Let me meet with friends, stay free of foes,
In the holy hand of the Lord of Heaven,
As long as I dwell in life.
“Amen.” I sang the last word, ending on an uncertain note at odds with the charm’s bid for sureness and safety. I hung my head. Wil wouldn’t like what I’d sung—somehow I felt sure of that.
“Better, scop,” Wil announced, surprisingly. “You chose better this time. That charm is a fine offering for a pair of travelers on their first night together. But who taught you to use your voice outside?” He snorted. “I’m sitting not five paces from you, and at times I could hardly hear the tune. Do it again, boy, with some power. Sing from your chest!”
So I began again, singing lustily this time, but after just a few lines Wil stopped me.
“I didn’t say bellow, did I? There’s a difference between shouting and singing. A scop shouldn’t have to shout, unless he’s in a room of drunken oafs.”
“That happens often enough,” I muttered.
“Try once again,” Wil said, ignoring me. “Sing out strongly, but don’t yell.” I had to do it three more times while Wil sat, listening intently, fiddling with something in his hands. “Enough for tonight,” he said at last. “Go get some sleep. I’ll check the horses.”
He stood up and stalked past me, and that was all. No further praise or criticism, no warning about when I might expect another such exercise. I stood up and stumbled back to my blankets. By now I should have learned to expect Wil’s abruptness, I thought sleepily as I lay down, just as I had become accustomed to uneven ground for my bed. I squirmed onto my side, trying to find a comfortable position for my shoulder and hip.
“It was a good song.”
With a gasp, I rolled over and looked up. Wil’s returning footfalls had been so silent I hadn’t heard him come near. His voice was right above my head.
“A journey charm,” he said, his voice warmer than it had been all day. “ ‘With this rod I protect myself.’ ” He bent down and placed something next to my hand. My fingers explored it—a wooden cross, made of two sticks bound at the juncture with a length of leather thong. “ ‘A rod of vanquishing I carry.’ ” With a grin he reached down and unsheathed my knife, which I’d placed on the ground just beneath the edge of my saddle. Holding it up gingerly by the point, he showed me the cross formed by hilt and blade. “And we’ve got my sword, too.” He jerked his head toward his own gear, atop which rested the weapon. “Think that’s enough protection to get us safely there and back?” I nodded feebly. “Good night, Widsith.” Wil’s soft laughter was the last thing I heard before I buried my head in my arms and slept.
I awoke to rain and the faint beginning of grey light in the dark sky. Wil hurried us into the saddle before our blankets could get very wet, but little good it did us, I thought as we rode through the increasing drizzle. My cloak was damp and beginning to cling to me. The blankets tied behind me on my saddle wouldn’t fare any better. Everything we owned would be soaked well before the sky lightened enough to show the clouds massing above us.
By the time it was light enough for me to see Wil riding ahead of me, I was shivering. I wished we were walking instead of riding—I’d have kept warmer that way. At our brief midday stop Wil made me run in a ring around him while he held the horses.
“Never seen any but skinny women so prone to cold,” I heard him muttering as I trotted in my circle. The exercise helped make my blood flow faster again, but unfortunately it didn’t last. A few hours into our afternoon ride I was shaking so hard I could barely keep my seat. Wil looked doubtfully at me, and then peered into the distance.
“We need to reach our meeting place tonight,” he said. “Can you ride a little farther?” I tried to nod, but the movement almost overbalanced me, and I grabbed at the saddle and Winter’s mane with clumsy fingers to keep from tumbling off. With a curse, Wil swung down from his horse and came to Winter’s side. He knotted his horse’s reins around the ropes holding my gear. “Move forward, boy,” he commanded, and I tried to do as he’d said, inching up so I was nearly off the saddle straddling Winter’s neck. Wil took a hank of Winter’s mane in his hand and lightly vaulted into the saddle behind me. “Good thing you’re still small,” he said, reaching around me to grab Winter’s reins, “and your horse is big. He’s strong enough to carry both of us for a while.”
I’d been struggling against the cold too long to protest. One of Wil’s arms encircled my waist, and the other crooked around me to guide the horse. I tried to sit stiffly at first, but I was exhausted, and before long I was leaning back against Wil’s broad chest, swaying along with him to the cadence of Winter’s steps, and relying on Wil’s arms to keep me from falling. Warm and safe—I gave in to the strangeness of touching him, and somehow it was no longer very strange.
I vaguely remember reaching a hut, and an old man and woman scuttling out into the rain when Wil offered them a coin. We stumbled into their smoky hovel and Wil lowered me onto the pile of straw that served for a bed. Sleep was all I wanted, although at some point he tried to make me eat. I was aware that Wil went out, came back, and went out again, seeing to the horses, gathering damp wood that hissed and steamed when he fed it gingerly, stick by stick, to the flames on the hearth. I remember Wil lying down on the straw, his back to me, feet to the fire.
He had held me, as if it were no more peculiar to touch and help a companion than to gentle a horse, build a fire, make food. And I had felt safe, as well as something else.... I wanted to feel that again. After a moment I squirmed closer until my back pressed against his.
“You’re a leech, Widsith,” he mumbled, but he didn’t move away, and in a few moments we both slept.
In the morning the sun was shining, the fire was out, and I was very much ashamed. “You lost at least half a day’s journey because of me,” I said, hanging my head as we rode out. Today Wil rode beside me on his own horse.
“You owe me a night’s performance,” he said, squinting into the rising sun, “and I’ll want another one this evening, after I’ve met with the people I’ve come to see. So I guess you’ll have to start now. Here’s what I want you to learn.” He recited a wisdom poem to me, a maxim, and then made me tell the words back to him as we rode along, expecting me to bring my own emotion and inflection to the lines.
“Winter is the coldest time, spring chillest (it is cold longest),” I recited slowly, frowning over the next lines: “Summer has the most sun, the sun is hottest.” Was Wil poking fun at my sorry reaction to yesterday’s cold and rain? I glanced sideways at him. His expression was thoughtful.
“Do that last line again, boy,” he said solemnly. “I’m not sure I heard you.”
“Summer has the most sun,” I repeated sullenly, “the sun is hottest ...” Wil was making fun.
“Say you were the scop of some nobleman, singing in his hall each night,” Wil called out, lifting his horse into a trot, which I had to follow, “and say you’d made a fool of yourself in the cold one winter day—out hunting with the lord’s party, and had to be carried home stiff and shivering, something like that. What would you do if someone asked you to tell that maxim in the hall afterward?”
“Tell it, I guess,” I called back, thumping uncomfortably in my saddle and wishing we could go a little slower, “if I had to.”
“And what if no one asked to hear that maxim?” was Wil’s next question.
“Huh?” What if no one asked? “I’d—I’d count myself lucky, and sing about some battle instead,” I answered, confused.
“No!” Wil roared, wheeling his horse around and halting so abruptly that I almost ran them down before I could bring Winter to a stand. “No! You would choose the maxim yourself, and tell it to them hoping for their laughter. Don’t you see, boy? A laugh at your expense, that’s a handful of treasure for a performer! You can’t throw that away out of pride, unless you’re a bigger fool than ...”
A crackling rustle made Wil shut his mouth midsentence.
&n
bsp; “Stay back,” he told me in a low voice. “There’s something in the woods.”
Suddenly a terrible din rose all around us. Winter half reared, dumping me onto the soft ground beneath him. Men had appeared, rising up out of the countryside. They surrounded us, yelling and beating on their wooden shields with drawn swords and knives and fists.
I crawled clear of Winter’s stamping feet, and tried to catch his reins, but other hands grabbed them before I could. I heard shouting in English, so these weren’t foreign raiders. Still, they looked far from friendly. I got to my feet, wishing I had the nerve to use the knife hidden beneath my leather vest.
Wil was still on his horse, but a man on either side held the bridle, and two more men gripped each of his legs and arms, all of them together keeping the horse immobile and Wil trapped in the saddle. I tried to count the men who had surprised us, and lost count somewhere above fifteen. There might have been more than twenty of them—I couldn’t be sure. One of them was coming forward to stand in front of Wil.
“What are you doing on this road?” he demanded curtly.
“The way is open to any traveler,” Wil growled in answer. “We have nothing of value. Let us go.”
The spokesman eyed Wil sardonically, and gestured toward me and Winter. “You’d make a couple of sturdy slaves for the Northumbrian markets, and you’ve got at least one fine horse—there’s profit here for one who wishes to take it. But I’m asking for something less costly from you. I want to know what your purpose is on this road.”
“If your trade is thieving, as your words suggest, I can’t think of any reason to tell you more about myself,” retorted Wil, setting his mouth in a grim line. The other man looked annoyed, and whispered for a moment with another man beside him.
“We are waiting for someone who calls himself Wil of Eoforwic. We expected him before sundown yesterday evening. Did you pass his party as you traveled?” was the man’s next question. Wil’s face lightened in an instant.
“I am Wil of Eoforwic,” he answered, then looked around in bafflement and then anger as the crowd around us burst into laughter.
“Wil of Eoforwic is a lord who leads a group of fighters,” the spokesman said, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, we don’t want to rob you, but don’t lie to us! The man we’re waiting for isn’t coming alone.” Wil’s frustration was about to flow out in a stream of angry words. In a panic, I opened my mouth.
“He is Wil of Eoforwic,” I said. Even to myself I sounded petulant, no more worthy of their attention than a child arguing with his elders. The spokesman turned around and stared at me. I swallowed. What would convince them that Wil was who he claimed to be? I cleared my throat.
“Against the Norse, at Eoforwic,” I said, trying to speak out boldly, the way Wil had been teaching me, “this man beat against his opponent’s shield until both of their swords broke. Then they struggled hand to hand until a stone, a gift from the devil himself, appeared beneath the Norse foe’s fingers in the mud, and he picked it up and felled Wil of Eoforwic with a blow that cracked his helmet. Seeing he was outnumbered, my master lay still where they’d thrown him in the mud until nightfall, when he worked free of his bonds, single-handedly killed all his foes as they slept, and rode on to Cirenceaster, where bold men continue to flock to his camp.” I paused for breath, then added, “So say all his followers: Eadwine of Gleawceaster, Kenelm of Lincylene—”
“Young Kenelm?” The spokesman’s face split into a grin. “I jounced that boy on my knee before he ever rode a horse. Know his father, too.” He looked at Wil again, then looked back at me. After a moment, he made a little bow.
“Wil of Eoforwic,” he said, “you and your companion are welcome. Our camp lies over that rise.” He pointed a little farther down the road. “We can talk there.”
Now I looked at Wil, and he met my eye with a little smile. He nodded his thanks, and then, hesitantly, crooked a finger at me, beckoning me to come. Did he mean that I could join him? Maybe he was beginning to trust me! Or was he only concerned for my safety....
I thought of what Wil had been trying to teach me these past two days. He’d explained that I must restrain my own passions, and think what the listeners would value most. At this moment Wil seemed to be offering me a place within his circle of trusted friends, but he had trained me too thoroughly over these last days. I suspected it wasn’t yet the right time to follow my own desires and accept such a gift.
“I’ll stay here with the horses,” I told my master, and after a moment, he nodded again.
“Help him tie them to a tree,” was all he said to the others before he turned to walk back down the road with the man who had challenged him.
It was late afternoon when Wil returned, walking alone. We rode back westward, the declining sun casting long shadows all around us. Wil said nothing about his talks beyond the hill. I hadn’t honestly expected him to, but still, the lowering silence between us was strange. We ate quietly, settled the horses, and bedded down near each other.
I was remembering yesterday, when I’d been so cold. The feeling of his arms around me when he’d had to guide my horse. Last night I’d moved to sleep with my back against his. I shivered, remembering it, wondering how I’d been so brave, wishing I were brave enough to do it again.
Out of the darkness Wil’s large hand came to rest over my small cold one.
“Sing the journey charm, Widsith. We may want it again for the return.”
Leaving my hand beneath his, I turned onto my side. In the dark, I knew, Wil would not see the smile of relief I wore. Nor, if I worked to keep my voice steady, would he guess at the sudden roughness in my throat.
“With this rod I protect myself,” I whispered to Wil, fingering the little sticks bound into a cross, which I’d tucked under my belt next to Mother’s dagger, “against the wounding blade or blow, against all fear upon the land.”
17
A FINE SONG
MY FIRST DUTY, WHEN WE GOT BACK TO OUR CAMP AT Cirenceaster, was to tell the tale of our journey to Wil’s followers after our evening meal. I began with a description of the punishing storm, making them laugh at my helplessness in the face of cold, just as Wil had suggested. Then I sprang the rebel ambush upon my listeners, hoping to give them the same sort of shock we’d had on the road.
They loved it. I had to back away from the campfire, shaking my head and pointing to Wil as they began to ask me questions. Their leader would have to tell them what happened after that.
The next night, to my surprise, they asked me to perform again.
“What use is it to us to have a scop in the camp if he never gives us a song!” a burly thane shouted, and I was made to stand up, pushed out into the open space, and teased good-naturedly until I agreed to sing for them. I used the tune I’d remembered during my journey with Wil, but instead of a charm, I sang them a riddle and waited for them to guess the solution when I finished my song.
“Dough!” one man called out. “It’s something that a woman makes, that grows, you said. Dough is the answer.”
“How about a woman’s belly, getting big with a child?” another member of Wil’s camp shouted, and everyone laughed when I shrugged.
“That couldn’t be right! Widsith doesn’t know anything about women!” they joked, and I hid my face behind one hand, which made them laugh all the more. Both answers were correct—the riddle had a double meaning. But it was my own double nature that made my head spin that night. This performance—being Widsith—never ended. At least when I had been with Wil on the journey with just the two of us together I could sit shivering on a horse with his arms encircling me, or lie still, touching him, and just for a moment be the girl Ælfwyn, comforted, close to Wil.
“Give us another one, scop!”
I looked up at them, the men’s faces laughing, expectant in the firelight. I made myself grin a boy’s cocky smile back at them, and started to sing again.
Wil came looking for me later that evening.
“O
sgar is feasting again tomorrow night, and he’s asked us to come. I want you to be with our company in the hall, Widsith.”
“Me? I—I’m not sure I should.” Only two seven days’ time had passed since I had sung before Osgar and his guests. “They’ll remember me, and they’ll wonder why I’m back.”
“That’s none of their concern,” Wil responded. “Osgar has said he’d welcome all who come with me. Besides, he’s not likely to remember you, anyhow.” I must have looked downcast, because Wil gave me a thump on my shoulder that nearly made me fall over my own feet. “Cheer up, little scop,” he said curtly. “We’ll make Osgar notice you before we’re finished in Cirenceaster. So be ready tonight. Have your horse saddled by the time they ring for vespers inside the tun.” With that, he was off.
We’ll make Osgar notice you ... What had Wil meant by that? I thought about it all day, and by the time I sat on Winter’s back with the band that had gathered to go into the tun, I was still turning the question over in my mind. I sighed. Whatever his reasons, I wouldn’t say no to Wil. The riders began to move out, and with a flap of my arms and legs, I urged Winter along beside them.
Wil was right. The steward spotted me as our party passed into the hall—I saw his eyes flick across my face and clothing when I walked by. But he said nothing, and as far as I could tell, Osgar remained ignorant that a certain mediocre young scop had returned for another meal.
I ate well that night, better than my first night in Osgar’s hall, for now I was elbow to elbow with invited guests, and the servants made sure there was always food in front of us. I speared what meat I could reach onto the end of my mother’s little dagger, ate the good wheat bread eagerly after days of modest barley-flour cakes in Wil’s camp, and tried not to let the others see that I drank only a little ale.
In spite of my care, I must have drunk more than I could hold. Kenelm sat on one side of me, and I found myself smiling at his laughter even though I could not hear the jokes that prompted it. A little farther down the table I could make out Wil. He was speaking intently with the man on his left, a man whom I did not recognize as anyone from Wil’s usual group of followers.
Far Traveler Page 11
