by Peter Fox
She held up his new tunic and he let out a grunt of surprise. It was of a quality befitting a person of high station; fashioned from fine, green-dyed wool. It bore the same family crest that Saeric had seen on the platter: a gryphon. ‘I can’t wear that,’ he began, but Carwyn hushed him again.
‘You are part of our family now, Saeric, and I had this made especially for you, so I expect you to wear it.’
Saeric didn’t know what to say.
‘I have also provided a scarf to hide your neck scars, and your new boots will cover your ankles.’
‘But what about this?’ he lifted his left leg and its now very battered splints.
‘Ah, yes. It’s time that came off. Your foot will have healed by now.’ She leaned sideways and called for her husband, who appeared far too quickly to Saeric’s thinking. Did Heremund speak British, and if so, had he been listening all this time?
‘Right, let’s get this off,’ Heremund said, rubbing his hands vigorously as he decided upon the most appropriate tools for the job. Having selected his instruments, he instructed Saeric to sit down and rest his leg on a stool, then settled himself on another and set about dismantling the contraption. The twins had arrived and pressed in close to watch, hoping to see something gruesome. Heremund tapped sharply at the iron rivet heads with his mallet, trying his best not to jar Saeric’s foot. When the two halves were cleaved without incident, Carwyn shooed the disappointed boys out of the way, then carefully inspected the ankle, closing her eyes and running her fingers over the foot, feeling for anything untoward.
Declaring the ankle sound, she indicated for Saeric to stand. He did so but held onto Heremund’s shoulder for support. The big smith smiled at him, then stepped aside. Saeric wobbled for a moment, then he set his foot onto the ground and allowed his weight to fall on it. To his surprise, it felt good. It wasn’t natural by any means; he’d become so used to his foot in its splint that walking without it felt completely wrong. He allowed himself a smile as he stepped outside onto the grass beyond the smithy. It was both strange and wonderful to feel the earth beneath his soles and the grass tickling his toes.
‘Enough of that,’ Heremund scolded. ‘Let’s get you dressed, or we’ll miss the service, and we don’t want to give the Bishop more reason to shout at me.’
The clothes were gorgeous; upscaled versions of those worn by the twins, with a soft linen undershirt, dark green tunic, and fawn-coloured trousers. Dressed in this finery, Saeric could well be mistaken for Heremund’s younger brother. He sat on the stool and allowed Carwyn to help him into the calf-high, soft leather boots. Carwyn then finished it off with the neck scarf, and everyone agreed he looked a fitting member of the household. Saeric hopped over to the large water barrel to look at himself and was surprised by the transformation.
‘You could do with a haircut,’ Heremund said, ‘but if you tie it back, I think you will cut a fine figure.’
While Carwyn fought with Saeric’s unruly hair, Heremund put his hands on his hips and nodded with approval. ‘This brings me to my other purpose today,’ he said. ‘Saeric, you have demonstrated to me that you have the body, mind and skill to be a fine blacksmith one day. I wish to offer you a place at my forge as my apprentice. I will sponsor your membership to the Guild of Wintanceaster, and I will formally anoint you as a member of my household. Will you accept this offer?’
Heremund waited for an answer, but Saeric stared at him, speechless.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Heremund said. ‘You have also worked tirelessly for me without rest. From this day forward, you will take Sundays as a rest day.’
‘But what will I do?’ Saeric said without thinking.
Heremund shrugged. ‘Whatever you like. It’s your day off.’
Carwyn smiled in understanding. ‘You will still be with us, Saeric. You will take your meals in the house and attend church with us. Other than that, it’s up to you. Explore! Relax!’
Saeric didn’t know what to say, but he knew he was dangerously close to tears for everything this crazy Saxon family had done for him, so he nodded and offered a simple thank you.
Weakling, said the Devil, waking up at last.
‘Excellent,’ Heremund said. ‘Time to go.’
Saeric walked with an awkward gait, struggling to adjust to his newfound mobility. He limped out of habit, even though he didn’t need to.
The town was more substantial than he expected, centred around a sizeable fortified manor house and a stone-built cathedral and mynster. The mynster bell was tolling, calling the Easter worshippers to prayer. The church was nearly as impressive as Caer Uisc’s; lessened only in that it did not sit within the ancient city walls that encircled Saeric’s former home.
Heremund smiled at Saeric’s face, which reflected the Briton’s wonder. ‘To think you’ve been here this long, yet it is the first time you have entered the town,’ Heremund observed, his smile broadening.
To Saeric’s alarm, the smith introduced his new apprentice to everyone they met, despite Saeric’s protestations and pleas for him not to. Heremund laughed at him and made an even bigger point of drawing attention to his new family member. Saeric’s biggest shock came when a group of Saxon soldiers in their dress uniform approached Heremund’s party. Saeric saw that they were the same men who had come by the smithy soon after Saeric’s arrival, and from whom he had hidden, fearful of recapture. He felt that same fear now, and he glanced about, wondering which way he might be able to run. He felt Carwyn’s reassuring hand on his forearm.
‘Ha! You got him out after all?’ one of the soldiers said to Heremund, beaming broadly and striding up to Saeric. Matching the Briton in height, the Saxon huscarl was broader in the shoulder and harder in the face, sporting a thin scar that ran down his left cheek to his chin. He regarded the apprentice with penetrating blue eyes. ‘So, you are the mysterious Saeric?’ he asked, thrusting out his hand.
Saeric shook it, bewildered, his eyes on the gryphon emblem embroidered on the man’s tabard. It was the same as the one that adorned Saeric’s tunic.
‘He’s a bit shy,’ Heremund explained.
‘Gerard,’ said the Saxon soldier, introducing himself. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He leaned forward and whispered in Saeric’s ear, ‘I’d be shy too in the shadow of that overbearing bastard. I see he’s bullied you into service,’ he added, nodding at Saeric’s chest. He stepped back and gave Saeric a thorough inspection. ‘He’s had you working hard too, I see. No longer the gaunt shadow hiding in the corner.’ He winked and turned to Heremund. ‘And how are you, boss? We’ve not seen you in ages. You need to get out more.’
‘That’s what I tell him,’ Heremund laughed back, pointing at Saeric.
‘Well, you should bring your new underling into the tavern one night so we can get to know each other properly.’ He turned back to Saeric. ‘Where’ve you come from then? Another stray for sure, eh?’
He meant it kindly, but Saeric felt angry at the man’s intrusion.
He is our enemy, the Devil reminded him.
The soldier was astute enough to see it and smiled. ‘No offence meant, Saeric. It’s just that the old man has a habit of gathering up all the flotsam that drifts by. Don’t worry, I’m one of them too, as are most of this lot. And we’re all eternally grateful.’ He nodded in the direction of the other soldiers, winked again, then turned to the twins and scooped one each into his arms and set about prancing around like a pony, the boys squealing in delight.
‘Don’t mind him,’ Heremund said. ‘He’s a good fellow really.’
As they made their way towards the mynster, it became clear to Saeric that Heremund was a much admired and respected member of the townsfolk. Everyone seemed to want to greet him, and Saeric noted how careful Heremund was to shake everyone’s hand and ask questions about how they and their family fared, no matter how low their social station.
Just who are you? Saeric wondered. If nothing else, it confirmed that he had been extraordinarily fortunate to have st
umbled upon this man’s forge.
They moved to enter the church, and Saeric tensed at the porch, not at all convinced a bolt of lightning or some other tempest might strike him down. He stood before the round-arched doorway, looking up at the imposing stone building; two stories high with a shingle roof and a series of high seated, double-arched windows lining the nave. Again, not quite as impressive as his own mynster, but not far from it. But it was a house of God nevertheless, which meant entry would surely be dangerous to a man who had bargained his soul to the Devil.
Worried? You should be.
Saeric felt Carwyn’s reassuring hand again, and suddenly they were inside. He stepped into the nave and turned to look upon the altar and the wooden sculpture of Christ nailed to the cross. He bowed his head and made the genuflection, but still nothing happened.
Forgive him, Father, for he has sinned, came the sarcastic voice of the Devil. Oh, how he has sinned.
To Saeric’s surprise, the church was empty, despite the crowds of people milling outside. It was only once Heremund and his party had entered that others began to file inside. Saeric’s discomfort grew, for he imagined this church’s customs were little different to those of Caer Uisc. His suspicions deepened when they did not turn into one of the dark corners of either transept as Heremund had promised. Instead, they made their way straight up the short nave, and as they came ever closer to the altar, Saeric grew even more alarmed.
Why aren’t we staying out here with the rest of the townsfolk? He knew what it meant, but he failed to understand how it might apply to Heremund, a blacksmith. When they entered the chancel, Saeric turned to leave. Only the most eminent townsfolk sat in the limited number of places in the choir stalls; everyone else stood out in the nave. The place was filling with the noisy, jostling throng, all the way back down the nave to the doors, which had been thrown wide open today.
Heremund was ready for him and grabbed his wrist. ‘No, you don’t,’ he said. ‘You’re sitting right up here with me.’ When Saeric began to protest, Heremund added, ‘it’s the only way you’ll believe me that you’re safe. No one’s out to get you, Saeric.’
They took their places in the carved wooden seats in the small chancel, Saeric sitting between Heremund and Carwyn, which in Saeric’s former life was a significant gesture. The twins sat side by side next to Carwyn, leaving an empty chair at the end of the row. Saeric saw that they sat opposite the local burgher and his family, who smiled and nodded at Heremund and Carwyn, and then regarded Saeric with a considered eye.
Saeric instinctively acknowledged them with a slight tilt of his head, but despite Heremund’s assurances, he felt terrifyingly exposed at the front of the church, sitting right across from the man who would be required to arrest him when someone recognised him as Baldwyn’s escaped slave, or worse. The burgher’s teenage daughter caught Aneurin’s eye, and she made a face and pretended to fall asleep. Saeric couldn’t help but smile, but it vanished when he realised what crest she wore: the same as his own. He twisted around to Heremund, startled, but the broad-shouldered smith just grinned at him.
‘What? How?’ Saeric began, but Heremund put up his finger to silence him. The clergy had arrived.
The ten monks of Scirburne filed into the chancel from the vestry, each having to duck his head as they passed under the low arched doorway. They wore plain woollen habits, but each had one or two small embellishments to mark the individual; usually in the form of an impressive silver or carved wooden cross hung around the neck. Each also carried a treasure for the service: a golden staff bearing the processional cross; a gold chalice; heavy gold candlesticks; and the recently-repaired scripture with its jewel-encrusted golden covers.
Towards the back of the small procession came Bishop Eahlstan, whose vestments were considerably more exquisite than those of the monks. Saeric recognised the purple and gold chasuble and again was reminded of the services he had observed during his lost childhood. The Bishop glanced at him, as though sensing Saeric’s attention, and he held his gaze for a moment, then he turned and faced the altar, and made the sign of the cross. The monks each reverently placed their relics and treasures in their places in the chancel, bowed to the cross, then took their places in the row of seats in front of the nobles; five on either side of the aisle. The two altar boys then took their seats alongside the monks. The Bishop began speaking the Act of Penitence, and the crowd beyond the chancel hushed.
The service was long and tedious, spoken entirely in Latin so that none of the assembled congregation could understand a word. They soon became restless, and whispered conversations sprang up amongst the crowd and grew louder as the Bishop droned on. Saeric caught sight of his counterpart across the other side of the choir stalls making a face at him. The nobleman’s daughter was much younger than Saeric, and immediately he thought of his sister, Elowyn.
Like Elowyn, the girl opposite him bore an abundance of freckles on her nose and cheeks, and her light brown eyes were framed by a generous head of auburn hair that was neatly combed and braided. She grinned at Saeric. Her smile awoke fond memories, and suddenly Saeric was a little boy again, sitting on the hard wooden stalls in Caer Uisc’s mynster with his brothers, sisters and cousins, also making faces and rude signs at each other and trying not to get caught. He frowned, scolding himself for allowing such a foolish indulgence.
Remember those days, the Devil piped in. For that is what was taken from you by the Traitor and these people.
‘Saeric?’ came Carwyn’s questioning voice over the din of the congregation, who now paid little attention to the indecipherable Latin ramblings of the Bishop.
Saeric shook his head at her. ‘It’s nothing,’ he muttered.
When it finally came time for the taking of communion, Saeric automatically rose to receive first bread, which earned him a questioning grin from his opposite number, who, being the daughter of the noble, outranked Saeric. Saeric blushed, realising his mistake, and went to sit, but the young Saxon waved him up, and they kneeled at the altar together.
‘You’re going to get a right telling off,’ the girl scolded, still grinning. Her voice hinted of mischief and trouble, for it was mirth that Saeric heard in her tone, not rebuke. As they returned to their seats, both Heremund and the nobleman raised their eyebrows at their respective charges.
More tedium followed as the assembled commoners filed up to receive their communion. Half the monks sang a monotonic dirge to accompany the ritual, while the others helped with the sharing of the bread.
As the unwashed masses filed past him, Saeric felt a sudden rush of fear, and he shrank back in his seat, scanning the faces for anyone he might recognise, or who might recognise him. He saw nothing untoward; just a sea of people, most of them low-class peasants, this being one of the very few days in the year that they were permitted into the presbytery. Yet he still felt a base fear, and he took a long breath to steady his nerves. He jolted when he felt someone touch his arm. It was Carwyn, who must have sensed his discomfort.
‘Saeric, what is it?’
He shook his head and did not answer. Nothing but my stupid paranoia, he thought, and you’ll just dismiss me anyway. Even so, he felt angry that even now Eanswith still held him in her thrall.
‘So then,’ came Heremund’s voice from the other side of him – a hoarse whisper, as the townsfolk shuffled past – most nodding in deference to both sides of the chancel. ‘How are you enjoying mass?’ He raised his eyebrows in question.
Saeric frowned back at Heremund. ‘Why don’t you tell me why we’re sitting in the choir, not standing out there?’ he asked the smith, ‘and why is that nobleman wearing the same crest as you?’
Heremund smiled back at Saeric, then said cryptically, ‘you’ll work it out eventually.’ Saeric didn’t get the chance to challenge Heremund further, for communion was over, and the Bishop was calling the final blessing.
After the service, Bishop Eahlstan and the monks led the procession down the aisle, carrying the golden cros
s, followed by the nobleman, and then Heremund and his family. Other prominent townsfolk fell in behind them, each one in order of their importance, as was the custom. Again, Saeric felt alarmingly exposed being so near the head of the procession, and he was aware of the many faces watching him as he passed through the church. It was only then that he noticed Gerard making his way through the crowd roughly parallel to Heremund’s family. Saeric glanced to the left and saw a couple of other soldiers doing the same. He smiled inwardly. So, for all his bluster, Heremund was taking no chances.
He is your enemy.
No, she is.
‘Well aren’t you the talk of the town,’ came a voice beside Saeric, and he turned to find the young noblewoman standing next to him. ‘Who is Heremund’s new apprentice, they are wondering. Rumour has it that you’re an important British nobleman, disguised as a slave.’ She raised her eyebrows and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Maybe even an escaped rebel!’
‘What?’ Saeric blurted, alarmed.
‘Ha-ha, you should see your face! That’s a yes.’
‘I’m neither rebel nor noble,’ Saeric growled.
The Saxon girl threw him a sceptical look. ‘You seemed pretty comfortable up there, and you were quick on your feet to receive the bread and wine. And you knew all the responses. I was watching you. That lot,’ she said, waving her hand at the masses, ‘have no idea what’s what. They come because they have to.’ She thrust out a petite hand. ‘I’m Leofwynn,’ she said, smiling warmly, ‘but you can call me Leo if you like.’
‘Isn’t that a boy’s name?’
Leofwynn shrugged her narrow shoulders, untroubled. ‘Father wanted me to be a boy and had already settled on Leo-something for my name; Leofric, I think. So, he just stuck a girl’s ending on it, and here we are.’ She beamed at him, her face open and happy and without a care in the world. Again Saeric was reminded of another time, and he swallowed back a pang of sadness.
