Historical Fiction Book Series Set In The Dark Ages Of Britain
The Sceapig Chronicles by John Broughton
Series Excerpt
Faversham, Kent November, 799 - 800 AD
“Lord, most things are in place on Sceapig for my herd. I need a few days there to organise my father for him to take over,” his thoughts tumbled out in a torrent of words, “and rectify the structures… oh, and to present my bride to my parents.”
The thegn laughed, but his face grew serious.
“First, you bereave me of a guard; now, you wish to deprive me of his replacement!”
Noticing the twinkle in the thegn’s eye that betrayed his grave countenance and disclosed his true sentiments, Deormund gave a swift reply.
“Thegn, if you do not concede me time on Sceapig, you will have no deer to chase. It is weaning time, there’s work to be done.”
“Let’s be clear on this, Deormund. I will grant you three days, no more. You and your wife have duties to fulfil here in Faversham and perform them, you will! Besides, I will not waive my hunt.”
“Thank you, Lord.” Deormund bowed, hurrying away to fetch Cyneflaed. They would make the crossing without delay, that morning.
Their arrival pre-announced by the bounding Mistig, again free to scamper around the familiar scents of his beloved island, resulted, as usual, in Bebbe bursting out to greet her son. This time, though, she stopped in her tracks at the vision of a beautiful maiden with reddish-brown hair grinning at her.
“Mother, meet Cyneflaed!”
Bebbe’s heart sang. At last! Her recalcitrant son had found himself a maid. Awkwardly, she said, “Welcome, my dear, to our home. So, Deormund, finally, you are betrothed!”
“Nay, Mother,” he replied, pausing long enough to enjoy her discomfited expression, “not betrothed… but wed! Come, hug your new daughter.”
The astonishment on her face made him grin, but his sentiments became more restrained as he watched the two important women in his life embrace.
“Asculf!” Bebbe cried, unable to contain her excitement, her shout fetching the shepherd at a run from a barn where he had been stacking bales of winter fodder. “Our Deormund is wed! Can you believe it?”
A cosy hour passed as they devoured Bebbe’s freshly-baked honey cakes. The women drank Asculf’s mead whilst the men supped ale.
“Father, we can only stay two more days.” These words were followed by Bebbe’s wail of “Oh, no!” accompanied by a possessive grasp of Cyneflaed’s hand. “I’m sorry, Mother, but we are both in service to Thegn Sibert. He gave permission for three days on Sceapig… and no more.”
“But what about your animals?”
“That, Father, is another reason why we are here. It’s weaning time. I will have to rely on your help. First, we will bring the calves to the shed for overwintering and you’ll need to feed them. I mean to repair and strengthen the fencing so that you can leave the shed door open. The hinds must be free to roam into the enclosure, otherwise, they tend to bully each other when indoors.”
“How will I know how much to feed them? We’ll need more fodder. I’ve provided only enough for the sheep.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll spend a day collecting sea kale—they love that. When it’s consumed, you can collect more. I’m sure you’ll bring in more hay for them. Consider that each red deer hind needs as much food as two large ewes. Oh, I’ll have to prepare the enclosure ground, too; it will need strewing with tree bark. Fortunately, I prepared three full sacks of bark last time I was here.”
“You have much to do, son.”
“Ay, but Cyneflaed can help strew the bark and lead in the calves. Oh, and Father, I will send you money for your troubles. I know it’s more work for you, but I have no choice.”
He went on to relate the terrible story of the death of Dombert and the consequent obligation to service.
After careful reflection, Asculf said, “Never fear, my brave warrior, I’ll look after your deer.” He was proud of the valour of his youngest son.
“I’ve never seen a baby deer—or a deer, for that matter!”
“Don’t get too excited, Cyneflaed. You’ll soon tire of the beasts!”
“Never!”
“You will!”
“I won’t. I swear it!”
Their pleasant interlude over, Deormund carried the sacks to the compound and strewed the ground with bark around his feet. “Spread it like this, love, not too thickly.” He positioned the two other large hemp bags to save her tramping back to the same spot to obtain more bark. “We’ll bring the deer when you’ve finished.”
She worked happily with this prospect in mind whilst he inspected the wooden fencing. The paling stood taller than Deormund, at six feet six inches, a foot higher. He grunted in satisfaction; he had completed the elrick, or enclosure, the previous year, so the palisade had endured one winter and showed no signs of deterioration. He shoved and kicked any post he thought less sturdy, but all stood the test of his thorough inspection.
Pleased with Cyneflaed’s work, he folded the empty sacks and carried them into his father’s barn.
“Ready?” he pointlessly asked his exhilarated helper; there was no need for a reply.
Drawing the whistle from his tunic, he put it to his lips to blow one shrill blast. In moments, Mistig was by his side, staring inquisitively at his master.
“Time to round them up, old friend,” he told the hound, whose throaty growl he took to mean understood.
They hastened to the meadow, where Mistig was already persuading the more distant hinds to congregate centrally.
“Aw, look! Aren’t the babies beautiful!”
“Calves, Cyneflaed—a deer herder’s wife should use the correct term.”
“That one’s unsteady on its legs.”
“Ay, a late arrival. She’ll be about three months; the others are around five. I’m afraid you’ll have to carry her to the elrick. Don’t worry, the calf won’t be too heavy. Come, I’ll show you how to pick her up.”
That accomplished, they trudged, each with a calf in arms, back to the enclosure.
“I’ll swear you’re more in love with that creature than you are with me, wife.”
“Look at these eyes, Deormund! How could anyone not be captivated?”
Mistig’s boundless energy and constant harassment ensured that the deer filed obediently into the compound. The herder gratefully closed the gate, knowing that he could rely on his father to care for them over the winter. He considered the work still to do: next, a treat for the hound, then, the last tasks of penning the stags individually, followed by an outing to gather sea kale. The three empty sacks would be handy for that.
When Cyneflaed offered to help with the harvesting, he replied, “I think you should stay at home, get to know Mother a bit better. I can manage,” he added gruffly.
He regretted his decision on his final return trip to the shore to fetch the third bulging sack. As with the other two, it was light: the problem was its bulk. Awkward to carry, the bag made him stop several times to readjust the burden. Comforted by the thought that the three sacks would tide his father over until the end of the next month if mixed with hay, he placed the sack in the store, taking a large handful for his mother’s cooking pot. Cabbage was all very well, but he much preferred the taste of sea kale.
“I can’t believe you’ve never eaten it, Cyneflaed. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to collect some more, so you’ll know what to search for. We’ll see if we can catch some crabs, too.”
On their way to the beach, Cyneflaed confided, “I like your mother, Deormund. You take after her. Did you know, she isn’t aware that Saewynn is with child? I didn’t say anything; it’s better coming from you.” He bent forwards, kissing her. “What’s that for?”
He pondered his reply then at last, with a fond smile, he said, “Just because you are being you!”
Once their three days were over, Deormund decided to break his brother’s news to Bebbe.
“If you’d told me before, I could have crossed to Oare with you,” she scolded. “I’d have prepared a meal for your father.”
“Go with them, Bebbe. I can fend for myself.”
Agreed on this, they set off for the ferryman’s hut, where they found Heorstan working on a wicker eel trap.
“About time I replaced the old one,” he explained, with a cheery grin. “I expect you’ll be going to see Eored’s wife.” He turned his attention to Bebbe.
“It seems everyone knows… except me,” she grumbled, but her heart sang. This fleeting happiness vanished when she glanced at her son’s troubled face. “What’s the matter, Deormund?”
Not wishing to trouble the others, he muttered a lie. “Nothing, Mother, nothing at all.” His worry would keep until he entered the thegn’s hall. Only then, would he mention it to Sibert.
Although his heart, like his mother’s and wife’s, should have been soaring on wings of joy, it was chained to a dungeon floor of his creation. Troubles assume this character, disguising a bad moment to make it appear a lifetime. His worries surfaced when he was alone with his brother.
“Eored, do you have a weapon?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, do you?”
“Not unless you’d call my hatchet for chopping wood a weapon.” He looked quizzically at Deormund. “I said, why do you ask?”
“I think you should arm yourself. You never know, you may have to defend yourself… or your family.”
“Is there something wrong, Deormund? A threat to my family?”
“Nay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you, but it wouldn’t harm to buy a sword or a battle-axe, would it?”
“Has this anything to do with what happened to you some days ago?”
“Nay, Eored. Or perhaps aye, who knows?” he lied, not wishing to trouble his brother further, adding, “It’s true that lately I have been thinking of vulnerability”—and, that much, was not a lie—“so, take it from me, one of Thegn Sibert’s bodyguard, you should consider my advice.”
Eored scrutinised the earnest face and decided that he was right. The assault on Deormund had shaken his brother’s confidence although he wouldn’t admit to it. Still, maybe he was right; it would not harm to get his blacksmith friend to forge him a hooked axe-head with a long, curved cutting edge. If it only served as a decoration hanging on the wall, at the least, it would provide reassurance. “All right, I’ll have a word with Sherred the smith. As I’m his regular customer, he’ll make me a battle-axe at a decent price.
“Good, that’s settled then. I’m off to join Cyneflaed and the others.”
Eored watched him leave the workshop. He frowned, for he had noticed the look of relief on his brother’s face when, he, Eored, had agreed to have a weapon forged. Was there more to his worries than met the eye?
***
If Deormund believed that his duty at the thegn’s hall would be restricted merely to guarding the person of Thegn Sibert, his urgent conversation with the man himself soon disabused him. Assured that Cyneflaed was not within earshot, he approached his lord and master.
“Thegn, yesterday, when we crossed the Swale, I spied a sail out at sea. It was far off, but I reckon it was another Viking vessel. The pirates are back in our waters.”
The warrior studied the anxious face of his bodyguard and spoke in a low voice. “They never left our coasts, Deormund. These raiders have a thirst for silver and jewels. I have been in contact with the archdeacon and he, in turn, with kings. I have to raise a force. You see,” he confided, “these pirates have been making regular incursions along not only our coastline, but also troubling the Suth Seaxe.
“Their latest activity is to build a fortress, thence to maraud in the surrounding land, taking hostages when they deem someone useful to the purpose, to ransom the captive for silver. If none is forthcoming, they behead the unfortunate and place his head on a sharpened stake as a warning to others. Our coastal monasteries and nunneries are vulnerable, too. Archdeacon Wulfred has received an impassioned plea for protection from Abbess Selethrytha of Lyminge. We leave for the coast tomorrow to ensure the safety of her abbey. Another task will be to demolish or destroy any fortresses constructed by previous raiders so that they cannot be occupied again.”
The thegn smiled grimly. “Deormund, you, who slew a Viking chieftain, know that a stout-hearted Saxon is a match for any Norseman. We will avenge the slaughter, rape and pillage if we come across a crew of pirates. Give me a chance and I’ll burn their ship, too.”
“Ay,” growled Deormund, thinking about the safety of his family, “we’ll slay the lot of them!”
The thegn grasped his arm and smiled into his face. “You are good man, Deormund. I want you to eat beside me at my table this evening. Your wife will serve our food. Then tonight, you’ll say your fond farewells,” he grinned suggestively as men alone together will, “for we shall be away till the winter sets in and the pirates are forced elsewhere by the foul weather.”
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