I was right about his accent. He was born in Wessex more than forty years earlier, the son of a warrior who had served in King Edgar’s fyrd and been granted a farm and land as a token of appreciation for bringing the body of the king’s thane home for a Christian burial after a battle. Winston’s father had gone on to wed his childhood sweetheart, Winston’s mother. Though her father was quite anxious for her to marry a landowner, she had turned down several other good offers of marriage. But her fidelity paid off. When she married Winston’s father, she became mistress of one of the loveliest farms in the village and mother to three strapping sons. Winston was the youngest.
The eldest of the three brothers had had to flee north of the Humber after being an accessory to the murder of King Edward the Martyr. Before it had even become clear that Ethelred would succeed him, Winston’s family received word that his brother was dead. So Winston’s middle brother took over the farm. He had been willing to share the farm with Winston, but Winston didn’t want to spend his life trudging along behind a plough or find himself forever stooped from swinging a sickle under a burning autumn sun.
Instead, his brother had paid the nearby monastery to take Winston in as a novice. Winston’s eyes lit up when he recounted his years with the monks, and he became very animated as he described the ornate books and scrolls he’d held in his hands. He even regaled me with a selection of the stories they contained.
“You weren’t a monk, were you?” I asked.
That was the only time he’d gone quiet. His mumbled answer was so unintelligible that I still didn’t quite understand why he had never taken his vows.
I fished for more details, of course. At first I assumed that he, like so many other young monks, had been tempted by carnal desires and that he’d incurred the wrath of some ossified abbot, but he firmly dismissed that.
He made no secret of his susceptibility to feminine temptations, but he said it wasn’t until long after his days in the monastery that he first experienced the joys of resting upon a womanly bosom.
Then I suggested that maybe he’d been tempted by the monastic community’s coffers—perhaps he’d been lining his cowl, so to speak—but that implication made him quite angry, and he said I should shut up about things I knew nothing about.
“I’d be happy to,” I said, “but only if you tell me why you ran away from the monastery.”
He grew vague again, and the closest he came to an explanation was that faith was very difficult to explain.
That didn’t help me at all. After all, faith is very simple. We live, and then we die, and if we live the way the priests tell us to, we’ll wake up in Paradise.
I said as much, but he dismissed me again, adding, “You have obviously never thought deeply about these issues.”
Well, he was certainly right about that. He who thinks too much forgets to act, and he who does not act will be struck down by his opponent.
All right, I thought. Everyone is entitled to their secrets. I didn’t ask him any more questions. Instead I listened as he explained how he had benefited from everything he had learned at the monastery.
While he was still within the confines of the cloister, it had become clear that he was a gifted artist. Whenever people looked at his drawings, they couldn’t be sure whether they were looking at reality or just some reflection of it.
So, while he could undoubtedly have earned a comfortable living as a scribe copying texts, he earned much more from his painting, enough that he had never known hardship.
Bishops and abbots, earls and kings were willing to cross his palm with silver if he would illuminate the manuscripts meant to exalt and honor their names, decorate an altar, or enrich a monastery’s library.
He preferred the word illuminate. Apparently “draw” wasn’t fancy enough—though why he thought some fancy Latin term from across the sea was better than an English or Danish word was beyond me.
In any case, he had been living well for many years, and now—as he had already explained—he was on his way to Oxford at the behest of Lady Ælfgifu.
We continued to talk as we strolled along, with the mule following behind us. As I said, the weather was good, the days light and the nights warm. Although we encountered a fair number of other travelers, we didn’t run into any trouble. Well—I did have one problem, but I didn’t exactly “run into” it. Rather, it was following us: Atheling couldn’t stand me.
That first night when I tried to help Winston unload the animal’s packs, it scowled at me suspiciously. When I tried to run my hand along its flank to soothe it, it splayed its lips back and sank its stumpy teeth into my arm.
Those teeth may have been worn down some, but their bite was firm and hard. I ended up with deep tooth marks in my arm before the confounded beast relaxed its jaws. I swore and punched the animal on the forehead, to which it responded by stepping sideways onto my foot and scraping it bloody.
Winston, who was rolling out blankets on the grass, looked up at my enraged outburst. An amused smile spread over his lips, but after one look at my face, he sternly told the animal to behave.
I scoffed and pointed out that he was talking to a dumb animal, but Atheling took a step back, turned his back on me, and started haughtily munching grass.
From that moment on, the beast took every possible opportunity to irritate me.
I quickly learned to stay out of reach of those stumpy teeth, though it did me little good. The animal was neither small nor nimble but it had an uncanny talent for stealth—when it wanted to. Whenever I turned my back, I ended up taking a hoof to my ass.
When the path grew so narrow that we had to walk single file, I walked in front of Winston, because otherwise the mule would sneak up behind me and sink its teeth into my shoulder. Atheling would shake my shoulder and then let go before my yells drew his master’s attention. I swear by Saint Wystan that by the time Winston turned to look, the animal would already have backed away. Winston simply shook his head sadly every time I claimed his beast had attacked me.
By the end of the second day, I had learned to keep an eye on the animal and keep enough space between us.
Soon the blue sky clouded over, and the swallows, whose twittering had followed us loudly all day from high up beneath the fluffy clouds, started swooping very low to the ground. Recognizing what this meant, Winston suggested that it would probably be wise for us to find some shelter for the night. Just as the first tentative drops of rain hit us, we saw smoke rising out of a clearing a few arrowshots ahead of us. As we started running toward it, Atheling brayed grouchily, objecting to our new pace.
It was raining hard and Atheling was a long ways behind us by the time we rushed through the palisade surrounding the hamlet, which consisted of three small farms and a few other buildings. As we huffed and puffed our way toward the biggest farmhouse, armed villagers stepped out of their doorways, and scrutinized us with wary eyes.
Winston stopped, gasping for breath, and held up his palms to the man he guessed was the hamlet’s leader. Then he explained that we were peaceful travelers merely seeking shelter for the night.
The farmer, a short tree trunk of a man with big hands and fleshy jowls, eyed him skeptically. “Your companion is armed.”
Before Winston had a chance to respond, a din of braying, hoof beats, and clanking erupted behind us. The farmers stepped forward, their eyes angry and their spears raised, but broke into smiles when the noise turned out to be Atheling finally catching up with us in a laughable approximation of a gallop.
As the farmers chuckled, Winston turned to me. Sure enough, I was wearing the dead robber’s sword and sword belt. It was a good sword, one that had surely served the scoundrel well back in his pre-robber days, and I had taken it as well-deserved payment for having rid the world of two evildoers.
“Take the sword off!” Winston ordered.
I glared at him. I finally had a sword to display my rank as the son of a nobleman, and Winston was demanding that I take it off to pacify some flo
ck of farmers?
My obvious rage did not deter Winston in the least. “Give them the sword, or spend the night out here in the rain.”
It was pouring now, and judging from the brooding sky, it clearly wasn’t going to let up before midnight. I looked at the hamlet leader, who had watched us in silence as I took orders from Winston—a man who was very obviously not my equal—but Winston showed no sign of backing down.
Fine! A couple of days ago, I hadn’t had any sword at all, so I supposed I could do without it for one night. I frowned to make clear to everyone that I had decided to disarm on my own out of respect for my hosts, and was just about to unbuckle the belt when we heard voices calling to us from outside the palisade.
Everyone stiffened at the sight of five Viking warriors tramping toward us through the rain. The first three were dressed for battle in worn ring-mail byrnies, their shields slung over their backs. The last two wore only padded leather defensive jackets dotted with holes. Four were armed with swords, one with a long-handled ax that he swung menacingly in front of him. Five bedraggled warriors looking for some easy loot.
The ax-swinger came up alongside me, though he did not actually seem to notice me. The only reason he acknowledged us at all was that the hamlet leader stood his ground like a riverbank tree.
The Viking stopped in front of him, surprised to meet any resistance. “Move!”
He spoke like a Dane from north of the Humber.
I was not interested in giving up my lodgings for the night to a gaggle of bedraggled warriors, none of whom looked like they’d conquered anything more impressive than unarmed farmers lately. So I tapped the Viking’s shoulder and stepped in front of him.
“Just a moment, there.”
The Viking and his companions weren’t the only ones whose eyes widened when they heard me speaking Danish. Winston, too, was astonished. He opened his mouth to speak, but one look from me made him shut it again.
“Are you talking to me, whelp?” the Viking said, evidently over his surprise.
“Here I stand, Halfdan of Oakthorpe, in the middle of one of my villages and, yes, I am speaking to you. And who are you?” I made no attempt to sound like anything other than the nobleman’s pup that I had been two years earlier.
The corner of his mouth twitched nervously: I had guessed right. Here were five stray warriors on the lookout for easy plunder, but like all other underlings, they became insecure in the face of a superior.
“I’m Toste, my lord.”
Good. He knew how to address me.
“And where are you headed?” I stared him down. Behind him I saw one of his companions start to move. It was all or nothing now.
“Uh, we’re … we’re going to London, my lord.” Obviously a lie. He fiddled with the lead hammer pendant he wore on a leather thong around his neck.
“Then you’re somewhat off course. Did you take a wrong turn after Derby?”
“Uh, Derby, my lord?” Good, I’d managed to confuse him.
That was yet another of Harding’s lessons: If you want a man to respect your authority, you should do your best to confuse him by talking about anything other than what he expects or wants to talk about.
“Derby, yes. You’re coming from the north. After Derby you should have turned southeast toward the paved road, Watling Street.”
“Uh, well, no.” He looked past me at his companions.
“Eyes on me!”
Harding was right about that, too. He’d said, “If you want respect, you need to act like you deserve respect.” Toste’s gaze returned to me.
“What do you mean no?”
“Uh, we were actually … We were just wondering if we could take shelter here.”
“In my village? After you elbowed me? And called me a whelp?”
“I didn’t elbow you, my lord.” Now we were on the right track. I’d succeeded in making him make excuses for himself.
“And I suppose you didn’t call me a whelp either?”
“Um, well yes, my lord.” He looked almost remorseful.
“So you’re a pack of soldiers from the north who think they can forcibly eat, drink, and fornicate in a village belonging to a thane from Kent? Who’s your commander?”
“We fight under Thorkell the Tall, my lord.”
“Thorkell is the Jarl of East Anglia. Are we in East Anglia now?” I said firmly. Winston moved next to me but froze when I flashed him a stern look.
“No, my lord. But Thorkell is on his way to Oxford.”
“And you? Why aren’t you with him?”
“We … we, uh …”
“You thought you would do a little plundering on your own, didn’t you? Well, you’ve come to the wrong place. This is my village. I won it at Assandun. Were you there?”
He shook his head.
“Do you know what I would suggest?” Following yet another of Harding’s tips, I made my voice cheerful now that I had the upper hand.
He shook his head.
“I suggest you get your asses out of here. And if I don’t see you again before I reach Oxford, where I also happen to be headed, I vow not to mention this incident to Jarl Thorkell. How about that?”
He half turned to his companions, but stopped when I cleared my throat. I saw over his shoulder that the other four didn’t have much to say. He was their spokesman and leader for good reason, and I’d cowed him.
“Uh, yes, that sounds fine, my lord.”
“Good.” I lowered my voice again. “Are you hungry?”
He nodded.
“Let no one say that I sent men out into the night hungry.” I turned to the hamlet leader, who had followed the whole exchange in silence. “Give them some bread.”
As I’d expected, he understood me. He turned and called out to a nearby building. A slave girl immediately appeared with five loaves of bread, which he handed out to the Vikings. They had already turned to leave when my voice stopped them in their tracks. “Toste!”
“Yes, my lord?” He was obviously struggling to keep from biting into the bread.
“If I see Jarl Thorkell, I’ll tell him you’re a sensible man.”
His face lit up. “Thank you, my lord!”
Harding was right once again. Once men of low birth have recognized your authority, they’re easy to satisfy. Perhaps he even thought I believed his story?
We stood there in the rain until they were out of sight. Then the hamlet leader gave a quiet order, and three peasants exited the gate to make sure the Vikings were really gone.
Winston walked up to me. “Halfdan of Oakthorpe in Kent?”
“My father’s estate. It’s so far away that I didn’t think they’d know it belongs to a Dane now.”
“You’re Danish? I thought you were Saxon. You speak Saxon perfectly.”
I grinned at him. Now that it was all over, I just wanted sit down. “I’m both, which, as you’ve just seen, can come in handy.”
Chapter 5
The hamlet’s leader provided us with lodging, food, and ale, and the villagers no longer insisted that I surrender my sword. Although we had hearty appetites, both they and we knew that if those rogue Vikings had had their way, it would have cost the hamlet a great deal more than a little meat, bread, and ale.
The rain let up overnight, and by morning, sunlight glittered in the dirt square, which the showers had failed to turn to mud. Winston announced that we planned to hit the road before the day got too warm, and no one tried to convince us to stay.
Gratitude has its limits, of course.
We walked briskly, Winston in the lead. As I rushed along behind, I kept one eye on Atheling, who only bit me once, when Winston stopped suddenly because a hare had leapt up right in front of him.
As I stopped to avoid crashing into him, I felt the mule sink his teeth through my shirt. I drew my sword and smacked the stupid animal’s forehead with the pommel before it had a chance to react.
Atheling kept out of biting range after that.
After wa
lking through the forest for a while, we reached the main road leading to Oxford. There was room for us all to walk side by side now, and more traffic than we had seen at any point in the last three days.
Peddlers struggled along under their heavy loads; farmers’ wives carried baskets of eggs and vegetables in their arms with chickens tied together by their legs slung over their shoulders, on their way to town; freckled knaves were herding lambs to market; one lone, insolent, potbellied merchant astride a droopy-headed nag bawled orders for people to clear out of the way; and every once in a while we heard the shouts of marching soldiers—which quickly cleared the entire roadway ahead of them.
There were a surprising number of soldiers on the road. Imposing, well-armed, battle-hardened platoons, comprised of King Cnut’s personal bodyguards and his housecarls, all marched in unison through the dust. Thanes draped in silver rode in front, each followed by their own retinue of housecarls. And on one occasion everyone had to scramble to the edges of the road for a splendidly dressed Saxon—undoubtedly some ealdorman—and his enormous entourage.
We didn’t see any sign of our five Viking friends from the night before, which was fine by me since they might have had time to think things over and start wondering what a man claiming to be a Danish thane was doing in an apparently English hamlet without any Danish soldiers for support. I could only hope that they still believed me and had put some distance between themselves and Oxford to avoid my ratting them out to Jarl Thorkell.
The sun was getting hot. Dust caked our sweaty brows and lined our nostrils, but we walked on cheerfully, encouraged to be nearing Oxford and content in the knowledge that Winston was expected there.
Over our porridge that morning, which we ate at an inn, he had asked me what my plans were. He looked a little suspicious, as though he might be wondering whether I was planning to attack him. After studying him for a moment, I decided that he’d meant the question innocently enough, and so I replied that now that the wind had blown me to Oxford, I’d have to wait and see where it would take me next.
The King's Hounds (The King's Hounds series Book 1) Page 4
