Chapter Four
Lilla Returns
That incident happened in the autumn of my sixteenth year and soon afterwards it was time to pay the Feorm again. I was strong enough to go with my father alone this time, leaving Cuthwine at the Villa. Wicstun was familiar territory by now and once the work was done, knowing that Father and Wallace would spend some considerable time talking about gossip and news, I wandered around the town in the rain stopping at the blacksmith, as I always did, to look at his swords and axes.
Grothir, the blacksmith, nodded as I entered and let me examine a blade. Whenever I visited, it was always one sword above all that attracted me: the same one, in fact, on which I had once burnt my fingers. He had used the finest metals and ores and taken the greatest of care in its creation; forging a weapon of dark-coloured steel with highlights of bright gold and bronze on its guard and grip, which made it a thing of beauty. As such, it was expensive and even though years had passed since its making, he had not yet sold it and I hoped he never would; not until I was ready for it. Narrower, but longer than my uncle’s sword, its balance and elegance were perfect. Grothir let me take a few practice swings all the time wishing, as I always did, that I could afford to buy it and longing for the day when I might use it in battle.
I was just putting the sword back on its rack, when I felt the hairs prickle on the back of my neck and I sensed that I was being watched. Turning round I saw, lurking in an alleyway across the road, the dark-haired lad who had watched me from the shadows each time we visited Eanfled. He had grown since last year, but not quite as much as I. His hair was more a dark chestnut brown. His shoulders were not as broad and his arms not as muscular as mine, yet there was something of the wolf about him as he stood lightly on his feet, seemingly ready to pounce. I took a step towards him, wanting to ask who he was and what he wanted, when my father stuck his head out of Wallace’s hall and called me over. As I ran across the street, I glanced back at the alleyway − but the boy had gone.
My father and Wallace had been drinking and Wallace offered me some ale as I came in. The hall was dimly lit from what little light penetrated from the door or the smoke hole in the high roof, but the gloom was made more cheerful by a welcoming fire burning in the central hearth. The air outside was damp and I happily took the offered drink then sat close to the fire to dry off.
“Well, that’s the last of those Welsh rabble we’ll hear about, you mark my words,” Wallace was saying, as he topped up my father’s goblet and then mine from a jug of ale. I sipped some of the strong brew and sat staring absently into the flames. I was sullen and quiet, still bothered by what had happened to Aedann a few days before and also wondering what problem this brown-haired lad seemed to have with me.
“This is good beer, Lord Wallace,” my father said. “What’s that you were saying, Lord?”
“It’s just what I hear,” Wallace replied. “A wool merchant from the mountains passed this way last week and he told me that he heard it from a Welshman, who spoke to Aneirin himself.”
“Aneirin?” said my father, in an awed tone.
Even I had heard of the poet and bard Aneirin. He was Welsh and still young, but Lilla said he was a genius. I’d had to ask what that meant and Lilla had said it was someone highly and uniquely talented, unlike me. Aneirin travelled the Welsh kingdoms west of the Pennines: Strathclyde, Gwyneth and Urien’s Rheged. I had heard he even came east once to Elmet, our neighbour and the only Welsh land on our side of the mountains.
“So, what I hear is,” Wallace slurred his words and then belched, “... what I hear is that Firebrand has led his army out of Bernicia and gone into Rheged. Killed loads of Welshmen. Urien’s son − er, wot’s his name?”
“Owain,” I said, stories of battle bringing me back to the conversation. Owain had succeeded his father and was now King in Rheged.
Wallace beamed at me like I had won a prize.
“That’s the chap. Anyway, wot’s his name is trying to get the Welsh together again into an army after most of them got killed a few years back up north. What I heard is, he ain’t doing very well and Firebrand is looking to finish him off,” Wallace concluded, before sliding down off his chair and starting to snore.
My father winked at me and slurped some more beer.
When we got home, I found Eduard and Cuthbert out in the orchard. Cuthbert was trying to teach Eduard how to shoot a bow. Eduard could never get the idea. The problem was that although he was fearsomely strong, he was clumsy and a bit of an oaf really and he could not manage to get the hang of aiming it. Arrows would fly out in random directions. As I approached, I heard a twang and then Cuthbert screamed at me to drop. I did so and felt the arrow shaft pass by my ear.
Standing back up I glared at my big friend, who looked back at me aghast; his face pale and his hands shaking.
“Sorry, Cerdic,” he said at last, then passing the bow rather sheepishly to Cuthbert added, “look, you'd better have this, Cuth. I don’t think I'll ever quite get it.” Cuthbert was also shaking gently and he, still staring at me, just nodded.
“Anyway, forget about all that and let me tell you about Firebrand …”
So this was how it was. The three of us soaked up any news of war and battle like a sponge. More than that, we were of an age when we needed heroes. Firebrand might be Bernician, but he was still English − my race − and he had defeated an overwhelming army of Welsh in a last ditch battle to defend a tiny spit of land, which was all that remained of his kingdom. He was then my father’s age and fearsomely strong. Rumours spread that he was merciless in battle. Over the following years he pursued his enemies with an almost holy zeal. No Bernician opposed him. He unified the Anglo-Saxon kingdom and forged a powerful army, which he now led to ravage the lands of Rheged.
My friends laughed and cheered at the story I told them, then we got the wooden swords and shields and practised a little. Suddenly, I became aware we were not alone. Aedann was sitting on a fence nearby watching us and we fell silent, although we had no reason to. We were free men and in my case, I was the son of the Lord, whilst he was just a slave, and yet we felt awkward near him.
“Aedann …” I said, but was then at a loss, not knowing what to say.
It was Aedann who broke the silence. “I heard what you were talking about − about Firebrand and Owain.”
“That’s right, Firebrand is going to kill Owain and defeat the Welsh for good,” I stared at him.
Aedann actually laughed. It was the first time I could recall him doing so. Then, he boldly walked forward and picked up one of the practice swords and examined it. Eduard looked darkly at him. Slaves were not allowed swords and it seemed wrong somehow for him to pick up even a wooden one.
Suddenly he swung the sword round and pointed at my throat.
“Owain will kill Firebrand and then come and kill every Angle between the mountains and the sea. Then I will be Lord of the Villa,” he said and smiled. He was teasing us, goading us with words he knew would challenge us. I looked at my friends and winked at them and as one we brought our swords up and lunged at Aedann.
Aedann had not been trained alongside us, of course, but he was fast on his feet and moved to the side and caught, of all people, Cuthbert, a clip on the back of the head and laughed as he trotted past.
“See what I mean; you English are a sorry lot if an untrained slave can beat you.”
Eduard bellowed at that and charged the Welsh boy, who slipped and fell but, in so doing, dodged my friend who ended up floundering in a ditch. Now, it was my turn. Aedann got back to his feet, picked up his sword and eyed me warily, weighing up this new opponent. We circled each other, both looking for that chance opening or error to seize upon.
He looked the part, I’ll give him that. Not allowed to train in warfare as we had, had he spent lonely hours watching us, listening to Grettir and taking it all in? Unnoticed, even ignored, had he picked this up, just by himself? If so, he was a fast learner.
Aedann move
d first, lunging with his sword at my throat. I flinched back and then brought my sword up to block the move. Aedann was feinting, however, and recovered his balance faster than me and now angled his blade down towards my belly.
Yes, Aedann was good, but I still knew a thing or two. I twisted violently and let Aedann’s momentum carry him by, fetching him a sharp tap on the backside as he passed. Eduard howled with laughter, as the slave ended up on his knees.
“Enough!” bellowed a voice from behind me. I did not need to look to know it was Grettir. I looked anyway and saw that he was not staring at me, but at Aedann and with eyes that now blazed with anger. We all fell silent and I could feel the gloom descend, like the feeling in the air when a thunderstorm closes in.
“So, what is going on, boy?” he said to Aedann. “Are you bothering your betters? Need I get the birch again − or the noose?”
He emphasised the last word by slapping the sword out of Aedann’s hand. I knew Grettir and how much he valued tradition and custom. My father felt the same way. I was treading on thin ice, but I did what I should have done before − I spoke out for Aedann.
“Aedann is helping us train, Grettir. He’s pretty good and could make a fine warrior, given the chance.”
Grettir’s eyebrows bristled like the fur on the back of an agitated cat.
“That is not what is done; you know that, Master Cerdic!”
My heart was pounding from something close to terror, but I knew that what I did next was critical.
“That is not for you to tell me. If I say it can be done; then it can!”
Grettir’s eyes bulged. I could see that inside him, tradition was fighting against itself over two opposing points of view. On the one hand he knew that a slave should never be armed and taught how to fight. On the other, I was the son of his master, Cenred of the Villa. That meant I was due respect and obedience.
He nodded, gruffly accepting what I said.
“What you say is fair enough, Master Cerdic. However,” he continued in a smug tone, “your father might have something to say about that.”
With a final glare at Aedann, he stomped off, carrying the rain clouds of gloom with him.
We waited a heartbeat and then I let out the long breath I had been holding inside me. Eduard chortled and slapped me so hard on the back that I winced.
“Cerdic my lad, that took balls; balls of bloody iron in fact!”
Cuthbert said nothing and was shaking with the same anxiety he always had around Grettir. Yet, he nodded in agreement.
Aedann was still kneeling, but he was not staring where Grettir had gone. Instead, he was looking at me and for the first time the look was not one of loathing or mockery − but gratitude.
“Thank you,” he said, as he picked himself up.
Father, of course, sent for me immediately. He told me bluntly that no slave on his land was allowed to carry weapons or become a warrior.
“That is the tradition, so that is that.”
I told him that I thought tradition was a pile of fetid horseshit, but that earned me a vicious slap across the cheek, which sent me reeling.
“Tradition is everything,” he bellowed. “It tells us who and what we are and where we come from. Tradition, honour and fate − it is all men are. Lose sight of that and we are nothing. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father,” I mumbled.
“Grettir knows all this …”
“Grettir is a bit of an old battleaxe, Father.”
“Maybe he is, but he was still impressed by you today.”
That surprised me.
“I thought he went off in a huff.”
My father nodded, laughing now.
“Oh, he was mad as a demon, but he soon calmed down. Grettir is the salt of the earth and a very good man to have on your side, but he expects someone to be in charge and giving the orders; your grandfather or uncle in the past, then your brother, me or you. He respects authority − but more than that, he demands authority. Leadership is not just a right; you must earn obedience and loyalty by taking command. Today was the first time he saw that in you and he was impressed.”
I felt myself colouring, unused as I was to compliments.
“Even so − don’t get carried away. I rule here and that means no more swords or practice for Aedann.”
“Yes, Father.”
But, maybe something of Loki was about Aedann after all and maybe some of that had rubbed off on me: Loki the trickster and deceiver of the gods. So, I knew even as I promised it, that I was lying. Loki looked down upon me and laughed as I plotted and planned.
Strange the way things go in life. Aedann had seemed to be an enemy and someone who did not want me about and I had felt that way about him. Now, Eduard, Cuthbert and I were suddenly quite fond of the boy. Only a few days before, our teasing and name calling had led to him being punished and now his name calling and challenges to us had made us want to be with him.
So, we planned ways to smuggle swords and shields out to the woods a little way from the Villa and he practised with us, despite my father forbidding this. He was good with all the weapons when he got the chance, even, much to Eduard’s chagrin, the bow. However, it was with a sword that he excelled.
We were ever watchful of Grettir and kept our eyes on the woods in case he or Father would find us. One day, I was keeping watch whilst Eduard and Aedann fought. Aedann was goading Eduard by telling him that he was Owain and Eduard was Firebrand and that soon he would be victorious. Suddenly, I saw the bushes move.
Quick as lightning, I pushed Aedann into the undergrowth close at hand and then signalled to the others to throw their swords away. We then stood, breathing quickly, our gaze fixed on the bushes. Yet no one emerged, so Eduard circled round to come at the suspicious thicket from the rear. Nothing happened for a good few minutes. Then, we heard Eduard give a load bellow and with a scream, two girls came tumbling out of the bushes: Mildrith and Aidith.
“You were spying on us!” I accused them.
Mildrith stood up and glared at me indignantly.
“No, we weren’t. We were … erm,” Mildrith replied, with some hesitation.
“Picking fruit?” suggested Aidith. Mildrith nodded vigorously.
I looked at the hazel thicket doubtfully.
“It’s midwinter and that is a hazel tree. There is no fruit anywhere.”
“Oh, that explains it then,” Aidith said, with a giggle.
“Yes, no wonder we did not find any,” Mildrith added.
“It’s a … an easy mistake to make. A … a ... anyone could make it,” Cuthbert said to my sister. She smiled back at him and I sighed. One day, my friend might get the courage to say something about his feelings for her.
Just then, the winter sun broke through the dark clouds lighting up the glade. It caught Aidith’s red hair and I felt my throat go dry. Maybe, one day, I would get the courage up as well, I thought.
With a crunching of leaves and snapping of branches, Aedann pulled himself back out of the bush.
“I would think you could give a man some warning!” he complained, spitting out holly leaves. Then, he saw Mildrith and Aidith and he smiled at my sister.
Mildrith looked surprised. Like me, she was not used to seeing him do this. After a moment, she smiled back.
“Hello, Aedann, you with the boys?”
“No!” I said, quickly.
“Yes!” said Aedann, just as quickly, striking a manly pose with the sword he carried. Mildrith giggled.
“Well, don’t let Father catch you, will you?” she said with a wink and then dragged Aidith away.
As they left, I noticed that Cuthbert was studying Aedann, his eyes narrowed and dangerous. I smiled to myself. So then, Cuthbert has a rival, I thought, and Cuthbert knew it too. Oh well, might do him some good.
Lilla came to us again at the start of the spring. He brought shocking news from distant Rheged. What Aedann had jokingly predicted, had come true.
Lilla had the
lights extinguished in the barn, save one that lit up his face and he spoke in a sombre, mournful tone.
“The Warlord, Owain, ambushed the great Firebrand in a rocky, barren land. His army was surrounded as it passed through the mountains and slain to a man. Last to die was the great warlord himself. Ten score he killed before they killed him, but die he did, pierced by many blades and arrows.”
A groan broke out across the barn as we took in what he had just said. Firebrand, the great Anglo-Saxon warlord who had kept the Welsh on the back foot for many years, was dead. The lands he had conquered and occupied, Lilla told us, had now risen up in rebellion. Bernician lords vied for power and civil war had broken out. But that war did not last long, for Firebrand had an heir. His son, Aethelfrith, was as strong and fierce as his father and had put down the rebellions and civil war with a vengeance.
The shocks of the campaigns in the North and West were felt even in the Villa. During this time, Deira remained neutral in the struggles and concentrated on assimilating the new lands King Aelle had conquered years before. However, the fighting in the North drove scores of people south. Thus, leaderless men and bandits deprived of land and livelihood came to Deira and the countryside became a dangerous place. Small groups of travellers and, in particular, traders were their prey and the people soon became afraid to travel. The King took action and called up the Fyrd − the local levy of a portion of the warriors in each district − and set them to clearing the woods and abandoned farmsteads of the bandits.
So it was that Cuthwine went off to fight. He was passing twenty-two at the time. Father gave him my uncle’s sword to carry. He left tall and proud, leading two other youths from the village and accompanied by Grettir and was gone many months. When he returned, late in the summer, he bore several scars and told stories of skirmishes and battles amongst the Wolds. Once again, my spirit burned with longing to take my place in the sagas. The Villa seemed dull indeed, compared to these strange and exciting places. In the end, the bandits had been dispersed or slain and the King discharged the Fyrd. The sword was hung up again in the Villa and we went back to daily life as farmers, expecting that peace would last.
This was not to be. When Yule time came and we feasted on roasted lamb and beef and drank the best ale and mead to stave off the winter cold, Lilla came again to stay with us. His courage rising after the victory over Bernicia, Owain of Rheged had − so Lilla had heard − been gathering an army. It was not just from Rheged over the mountains to the west, but from other Welsh lands like nearby Elmet and more distant Manau Goddodin, up towards the land of the Picts.
“For, all these are in fact one race and one people. Owain would unite them all and lead them against his enemies,” Lilla said, standing in front of the fire, so that he again cast disturbing shadows on the walls of the barn.
“I cannot say in truth who their intended enemy is,” he went on, “but my heart tells me it is we Angles he aims to attack.”
By ‘we Angles’ he meant slowly recovering Bernicia, weakened and broken by civil war or Deira, the land of farms and market towns, which had not fought a war in my lifetime: both vulnerable kingdoms. Both might struggle to raise enough spears to oppose such a horde; both were ripe for invasion.
War was coming: my heart told me that this was the last winter of my youth. Fool that I was then, I felt joy and a desperate yearning for the glory of battle. Had I known what would happen soon, I should instead have felt dread.