Traveller Manifesto
16. Aengland - 11th Century

Aengland – 11th Century.

The dark, cool interiors of the great forests, described by one modern researcher and ‘Lord of the Rings’ fan as Tolkienesque, seemed to breathe with him. This beautiful world was to be lost and Michael turned with a lump in his throat to bid a final farewell. There had been so many tears. Godric had huffed, his eyes moist, while the ever motherly Hilda, his gracious wife, openly wept as she lathered Michael and Tatae with kisses. Her daughters, Eabae and Achae, hugged and kissed him as if losing a brother. Desmond, the blacksmith, and his lovely wife and daughters wept and hugged him tightly. They remembered all too well that tragic journey that had led them to Giolgrave.

That was before. Before their son Hereric had been killed.

Michael sighed deeply and pushed the deep emotion aside. Yes, so many tears.

Too soon the forest gave way to stands of beech, interspersed by numerous creeks and rocky outcrops. In the cloudy heavens a golden eagle majestically hovered as it searched for prey. They soon passed the lonely grave by the river. Poor Brother Tondbert had been stabbed on their flight from Snotengaham, murdered by Viking skirmishers. The bones of those Vikings had vanished, as had any of the young monk’s remains, having been exhumed by Vikings in their search for the village. The small, grave-like monument to Brother Tondbert remained, for Michael and Brother Oeric had rebuilt it after many of the physical wounds from the Battle for Giolgrave had healed.

Michael recalled the young monk; googly-eyed and big nosed, a skinny young man who did anything to assist Lord Michael; the Angel of the Lord. He gave a sad smile and, not having thought of Brother Tondbert in years, missed him.

They then passed the ruins of old Nether Haddon, the scorched timbers overgrown with weeds and vines as nature reclaimed the sad remains, once a village where families worked, laughed, bled, and died. This party was larger than the one in which they then travelled. With the nine monks, Tatae, and their infant daughter; Genovefa, the party also included the protection of heavily armed Eadric, Irminric, and Yffi of the hunters. This was a party few would care to molest.

Eadric, Irminric and Brother Horsa paused to gaze reflectively at the village remains. “There was a thriving community here,” explained Michael. His wife carried their infant in a sash across her chest, so she could nurse without inconvenience. The infant’s small face lay peacefully, her tummy full. She had been a wonderful child, so placid that they had heard her cry only on rare occasions. “We visited here for a moment and some of the young lasses showed Eadric a lot of interest.”

Eadric gave a snort at the memory.

“I pray that they escaped without harm,” murmured Brother Horsa.

Irminric grunted and turned to leave, giving his eyes a furtive wipe. Michael remembered how the young men had buried the bodies of a disembowelled woman and slaughtered children. Then, they were assisted by the warrior-like Hereric, Irminric’s older brother. The young lads had been compelled to grow up too quickly. But not quickly enough, it seemed. Hereric would later be slaughtered by an axe in the face. It was a memory none wished to revisit.

Desmond’s family still grieved.

Tatae looked up at her husband and quietly held his hand.

Now, they had to leave. Leave the community of Giolgrave for which he and his fellow Travellers had fought and bled, leave the people he loved. Leave them, to protect them.

He wanted nothing more than to hasten back in their humble home with Tatae happily preparing her remedies or caring for a woman in childbirth. Latis, their hound, would be reclined at the hearth, ever ready to hunt or play with the local children. For their village was a family; a big, hairy, smelly family. Life was simple, hard, and perfect. Now, those who had helped them and healed them wanted to interfere and build a military base in the forest. They now wanted to control.

He sighed sadly. Michael could only compare the road to the one he had taken with young Eadric and the monks over three years earlier. They had returned with sacred relics and Desmond’s refugee family. The journey had been a pivotal time for each of them.

This journey must end better.

He looked to Tatae and Genovefa, his heart heavy with concern. When they parted from their travelling companions, what then?

This journey was made without haste, as if each savoured their final days together. They stopped at tiny villages to buy food, such a large group of monks attracting attention from all. While the monks blessed children and any sick among them, the villagers were eager to supply such a large, well-protected party. The travellers brought badly needed coin that was hoped to become common in the blooming peace. None had the facility to house such a large group, though the weather was fine and camping out offered no discomfort. As was their habit, each morning the young men and Michael engaged in combat training. Even Yffi joined in, his spear a deadly, efficient weapon.

Once they paused as Tatae stopped suddenly, her eyes wide and watchful. She pulled a small amulet from her pouch, a stone that had been polished and carved with the figure of a small, rotund woman pulling apart her exaggerated vulva. Michael always found the stone’s image comical and it made him smile. He had learned that modern British researchers called the figure a Sheela Na Gig, while Tatae simply called it a Birthing Stone. As she fondled the stone, his wife nodded at a circle of moss-covered stones that had gone unnoticed. “There“,” she exclaimed with a small frown. “This was a sacred place of women.”

They looked to the stones covered thickly with emerald green moss and a tangle of roots. “Was?” asked Michael.

Tatae, normally self-assured in discussing sacred mysteries, for once seemed uncertain. She looked to him and then nodded again. “Was,” she affirmed. “Not all sacred places stay sacred. Something happened here, something bad.”

“Can sacred places be made … unsacred?” asked Michael again.

Tatae looked to husband as if he was particularly dense, but realised his question was genuine. “Sacred places can be desecrated,” she affirmed. “This place is very, very old. Old power still lingers …”

“Can something be done?” asked Michael innocently.

Tatae merely shrugged and shook her head. “No. Sometimes the damage is done,” she replied. Eadric screwed up his face, uncomprehending, while the monks looked on, mystified. A couple of them fondled the simple wooden crucifixes worn on a thong around their necks. Though always ready for a pause in their long journey, they looked eager to move on.

Without a backward glance, Tatae nodded that they continue onward.

They stopped at Deor-lean, a village where Eadric had been victim to his first youthful dalliance. He seemed watchful and relieved that his former partner was not present, though that could mean she was dead. When they spoke to Thegn Ricbert he seemed distracted. Many of his village had fled and Danes had taken residence. The conquerors were easily identified for they were well-dressed, their hair tidier than locals and they looked at ease, though each wore a dagger at the hip. The travellers watched them surreptitiously, still uncomfortable with the foreigners despite the peace that came with Danish rule.

The new priest was also unknown. Brother Horsa seemed daunted by the changes that had swept the land. The monks were especially mindful of the treasures they carried, especially the sacred relic; the finger-bone of Saint Edmund, a relic to which many miracles were attributed. If known they carried such an item of value they would doubtlessly be murdered and robbed.

Regardless, the journey took on the air of a holiday. They stopped at one village to soak in hot pools and later bought fish to cook over coals for their supper. All travelled well and Tatae was happy.

It was not until they were closer to Snotengaham when real changes became apparent. The market town of Ilchestune was booming, with herds of cattle, sheep and pigs on sale, while flocks of ducks and geese were driven to market. Newly minted coins changed hands, some upon which the representation of Cnut, the new Danish King, was boldly stamped. There was a feeling of optimism, of growth with concord. Former Viking raiders mingled with local Saxons and most telling was the presence of Dane women and children, brought from the old country to settle the new land.

The party would have travelled unnoticed but for the dogs. While Michael’s hunting hound, Latis, was plainly not for sale, Yffi’s two hounds, half grown pups bred and trained for the hunt, were openly admired. They had barely entered the town when they were sold for a weighty bag of silver. “Well that was easy, and at twice what I expected,” nodded Yffi, plainly pleased. “Beomia has another batch in her belly, so perhaps this journey might be something I do often,” he added, his cheeky, gap-toothed smile infectious.

Their approach to the town of Snotengaham found it had also flourished. The walls had been bolstered, the moat newly dug and the people more plentiful. When they passed a few bored, spear bearing guards, Yffi and some of the monks gasped at the people, never before having seen so many they did not know. They were even jostled, for new shops and houses had been built in the rush of prosperity.

Brother Horsa became ever more nervous. “Lord Michael,” he whispered, “we must make haste. If it was known what we carried …” He stared about him with anxiety that bordered on terror.

Michael placed a comforting hand on the monk’s bony shoulder and then gestured with his head to the others. The message was clear, so they proceeded to the church enclave. Like their last visit, this was outside of the defensive walls, but there any similarity ended. Irminric, dismayed at the changes to his former home, cried out with the monks, for the impressive monastery was gone. Nothing remained but for the stone church that had once stood at the heart of the religious community. New buildings were under construction, while humble huts; monks’ dwellings that looked all too similar to the individual cells that had once been at Giolgrave, indicated the presence of a good number of Brothers. Men similar to the very destroyers of Giolgrave now rebuilt old Snotengaham, for Aengland was now their home.

As they approached, a young monk met them. “My dear brothers,” he gushed excitedly. “We received a messenger from Deor-lean. May God be praised at your safe arrival! Come, rest your weary feet. We have quarters and food. I am Brother Bronson.” He kissed each of the bothers on the cheek and gave a nervous bow to the warriors. He pointedly ignored Tatae and Genovefa, but jumped in alarm as Latis gave his bum a curious sniff. Michael called her off and passed a quick grin to Yffi. Many of the town’s folk viewed the powerful hunting dog with alarm.

“Please,” Brother Bronson gestured with a welcoming smile. “The Abbott awaits.”

“Abbott George, we have heard much of his works,” smiled Brother Horsa with obvious relief. “Our safe arrival can be only due to the Lord’s blessing, and for our beloved guides here.”

Brother Bronson raised his eyes heavenward, “The Lord is with us, Brothers. Now the Danes rule, we have the blessing of a new home here. The monastery was burned and the Brothers scattered or killed, but now we gather, stronger than ever.”

“And you Brother? You were blessed to escape the marauders?” confirmed Brother Horsa.

Brother Bronson bowed his head before he answered. “Mine was a different road, Prior Horsa. I have travelled from Eoforīc (York), once home of the Northumbrian kings. While the work of our Lord continued unabated at my old home, I am one of many who have gathered here at Snotengaham to perform the work of Christ our Lord.”

“So Abbott Anna? Is he safe?” asked Brother Horsa hopefully.

Brother Bronson paused with a frown. “I know of his name, yet know nothing of his fate.”

“He was Abbott here,” insisted Brother Horsa. “Surely something must be known. His was one of the ruling families.”

“Brothers, so much has changed and so many have died, often without record or witness,” explained Brother Bronson sadly, his face apologetic. “Such questions may be set at rest with Abbott George. He will doubtlessly know, or will know who may assist in your quest.”

A cloister was already under construction and quarters for the Abbott completed. While his brothers slept in little more than shacks of clay-daubed wattle, the Abbott’s residence was a substantial home worthy of his office, though, Michael observed, not of the humility that such a rank would necessitate. Too easily recalling Abbott Anna’s conspicuous display of wealth and station, Michael wondered if wealth came with the office.

They waited outside as Brother Bronson stepped inside. Around them logs were split and beams heaved, destined to become part of a new monastery. To have such a project under way spoke of enormous wealth and influence. A building supervisor, probably an architect, strode past, dressed in fine clothes. He appeared Saxon, though one of the men he spoke with was a Dane. The busy site had Tatae and Yffi gawp in astonishment.

Who could possibly have influenced the development of the complex so soon after the destruction of the original?

The doors opened and the travel-stained monks were invited in. Michael, Tatae, and the warriors followed.

The reception room was well furnished, with a door at the other side of the room leading to the Abbott’s private quarters. But it was the Abbott whom Michael immediately recognised.

When they visited Snotengaham those years past, the monks were to carry a Psalter and the sacred relic to the safety of Giolgrave, the lost village hidden in the wild forests. Not only was the Psalter beyond value, but the sacred relic, the finger bones of Saint Edmund the Martyr, former King of East Anglia, was even more so. Before the Viking invasion, the relic was a destination for pilgrimages from the kingdoms of Northumbria, Mercia, East Anglia and Wessex. The truly penitent travelled far to pay for the privilege to touch the casket in which the relic resided. For were not the miracles of the relic well known? The blind were blessed to see and the lame walked, while the barren brought forth children. Preserved in forgotten, far off Giolgrave, the sacred relics were to be returned when all was safe. Even more poignant, the monks also had possession of two noble tomes, one recovered from the loot of the Viking marauders.

So much value would be best cared for by a community of Brothers, all shepherded by a true man of God.

Abbott George strode forth and greeted the Brothers with a holy kiss.

But Abbott George was not the name by which he was known when Michael had seen him last. He recalled booting a thieving monk in the rump after he had attempted to loot Michael’s pack for silver. He and Eadric had sent the monk, Earconberct, packing. It had been only prior to the Viking attack, when they had fled with the family of Desmond the Smith.

As Abbott George smiled in greeting, all Michael saw was the face of thieving Brother Earconberct.