The Purple Thread E-Book

John Broughton

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

It is 733 AD in Anglo-Saxon Britain - a time of warriors, war and religious extremes.

Begiloc, a young freedman from Wimborne, is a man of action. But his world turns upside down when the young Briton and his best friend Meryn are ordered away to protect English missionaries in Germany.

For a man accustomed to brutality, Begiloc has a soft spot for the purple-tinged mountains, waterfalls, lakes, animals, trees and flowers - beginning to muse whether they, rather than Man, do not better embody the essence of God.

Mission follows mission across the continent, and Begiloc is driven ever further from his loved ones. His ultimate foe is the corrupt and cruel Bishop of Rems, Milo.

Will Begiloc ever be free from his obligations to the Church, and reunited with those whom he has been so long separated?

John Broughton's The Purple Thread is a historical thrill-ride across 8th century Europe, which also rings some very contemporary bells, and a tale of a man's psychological battle to sustain his faith and morality in the face of temptation and evil.

Leseprobe

The Purple Thread

Eighth-century Saxon Missions in Europe

John Broughton

Copyright (C) 2017 John Broughton

Layout Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter

Published 2020 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Dedicated to Maria Antonietta Valente, my patient wife who shares many characteristics with Leoba.

Special thanks go to my dear friend John Bentley for his steadfast and indefatigable support. His proofreading and suggestions have made an invaluable contribution toThe Purple Thread.

Part One

Chapter 1

April, 733 AD

A murder of rooks flapped heavenwards startling Begiloc while he sowed beans in the Near Field. In the trees edging the woodland, they perched, cawing while he marvelled how the tender branches bowed but did not break under their weight. The earthy smell of the harrowed soil pleased him as he sought to discover what had startled the sullen sentinels.

“Ealric!”

Was something wrong? A command to stop the headlong rush before he broke a limb died when his son skidded to a halt on the ox-trail before a rainwater-filled rut. The boy, heedless of the mud, dropped to his knees.

Constant and fierce this love because Gerens, his father, drowned when he was Ealric's age and the wound never healed. Setting these thoughts aside, Begiloc stepped over the furrows and strode down the path.

A whitethroat hushed its song when he passed and the sun slid behind the clouds to cast a shroud over the land, but Begiloc, taken with Ealric, did not care about the bite in the April air. What was he up to? A sleeve rolled up, he plunged an arm into the puddle. What's slithering from his upraised hand?

“Frog spawn!”

With a smile, Begiloc bent over and ruffled the mane of wavy hair, different from his own chestnut curls. How it spilt down like ale froth! A gift of his Saxon wife. His hand lingered.

Ealric jumped up and took a deep breath but Begiloc dammed the flood of words.

“Why would a man risk his bones for a dollop of frog spawn, is what I want to know?”

Squatting next to him, he stared into his face. Amused, he watched the boy take in his meaning and the pale blue eyes change to solemnity. Under his hand, the skinny shoulder shivered.

“Come, let's walk!”

The words tumbled out, “Mother says come at once. Meryn's waiting at the Monks' Trail. Be fast, she said!”

Why was Meryn not digging the ditch by the Far Field? Why the Monks” Trail?

At the entry to the village, he squatted, face level with his son's. Ealric leant forward pressing his nose against his father's, who rocked back and tweaked the impertinent snout.

“Here, take the basket home. Do you think you can get there without stalking beetles? Don't stop for anything. Tell your mother I'm off to meet Meryn. Got that?”

He gave another ruffle of the tousled locks and then he rose. Ealric, eyes wide, grasped the handle with both hands and set off on his mission. The boy's straight back and earnest march warmed his heart and he left, whistling, to meet his friend.

“Better not be another of his foolish jests.”

Propped against a tree, Meryn said, “What held you up? Our Lady Abbess will not be pleased to wait on two labourers. Before you ask, no, it's not a joke.”

“The Abbess? What's all this?”

Hands on hips, Meryn stood, elbows raised.

“All I know is two monks came asking for Meryn from across the Tamar, and when I confessed they told me to bring you to the abbey.”

“Men like us don't enter Wimborne Abbey, it's not done. Let alone meet the Abbess …”

A careless shrug and Meryn inspected his hands before wiping them on his breeches. “Don't worry, old friend, she may want to reward us for hard work – or make monks of us!”

Up the track they trudged toward the religious settlement.

“Did they say why?”

“No.”

A mystery.

The walls of the abbey compound made a familiar sight since the villagers brought their harvest tithe at Lammas. Yet Begiloc never passed through the heavy gate where he and his comrade stood exchanging lowered glances. Did his companion share his longing to be elsewhere? Not that Meryn struck him as a deep thinker – his beard the only neat thing about him, plaited with wooden beads. Nobody else in the kingdom of Wessex wore such an arrangement. As for the rest of him, he looked like he had been dragged behind an ox.

“Typical Meryn!”

A fine pair to stand before royalty! Why would a warrior like Ine give up the throne for a pilgrimage to Rome? Seven years past. Abbess Cuniburg was Ine's sister and sister-in-law to the new king, Aethelheard. The year after he, Begiloc, was born she founded the abbey. A thumb stuck up to represent God and a finger for the royal family serving Him, thus he ticked off a chain of service on his other fingers: earls and thegns, ceorls and slaves.

“The likes of us are a long way off God,” Begiloc murmured.

“What? This isn't the Pearly Gate?”

Trust Meryn to ease the tension. At odds with his wiry frame, his friend's deep laugh rumbled as Begiloc pummelled the barrier. A panel slid back and blue eyes studied their faces. Purpose stated, a monk admitted and invited them to follow him. Arranged like two villages, to the left of the compound nuns went about their tasks and to the right monks led a separate existence; in the centre, topped by a cross, stood a large thatched building.

“The abbey church!”

Twenty times bigger than the one in the village, a thousand trees had gone into its construction Begiloc reckoned. Passing by, they approached a well where Meryn seized the monk by the sleeve.

“Brother, I dug ditches all morning. May I have a drink?”

The brother lowered a bucket and Meryn poked Begiloc in the ribs, gesturing toward the monk winching up the pail.

“When I get back home, I'm going to take a vow of silence. Not that anybody listens to me overmuch …”

Stifling a laugh, Begiloc bit his lip. Meryn, wordless? As likely as silent rooks at seeding.

“Those scavengers! Why are we here with work to be done?”

The proffered ladle in hand, Meryn slaked his thirst while Begiloc contemplated the scattered stones around the base of the well. Offered the tin scoop, he shook his head.

“Let's get on with this!”

The monk led them to where seven buildings ranged in a row. The aroma of fresh-baked bread wafted from the second. Between this and the next, they glimpsed nuns weeding between rows of onions. The monk indicated the way to the smallest house. The roof was covered by dried sods not thatch and the structure appeared no larger than Begiloc's own home.

“Can it be the Abbess lives here – the Mother Superior in so humble a dwelling?”

The monk knocked.

“Come!”

The brother indicated to step into the room, where with difficulty in the dim light, Begiloc discerned two nuns stationed either side of the door. Mixed smoke of wood and tallow made him want to pinch his nose. On one side, a pallet served as a bed over which hung a wooden cross. Nearby a table bore a leather-bound book. On the beaten earth floor a fire burned inside a ring of stones and his eyes followed the wisps of smoke to a hole in the roof and back down to a table covered in documents, beakers, bottle and food, some spices and another tallow candle. The spices were the only luxury in this austere setting.

Nor had he seen anyone like Abbess Cuniburg. Though small, she seemed to fill the room. Judging by the lines on her face she was fifty, but the wrinkles were gentle and added to her beauty.

Under no delusion, Begiloc caught the shrewdness in the deep eyes weighing up the two men from Dumnonia.

“Can she read our innermost thoughts?”

No trace of wealth about her in spite of her regal bearing. A wimple covered her head and a hood draped her shoulders. Under it, a burgundy cloak overlaid a grey tunic, at the waist, a wooden cross tucked in a belt.

Cuniburg smiled and a dimple formed.

“Welcome, my sons. I thank you for the haste with which you responded to my summons. After your work, you must be hungry and thirsty.”

A wave of her hand and the two nuns glided to cut bread and cheese and pour ale from the leather bottle. The Abbess murmured words in Latin and made the sign of the cross, the gesture imitated by Begiloc while Meryn's eyes moved from one to the other before making his own clumsy attempt.

“It is plain fare, but God provides for our simple needs.”

Her throaty voice bore no hint of pride.

Curious, Begiloc bit off a piece of cheese, appreciating its tangy saltiness. The eyes of the women never left him as he tried not to devour the food. No such inhibitions for Meryn. Tearing at his bread, he reached for his beaker, a series of gulps, smacked his lips and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. Instead, Begiloc savoured the malty taste of the ale, likely twice brewed, not watery like that of the village. When he looked up he read approval in the lady's eyes. Even so, he refused another measure. In spite of the kindness of the Mother Superior, he was tense and needed a clear head.

“There must be a serious reason behind our presence and it bodes ill.”

Not sharing his reserve, Meryn rubbed his hands together when a nun refilled his cup.

“He sees no trap in anything it'll be his ruin one day.”

Meal over, the Abbess reached across the table to select a parchment.

“A messenger bore this from overseas.” She moved nearer the candle, her eyes roving over the Latin script. She translated: “… Holding you above all women in the innermost vault of our hearts we desire your graciousness to know that, after the death of our parents and other relatives, we went to the people of Germany, were admitted into the monastic rule of the venerable archbishop, Boniface, and have become helpers in his labours in so far as our humble incapacity allows …” The Abbess halted but her unwavering gaze admonished them for attention. She resumed, “…we beg also that you will send on by the bearer of this letter two young freedmen, named Begiloc and Meryn, whom I, Lull, and my father released on our departure for Rome and entrusted to my uncle for the welfare of my soul – if this should be their free act and if they are within your jurisdiction. And if any one shall unlawfully attempt to impede their journey we beg you to protect them …” Cuniburg paused, “… Well, the rest of the letter does not concern you. The sender is Denehard, the son of your late lord.”

The colour drained from Begiloc's face and his head pounded. Heels close together and head bowed, he frowned. A flippant remark occurred to his comrade, but from under his brow Begiloc noted the gravity of the situation dawn on him, hence Meryn crossed his arms, planted his feet apart and stared at the nun.

Tone imperious, she said. “Prepare for your departure after daybreak on the morrow.”

The air heavy, his head began to spin, but Begiloc found the courage to say, “In the letter is writ, 'if this should be their free act,' My Lady …” He lifted his head and stared into the grey eyes. Had they grown darker? “… I have a wife and son and land to—”

“Fear not on that score, the Abbey will tend to their needs till your return. The brothers will work your land and your family will be safe here. Your boy will study and she will serve. As for you, you will be answering God's call, so rejoice!”

Her face shone and Begiloc understood that Meryn, he and his family were of no importance to the Abbess other than as teeth in the cog of a mechanism he did not understand.

“Like motes, unseen until a beam of sun illuminates them.”

Breaking off his reverie, Begiloc's voice quavered, “M-may I not take my wife and child with me?”

“Indeed not! Among pagans? Must I repeat myself?” her tone sharpened, “They will be safe here till your return.”

Careful to keep his voice reverential, Begiloc made one last effort at defiance. “And should we refuse this 'free act', My Lady?”

No sign of the sweetness that had greeted them, “Need I remind you that you were a slave?” Her voice rang like the knell of the convent bell: “You were raised to a freeman, as I hear tell, because of your prowess in battle eight years ago on behalf of my brother against Ealdbert of the South Saxons. Still, it is a simple act to return a man to slavery.”

The eyes of the Abbess were iron, but she lightened her tone and the dimple reappeared. “Come, we need not disagree! Your warrior's arm is needed once more and Our Lord's will is you shall go to the German lands. Your family will be here to welcome you on your return. God blesses those who labour in His name.”

The regal woman, like a whirlpool drew him into the depths of her will. “As for you …” she turned a cold gaze on Meryn and placed a forefinger to the tip of her chin, “… you have no family to leave behind. There are no objections I presume?”

A tug at his beard, Meryn said. “Far away across the Tamar, My Lady, I'll be a slave no more.”

“Wise. Hark, these are my plans. In addition to the request of Denehard, after prayer for guidance, I acceded to the supplications of my sister in the Lord, Leobgytha …” the voice of the Abbess mellowed, '… since her seventh year she is with us and will leave for Franconia to be Abbess at Bischofsheim under her cousin, Archbishop Boniface. They corresponded and I consent to her departure with some sisters and brothers.”

The Abbess placed a hand on Begiloc's sleeve, “The Lady Leobgytha is as a daughter to me. Your task is to deliver her. Protect her with your life,” her gaze switched to Meryn, “both of you.”

Such skill in blending plea and authority, Begiloc marvelled – she the potter, we the clay. “Do this for God and our Lord Jesus Christ and your reward will be great. Kneel!”

The Mother Superior blessed them, adding: “Go home, ready your weapons, gather warm clothing and sleep well. Be here at dawn to meet your charges. There will be ten armed men at your command.”

“At my command? Forgive me but will Saxons be led by a Briton?”

In silence, she scrutinised the scar over his left eye. At last, Cuniburg said, “I chose well. God has guided my choice and my men are sworn to obedience. Until the morn!” A hand waved in dismissal. Dazed, Begiloc hesitated but Meryn tugged at his arm, pulling him toward the door. “Out! While we can,” he whispered.

Outside, Begiloc squinted against the brightness his head reeling at the bite of the air. In silence, they hurried to the gate.

On the Monks” Trail, he slowed. Shaken by the reality of the charge placed upon them, trembling with repressed anger, he halted. Unaware of this, Meryn strode on, stopped, spun round and glared. Curious, Begiloc approached him, his chest tight. Head pounding, he stared at his friend. What of the usual cheerfulness? In its place a flat, sour look. A finger pointed and jabbed the air with every word.

“We must go and the sooner the better.”

In return, Begiloc gave him a blank stare. “You heard the Lady, we leave at dawn.”

Eyes narrowed, Meryn bunched a fist, “I mean we must go home, to Dumnonia. Now!”

“Home?”

“Yes, home, to our people.”

Eyebrows meeting, Begiloc said, “Never make it. My home's here.”

Challenge in his eyes, Meryn said, “Think about it. They won't miss us till morn. A day's start–”

“Impossible! With a woman and boy. The Saxons have horses—”

“Well, I'm going with or without you.”

The edge to Meryn's voice, unrecognisable as that of his happy-go-lucky childhood friend, shocked him. Born of an awareness of future bloodshed cloaked in the Lady's command?

Begiloc's shoulders sagged and he rubbed his forehead. Meryn's words plunged into his entrails like a seax and his stomach clenched.

“Does he mean to flee without me?”

On a wayside marker, he sat head in hands but Meryn shook his shoulder, words distant as from the next valley.

“Come! Don't waste time! We can be three leagues away by nightfall.”

With a glare, Begiloc clamped Meryn's wrist, “I listened to you once before and it cost me my brother's life. Victory turned into humiliation, remember, Meryn? The battle at Hehil when we drove the Saxons back across the Tamar, tails between their legs? Look! Here's a reminder,” he pointed to the scar above his eye. “And Keresyk, only sixteen. Dead these eleven years. Death and enslavement – our reward for heeding you. Did you learn nothing?” Head bowed, he muttered, “We followed you – ever headstrong – straight into a trap—”

“We were all young and foolhardy. Not only me,” Meryn let his hair fall forward to cover his face.

“Nobody's forcing you to come.”

Temples pounding, Begiloc jumped to his feet. “No, and I didn't have to save your wretched life eleven years ago, it cost me Keresyk.”

No sooner had he spat out the words than he regretted them. Wounded, Meryn stomped off down the trail.

“I didn't mean that!” Begiloc called.

Damage done, words cut deeper than a knife and having struck, he sagged back down on the stone, once more head in hands.

A while passed before thrush song invaded his consciousness. A soothing balm, he absorbed the lilting notes. By instinct, Begiloc clung to the belief of his forefathers – the interweaving of everything in nature in a community of being. Hence, the birdsong, the yellow ox-lip next to his foot, the limestone marker, the earth, the sun and the scudding clouds melded to connect in fellowship with him. This – other than the demanding God of Abbess Cuniburg – raised his spirits. At last, he set off home.

In no hurry, he considered Meryn's scheme. Even if the four of them reached the nearest port, they had nothing to offer for passage. A Saxon crew would never risk mooring in Dumnonia. Overland, they were sure to be captured and enslaved. Not for nought had he shed blood to gain his freedom and win a bride.

“The Devil take Meryn!”

He must consider Somerhild and Ealric, and what had the Abbess said? 'Your reward will be great.'

Overcome by regret for those harsh words to Meryn, he nonetheless had made up his mind. No doubt he would miss his friend, his humour, his fine singing voice and his interest in everyone and everything. In the abbey his family would live well while his land would be farmed without the sweat of his toil. The thought brought a wry smile.

Why had God freed him from slavery? There must be a purpose. Trust the Mother Superior.

Irresolute, he surveyed the house Meryn and he built and they must leave. Twelve trees felled. The crucks next to the door frame pleased him, more so the shuttered window with its transparent scraped pig-skin pane. Somerhild kept it closed today because the wind was sharp, but with such a fine fit little draught entered. The thatch would last for years yet. Satisfied, he pushed in through the door.

On her knees, his wife stirred a pot over the fire. The smoke made his eyes smart and he coughed. With a cry of joy, she leapt up to hug him. How he loved the smell of her hair – rosewater and smoke. Burrowing his face into the fine strands, he kissed her and embraced her tight. She gazed up into his eyes.

“What did they want up at the abbey?”

Her concern upset him as he released her. The necklace of glass beads he had given her sparkled – Talwyn, his mother, had pressed them on him against the day he found a bride. Somerhild, conscious of his scrutiny, smoothed down her blue dress, creased from kneeling at the hearth.

“Well?” Instinct warned her of bad news.

Voice even, he said, “Fact is …” he studied the upturned nose over her full lips.

“How I love you.”

“… you and Ealric must go and live in the abbey—”

“The abbey? Why?” Her eyes widened.

“I have to go away – overseas. Only for a while …” her stricken expression tugged at his heart, “… I-I'll come back…maybe a year—”

“How can—”

“There is no choice, my love, the Abbess needs me … I mean she commands me. No more to be said.”

“A year? A year! You make it sound like a week!”

No more than a twelvemonth he hoped as he held a rush taper over a chest by the wall where his face did not betray his feelings. Out came a linen cloth with ties attached which he spread on the floor. From the tail of his eye he regarded Somerhild. Still, she stood hands over her mouth. Out followed a woollen cloak to fold for his bundle. At last, she unfroze.

“Here, let me do that! Where is it you go?”

“To the German lands.”

“You'll need warm breeches.”

Nose in the box, she began to sob. Folk told fearsome tales about the 'German lands'.

“We're a-feared of settlers as close as yon side of the river, so why risk your life for others a world away?” she said.

Dismayed at her tears, he held her for a while till she calmed but did not meet her eyes; instead, his gaze fixed on a tiny pulsing purple vein at her temple until she buried her head in his chest.

“Hush!” he implored her, voice catching, “Not for ever.” For all he knew, it might well be for ever – the irony – warrior of the Church for an early meeting with its saints.

“Where's Ealric?”

In a whine hard to understand, she said, “Gone to check the eel trap, but there's bean soup in any case …”

“Be brave for Ealric, he can't see you like this. A boy doesn't know how long a year is.” Raising her to her feet, Begiloc smeared her cheek with his hand. “Tell him I'm off to the coast … three leagues or so – the truth, up to a point. That's all he needs to know.”

The bundle of clothes occupying her, Somerhild nodded.

“Can't I stay here with Ealric? I don't want to go to the abbey.”

“Enough, woman!” His voice harsh, “It's dangerous here for a man. What of wolves or raiders? Do not disobey your husband and worse, our Lady Abbess. Cease your prattle before the boy gets back. Ah, here he is!”

Someone knocked, so not Ealric. Curious, Begiloc lifted the door latch to find Meryn, his expression strange. “I thought you gone to Dumnonia.”

The familiar grin creased Meryn's face. “What leave all those pretty nuns to you? Oops, only joking, Somerhild! You know me … but …” he noted the red-rimmed eyes and his face fell, but the impish smile returned, “… mixed-up Saxon, you should be jumping for joy to be rid of the old bear for a while … and I'll wager you shed tears. I could tell you a story about …”

He saw she had wept, so he picked her up by the waist and swung her, her feet clearing the soup pot by an inch. Everyone was laughing when he put her down.

First to speak, Begiloc said, “I was wrong—”

“I'm sorry. Say no more! You're my best friend. I won't let you down. I came to say that – and I'll be off. See you in the morning.”

Begiloc seized him, “I'll give you old bear..!” and they were all laughing again. Meryn had the gift of turning disaster on its head. At that moment, Ealric came in holding an eel snare.

“Did you get one?” Somerhild took the elongated willow basket.

“Clever boy!” she passed the trap to her husband who reached for a small axe.

“Well done!” Meryn said, “I once showed my father a clean pair of 'eels!”

A laugh at the joke and Begiloc insisted on his friend staying.

To his relief, no more work awaited except to feed the dark-skinned, bristle-haired pig. Heat from the decomposing straw in the pit under the floorboards and from the clay-lined hearth made the room cosy. After they had eaten stew washed down with cider, Begiloc reached for the hearpe he had carved from yew wood.

“Come, Meryn, recognise this?” After strumming a few notes he said, “The tale of Drustanus and forbidden love for his brother's wife, the queen?”

“Course I do!” Meryn's rich voice blended in perfect harmony to sing of the tragedy that tore apart the royal family of Dumnonia two centuries before. Preoccupied, Somerhild packed their belongings, caring not for the melancholy song of a race not her own.

At daybreak, they made a strange sight on the Monks' Trail: Somerhild with a pack on her back leading the long-legged pig on a rope; Ealric with his mother's dog skipping and yapping beside him; spear and shield in hand, Begiloc tramped with helm and seax at his belt, his six-stringed instrument strapped across his back and in his other hand a roll of clothing.

As they approached the palisade enclosing the abbey, the oak gate swung open. A different scene greeted Begiloc from the previous day; confusion reigned, including Meryn gesticulating to a monk leading off his pig and goat. Opposite them, at the well, a band of armed warriors exchanged banter over the water ladle.

“My men.”

The Abbess shouted orders to servants and pointed toward the stables. There, a group of monks – Begiloc counted six – stood around a cart on which two men were piling packs. A few paces apart, seven nuns whispered and smiled among themselves and the eyes of a young nun bored into him. When he met her gaze she lowered her head and stared at the ground.

Unkempt as usual, grumbling about damned monks, Meryn ambled over. In greeting, Begiloc threw an arm around him.

“Uncle Meryn! Uncle Meryn, can I hold your axe, please, please?”

Dour expression melting, he unslung his double-headed battle-axe, handing it to Ealric. The boy seized it with both hands but to his dismay, he could not hold it upright. The axe head sliced into the ground and Begiloc laughed.

“Men! Typical! Ealric could have chopped his foot off!”

“Ay, Somerhild, as well he didn't – though if he had, there'd be one left! Eat up all your food, young man so as you can wield a battle-axe.” Meryn ruffled his hair and reclaimed the weapon, hoisting it back into its harness, winking at his friend's son.

“Have you chopped many heads off, Uncle Meryn?”

“Hush!” his mother said as a monk approached. The brother invited Begiloc and Meryn to load their packs on the cart before backing an ox between the shafts and yoking it. Two horses were brought for a couple of nuns to mount. Curious, Begiloc noted one, in her twenties and the other twice her age hoisted into their saddles. The Abbess, a warrior in her wake, hurried to halt before them, bestowing a smile on Somerhild and Ealric.

“Welcome, soon we will have you settled and happy.” She stroked Ealric's cheek. Her warmth made Somerhild smile though her heart ached. Cuniburg became brisk and efficient, addressing Begiloc while half-turning to the huge Saxon beside her. The Mother Superior indicated the man, “This is Caena,” she said, her tone firm, “he will be your right hand. He obeys you and his men follow him.”

The Saxon, stood three hands taller than Begiloc, his beard and moustache long, the latter covering his upper lip. In spite of the cold, his shield arm, bearing a livid scar, was bare under his leather jerkin. The man's eyes, hard, scrutinised him.

The Abbess passed Begiloc a document with a wax seal. “Keep this for your safe conduct in the Frankish lands. Today you travel four leagues to Werham. Spend the night at the priory. In the morning, board the ship to the Frankish lands.” Out of her mantle came a bag of coins. “Take this!” The shrewdness returned to her eyes. “Do not give the steersman more than three scillingas, the sum agreed.” A nod of the head. “There is more money for the journey. Come! I shall present you to your charges.”

The Abbess led him to the younger woman on horseback. “Sister, this is Begiloc who will lead the men.” With raised hand, she indicated the nun in a black cloak. “The Lady Leobgytha. Obey her in all things!” Hazel eyes in a pale, oval face appraised him.

“Like an angel.”

The nun smiled at him, smiled a greeting and lowered her gaze at once. Dumbstruck, he forced his gaze from the lovely countenance.

“Go, make your farewells for it is past Prime,” the Abbess said, “and you must be away soon.”

The Mother Superior approached the horse. “Leoba, this parting tears at my heart, child. But it is a sin, for the Lord means it to sing with joy, for you take the Word to the heathen—”

“Leoba? The Abbess' name of endearment?”

“Leoba”, he repeated under his breath. Joining Somerhild and Ealric, he planted his spear in the ground.

“Somerhild, my love,” he approved of her brave face, “pray for my wellbeing, as I shall for your happiness.” He embraced her while Ealric attached himself to his thigh. She whispered, “How can I be glad without you, husband?” Leaden-hearted, he kissed her, stroking her hair.

“Sing every day. Your love will speed my return. A warrior cannot march with a boy clinging to his leg.” Lifting Ealric level with his face, his stomach tightened at the sight of wet eyes.

“I'm counting on you Ealric. While I'm away, you're the man. Look after your mother, behave for her!” Resolution chased away the boy's tears; satisfied, he lowered him and kissed his head, took his shield and spear and turned his back on them.

“God willing I'll see them again.”

Voice harsh, he called Meryn. The Briton left off stroking the ox behind its ear and strolled over.

“Find Caena, the one with the scar down his shield arm. Tell the lumpen oaf to fetch his men to the abbess.”

Accustomed to Begiloc's descriptions, Meryn hurried off grinning, looking back and calling, “The Saxon's a big 'un, even for you!”

Not looking at his family, Begiloc strode to the Mother Superior. The Saxons arrived and he said to Caena, “Choose three men. The four of you will lead our party.”

The warrior spun on his heel and called out three names in rapid succession.

“Get here and quick! Slow bastards, move I say!” A steely glare born of brutal campaigns fixed them and they leapt to form up in pairs in front of the two horses. Begiloc cajoled the monks and nuns into line behind the armed men. While he organised the servants behind the animals, the Abbess exchanged a glance of approval with the Lady Leobgytha. That done, Begiloc shouted orders to the other warriors. The sour look and gesture did not escape him as one of the Saxons, a shifty-eyed, skinny fellow spat on the ground. The man's face he would remember – 'weasel-eyes'.

“Flank the horses to the left, Meryn. I'll take the right.” With a wave, he ordered the cart to the head of the procession.

Abbess Cuniburg sketched a blessing as they moved off while Begiloc searched for Somerhild and Ealric, who waved and, trying to imprint every detail of their faces on his memory, he raised his spear in salute.

Lady Leobgytha leant toward him from her horse, “Be not sad, for the Lord smiles upon us.” Wide hazel eyes full of tender compassion, like the voice, beguiled him.

“She cares!”

Beyond her black hood, the sight of the ashen sky wiped away his smile.

Chapter 2

The cows in the meadow below the abbey grazed tails to the east and three geese flew low overhead. Weather-wise it bode ill. The Saxons, resentful at being led by a Briton, disturbed Begiloc too. No doubt to win respect he must prove his worth in combat. The journey, skirting marshland, fording the river toward Corf, proceeded as dull as the day. Clouds scudded darker and the breeze had teeth like a wolf. He worried that it would freshen into wind but the weather held and the cart kept a decent pace on the dry ground while the nuns and monks bore the march in high spirits, singing psalms and chanting prayers along the deserted road. At the mill on the Stour, Begiloc calculated they had travelled more than a league, about a third of the way. Refreshed, they should reach the priory well before nightfall.

In exchange for coin, the miller closed the sluice gate and let them water the animals at the mill race. For Lady Leobgytha and the older nun, he placed a table and chairs in the shelter of a wall. The others sat on the grass. Natural circles formed of monks, nuns, and warriors so Begiloc lowered himself down next to Caena with Meryn on his other side.

“Hey, Saxon!” Meryn said, “Don't mess with yon warrior at t'other side of me – he's known to slice men's throats from ear to ear if he don't get on with 'em.” A finger drew from right to left lobe as a demonstration. Damage done. Menacing under his breath, Caena made a point of staring the other way, creating an effect on his men.

Monks came handing out bread and dried meat. Chewing hard, Begiloc glanced to where Leobgytha sat with a nun standing next to her – no meal for that one – holding a book from which she began to read aloud.

“I wish I could read.”

Words set down on parchment spanned the sea. If he could write to Somerhild … he sighed … shook off the thought, no use being as heavy as the clouds above.

After a draught from the ale skin, instead of passing the bottle to Caena, Begiloc wished to make a point by handing it to Meryn who seemed surprised but did not hesitate to seize it. The huge Saxon stared at the ground but did not react, though some of the others muttered and exchanged glances. A long swig later, he offered the vessel to the warrior next to him, teasing him again about Begiloc's 'violent nature'.

In a voice hard to hear, the Saxon said: “I won't drink from the same skin as slaves.”

Meryn thrust the container into Begiloc's chest. Seax drawn, he leapt up and three or four Saxons did the same.

“Say that again, so we can all hear it and so I can rip out your filthy tongue!”

Caena rose but Begiloc held him back, his deep voice rang out: “Does any man here doubt the wisdom of our Mother Superior? Let him speak – for she has entrusted us with a task that may yet cost blood! Let's not spill it among ourselves.” His gaze roved from man to man and each one met his eye. Gladdened, he had neither use for cowards nor fools.

“Put up your weapon, Meryn. If any man here wishes to call me slave, I, who won freedom on the field of battle, let him do so.” The man who had spat on the ground at the abbey failed to meet his eye and looked at the ground.

“Trouble there!”

“That's settled!”

The ale-skin, he passed to Caena, “Drink!” The Saxon drank. Not caring more for lunch, Meryn walked over to the mill race, where he stared into the water. Instead, Begiloc decided to stay with the Saxons, whose brawn and courage were sure to be needed in hard times ahead, but his heart went out to his friend. The drink found its way, man after man, back to him. Weighing it in his hand, he turned to Caena.

“One silver pening says you can't down the rest in one go.”

A smile spread across the warrior's face. “You'll be wasting your coin, let me tell you. I always said Britons were born stupid!” His grin widened as he seized the skin and rose his feet, planted them apart and glared round the group in defiance. A deep breath and he held the vessel to his mouth, chin up-tilted, his beard moved up and down. At last, he tore the flask from his lips, upturned the container and two drops dripped to the grass. A roar went up from the Saxons and Caena grinned.

“A silver pening! I warned you, didn't I? Like stealing an oatcake from a babe!”

“A Briton always pays his debts.” Tone flat, Begiloc intended the subtle threat but held out a hand in peace and waited. The corner of Caena's mouth twitched upwards. Seconds of stillness passed like the instant on the battlefield before the death blow is struck, but at last, the Saxon clasped his hand. They remained like this for a moment, each man weighing up the other, before Begiloc shook a pening from his purse. As he did so, he sensed avid eyes on the bulging leather bag, but Saxon cheers greeting the coin falling into the outstretched hand of Caena distracted him.

“See your leader drink! I'll better any man at supping ale!”

Under no delusions, Begiloc had achieved an armed truce – until the next challenge emerged.

From an unsettling quarter arose another, different, for the young nun who had stared at him in the abbey courtyard, gazed at him anew.

“I know her not. She isn't of our village.”

Between stares, she turned to speak with her companion, the older sister with a horse.

“A nun eyeing a married man – it's unseemly!”

Troubled, empty ale-skin in hand, Begiloc walked over to the mill race to rinse and fill it afresh from the river. With this excuse, he approached the scowling Meryn.

“With that banter of yours, you'd provoke a saint, but why give them the satisfaction of knowing they”'ve wounded you?”

Meryn's shoulders sagged.

“Why let them see your wrath?”

“Anger is indeed a sin.”

The gentle voice made them start. The nun with the angelic face raised a hand toward Meryn, but replaced the gesture with a smile, in turn, ousted by pursed lips.

“Sage to avoid bloodshed and soothe turbulent spirits, but you ran a grave risk that might have finished in death and eternal damnation,” said Leobgytha.

“No, My Lady, no peril. Caena can drink twice the ale in one go.”

At once, he regretted his rude tongue. How best to address a noble lady?

The nun shuddered, “Wise to placate him with a coin …” she smiled again, '… should we move on?”

“Yes, it is time.”

Begiloc bowed and waited for her to turn away before giving his attention to the ale-skin.

On his return, finding Caena readying everyone gladdened him.

“Load that sack – and today would be good!” the Saxon bellowed at his men, making Begiloc fear the sarcasm in his voice matched a ruthless temper.

Displeasing, he found Meryn threatening the man who had offended him. Their mutual glares presaged strife. Later, he would warn him off. As he passed by to take his position, Meryn said, “Did you note the frogs? We're in for a drenching.”

Nonplussed, Begiloc paused, “I did.” So, his comrade had observed them too. The loud croaking meant rain on the way. Better to set off at once.

Half a league farther, Leobgytha dashed hopes of swift progress. Within hailing distance of the village loomed a wayside cross where an old woman knelt in prayer. Leobgytha's voice rang out like a bell summoning everyone to prayer. The ox-cart halted and forced those behind to stop.

“My Lady?” said Begiloc.

“The hour of Sext; this holy place serves instead of a church for the villagers.”

To his dismay, she dismounted and likewise the other nun.

“My Lady, the sky foretells bad weather.”

“Our psalms will please the Lord and rain will hold off.”

The hazel eyes brooked no discussion, no point in wasting time in futile protest.

“I beg you, My Lady, short psalms.”

At her bell-like laugh, again he regretted pitting his earthy wit against her spirituality.

“Come, Begiloc …” he started at the use of his name, “… the Lord will not be pleased if we treat Him with less respect than we give the weather.”

The monks and nuns recited six psalms.

“Thank God, Sext is shorter than Vespers or we'd never be away,” he whispered to Meryn. After what in his impatience he deemed an eternity, they moved on.

Out of the village his spirits lifted when they came to the Roman road to Werham. Raised on an embankment, it ran straight as his seax blade and to his relief, the wheels of the ox-cart rolled with ease over the hard packed stone and gravel surface. Steering round potholes, they kept a decent pace. At the top of the Beacon Hill, Begiloc knew they would reach the priory before Vespers.

At last, the forest gave way to marshy plain between two rivers, where the road leading towards an island ran in a spine-like ridge preventing them from sinking into the rough waterlogged grass.

Peering through the gloom, Begiloc cried, “A huge church!”

Leobgytha murmured, “Built sixty summers ago under King Cenwalh.”

The name meant nothing to him. Those of the Dumnonian kings from Caradoc to Geraint, often enough heard in song and rhyme, he could recite but of these Saxon invaders he knew two – Ine and Aethelheard; he'd fought against the former and for the latter.

The nun interrupted his reflection. “Lady St Mary Church dedicated to the Mother of Our Lord. The priory is attached, on the right. None we chanted on our way but Vespers will be on consecrated ground. Will you come to the service, Begiloc?”

Did he detect amusement? Mixed with – determination? None had eluded him because they'd cantillated all the way from Wimborne and he didn't know a None from a Sext nor one psalm from another. The wind was freshening – that he could tell.

The approach to the church had no defences, he considered, but it was easy enough to hold the causeway. Constructed of local stone, unlike Wimborne, the building inspired him. Except for ancient ruins, he had never seen a structure of that material.

The Prior, wearing a black habit, his tonsure circled by white wispy hair, met them at the entrance. Formalities ended, Leobgytha instructed her party to clean up before meeting outside the church.

Once gathered there, she sent the nuns inside, before a procession of brothers from the priory shuffled past chanting in Latin without raising their heads as they filed into the building. Leobgytha ordered her monks to follow.

“Now,” she said to the ten armed men, “leave your weapons outside and come into the church to attend Vespers.” Her tone was challenging, but duty-bound, Begiloc consented; he was charged to obey the lady.

Incongruous, high in the awesome interior a chirping sparrow flitted from one roof beam to another. The warriors, ushered by Leobgytha to the benches, obeyed her whisper, “Sit down! Copy the monks.” Last to be seated, Begiloc sat next to the nave.

Altar candles cast shadows in the gloomy church. Small square windows conceded little light – none on a dull day at dusk. Instead, tallowed tapers flickered in iron holders, the reek of melting fat overlaying incense.

Meryn dug Begiloc in the ribs. “Pfaw! What a stench, glad I didn't eat lunch …” When he looked past his comrade to the glum Saxons, Begiloc's smile widened because he guessed they would prefer to fell trees or hump rocks. Somerhild apart, as a Briton, he despised the invaders of his homeland.

His gaze wandered along a solid, round column up to the capital, to its carving of a mounted knight holding a spear and huge pointed shield. The other facet depicted a rutting ram. Caena sighed and his head drooped. Disrespectful, this cheered Begiloc who jumped up with the brothers as the priest entered.

“Deus, in adiutorium meum intende…” chanted the cleric and the nuns and monks joined in.

When the clergyman began the oratio, Begiloc, who knew no Latin, let it wash over him while he studied the tub-like pulpit. Its intricate centrepiece was topped by a stone lectern in the shape of a book. The volume was supported by an eagle perched on the head of a bearded man, standing on the back of a ferocious beast with the face of a cat. “About to devour a pagan!”

Unaware of the substance, he'd sat and risen through a sequence of hymns, psalms, canticles, antiphons, preces and oratios; at the end of it all he ate a piece of bread, the body of his Lord.

Still seated the warriors watched the nuns file down the nave. The fair-faced one smiled at Begiloc. Disturbed, he sighed, grateful the others had not noticed.

“Report her to Leobgytha? Where's the sin in a smile?”

But he felt guilt at his stirring desire.

At supper in the refectory, he found the ale did not match that of Wimborne. However, hunger and thirst slated, they were led to a dormitory with pallets spaced at regular intervals around the walls. No guest dormer at Werham; they had to share with the monks.

A bed near a corner suited Begiloc where he propped his spear and shield. There, he sat and strummed a sad tale of lost love on his hearpe. On the next bed, Meryn began the daily ritual of removing the beads to comb out his beard. A copper disk reflected his handiwork in its bright surface.

“Vain creature!”

Meryn started to rethread.

“Whenever did a beaded beard win the heart of a maid!”

“Jealous of my fine bristles? Of course, with yon corn stubble on your chin!”

Ready to rest his aching back and feet, Begiloc grinned and leant his hearpe next to his shield. The flames of the torches on the walls guttered from the draught swirling about the dormitory floor so, grateful for the rough woollen cover, he pulled it up over his clothes. Setting his burnished copper disk down on his blanket, Meryn said, “A cock crowed after Vespers; didn't you catch it? Another sign a storm's brewing.” At the sound of the wind whipping around the priory, they agreed it would be folly to sail the next day. Respectful, they ended their conversation when monks entered to kneel in prayer before their beds. Orisons over, one went around the cressets putting out the tapers to plunge the dormitory into darkness, leaving the air sour with pungent smoke. Soon, snores and regular breathing lulled Begiloc to sleep.

In the night he awoke, a weight on his chest. A hand clamped his mouth while a finger and thumb nipped his nostrils. In vain, he tried to thrash about, his arms pinned under the blanket.

'If I don't get air soon I'll black out!'

A hand groped at his belt as he strove to raise his knee, but it too was blocked.

'So that's it!'

The thief sought the bag of coins.

'I must open my mouth. Not going to let me live. Break the grip. Bite his hand.'

Try as he might, the grasp held firm. Growing weak and sliding into blackness, there came a footfall followed by a groan and a throaty gurgle. The hand slackened, the attacker went limp and slumped sideways. Head pounding, Begiloc gasped for air while a stickiness seeped through his blanket on his arm. Revolted, he heaved upwards and the body rolled and landed with a thud on the floor. The only sound discernible was the wind lashing the priory until whispered words: “Are you all right?”

'I know that voice!'

In truth, the only person he could exclude was Meryn.

“Ay, just about.”

“Good. Sleep. We'll see to the corpse at daybreak.”

“Sleep?”

Another footstep, but no reply.

'How can I?'

In an attempt to sit up, he fumbled at the cover wet with blood. Disgusted, he threw it off and reached down, groping for the body, found it and followed an arm to the shoulder and thence to the neck: no pulse.

Appalled, he rolled back on his pallet but ignored the blanket; better chilled than covered in a dead man's blood. Shivering, but not from the cold, he began to think. How, with no light, had his attacker found his bed?

'Of course, the corner!'

All his assailant had to do was find it and he had the right man.

'Who was he? Weasel-eyes, I'll wager. Did he not ogle my purse at the mill? Who do I thank for saving me? Not Meryn. The dozy lump's asleep. Who? Not a monk. One of the Saxons! Odd. None of them would mourn my death.'

With this flurry of thoughts, his eyes closed and he did not wake until a hand shook him. In the feeble light, he discerned Meryn's face.

“Bad habit … taking corpses to bed!”

“Typical Meryn … one day he'll come up against something he can't turn into a merry jest.”

“Arise, everybody! Morning's come and all's not well!” Meryn exclaimed.

Men struggling to rub sleep from their eyes coughed and swore.

'The voice in the night? Begiloc struggled to remember. 'Whose?'

A group formed around his bed and a monk knelt beside the bloodied corpse. The brother made the sign of the cross and recited a prayer in Latin. Another dashed toward the door, calling, “I'll fetch the Prior.”

Light filtered through the nearest window sufficient for Begiloc to discern some details. The tunic had a single slash angled up through the ribs. The blade had pierced the heart. How was such a blow possible without light?

When the monk finished his prayer, Begiloc rolled the body over. No surprise – sightless 'weasel eyes', whose lids he lowered, not out of respect for a Saxon he'd taken an instant dislike to but out of deference to the dead.

One of the Saxons pointed: “The Briton's killed Paega. Seize him!” Three men thrust monks aside to rush at Begiloc. One monk, a burly, red-haired fellow – one of their party – stuck out an arm. “Wait! A body next to a man's bed and blood on his blanket does not mean that man struck the blow. Let's hear what the Briton has to say!”

The bearing of the brother, one of a man experienced in conflict, struck Begiloc. Later, he would discover more about this monk.

“Well said, Brother. It may seem I killed this man, but on my oath I did not. Someone saved me. Whoever he is, step forward, tell it true – for I am innocent of this death.”

At that moment, the Prior came in, his face pale and anxious, the messenger scuttling at his heels.

“Desecration! Murder!”

Caena held up his seax. “Still blood on the blade.” When he spoke, Begiloc started; of course – the voice. “My arm trailed out of the bed, hand on the floor, when he, Paega, stepped on it. I rose and followed him knowing he meant to rob and kill the Briton in his sleep. The coward, I slew him. May the cur rot in Hell! Mind, I should have let this one die … his lot have been a thorn in our side over the years…”

“I thank you, but—”

“Save your thanks. I am Saxon and fight with honour. If I slay you it will be well done, man to man, not like a serpent in the night.”

The warning he absorbed since he had seen allegiances dissolve in an instant; why should this Saxon be different?

The Prior, his face mottled and twisted, tight around the eyes, clutched at the cross hanging at his chest. Scowling at Caena, he held it, white-knuckled.

“How dare you utter those words on sacred ground? Is it not enough to have slain a man? Still your tongue or better, shape those utterances to beg Our Lord's forgiveness.”

With his shoulders hunched over his chest, the Prior seemed to age as he turned to his monks. “When did this happen? After Lauds I presume.”

The brothers shrugged.

“Well, you …” he waved at four of them, “… carry the body down to the church! Wait there for me and pray for the man's soul. Brother Octha and Brother Selwyn, clean the blood from the floor and wash the blanket!” The monks hurried off to fetch what they needed for the task. “The rest of you prepare for Prime.”

The Prior turned to Begiloc, “I have decided. Under the circumstances we shall take no action. The man was a would-be murderer and a thief. As such he will be buried in unhallowed ground outside the abbey.” When he addressed Caena his tone softened, “I suppose you did the right thing. You saved an innocent life. Set down your weapon. Come kneel, here!”

The warrior stared around at the faces of the men. “Kneel? Kneel! We don't kneel even in defeat …”

Their expressions grave and expectant, he knelt as ordered. The white-haired monk breathed through his mouth, shook his head to clear away the horror and raised his right hand, “Et ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

The Prior lifted his head in a gesture to stand. Tall enough to look Caena in the eye, his gaze did not waver, “Be loyal to your leader, be faithful to the Lord.” Although Begiloc appreciated the monk's intervention, the sullen face of the Saxon made him doubt the admonishment had any effect on the warrior, a suspicion confirmed when the Saxon moved away muttering, “I kneel? I, Caena, to a fellow who gibbers in tongues?”

Turning to the red-haired monk, Begiloc enquired, “Brother, how are you named?”

“Robyn.”

“My thanks to you, Brother Robyn, for your words.”

A bell began to chime. “Prime!” the Prior pointed to the door then led them out into the rain to the blessed shelter of the church.

After the liturgy, Begiloc stood toe to toe with Lady Leobgytha. To an onlooker the difference in demeanour was clear: he bit his lip, shook his head and thumped his fist against his thigh; she held her chin high and peered down her nose at the Briton.

“My Lady, the weather is foul. We'll drown if we take to the sea.” Pointing to the black sky, he said, “What difference will a day make? Let's shelter here and set out tomorrow. The storm will be spent by then.”

Leobgytha pursed her lips. “We leave now – on the Lord's mission! He will protect us. His precious time is not ours to waste. Go. Fetch your men and belongings.”

To a small group of monks and servants she issued orders while Begiloc hesitated. Faith was one thing, but the might of the ocean? The Church had snatched him from his family; did this foolhardy woman intend to lead him to his doom? The words of Abbess Cuniburg came to mind: “… Lady Leobgytha, you will obey her in all things.” Further challenge quelled, he fell silent.

The Prior, head bowed against the rain strode over to join the nun, calling to two monks and giving them instructions. To grasp the gist of their orders, Begiloc hung back, learning of preparations for a second ox-cart laden with hides and tin ore for merchants in Frankia. The Briton headed for the dormitory.

At his approach, Meryn ceased whetting the blade of his axe. A glance at Begiloc's face and a joke died at birth.

“What's up?”

Arms folded, Begiloc said, “The woman's taken leave of her senses.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think? She'll have us all drown.”

“The Lady Leobgytha?”

“Ay.”

Alerted, a couple of Saxons wandered over. Caena joined them, eyebrow raised.

“We must set off, get your things together!”

“Hold, I order you!” The Saxon stepped in front of him. “Have I the right of this? The fool nun wants us to take a ship for the Frankish lands in this weather?”

“Ay, about the measure of it.”

On their feet, everyone talked at once. One, named Hrothgar, said, “I'll be damned if I set foot on board a—”

“Silence!” Caena glared around then addressed Begiloc, “Madness, with a storm raging.” He folded his arms and stared from one to another. “I say we stay here until the morrow. In any case, it's a woman would send us to our doom! Since when do we follow the orders of a mere woman – just because she wears a fucking wimple!”

The warrior's narrowed eyes challenged Begiloc to a chorus of assent from the circle of Saxons.

Unsure whether the contempt in Caena's voice was directed at the Church, womankind or at himself as a Briton in command, Begiloc harboured no illusion – to impose authority his wits would be tested to the full. Fingers running along his scarred brow, his eyes locked on those of Caena but with no challenge in them.