Chapter Eight
Muster at Wicstun
The next morning, the official summons arrived. Lord Wallace was ordering all the company to muster at Wicstun. Father called me into his room where he lay in his bed, still recovering from his wounds. He looked me up and down for a moment.
“Son,” he began at last, “I must ask you to grow up fast. Lord Wallace has called for the men of the village to go to him and that means they must have a leader.”
I nodded feeling with a growing sense of anxiety that I knew where this conversation was going.
“With Cuthwine ...,” he started then paused, unable to say the word ‘dead’, “... with Cuthwine ... gone and me injured, you must do it.”
“Father I ... I’m not sure I can. I’m afraid I will mess it up.”
“You must do it!” he said abruptly, then just as suddenly realising he had spoken harshly, he smiled at me. “Cerdic, you are my son and I know that you can do this. You can depend on Grettir: he will advise you wisely. The men are brave and will fight well, but they need a leader. That has to be you: lead and they will follow.”
So it was that ten men got ready to leave the village that noon. There was Grettir, Cuthbert, Eduard - groaning as he lifted a spear and leant it against his injured shoulder - six other villagers and myself. We collected our weapons and we were supplied with ale, smoked cheese and meats as well as some bread.
The village folk gathered to see us off. I looked for Aidith, hoping to say something to her, but I could not spot her. The mood around the Villa was bleak. Only a few days before, the village had lost twelve members and now another ten were going away. No one argued − we were going to get the others back after all − yet the fear hung in the air that morning, unspoken but palpable, that there would be yet more loss, more death and more sorrow to cope with in the days ahead. Some families parted emotionally, others without a word. Mother hugged me as tightly as she had not done for many years and Sunniva kissed me on the cheek. Neither said much, but in the expression in their eyes I read the words: ‘Come back, Cerdic’.
As we marched towards the Roman road that would take us to Wicstun, I chanced a glance behind. I could just see the Villa in the distance and − standing there, still watching us − my mother and sister. As I reached the main road, the Villa disappeared from sight and I felt an aching, maudlin feeling in my heart. This was it: I was going to war. Through childhood it had been this moment I had dreamt about and waited for. Lilla’s warriors were always brave and valiant, so why did I feel scared and homesick?
Just then, I saw a shadow under a large beech tree beside the road. The shadow detached itself and came into the light and I recognised, with a jump of the heart, that it was Aidith. She moved towards me, looking bashful, yet eager to say something.
“Cerdic, I wanted to say … that is I need to say…,” she stammered. This was new. Aidith was usually self-assured and full of laughter. She blushed, then, taking a step forward, kissed me on the lips.
Before I could say a word, she ran past me − without looking back − and on down the lane to the village. I stared after her for a few moments, before realising I was standing on my own in the road and that I was now fifty yards behind the rest of the men who were still heading north, towards Wicstun. Turning away from sights and thoughts of home, I ran and caught up with the rest of our band and marched with them, off to war.
It was early afternoon when we reached Wicstun. From a distance, we could see a pall of smoke that still lingered over the town. Many houses were damaged and not a few burnt down completely. The townsfolk were walking around with the same dazed expression that the villagers of Cerdham had worn the last few days. In the market square, a few dozen men were already gathering. Men and youths from the company were cleaning and sharpening weapons. From the nearby smithy, the sounds of forging and hammering could be heard, whilst the womenfolk were organising food supplies on carts. In the centre of the chaos, on a dais outside the main hall, stood Lord Wallace wearing a well made, but slightly rusty, chain shirt and a sturdy helm.
Grettir stopped walking and we all gathered up behind him. I waited to see what would happen next, but then noticed that everyone else was looking at me and I realised that they were expecting me to talk to Wallace. Gulping and feeling the gaze of every man in the square upon me I walked up to him and made a slight bow.
“Lord Wallace, how are things in Wicstun?” I asked.
Wallace looked at me blankly for a minute, as if not sure who he was expecting to see, then he blinked and spoke.
“Ah, Cerdic, it’s good to see you again − but not like this. I’m sorry to hear the news about your brother: he was a brave warrior,” he said.
I just nodded and thanked him for the sympathy.
“As you see,” Wallace went on, “we were hit hard here also. About fifty warriors − the bulk of their force − attacked us. Maybe another twenty raided farms and villages to the north: a heavy raid indeed. Twenty of our men were killed and as many again wounded, but we drove them off, the maggot-ridden scum.”
His eyes unfocused, he paused to think, then mused, “I wonder what was behind all of this. Why did they attack right now? I mean, the Elmetae have not attacked in my lifetime. Oh, I know about the rumours of an alliance with Rheged and I guess I knew that one day it would happen, but we have heard nothing to suggest an agreement has been reached, nor less about attacks elsewhere. Just one warband − say one hundred men − from Elmet attacking alone: it does seem odd.”
Wallace looked at me then, his eyebrow raised as though he thought I might have the answer. So, I told him about the amber treasure and the news that the warband’s leader − a one-eyed warrior chieftan − had been asking for it. I told him about Aedann and how I thought he had betrayed the news of that great prize to them.
He nodded and looked thoughtful. Then, sitting back on a cart loaded with spears, he rubbed his chin and squinted at me.
“Of course, Samlen One Eye could not resist that,” he said. Then, seeing the quizzical expression on my face, he explained. “Prince Samlen is brother to Ceredig, the King of Elmet. He took that wound to the eye years ago, in the fighting near Eoforwic, when Elmet sent an army to help hold the city - it was your uncle Cynric inflicted it, so Grettir told us - since then Samlen has hated us and wanted revenge. It seems, from what I hear, that he is trying to persuade his brother to ally with Owain and is desperate to make his name in the war against us. He is proud as well as cruel. He does however have a weakness: he loves plunder and loot to levels bordering on obsession.”
“So, he would be likely to go after my mother’s jewellery?”
Wallace looked at me and then nodded.
“Yes. Yes he would, perhaps even if Ceredig had not yet agreed to fight us. But he is jealous of his treasures. Therefore, he attacks in many places, so that the rest of his men are occupied ransacking poor farms and our town. Meanwhile, he led a much smaller group − maybe those most loyal to him − to the Villa, to claim his prize.”
Around us the carts had been loaded now and more of the company had assembled. Wallace looked at them for a moment and then back at me.
“This could alter things. Ceredig hesitates because he has little money. Wars cost money and he will need a lot to attack us. That amber necklace and the rest; it’s worth a fortune. It could arm and keep an army in the field for months.”
I began to wonder if the jewels were cursed. They seemed to bring nothing but death and disaster. In any event, it looked like I now had a fourth reason to go to Elmet.
“Then we must try and get them back, my Lord!”
Wallace nodded.
“Yes, Cerdic, we must.”
The company assembled and Wallace asked the leader of each contingent to join him in a council. I represented the Villa. Wallace had laid out a map on the table. It was made of cured vellum, now cracked and torn with age. I had never seen one before and looked at it curiously.
“It’s old
that map. When we attacked Eoforwic, when I was young, we took plunder and treasure. One of the Welsh lords had some scrolls and this was with them. I think it was made by the Roman army just before they left,” Wallace explained.
I peered at it again, but it was all lines and letters which I could not understand. Looking around at the doubtful expressions on the faces of the others present, I knew that I was not alone. So, Wallace interpreted it for us.
“See that picture that looks like a castle? That is Eoforwic − the Romans called it Eboracum. Wicstun does not seem to have existed at the time, but all the Roman forts and villas are on it. Look, Cerdic: that is your Villa,” he said, pointing at a small square near the Roman road that ran past Cerdham and on to Eoforwic. He then waved his hand at another part of the map.
“Now, everyone, look over here. That’s the River Derwent and that is the Ouse. Our scouts report that the trail left by the raid went that way, over the river just west of the Villa, and Cerdic here thinks he saw Samlen and his band go past the royal forests there just three nights back.”
I nodded and then I had a thought. Cuthbert had told us that he occasionally went hunting with his father in the border lands west of the Derwent. They had, out of curiosity, once strayed to the Ouse and reckoned that it had been a day’s journey from the village to the border and back again. If so, it would take us a good half day to reach the border from where we were. But, what he had also told me was there was a ford over the Derwent just near where we were boar hunting and another crossing the Ouse further to the west. I told Wallace this.
“Right then,” he said, biting his lip, “I think that is where they were heading. If so, we should be able to follow them easily enough. After that − I don’t know.”
“The biggest settlement in that area is Salebeia,” one of the other men said.
Wallace nodded and pointed and we could see a small town just the other side of the Ouse. He tapped his hand on the map, further over.
“The Welsh capital is at Loidis there, but that is twenty miles and more beyond the border. We must hope they have not gone that far!”
Our fears were that we might be captured in Elmet by the warriors of King Ceredig of that land and be taken off to slavery or even killed outright. We would have to travel quietly, through hostile territory, which was going to be hard for one hundred of us. Yet, if we could manage a surprise attack on wherever our people were being held, we might be successful. Wallace told us to be ready at dawn and sent us to get some sleep.
I was just leaving when there was a knock on door and one of Wallace’s older veterans entered; a wild looking man called Sigmund. He stepped up to Wallace, who nodded at him to speak in front of us all. He had been compiling a list of the dead, wounded and those missing from the town.
“Apart from the twenty men who were slain, I reckon thirty or more folk are missing, my Lord. Some of them were seen being dragged away. Others we have no idea about, like Molly Baker, the lad Hussa ... my sister Emma, Ken the farrier ... and several others, besides.”
So, Hussa was missing as well as Mildrith. In all likelihood they would be taken to the same place. Wallace was thinking this too.
“Well, maybe we will find them all in one group if we move quickly. Right,” he said, clapping his hands, “I think it is time for sleep now and then we will see what fortune tomorrow brings.”
Bowing, we left Wallace alone in the room with his map and I went to find a place for the villagers and me to bed down.
The company departed Wicstun at first light, amongst scenes like those of the previous day at the Villa. The anxiety felt by their relatives for the men about to depart and the hope that we might find those taken from them, mixed as one in embraces and final words. Then we were off and following the trail left by the raiders, which was still visible in the mud and damaged crops through the fields southwest of Wicstun.
As we marched along I was surprised to see the bard Lilla amongst the ranks. He was chatting to the men, telling jokes and singing little ditties. Catching my glance, he came over to us and greeted me by name.
“Sorry again about your brother, Cerdic. Good man he was − I thought. I'll tell you a story sometime about what he got up to when he was away with the Fyrd a year or so back. Make your hair stand on end it will,” he said, with a sad little smile.
“Thanks Lilla, I would appreciate that one day, when the pain is less raw. But tell me: what are you doing here?”
“Oh, looking for songs,” he replied cheerfully.
He saw my quizzical expression and sighed, as if talking to the village idiot.
“Sagas don’t just pop up in bards’ heads, you know. We try to be where stories are happening and then we know what to put in them.”
“Can’t that be a bit dangerous?”
“Well ... yes, but I've been lucky so far.”
“I hope your luck lasts − for all our sakes,” I muttered.
Mid-morning saw us cross the Derwent near the Villa − itself out of sight in the woods and hills to the east. By shortly after noon, we had reached the approaches to the Ouse and we slowed our pace to make a more cautious advance. Finally, we halted and Wallace sent out scouts across the river to trace the direction taken by the warband.
Whilst they were away, we rested and ate some bread and meat as we crouched in low scrub overlooking the Ouse. About a mile to the west and a little way down the river, we could see the smoke from a small settlement and beyond it a larger town − Salebeia. Further west, the hills rose higher and higher, until they became the mountains of the Pennines.
After about an hour, our scouts returned to us.
“We are in luck, my Lord,” a bright-eyed woodsman from the Wolds reported. “I don’t think there can have been any rain here these last few days, for the mud on either side of the ford still shows the tracks the raiders left. Several score feet passed that way and seem to have veered northwest, away from Salebeia.”
“Northwest? That’s a surprise. What’s in that direction?” Wallace said, as much to himself as to the scouts, and pulled the rolled up map out of his tunic. He squinted at it for a moment, grunted, then looked up at the company.
“There is an old Roman fort northwest of Salebeia − perhaps five miles from the ford. Its name is,” he brought the map closer to his eyes, “erm ... Calcaria, I think. I would guess Samlen was going that way. If so; we should find him there.”
“If he is still there, my Lord,” I pointed out.
“Indeed, but we will only know by going,” he said and stared at the slate grey sky above us. “Well, there may not have been any rain since the raid, but we might have some soon. Best press on. I would like to get to some shelter near this fort and take a look at it today, if we can.”
To begin with, all went well. We moved down to the river and found the shallow crossing point. There, we waded through the clear, icy waters and clambered up the far bank. We had now left Deira and I gazed back over my shoulder with a sudden feeling of anxiety. My home − what was left of it − was back there. Eduard and Cuthbert saw me looking and paused too.
We were now further away from home than I had ever been. It could only have been ten or eleven miles and looking back now, over the thousands of miles I have wandered since, it was just next door. But there and then, to the young man I was, it seemed a very long way indeed. Cuthbert and Eduard agreed with me. Indeed, Eduard had an excited expression of wonder at each new hill we climbed and each new valley beyond it. Cuthbert, on the other hand, looked a little afraid and glanced around at the woods we passed as if he expected a horde of goblins to attack us at any moment. I grinned at him and he looked away, his face flaring pink with embarrassment.
“I never expected to leave the valley, you know,” Cuthbert said, “and here we are attacking another country.”
“You a bit scared?” I asked.
“Well, yeh, you?”
“A bit, but I’m excited as well and keen to get this job done. Find Mildrith a
nd the others and sort out Samlen and Aedann. So, because of all that, it does not seem so bad.” I turned to my other friend.
“Eduard?”
“What?” the big lad asked.
“Are you afraid?”
Momentarily forgetting his wound he shrugged, then winced, but nothing bothered Eduard much, big strong lad that he was. He just took life as it came and got on with it. I sometimes envied him that ability.
We finally turned away from our homeland and rejoined the company. The land on the other side of the river was much the same as on our side: woodlands and fields in the low lands, then hills rising gently away from the river. The scouts reported that the tracks we were following joined a narrow road or path heading northwest and so, we followed it.
We were cautious and travelled quietly with scouts out ahead of us and on each flank to look for the Welsh but, as yet, we had seen none. After a few miles the path turned sharply north towards the River Wharfe, passed between two woods then emerged in flat open fields, before turning again back to the west. The river was now immediately on our right. Ahead of us, no more than a mile away, was a small settlement − perhaps a dozen huts clustered round a larger one − the headman’s house most probably.
Wallace gestured for me and Sigmund to go with him and sent the company back into the woods. We slipped down into the ditch that followed the road and then through a thorny blackberry hedge that separated it from fields running down to the river bank. Some cattle were grazing in the meadows there. Following the hedge, we approached the village until we were hidden in a small copse, barely a hundred paces from it.
From where we were, we could see the villagers going about their daily lives. Some were building a new hut near us and were pounding in the upright posts to make a frame from ash trunks. Beyond them, some women were gathered together round a well and were filling jugs and pots from it. Out of sight, I could hear hammering and banging from a blacksmith or carpenter. The village was at least as big as Cerdham and so there could be over fifty men and women here. The men that we could see looked strong and while we could easily take the village, there would be some resistance and many of our men would die.
“Blast,” Wallace cursed. “We will have to go round it. We can’t go through − someone in the village will surely alert Samlen and that’s our surprise gone.”
“I say we attack the village, burn it down and kill them all,” Sigmund said, “serves them right; revenge for what they did to Wicstun.”