my mouth, they grab my arms, pull them onto my back and tie them together. With his foot, one of them turns me onto my side. I struggle to look up. In the weak light of the rising sun, the outlines of three men begin to show. My stomach is burning with pain. My nose is blocked. Something is oozing along my moustache.
The middle figure, holding the candle, speaks to me. In French. I try to place the accent, but it is only a whisper and difficult to tell who is talking to me. The large hoods hide their faces, especially as they are turned away from the emerging light. I regard the figures, looking for anything distinctive that might tell me who has abducted me. I recognise some of the words, but not enough to tell me why I am here, and with the gag in my mouth, I cannot ask – though I am not sure they would even understand me.
A kick in the stomach brings tears to my eyes. I writhe in pain. The gag clogs my throat and robs me of air. I desperately suck in air through my nostrils, making a whistling sound. The Frenchman laughs and keeps talking. I know his way of speaking. That sharp, cutting, hissing tone. I try to put a face to the voice, but in my head, there is only the tangled singsong of the many French voices at the manor house. Impossible to filter out a single voice. Everything sounds strange and threatening. My head is pounding.
One of the henchmen is working on my hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a long rope in his hand. They’re going to hang me. I close my eyes and pray to God to save me from such a miserable death. One last time, I hear the men talking, then they fall silent. Footsteps fade away.
The gag clogs my throat. I try to swallow, but I can’t. I choke. I clench my jaws angrily, as if that could force the gag out of my mouth. But it sticks like resin to a tree. What time might it be? I blink again. The sun must have risen by now, and it will be bright enough for the first servants at the manor house to begin their day. And still dark enough for the hunters of the woods, who hungrily roam the thicket in search of prey. A cold shiver runs through me. Lying alone in the forest at this time of day, without weapons and with my hands tied behind my back, is not something anyone in their right mind would do.
I struggle to my feet. My stomach and face hurt, but I eventually stand up. I stagger forward until I feel a tug on my hands. As I turn round, my gaze follows the rope stretching from my hands to one of the branches on the tree in front of me. They tied me up like an animal. Well, at least it’s better than dangling from a branch with my head in a noose, but I have to get away from here as quickly as possible. Where am I, anyway?
Between the trees, I recognise the outline of the manor. The rays of the rising sun show me the way there, but I can’t follow them. I tug at the rope, but it won’t tear or loosen. The branch is thicker than Ulfgar’s upper arm. Maybe it would break if I hung onto the rope, but my hands are tied so tightly together that I will never get them in front of my body. I’m more likely to dislocate both shoulders than have the branch give way under my weight. If only I had a knife! Why did I take off my belt with the scramasax last night before going to sleep?
I look at the knot of the rope then feverishly search the ground around me. Only grass, herbs, moss and a few early blossoms as far as I can see. I stumble around the tree, hoping to find something somewhere. The rope winds up so far that I am barely three feet from the tree trunk. Nothing. I groan with disappointment and exhaustion as I walk back in the other direction to unwind the rope. Will the three come back? Tonight, so the cowards can continue to hide their faces in the darkness? If I get hold of one of them during the day, then… But I have to get out of here first. There must be something I can use to cut this wretched rope. Anything. A sharp stone, animal bones, maybe the sharp edge of a tree stump. Anything.
Under one of the bushes, I spy something grey – a stone! Not very sharp, but maybe it will do. I rush forward, but about two steps before I reach it, the rope tightens and pulls my hands up. I keep moving slowly as my arms go up and my shoulders press forward. One more step. I lean against the rope, stretching my foot out as far as I can. An ell from the stone, my toes tap into emptiness. I twist and turn, trying to close the gap between me and the stone in every possible position. My shoulders grind softly, my forehead is drenched in sweat, I pull hard through my nose to fill my lungs. The gag makes breathing a torture. Another hand span, a finger length. There! My toe touches the stone. Groaning, I stretch a little more, trying to ignore the pain in my shoulders. Slowly, I place my toe on the stone and try to pull it towards me. I slip off. The stone rocks back to its original position. I try again and again. I lift the stone a little, but just as I am about to tip it towards me, I lose my balance. With a loud crack in my left shoulder, I crash to the ground, closing my eyes just in time before my face lands in a pile of acorn caps.
Shaking my head, I struggle to my feet one more time. A stick. I need a long stick. Once more, I walk around the tree. With the twigs of the small bushes near me, the most I can do is knock away a pebble. My gaze switches between the rope, the stone and the surroundings of the tree. With a loud grunt, I kick the trunk with all my might. Once, twice. I gasp, turn my back to the trunk and slide down it. The gnarled bark scrapes along my back. The bark! I jump up, pull the rope tight and rub it in quick movements over a particularly hard part of the bark. It will take a while, but it might work. I rub and rub, but all I achieve is a few mossy greenish patches on the rope. Not the slightest tear in the fibres. I tug the rope back and forth faster and faster. Nothing. It just won’t break.
Screaming, I rub the rope over the gag in my mouth as if I could bite through it. The rope holds, and there is nothing I can do about it. I lean against the tree and sink down, exhausted and sobbing.
In my dreams, I see Godgifu before me. She waves at me, calls my name, runs towards me with her arms outstretched. I hold my arms out towards her and embrace her. But I feel only the warmth of my own body and the beating of my own heart. My arms hold the air in front of my chest, not the tender, soft body of my sweet young wife who had to die because of me. Godgifu’s image fades until she disappears completely in the mist that spreads over the ground she had just walked across. Slowly, the mist lifts, but there is nothing to see except trees and bushes. I hear birds chirping softly. They greet the morning sun, whose rays fall here and there through the dense canopy of treetops.
In the distance, a few branches rustle and crack.
I startle, look around and listen. I hear faint footsteps. Someone is approaching. Or something. I’m shaking. It’s either several or something big and strong. I circle the tree and try to locate the sounds. In my mind, I go through all the animals in the forest whose size would match the sound of the footsteps.
Maybe it’s not an animal at all. Maybe it’s people approaching, robbers perhaps. But what would they take from me? I have nothing of value to them. A hunter possibly? He could cut me loose. Or it could be the Frenchmen from this morning – if they dare do it, now that it’s light and I could recognise their faces. But what danger is there for them? I don’t even know if I’ll ever get out of this alive. And even if I did, who would believe me at the manor house? One Englishman against three Frenchmen. I wonder if the weapons practice has begun yet. What will Thibault think of me if I do not show up? Will he send for me? Has anyone even noticed that I was not in the great hall this morning? Does anyone care? Would they come looking for me? Why go to so much trouble for an Englishman? There are enough of them, after all.
The steps get louder. They seem to be aimed in one direction, unlike those of a wild animal wandering between trees and bushes in search of food.
Maybe they are looking for me. Or they know exactly where I am because they tied me up there themselves this morning.
I clench my hands into fists and watch the direction from which whatever it may be is moving towards me. Someone shouts. I listen up. My three tormentors would hardly roam the woods roaring. I stand in front of the tree and listen.
Someone is calling my name!
As loud as I can with the gag in my mouth, I call back. It is more a muffled hum than a shout, but it’s the best I can do. Now, I hear the voice clearly. An English voice. I scream at the top of my lungs.
What if they don’t hear me? If they walk past me? I start to sweat. This must not happen.
I scream until my dry throat burns painfully.
Suddenly, there is a loud crack to the side. A French warrior is coming towards me. He shouts something, approaches and draws his sword. I stare at the blade and back away.
He will kill me. I shake my head. No. No. No!
He is only twenty paces away, talking to me. He knows my name.
I press myself against the tree, although I know it is useless. He will thrust the sword into the trunk and skewer me like a fish for roasting. I feel sick. My legs give way. I slide down the trunk. Someone catches me before I fall. I blink and look into the Frenchman's face. Has he already put the sword through my belly? I feel a dull pain there, but that’s all. Maybe I’m dying right now. Or am I already dead?
“Oswulf! Praise the Lord that we have found you!”
I struggle to lift my head. Two faces appear behind the Frenchman. He leans me against the tree and pulls out my gag. My jaws clench. My chewing muscles ache. I shift my numbed lower jaw sideways.
Someone pushes me forward and grabs the rope around my hands. A cut. The shackles loosen. I breathe a sigh of relief, move my arms stiffly forward and rub my sore wrists. “Thank you,” I croak, look up and see my saviour. Cenhelm.
He puts the knife back on his belt and hands me a water pouch. “Who did this, Oswulf?”
The cool water runs down my parched throat like a downpour on a dry riverbed. Only after several large gulps do I put it down. “Three men snatched me from the great hall before dawn and brought me here.”
“Did you know them?”
“They were wearing hooded cloaks. It was still dark.”
“So you don’t know who did it?”
“One of them spoke French.”
Cenhelm exchanges a glance with his two companions.
The man next to me helps me up. My whole upper body hurts, but I try to stand as straight as possible and keep my posture.
“Come,” says Cenhelm. “We will take you back. Hild will tend to your wounds.”
I rub my moustache. A few reddish-brown crumbs fall onto my hand. “How did you know I didn’t just flee? I could have run away after all.”
Cenhelm tilts his head. “Without your weapon belt, most of your clothing and on foot? It seems to me they did more harm to you than what I can see on the outside. Anyway, the master of arms insisted on it.”
“Thibault?”
Cenhelm nods. “The fact that you did not arrive on time at the battleground seemed to worry him. He immediately sent two men to me so that we could go in search of you.”
“How did you know I was here?”
Cenhelm taps his nose. “Old Cenhelm is a pretty good tracker, Oswulf. So far, no animal I’ve tracked has escaped me.”
I frown and look at him. “Will they do it again, Cenhelm?”
He presses his lips together.
“No one at the manor house will do anything about it, will they?”
A thick lump forms in my throat, as if I have a gag in my mouth again.
“You should be prepared for anything. Whoever assaults a man in the dark, beats him up in the woods and leaves him to the wolves is capable of anything. Even of doing it again. Be on your guard, Oswulf!”
No one pays attention to us as we walk through the village towards the manor. The people have seen injured men all too often in recent years. They have stopped taking notice of it.
At the manor, Cenhelm sends our French companions to Thibault and Hild to let them know that we have returned. Then he beckons me to the herb hut where Hild once saved my father from certain death.
How strange it will be to be in the room that Father, Ulfgar and I left so full of hope, believing that the English would win over the French. Back then…
“Go on!” Cenhelm pushes me through the door.
The pots and pans still adorn the shelves of the small room. In front of me are the bed where my father fought for his life and the stool where Lady Edeva kept vigil. Weighed down by my memories, I enter slowly.
Cenhelm points to the bed. “Sit down there!”
Obediently I follow his command and lower myself onto the wide wooden frame.
“Hild will be with you in a moment,” Cenhelm says and opens the door. “I’ll get you some food and a cup of ale. You need it.”
He closes the door.
Silence surrounds me. I look at my wrists. Deep rope burns run across the scraped skin. They’ll pay for this, those niþingas. But how do I find out who the three were who dragged me into the woods? I close my eyes and try to remember our arrival in the woods, to hear once more the voice of the man I assume to be the leader. Most French, and many English too, were not pleased when I came here, but is this a reason to kill me? I laugh briefly. What are you thinking, Oswulf? People have been killed for lesser reasons. Because their rulers wanted it that way. Because they were unlucky enough to be at the bottom of the wheel of fortune.
I shake my head and have to smile at my own stupidity. A soft creaking noise makes me jump up. The door opens and in comes… I blink several times, but what I see is not a delusion of my mind. In the doorway, there is not the delicate and small figure of Hild the healer, but a much larger outline. My visitor turns around and speaks to someone. Two curious faces appear in the doorway, but quickly disappear again to talk excitedly in French outside. My visitor nods and closes the door. I am alone again.
How does Roul know I’m here? Does he have anything to do with all this? Did the leader send him here to see how I was doing? What condition I am in? Who told them that I survived? They must have either watched us arrive at the manor or heard from Cenhelm’s companions that the troublesome Englishman was found alive in the woods. They will probably think of a better hiding place for me next time so that even Cenhelm won’t be able to track me down.
Wondering about who would have reason enough to get rid of me, I come up with quite a number of nameless Frenchmen who are hostile to me. But why should they go to the trouble of snatching me away from the manor at night, instead of just killing me right here? Lord Geoffrey runs this manor house with all the severity for which the French are notorious. One dead Englishman more or less would hardly cause an outcry, let alone a retaliation.
Who would cry out for retribution anyway if something happened to me? My father is dead, and whoever was not killed with him in Ledlinghe now lives in another French manor house far away from here. Should my younger siblings perhaps demand justice for me? If they ever find out that something has happened to their brother.
The door creaks again, and once more, there are three visitors, but this time, they enter to take a closer look at me. Hild the healer, still as delicate and fragile as she was almost four years ago, draws in an audible breath when she sees me.
“Dryhten min! If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were involved in a melee.” She pulls the stool up to the bed and sits down. “Let me see.”
Behind her, Thibault and Frederic the seneschal enter the small hut. Thibault looks at me anxiously. Frederic frowns. In a soft voice and looking at me, he speaks to Thibault. He too seems surprised at my condition. Meanwhile, Hild examines my nose as well as the wounds on my face, hands and the rest of my body.
Thibault and Frederic seem to have seen enough. They disappear through the door. Outside, I hear another voice speaking in French. After a few scraps of words, the door opens and Walchelin comes in. When he sees me, he raises an eyebrow. “Sire Geoffrey was not pleased that you did not turn up for your weapons lesson.”
“Surely you don’t expect me to beg his forgiveness.”
“Where have you been?”
“Did Cenhelm not tell you?”
“I asked you, Oswulf, not Cenhelm.”
I growl. Always ready to command, those Frenchmen. “Three men dragged me away early in the morning, beat me up and tied me to a tree.”
“Did you recognise them?”
“No. It was too dark. But one of them, probably their leader, spoke French.”
“Do you know why they did that?”
“No.”
“You’ve only been here a little over a month, Oswulf. Sire Geoffrey is not known for his generosity. He offers you his hospitality because his master of arms asked him to. He expects you to fulfil your part of the bargain, too. You must prove that there is a good reason why you, of all people, teach the squires how to fight. Not showing up for the weapons practice without excuse is something Sire Geoffrey will not tolerate in the long run.”
I jump up. “It wasn’t my decision to get tied up in the woods!”
“Sit down and hold still!” Hild pushes me back onto the bed. She picks up the cloth she had started to put around my wrist and continues her work.
“Do you have any idea who it may have been?”
“Dryhten min, why are you asking me all this? Even if I recognised the men or knew why they did it, what difference would it make? Do you want to put them on trial for snatching an Englishman from a manor house? What’s all this for, Walchelin? You act as if I am the most important man on the manor, the one whose health and wholeness lies at everyone’s heart and who must be guarded and protected like a relic. This is ridiculous. To you, I am just a servant, one of many whose loss is easy to bear and for whom you can quickly find a replacement. Leave me in peace. I’ll be on time for the next weapons practice. And if not, do not send out people to search for me again. Thibault will be fine without me, just as he was a month ago.”
I hang my head. First, they despise me and suddenly, everyone is concerned about my welfare.
After a long silence, Walchelin clears his throat. “You disappoint me, Oswulf. I had expected more sense of honour from the son of a ðegn.”
I stare at the floor so as not to have to look into Walchelin’s face. The door creaks softly and closes. Walchelin is gone.
“The master of arms and the wealhstod are well disposed towards you, Oswulf,” Hild murmurs as she gathers her remedies. “You should be kinder to them.”
“I know.” I shake my head in disbelief. Why couldn’t I keep my big mouth shut? “They dragged me away like cattle for slaughter and tied me up. It’s so… so shameful.”
“There were three of them, Oswulf. You were alone and unarmed. Do not forget this!”
I look Hild in the eye. Ledlinghe is burning. My wife is dead. My parents, my sisters too. They have captured my siblings and me and distributed us to their manors as servants. “No, I do not forget. Nothing the French did to me I will ever forget.”
“Don’t do anything you will regret later, Oswulf. You got off lightly. Next time, it might be different.” The herb woman puts her hand on my arm and leans towards me. “Use the trust of the two Frenchmen. Lord Geoffrey respects them greatly. It would be foolish of you to jeopardise their protection for the sake of a rash revenge. Be careful, Oswulf, and act wisely!”
“I will, Hild.”
She empties the bowl outside and places it back on one of the shelves. I look at the poultice around my wrists, feel over my face. The wounds burn, but it’s nothing I can’t bear. In a few days, only the uneasy feeling in my stomach will remind me of the wounds.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done, Hild.”
“I’m glad nothing worse has happened to you.” And yet, she frowns.
I want to leave, but something is holding me back. Hild bites her lower lip as if she wants to say something but doesn’t dare. My heart is pounding. I awkwardly wipe my hands on my tunic.
“Your father…” Hild begins.
No need to finish the sentence. Our faces speak volumes.
“Ulfgar?” Her question is just a breath of wind.
A word from the leader. A thrust with the spear. A gurgling sound. Ulfgar’s heavy body collapses.
I shake my head. Hild nods silently. She must have expected the answer.
The door opens. Cenhelm appears with a cup of ale and a piece of bread in his hand. “Forgive me for coming only now. One of our messengers has arrived. I had to take care of him first as he brings important tidings for Lord Geoffrey. Here, drink!” He holds out the cup to me. “I see Hild has already finished her work. Perhaps you should come with me to the great hall then. There is much to discuss.”
I hastily drink a few sips, bite into the piece of coarse bread and shuffle after Cenhelm. Why should I attend a gathering of the barons when I can hardly understand a word of it anyway. Or is it about this morning’s incident? Why do they make such a fuss about it? Why do they want to know everything in detail?
Although there is no fire burning in the great hall, it feels comfortably warm against the fresh wind outside, which ruffles the young spring green of the trees and bushes. The dark wooden beams all but swallow the faint light that falls through the narrow openings under the roof. In the dim hall, tables and benches have been prepared, as if waiting to be set for the next meal. Two candles burn on the table around which Lord Geoffrey and his vassals sit. Some turn their heads towards us as we approach.
I hastily swallow the last piece of bread and empty the cup. Cenhelm directs me to a bench on the side. While the Frenchmen watch with suspicious glances, I sit down, put the cup on the table and turn to them in silence. I don’t want them to think that I’m afraid of them and can’t withstand their gaze.
Some of them have their backs turned to me, and others are hidden behind those in the front, so I cannot see all of their faces. Instead, I look at their hair as if I were determining trees by their shape and their leaves. The liege lord, Lord Geoffrey, sits at the head of the table to keep an eye on all the men. With his fair reddish-blonde hair, he shines like a torch in the night, even in this semi-darkness. To his right, at the very head of the long side of the table, blazes the wild hair of Hugues de Borre, his most trusted vassal, as Walchelin explained to me. Opposite Hugues, to the left of Lord Geoffrey, I recognise, even without looking at the hair, the slender figure of the seneschal, Frederic de Lisieues. On the other side of the table, the dark brown curls of the master of arms, Thibault, and the dark blonde hair of the wealhstod almost disappear in the faint light. The other men also seem familiar, albeit I don’t deal with them on a daily basis. All of their singsong still sounds the same to me, yet I know that one of them has a lisp, another one a limp and a third has numerous scars on his face. So I may not immediately remember their names, but I know who I am dealing with.
What they say, however, remains a mystery to me. Their language makes my hair stand on end, but sooner or later I will have to learn it.
Poor Cenric. It is difficult for me to keep a straight face when he says sentences in French. How powerful and masculine English sounds compared to the unbearable twang and puckered-up sounds of that foreign language!
I listen to this very singsong at the table nearby, where lips are eagerly pursed and the already wild hair is tousled. To my surprise, I actually pick up some words from the conversation. The men look tense, even worried. Admittedly, that is often the case with the French. Except, perhaps, for the seneschal, the only one who occasionally puts on a friendly face. Hugues de Borre always looks like a dog whose bone has been taken away. He watches everything and everyone with his mean little eyes as if he suspects a danger to himself and the French rule everywhere. Surely, he makes no exception with me.
It becomes quiet in the hall. Walchelin stands up and beckons to me. “Come here, Oswulf. I have something to tell you.”
Apprehensively, I rise and walk over to him. All eyes follow me as if to make sure that I’m not hiding a knife somewhere with which I will spring on them as soon as I am close enough. Walchelin tells me to stand at the end of the table, exactly opposite Lord Geoffrey, who is eyeing me warily with folded hands and a piercing gaze.
“One of our messengers returned today,” says Walchelin. “He reports disturbing events in the southeast of the country. There are rumours of a possible Norse invasion. A growing number of Danish warriors and traders have been observed in the ports.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“In light of these tidings, your disappearance this morning seems suspicious to some members of the manor house.”
“What am I suspected of?”
“You wanted to ambush the messenger and prevent him from reaching the manor house.”
“Me? How was I to know that a messenger was on his way? You also seem to forget that three men dragged me out of the great hall this morning.”
“Everyone knew that we were waiting for a messenger to return.”
“Perhaps you French did. I, for one, knew nothing about it!”
“Some of us beg to differ. They think that even the English at the manor house were aware that the messenger would return at some point. After all, he had been away for several weeks.”
“Oh, and I probably realised from the flight of the birds that today would be the day the messenger reached the manor. Is that what you want to say?”
Walchelin raises his hands apologetically. “I am only passing on what I have been instructed to pass on to you.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say they’re all drunk and don’t know what they’re talking about. They’re actually accusing me of working against them and trying to kill the messenger so they wouldn’t get the news? “Why would I do that?”
“Because you think you might benefit from it.”
“You cannot be serious.” I look at Lord Geoffrey. “Three of your men drag me from my sleeping place at night, punch me in the face and belly and tie me to a tree in the woods. If Cenhelm hadn’t found me, I’d still be lying there, if the wolves hadn’t devoured me by now.”
Walchelin translates my words to Lord Geoffrey. The liege lord does not take his eyes off me. His advisors look alternately at the wealhstod, Lord Geoffrey and me. They exchange a few words before Walchelin takes a deep breath and turns to me again. “Can you prove it?”
“Can I prove what?”
“That you were taken away against your will.”
“Why don’t you ask Cenhelm? The tracks make it quite obvious that I didn’t go into the woods by myself.”
“The tracks only tell us that you were not alone. How do we know you were led away by force? Maybe you and your companions just wanted to set some traps. Or to ambush the messenger.”
I’m beginning to sweat, feeling like a defendant before judge and jury, proven guilty for something he didn’t do and for which he will hang. “Just look at me! They beat me. Ask the others who were also sleeping in the great hall when the three men came for me. There must be someone who noticed. And tell me, Walchelin, would you go into the woods without your weapon belt? I don’t think so, but I wasn’t wearing mine when Cenhelm found me. It was still lying in the great hall.”
Walchelin strokes his chin. Hugues de Borre presses him with words. He is probably dying to know how the fish in the net is still trying to jump back into the water. After a short exchange of words, the wealhstod looks at me almost pityingly. “Perhaps your companions didn’t at first know what you were up to. When you told them you were going to intercept the messenger, they didn’t agree. You threatened them. A fight broke out. The other three shackled you, took off your weapon belt and tied you to the tree because they were afraid of being seen with you when they returned to the manor.”
“This is simply not true! You want to accuse me of a deed I did not commit. Because you are afraid that there is a traitor amongst you. One of the men who kidnapped me spoke French. It was one of you. Perhaps he got rid of me because he wanted to ambush the messenger and have the suspicion fall on me. He didn’t catch the messenger, but the rest worked out well for him. You suspect me because I’m English. Who would I go into the woods with? I’ve only been at the manor house for a month. The French avoid me because I am English, and many Englishmen avoid me because I teach your sons to wield weapons. Who would willingly go into the woods with me before sunrise? Have you also considered why we would need four men to intercept one single messenger? Perhaps you Frenchmen need a whole army for that. We Englishmen need only one man who knows how to use a bow. One well-aimed shot and the messenger will never reach his destination alive. Your messenger, however, has reached the manor house unharmed and brought you the news you have so eagerly awaited. How would I benefit from killing him? I did not sell myself to you to save my life and that of my siblings just to risk it recklessly a month later. I would rather have died with honour in Ledlinghe.” Exhausted and despairing, I hang my head with a sigh. “But what do you know about honour?”
It is quiet for a while. What are they going to do to me now? Can they execute me just like that? Without a trial? Who would want to defend me? I have no one here to stand by my side. No father to protect me. No Ulfgar to fight with me against the enemy.
The memories hurt. I clench my teeth and close my eyes. A brief murmur then someone puts a warm hand on my shoulder. Thibault.
The others fall silent as he begins to speak. They eye me with disdain, but at least Thibault’s words stop them from cutting my throat here and now. Even Lord Geoffrey nods in agreement before rising and leaving the room with his advisors.
Walchelin lingers on, taking a breath. “You’ve done well, Oswulf.”
“What do you mean? What will happen to me now?”
“Don’t worry, Oswulf,” says the wealhstod. “Our master of arms is not so quick to surrender his – pardon my expression! – booty. But if you continue to make such speeches, you will not remain his helper for long.”
A tremor goes through my body. Of course. I was too bold. How often did father stop me when my tongue got the better of me! “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to—”
“We have nothing to forgive, Oswulf. Your English tongue is almost as sharp as the blade of your scramasax. If you learn to wield it like this in our language, fortune may favour you for a long time to come.”
* * *
Cenhelm and Thibault have assured me that they will keep an eye on me, but the previous day has left its shadow on my soul. What a night! It will be a while before I can sleep peacefully again. I sit up and rub my face. Wa la wa! My nose still hurts from the blow.
With the scramasax, I cut through the dried poultices that Hild tied around my wrists yesterday and peel them off. I put the short sword back in the weapon belt – which I had left on overnight as a precaution – and leave the great hall.
In the yard outside the manor house, a servant harnesses an ox to a small cart, which two women load with buckets. They are about to set off for the river to fetch water for cooking and for the animals. Luckily enough, the Fors Bekkr meanders not far from the palisade fence along the north and west sides of the manor house. Cenhelm said the current is not too strong at this time of year unless there has been a lot of rain or a late thaw. In the winter, the river can be treacherous, and sometimes in the summer, only a small trickle remains. Then they have to fetch the water from further away. Either northeast, at the edge of the woods, where the river flows a little more quietly, or further downstream in the village, south of the Benedictine monastery, where they use ropes to lower the buckets from the big bridge and scoop water.
A bunch of children comes towards me. They carry baskets filled with eggs and cluck at least as excitedly as the chickens from whose nests they have taken them.
Muttering indignantly, someone is cleaning his shoes near the stables. As I approach, that someone straightens up, his lower jaw grimly thrust forward so that his teeth protrude.
Stígandr. My heart beats faster, as I speed up without thinking about it. How I would love to ram my scramasax into his belly right now! Will he forever haunt me wherever I go?
The oxcart pulls away, accompanied by a Norse curse. As Stígandr looks up, his angry face changes to the goat grin that makes my blood boil.
I hesitate, speechless, even stunned. Only with difficulty do I resist the temptation to touch him to see if he is actually made of flesh and not just a figment of my tired and frightened mind. “You!”
The goat grin is as if frozen. “Well, look at that! Young Osfriðson! We haven’t seen each other for a long time.”
“I wish it had stayed that way.”
“Now, now, is that how you greet an old friend?”
“You’re not a friend anymore. You were once, before you started betraying me and everyone else. You’re a rascal and a traitor! You knew the French were on their way to Ledlinghe. You knew it all along.”
“I know a lot of things you don’t know. You learn a lot when you travel.”
“All these years, you have worked as a spy for our foe. Before the battle at Fuleforde, at Stanfordbrycge and then Ledlinghe. You spied on my father and his men and reported all to our enemies. Because of you, many good men had to die. And their families with them.”
“Not everyone wants to live on the dark side of life just because they were not born, like you, into a rich, noble family. There are people who are happy to use my services and pay well for them.”
“You’re a traitor. You have betrayed the English in whose land you live. You have delivered my people to the axes of the Norþmenn and the spears of the French.”
“That’s life. Some win, some lose. Some are up, some are down. As the son of a nobleman, you ought to know that. After all, enough underlings and slaves worked for you while you collected taxes or administered justice for the king at your manor house. Tell me honestly, where would you rather be, at the top or the bottom?”
He looks around casually. “By the way, I hear you’re working for the French now, too. How does it feel for an Englishman to join the enemy ranks? The very men who killed your family and friends? What would your father say if he saw you teaching the sons of his enemies how an Englishman fights? What do you think?”
“I am not a traitor. I did not sell my country to the enemy for money, as you did. I saved the lives of my brothers and sister by putting mine into the hands of the French. It was out of desperation and compassion, not greed, which is what made and still makes you do it.”
“I commend you for your high principles, Osfriðson, and surely, you reproach yourself for having decided to join the French. Your English pride groans and moans like a wounded animal lying on the ground, writhing in agony. Your honour lies battered beside it.” He grabs my shoulder and leans towards me. “But look at you! You’re still alive. Well, you may have a few scratches right now, but you’re alive! You’ve made it! You have defeated the enemy. You are here at this manor house, amidst all these Frenchmen, and you can go on fighting so that your father and your people will look upon you with pride. You can uphold the honour of the ðegnes, the huscarles, by becoming one yourself. You may not be called a huscarl, but you will show the French how an Englishman deals with defeat, he gets back up, holds his head high and fights on. That’s how we must do it, Oswulf! So that Englaland’s honour and glory may live on.”
Stígandr stands in front of me with his eyes wide open, his lower jaw thrust forward and his fist clenched.
He has clearly gone insane. He is completely mad. First, he accuses me of stabbing my people in the back, and then he wants me to go on fighting to become a huscarl under the French? I knock his hand off my shoulder. “Don’t touch me, you two-faced Loki! Just because you do business with the enemy and let them pay you doesn’t mean others want to do the same. I am still alive because I wanted to save my siblings. I am here for an honourable reason, unlike you. After your uncle’s betrayal, my father always said, ‘Never trust a Viking!’ When I finally realised, in Richale, what you had been up to since Fuleforde, I knew why he kept repeating those words. So, I will keep an eye on you until I know what you’re plotting. And then I will not spare you, Stígandr. You will finally pay for all you have done to me and the English.”
Stígandr gives a brief laugh. “Do you still believe that with your stubborn behaviour, King Harold will rise from the dead to save your glorious Englaland? Your king is dead, as are most of your countrymen who thought they could stand in the way of Englaland’s future. Your new ruler is French, and you will have to bow to him whether you like it or not. The sooner you realise that, the better for you. Otherwise, you’ll be wishing that the French had burnt you and the remnants of Ledlinghe to the ground like the rest of your wretched homeland.”
The death scream of my beloved wife echoes in my ears as the Frenchman rams his sword into her belly. Images of the twisted, mutilated bodies of my parents and sisters, stained all over with blood, whirl before my eyes. A shiver freezes my skin.
“You’d better get on their good side. It may be your last chance to escape your fate.” In a futile attempt to adjust his tunic and assume a dignified posture, Stígandr shakes his hunched shoulders as his gaze wanders off. “Now if you will excuse me. My services are needed elsewhere.” He turns and leaves.
“Hi sculon gan libbende on helle!” I call after him half-heartedly. “They are cruel and bloodthirsty beasts,” I say more to myself as I try to suppress the last memories.
“Ne ealle,” a quiet voice says behind me.
I laugh briefly. “Ic ne cnawe—” The sentence gets stuck in my throat. Turning round, I look into Thibault’s light brown eyes. “Ana hwa…?” I breathe and stare at him. “You speak English?”
The master of arms innocently raises his shoulders and eyebrows. “It never hurts to learn the language of the people you deal with every day.”
Thibault understands my language. All the weeks I’ve been at the manor in Wilburgfos, he has understood every word I’ve let out in my mother tongue within earshot. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. The ground under my feet seems to be shaking, but I am still standing. Surely, he would have told his liege lord long ago if my words had given him cause for concern. Or has he perhaps already done so? Does my life more than ever hang by a thread that Thibault can cut at any moment with a single word? Would he do so? He, of all people, who wanted Lord Geoffrey’s men to spare me so that I would work for him? Would he use his power over me and my life to his advantage?
The master of arms grins mischievously. “Have you lost your tongue, Oswulf? Or did you really think that all people outside Englaland are ignorant fools?”
Yes, I probably thought that. And the way the French behaved in Englaland, I certainly had a reason for it. “Why have you never spoken English to me, if you know the language?”
“As you can imagine, Sire Geoffrey is reluctant to have his men speak English unless it is to give short orders to the English servants. Many French do not speak your language anyway, not even a few words, and they do not want to learn the language. So, if I spoke English, no one would understand me except you and your countrymen. That would be highly suspicious, of course, so I have Walchelin translate if any Frenchmen are listening.”
“You understood everything I’ve ever said.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Does Sire Geoffrey know about this?”
“You mean did I tell him what you said?”
“Have you?”
“What do you think?”
“You’re not answering my question. It’s not about what I think, it’s whether you did it.”
“Would I have had reason to?”
“So, you didn’t understand everything after all?”
He’s playing with me. Like a cat with a mouse. He knows he has me in his grip and is having a little fun with me.
“Do you think Sire Geoffrey must know everything you say?”
So he did understand everything! Wa me! If only I’d been more careful with what I’ve said! At this manor house, there are not only English ears to beware of but also French ears listening to my conversations.
“Do you believe that, Oswulf?”
I shrug my shoulders.
Thibault laughs. “You overestimate his curiosity about what his servants say about him. Unless you insult the king or conspire against him, he does not care, as long as you do what you are here for. Also, remember that I am responsible for you. Everything you say reflects on me. If you cause trouble, I will be the first whom Sire Geoffrey will hold to account. I insisted on bringing you here. We are in the same boat, so to speak, so be careful what you say, for a boat that capsizes is hard to keep afloat. And we both don’t want to drown, do we?”
We’re in the same boat. A Frenchman and me. As if it were the most normal thing in the world for us to work together, after all that we have both been through. I nod. “I will choose my words carefully, Thibault. I am already in your debt several times over. I will not disappoint you.”
“I am sure of it, Oswulf. Otherwise, you would not have left Ledlinghe alive.”
Not left alive? So he could have killed me then and chose not to? I feel sick.
Thibault waves me towards the armoury. “Come and tell me more about what happened yesterday.”