Far Traveler (13 page)

“That's my concern,” I said, tired of his attentions. “I make my own way.”

The man suddenly urged his horse directly across Winter's path, making both of us draw up abruptly. Furious, I opened my mouth to yell, but the man cut me off.

“Please hear me! You made mistakes tonight, boy, but don't be so stupid that you end up dead. You shouldn't be riding alone in the dark. Either stay here until morning, or come to our camp.” He pointed in a direction I was still too angry to note. “I'm called Wil,” he added after a second's pause. “You might need to tell the camp guards that, if you come.”

After that he shouted for his men to follow him. I stayed where I was as they all rode past me.

“You with that lot?” It was the stable hand whom the group of men had hunted up. He had come walking along the line of horses, checking on those that were left behind as the band of twenty or so men left the stable yard.

“No.” I went to turn Winter toward the market street. Maybe I could hunt down my band of farmers and rejoin them. Then I stopped. “Who's that man who spoke to me?”

“A thane from north of the Humber, I've heard, from Eoforwic, or thereabout. Lost his lands to Rægnald, is what he says. Brought his friends here looking for a lord to serve—maybe they're hoping to make themselves retainers of Osgar's household, I don't know. Their camp's just beyond the north gate.”

I squinted out into the lowering darkness and saw the last horseman pass out of sight. I turned back to the stable hand, but he had gone. After another minute, I gave Winter a loose rein and sent him trotting after the others.

It wasn't the stable worker's words that made me follow them, it was something that Wil had said.
“Please hear me!”
These words and my dim impression of the man's dark-bearded face came together in my head, joining another memory of angry words uttered in the night.

I would ride out to that camp. I would find out if Wil was the man I thought he was.

WIL'S CAMP STOOD A FEW HUNDRED YARDS OUTSIDE THE WALLS surrounding Cirenceaster. His company had pitched their tents in a fallow field. I stopped Winter at the edge of camp. The men who had come from Osgar's hall were staking out their horses, lugging the saddles and bridles to four nearby wagons that had been arranged in a semicircle. In moments most of them had gone into their tents, and I let Winter jog over to the sentry.

“Wil told me to come,” I said to the guard. The man looked me over, then nodded and helped me picket my big horse.

“Go to the largest of the tents in the middle of the camp. That's Wil's,” he said.

My feet slowed as I approached the center tent. It was made of thick wool dyed a rusty red color, and the light from candles inside made it glow gently, like a great red flower on the black field. “If Wil is the man you think he is,” I said to myself, “he has looked you over already, and clearly he does not see Ælfwyn of Mercia in the gloomy little scop from Osgar's hall.” I needed a protector—my few days of traveling alone had taught me that. I scratched my fingers through my short hair, then walked forward with determination until I reached the carved wooden poles that held open the doorway of the tent.

The guard at the tent's entrance made way for me at the mention of Wil's name, just as the horse sentry had. I entered and took in the scene before me.

“I still don't understand why we've come here to this worthless town to be guests of a lesser nobleman. We sit drinking Osgar's thick ale, and listening to his colt of a scop—”

“Hold there, Kenelm.” I thought I recognized Wil's low voice. Yes, there he was, speaking at the center of a small gathering of men. “You must be a fool, or at least very short of memory to call Cirenceaster worthless. Cirenceaster is a rich place. And if you don't see by now why friendship with Osgar will particularly help our cause ...” Wil fell silent; he had spotted me by the door.

“The boy scop from Osgar's hall,” he said, announcing my presence to the rest of the men in his little circle. Heads turned. I felt the group sizing me up. “I told him he could join us here,” Wil explained. He motioned for me to come closer. I stepped forward, but gasped when I saw Kenelm. He was the young thane of Mercia who had met me in Lunden.

Kenelm—what was
he
doing here, I wondered in consternation. Kenelm, who had brought his father Cuthwine's message to me. This was a person who had met Ælfwyn, daughter of Æthelflæd, several times over, who had dined and conversed with her in daylight and at close quarters. My feet had stopped moving toward Wil. I wanted to run out of the tent and all the way back to Winter, who would carry me far away from Cirenceaster and this Mercian thane who could recognize me. My eyes locked helplessly on Kenelm's face and I saw that he had flushed with recognition ...

... and with embarrassment. He looked quickly at Wil, then strode over to where I stood.

“I enjoyed your entertainment tonight, scop. My words a moment ago weren't kind—I'm sorry.”

“No, Kenelm.” It was Wil again. “Don't lie to the scop about his poor performance. Come here, boy!” He waved me over impatiently now.

Even those who had seen Lady Æthelflæd's daughter clearly with their own eyes, it seemed, were not prepared to find her in such an unexpected place, looking like a filthy servant boy. Warily, I joined the ring of men.

“You're young to be riding alone,” Wil said as I sat down beside Kenelm. “Did you lose your master? Wasn't there some older scop who taught you?”

“I—I lost my place in the home where I was born,” I said, deciding to tell a little of the truth, and hoping they wouldn't ask more. “As a child I had teachers who helped me to read, and gave me poetry and stories. I thought I could use what I remembered of that to find a new place in some other lord's hall.”

“So you've not learned from
any
scop,” Wil said, shaking his head, “and you were surprised when Osgar didn't want you?” I hung my head. “Do you want to know why he sent you away?” Wil snapped. This question brought my head up with a jerk. I bit my lip, and after a moment I nodded.

“Wil, it's late for this kind of talk tonight,” Kenelm interrupted mildly. “Perhaps we ought to offer the boy a bed first, and scold him later.”

“Mmm,” Wil said with a quick nod of his dark head, “probably you're right. We've had enough talk tonight.” He did look tired, his eyes red, the skin sagging on his face like that of a man older than he was. The men began to get to their feet. “You can have a place in our camp, if you like, while we're at Cirenceaster,” Wil offered gruffly.

“I thank you. I'd like to stay—for a little while,” I responded.

“You haven't even asked him his name yet, have you, Wil?” said one of the thanes good-naturedly. “And you're giving him a bed in our camp, did I hear? Next thing you'll be calling the boy to our council circle.”

“It's Widsith—Widsith's my name, I mean,” I told Wil quickly, half-afraid he'd change his mind.

“Widsith”—he glowered at me—“a good name for a traveler. You've no family?”

“Lost,” was what I said out loud.
Lost through death, and through betrayal.

“Mine is lost, too,” Wil said savagely. I stepped back, alarmed at the sadness and anger filling his voice. I bowed, trying not to let Wil shake me any further, and headed for the door to find some place outside to sleep.

“No, boy.” Wil pointed to a pile of blankets. “Wrap yourself in one of those. You can sleep inside with us.”

“Good night, Widsith.” It was Kenelm passing on his way to his own bed, polite as ever. He still showed no sign of recognizing me.

“Good night,” I replied, comforted, and went to find a corner where I could sleep.

 

I was one of the first in the tent to wake the next morning. I'd never been an early riser, but since I'd left my uncle's court I'd had only cold, hard beds, as well as the racing heart of a fugitive.

I crept outside and went to check on Winter. Wil found me there just as the rising sun touched the field.

“Your horse faring well?” he asked.

“I think so,” I answered timidly. Winter was tearing at the grass and showing me the white of his eye, warning me not to lead him away from his breakfast unless I wanted trouble.

“Fine animal,” Wil said with a yawn. “He's got an ugly color to him, though—what would you call it, brown dapple? But that's a good short back, clean legs. Has the horse got a name?”

“Winter,” I replied, then added hastily when I saw his quizzical look, “they told me he was born in wintertime.”

“You're a strange lad,” Wil said in a quiet voice. “What made you try to be a scop, without any training?”

“I told you, I've read things, learned some stories and poetry. ...”

“But knowing a tale and telling one are two different things,” Wil broke in impatiently. “Hi, you!” he called out to the sentry posted with the horses, who had been at Osgar's hall the night before. “The story this scop told last night,” Wil demanded, “have you heard it before?”

“Aye,” the man replied, coming closer, “I remembered hearing some of it before.”

“So what was wrong with the way the boy did it?” Wil wanted to know.

“Well,” the man considered, “he said the words all right. I thought there might be something Osgar didn't like. It was when the scop said something slow, and the lord kind of wrinkled his forehead, as if he wasn't happy with what he heard. It was just a line about two men who—what was it, now?—who won a battle over their enemies, I think. ‘Hewed them down at Heorot' was the way the scop said it.” He turned to me. “It wasn't a bad show, boy, for such a young one as you.”

“Why did you choose to make that line so clear for Osgar's ears, Widsith?” Wil pressed.

“Because of the hall,” I admitted. “I saw the hart horns Osgar had hung up, and I thought maybe he knew Heorot from the poem. I don't know why I thought he would. It was stupid.”

“Yes, stupid,” Wil replied quickly. “Osgar did understand the line, and you didn't.”

I didn't know what to say. I just stared at Wil. He began to quote the lines from my performance:

“You say you mentioned Heorot, the golden hall, to win Osgar's favor by comparing it to his own feasting place,” Wil repeated, “but you don't know who Hrothwulf and Hrothgar were, do you?”

I shook my head, abashed.

“Hrothgar was a Danish king,” Wil explained, his dark eyes fixed on me, “and Hrothwulf his brother's son. Together they beat back the invaders at Heorot, it is true, but there is more to their story. Heorot burned in that battle, and later Hrothwulf took the throne from Hrothgar's two young sons, killing one of them. So, boy, you may have meant to flatter your host, but instead you compared his hall to a site of ruin and treason.”

“I haven't read about that anywhere!” I protested.

“Those stories aren't written, boy. They're told, and sung,” Wil retorted. “Did you never hear a passable scop perform the story in the household where you were raised?” he asked querulously.

I shook my head. “I—I didn't listen to them very well, I guess.”

Wil snorted. “All my life I've rubbed shoulders with Danes in the north country, and sometimes fought with them and with Norsemen, none of whom could read a word—men who would scrape the gold from a decorated page and use the parchment to clean a cooking pot. Still, those men could tell a tale.

“The last night I spent in one of the Norse camps, I was bound and bashed on the head so I could hardly stand.” His voice was quiet now, and the guard leaned in, listening as intently as I. “I could hear one Norseman boasting about his skill in battle that day. He said he'd fought against one opponent until both their swords broke, and they struggled hand to hand until a stone, a gift from the gods, appeared beneath his fingers in the mud. He picked it up and with the rock in his hand felled the other man with a single blow that cracked his helmet.” One of Wil's hands came up unconsciously to rub his temple. “My head ached like a rotten tooth as I lay on my side where they'd thrown me in the mud. But there I lay, listening to the man talk, so taken with his story that only as he finished did I realize that I was the very opponent the Norseman spoke of. He'd improved the tale so I hardly recognized myself.”

The guard burst out laughing at this. Wil waited until he quieted to add, “That night after I worked free of my bonds, I let that man sleep on safely with his companions, and I left the camp. Anyone who could make a story like that out of our clumsy fight deserved at least one more night in this life.”

“You probably didn't want to bring the whole Norse camp down on you just so you could pay him back that blow with the rock,” said the guard, standing up to return to his post, and laughing again at his leader's reluctant grin. Then Wil left, too, but not before he'd told me where I could get some breakfast.

A strange, argumentative man, I thought as I sat a few moments longer watching Winter crop grass. That long black hair, the wild beard—I still couldn't tell if he'd invited me here out of pity, or just because he couldn't bear to let my poor performance stand without correction.

I stood up. It was really no surprise that Wil of Eoforwic made me feel this way. He and I had vexed each other from the first night we'd met, almost exactly a year ago in the fields outside Lunden, when he'd still been Wilfrid, the Northumbrian king, and I was Ælfwyn of Mercia.