by Jane Adams
“I lost my family to these invaders,” Treven replied with equal heat. “Father, wife and son and the lands my family held. You have returned. Your children are fed, your harvest brought home. There has been peace here since the Eastertime and this peace will be kept. My king pledges this and I, as his servant, pledge it too.”
“And does Guthrum pledge it? Or are these just words he saw fit to say, knowing that for one battle he had been defeated? And what of those that Guthrum does not control? How many in that Great Army only a dozen miles away agree with Guthrum, or Athelstan or whatever his name should be, that they will keep the peace because he bids them do so. Will the pledge he made to king and Christ outweigh the pledges he has made, lifelong to his own kings and his own gods? I’ve known men boast that they’ve gathered as many as thirty Baptismal shirts; one for each time they’ve made a promise to the church.”
Treven said nothing for a moment. Eldred’s words were so like his own thoughts — the ones that came when he was at his weakest — that he did not know the way to reply. Finally, he said, “I have fought beside my king when things had grown so sour that all he had to claim as his was a scant half mile of land. He never admitted, not even to himself, that he might not win out against the foe. That this time the battle would see him utterly defeated. I rode with messages to men who might have doubted him had they seen in what dire straits he had landed himself. Holed up in marshland so treacherous it could be navigated only by flat boat. He sent messages, bidding those that might lose heart to come and fight with him because he would never surrender the government of our land. That there would be no defeat, only victory and the rule of law. Our king is a warrior. Guthrum is a warrior. Guthrum knows when he looks into Aelfred’s eyes that the thoughts behind his gaze are the same thoughts, the same courage, the same resolve as Guthrum himself carried into battle. Aelfred could have shamed his enemy. He chose not to shame him but to welcome him into the Church and give him land and a place where his own laws and judgments would be kept.”
“And how is that different from the blood gold that his kinsmen paid? How is it changed? Once they said, ‘here, have gold and horses and then leave us,’ and the Danes would leave for a time until the gold ran out and they needed new brood mares to improve their stock and more slaves to sell in Paris and the Eastern lands beyond. Then they came back and attacked again, knowing they would be paid well for their warfare. How is this different? Instead of gold, we now give land. Instead of horses, cattle for them to farm. How long before they will encroach upon our land by a mile, or a field or a hide? Before these strangers take our women as wives or slaves?”
“My brother speaks as many feel,” Edmund said and Treven could hear the impatience in his voice.
“As many have a right to feel,” Hugh told him. “But we must face the times as they are made. Treven here does not come to strip the land. He looks for a place of peace in which to remarry and raise his children.”
I do? Treven wondered. The thought of wife and children was not an idea which had previously occurred.
“I too have served King Aelfred since boyhood,” Hugh said. “And his brothers before him. I know him to be an honest man and a wise ruler. He places men like Treven at his frontiers knowing that they will brook no trouble and no encroachment. Men whose hunger for their own land is as great as the hunger you and your folk endured in that bloody winter.”
“Fine words,” Eldred interrupted.
“Words that will be backed by action,” Treven informed him angrily. He took a deep frustrated breath. “I have endured talk which another would have maintained was treason. I have allowed you to question my words, to doubt the King’s intent because I know what the land has suffered. The bloodshed and the pain. I know that you and your men must have gathered at the weapontake knowing that the most you could achieve would be to fight until your women and children and old people were in hiding and how much that must have chafed against men like yourselves, who, I don’t doubt, have hearts as strong as any warriors that met full battle. And I know too the anger that you must have felt when the king’s demand for foot soldiers stripped your lands of the youngest and fittest of men and forced one of you to leave when you would fain have stayed and protected your own.”
He intercepted Eldred’s quick and anxious glance towards his brother and knew his guess had hit the mark. One of these brothers could justifiably have remained to assist an ageing father and lead a community, but not both. Had they served the king’s demands then one at least would have led men from their lands to join the king’s foot. They would not, Treven knew, be the first vill who had ignored the king’s command to send at least a tithe of men. He knew how dreadfully painful this could be for a small community then left, perhaps, without sufficient defence. Treven himself had been away from his own home fighting for Aelfred’s elder brother when his family had been killed. In his more clear-sighted moments, Treven would not have wished such pain on any, but there was a part of his soul that had hardened against what he saw as such cowardice and asked what gave other men the right to shirk their duty when his own sense of honour had brought such terrible consequences.
He had no idea if Hild, his wife, and their son Hlisa would have lived had he been there, but his heart always wondered, teased and worried at the thought and gave him little peace.
He was about to challenge them when the noise of shouting from outside drew his attention back towards the door. He saw Cate raise her hands to her face as though in shock or fear and cast an anxious glance back towards the brothers. She then fled towards the door and Treven could hear her remonstrating with someone outside. Edmund and Eldred exchanged looks that Treven could not fully interpret, but Eldred’s face was dark with fury and Treven sensed that much of his anger was directed towards his wife.
Treven rose to his feet and strode towards the door giving the brothers little option but to follow.
Outside an old man, dishevelled and only partly clothed, capered about with a leather flask clasped tightly in one hand and a child’s wooden sword in the other. Two men, serfs, from their dress and demeanour stood back, clearly apologising to their young mistress for something while Cate herself sought to catch the old man’s arms and calm him. He was laughing like an idiot, waving his arms and spilling his drink over himself and the girl.
“Father,” Cate pleaded with him, “please be calm. Please.”
Beside him, Treven heard Edmund curse.
“Father?” Treven questioned. “Your father was unwell, you said . . .”
Eldred stormed down the steps and grabbed his young wife. He shook her angrily. “You were told to see that he was kept away,” he shouted. “Now look what you have done. The man is shamed before his lord and a laughingstock among his servants.”
“The woman cannot be blamed for the actions of a grown man,” Treven remonstrated. He turned sharply on Edmund. ”And how long has he been like this? Is the steward of my lands nothing more than a drunken sot? It is not yet midday and the man can barely stand.”
“Our father is a troubled man,” Edmund told him, his teeth gritted against the words that he would like to say, for Treven’s criticisms had stung the worse because of the truth in them. “And as for how long? Until a month since, he was as able a man as any you could find among the King’s counsellors. Grief has done this to him, the loss of his child . . .”
Treven turned on him, eyes narrowed. “Many have lost children,” he said softly, “and I know that grief can drive a man to strong drink. But did none of you seek to mend this? Put him aside, you say, hide him away, nothing more than that?” He looked back at the old man and shook his head. “And I do not see only drunkenness here, Edmund. I see in those eyes a madness of more than a single month or even a single season. What goes on here?”
Edmund sighed and looked away, the muscles in his jaw working to keep the emotions in check and the words where they were. Eldred had no such reserve.
“So you’ll blame our father for
the run-down lands and the house about to fall. Had he been the strongest, the fittest of men with all of his faculties as sharp as when his mind was young we could have done no more.” He turned once more on his wife. She shied away from him as he gestured toward her.
“Get him inside,” he told her, “give him something to calm his mood. Poppy or white bryony, whatever you have.”
Cate looked at Treven with apology in her eyes and tried hard to avoid Hugh’s gaze, though the man was obvious in his attempts to make her look his way.
“Might I help you?” he asked her as she passed him to reach out once more for the old man’s arm. He had grown quiet now, standing with a foolish look upon his face and humming softly to himself.
“There is nothing you can do,” she whispered and Treven felt a jolt go through him, knowing she did not speak only of the old man and that Hugh’s interest attracted her far more than she dared show. She loosened her father’s hold on the bottle and this time he gave it up easily. Then, without a backward look, her shoulders squared against Hugh’s gaze, she led him inside.
CHAPTER 5
Treven had been deep in thought since they had left Theading. Hugh had not seemed to notice his silence and had, in any case talked enough for both of them, in turn berating the insolent attitude of the two men and singing the praises of the young woman.
Surprised, eventually, by Treven’s silence, his thoughts concerning Cate had become more and more elaborate until at the last they verged on the obscene. Only then did Treven quiet him.
“Leave her be, Hugh. She’s a countrywoman with nowhere to go and nowhere to hide if you shame her. You want a woman, go find the nearest whore house and take your pick. Lord knows you can afford it now.”
“Time was you’d have been of my mind,” Hugh returned irritably. “Since when did your view of women become any more considered than mine.”
Treven scowled but didn’t answer. It was true, he acknowledged, that when the first grief of losing his wife and son had subsided, Treven had promised himself he’d never become so entangled with any woman again. The pain of losing Hild and Hlisa had burned worse and for longer than any battle wound. Afterwards, he’d been as careless of the women he took to his bed as had Hugh — though he’d never had his friend’s appetites and neither had he had Hugh’s success. But that feeling had passed. He’d woken one morning beside some unknown, unnamed female and it seemed to him that while he slept he must have dreamed of Hild. She’d been standing in the doorway of their old home, watching their son play with the other lads and as he’d come near to her, she’d smiled at him and held out her hand.
There had been, he thought, no blame in her eyes, no recrimination, though he felt she had seen everything and known all he’d done since the day she died.
Since then, there’d been no women, though perhaps Hugh was right in what he’d said earlier. The time had come to settle and to find a wife. Aelfred had spoken of this also and made it plain that the king’s peace needed families as much as it required fighting men. So many deaths called for children to replace them.
It was late afternoon by the time they returned to Theadingford and the dilapidated Hall, its state seeming worse now he had the steading at Theading village to compare it with. Treven wandered away from Hugh and, despite Osric’s warning, went inside to have a proper look at what was left of the building.
Unlike that at Theadingford, the doorway here was placed centrally on the longest side and, amongst the rubble of the part-fallen building and filth left by the swine Treven could make out two hearths, one set at either end of the main room. Beyond that on the right, as he stood in the doorway, what was left of a wooden partition and beyond that again, visible through the part broken wattle of the wall, a second room. This puzzled him at first until, peering through the gap, he realised this must be the cattle shed. It was a good thought, Treven acknowledged. This smaller chamber would be warmed by the hearth fire on the one side and by the body heat of the animals in the shed on the other.
He studied the design of the hall more carefully. The evening light slanted through the partly missing roof and the gaps in the end wall. It revealed a sophisticated construction, the like of which Treven had seen only in the King’s hall at Winchester and in one other. The hall was not a simple A-frame but was cruik built at either end, a stronger and more elegant design, which if handled well allowed for a gallery to be stretched above the main room. Peering closely, Treven could just make out the supports for this, set high in the wall, though the gallery itself was long gone.
The thought pleased him. He wondered if there were carpenters and woodworkers in Theading capable of understanding the structure and of replicating it, or if outside labour had created it and he would be forced to send elsewhere for skilled men.
His thoughts were interrupted by Osric calling to him from the doorway that food was ready.
“It’s built like the King’s house,” he said as he wandered over to where his servant stood.
“I seen it,” Osric told him. “I asked about it today. The father of the local smith saw a house like this and carried the way of making home. His grandson reckons he was told how.”
Treven nodded, satisfied. “I’ll talk with them,” he said. “And what of the Scriveners, what did you find out?”
Osric shrugged. “The father of the two women owns the land. He married them to the men, the brothers, to unite their land with his and treated them like sons. They took his name. Scrivener, since the land was his. There’s talk the women have lost their right to inherit and the old servants think that’s wrong. The steading has been passed through the female line these past five generations, or so they reckon. They got their name, Scrivener, from being scribes to the Thegns that held this land before.”
Treven nodded and made a mental note that he should find out more about his. Conflicts over land were best resolved at root and not left to infect the branch. “Two women?” He asked.
“Cate Scrivener had a sister. Wife to the older brother, Edmund. Her name was Allis.”
“Was?”
He shrugged again. “Word is she’s either run off with a Waelas man, in which case she’s good as dead so far as her kin are concerned, or her husband got wind of her plans and done away with them both.”
Treven raised an eyebrow. “Is that likely? I could believe that of Eldred, but Edmund seemed the more reasoned of the two.” He sensed that there was more. Osric was always wont to stretch his stories out, doling them out in episodes as rewards for patience. It annoyed Hugh; Treven was simply so used to it he gave it little thought.
“Other word is he might have let the woman go with his blessing.”
“Oh?” That was stranger news.
“Three years and no sign of offspring, when it’s known he’s fathered at least two elsewhere. They say he dealt fairly with both the women. Paid a good bride price and found them sound husbands to marry, but no son or child from Allis Scrivener.”
“And what of Cate? Is she happy in her marriage?”
Osric spat, to show his displeasure. “Eldred beats her,” he said. “She was a lass of fifteen when he married her at Christmastide. If she looks elsewhere for comfort, it’ll be others to blame.” He glanced through the doorway at Hugh and Treven was painfully aware that Osric would have heard every word Hugh uttered on the journey home. He should have silenced him earlier, as Osric was now pointing out in his own inimitable fashion. Osric himself was true and loyal as day, but the others would gossip, Treven was in no doubt of that, and it wasn’t seemly for the new Shire Reeve to be speaking so openly of cuckolding another man and even less seemly for the new Thegn to be tacitly encouraging this by his silence. He had, he acknowledged, a good deal to learn about the management of his new position.
“When did Allis Scrivener disappear?” he asked.
“Six weeks since, they said. Reckoned it drove the old man mad with grieving, though some say he was heading there long before, since after his wife died.�
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Treven nodded, recalling what he had been told about the winter deaths and Cate’s mother being buried out in the woods. He was not surprised there had been no mention of her elder sister and this, perhaps, explained much about the state of the father. He wondered, though, if it were true that Tilian Scrivener had not been in his right mind since his wife’s death, who had, in reality been managing the estates. He found it hard to cast either of the brothers in the role of steward. His thoughts were interrupted by Hugh shouting at him from his place beside the fire.
“Will you come out and eat, man? I’m half starved.”
Treven glanced in his direction, then patted Osric on the shoulder. “See what else you can discover,” he said, “and be sure you and the others have your fill of the food.”
Osric jerked his head in what might have been acknowledgement and took himself away to eat with the other servants. Treven, his thoughts now filled with Osric’s revelations, joined Hugh by the fire.
* * *
Cate had come outside to catch the last of the evening light. She had her spindle with her and stood on the steps of the hall, spinning the last of the wool she’d combed earlier in the day.
Cate didn’t need to think about her task. She’d learnt to spin so long ago she could no longer recall a time when her fingers had not known how to twist the thread and draw the staple from the combed wool. Her yarn was smooth and even and the cloth she wove hard-wearing and warm and Cate was proud of her skills. Allis had never had the patience for it. She could use the spindle adequately enough — what woman couldn’t? — but Cate despaired of the knots and slubs Allis managed to catch in her work, though she was, Cate owned, an even better weaver than Cate herself.
