Traveller Manifesto
47. Aengland - 11th Century

Aengland – 11th Century.

They left Ligeraceaster early on the third day, with Brother Bertwald, who had decided to join them, following a few paces behind. He seemed unsure of Tatae, who had barely said a dozen words to the monk. They passed through the fields to the west of the town, called the Great Field where farmers prepared to harvest the barley and peas that grew in profusion. There seemed to be a general optimism in the face of the long-awaited, abundant harvest.

The Fosse Way passed through woods and it was there where Tatae paused to pray. Brother Bertwald viewed her prayers, her hands raised to the forest as she chanted, with undisguised horror.

Later, as they continued their journey, he remained uncharacteristically silent.

“I see you fared well since the Viking invasion, Brother,” Michael commented to break what was becoming an uncomfortable silence. “I feared you might have been slain, like so many others.”

Brother Bertwald walked silently a while and Michael thought his comment unheard until the small man spoke up in reply. “Wherever I fled, the marauders followed, it seemed,” he explained quietly. “I fled to the south, then to the great sea at sunrise, but wherever I ran, they were soon to follow.”

“Yet, you survived. Is that not a blessing?” persisted Michael.

“Aye. I even fled into the forest,” continued Brother Bertwald with a quick glance to Tatae. “I survived, though there were children of the forest who were not happy to see me. But it was better than walking where the invaders could catch me. With the death of Sweyn Forkbeard, slain as he was, I am told, by being skewered through the neck with a spirit’s lance, the youthful Cnut took his office and the reigns of his invasion.”

“What else have you heard?” asked Michael, having heard similar tales from any traveller and merchant who cared to speak.

“Much of little, I am sorry to say, my Lord. There are many tales, but what is the truth of them?” replied the monk. He gave a sniff, and then continued with tales of his own. “I have heard that the lad, King Cnut, was trained by the mighty Jomsviking since a youth. I hear they are the mightiest warriors in the land and beyond and cannot be defeated. They follow the pagan abominations of Odin and Thor and drink the blood of babies. They have been in ceaseless combat against King Edmund Ironside, rightful king and son of Aethelred. Now many call King Aethelred the ‘unready’ or the ‘ill-advised’.

“Well, you’ve heard much in your travels, Brother,” commented Michael with a smile. As word of mouth was the only way news travelled, there was no way to determine truth from fiction.

“Aye, but many I have spoken with have seen the conflict that has overrun this land,” continued Brother Bertwald. “Many tell me of the horrors because they were there. All free men; fyrd men, from youths at fifteen summers to the aged at 60 have been required for service in the armies.” The monk scoffed, “Fifteen, aye that I can understand, but a toothless old man of 60? What good are they but to collect arrows and bury the dead?” he paused and spat in disgust. “So I fled into the forest and moved from one bad deed to another.” He paused and gave a sly glance to Tatae. “I don’t trust them, those forest folk,” he added quietly.

Tatae must have heard, for she turned to face the monk. It was plain she was unhappy to have him travel with them, but now he was thoroughly washed and dressed in new robes he looked almost reasonable. Michael had insisted Brother Bertwald bathe each day, even on the morning before their departure. Though he obviously thought the effort a waste, he had kept a careful eye on Latis and emerged from the experience significantly less odorous.

“What people did you see?” she asked. Michael did not think she gave any real heed to the monk. This was the first time she had addressed him, so the Brother blinked and paused in surprise.

“Forest people … queer folk,” he replied cautiously. “They live far in the forest and only see peddlers. They … they pray like her,” he added with a nod to Tatae.

“Where? Where are they?” she asked, her golden eyes boring into him. He never spoke to her but addressed his answers to Michael. Predictably, this irritated Tatae even further.

Brother Bertwald simply pointed with his chin. “It is in the land of the Weala, in the forests. There, many of the ancient forests have been cleared, but there are great forests still. Dark places,” he added with a shudder.

Tatae looked to Michael in surprise, her big eyes full of naked yearning.

He nodded in silent understanding, for they journeyed to the west. As they walked, Brother Bertwald regained some of his composure, so Michael asked him of his travels.

“I have travelled too far,” he replied reluctantly. “I am prompted to travel with you to replace a home, a place to stay.”

A monastery?” asked Michael with a hint of mischief.

Normally such a question would have once had the itinerant monk cry out in outrage, for his distaste of monastic life was evident. But now he just waggled his head, as if unsure. “I know not, my Lord. I have no love for the excesses of the Abbots and their kingdoms, for they desire the riches of the world more than heavenly rewards. But I cannot continue in my journeys alone. I have been blessed, yes, but I have seen such travail upon this land and I now seek a quiet place to live out my days.”

Michael thought to reply with a retort designed to tease, but he realised the little man was genuine, so he merely nodded. After all, that was what Tatae and he sought for their daughter.

There was silence for some minutes.

“There have been times of grave hardship,” continued Brother Bertwald. “War and famine have seen the death of many. I have seen fields of dead men, rotting where they lay, killed in battle. Great men, mighty men, all dead.” He looked appalled, his memories having deeply scarred him. “In their battles, Ironside and Uhtred ravaged and left only devastation and empty villages to rival the Vikings. There was much hunger, where God’s hand had turned against them. I saw …” and he stopped. He stood on the road in the forest and gazed off, his visions far beyond the great trees through which they walked. Tears filled his eyes.

Michael also stopped and looked to the small monk. “Are you well Brother?” he asked kindly. “You don’t have to tell.”

“I must,” whispered Brother Bertwald almost to himself. “I feel I am sole witness to the travails of the earth. The people,” he muttered with a sob. “Such hardship. Why would the Lord God treat his people so? There was such hunger. I was ignored, for I was but one and I had hidden hard bread bought days prior. I could eat, but if they knew I had food I would have been robbed and murdered. There were places where people ate naught but nettles, grass and bark to stay alive and prayed to whichever God they thought was listening. Once, in the morning mist, I saw a score of starving souls go to a cliff by the sea. They joined hands and leapt to perish by the fall or by drowning.”

“What had happened to their food?” asked Michael, saddened at such events. Having seen much in the modern world, he knew the hardships of the most vulnerable would never change. He was more concerned that Tatae would be distressed by the tale, for she listened quietly.

The monk shrugged as he replied, “The armies, the wars, where the strong kill or steal from the weak. Where is God’s protection?” He paused, his eyes haunted and despairing. “I have weakened in the faith and now feel lost,” he admitted tearfully. “That what was clear is now clouded. It is not as it should be.”

Michael placed a comforting hand on Brother Bertwald’s bony shoulder and looked to Tatae, who silently gazed into the forest. Without a word, for none seemed adequate, they continued their lengthy journey in silence.

Their next halt was at a cluster of huts by a muddy crossing of the River Soar at a place which went by the old Roman name of Venonis. There were crops in fields carved from the woods, while the Fosse Way curved to the south. A mere track led onwards to the wilderness town of Beormingahām, a place that would, one day, become modern Birmingham.

Along the way, any they met were cautiously friendly, fearful of any armed man. Many had fallen victim to such men, men who had fled the battles and now roamed the countryside. An armed man such as Michael was one to watch. But the party was always careful to allay fears. They paid for their food and a place to sleep and were respectful of their hosts, which left them sent on their way with God’s blessing.

Despite the suspicion of the locals, their journey progressed easily and Genovefa travelled well. Even Brother Bertwald’s mood seemed to lift, for the country was beautiful and the clouds cleared to allow finger-like rays of sunshine to light up patched of emerald forest. Abandoned fields saw the regrowth of the forest with beech, yew and holly. They took shelter in a lean-to they built to ward off the night’s drizzle and, thanks to the browsing skills of Tatae, they ate well. Only a few people were seen, but those to whom they spoke were barely understood, for they were passing from areas where Mercian dialects were spoken. Accents were broad and raw, and it was only thanks to Brother Bertwald that they could be understood at all, for the monk seemed to have a gift for languages that exceeded Michael’s abilities. Michael knew from his initial training that the kingdoms often called under the banner of old Aengland had four broad dialects scattered over twenty tribal groups. It was inevitable they would be challenged, for it was a land of contrast, both in the people and the land itself. The areas through which they now travelled were much poorer than the relative wealth of the kingdom of Mercia, as if this was a place forgotten by the rest of the land.

Latis had been a constant guide, though she had begun to exhibit moments Michael found irritating. She adopted a fascination with eating any poo she could replace and on a number of occasions took a roll in something that was repugnantly pungent. At one stage, Michael was compelled to throw her into a creek and make sure she remained in the water until the offensive goo was removed. Without understanding her transgression, Latis took the day to mope in penitent grovelling.

One night in the forest she suddenly launched into the darkness with a bellow of fury. Something fled with a crash. It could have been a bear or a person, none could tell, but for the rest of the night Michael slept lightly. He had been bothered, his heart not at peace for he endured a feeling he had never before experienced. After pondering on his emotions he realised it was homesickness. He simply missed his home in Giolgrave.

Their approach to Beormingahām saw an increase in the number of farms and tiny villages, little more than clusters of three or four humble wicker and daub cottages. Some had been burned and abandoned, as if by marauders or armies on the march. While they walked, Brother Bertwald talked about anything but religion. Michael suspected his crisis of faith continued, for his experiences of those who had suffered through privation caused by famine and war had deeply shocked him. He often described how they cried out to an unheeding God as they died or suffered.

He opted to discuss happier times.

“For there are the times of Yule, when the winter is at its coldest,” Brother Bertwald explained happily as they skirted puddles on the narrow track. Though the fields had largely fallen fallow, evidence of the clay fields was seen in the slippery puddles through which they sometimes were forced to carefully navigate. “Then there is the month of mud and for pruning of the trees.” He looked to Tatae a moment and frowned, as if having had a sudden thought or revelation. “That is the time of spring and the time for sowing, digging, mattocking and dragging weeds away with a rake. It is the time for planting and is called Hrēðmonath to some.”

“Aye,” nodded Tatae, “this time is of rebirth and of the Goddesses, for it is after the fertility goddess named Hreða, and then is Eostremonath, from the Goddess Eostre who blesses the forests and the fields and makes them regrow.” April would later become the season of Easter, a Christian festival named after Eostre, the heathen Goddess of the forest.

Brother Bertwald looked to object but only nodded, as if obliged to be tolerant of Tatae as Michael’s wild woman-wife.

“It was then when the monks of Giolgrave also worshipped the Pascal,” added Michael, who had been compelled to learn of the various religious celebrations throughout the year. There were so many.

“Aye, but I must say my favourite is Ðrimilcemonað,” added the monk. “It is the ‘month of three milkings’. The fields are so healthy and green and the baby calves were born, so their mother can be milked three times each warm day,” he continued, lost in his happy musings. “We would make cheese and butter and in times of plenty we would grow fat and content.”

”But, you say it has not been thus for a while?” asked Michael as he carefully watched their surrounds. Like the monk, he was only lightly engaged in the conversation. Tatae walked with her head down, half asleep. He then noticed Latis stand quietly, her ears up as she alertly watched something further down the track. Michael gave a hiss in quiet warning and Tatae’s head came up as she immediately stepped sideways to melt into the forest. At the other side of the track Michael dragged Brother Bertwald with him and then peered through the vegetation. Their path was narrow and fields looked neglected from the wars. They had recently passed a scattering of decomposing bodies, barely skeletons and stink, with anything of value having been scavenged long ago. Michael suspected they might have been forces in conflict when Cnut engaged in wars of conquest against the armies of King Edmund Ironside. Such wars were rarely restricted to the standing armies alone. Though all conflict was to have ceased for years, some of the remote areas in the four kingdoms were dangerous for the unwary.

Latis looked to Michael, as if uncertain and then looked ahead again. Her stance said people, her uncertainty implied women and children, or a lone traveller. He carefully looked again and saw nothing.

Leaving his travelling companions hidden, Michael carefully crept forward, his spear ready. He looked to Tatae and the monk and, to his satisfaction, neither could be seen. Latis walked carefully with him. Her eyes were bright, betraying no threat.

They heard their target before they saw him. There was a slight strum that drifted through the forest leaves like fairy wings. As Michael and Latis crouched, they spied a man seated on a log. He was bent over a musical instrument that looked somewhat similar to Michael’s beloved mandolin, only larger. By his feet rested a bow, by which he would have played. Michael and Latis rested a while and listened. The music would have confused Latis, as she had learned to associate music with a friendly face. She looked to her master a moment but he gestured for her to remain hidden. If ordered, she would have leapt at the newcomer’s throat, but there was no need. Though armed with a staff, the man looked to be no threat.

So when they stood suddenly, the stranger looked up and gave a shrill squeal of fear. Though he gestured in peace, Michael’s heart beat with a strange excitement for here, after years in Saxon Aengland, he was finally to meet a scop.