A Historical Fiction Book Series Set In Saxon England
Saints And Sinners by John Broughton
Series Excerpt
Kingdom of Lindissi, 697AD
A silver ribbon under the gaze of the two horsemen, the River Trente sparkled and shimmered in the afternoon sun. The illusion vanished before their mounts clattered over the bridge leading into the royal burgh of Gegnesburh. A beehive came to Aethelbald’s mind, the crowd the insects buzzing about their various labours. They threaded past carriers of flour sacks, a hide bearer jostled one who cursed while two women left off weaving crayfish baskets to add bawdy remarks to his overripe words. Hammers clanged from a nearby forge and the din mingled with the chime of church bells, the shouts of street traders and boatmen from the river. Yelps and growls of squabbling dogs, the clatter and creaking of wooden cart wheels over uneven cobbles and the ringing of iron-shod hooves added to the clamour.
The boredom of Bryn Alyn receded into dim memory for the two ealdormen caught up in this tumult of activity. A vibrant town offered the prospect of decent ale and shameless wenches – the gist of Aethelbald’s bellow to Guthlac as they searched for a tavern.
A hostelry found, they stabled their horses, paid for a room and ordered food.
“What’s the best thing about this inn?” Aethelbald asked his comrade as he emptied his beaker.
Guthlac scanned the cobwebs dangling from the oak beams in dust-laden black strands, his gaze passing to the stained rickety wooden tables.
“The ale, I suppose,” he frowned, “at least it’s not watered down.”
“Not the drink. Don’t pretend you’re not interested!”
“In what?” the younger man’s brow creased.
“Who…not what…”
Guthlac stared at the rowdy locals, some arguing over dice, others sharing laughter – nobody out of the ordinary. He shrugged.
His friend grinned, “You don’t fool me with your innocent expression. I know you too well! Right, it’s a straight fight then! May the best man win!”
Exasperated, Guthlac slammed down his beaker, “What are you on about?”
“Let battle commence! I’ll call her over for more ale. I can tell when a maid is game for a little sport, by the roguish glint in her eye. She boasts the chest of a proud dove–”
“Get the drink in! I’ll go and check on the horses. I need a piss anyhow.”
Aethelbald scowled at his companion. What ails him? Fair of face and quick-witted, Guthlac never failed to seduce a maid when he set about it. No time to dwell on the imponderable, the object of his lust was bending over the table dabbing at an invented spill with a cloth and displaying her alluring wares. What better opportunity?
“What name do you go by, maid?”
“Goda, Lord,” she opened wide her eyes and tilted her head in a pretty smile.
He used his charm and wit ordering two bowls of hare stew and more ale, but caught her arm and dragged her close to whisper in her ear.
“When you finish for the night, come up to my room, you’ll find me a generous lover!”
As expected, the wench did not blush or protest but gave him a shameless smile and gratified him with a nod. He kept his voice down. “Wait! Do you have a friend comely as yourself? There’s my companion to think about.”
She put a finger to her lips and hurried off to fetch the beer. When Guthlac returned, Aethelbald said nothing of his encounter. This would be a night-time surprise.
A short while after midnight, a gentle knock came on their door. As an exception, the ealdorman had left it unlocked. He lay awake, no need, in his state of anticipation, to fight off the tiredness that had led to the steady breathing of his comrade. What a thrill awaited Guthlac! By the light of his single candle, Aethelbald watched the door open and two young women slip inside the room.
“I’ve brought my cousin, Luba,” the maid said in a low voice and they both giggled.
“Make haste! Take off your clothes,” Aethelbald said, “get in with me and you, Luba, slide in with my friend!”
The girls hurried to oblige but as Luba pulled back the bedding to lie beside the warrior, Guthlac woke and pushed her to the floor.
“What the…let me be!” he exclaimed, “I’m tired, I want none of this!”
He tugged the blanket over his head.
Aethelbald gaped at the hunched form of his comrade. What a shock! The Guthlac he knew never spurned a maid. What ailed him? The ealdorman recovered his poise at once. He shuffled, drawing his conquest to one side of the bed, “Come, Luba, there is room for another and I have the energy of two men!”
Guthlac slept untroubled through the lewd and torrid cavorting of his leader. At first light, as he dressed, he bestowed a wry smile at the entangled figures and left them undisturbed. He preferred to seek water and to check his mount. The innkeeper, one who sported a straggling beard and a bald pate, told him of an ancient pathway. At this end, its course led on from the Trente between a break in the marshes to a bygone army camp at Herwik. Thence a league would take them to the Roman road, straight as a spear to Lindcolne, whence Beardan lay but three leagues to the east.
Taking the route suggested by their host, accompanied by the receding chime of church bells from the town, the friends rode without speaking. The early morn induced this in Aethelbald after his nocturnal exertions whereas for the refreshed Guthlac, his muteness was naught but a preference. Curiosity, at last, overcame Aethelbald.
“What got into you, last night?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“By Thunor’s black forge, Guthlac, I’ve never seen you turn your back on a sultry wench!”
“Not in the mood, is all.”
True, Guthlac was a thinker more than a talker, but the shortness of Guthlac’s tone irked him. They cantered on, Aethelbald pondering this rather than what he had said. After a while, he asked, “What ails you? Are you ill?”
“Not in body, in mind. As a child, I was pure and clean of disposition but as my strength waxed and I grew to manhood, I changed.”
The ealdorman waited, sure from his friend’s expression of a struggle to express his thoughts and unsure he liked their drift.
Slowing his mount to a walk, Guthlac added, “Strong deeds of the heroes and men of yore captured my imagination. It’s why I took up weapons and wreaked grudges on our enemies. I met you and we burnt villages, ravaged towns, slew men and took their goods. We gave ourselves to ale and wen–”
Drawing his horse closer, Aethelbald laid a hand on his arm and interrupted, “It’s a good life you describe. What’s wrong with bedding wenches and supping beer? And don’t warriors slay their foe?”
“There must be more to life. That’s my point. I feel my spirit wilting like a faded flower–”
But he had no time to develop his discourse. Aethelbald had drawn his sword – not a reasoned decision. Galloping toward them was a group of ten mail-shirted riders armed with spears and swords. They fanned around the Miercians to form a ring of steel and force them to halt.
Aethelbald slid his sword back through the loop in his belt. In spite of the gesture of submission, he shouted, “What is the meaning of this?”
A warrior of rugged aspect, unsmiling and cold-eyed, said, “I ask the questions. Give your names!”
The ealdorman studied the crooked nose, likely broken in a fight and the accompanying scar from mouth to jawbone. The rude manner irked him but it was senseless to disoblige the leader of nine well-armed men. Eking out time as a sop to his pride, he delayed until the man’s expression hardened before conceding, “I am Aethelbald, son of Alweo of North Mierce.” He stretched out a hand, “And this is Guthlac, son of Penwalh of Suthanhymbra.”
The glint of elation and exchange of glances among the horsemen left no room for doubt in Aethelbald’s mind that they were the quarry. But why? Who had sent these louts? The answer came at once.
“We will escort you to Lindcolne where you will account for your crimes to King Aldfrith.”
“Crimes! What crimes?” Guthlac exclaimed.
“Ah! the pretty boy has a tongue, after all!” sneered the thegn. “Enough! We ride for Lindcolne.”
They suffered the indignity of yielding their weapons but Aethelbald consoled himself by muttering, “We were going that way, anyhow.” He considered bright conversation with his comrade to show they were undaunted but dismissed it as futile. Their captors, taciturn to a fault, by their wordlessness, heightened the sense of oppression and frustration gripping him. He took his pent-up rage out on Guthlac when the younger man spoke.
“Do you think our arrest has anything to do with–”
“Shut up, you fucking dimwit!”
“Silence!” bellowed the scarred thegn at the same instant.
The vehemence of his friend’s reaction startled Guthlac. Aethelbald was given to occasional moments of ire and insults but never directed at him. Cold fury, not unchecked wrath, was the ealdorman’s way. Hurt, he relapsed into the gloom that appeared to be his closest companion since they had left the Gates of Bryn Alyn. Aethelbald studied him from the tail of his eye, displeased to have upset his friend but satisfied he had prevented him from betraying the purpose of their journey. Until they knew the charges levelled against them better to keep their own counsel. He would soothe his ruffled feathers later.
Scattered pebbles, holes and ruts along the once well-surfaced road brought them in a straight line to a dramatic hill, rising from the surrounding marsh. Once, as a youngster, Aethelbald had listened to a scop chant the tale of a great battle fought hereabouts. The stone-built walls with turrets and gates dominating the land around must be those of the song, built long ago by the legions from overseas. His gaze swept down to where a river widened into a huge pool busier, noisier and more bustling than the waterfront at Gegnesburh. No time to survey the scene, their captors rode on, through the mean hovels and past the stone rubble of three part-demolished buildings. Nearby, a wooden church and its cemetery stood at the foot of the hill. Aethelbald stared aghast at the winding steepness of this road before which the stoutest steed might quail. Yet they rode on, horses snorting and sweating with effort till the oaken gate under its brick arch swung back until, relieved, they reached level ground. Inside the walls, rose an impressive stone basilica, whose squat form Aethelbald had never seen the like.
At last, they stopped by a foul, stinking cesspit humming with flies. The ealdorman wrinkled his nose at the stench but this dump served the stable and here they surrendered their mounts to youths scurrying to tend the animals.
Rough hands pushed the captives toward a squat thatched building remarkable for the carving in the uprights and lintel of the doorframe. There, ran a repetitive design of two outer rings of decoration enclosing a circular field dominated by an equal-armed cross. Triplet leaves occupied the spaces between the arms of the rood and the whole pattern sparkled in crimson, myrtle green and gold. Three steps down to the sunken floor of the gloomy interior explained the stocky aspect of the exterior. Inside, the white-daubed walls gave a surprising sense of space, but the air hung heavy with the reek of charred ash from the spent fire in a central hearth.
The scarred thegn bowed to a group of four men seated in bowl-shaped chairs contrasting in their incised elegance with the rude benches otherwise providing the seating in the hall.
“Lord, we caught them on the road near Herwik. They claim to be Aethelbald, son of Alweo of North Mierce and Guthlac, son of Penwalh of Suthanhymbra.”
“They confessed to such of their own free will?” asked a tall thin man, the long grey hair of nobility falling straight over his shoulders, his shrewd pale eyes boring into Aethelbald’s. The King of the Lindisfarona? He stared from Aethelbald to Guthlac and back again. “What brings you to Lindissi?”
Aethelbald opted for as much of the truth as suited their plight, “We were on our way to the Abbey at Beardan.”
The broad high brow furrowed and, hesitating, the man turned to a younger fellow on his right and raised an eyebrow. The merest flicker of assent spurred on Aethelbald’s questioner.
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