The Briton and the Dane: Timeline

by Mary Ann Bernal

  “I do not know a man called Hugh. Bryson?”

  “Hugh is not known to me, but I think it is this man, this Magnus, we must fear,” Bryson replied, “and we need to capture Hugh before...”

  “If we can find him,” Gwyneth interrupted. “We are traveling openly while he hides in the shadows. He will be tricky to catch, and we do not know where Hugh came upon the holy brother. Forgive me, how did he die?”

  “It was the Lord’s will. There were no marks upon him,” Erik replied. “It was most fortunate we came upon him before the animals scattered his bones. You need not worry, his body rests in the earth, and his soul is with the Lord.”

  “We could question the holy brothers at the abbey,” Gwyneth reminded them.

  “That may not be wise,” Erik said.

  “But if the man lives at the abbey, he will eventually be missed. At least speak in confidence to the Brother Abbot,” Gwyneth replied.

  “The hour is growing late,” Bryson interjected.

  “Bryson is right,” Erik said. “I shall decide once we reach the abbey. Hugh might be waiting for our arrival.”

  ***

  Hugh was ready to depart the abbey at a moment’s notice. He had awakened early, more from habit than from any sense of urgency. He had slept well and eaten a meal of bread and berries, washing the food down with a flagon of ale that had been procured in the village alehouse. When he entered the stables, noticeably absent were three horses, which meant that Erik had not spent the night at the abbey.

  “They probably stayed at the village. Why?” Hugh said to himself.

  The stableboy had yet to arrive, which gave Hugh time to think. Should he leave now and wait for Erik at the next abbey on their arduous route, or should he stay and wait for them to arrive? But if they had stayed in the village, they would probably not visit this particular abbey since they seemed to be pressed for time.

  If Erik had not noticed him on the ship, he could have possibly joined them for part of the way, feigning fear of traveling alone. Gwyneth would have been accommodating, of that he was sure. Women had always found him charming and had confided in him, believing him to be trustworthy and caring. A skill necessary in his line of work.

  Erik could have just given him a cursory glance as he looked at his fellow travelers, but he could not take that chance. Did not the Captain look at him in passing on his first crossing? It was a pity the Captain kept such a detailed log. If the Captain had not done so, he might be alive today, but probably not. The Captain had remembered him. Hugh saw the recognition, and that look sealed the Captain’s fate. Killing the man was just part of the job, and Hugh had no regrets, except perhaps, the time he had to do away with the boy. That was an unfortunate, but the swineherd had seen his face and he could not have witnesses.

  When Hugh noticed the stableboy walking in his direction, he left through the side doorway. He stepped into the early morning light and returned to the guest houses. He had left hastily because he did not want to be seen. The lad might remember his appearance and describe him accurately to the Sheriff’s man, or to Erik if the Saxon made inquiries. He was remorseful over the swineherd’s death, even though it had been necessary. Hugh was not pleased to have murdered the child. He did have a conscience. And because he had a conscience, he would stay out of the stableboy’s way.

  Hugh returned to the quarters he had been given, lying upon the straw mattress and staring at the wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling. Erik was heading towards the mountain range, which meant he could ride ahead and await them at the base of the Alps. Perhaps that would be a better plan, but what if that was not their destination? It would take months to learn their whereabouts if he was proven wrong. He was on unfamiliar territory, never having ventured further than Charlemagne’s capital at Aachen. He was amazed the palace was still in use, but the prestigious legacy of the great Charles had been coveted by his descendants for generations, and the Holy Roman Emperors were still crowned in the palatine chapel. Hugh was not easily impressed by grandiose bastions, but the remnants of this cradle of government had a profound effect on how he perceived the leaders of the world. He scorned the weak and ineffectual rulers, but gave his allegiance willingly to his king who deserved to wear the crown.

  Once Erik’s plan was exposed, Hugh would return to Calais and live out his life in the coastal town. He would send his sons to the seats of learning in Rome, or whichever city they chose, and he would die in his bed, an old man surrounded by his children.

  The chiming bells reminded Hugh of his current dilemma. He was not a contemplative; otherwise, he would have taken the cowl years ago. And he was not a God-fearing man, not yet. He decided he would await Erik at the next abbey and would leave after the noonday meal. Until then, he would rest, being lulled to sleep by the melodious sound of the chanting monks.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Storm clouds cast shadows as the three travelers rode through the pilgrim’s gate where they gave the reins to the stableboy upon dismounting. They were greeted by an elderly monk who escorted them to the guest houses, entering their chamber just as a torrential rain began to pummel the earth. The parched ground soaked up the moisture, its thirst barely quenched in the drought-stricken territory. Gwyneth stood in the doorway and watched the flashing lightning discharging across darkened heavens, captivated by the luminous strands of light. Startled by the booming rolls of thunder, she stepped back and tripped, falling upon the floor. Erik was at her side, fearing for the child she carried as he helped her onto the bed.

  “Are you hurt?” Erik said while Bryson latched the door.

  “Just my pride,” Gwyneth laughed, oblivious to the sound of nature’s fury.

  “You should rest,” Erik replied while wrapping her with a fur. “Please, do as I ask.”

  As piercing claps of thunder shook the buildings, Gwyneth closed her eyes as she remembered the electrically-charged storm that had carried her through time unscathed. This tempest, while different, was a warning. Both violent weather patterns appeared without forewarning, but which one would return her to her own century? She was not overly concerned since she had yet to deliver her son, but once the child was born, what then? She reproached herself for worrying about a future she could not control instead of living in the present.

  “Real time travel is not like it is portrayed at the cinema. You have to accept that you might never return. There, you said it!” she thought.

  While Gwyneth was struggling with her demons, Erik and Bryson sat before the blazing fire, warming their hands and speaking in whispers. Both men agreed that they would need to travel more miles in a shorter period of time. They preferred to have Gwyneth confined in a nunnery while awaiting the birth of her child rather than have her close to her time when they finally reached the abbey at St. Gall. Since Gwyneth had regained her strength, Erik and Bryson would broach the subject during the evening meal. Yet their primary concern was finding Hugh.

  “I will seek out the Brother Abbot once the storm abates,” Bryson said softly. “I do believe Hugh wrote that dispatch here. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “I do agree,” Erik replied, “but is he still on these grounds, or is he waiting for us at the next abbey?”

  “We cannot have him follow us across the mountains. He hides in the forest, which is where I would search if I remain here after you and Gwyneth leave.”

  “No, we must not be separated, but perhaps we might scour the woods once Gwyneth is asleep. If he was here, he is growing soft. Do not we all prefer sleeping in a bed then beneath the stars?”

  “He might still be in one of the guest houses,” Bryson said. “He would not have known we did not stay the night until this morning. If that is the case, then his horse would be in the stables.”

  “We must speak with the stableboy, but tactfully,” Erik interjected. “I would not put the lad’s life at risk.”

  ***

  Hugh was awakened by a loud clap of thunder as a heavy rain battered the building
. He did not rise, but put his hands behind his head, looking at the ceiling as he praised the gods of his ancestors for his good fortune. If he had not decided to stay, he would have been caught up in the storm, falling victim to a natural disaster that he may not have survived. The howling wind beat upon the shuttered window, cold gusts whipping through the cracks. Eerie sounds echoed in the quietude, blustery warnings of what was yet to come. A fierce rumble of thunder shook the earth with such force, moving the ground ever so slightly. Hugh was anxious, but he did not know why. He was not one to frighten easily, but there was something ethereal about this storm, which made his skin crawl. He jumped off the bed just as the wind blew open the door, ripping the nails out of the frame. Shards of splintered wood pierced his flesh as the wind-whipped chair knocked him to the floor. He placed his hands protectively around his head, grimacing in pain when the edge of the bed smashed into his side, cracking his ribs. A bolt of lightning whizzed above his head, striking the cushioned kneeler and setting it ablaze. The flames spread quickly along the length of the room, engulfing the straw-mattress bed.

  Hugh screamed in agony as he tried to stand, but the wind was too strong. He crawled towards the open doorway, his hands cut by wooden slivers as he inched his way towards safety. His eyes stung, irritated by the smoke filling the room, and he could not breathe. He shouted to the gods to spare his life, but his words barely escaped his lips.

  “I cannot die without issue!” Hugh cried, pounding his injured hands upon the floor.

  His pleas were in vain as the dwelling was totally afire. Flames singed his back, causing such suffering that he begged for release. He began to lose consciousness as smoke filled his lungs.

  As the fire engulfed the room, he heard the timbers falling around him, heavy beams crashing to the floor. He wept unashamedly as he was consumed by the fire with only the wind to hear his final words.

  ***

  The bells could be heard above the storm, the constant ringing bellowing a sense of urgency that something was not right. Erik and Bryson ran to the window, wondering what had happened as they glanced upon the burning building.

  “Gwyneth!” Erik yelled. “We must leave, hurry!”

  Gwyneth saw the fear in her husband’s eyes as she picked up her cloak and followed the men out the door. The heavy rain was a meager drizzle as they distanced themselves from the dying flames.

  “Do you think anyone was inside?” Gwyneth asked while the holy men attempted to put out the fire.

  “I do not know,” Erik replied, “but we are fortunate our chambers were spared.”

  The gusting wind was simply a breeze and the sun was peeking through the dissipating clouds as the Brother Abbot joined them.

  “Praise the Lord the fire was contained,” the Brother Abbot said, “but I fear for the man inside.”

  “I thought we were your only guests this night,” Bryson interjected.

  “He has been with us two days,” the Brother Abbot told them. “We do not receive many visitors, which is why our rooms are few.”

  The small group watched as buckets of water smothered the flames. White clouds of steam floated in the air, but the stench of burning flesh confirmed that the man inside was dead.

  “He was waiting for someone, perhaps you?” the Brother Abbot asked while two monks walked the charred ruins.

  “Would the man be called Hugh?” Erik questioned.

  “Yes, that was his name,” the Brother Abbot replied. “I am truly sorry, my son.”

  “It is the Lord’s will,” Bryson interjected.

  “We would pray for his soul before we leave,” Gwyneth said.

  “There will be a funeral Mass within the hour,” the Brother Abbot told her before taking his leave.

  “Divine Intervention,” Erik whispered.

  “That is the only explanation,” Gwyneth and Bryson said in unison.

  “Come, let us sit before the hearth,” Erik murmured to Gwyneth. “I would not have you catch a chill.”

  ***

  After the funeral Mass, Gwyneth decided to visit the library as Erik spoke to the Brother Abbot and Bryson sought the stableboy. She entered the empty room that contained a scribe’s desk and two rows of shelves. She picked up an open manuscript and read the religious text. She replaced the book, taking another, which was a historical account of the founding of the abbey. Her interest was aroused immediately, and she sat beneath the open window as the sun was on its downward spiral. Reading with the critical eye of a historian, she appreciated the level of detail that had been meticulously recorded. This was truly a rare find since the abbey was not listed in the annals. There was so much of the past that was unknown, and she wished there was a way she could return to her century with such sought-after records.

  “Is someone here?” the holy Brother asked as he entered the room.

  Gwyneth closed the book and greeted the young man. She apologized for having startled him by her presence and asked if he would be willing to speak with her. While Gwyneth was happily occupied, Bryson was in the stables, conversing with the young stableboy as he groomed the horses.

  “I do not know what you want of me,” the stableboy told Bryson. “The man handed me the reins, told me to care for his horse, and left. I never saw him again.”

  “Did you notice if he spoke to anyone? Or possibly, someone inquired of his whereabouts?”

  “No, my lord,” the stableboy replied as he gently brushed through the coat, whisking out loose dirt.

  “What of his appearance? Was there anything odd. A scar perchance?”

  “I am sorry, but there is nothing I can tell you,” the stableboy said, his patience wearing thin.

  “Did he take his rucksack with him when he left? It is crucial, lad, try to remember.”

  The stableboy stopped brushing the animal, rubbed his nose with the back of his sleeve and squinted at the stall where Hugh’s horse was feeding on oats. Bryson looked at the oversized stand where he noticed a saddle and cloth carriers resting against the wall. He patted the preoccupied stallion, speaking soothing words as he passed the hungry steed, bending down when he reached the sacks.

  “I will take these, and provisions shall be made for the horse,” Bryson told the stableboy as he left.

  Bryson returned to the guest quarters without delay, looking behind him occasionally as he walked the grounds, more from habit than from concern. The abbey was scarcely frequented by the villagers, and was not well known in the neighboring kingdoms, so why was he so worried?

  As Bryson came upon the smoldering ruins, he stopped and glanced at the debris, searching for anything that might have escaped the flames. He had watched when the holy brothers had removed Hugh’s charred remains, remembering the ungodly smell. He had survived many battles and had heard the screams of wounded and dying men. He was immune to the stink of entrails, vomit and defecation, but burnt flesh was the one odor that caused him to gag. He kicked the loose boards, looking for the ring, which had probably melted in the blaze.

  The three of them were most fortunate to have been housed a short distance from the dwelling, or they might have suffered the same fate. Bryson walked around the rubble one final time before continuing on his way. When he opened the door, he was surprised to find Erik studying a map lying open upon the table.

  “What did the Brother Abbot tell you?” Bryson asked upon entering.

  “We are not very far from the mountains,” Erik said, “and there is a shorter route, but there is very little shelter.”

  “How much time would we save?”

  “A week, maybe two, depending on how hard we ride.”

  “Yet you are not sure,” Bryson said, “because of Gwyneth’s condition.”

  “You think I am overly protective?”

  “It is only natural,” Bryson replied, “but Gwyneth is stronger than you think, and carrying a child is not an illness. Do not make decisions for her.”

  “Very well. I will ask her opinion when she returns, but what of
the stableboy?”

  “The lad knows nothing, but these belonged to Hugh,” Bryson told him as he emptied the contents upon the table.

  The rucksacks held the usual items, nothing out of the ordinary, except for an odd-shaped object wrapped in cloth. Erik uncovered a tablet inscribed with words he could not read.

  “Do you know this language?”

  “No,” Bryson replied, “but I wager Gwyneth is able to interpret the meaning.”

  Erik and Bryson studied the map while they waited for Gwyneth to return. If she was agreeable, they would need to collect provisions before setting out. Even though the abbey meals were bland, they were palatable, but both men preferred roasted meat, which was not the usual food for the less fortunate, or God’s servants.

  “It is almost time for the night meal,” Gwyneth said upon entering the room and embracing her husband. “What is this?”

  Gwyneth picked up the tablet, her eyes aglow when she saw the runic letters. She brushed her hand on top of the raised lettering, not believing her luck.

  “Where did you find this?”

  “It was with Hugh’s things,” Erik replied. “We cannot make out the words. Can you read the message?”

  “It is written in the runic alphabet, and the language is barely used now,” Gwyneth said.

  “But do you know what it says?” Bryson interjected.

  Gwyneth sat down, taking her time as she looked at the letters, recognizing most of the symbols.

  “This is the word for king,” Gwyneth pointed, “and this is the word for army, and this word is bid. And this is the word for invasion!”

  Gwyneth kept reading the passage, over-and-over, hoping to piece together the fragments.

  “The king must be Harald,” Erik said, “and if my fears are proven, we must advise King Edward.”

  Erik and Bryson exchanged glances knowingly while Gwyneth stared at the text. She verbalized each letter, hoping the sound would trigger her memory. She had only studied dead languages for one term, Old Norse being one of her favorites, running a close second to the Anglo-Saxon tongue. As she was speaking, she remembered an Old Norse poem, its verses giving advice, and as the rhythmic poetry came to her, she was able to translate the significant find accurately.