by Leah Fleming
Fritha turned her sunburnt face southwards to the sight of the oxen plodding forward, the iron plough biting into the earth, cutting neat strips across the cleared earth, the ridge made by the furrow deep and straight. The two men must work from dawn to dark to finish their ploughing if they were all to survive to next summer. Each night they returned with sweat like dew on their foreheads, ready only to eat, drink from the last of the mead cask and sleep.
Fritha woke every night before dawn, creeping out to sit with her loneliness by her spring. It gave her comfort to be there away from Lull who crooned over her newborn, suckling her contentedly whenever she stirred. It was strange that such a feeble maid had birthed so easily and brought forth such a strong baby with sturdy plump limbs, showing that her milk was rich enough.
There was no one but the deaf spirit of the well to hear Fritha’s woes. She sat under the grove of high trees pouring out her troubled thoughts on to the water. Sorrows bound her heart tightly like the hoops of a cask. Only here could she clasp and kiss her children, rest their heads on her knee as in the olden days when they were all together in the wagon.
As each moon set and each sun rose slowly over the forest, as deep shadows lifted, she wept for the pain to go away, for the earth to swallow her into itself as it had done her bairns. How she longed to be suckling her own babe at the breast again. The moon blood had never returned since Ran was birthed and now she feared she was dried up inside, as barren as thin soil. Only the moon blood brought a quickening in the belly and the swelling of new life.
She fingered her necklace of wooden beads, tearing at the leather thong to throw it away. What use had it been to her, bringing only bad luck and foul deeds? Her grandmother swore by the power of the peony charm but something stronger had taken away its strength to protect and now it would shrivel the soil, kill the growing things. They would all starve or die of the swamp fever.
Only then did she recall Grandmother’s words: ‘All things pass, so may this.’ But would this feeling ever pass from her? It was like a weed which bound itself around berry bushes and blossom, sucking out the strength and goodness. Sitting here in the dark time when wild beasts lurked she felt like the sad-minded woman whose sufferings were endless in the minstrel’s song. All things pass, so may this… How could she ever forget her own flesh and blood or stop her search for them in the wild wood? Would it ever be bearable?
But if she were to defend them all against the dark ones she would have to bestir herself, take heed of the other advice her old grandmother had given many times: ‘Nothing grows from nothing. You must bless your labours, honour the earth, sprinkle it with water and blood for it to yield up its strength to your stock and flavour to your food.’ A blessing of words and deeds, that was what she must offer if they were to survive. Hilde must live, thrive and multiply, if the loss of her own children was to be borne.
Fritha kicked her feet in the cold water, splashing away the dust and grime from between her toes. Her skin was like tanned hide, dark and tough as good feet should be, strong soles without blisters. I must grow with my plantings, feed them all well. For the first time in weeks she could face the dawn with determination and resolve. This now was her piece of the middle earth; she would make it rich with fruit and grain. Only then did she notice the blossom on the hedgerows, the white of the may bending its branches like snow, the carpet of daisies and dandelions, buttercups and lady’s smock, the pink dog roses peeking through the scrub and the humming of the bees about their morning business. The seasons went their way whatever a woman’s suffering but here she would stay put, just in case…
*
Baggi woke with a start, feeling no body beside him warming his backside. Fritha was like a shadow, rising silently early each morning. He knew where she would be sitting and would not disturb her sorrowing. He had his own worries, feeling a frown as deep as a furrow across his brow. It was all going too well. Not, of course, the terrible loss of his bairns but Fritha mourned that enough for the two of them. Men must keep busy, not dwell over their troubles. They could not talk of it together. There was a high wall between them now and neither would tear it down. For Baggi it was a shield to hide behind so that he could get on with sowing, hoeing and keeping the livestock safe.
It was all going too well, though. He was having to admit that the site was good and Beorn right for once. The soil was clay mixed with sand and the rich loam of season upon season of rotted leaves. Virgin soil of the best quality. As long as the rains came regularly his plantings would survive. Yet still Baggi felt uneasy. Land such as this was often cleared for common grazing, on which to raise sheep and cows. The edge of the deep forest offered the advantages of shade and rich leaf mould as well as protection from the wind. Why had no one ever cleared it before? Surely they were not the first to pass over the ford and see its possibilities?
Did the land belong to the Kings of Mercia? To a bishop or earldorman, some thane in his great hall? Or was it land once tilled, now overgrown and forgotten, ripe for exploitation by young peasants like themselves? Was it part of the ancient hunting forest where the nobles chased the deer and boar? If so they were already trespassers and could all be hanged. He was sure at first that some thane’s reeve would ride up one day and demand an explanation, rent, services and tithes for the honour of being permitted to better the land. But he had seen no one but the hermit and when they had returned to ask more of the holy man, his cell was abandoned and deserted. Baggi even wondered if he had dreamt their encounter on that fateful day.
What they needed was a thane, a shield protector, someone to replace the kinfolk they’d left behind. One lonely homestead, a few kine and ploughed fields could easily be destroyed by raiders, their harvest stolen and their wives carried away as slaves. He argued to Beorn that thanes in wild lands must be eager to find new settlers for their rough scrublands. The two of them had just seized an opportunity, being freemen not runaway slaves, but had no proof of their status only their own word.
This forest was so vast you could walk for days and nights and never see another clearing. They were treading over no one’s hearth, and surely doing the owner a liege man’s service by their careful husbandry? He could not bear to think that all this would go to waste for the want of somebody’s permission.
Beorn thought him daft even to think of going looking for a thane. ‘We can’t pay rent or do services yet. There’s too much to do here as it is.’ They nearly came to blows over the matter in the heat of the midday sun.
Baggi sometimes sensed uneasily that they were being watched from a distance and that their presence was reported back to someone. They were too close to the thin edge of the forest to go unnoticed. What if they did all the work and then the cleared land was confiscated or given to someone else while they were branded thieves or hanged for their efforts? Better to be safe now than sorry later.
Somehow he would have to make it his task to seek out the owner and plead his case. He would have to journey back to the Minster in the swamp where the monks prayed in the clearing they called the ‘Field of Martyrs’. He was sure he would find an answer there. But how to convince his brother it was the right way to go about things was another matter. Beorn could be as stubborn as an ass when the wind was in the right direction. Baggi would have to bide his time and seize the moment.
*
Lull and Beorn stood in the shadows. The baby had been restless, crying hard, and would not be shushed until they walked her up and down in the moonlight. It was then that they noticed Fritha, moving in her kale patch, etched naked against the midsummer moonlight. She was bending over, busying herself. She seemed to be digging in the dark.
‘What’s the crazy woman doing now?’ Baggi joined them, watching her antics with concern.
‘She’s digging for something or else burying it. We can’t see for sure. Tell her to come inside and rest. Time enough to delve and hoe when it’s daylight,’ whispered Beorn, shaking his head in amusement.
‘Shush! Don
’t disturb her. She has a purpose. Don’t laugh at her,’ said Lull, hugging her baby. ‘Who knows what I would do if I lost my bairn? Let her be. Whatever it is, she’s doing no harm. She likes the old ways and the old charms. Come, inside, the baby is asleep now.’
They crept back into the hut silently but Baggi’s heart was bursting with sadness. Why did his woman have to be so secretive, so odd, so silent? What on earth was she doing out there in the dark? Something she didn’t want them to see, one of her granny’s old tricks, some conjury or witchcraft? He should go out and stop her now. But Baggi sank back on to the ferns and straw. He hadn’t the stomach to order her about. One look from those sad black eyes was deterrent enough. He was the slaughterer of Wyn and Ran. How could a father ever forget that?
*
First she dug up four sods from the corners of the growing patch and then Fritha carefully began to pinch out the top shoots from plants coming up, gathering green herbs, cabbage leaves, radishes, everything except burdock – she must not gather any of that. Next she placed some greenshoots in each hole, bits of each in turn. She could not add oil or honey or yeast yet for there was none to spare but a beaker of goat’s milk was dropped in for good measure. A sprinkling of precious rock salt, hairs from the beasts and some from her own head too, peony seeds, fennel seeds, all fell on to the pile and as she walked from corner to corner she prayed the old prayer:
Eastward I stand and pray for your mercy.
Guardian of the heavens, Earth and sky.
Raise crops for us,
Fill the fields for us,
Let our seed double,
Fill this patch with food for all.
In the sprinkling of blood and water
Guard against witchcraft and foul deeds,
Make this land fruitful forever.
Slowly she paced around the tilled ground, sprinkling spring water into the holes, then carefully dug back the soil. Fritha was doing her best, following the old charm, and prayed she had missed nothing out, nothing important which might spoil the spell. If Baggi and Beorn would bless their plough and mattock, axe and hoe, then the meadows would surely flourish with pasture and the crops never fail. Just for good measure, though, she placed four cross sticks on top of the holes, hoping the Christian Gods, Father, Son and Holy Ghost, would add their power to the spell. She promised that when the harvest time came around she would bake a loaf filled with all the grain seeds she could muster and bury it under the ground as a thanksgiving. You had to put back what you take out, or crops fail. For the next three nights she must repeat the prayer at each corner or the charm would not be strong enough to see them through the winter.
Fritha returned to the hut and crept back to Baggi’s side. For the first time in many moons she would sleep until first light and wake with no tears running down her cheeks. Yet she could sense danger on the wind. Why was the forest alive with the screeches of birds disturbed from their roosts? She thought she could scent woodsmoke on the air, the sound of hooves thundering through the bracken. Danger on the way! She could hear the sound of hounds somewhere to the west of the clearing. Raiders were coursing through the forest in search of plunder.
Wake up!’ She tugged at Baggi’s bare arm and kicked him. ‘Wake up! All of you… Take the bairn to the bear pit… Can’t you hear them? Hurry before we’re roasted alive. I smell fire!’
Strangers
The settlers peered out cautiously from the wolf pit, lifting up the bracken to see if the raiders were gone. Lull crouched over Hilde to protect her and silence her crying. Beorn was already climbing out to see what havoc the robbers had left. They had stayed all night in the foul hole in the ground, terrified to move for fear of capture or worse. They stood up and stretched themselves, damp, chilled and sickened by the sight before them.
‘Look at the hut, it’s just a pile of ashes! All that work…’ Beorn kicked the burning embers in disgust.
‘But at least we weren’t all roasted inside it. Thanks to Fritha we’re safe.’
Baggi touched his wife’s arm gently. How could he confess to nearly beating her black and blue for yanking him out of his bed, disturbing his slumbers?
Scattered around them were the feathered corpses of the hens. It looked as if a fox had run amok in their pen. The goats were scattered and their kids gone, the hut torched and the crops trampled over, but Fritha’s kale patch stood unscathed; the rows of vegetables upright and still fit for the pot. Thanks to her sorcery she had heard hooves and night noise close by, allowing them to escape until the danger had passed. They owed her their lives and Baggi was proud of her. He would never smirk at her spells again, even if the sight of her testing the soil with her bare bum still made him roar with laughter.
‘Shush! Someone’s coming again! Look, the clearing…’ cried Fritha in alarm. They all hid as best they could to see whether the raiders had left stragglers to mop up. A bedraggled girl crept out, examined the devastation, saw the kale patch and started to gather plants into her skirt.
‘Hey, you! Where do you think you’re going with my greens!’ yelled Fritha, storming from her cover like a wild woman. The girl stepped back, caught in her thieving.
‘I thought this hut was deserted, that you were killed or fled from the Danes. We’re lost and in need of food. I was sent to gather what I could…’ No more than a youngster, she dropped the plants at the sight of four dirty faces, four angry bodies, lined up against her. Fritha snatched them back but seeing that the young girl was afraid, softened her voice. ‘Who are you then, wandering alone in the forest? Did they leave you behind?’
She fingered the cloth of the girl’s gown in all its wondrous colours, seeing the bright scarlet of her leather boots and her red-gold braids bound with copper wire, the soft tissue veil edged with gold though torn and stained. This was no peasant woman.
‘I am the Lady Ludmilla, daughter of Thane Wulfrun of the Tamworthig… my churl is not far away. We lost our horses and fled into the forest to escape the raiders yester eve. The tracks are afire from river to forest with Dane men from the Peak Lands. I’m much afeared that all my kin were lost on our journey to Thane Guthrie’s hall. I have never been in such a great forest and you are the first woodfolk I have met. I am at your mercy, but pray don’t harm me. My father will reward all who come to my aid. Who is your liege lord here?’
Ludmilla was shaking. She had never been so close to peasants before; such bedraggled wild woodfolk with fiercesome faces.
Her voice was cultured in an accent it was hard for Baggi to understand but he recognised her fear of them.
‘You’re welcome to rest by our fire. That’s all the devils have left us, as you see. We too escaped into the wood. They’ve killed and stolen our stock, our harvest is not yet ready and much is destroyed, but what we have we will share.’
‘Who is the Hlaford, the breadkeeper, in this forest?’ asked the lady again.
‘We’re new to this homestead and as yet have come across no lord. Naught but travellers such as yourself.’
‘So you’ve no protector to help you with your losses?’
‘No! And no one to make us do services or pay rent either. We stand or fall by our own efforts,’ Beorn was quick to add. Ludmilla smiled. She could not understand a word he was saying; his dialect was lilting and thick, not a Mercian sound.
‘Come,’ said Fritha gently, ‘sit by the spring and take some water. It has been a long night for all of us. You will not be used to such humble and hardy people as we. We fled to escape from warring chieftains and here we are back in the middle of it again.’ She brought Lull and her baby to show to the lady.
‘See – eyes like bluebells and sturdy limbs, Hilde should do well,’ Lull mumbled to the lady who was unused to such small creatures, backing away awkwardly from the child. Lull gazed in awe at her tattered gown. ‘This cloth is so soft and the threads of gold embroidered so richly.’
Fritha ventured to finger it softly, ‘I’ve never seen such colours nor touched anyth
ing so beautiful. Like the petals of a silken rose I seen once on a wreath in the old church.’
‘It was to have been my betrothal gown but now it is ruined,’ said Ludmilla, brushing it down and examining the mud stains tearfully. She fingered the clasp of her leather belt with long nails as sharp as eagle’s claws. Bracelets jangled at her wrists and she wore a necklet of twisted gold. Fritha and Lull stared in wonder at her adornments.
‘Is that so, you are to be wed?’ The women smiled.
Suddenly Lady Ludmilla found herself weeping with tiredness and disappointment, telling them about the old thane, Guthrie, a friend of her father, to whom she was promised, her reluctance to wed him, and then the terrible journey and fear that her poor brother Edgar was captured or slain. Then she noticed that the shadows were deepening and the sun had long passed overhead. ‘My churl, Osbald, will be waiting for me downstream where we hid. I am too tired to walk back. My servant will think me dead and go on without me. What should I do?’
‘Baggi will go and tell him you are safe with us here. He can join us. Perhaps he’ll help us in the fields and we’ll cook something in the pot. Tomorrow you can return. Rest by the spring for now.’
Fritha could see that the girl was quite faint with hunger and fear. The pot would have to feed them all somehow.
Later, as the sun set behind the oak forest, the weary group sat around the firestones as they had done on the very first night of their arrival. The two strangers sat alongside them, sipping meagre broth from a wooden bowl in their turn. It was the only utensil left beside Fritha’s bucket. Osbald offered his helmet to his lady to sup from but she turned up her nose at the smell of his damp sweaty hair. He boasted about the Great Hall at Tamworthig while his lady nodded off, full of ale from the cask. This rescue was turning into an adventure now, but soon the maid must face her father and the fate awaiting her.
