‘My brother and I will go hunting at the end of the month, Father Dunstan. Not a great hunt, you understand, with hundreds of beaters and half the horsemen in England. No, just an intimate following. Hard riding through the wet ferns, that sort of thing. Too much drinking, usually, so that men fall off and break their necks.’ He chuckled at his own humour. ‘There have been sightings of a royal stag, actually not too far from you – near the cliffs at Cheddar Gorge.’ He looked me up and down as if the idea had just occurred to him. I wondered then if it was no accident that I had been given a seat at his side. ‘Why, you look fit enough, father. My brother Edmund said you can ride. He said it was worth seeing. You should accompany us, if you have the stomach for it.’
I had no idea if Eadred sought to test me, or expected me to refuse. His expression was perfectly blank as he turned back to watch the crowd congratulating his brother and the new queen.
I’d gone hunting with my father when I was very young, though even then he was a little old for twenty miles of tramping over sodden ground. Our hare traps and bird nets were not quite the sort of thing kings and lords enjoyed. Yet the wonder was that this half-sized, coughing prince thought he had any sort of stamina or stomach that I lacked. I felt myself bristle at the challenge, for all I thought he was manipulating me. The brightest of young men will act like fools when someone queries their courage.
‘I would be honoured, my lord,’ I said. ‘I knew Cheddar Gorge well, when I was a boy. There were deer there, great shaggy beasts. I have never seen larger animals.’
I caught his interest with that. He dropped the careless pose, taking my arm.
‘In truth? I thought you would know the land there. It is, what, ten miles from Glastonbury? Any boys growing up in those parts would have gone to see such a wonder, of course. Now listen, father. I have huntsmen and dogs as fine as my brother’s. Stay close to me and we’ll find this monstrous stag. I’ll eat his liver, still warm.’
His eyes glazed subtly as he imagined it, though whether he saw the blood or the triumph I could not tell.
‘The local thane said he’d never seen such a spread of antler, father. So I’ll have that thicket, if I can.’ Eadred shuddered and looked up, as if waking. ‘Perhaps you’ll be my luck, father. There is only one stag – and I would count you as a friend if you helped me to win it.’
*
I still had Scoundrel then, though he’d grown older as I came into my prime. He went lame rather too often to be out on rough ground in the half-darkness, but we had a local man guiding us, jigging along on a pony, so that he looked a child beside the great beasts Edmund and Eadred rode.
I was hunched and miserable, already wet through and so chilled in the drizzle and dawn cold that I just wanted to curl up until a warm fire and some ale presented themselves to my eyes. I had been warned by Master Gregory of the workshop to wear thick cloth against the biting flies, or clegs, as he called them. Yet they found me anyway, rising from the ferns and diving ceaselessly at my eyes and mouth. The sight of my sharp gestures seemed to please the local. He said there were more flies where the deer roamed, which made sense, though was no comfort. I glared at him for appearing to believe this would interest me.
I will say that watching the sun rise on the hills above Cheddar Gorge was an hour of extraordinary beauty. The great slice in the land can’t be more than a mile or so long, but the cliff edges are sharp as a knife and drop hundreds of yards down to the ground below. I’ve never seen anywhere else like it in England, and as I shivered in sopping clothes and rubbed at the bites of horseflies, I never wanted to again. There is a reason man builds warm homes and churches. Yes, of course it is for the glory of God, but it keeps the wind and rain out as well, which is no small thing. All the philosophers of Greece and Rome had long sunny days to stroll and think. In England, we had to build roofs or freeze.
The king had vanished somewhere far off, though we could sometimes hear the barking of his dogs when they flushed a hare or a fox. He had his own local to guide him, while I rode alongside Eadred and our man. Our pony-riding fellow looked askance at me whenever I suggested one path over another, but the truth was I did know those cliffs and that gorge well. Ten miles is nothing to a boy, and Wulfric and I had walked that whole part of Wessex a hundred times when we were seven or eight.
It had not changed, though it took a while to come back. I’d catch sight of a rock or a boulder and suddenly know, just know, that there was a brackish old pond down the track beyond it, or that the copse of trees there leaned right out over the sheer drop.
Eadred looked to me constantly, as if I could conjure a stag from the air simply by knowing the land. At first, in the darkness, I was just pleased to find a path well away from the edge of the gorge. The drop seemed to be something I could sense, though it might just have been the way the trees and bushes came to an end into open air. The sounds and echoes were different and I could stay clear of it. That said, I was still relieved when the sun rose. It makes the world ours, that light. It banishes fear and we raise our heads.
As the light grew, I led us down a path between two huge rocks. I had climbed them as a boy and knew they would let me see far over the land around us. Scoundrel resisted being used as a stepping stone, but our local man held his reins and I went scrambling up. There was lichen and moss deep in the cracked surface. I dared not trust a single grip and I was aware of how much lighter I had been when last I climbed.
There was the sound of pebbles and scraping behind me and I saw Eadred had followed, climbing easily, though I heard him cough, a subdued sound as if he swallowed the noise. Still, he caught up to me on that slope, so that we stood together on the top, panting and delighted with our small triumph. It seemed longer down than it had been to rise, and I stared at our huntsmen, wondering if there was an easier way to reach them.
Eadred took my arm, turning me slowly to see the stag. It stood not two hundred yards away, on high ground. It was watching us, and as I gaped at it, it bowed huge antlers. I know now it was some kind of challenge, but at the time I stared at Eadred, wondering what it might mean.
‘Move slowly now, father,’ Eadred whispered. ‘Let’s get down without breaking a leg.’
He and I went to a crouch and I saw the stag turn sharply, sensing something on the wind before I did.
We heard the king’s hounds, yammering away as they came closer. Eadred cursed and slid on his stomach down the rock, vanishing from my sight. He would have fallen badly if his huntsmen hadn’t scrambled to catch him. He and they were kicking their mounts to a gallop in an instant, while I was still climbing down.
He had surprised me. His small frame and poor lungs had led me to believe he was a weak man, or not brave. Neither was true. Our dogs howled and bayed and Eadred galloped out of the shadow of those rocks. The great stag vanished from its perch. The hunt was on and I dropped into Scoundrel’s saddle with a thump that jarred me all the way to my neck, yet I roared as I turned him, caught up in the excitement of it.
The noise of hounds tugs at something in a man’s chest, a thread of old times that raises the blood and banishes all pain. I was off, riding like a madman, following the dogs, racing through small gaps without a care.
We pelted through wet woodland, so that I had to raise my arm against the briars that looped across the path, cursing as they snagged and hoping against hope I would not take one across the throat. I caught only glimpses of Eadred, and then the second pack of dogs was converging on my path from the side. I looked ahead and felt panic swell as I saw we had come back to the highest part of the gorge.
The stag was running there, as big as a horse itself, huge and thick with fur. I heard its snorting as it strove to stay ahead of both dogs and men. I knew that place. I had stood on that edge and looked over, scaring myself. I was already heaving at the reins as the stag reached the end of the rocks and leaped from instinct, as if it thought it could reach the other side of the gorge, far away.
It happened so quic
kly! The dogs were almost on its heels and in their frenzy they went straight after it, unable to stop. They screeched as they fell, the tone of their barking changing to terrified howls. I came to a halt and I saw King Edmund break out of the trees at full gallop.
‘Stop!’ I roared at him, waving both hands.
I saw him look at me and the drop ahead in growing horror. He was still the master horseman I had seen at Brunanburh. He heaved and turned all in an instant, throwing his weight to one side while his mount’s hooves skidded and went splay-legged, whinnying like a scream.
Edmund could not halt in time. In the last moment, he dived out of the saddle and came to his feet, with the reins taut in his hand, pulling his horse to save it.
I watched him dragged one step to the edge, while the animal showed the whites of its eyes and scrambled with all legs kicking. It had no grip and I think the young king would have gone over if Eadred hadn’t shouted to him.
‘Let it go, Edmund! Please!’
Edmund released his grip and the horse went tumbling after the dogs and the stag, screaming all the way down until the sound ceased. I walked to the king with tears in my eyes, overcome. He was in agony and I thought he must have torn all the muscles of his back trying to hold an impossible weight. Six men could not have pulled a horse back from that edge. Later, his entire chest went purple under the skin. It was a foolish thing to do, but what is a king, if not a man who refuses to admit defeat?
‘Thank you, Dunstan,’ Edmund said. ‘I heard you call. You too, Brother.’
As one, we three walked together to the edge. There were still a few dogs there that had avoided going over with the rest. They seemed untroubled at how close they had come to death and wagged their stiff tails and panted as we peered at broken things below.
‘I claim the antlers,’ Eadred said.
Edmund chuckled and groaned at the same time.
‘My back is sore. I’ve done something to it. Yet you will claim the antlers of the stag that nearly killed me?’
Eadred considered for a moment. He was the younger brother.
‘I claim them to give to you,’ he said.
Edmund embraced him. They knew how close it had been, both of them.
We made our way down, to that place at the bottom of the gorge. Perhaps twelve or fourteen dogs had gone over. To Edmund’s astonishment, one of them had survived, though he had broken a leg and looked both scuffed and battered. He wagged his tail to see us and neither the king nor his brother could believe he had lived, looking up again and again to the cliffs high above. I had an idea how it was done. I suspected that dog had fallen on its fellows, or the stag itself.
The stag had indeed been a monster of its kind. It lay black-shouldered, dark with flies and blood, with a great spread of horn that made him a king of the breed. His antlers had broken in the fall, wrenched apart in two great pieces and with half a dozen tips broken off. Yet Eadred brought up his huntsmen and the local carpenter arrived, with saw and hammers and chisels to cut them free. King Edmund accepted the horns, and for all their battered look, they had pride of place in Winchester for all my life. They are still there now.
25
When Edmund’s queen gave birth to a healthy son and named the little brat Edwy, there was almost a breath of relief from the hills of England, at least after the child had survived six months and the queen was showing again. It seemed Edmund found her tolerably attractive, enough to mount and bear his seed. The second son was named Edgar – and the line was secure.
Children are born, and beloved uncles die. It seems to me, at times, that I remember only great triumphs and disasters. The mere ordinary years of my youth, where the crops came in and the abbey rose higher, pass almost unnoticed. Yet a good life is made of such things.
When I offered Mass at Athelm’s funeral in Canterbury, it was the first Thursday past Easter, with the spring sun burning colours onto the stone floor. I struggled to breathe, my grief came so strongly – and I remember how the incense rose in grey curls and how the words stopped in my throat.
I loved that enormous, kind man, though I’ve learned that one great grief will open a door in us that cannot be closed again. From my father, to Lady Elflaed, to Uncle Athelm – each of those we lose becomes a shadow for the next, an echo, a bell struck, that sounds in our lives until our own last breath. I was overcome by tears in my eulogy.
It did not help that a particularly beautiful young woman on the front bench looked up adoringly all the way through, snagging my attention. When I should have had my thoughts on the great coffin we would somehow carry to its tomb in the church of St John, I grew flushed instead at the way some unknown maiden bit her lower lip and stared up at me, dabbing her eyes and heaving in great breaths.
I was still tormented by desire in those days, on occasion. I punished myself in cold waters, though I might have made a river steam. Thank God such things fade with years passing. Lust goes to ashes in the end, like ambition, or honour, or hope.
It grieves me to have played a part in evil days and the bitter triumphs of the enemy, though I was innocent enough. The kingdom was secure, with a young royal family and two sons. King Edmund had ruled in peace for five years when he held a great feast for his noblemen in Winchester. The occasion was no more than a dinner on All Hallows’ Eve, when old villages used to call back dead souls and interfere with graves. There were dark practices still in England then, you may believe it.
The nights were coming earlier and the fields were thick with mist as the sun went down. The air was crisp and cold with each breath, cleaner than the breezes of summer. Like a feast of Nero, the king lit the gardens with copper bowls of oil along the paths, so that his guests could stroll as if in the day. Half the city seemed to have come to honour his anniversary on the throne.
I saw Leofa standing without shame, returned and bold, holding a quart mug of ale and laughing with a group of hard-looking fellows. I’m afraid I stood rooted to the spot as I recognised him, filled with sudden fear and confusion. It had been just three years since I’d seen him banished.
It was true we’d had not a grain of trouble from his men after the banishment began. I suppose in part it was because we no longer owned the land Leofa had claimed. Edmund had been as good as his word to me. He had made a gift of some other hides of land to replace our losses. That time was long past then, a memory as far and forgotten as any other.
I wonder now if Leofa had decided three years was enough and had come to ask his old friend for a reprieve. I imagine Edmund might have granted it to him, even. Men who have fought together sometimes forge a bond that lasts a lifetime. In the right mood, Edmund would have laughed and embraced him.
It was not the right mood. Whatever Leofa had intended, it all went wrong before my very eyes.
On such occasions there are always hundreds who wish to be introduced, so that they can say ‘I met the king’ to their grandchildren, or ‘This hand shook a king’s hand’. As a result, Edmund was surrounded by well-wishers as he moved through the feast, his champion John Wyatt looming over all. Edmund had only to comment on the gardens and there would be a ripple of laughter from those who hung on his words. He had only to raise a cup to have a servant push through to fill it once again.
In the middle of the evening, the crowds had spilled right across the grounds, roving everywhere, inside and out. The mood was light and people were merry and clasping each other by the shoulders. There was some singing nearby as Edmund passed within a few feet of Leofa and looked right at him. I saw the king recognise a man he had banished, scorning him at his own feast. I saw Edmund’s rage come.
If he had been less a fighting man, or twice the age he was, Edmund would have sent John Wyatt to lay hands on the impudent thane. Returning from banishment mocks the king and the law equally. Edmund was within his rights to have Wyatt strike the fellow’s head from his shoulders right there, in the gardens.
Yet the king was twenty-three years old and at his greatest streng
th and vigour. Of course he did not summon his champion, or send a servant. Of course he went himself. Leofa turned away as he saw Edmund coming towards him.
I think perhaps he wanted to hand his great jug of ale to one of the others, but it might have looked as if he turned his back on the king.
Edmund laid his hand on Leofa, yanking him round. As well as his quart pot, Leofa had been eating some piece of fowl, his hands greasy with chicken – and his knife held in his right, to cut the meat. As Edmund heaved at him, the thane reacted as he might have done to a cutpurse, coming round with his knife out straight and hard, a punching blow. The ale pot crashed into pieces on flagstones at their feet.
I could only stare as Edmund went stiff. I saw enough of Leofa’s horrified expression to know he had not planned it that way. His hand fell from the hilt of his knife and the king took a step back, his mouth opening in pain and surprise and hurt.
John Wyatt came through then, bellowing. He had been within arm’s reach of Edmund, though no one could have stopped the king suddenly stepping forward and grabbing someone. We all froze as Wyatt brought his axe around in a huge sweep. It snatched Leofa from the world, so that he was there and then gone in an instant. The blow took Leofa’s head off, with most of his right shoulder, going on to sink deep into the gravel and remain.
Edmund went down to one knee. I could see he was struggling by then, his face showing fear. I went forward to tend him, though I almost died for it as Wyatt reached to block me with a seax knife as long as my forearm.
‘Let me through, you fool,’ I said, though I’d thought I was done and my voice was a croak. Wyatt bared his teeth at me in his distress. No doubt he was afraid of his own fate for allowing the king to be struck.
The Abbot's Tale Page 26
