It had been a bad day for Coenred. He had first woken to find that he had overslept and missed the Vigils. Abbot Fearghas had made him scrub the chapel floor before Matins as a punishment. After that, the day just seemed to get worse.
At Matins he had forgotten a prayer and Abbot Fearghas had given him one of his looks. Since being orphaned two years before, Coenred had been at the monastery of Engelmynster. He tried hard to learn, but he was not the best of students. He received rather more of Abbot Fearghas’ looks than he would have liked. And the looks were usually followed by strict punishments. This time was no exception, and after Matins Fearghas tottered up to him.
“You will think about the prayer you have forgotten whilst you are fetching firewood. You may return to break your fast when you have forty faggots of a good size.”
Coenred bit back the answer that he wanted to blurt out. He had learnt that his quick retorts to Abbot Fearghas’ reprimands were not welcomed, and only made the penance more severe.
“Yes, Father”, he said meekly, but as he turned away, he could feel the tears threatening to roll down his cheeks. It would take him ages to collect that much wood and he was ravenous.
When he left to head for the forest, his spirits sank even further. It was raining heavily and the ground was a quagmire. Soon, both Coenred and the donkey pulling the small cart were plastered with mud and panting at the climb up into the forest that overshadowed Engelmynster.
By the time they reached the edge of the wood the sky in the east was turning a watery grey. The rain had stopped, but heavy clouds filled the sky. It looked like it would rain again before he was finished cutting the firewood. He was glad that dawn had arrived though. He was loth to enter the dark forest during the night. Even now, very little light filtered through the rain-laden clouds, and still less penetrated the gloomy interior of the wood.
Coenred hesitated. People told tales of goblins and elves being seen in the woods. Abbot Fearghas had told him not to fear evil spirits, as God would watch over him and protect him. That was easy for Abbot Fearghas to say – he never ventured into the forest alone in the rain to cut firewood.
Coenred tried not to be frightened. But he could not stop imagining malicious creatures of the forest lurking just out of sight. The boles of the trees were grey in the dim light, the colour of dead flesh. Rainwater dripped from the limbs, echoing eerily. He began to recite the Pater Noster in a hushed whisper. He couldn’t go back empty-handed just because he was scared. He would be beaten, not only for not bringing back the wood, but also for lack of faith.
He began to move slowly into the gloom, towards the small glade where the monks cut their firewood. After he had walked a short distance the donkey pulled up to a halt. He tugged the harness but the animal refused to move. Its ears were flat against its head, its nostrils flared. Coenred gently patted the donkey’s neck, trying to soothe it. The animal’s obvious fear did nothing to reassure Coenred and he looked around nervously, trying to spot what had frightened the beast. He thought he caught a glimpse of something shining through the trees. He moved closer, not breathing. The donkey stood where he left it, quivering silently.
As Coenred edged a little closer to whatever he had seen through the trees, he became aware of a sound. He stopped moving and listened. He could barely make out a low moaning. It was possible that words were being spoken in a hushed voice, but Coenred could not be sure. He realised he was shaking uncontrollably. Surely this was the sound of an elf placing a curse on him or some evil spirit chanting to the elder gods of the forest. He was on the verge of turning to flee when the part of him that led him to imagine phantoms and elves in every shadow lost the battle with the part that couldn’t bear the thought of not knowing what was lying just out of sight. His vivid imagination lost to his insatiable curiosity.
Still trembling, ready to run if his worst fears proved correct, Coenred looked out from behind the tree that was shielding him from whatever was moaning in the darkness.
At first he wasn’t sure what it was that was making the sound. In the poor light he could only see a dark lump at the bottom of a tree. As he peered at it, he became aware of details. The glimmer he had seen was the leaf-shaped point of a war spear, propped against the tree trunk. The lump was the huddled form of a man, partially covered by a round shield, the boss of which was dull in the darkness. He began to make out words now in the sounds that the man was making. He didn’t seem to be making any sense and Coenred thought that he must be talking in his sleep. Suddenly, the warrior screamed out, slumped to one side and lay still.
Coenred spat involuntarily in an effort to ward off evil spirits and then quickly crossed himself. He found it hard to abandon the old traditions, despite the number of times Abbot Fearghas had punished him for his pagan ways.
He waited. The man was silent, so he decided to move closer to the prostrate form. He took a few steps, half expecting the stranger to suddenly leap up and confront him. The closer he got, the less likely that appeared. The man seemed unconscious, not asleep. A few steps more convinced him that the warrior was not going to cause him harm. His breathing was shallow and feverish, his face a mess of caked dried blood and mud. His left eye was so horribly swollen that it looked as though a plover had laid an egg in his eye socket, and there was a deep gash on his temple. The shield boss, which had at first appeared rusty and tarnished, was in fact smeared with dark liquid, now dry and crusted. Whether the warrior’s blood or his foe’s Coenred wasn’t sure.
Apart from the shield and the spear, there was little to indicate that the man was a warrior, except perhaps for his size. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but his clothes – a simple kirtle and trousers – were those of a ceorl, a commoner, not a thegn.
The donkey moved restlessly behind Coenred, startling him. He would have to make a decision about what to do. He could run back to the monastery and tell Abbot Fearghas what he had found. That would be the easiest option and he’d get away from danger quickly. But the stranger was obviously very sick. If he went back now, leaving the man in the chill damp morning, he was bound to get worse. He might well die. Brother Sebbi had been struck dead by a fever only last month and he hadn’t looked half as ill. But what would happen if the man got well and then caused them harm? Coenred fretted. The stranger was a man of war and he looked strong enough to do considerable damage if he were fit.
Then Coenred recalled the tale Jesu had told of the Samaritan who had helped his enemy. It didn’t matter who this man was – he was in need of help and God had seen fit to place Coenred in a position to aid him. He may have overslept and forgotten his prayers, but this was a trial he would not fail.
With new resolve, Coenred went to the fallen man and tried to lift him. He couldn’t move him to start with, but after a few attempts, the man’s right eye flickered open. It was a pale blue, but glazed with pain and fever.
“I can’t lift you. You’ll have to help”, said Coenred, hoping the man would understand.
The wounded man didn’t reply, but shut his eye again and let out a sigh. Coenred thought that he had lapsed back into unconsciousness, but a moment later the warrior gripped Coenred’s arm.
With a lot of help, the stranger managed to get to his feet. He was in great pain and rested much of his weight on Coenred’s shoulder. With difficulty Coenred guided him to the cart where the man collapsed. He had used the last of his strength and he didn’t even groan when Coenred lifted his legs into the cart.
*
Beobrand awoke slowly.
Recently, he seemed to always be waking up feeling terrible and this was no exception.
He could feel something pressing on his face. His chest felt tight and ached with each breath. He tried to open his eyes, but found that something prevented him. He reached up and found a damp bandage was wrapped around his face, covering both his eyes. As his fingers brushed the left side of the bandage, an acute pain flared in his eye and head. He gingerly made a move to remove the bandage but a voice from the darkness stopped him.
“Don’t take off the bandage,” said an anxious voice. “Alric says you’ll go blind if you do.”
Beobrand let his arm fall by his side, he had no desire to live life as a blind man. The voice that had spoken was young, that of a boy.
“Who are you and where am I?” Beobrand’s voice croaked in his dry throat.
“Here, have some water,” the boy replied and Beobrand felt a hand behind his head and a cup brush his lips. He swallowed a little of the cool water and let his head rest back on what he guessed was a straw mattress.
“Thank you,” Beobrand said and then repeated, “Where am I?”
“Engelmynster. I found you in the woods, nearer to death than life. My name’s Coenred.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
“Three days. Your fever broke yesterday and Alric said that you would probably live, with God’s will. I prayed for you every day, as Abbot Fearghas told me to do.” Coenred seemed pleased with himself.
“Thank you.”
“Whose side were you on? In the battle? Edwin’s?”
“That much should be clear…,” answered Beobrand, feeling weak and empty, the sarcasm jagged in his voice. “Is there anything I can eat?”
“Of course. Sorry,” stammered Coenred. “I’ll fetch you some broth.”
Beobrand heard him stand up, move away from him and then pause.
“What is your name?” Coenred asked from some distance away.
“Beobrand, son of Grimgundi.”
There was a pause, and then he heard Coenred leave the room.
Beobrand lay there. He was unable to look around, so he looked inside himself.
Where would he go now? Was he blind? A despair as dark as a winter night filled his soul. Why had he not died? To live as a cripple, depending on others’ pity for food and shelter was worse than death. Why had Octa died leaving him alone in this northern kingdom? He thought of his father and the burning house back in Hithe. Had his actions offended the gods so, that they would leave him in a state of living death? Was that his wyrd?
He heard someone returning to the room. Coenred’s voice brought him back to more mundane matters. The gnawing emptiness in his stomach first amongst them.
Coenred helped him to prop himself against the wall behind the mattress where he was lying. The pain of moving made Beobrand cry out.
“You have some broken ribs,” Coenred explained, “but they are bound tightly and should heal well.”
As soon as he sat still, the pain subsided. Coenred helped him to drink the warm broth he had brought.
As he fed him, a spoonful at a time, Coenred talked incessantly. Beobrand didn’t mind listening. Coenred’s voice was pleasant and strong and although he talked with the enthusiasm of a boy about all manner of things, he did not prattle. Beobrand could sense the intelligence behind the voice and was pleased to be able to use Coenred’s descriptions of the foibles of the different monks and members of the community to keep his own dark thoughts at bay.
After he had finished the soup, Beobrand asked about the aftermath of the battle at Elmet.
“I don’t know much,” said Coenred. “A pedlar came through yesterday and said he’d heard that Edwin and his son had been killed. Most of his warhost too.”
“Have no other Northumbrian survivors come this way?” asked Beobrand.
“No, you are the only one.”
Beobrand wondered what had befallen his new friends. Bassus had seemed invincible. Yet so had Edwin, and he had not survived the battle. Tondberct was probably dead too. He had got on well with the light-hearted young warrior, but if Edwin had died could Tondberct have surpassed the trials of battle? Beobrand mourned the loss of the possible future friendship they could have had.
Everyone he had ever cared about, or who had shown him any kindness was dead. He must be cursed.
Darkness was imposed upon him by the bandage over his eyes, and darkness threatened to engulf him from within. Behind the bandage his eyes filled with tears, but they soaked into the cloth and none reached his face. He was glad that Coenred could not see him weep. He was tired of his own weakness, yet he was helpless to stop the tears.
“You should rest now,” Coenred said, standing up.
The boy was right. He was exhausted. Both his body and mind had suffered terribly. He lay down carefully, trying to avoid jarring his ribs or his eye. He heard Coenred mutter something about returning later to check on him.
Beobrand lay on the lumpy mattress, images flapping at his inner eye like ravens’ wings. He was sure he would not be able to sleep. Too many black fears assaulted him. However, a few moments later, his breathing became rhythmic and he fell into a sleep without dreams.
*
He awoke suddenly.
For a few heartbeats he was unsure what had woken him. He did not know whether it was day or night. The air he breathed in felt cold and his body was stiff from inactivity. He lay still, listening. Footsteps rushing over wooden boards. Muffled whispers, urgent and sibilant in the dark. By the gods, how he wished he could see. He was helpless. Blind and powerless against the threats in the darkness. He sat up as quickly as he could. In the distance a man shouted something angrily. A dog barked. Then there was a scream.
Beobrand needed no more signals. All was not right. His life was in danger. Moving his hand to the bandage around his head, he tentatively tweaked the cloth up to uncover his uninjured, right eye. Before he had moved the bandage more than a hair’s breadth, he heard someone enter the room. He stiffened, ready to pull the bandage off. He would not be killed by an unseen assailant.
“Wait! Don’t pull off the bandage! You will lose your sight for sure if you do!” the voice of Coenred spoke from the cold gloom. He spoke urgently, but in a whisper. “I will lead you. We must leave.”
“What is happening?” Beobrand demanded. He felt Coenred place the blanket from his bed around his shoulders.
“Waelisc are here. If they find you, they will kill you. Come on, there is no time.” Coenred tugged frantically at Beobrand’s hand and pulled him to his feet.
Beobrand felt giddy. Disorientated. The searing pain in his chest was like fire and his head throbbed. His legs buckled as he stood upright, but Coenred held him steady and after a moment he rallied. Coenred’s urgency and fear were almost palpable. As if to accentuate the peril they were in, another scream rent the darkness. The dog’s barks grew louder and more frenetic, and then were cut short with a yelp. Coenred pulled Beobrand, urging him to move and together they stumbled out of the room.
Beobrand knew nothing of the monastery’s layout, so he had no idea where Coenred was taking him. All he could do was to concentrate on his footing and try not to jar his aching chest. Coenred had obviously decided in advance where they should hide and he moved through the night with haste. From time to time he would warn Beobrand to duck his head or that there was a step down or up, but other than that they moved in silence. Listening to the sounds of the night. There was more shouting. Then some crashing. Wood splintering. Screams.
Coenred faltered for a moment, but his resolve quickly returned and he pushed on. Beobrand felt the air grow colder on his skin. The atmosphere and acoustics changed. They had stepped outside.
“Come on,” hissed Coenred and set off at a faster pace. Beobrand thought he would surely lose his balance or trip on a tree root, but for once wyrd smiled on him and he managed to keep up with Coenred without falling. After a short distance walking uphill, Coenred told Beobrand to stop and to sit down. The ground beneath them was soft and dry. There was a strong redolence of bark and sap in the air.
“We are inside a hollow oak,” explained Coenred in a whisper. “If we are quiet, I hope they won’t discover this place. It is hard to see from the path and the entrance is hidden completely from Engelmynster.”
They made themselves as comfortable as they could and spoke no more, both fearing discovery. Sounds of screams and coarse laughter drifted up from the buildings they had left. Coenred prayed the Waelisc would not find them in their hiding place.
After a long while, the scent of smoke was borne on the wind and they feared that the monastery had been put to the torch. The smell of burning passed soon enough though and they were left wondering what fire they had noted.
So it was that they spent the rest of that chill night, huddled together, not daring to speak. Each was glad of the other’s company, though they barely knew each other. Time passed and the sounds of destruction and torment from the monastery died down.
By morning, Beobrand had decided that he would risk moving the bandage from his right eye. Coenred had said he may go blind, but he had probed with his fingers through the night and it didn’t hurt at all, whereas the left eye was a constant dull throb. He reasoned that if he had been able to see with the right eye when he left the battlefield, he should still be able to do so. And he certainly didn’t want to face a day of uncertainty and danger as a blind man being led by the young monk.
In the dark of the bole of the huge hollow tree where they hid, Beobrand reached up and carefully pulled up the bandage where it covered his right eye. There was a brief flare of pain in his left eye as the bandage tightened against it, and then the dull ache returned. He opened his good eye. For a hideous moment, he thought he was truly blind, just as Coenred had warned. Then he noticed a slightly lighter area in the darkness that surrounded him. It was still night, but the moonlight that filtered into the forest made the opening in the tree’s trunk a grey swathe in the black wall. He let out a sigh of relief. He was unsure whether he could see perfectly, but his eye was definitely working. That knowledge lifted his spirits more than he would have thought possible.
Later, as the grey patch grew paler, Beobrand risked a whisper.
“I can see out of my right eye.”
Coenred jolted fully alert. He had been dozing and the sound of speech startled him awake.
“What?” he hissed.
“I can see,” repeated Beobrand. “I’ve taken the bandage off of my right eye.”
Coenred shook his head at the foolhardiness. He could have made himself blind for life. But it would be better to have a companion who could see for himself.
“God be praised,” he whispered. Just what Abbot Fearghas would have said.
*
They spent that day cowering in the tree. The day was cold and foggy and the two young men only had one blanket between them. Both wore only light sleeping tunics, so they squeezed as close together as they could and wrapped the blanket about them.
The sun rose slowly in the sky, casting dim light into their hiding place. There were cobwebs strewn in the upper reaches of the hollow tree. Beobrand studied his rescuer as the gloom lifted. Coenred was three or four years younger than him with mousy brown, short-cropped hair. He was slender and Beobrand noticed that where he clutched the blanket, his fingers were long and thin and stained with some dark substance. Beobrand felt weak with relief at being able to see these details. Whatever happened to his other eye, he did not need to face the future as a blind man.
There was no sound of anyone coming near to the tree, so Beobrand risked a whisper.
“What is this place? Engelmynster you called it? What sort of name is that?”
Coenred again started at the sound of Beobrand’s voice. “It is a monastery. Abbot Fearghas named it after the angel he found on the floor of the building he turned into the chapel.”
This made little sense to Beobrand. “What is a monastery?” he asked.
“It is where monks train. Holy men. I am studying to be a monk. I learn about the one true God and His son, Christ. I learn prayers and how to read and write.”
Praying and letters sounded terribly boring. There had been a priest of the Christ in Hithe. A sour, sombre man, who always spoke of sacrifice, love and turning the other cheek. Whilst people attended the priest’s sermons by the newly-erected cross in the village, most still prayed to the old gods in private. They wore hammer amulets in honour of Thunor, gave mead and meat at feasts in offering to Woden and buried bread in the fields so that Frige would bring plenty.
“How did you come to be learning about the gods?”
“Not gods, the one true God. Abbot Fearghas says there are no other gods.” Coenred smiled. “I know it is hard to understand.”
Beobrand didn’t think it was difficult at all. Just stupid. But he said nothing. He thought there were enough people on middle earth for all the gods to have their share.
“I came here two years ago,” said Coenred. “Abbot Fearghas found us in Eoferwic.” In the shadows his face took on a strained look.
“Found who?”
“Me and my sister. We were all alone. He gave us a new life.” He ran a hand through his hair. “What about you? Do you have family?”
“I did,” said Beobrand. “They are gone now. I’m all alone now too.” He bit his lip.
“You’re not alone now,” said Coenred. His teeth flashed in the gloom.
Beobrand forced a smile, but deep inside he felt empty and lost.
Sometime towards midday they heard movement from the monastery. Laughter, talking and the sound of horses and waggons being readied for travel permeated the fog. When the Waelisc finally left, they moved up the hill in the direction of the hollow tree. Beobrand willed them not to detect their hiding place. Coenred closed his eyes and clasped his hands together. Beobrand was sure he was praying for his god to make them invisible to the heathens.
The group of Waelisc walked within an arm’s length of the entrance to the tree trunk. They were so close that Beobrand and Coenred could smell their sweat, but none of them turned to look in their direction and after some time, the pair dared to breathe again.
They waited a while longer before venturing out of the oak. They were hungry and stiff. Beobrand found it hard to stand and needed to hold onto the trunk of the tree for support. His breath was ragged as he concentrated on staying on his feet. The pain in his chest flared up acutely and his throbbing head made him dizzy.
Once he felt more confident, Beobrand put his arm around Coenred’s shoulders and allowed the young monk to lead him back towards Engelmynster. The fog had cleared, but the day was still cold and damp. The sound of their feet in the thick carpet of wet leaves seemed unnaturally loud in the still forest.
Coming to the edge of the trees, Beobrand got his first look at the monastery. It was made up of a hall, circled by several smaller dwellings. The group of buildings nestled in the bend of a small river. On both sides of the river, the forest sloped upwards. All the structures save for one were made of wood and had thatched roofs. The exception to this was the largest building, which had walls partly made of stone. The finely hewn rocks were mortared and went to about the height of a man’s waist. At that point they were topped by walls of the more common wattle and daub. All this was crowned by golden thatch, one corner of which was charred and blackened.
They paused before continuing down to the monastery buildings. There was no movement down there. No sound or smoke from a fire. Neither Beobrand nor Coenred spoke. Both feared what they would find when they gathered enough courage to enter the compound. Coenred shuddered. Beobrand gripped his shoulders more tightly, both comforting and gaining comfort from his grasp.
They went first to the largest building. Near the entrance, there was what at first glance appeared to be a fur cape, crumpled in a heap where it had been dropped. When they got closer, Beobrand saw it was a small dog. It had been hacked almost in two. Coenred mumbled something under his breath. Beobrand couldn’t make it out, but he thought it was the name of the animal. He cast a glimpse at Coenred. Tears had begun to roll down his smooth cheeks, leaving salty furrows in the grime. Beobrand looked away and back to the building they had now reached. The corner of the thatch had been set alight, and part of the lintel of the doorway was black and cracked. The damp weather had saved the structure, and the Waelisc had apparently lost interest when they had failed to get a blaze going easily.
Hesitantly, Beobrand and Coenred entered the building. They strained to see in the gloom. The interior was as silent as a burial mound. As their eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, they made out a shape on the altar at the end of the hall. They moved slowly forward, drawn towards the shape. Beobrand did not wish to believe what it was, yet he was already certain. He walked past the broken pottery and ripped sacks that were strewn on the ground, hardly noticing them. Beobrand did not heed the fabulously intricate design of a man’s face in small tiles on the floor. His eyes were held in the inexorable grasp of the unthinkable form on the altar.
When they were close enough he saw the true horror. The pale skin of the blood-stained thighs. The teeth-shaped bruises on the breasts. The tongue, lolling from the blue-lipped mouth. And those sightless eyes. Staring, staring, in imploring silence.
He wished he had trusted his instincts and turned away. This was a sight he would never forget. It would haunt his dreams. Its gory vividness seared into his mind.
Beobrand did not know the young woman who lay like an animal carcass ready for butchering, but he shuddered to think of how she must have suffered. Coenred let out a cry on seeing the girl and fell to the ground. He buried his head in his arms and wailed. Beobrand, now without support, staggered. He stumbled to the side of the hall, and leaned against the wall.
He wanted to avert his eyes from the body of the girl, but some perverse fascination drew his gaze back. He shouldn’t look, he knew, but he was powerless to stop. He felt sordid, shameful.
Coenred’s sobs filled the chapel. “Tata! Tata!” he cried. Beobrand didn’t know how to console him. His own recent losses seemed to have inured him to the sorrows of others. He just wanted fresh air. To be away from the milky white flesh of the slaughtered girl. Using the wall for support he made his way out of the building and left Coenred alone with the corpse and his grief.
He stepped out into the watery light of the afternoon and pulled the blanket more tightly around his shoulders. It was cold, and they would need a fire soon, and food. He looked in the direction of some of the living quarters. Did the houses contain similar gory secrets to the chapel? He wasn’t strong enough to enter any dwelling yet, not alone. When Coenred had calmed himself they could go in search of clothes and food. Maybe get a fire going. But for now he would just sit and wait.
He had been sitting with his back propped against the door frame for a short while when he sensed a presence nearby. He looked up, afraid that the Waelisc had returned. Perhaps they had feigned leaving in order to lure people from hiding. The man standing over him leaned down and said in a soft, unusually accented voice, “Do not fear, my child.” Beobrand had been avoiding looking in the direction of the dog and the sound of Coenred crying must have covered any noise the man made when he approached, but his sudden appearance was unnerving. The man was old, with thinning grey hair and intelligent, sad eyes. Beobrand tried to stand, but pain coursed through his chest and his vision blurred. The old man put a gentle hand on his head, bidding him to stay seated.
“Jesu be praised that you have been spared,” the old man said. “Is it Coenred who weeps inside the chapel?”
Beobrand nodded, but found no words worth uttering.
“Does he weep for Tata?” the old man asked, but went on without waiting for a reply. “Her faith in the Lord was stronger than mine. She said he would deliver us from evil, but we fled. God have mercy on our souls.” He drew in a ragged, deep breath and walked slowly into the gloomy chapel. Towards the sounds of Coenred’s grief.
If this was how the Christ god protected his faithful from evil, allowing their enemies to rape and murder them, Beobrand preferred the old gods. They smiled on the brave and laughed at the weak. They didn’t offer false hope.
Others were now moving into the clearing. Having watched the old man enter the chapel safely, thirty or forty people came out of the trees at the foot of the slope and walked sheepishly into the settlement. Beobrand estimated that there were some ten monks, wearing the same dark robes as the old man, a handful of other men, wearing the normal breeches and tunics of ceorls, and the rest of the number was made up of women and children. They all had the pale faces and nervous eyes of those who expected the worst at any moment. It would appear that they also lacked faith that their god would protect them if the Waelisc came back.
Inside the chapel, Coenred’s sobs had ceased and Beobrand could make out the lowered voice of the old abbot consoling him. The other monks and men came towards the place where Beobrand was sitting. The women hung back with the children. When he was surrounded by the men, Beobrand struggled to pull himself upright. His chest was stabbed through with pain, but he was vulnerable at the feet of so many strangers and so suffered the agony in order to meet them face to face.
Once he was standing, a gruff looking man with a black beard stepped forward. “You are still weak,” he said. “Come in to my house, we could all do with some food.”
Beobrand allowed himself to be led to one of the buildings on the edge of the clearing. The bearded man gave orders to four of the men to keep watch for the Waelisc and for the women to get fires lit and food cooking. Beobrand was staggering slowly towards the dwelling when tiredness washed over him and he almost fell. The man caught him by the arm and guided him into the dark interior of the thatched house. He righted an overturned stool and indicated that Beobrand be seated. Two young men and three of the women had gone into the building first and were in the process of putting things in order.
The Waelisc had clearly stayed in the house. There was food and rubbish strewn about the floor. Two of the women found brooms and began sweeping the detritus out of the house, while the third started laying a fire. The monks fetched firewood from outside and soon the house was in a semblance of normality.
Once the place was tidy, one of the women, a middle-aged woman with sallow cheeks and dark eyes came to Beobrand. “You must rest,” she said in a surprisingly deep voice for one so thin. “I have made a bed for you by the fire.” She helped Beobrand to stand and he murmured his thanks. The bed was a mattress stuffed with rushes and Beobrand needed no coaxing to make him lie down. His body had yet to recover from its wounds and the fear from the night before had taken a heavy toll on him. He eased himself down onto the mattress with the aid of the woman. His chest hurt terribly, as did his head, but he barely noticed.
“You are safe here,” the woman said.
Even through the fog of approaching sleep Beobrand couldn’t help but wonder what made the woman so sure of that. Perhaps faith in her god or an optimistic nature prompted her assurance of safety. Or maybe she was just saying what they both wanted to hear.