Traveller Probo
47. Aengland

Their arrival at Giolgrave took everyone by surprise.

All praised Tatae as a picture of health and, even though it was freezing, the villagers were in good spirits. Tatae had two of her assistants help clean and then ritually dedicate their home with the burning of dried herbs. Her cat wandered in as if they had never left.

Michael was soon shooed away.

He collected Latis from Yffi, where the big pup cried out in joy, wagging her entire hindquarters as she piddled in excitement. The Saxon hunter chatted and laughed, as if the vanishing of his friend was a usual occurrence. As Michael then walked to the home of Godric, his dog ran about in big, lolloping strides, plainly ecstatic at her human’s return. Some of the villagers greeted him with renewed caution. They had forgotten Michael’s origins and because of the rumours, some were again afraid.

What was his real purpose?

Not showing any of the superstitious fears shared by his villagers, the thegn and his family were simply delighted. Eabae was now eighteen and had grown into a beautiful woman. Because of the Viking invasion, the tradition of travelling to other villages for matchmaking festivals had been put on hold. The countryside was still considered dangerous and too many villages had been destroyed. With Achae also coming of age, Michael knew both Hilda and the Godric despaired. Two beautiful girls who should be united with high-ranking warriors were now feared to end their days as spinsters or compelled to become nuns. When Michael looked at Eabae, with her pink cheeks and bright, mischievous eyes, he knew she would never become a nun.

Godric and Hilda sat by the hearth and listened to his news, as did the rest of the family. It was only when the family gathered that he realised how they had grown. Saba was a stripling fifteen-year-old and Wuffa cuddled Latis by the fire, as cheeky as ever. The baby of the family, tow-headed Cyneburg, still liked to sit on her Da’s knee, though she was coming into her sixth year. Michael had forgotten how quickly the seasons passed. Eadric now lived in his own hut with his wife Aedgyd, and Alric, her brother, was building his own hut beside them. Michael had heard the rumours of course; that Eabae had been seen with Alric. There was no hint of impropriety but Alric had proved himself to be a skilled wood-carver and the new clasp she wore, a combination of silver and carved beech, was his gift. He was a handsome lad, somewhat quiet and shy but most important, not of a status Eabae’s father would prefer.

The men later stepped into the chill to talk. Beside them, the village hall was more than half built, though the thatching would not be completed until the weather warmed. After he explained about the proposed medical mission, Michael watched Godric huff thoughtfully through his long moustache. The great man looked pallid of late and Michael suspected that Godric would need attention for his heart as the doctors proposed. Following his leg wound, the village leader limped heavily. The last couple of years had taken a toll of his health, much as he would never admit it.

“But why lad? Why do they want to help?” asked Godric, mystified.

Michael knew he could never explain the fame of the village because of their television programme, or the movie, or the endless academic studies that had targeted each individual in Giolgrave. Their lives and basic skills had been photographed and analysed, their relationships investigated and the depths of their beliefs plumbed through what could be nothing short of a gross personal violation of privacy. Without them knowing, the 21st Century world of Transporter Corp owed these oblivious, humble people so much more than they could imagine. All he could do was simply reply, “Because it’s their way, my Lord. They only wish to help.”

Godric huffed a few more times and looked at his feet a moment before he looked up, still uncertain. “Well, if you say it’s good, then it will be good. I can’t see it can hurt, as long our people are safe.”

After he left Godric’s home, Michael wandered across to the smithy where Desmond worked. He was adding detail to the patterned rim of a simple cooking cauldron. In the corner his son Irminric and the other apprentice Offa tapped away at some fine work on a small anvil. On seeing his approach, Desmond cried out in joy. “Lord Michael! Thank the Holy Mother you’ve returned! There was talk that you’d decided to stay on the right hand of God himself, or in the Otherworld. One of these days, we fear you may not return,” he smiled in not-quite jest. Michael never explained where they went but the visit of strangers to collect Tatae in her hour of need was still a topic of discussion.

Michael shrugged. “Sorry to say, you have me here for good.”

Desmond nodded and he responded with a bark of laughter. “Good! We prefer you here than not. Tatae is well then?”

“Aye,” nodded Michael with obvious relief. “She is well.”

Desmond, never one for lengthy speech, simply nodded.

“So what are you working on then? Anything special?” Michael asked.

Desmond’s face dramatically changed as he smiled broadly and gestured to Irminric, whose broad shoulders and hard hands were all too similar to his brother who had been so horribly slain those years ago. Faces flushed with pleasure, the apprentices proudly displayed their work. They had begun the crafting of a chain-mail shirt. Each metal link was created from a sliver of metal that was riveted together to form a most valuable set of armour. Michael gazed at the work in admiration. “By the Mother, that is fine work!” he exclaimed. “How long have you been working on this?”

Offa, the more senior apprentice, stammered nervously, “We’ve been working for the past two moons, for Smith Desmond says we’re skilled enough, and there is the iron. We are yet to shape and add the arms but this is the back of the armour for a warrior of note.”

“Which warrior of note will that be?” asked Michael.

“Lord Eadric”, chimed in Irminric.

Michael shot a glance to Desmond who looked on, his face expressionless. The blacksmith had been crushed by the death of his eldest son. There had been too many deaths from that battle and the winter that followed. Some suggested the trials were because they were blessed with the sacred relics rescued from Snotengaham, others that they were cursed to die because they had failed to follow the true God and had strayed back to the old Gods of the forest. Others whispered that perhaps their trials were not for them but for Michael, that he was being castigated by God for casting aside his divinity for a mortal woman.

Michael knew the whispers. After he bid farewell, he again pondered on what the villagers thought of him. They were his family, a family he had never really known, yet after having been ‘gone’ he felt the need to work at his welcome again. Some never quite forgot that Lord Michael, the musician and warrior, was just a little different.

But how would they react to not one foreigner but many?

One of the village women waved as she returned from collecting greenery from the forest and he waved back. Two children ran about in the icy chill and stopped to give Latis a fond pat. It was essential that these simple and lovely people remained unpolluted from the impact of well-meaning others and, in a moment of indecision, Michael was tempted to cancel the whole medical mission. But when he returned home to replace Tatae waiting, he realised how he couldn’t live a healthy, meaningful life without her. There was much to be thankful for. His wife was alive, thanks to timely, modern intervention. Should not the others enjoy the same benefits?

A pot was boiling for a mug of his favourite tea, and, as Tatae hugged him close, their humble hut smelled like home.