Ulf's Tale E-Book

John Broughton

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

Beschreibung

In the beginning of the bloody 11th century, young Ulf is taken hostage by King Aethelred.

While treachery and plotting threaten uneasy alliances, and ambitious rivals attempt to seize power for themselves, Ulf learns to enjoy his new life of luxury and opportunity.

When his own life is threatened, Ulf sets on a quest to bring peace to the Baltic states. But can he overcome divided loyalties and religious clashes, and make the choice between power and morality?

Leseprobe

ULF’S TALE

JOHN BROUGHTON

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Historical Note

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2018 John Richard Broughton

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Jessica Richardson Weber (CoverBistro.com)

Edited by Felicity Hall

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.

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

Ulf’s Tale.

1

OXFORDSHIRE, EARLY NOVEMBER 1002 AD

Treachery gains more purchase on the imagination when people are at war. The fateful year 1000 had come and the wretched, ever-worsening state of the world provided manifest evidence to support the view that the Last Days were in progress. Venerable bishops added their voices to those of wandering scoundrels who intoned the End of Days: ‘War shall come upon war, tribulation upon tribulation, famine upon famine, nation upon nation and yet the bridegroom does not come.’

In these circumstances England found itself beset by Viking attacks for twenty and more years, failing to resist incursions, its kingship paralysed by poor leadership and treachery.

Aethelred II wore the crown, enthroned as a boy king since his supporters murdered his half-brother, Edward the Martyr. Little wonder that sea raiders swarmed to England for rich pickings.

Betrayal! Surely the vilest such act is to murder hostages bound by a sacred oath of protection. That fate might have been mine at the beginning of November 1002. Back then, I was a mere boy of nine, weak and trembling. I know it’s difficult to imagine as I stand in manhood before you with iron-hard muscles tempered in battle. Many a warrior has quailed and fallen like a felled oak under the mighty blows of my battle-axe.

Let me take you through the events of many years ago. With treason rife you never knew who you could trust, but the ignoble vice can work both ways. So it was that a Saxon thegn who, betraying his lord, came to Eilaf, my brother, to warn us of Aethelred’s infamy. He advised of the imminent edict to eradicate Danes from the land. The politics behind this decision meant nothing to us in our youthful naivety but we understood the warning that men with sharp blades were coming to slay the King’s hostages.

Eilaf, four winters my senior, came to our bedchamber, his long blond hair combed down and plaited like a maid. Thus he appeared to my sleepy eyes, dressed in woman’s garb.

“Ulf! wake up!” he shook me and the agitation on his face snapped me out of drowsiness.

“Eilaf! Why–”

“Hush! Make haste and dress. They are coming to slay us.”

“Who–”

My brother seized me by the arm to haul me, stumbling, out of bed.

“Dress! And be quick.”

Ignoring my frantic questions as I tugged on my tunic, breeches, belt and shoes, I managed to gain Eilaf’s attention only when I confessed my fear.

“Remember,” he hissed, “you are the son of Thorgils Sprakalägg; courage is in your blood.”

That was the point; I did not wish to study my blood pooling on the floor before me.

“This way!” ordered my quick-thinking brother, “They mustn’t find us here.”

If I am alive today, it is thanks to Eilaf. At nine winters of age, I was as near defenceless as a babe. He led on by candlelight into a large chamber. There, he took me to a wicker linen chest, and made me clamber inside before lowering the lid.

“Keep as silent as a night owl!” he whispered, but I needed no telling. “Stay there until I come for you! Do not move!”

I watched him sway across the room, imitating a girl’s gait, in the dim light cast by the smoky wall-mounted tapers. My forefinger bored at the willow weave of the linen chest to widen a gap sufficient to let me keep an eye on the door and the space between it and me. I recall being warm and cosy, the folded sheets and coverings made a comfortable bed. The thick air induced sleep and, barely awake, I began to slip back towards slumber.

My somnolence did not last long before voices jerked me to alertness. A fearsome bristling figure with a sword brandished in one hand, and the other clasped around the wrist of a servant girl, strode into the room. I needed the toilet but knew I dared not move.

“Let me go!” cried the servant.

I knew the voice, my heart thumped twice as fast. It was no maid but my brother, Eilaf.

“Do not play me for a fool child,” the gruff voice of the intruder terrified me, “you know what can happen to a pretty little bauble like you, don’t you?”

He hauled Eilaf to him, pressed his body into his dress and planted a kiss on his lips. Eilaf struggled like a wildcat but the man only laughed and said, “Now, sweetness, you take me to your mistress, Gunnhild, and you need fear no more. Understand?”

“Release the child!”

My eye switched to the door where, in shadow, stood the noble figure of our distant cousin who, had she survived, would also one day have become my aunt by marriage. The swishing of her gown as she passed my hiding place remains in my memory. The horror of the moment lingers too. Although I was young, I had the certainty that the beautiful Gunnhild was walking to her death. I saw Eilaf race out of the room, heard the groan of Gunnhild, saw her sway and stagger before collapsing on the floor. A crimson lake formed around her body, flowing from a gaping gash in her throat. I can describe no more because tears blurred my vision and terror seized my galloping heart. I had to rely on my hearing.

“What do you mean to do with yon needle, my bonny?” the murderer asked. “It would be a shame to skewer a lovely Saxon maid with my trusty blade. You are a spirited wench, I’ll give you that. Come, you can lead me to the bedchamber of the Danish whelps.”

I could not bring myself to look at the grisly sight on the floor so when my brother led away the killer, I closed my eyes tightly. Eilaf must have returned with a hand-seax to try to save Gunnhild but how could he? A boy of thirteen winters against a Saxon warrior armed with a sword? Eilaf at that age possessed all the courage he would later display in warfare. Realising he was too late to help Gunnhild, he used his wits to overcome adversity. He led the slaughterer to our bedchamber, which, of course, was empty.

“Ah, the birds have flown!”

He flung Eilaf on the bed and my brother feared the worst, but the man did not wish to satisfy his lust.

“I must seek out the Danish whelps...” and with that he left my trembling brother to curl up on the bed. He waited, listening and fearing the return of the brute, but it never happened. Instead, he told me, the night dragged on until the first light of morning, when a scream averted him of the finding of poor Gunnhild. From my refuge, I saw the servant find the body. Her shriek assailed my eardrums as she was but three paces from my hiding place. Soon, the room was full of people. Among them I saw the lord of the hall, a thegn whose name I never learned. I remember him railing against everyone and against fate itself that he had been placed in the position of failing to protect his noble hostage, the sister of the Danish King, Sweyn Forkbeard. Hearing his ranting, I knew he feared the wrath of King Aethelred, but because of my youth, I was confused. Why would the King be angry if he himself had sent the killer?

They took the body to a chapel and servants mopped the floor. It seemed forever before Eilaf, dressed in his own clothes, came for me. When the room was empty but for us, he opened the chest and helped me out. My legs buckled from stiffness and lack of movement but soon, after rubbing them, I was able to walk.

“Come, Ulf, we must flee this place. We cannot stay here.”

“But he...the...the killer, he’s gone.”

“They’ll be back. Their work is but half done.”

I needed no more convincing. So we sneaked out of the hall that had been our home for the last two years.

“Are we going back to Sweden?”

“When we can obtain passage. For now, we must make our way to those who can help us.”

“And where are they?”

“In a town near here, called Oxford. Come on!”

“I’m hungry.”

“Think of saving your life first and of filling your stomach later, little brother.”

“I’m not little!”

“No, you’re a mighty Viking warrior!”

I flushed with anger and my frightened eyes stared around the great hall where our furtive creeping had brought us. I think it was then that I decided to repay the Saxons for the murder of Gunnhild and for causing the ursine grip of fear that threatened to crush the last of my resolve. We slunk in the shadows of the dim hall along the wall towards the doorway. The acrid smell of charred logs from the hearth pricked at my nose and I stifled a sneeze.

“Hush!” Eilaf whispered.

When no-one could see us, he slipped out of the hall and I followed as fast as I could. Eilaf tugged me down behind a water trough.

“Until we get to Oxford, we must keep out of sight and treat everyone as enemies, right?”

What I remember most of the march to Oxford was the gnawing at my stomach. I let Eilaf take control. He was older and wiser than me and I’d always looked up to him. To give him his due, he had thought of everything. He took money from Gunnhild’s room and found a woodland stream on our way to the town. The fresh water went some way to making me feel better. I did not complain during our tiring journey, for Eilaf had enough worries, I understood that much.

When we strolled into the town I felt all eyes upon me and, warned by Eilaf to consider the Saxons as enemies, I felt as though all the world threatened us. I need not have worried. News of the King’s edict would not arrive for another two days. Eilaf observed everything and everybody carefully until he heard two men speaking our language. Not Swedish but near enough, sufficient to understand and be understood. These two were Danes and Eilaf learned from them where in town we might eat in Danish company. At last, my stomach was satisfied and we had found lodgings. Gunnhild’s purse proved to be well stocked with silver coins so we had no worries for our bodily needs.

It was clear to Eilaf that we were not out of peril. To me, all that mattered was that I was warm and fed but I did recognise the need to find a way back home to mother and father. Eilaf set about the task of seeking passage. It was not straightforward because our presence among the Danish artisans of Oxford had elicited much curiosity.

For this reason, a man named Haldor, a tall, shaggy-bearded, stern-looking fellow sought us out at our inn. He claimed to be the elder or headman of the Danes in Oxford.

“Tell me how you come to be here in Oxford. Who are you exactly?” His suspicious eyes roamed over the two of us. Our fine clothes marked us out as superior to the common folk. At first, I left the talking to my brother.

“We are Eilaf and Ulf Thorgilsson. We were held by King Aethelred as hostages. They came in the night and slew Gunnhild.”

“What? They slew King Sweyn’s sister?”

“Ay,” we nodded together.

Haldor looked from one to the other of us, “And you saw the murder?”

I nodded again.

“By Odin, the oath-breakers will pay for this in blood and fire!”

Eilaf caught Haldor’s eye as he rose to leave.

“What is it?”

“The informant who saved us told me that King Aethelred has issued a decree that all Danes must be eradicated from the land. I thought I’d better warn you.” The greybeard laid a hand on Eilaf’s shoulder, “Did he, by Thor? My people will be grateful to you. ‘A man who is forewarned is forearmed’ ” he quoted. “I will send a man to you who may help find you a ship. For now, my thanks, we will meet again.”

But we never did. They killed him.

2

OXFORD, NOVEMBER 13 1002 AD

The man Haldor sent to the inn with information about a ship told Eilaf that to cross straight to Sweden was impossible. We would have to sail to Denmark first and thence travel onward to our homeland. I liked this bluff Dane, named Niels. He toiled as a leather worker for a business run by his wife-brother. Seeing Eilaf carried a hand-seax thrust behind his belt without a sheath, he measured the blade with his thumb from joint to nail and promised to make him one.

“I’ll bring you something too, young man,” he said with a grin, while he ruffled my hair.

Niels’s gift turned out to be a pouch for my belt. Well crafted with neat stitching, it bore a stylised raven’s head on the flap. I use it to this day, although it bears signs of age. Inside, within one of the three compartments, nestled a silver coin. I made to hand the money to Niels who shook his head and said, “You know, Ulf, it’s tradition to place a coin in any purse, pouch or bag gifted. So it’s yours. Spend it well.”

Niels would accompany us downriver to where his cousin, taking a rest between trading trips to Denmark, had a boat moored. His ship lay tied up at a wharf a couple of hours from Oxford, where the River Thames flowed more deeply. Maybe we could sail with him on his next voyage.

The three of us were setting off when a short, bandy-legged man with a deep voice called after Niels to halt. His expression revealed his uncontrollable anxiety and his speech became undecipherable as he gabbled some kind of warning. From Niels’s reaction, something terribly amiss had occurred.

“Boys,” he said, turning to us, “I cannot depart now. My sister and her husband are in danger. The Saxons wield arms and are slaughtering our people. Stay here inside the inn and if anyone comes, hide! I must go to help my family. Wait in your room for me and do not set foot outside.”

I did not want to leave Niels and dashed after him but he snapped at me that he had enough to worry about without having to protect me too. He cuffed me around the ear and sent me packing. With reluctance and a sense of foreboding, I went back to the tavern where Eilaf berated me for my foolishness.

Inside the inn, the first sounds of trouble drifted through our open window. The clash of steel soon outdid the angry, frightened shouts, running feet, barking dogs and women’s screams. Fighting had broken out nearby. Curious, we peered out, on our hands and knees, taking care not to be seen by anyone from below. Not that any action happened in our street except for people hurrying past, clutching weapons – cudgels, pitchforks or metal bars.

No way for us to know what they intended, or where they were heading.

“What shall we do?” I asked my brother.

“Nothing.”

“But we can’t stay here forever. What if Niels doesn’t come back?”

“He will,” Eilaf’s certainty reassured me. I think at that age I would have believed anything my brother said.

So, it came as no surprise to me when Niels returned. His blond hair was matted with dried blood and his pale green tunic spattered with crimson stains.

“Are you hurt?” Eilaf enquired.

“My head’s thumping, but I’ve been lucky.”

Something ominous about his tone made me fearful, and I’ll never forget the haunted look in his eyes.

Eilaf hushed me with a shake of his head when I opened my mouth to ask questions. Only then did I notice Niels bore an axe hanging from his belt.

“We’d best be on our way,” the leather-worker said. “Let’s see if the innkeeper will sell us some food for the road. We’ve only two hours to cover but with these troubles...” He seemed reluctant to complete his thought.

Before leaving the safety of the inn, Niels slipped outside to check the situation. Back at once, he urged us to hurry into the street.

“This way, look lively!”

Eilaf and I had to run to keep up with Niels’s long strides.

“The sooner we’re out of Oxford, the better.”

I thought of Gunnhild, then of the blood smeared on Niels’s tunic, and shuddered. Had I known what was happening in the town I would have outstripped a running deer. I had no inkling about the violence until Niels called a halt by a stream in some woodland after we left the road. There we quenched our thirst, and lunched on the bread and cheese the innkeeper had sold us.

“The people we passed on our way seemed harmless enough,” Niels said between mouthfuls. “They can’t know what’s going on in Oxford.”

“What’s happening?” Eilaf asked.

“Bloody murder. The Saxons turned on the Danes and are butchering us. I tried to rescue my sister but she fled among those who sought sanctuary in the Church of Saint Frideswide.” His voice broke, “They murdered the children. I saw my niece killed. I couldn’t do anything to save her. Only seven years old.” Tears coursed down his cheeks and I flung myself at him to hug our new friend. We stayed like this for some minutes, then gently, he removed my arms.

“Thank you, Ulf,” he said, “we must carry this grave news to King Sweyn in Denmark. He will avenge his sister as I will exact retribution for mine.”

“But she may be safe in the church,” Eilaf sought to console him.

The leather-worker shook his head and winced with pain. He stepped down to the brook and rinsed the blood from his scalp.

“It stings but it can be only a scratch; see it bleeds no more. The rabid curs set fire to the church. My wife-brother died trying to stop them. To no avail. It blazed like a furnace when I left. I could not save them.” The last words turned into a hopeless wail.

Niels sat with his head in his hands, lost in the horror of his thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” Eilaf muttered to me, “soon we’ll be home safe with our father.”

We set off once more, relieved that travellers we encountered on the road hailed us with a friendly greeting or a wave. We hastened through a small village and once clear, Niels told us to seek a footpath to the left of the thoroughfare. I spotted it first and we followed it up a rise and over to where the land began to drop down to the Trent.

“We follow the river for the rest of the way,” Niels said, “unless it becomes marshy.”

Fortunately it hadn’t rained in recent weeks, though the weather was as dull as usual at this time of year.

“Niels?” I said.

“What?”

“Why is King Aethelred killing our people?”

“The mob in Oxford accused the Danes of meaning to kill the King and his advisers, to take over the land. It must be a lie...but if Aethelred believes it...”

“What do you think, Niels?”

The burly Dane put a hand on my shoulder, “Me, Ulf? It don’t matter what I think. It’s what the Forkbeard thinks that matters. Our job is to tell him what we’ve seen, as soon as we can.”

“Does the King really have a forked beard?”

“Why else would they call him that, young Ulf?”

It pleased me to see Niels smile again. He had been so sad.

“And what about King Aethelred? Does he have a name too?”

“They saddle him with the Unread.”

“Unread? Why?”

“It means ‘Ill-advised’ in the Saxon tongue. I think it’s because he keeps on making mistakes.”

“Mistakes? Like sending that man to kill us and Gunnhild?”

“That’s what I mean, Ulf, and I think that will be his biggest mistake of his life.”

“Will it be war?” Eilaf interrupted.

“I’m sure of it.”

“I wish I could fight in a battle.”

Niels laughed, “You, Ulf! Not yet, you are too young to hoist a shield. Even Eilaf will wait three years until he builds a man’s muscles, isn’t it so, Eilaf?”

My brother sighed and agreed, “But when I’m older I’ll come back to slay the Saxons.”

“I’m afraid I can’t delay that long. I hope King Sweyn will be ready and willing to move at once, but with winter in the air...”

His eyes took on a far-away semblance and he said no more.

We came to the top of a knoll. From there, the wide River Trent snaked below into the distance.

“Not far now, lads,” Niels crowed, stretching to point to the horizon, “if your eyes are keen, you’ll see a small building yonder and next to it a mast. It ought to be our Stefan’s ship.”

“Where?” I squinted without success.

“There!” Eilaf squawked with delight. “Use my finger as a sighter.”

I discerned the grey shape of a tall, straight line and a small square next to it.

“I see it!”

“When we get there, we’ll be safe...until we sail into the open sea, at any rate,” Niels said.

I felt the energy surge into my weary legs – we were drawing near.

“Niels, it would be easy to mistake one of you for the other!” Eilaf cried, gazing at Stefan.

My brother spoke truly; the man bore a remarkable resemblance to Niels, being no more than two inches taller but with the same blue eyes and identical laughter wrinkles.

“We are sons of brothers,” Niels explained before leading his cousin some yards away from us where a low, intense exchange took place.

We could not catch their words until Stefan raised his voice, “It’s impossible. How am I supposed to get the crew together? We can’t move.”

“There’s no time to waste, I tell you.”

The argument proceeded until Niels stomped back to us.

“We are welcome to stay with Stefan but there is no crew to sail us to Denmark.”

Happy to be in a place where we could eat and sleep, I felt safe with Niels. It didn’t trouble me that we lingered in a land where Danes were regarded with hatred. Luckily, I was too young to understand danger that did not appear before my eyes.

“Make yourselves useful and collect wood, boil up a cauldron of water. Eel soup for lunch. I’ve set traps. Do you like eel?” Stefan issued commands and beamed at me.

I nodded and smiled.

“Ulf’s coming with me.” He disappeared into the house and came out with a wicker trug that he thrust into my hand. “Come on!”

I followed the tall trader across the meadow to the edge of a small pond. I scanned the water for eyes just above the surface. I usually steer clear of ponds to avoid the Nykken, the dark monster who shifts shape to lure children into the depths to drown them.

“Here we are,” he announced, “pull on that cord, my lad.”

Satisfied the pond was Nykken-free, I heaved a dripping eel trap, made of woven willow, shaped like a long sock, out of the water. Inside the snare I made out a writhing black shape.

“We’ve got one, Stefan!” I called.

“Bring it over here.”

In a moment he had the trap open and the wriggling eel slithered on the grass, but Stefan the expert lopped off the head of the creature only for it to continue its contortions.

“Why isn’t it dead?” I asked, never having seen an eel beheaded.

“Oh, it’s dead, all right, eels are like that,” he said trapping it under his boot. “Here,” he laid the slimy creature in the trug and coiled it around on itself for a better fit. “We’ll head back. Keep an eye open for goutweed or nettles.”

I found some goutweed growing in the shade but Stefan shook his head.

“No good,” he said, “the leaves are too old. We need young, tender ones else they’re too bitter and they upset the belly. It’s too late in the year, I suppose.”

This is how I discovered one of Stefan’s many talents: a good cook, navigator, trader and friend. He found nettles and sorted the fresh leaves he needed to add to the contents of my basket.

On our way back we came across a commotion, and this affair will explain how racial tensions were running high. We scrambled over a ditch and reached the lane that wound past a house down to the river. Drawing near to the building, voices raised in a heated argument warned of trouble. Stefan swore and his hand moved fleetingly to his sword as if to check it was still hanging by his side.

“That’s Torvald they’re manhandling.” I narrowed my eyes to see better in the dull light, half-hoping Stefan was wrong. He was not. The shaggy-haired Torvald, one of the few members of our depleted crew, was trying to pull away from two men who, like clams, were clamped on to his arms. Three or four other men were gesticulating and shouting and it took our arrival for silence to reign.

They greeted us with hostile glares and suspicious glances into my basket. This was the first time I experienced collective hostility aimed at my person and because I belonged to a different nation.

They were wrong about me, in their ignorance, for I am no Dane, but the danger was still the same.

“More thieving Danes!” one cried.

“There are no thieves here,” Torvald cried, receiving a backhanded slap across the mouth that left his lip bleeding.

“We caught this man raiding our hen coop and–”

“It’s a lie!” Torvald shouted and writhed to break free, in vain.

“Where are the eggs he’s taken?” Stefan asked with good reason.

“He must have put them back when we raised the hue and cry. If he’s not a thief, why was he lurking by the coop?”

Stefan stared at our companion, raised an eyebrow and uttered one word, “Well?”

“I told them,” his speech was indistinct as he spat blood from his split lip, “I saw a fox creeping behind the hen house and I wanted to scare it off. Doing them a favour, I was. I hoped to buy some eggs.”

“That’s what the mealy-mouthed scoundrel told us. But when we searched him, we found he had no coin to buy with.” The taller of the two men restraining Torvald snorted the last words.

“What do you mean to do with our comrade?” Stefan asked.

“What we always do with thieves – cut off his hand,” the same man said.

“But he has stolen nothing. What justice is that?”

“The land is overrun by you filthy, robbing Danes.”

Stefan’s hand flew to his sword and I feared the worse. But his words belied his gesture.

“Be not so hasty, Saxon. A man does not lose his hand for an unproved accusation. That is not justice. A wiser decision must be made if we are to avoid bloodshed on a greater scale.”

An older man with traces of grey in his hair spoke for the first time.

“It’s custom in these cases, hereabouts, to let God decide a man’s guilt or innocence. Let us hie to the church and the priest will decide. What say you, Dane? It’s either that or we lop off his hand here and now.”

“We do not share belief in your God but your words are fair enough, Saxon. We will accompany you.”

I trailed along next to Stefan and whispered, “How will their God decide, Stefan?”

Used to his constant good cheer, his black look and tense snarl dismayed me.

“Hush your questions, Ulf. Now is not the time.”

The priest was a sallow-faced fellow in a soiled green tunic. After listening to the accusation, denials and Stefan’s protestations, and the aggressive demands for the removal of the ‘thief’s’ hand, he showed he did not have the strength of character to dismiss the matter.

“We must let God in His wisdom and mercy decide,” he said to satisfied growls.

We trudged to a remote part of the church where they emptied pails of water, drawn from a well in the churchyard, into a cauldron.

“Hold!” cried the cleric, “the crime is not so grave that we should go beyond the elbow.” To test its depth, he plunged his arm into the water. His eye for a measure was perfect and he displayed his sleeve sodden to the hollow of his forearm. Next, he found a smooth round stone, the size of a plum, and placed it on the bottom of the iron pot. They lit a fire under the huge container and everyone but two accusers, Stefan, I and the priest had to leave the building. The clergyman invited us to ascertain the water boiled. He then sprinkled the five of us with what he called holy water. Luckily, it was cold. We had to kiss a cross and a book for some reason and he told us not to speak but to pray to God to reveal the truth.

The weird trial continued with this churchman singing in a strange language in his croaking voice. When he had finished, he signalled Torvald to plunge his hand into the boiling water and draw out the stone. I gazed on, horrified, as our comrade did as bidden without any sign of sufferance except a tightening of his jaw. The priest immediately bound up his arm in a clean cloth and sealed it with a seal of the church made of molten wax.

“We will hold him for three days under guard. If after that time, the seal is unbroken and the arm is clean, he is innocent of the charge. If there is a foul, festering wound, he is guilty.”