Chapter Two
The Villa
So, Grettir and Lilla brought my uncle’s body home and this was the story that Lilla told my family. It was the year my people captured Eoforwic, when my people became a kingdom. Today, churchmen would call it 580 Anno Domini. I knew it − and still know it − as the year I was born.
Lilla once told me that he became a bard and a poet for purely selfish reasons. It was not to satisfy the demands of a king or his audience, pleasing though that might be, but because he wanted men to never forget him. After he died, he wanted men to say with pride that they heard him speak. Maybe then, if their children listened with awe and envy when they repeated tales Lilla had once told them, well then he would rest content.
I also want men to remember me. It is why, having learned in my later years to read and write, I am setting my story down so that others may read it when I’m gone. I want them to remember the man I was, the kings I have followed and the friends who lived through these times with me. These years were chaotic, dark and bloody. It seems unfair to me − after all we went through − that no one would know our names twenty years after we had died. But it was we who made this age possible: this literate golden age of the mighty Kingdom of Northumbria with its thriving cities, its fortresses, its churches and its books.
Golden ages must begin somewhere though and mine started not in a palace, church or monastery, but in a crumbling stone structure that my family called ‘The Villa’. It stood on a small hill and was surrounded by a large barn, the smoking house, animal pens and an orchard. Beyond these were our fields where we grew barley, wheat and rye and where the cattle grazed.
West of the Villa, was the settlement of Cerdham − named after my grandfather actually − but we all called it ‘The Village’, and it was where the folk who worked our fields lived. My friends lived there too.
At the age of seven, my friends − Cuthbert and Eduard − were a little in awe of the Villa, perhaps even afraid of it. One night after supper, the three of us were lazing about in the orchard enjoying the warm summer evening, whilst playing a game of Tables with stones on a board carved from a plank of wood. I asked them what it was about the building that worried them.
“I reckon it’s haunted, or maybe magic,” replied Eduard as he moved a warrior stone towards the centre of the board, trapping one of Cuthbert’s pieces. He chortled and removed it from play. Cuthbert glared at him for a moment, before he answered me.
“I’ve been all around the valley and I have not seen another house like it,” he said, his gaze flicking towards the Villa. The slate tiles on the sloping roof were just visible between the apple trees.
“What’s so odd about it?” I asked.
Eduard now also stared at the house, “I suppose it’s because it is made of stone, Cerdic. My father says that none of our people know how to make things out of stone. My house and Cuthbert’s … in fact all the villagers live in wooden huts. And it’s ... so huge. It doesn’t feel right, somehow. Syngred, the miller told me that these houses were built by giants.”
Eduard’s words disturbed me. Since my earliest memory I had always lived there. I had grown up happy with the certainty, which all children share, that the way they have been raised was the right way. Now, at the age of seven, I began to wonder about that certainty and to question it.
Later that same evening, as we sat under the veranda and watched the sun go down behind the trees beyond the village, I asked my father how long we had lived in the Villa.
“You were born here, son, as was I, your brother and sisters, but your grandfather came here long ago and took the land for himself,” he answered as he lifted a cup of ale to his lips, gulped at it and then leant back against the wall of the house.
So then, all my family had been born in the Villa: Cuthwine, my brother who was six years my elder; my two sisters, Sunniva − older than me by three years − and little Mildrith who was born the year after me. This, though, was the first time I had heard this story about my grandfather.
“Took the farm?” I asked. “Do you mean he was a warrior?” My mind filled with images from the stories of the bards and poets: stories of heroes fighting demons and monsters with spear and blade. Other stories were told of how our people had come from a country across the sea to conquer this land and make it our own.
My father smiled and the skin around his blue eyes wrinkled as he did.
“No, he was no great hero and did not come here to bravely challenge the previous warlord to single combat.”
He finished his ale and then looked mournfully into his tankard.
“In truth, he was a farmer. He moved west when the land was conquered from the Welsh. These fields and buildings were abandoned. Your grandfather and grandmother arrived with my older brother and a dozen hired men. Most of the valley’s buildings had been burnt and destroyed. The Villa though, being stone, had survived the fire almost unharmed.”
Getting to his feet my father walked to the end of the veranda and then turned to look north, where the shadowy outlines of hills could be seen. On one of them, my grandfather had been buried two winters before. I was just old enough to remember the sombre occasion, though I barely understood what death meant then.
“My father could see the land was good and your grandmother used to say he took one look at the Villa and she could tell by the eager expression in his eyes that he had dreams of being a lord in his own great house,” he continued, bringing me back to the present. “He moved in immediately. Soon, his men had repaired the damaged fields and built dwellings for themselves and their families.”
“So, if he did not build the Villa, who did?” I asked.
My father turned and looked back at me before answering.
“I don't really know − I’m a farmer, not a poet − so you’ll have to ask Lilla, or perhaps Caerfydd: he sometimes tells tales of his people and the Romans. Why not ask him, Cerdic − but not tonight. Now it’s time for you to go to bed,” he added, one hand tussling my knotted blond hair. Then he gave me a slap on the behind and sent me inside.
Caerfydd was Welsh and one of our slaves. The next day, I found him in the kitchen as he and his wife were grinding barley in a hand quern to make flour. He poured the flour into a crock bowl, added fat, water, salt and finally sourdough. As he rolled the dough and cut it into loaves, I asked him if he knew who had built the Villa.
He looked at me for a moment, perhaps surprised I was interested.
“Well Master Cerdic, that was the Romans,” he replied as he opened the door to the bread oven.
“The Romans; my father talked about them last night. They ruled the land before King Aelle, didn’t they?” I sat down on a stool and watched as he checked the heat in the oven.
“Oh long before, Master. The Romans conquered my people five − maybe six hundred years ago. Their soldiers and traders lived here and built many buildings, not just this one. They built cities too – like Eoforwic - and beyond it a great wall to keep the Picts out.”
I had heard of the Wall. Lilla the poet had talked of it in a thrilling tale of other Angles battling the barbarians beyond it. Caerfydd’s mention of Eoforwic had also excited me.
“I would like to see a city one day. Perhaps, this year, Father will take me with him to market in Eoforwic,” I said. Then I asked something that had just occurred to me. “Tell me, Caerfydd, why are you here and not in the West where the Welsh live?”
At this question, Caerfydd blinked and his face darkened. The Welshman did not answer immediately, but he frowned as he appeared to think carefully about what he was going to say.
“All this land was ours once,” he said at last. “When the Romans left, your people came across the sea. In time you conquered our land and drove us west.”
He paused again and fixed me with an intense stare from beneath his black eyebrows.
“My father’s grandfather owned this Villa actually, Master,” he said, his voice suddenly defiant: challenging e
ven. Then he looked down at the bread and continued to knead it.
“When the Angles came, all my family were killed, but my grandmother and my father survived by hiding in the hills. A few others survived as well, including Gwen’s grandparents,” he nodded at his wife. “When your grandfather came, he was strong and we were weak. We submitted to him and he was...,” his lips twitched slightly, “kind and at least he did not kill us, but allowed us to live and work for him.”
I heard a snorting laugh coming from behind me and saw that Aedann, Caerfydd’s son, was sitting on the floor against the wall. He was a lad of about my age, but we had never been friends. After all, he was a slave and I was the Master’s son. He was Welsh too and my friends and I were Angles. Aedann said something in his own language and Caerfydd replied with a few harsh sounding Welsh words. The dark-haired boy scowled and then he turned to stare with undisguised hostility at me and I finally realised that I was treading on dangerous ground.
“Do you not hate us, for what we have done to you?” I asked Caerfydd, quietly. I had never really thought about our conquest of this land from the perspective of the Welsh who had lived here before us. To a seven-year-old, the stories of war and victory seem magical and inspiring. For a moment, I had an image of Deiran axes and spears striking Caerfydd and his family down and found that I did not like the thought.
Caerfydd stopped kneading the next batch of dough and considered my question.
“There are many who do, Master, I will not lie. There are others who say it was the will of God as punishment for my ancestors straying from obedience to Him.”
He shrugged and then punched the dough again.
“I cannot change what has been. Your grandfather and your father have cared for us and they are not harsh masters. I'm too old to hold onto hatred, so I accept my life and try to teach my family to accept theirs,” he added, staring at his son. Aedann’s eyes glittered darkly and I wondered just how well the boy actually did accept his fate.
“Now, Master,” Caerfydd went on, “I really must get to my work or your mother may well be harsh to me, after all,” he said, slamming the dough down hard onto the table.
I left him to his work and went out to find Edwin and Cuthbert, taking with me a freshly baked piece of bread I had hidden under my tunic.
The Villa was always a crowded place in the autumn for it was harvest time and the outhouses, barns and rooms buzzed with the constant activities of the estate workers gathering the bounty from our fields. Corn, wheat, maize and barley were brought to the great barn, where they were threshed to separate the grains and then ground to make the flour we needed. Beans, peas and herbs were picked and then laid out to dry in the autumnal sun on the stone veranda that faced south. Mushrooms were gathered, threaded together on a string and hung up like a necklace above the fire in the kitchen.
Apples and pears grew in the orchard, nearby hedges grew berries and behind the barn, there was a large plum tree. All this fruit was collected. Some of it was sliced and left to dry alongside the mushrooms. Other fruit was boiled and the mush poured into crock pots whose lids were sealed with honey and tied on.
One of the outhouses was used as a slaughter house. Here, the pigs, cows and sheep were dispatched with a blow to the head and then the carcasses were roasted or boiled before being suspended from the wooden beams of the smoke house from where the smell of the smoke mingled with that of cheeses, bacon, roast lamb and boiled ham.
When all the work was done, my father always summoned the farm hands and their families to a great feast in the barn, to celebrate and give thanks to the gods for the harvest. Wooden planks were placed between barrels as tables, and other barrels and boxes made do as chairs.
It was only on these special feast days that he would dress in his richest and finest clothes and only on these few days in the year that he would wear the sword. This was not just any sword: it was always one in particular. It was a beautiful blade fashioned by the best weapon-smith in Wicstun. My father had never fought with it, but it once belonged to my uncle, who had, and my father was immensely proud of it. I longed to hold it and feel its weight in my hand, but so far he had never let me.
When all was ready, my father stood at the door of the barn and called everyone to table by blowing a great ox horn. There would be fine white bread − not the rough brown stuff we usually ate − as well as smoked cheese, followed by goose which had been boiled in a floured bag with butter and herbs and hung in a cauldron. Slices of this were served with strawberry sauce. Roasted beef, marinated in vinegar, was delicious and I think my favourite. There was also mead and ale and for the sweet-toothed, some boiled fruit and whey.
Then, having eaten our fill and feeling very relaxed through drink, we pushed the tables back and space was made for a juggler. Some years, a small party of musicians would come with horn, lyre, or drums. Or maybe there would be the asking of riddles. Finally, when night had fallen, a poet would stand up. The candles and braziers cast a flickering light on his face and raised shadows, which would play tricks on the eyes − and the mind.
Then, he would tell his stories: stories of the gods Woden and Thor; stories of the wars with the Welsh; stories of great warriors hunting fell beasts and stories of the world beyond our valley and the lands across the sea.
In my seventh year, the bard Lilla came. He was by then about twenty-five and tall, lithe and agile, with sharp blue eyes and blond hair. He had clever fingers that he sometimes used to play tricks and perform magic with. I remember once, when I was much younger, I had been shocked when he produced a dozen coins from my nose and dropped them into a bucket.
This year, Lilla stood in front of the fire and began his tale. As ever, his speech was formal: the high language of bards and poets.
“I come to you from the councils of the great and the mighty. Only a week ago, I feasted with King Firebrand of Bernicia in his royal hall of Yeavering and joyful and merry was that feast. For, I am happy to relate to you, that the noble king has this very year defeated a great host of Welsh warriors and shown that even the feared and mighty Urien of Rheged can be overcome. English point and English edge can sing their grim song, just as well as the Welsh.”
Lilla paused, as we cheered the news that our fellow English kingdom to the north had won a battle. I turned to my father and asked him to explain what point and edge were.
“That’s a poetic way of talking about spears and swords or axes − points and edges, you see?” he explained and took another draught of ale.
I nodded and turned back to listen to Lilla.
“Truly this was a great deliverance. For many seasons, our cousins to the north have been sore pressed and forced back by Urien the great king of the terrible land of Rheged across the mountains. From that dread realm a huge army came forth and even the royal hall of Yeavering had fallen. Indeed, for some days, the brave Angles were besieged in the island of Lindisfarne; where Firebrand’s ancestors first stepped on the shores of Britannia.”
I glanced at Eduard and Cuthbert and saw that they were intent on the story. I knew that tomorrow we would fight the battle Lilla was describing, in the orchard or the great barn with our wooden swords.
Lilla went on.
“Forward came the host of the enemy to the causeway. And there stood Firebrand with his best and bravest warriors. They blocked the way forward, denying passage to the foe. The brave King drew his sword and pointed at Urien and called out to him.
“‘Come no nearer, viper. I tire of retreat. I will die here or I will prevail here,’ he said and behind him his men gave a great shout and hammered their spears against their shields.”
In the barn, the villagers cheered at this bravado and hammered their cups on the tables. Lilla smiled at this reaction and waited until the noise died down, before going on.
“Urien jeered at the threat and replied, ‘Out of my way, little man, little king. I have conquered all before me and killed many kings of your race and those of many other
s besides. This scrap of land you hide on is all that remains of your kingdom. Like a man extinguishing a candle before he retires a bed, will I snuff out this little flame.’
“At these words, the host of the enemy rushed forward against the causeway. Battle was joined. Swords hammered on shields. Fated men fell on either side to lie dying. Time and time again, as the tides wash upon the shore, Urien and his army charged forth against the desperate defenders ...”
I listened, entranced, to the tale. The crackling of the fire and the dancing of the shadows it created seemed to enhance the story. Once again, I was swept along with the words.
“… yet, all appeared lost: the host was soon to overcome the brave Angles. Even Firebrand could not hold the enemy, it seemed. Urien shouted in joy at his victory and closed in for the kill. Fate, though, cannot be denied and fate that day called for Urien. Firebrand struck and Urien fell dying, into the sea …”
I did not understand all that was said, but I knew that our English lands, here in Deira and those to the north in Bernicia, were vulnerable. For years the powerful Urien leading his armies from the West had threatened to push us back into the sea and now, at last, he was dead. So, to my seven-year-old mind, as well as to the cheering villagers around me, Firebrand was a magnificent, glorious hero and the greatest man of our times.
Soon, the food and warmth started to make me drowsy. I had just heard Lilla tell us how finally the Welsh had been routed and then fled, pursued by the Bernician king, before I fell into a comfortable sleep, interrupted by dreams of battle.
Throughout all of them, I saw the brave, vengeful and terrible image of the warrior king, Firebrand, slaying his foes: and a great longing to be like him came over me.