The Sword of Wayland

by Gavin Chappell

  * * * * *

  For the fiftieth time, Brother Ethelwerd glanced back over his horse’s crupper at the packhorse behind him. The older of the two hired men who accompanied him, known as Edred, glanced at him.

  ‘Don’t worry, Brother,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Your taxes are safe.’

  Ethelwerd went white. ‘Don’t speak so loud!’ he squeaked. ‘You never know who might be listening.’

  ‘Ah, nonsense,’ said Edred. ‘The robbers of Arden were all killed months ago - except their leader, and he was to be hanged this week.’

  ‘Still, we don’t know who might be lurking in the trees,’ Ethelwerd replied nervously, his flabby jowls quivering. ‘These taxes are for the archbishop, and they must not get into the wrong hands.’

  Osbert, the warrior riding at the front, turned in his saddle.

  ‘The wrong hands?’ he sneered. ‘Your archbishop bleeds the people white! Why shouldn’t robbers get it?’ He was a taciturn, morose man who had spoke little on the journey to Archbishop Higbert’s southern estates, and all that he had said had been bitter.

  Edred scowled at him.

  ‘Stop that, Osbert,’ he snapped.

  ‘But what are you worrying about?’ he asked, returning his attention to Ethelwerd. ‘The archbishop’s notary explained it to me when he hired us. Until the king finish building his fortifications, there’s chance of losing the money to Welsh marauders if we go through the Wrekin District, and if we go round by Middle Anglia, we’d not have got back before the harvest. This way is safest. No one ventures here now that the robbers are finished.’

  There was a thrum from the air. He jerked in his saddle suddenly, and stared down in disbelief at the arrow jutted from his chest.

  ‘Of course,’ he added, ‘I could be wrong.’ Slowly and soundlessly, he slid over the back of the horse and tumbled into the mud.

  Ethelwerd gasped. ‘Saints preserve us!’ he squealed. ‘Footpads!’

  Osbert turned his horse in circles, scanning the silent trees. Suddenly, a little man in rough, homespun clothes appeared on the path ahead of them. Osbert drew his sword and spurred his horse towards him.

  ‘I wouldn’t!’ the little man called brightly. ‘Fifteen of my men, all well-trained warriors - deserters, fresh from the Welsh wars - are hiding in the trees with arrows trained upon you. If you ride any closer, you’ll find yourself in heaven looking like a hedgehog.’

  Osbert reined his horse, his face like thunder. Ethelwerd began to pray. The robber shot him a glance.

  ‘I haven’t even told you what we’re going to do with you,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I also have a score of heathen Danes in my band, who kill Christian priests as quick as thinking. It’s a little hobby they’ve picked up ever since the Pope started sending missionaries into the heathen lands.’

  ‘Wh - what do you want?’ the monk quavered.

  ‘What do you have in the bags?’ the robber asked.

  ‘You’ll not get it!’ Osbert snarled suddenly. ‘You killed my mate!’

  He spurred his horse and charged. The robber threw himself to one side, rolling out of the horse’s path. The air hummed. Osbert screeched, sat up high in his saddle, and scrabbled at the two arrows that transfixed him.

  He fell from his horse as it galloped away down the path, and his corpse hit the dirt with a thud. The robber got up, dusted himself down, and turned to the monk.

  ‘I did warn him, Father,’ he said in a repentant voice. ‘Were my actions so sinful?’

  Ethelwerd peered at him. ‘I know you!’ he cried suddenly. ‘Your description has been given in every town and village throughout the kingdom. You are Edwin the Lawless, chief of the wicked robbers of Arden! Oh, Lord have mercy…’

  ‘The Lord moves in mysterious ways,’ Edwin said. ‘And now he uses me as a mouthpiece.’

  ‘You blaspheme!’

  ‘No, father, it is God’s honest truth,’ Edwin replied. ‘God says you have a chance to obtain his mercy. But first you must renounce the worldly wealth you have unjustly gathered unto yourself.’

  ‘But this is the Whitsun tax,’ Ethelwerd argued feebly. ‘It belongs to the Church!’

  ‘No!’ bellowed Edwin. ‘It belongs to God, like all that is upon the earth! You must distribute it among the poor and needy, who will make worthwhile use of it, not squander it in vain displays of worldly pomp!’

  ‘You can’t fool me!’ said the monk petulantly. ‘You’re nothing but a common thief!’

  ‘No! I am the messenger of the Lord! And I say, give up your riches, or you will be struck down like the men of blood who rode with you!’ Edwin nodded at Osbert’s arrow-riddled corpse.

  Ethelwerd frowned. He realised what the robber was about.

  ‘Very well,’ he spat. ‘You leave me with little choice. But rest assured that Christ has a special hell for those who rob the Church. If you steal from me, your soul will burn in the infernal regions for all eternity.’

  ‘I’ll take that chance,’ replied Edwin casually.

  ‘Then I’ll take my leave,’ said Ethelwerd, spurring his steed.

  ‘No!’ boomed Edwin. ‘For that is not the end of the Lord’s message. He commands also that as a penance, you leave your horse, go barefoot and in your shift to the archbishop, and beg him to forgive your sins. And say unto him also, that if Edwin the Lawless has any say in the matter, the Church will gain no gold if they ride through the Forest of Arden.’

  Ethelwerd sat on his horse, blinking with fright.

  ‘You mean that?’ he said in a small, miserable voice.

  ‘Get off that horse or be struck down!’ the robber roared.

  Slowly, painfully, muttering to himself all the time, the monk climbed down.

  ‘And the rest,’ Edwin said.

  Tears of frustration sprang in the monk’s eyes.

  ‘I am a church official,’ he mumbled. ‘You must do me no wrong.’ But as soon as Edwin glared at him, he hurriedly struggled out of his hassock.

  ‘But…’ he said, standing shivering in the path.

  ‘But me no buts,’ Edwin said, kicking his rump. ‘Go thou to Lichfield and deliver the message of the Lord.’

  Shivering, Ethelwerd hobbled away. The forest was a dangerous place at the best of times. Look what had happened here when he had ventured into it under armed guard! And now he had to walk the long and weary miles to Lichfield, barefoot and in his shift, through the haunted trees, across the lonely heaths - and through the farmlands. Even now, he could imagine how the peasants would jeer.

  He turned to look back down the track. Two men had joined Edwin, a red-haired giant and a well-dressed man with the look of a noble. He was certain he had seen the latter at court, but that was inconceivable.

  They were stripping his packhorse of its bags. Helpless, he dismissed the enigma, turned and hurried on.

  ‘You have little love for the Church,’ Oswald remarked casually, as they heaved the heavy saddlebags, brimming with silver pennies, from off the packhorse’s back.

  Edwin stopped dead, and stared at the thane. Oswald returned the look uncertainly.

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded.

  ‘You know nothing of how he came to be outlawed?’ Bork rumbled.

  Oswald shook his head. ‘I only know that he terrorised the kingdom for five years,’ he replied. ‘And that he was an escaped thrall.’

  ‘True,’ Edwin replied bitterly. Unconsciously, he rubbed at his neck, and for the first time, Oswald noticed the old calluses that encircled it - the mark of the thrall-ring worn by all slaves.

  ‘Were you born into slavery?’ Oswald asked awkwardly, heaving two bags over his shoulders, to dangle beside the wildfowl. Edwin didn’t answer.

  ‘Leave the horse,’ he said, ignoring Oswald’s question. ‘We’ll have nowhere to stable it, and we’d have trouble selling it anyway - it’s branded with the archbishop’s crest.’

  ‘We could eat it,’ said Bork. Edwin gave him a look of disgust.

  ‘H
eathen!’ he said. He turned, and led the way into the trees.

  ‘There’s good eating on a horse,’ said Bork, hurt. But he followed his companion, and Oswald did likewise.

  ‘Have I offended him?’ he asked the Dane in an undertone, as they struggled through the trees, weighed down by saddlebags and birds.

  Bork grunted. ‘He’s in a touchy mood, it seems,’ he said, glancing ahead. Edwin was forging onwards, a grimly determined look on his face.

  ‘He used to be a freeman,’ Bork continued. ‘Had a cottage and a scrap of land he rented from the Archbishop himself - who was just a bishop then, of course. One year, though, things got hard and the rents went up, and to cut a long story short, he was sold into slavery as a debtor.’

  ‘I see,’ remarked Oswald. ‘But surely he could have bought his freedom in the end? There was no call to run away.’

  Bork laughed quietly. ‘There was after his master found him in bed with his wife,’ he said. ‘He’s always been one for the ladies, and he’s not too fussy whether they’re married or not.’

  It was at that moment that Edwin turned towards them, urging them to silence. At first, Oswald thought the thief had heard them talking about him, but then Edwin said;

  ‘Did you hear that?’

  Oswald and Bork cocked their heads. The forest was silent.

  ‘Hear what?’ whispered Oswald.

  Edwin was about to answer when they all heard it, a distant call.

  ‘Aroo-AROO-aroo!’

  ‘What was that?’ demanded Oswald.

  Edwin frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve never heard a beast-cry like that before, and I’ve spent too much of my life in woodland.’

  The cry came again, and with it a distant smashing, splintering noise.

  Bork looked angry. ‘It’s coming from the direction of the cave!’ he said suddenly. ‘What’s going on?’

  Edwin frowned again. He dropped the packs he was carrying, and set off up the slope at a run. Bork and Oswald exchanged glances, and followed.

  They caught up with him at the crest of the rise. Beyond them towered the cliff.

  Oswald stared up at the ledge that led to the cave. From here, the cave entrance was invisible.

  ‘Wait!’ he gasped. ‘What are you doing, Edwin? It could be dangerous.’

  Edwin was restringing his hunting bow. ‘So could I,’ he replied fiercely. ‘I’m not having strange creatures wandering around my camp. Come on!’

  They started scrambling up the cliff. Gullies and channels led them steeply up towards the ledge. Oswald panted with exertion, and sweat streamed across his brow. One hand on his sword hilt in case of sudden attack, the other held out for balance, he hurried up the cliff.

  They swarmed over the ledge to face the cave entrance. The ledge was deserted. Oswald’s nostrils twitched.

  ‘What’s that stench?’ he gasped. The air reeked of animal.

  Edwin paced forward. In the entrance to the cave, he halted suddenly.

  ‘Look!’ he urged. They hurried to join him.

  In the cave, the stink was terrible, but this wasn’t what made Oswald gasp a second time. Strewn across the floor of the cave was a litter of objects. Most of which Oswald recognised immediately as their own possessions; their handmade plates and bowls, knives and drinking horns, and their entire food supply lay trampled in the dirt. But it was the damage to their furnishings that sent a shiver of fear down Oswald’s spine. Rough-hewn chairs lay splintered to matchwood, and the table Bork had hacked out of the stump of a fallen oak had been flung across the cave with enough force to split it open.

  White-faced, Edwin turned. ‘Don’t you recognise the smell?’ he whispered.

  ‘It smells like the tanners’ quarter in Tamworth,’ Oswald said.

  ‘I’ve smelled it before,’ Bork rumbled meditatively.

  ‘Yes,’ Edwin said. ‘The night we were almost attacked in the trees off Watling Street. The creatures that slaughtered Egfrid’s men. They’ve paid us a visit…’

  Oswald’s flesh crept with horror. He looked back at the shattered table.

  What kind of creature could do that?

  4 BEYOND THE FIELDS WE KNOW

  ‘Wake up, old fool!’ snapped Cynethryth, poking the Lappish wizard with her slippered foot.

  She had stormed into his chamber only to find him sitting cross-legged on the floor, his eyes tight shut. They flickered open now, and he shot a snakelike glance at her.

  ‘I was not sleeping,’ he replied venomously. ‘I was doing my lady’s work.’

  ‘It looked like it too,’ replied the queen scornfully. ‘How can you be doing my work, lounging in here, daydreaming?’

  ‘I was not daydreaming,’ snapped Grimbert. ‘I was communing with my servants of the forest.’

  A look of interest crossed Cynethryth’s face.

  ‘Have you found Oswald?’ she asked quickly.

  Grimbert shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But…’

  ‘So you’re just wasting time,’ the queen snapped. ‘But this is irrelevant. I want your help with another problem. As you know, the court is moving on to my husband’s lands in Brentford, stopping off for the hawking and the hunting in the forest along the way. That wretched child Godiva is coming with us, and her dotard of a father, the chamberlain. If there is a chance of her meeting Oswald along the way, I do not want her to remember him. I want her to forget her lover, and also to do my bidding.’

  ‘Does she not believe your story?’ asked Grimbert slyly.

  Cynethryth gave him a slitted look.

  ‘She seems to have her doubts,’ she replied. ‘So there is to be no chance of her re-contacting Oswald and learning the truth. Besides, I want her out of the way, and not wandering the countryside with the court. That way her chances of re-encountering her fool of a lover are greatly lessened.

  ‘Before we tell our allies in the mountains to proceed, we must ensure that our position here is secure. Oswald threatened it because he learnt something of me that must not reach my husband…’

  ‘That you are a lying, deceitful, ungrateful traitor?’ suggested the wizard.

  The queen seized him savagely by the front of his robe.

  ‘Just you be grateful that I don’t have you turned over to the Church authorities,’ she hissed. ‘Archbishop Higbert is a good man, a highly devout man, who would have you flogged through every town in the kingdom for your witchcraft - if not drowned in the Tame.’

  The Lapp returned her gaze impassively. Cynethryth released her grip, and fell to pacing up and down the chamber floor.

  ‘Oswald has been disgraced, but Godiva seems to suspect something. If he ever returns to her - and that seems likely, since your efforts to hunt him down have proved futile…’

  ‘But my lady…’

  ‘Silence! If Oswald and Godiva were to meet as the court proceeds southward, he would be bound to spill his heart to her, and she to her father. And Elmund would feel it to be his sad duty to inform his king.’

  ‘And where would that leave you?’ asked the wizard tauntingly.

  ‘Where would it leave you?’ countered the queen. ‘Without me to protect you, the mob would tear you to pieces.’

  ‘I have my magic,’ the Lapp replied stiffly.

  ‘Would that be enough to protect you from the Church?’ Cynethryth demanded. Grimbert’s eyes flickered uncertainly. ‘I thought as much,’ she said icily. ‘Christ has less power over this world than his worshippers tell us, but he is no weaker than the rest of the gods - especially in the lands where he is worshipped. Now - how can we bring Godiva under our power?’

  Grimbert pursed his lips.

  ‘What do you want to be done?’ he asked. ‘Spells and potions exist that can bring another under one’s power for a while, but nothing that can keep the will subsumed forever. They always reassert themselves in the end. With full recollection of anything you may have done to them in the meantime,’ he added with genuine reg
ret.

  ‘That does not pose a problem,’ replied Cynethryth. ‘I’ve already suggested that she retires into holy orders. All I need do is convince her that this is the case, and then it hardly matters if she changes her mind later. If she’s locked away in a convent - and I know an abbot in the lands of the Hwicce who will do my bidding - all we need do is ensure that she never leaves once her will reasserts itself…’

  ‘My lady,’ said Grimbert admiringly. ‘You are so wicked you should follow my profession!’

  Cynethryth laughed, and Grimbert joined her. In an instant, her laughter cut short, and it was as if she had never laughed in her life.

  ‘What of Oswald?’ she rapped.

  ‘Oswald?’ Grimbert stammered, struggling to control himself.

  ‘Yes, Oswald!’ barked Cynethryth. ‘You’ve been trying to tell me what you’ve learnt about him for the last quarter of an hour! What of him?’

  ‘Ah, of course,’ replied the wizard. ‘As I have been trying to tell you, my servants have tracked him through the forest to a cave. Apparently he is dwelling there - it seems he has taken to living as savage a life as theirs, my lady.’

  ‘But didn’t they seize him?’ snapped the queen.

  ‘He was not present in the cave at the time, but his odour was there,’ Grimbert replied. ‘They communicated a wish to return at night, when they operate most effectively. Also, they fear the territory where Oswald has secured his bolthole.’

  ‘They fear it?’ asked the queen, startled. ‘I thought they feared nothing.’

  ‘There are those who dwell in the deep forest who terrify even my servants,’ Grimbert replied ominously. ‘Even the woodwoses have foes, creatures who hate them even more than they loathe our own race…’