* * * * *
As the sky began to lighten ahead of them, the three men came out of the oaks to be greeted by the smell of wood-smoke on the breeze. Morning mist hung dankly around the hills beyond the trees, and the road wound down between them towards a peaceful little village.
Up on a nearby hillside, a shepherd was visible, surrounded by his bleating flock. The misty vale was otherwise silent and deserted.
Edwin paused as they reached the edge of the forest, and his two companions halted beside him. Oswald squatted down and rubbed his aching calves. He was unaccustomed to walking such a distance, and was bone weary. The muscles used by a horseman are not the same as those used for walking. Besides, he was hungry; he had eaten nothing since the previous morning.
‘We follow the road across the farmland for a few miles,’ Edwin announced, sitting down beside him. ‘Then we leave it and head south towards the Forest of Arden…’
‘And will we meet more woodwoses there?’ Oswald asked sharply.
‘Troll!’ Bork said. ‘They were trolls.’
‘Trolls, woodwoses, what does it matter what they were?’ Edwin said with a casual shrug. ‘We’ve seen neither hide nor hair of them, nor smelled them, in the last ten miles. And that’s good news, to my mind.’
He got to his feet. ‘Now come on. We want to get through this village without anyone seeing us.’ He broke off as his stomach rumbled audibly. ‘Of course, we might stop off to grab a bite to eat,’ he added.
Oswald frowned. ‘The tavern won’t be open at this hour,’ he said. ‘Besides, surely we want to avoid being seen?’
Edwin laughed. ‘I wasn’t thinking of paying,’ he replied.
He turned to go. Oswald got up and followed Edwin, and they headed down the road.
Passing through the village, which had grown up on either side off Watling Street, Oswald stared at the silent cottages with a feeling of loss. His father’s estate had included three villages much like these; peaceful settlements nestled in quiet valleys far from the troubled frontier. He had inherited them on his father’s death, but he had not had long to enjoy life as lord of the manor before King Offa called him off to the wars. On their return from the spring campaign, the king had promised him more estates for his bravery in battle against the Welsh. But now he had neither his father’s lands nor those promised him, and he was, as Edwin had described him, no more than a man with a sword.
As they passed the manor house, Edwin slipped away up a little lane. Oswald moved to follow, but Bork caught his arm. He looked at the Dane, and Bork shook his head, beckoning him away.
Together, the Dane and the outlawed thane headed up the road and out of the village, in silence.
Once past the last house, Oswald glanced at Bork. ‘What’s Edwin doing?’ he hissed.
Bork laughed quietly. ‘Getting us something to eat,’ he replied.
Oswald frowned. ‘Stealing?’ he asked disapprovingly.
‘Aye,’ Bork replied. ‘No time to go hunting. Get used to it.’
They walked slowly up the road.
‘You’ve been his friend for a while, then?’ Oswald asked, inquisitively.
‘Aye,’ the Dane replied. ‘Though we fought when we first met.’
Oswald looked startled. ‘Who won?’ he asked.
‘Neither of us,’ Bork replied. ‘We were interrupted.’ He said no more for a while, and they walked in silence.
‘I’d just come ashore, after my father’s fleet was wrecked off the coast,’ he began, a minute or two later. ‘I was a stranger then, friendless and alone in a foreign country, expecting at any moment to be captured and enslaved. Near London it was. That’s where I met Edwin. He came running out of the trees with his sword drawn. Naturally, I sprang to defend myself, especially when I saw more men following him. He cursed me when I came at him, and then I saw that the other men were pursuing him. So I ran, and he came with me.
‘Later, when we’d shaken the pursuit off, we sat together in a tavern off Ermine Street. He told me how he’d been betrayed while robbing the king’s mint. The men had been going to kill him. He didn’t have to accept me as a follower. But when I told him my plight, he took me under his wing.’
Oswald nodded, surprised by the sudden flow. Though laconically told, the Dane’s narrative revealed a deep affection for his outlaw partner. Oswald reflected briefly that Edwin had done much the same for him. A veritable saint amongst robbers, he thought cynically.
‘Breakfast, men,’ Edwin said, appearing round the corner ahead of them. He was carrying a loaf, a jug of small beer, and a flitch of bacon.
‘How did you get here?’ Oswald demanded, glancing back towards the village. ‘And where did you get those?’
Edwin tapped his nose knowingly.
‘Tricks of the trade, Oswald,’ he replied. ‘Tricks of the trade. I’ll let you in on them some day, if you shape up right. But come on. Let’s be moving before the lord of the manor wakes up and finds his breakfast missing.’
‘You robbed the lord of the…’ Oswald shook his head. He was unsure whether he should laugh, or be outraged. Edwin shot him his disarming grin, and tore him a hunk of bread.
‘Get this down you,’ he said. ‘Bork, you got your knife?’
The Dane took a long, single-edged knife from his belt and proceeded to hack the bacon into three roughly equal pieces. Edwin tore up the bread, and they marched off down the road, wolfing down bread and bacon and passing the jug of small beer from hand to hand.
As his growling belly grew calm, Oswald began to feel almost comfortable; a little guilty to be thriving on another man’s provender, but happy nonetheless. It was like proceeding through enemy territory, he told himself, living off the land as they went. And now that he was outside the law, that analogy was not far from the truth. Yes, he was at war, at war with the injustice of King Offa. And more importantly, with Queen Cynethryth.
‘This is where we leave the road,’ announced Edwin as they came to a crossroads on the heath, half a mile outside the village. Here the cracked stones of Watling Street were bisected by a muddy pedlar’s track that wound southwards across the hard turf and gorse. On the far horizon, lit by the spreading rays of the rising Sun, Oswald caught a glimpse of more woods. The Forest of Arden awaited them, haunt of beast and robber, and perhaps worse things - but now it was his home.
He followed Edwin and Bork off the road and down the rutted heath track. Absently, he wondered what Godiva would be doing, and a pang of guilt struck him as he realised how far from his thoughts his betrothed had been.
What would she do now that he was gone? Did she believe the queen’s lies? How did she see him now? Did she hate him? Would she marry another?
Would they ever meet again in this world?
The Sword of Wayland Page 15
