Amber Treasure, The (4 page)

“This,” he said, “is a warrior’s
posture. Observe how I advance.”

He moved his left leg, still bent
at the knee forward a pace and then brought his right leg forward still
straight. He advanced again, left leg bent and right leg straight. While he
moved forward, he still held the shield braced away from his body and had his
sword at the ready position above the shield.

“In this way, a whole army can
stay together, advancing as one with shields ready to protect you and your
fellows and swords ready to strike at the foe,” Grettir told us, as he
continued to move towards Cuthbert. He reached my friend, who had now got
himself into something resembling the warrior’s posture. He looked terrified at
the arrival of Grettir in front of him and half closed his eyes.

I heard a derisive snort from
behind the fence and saw that Aedann was standing there watching us and looking
scathingly at Cuthbert. My father saw this as well and his face hardened. He
then lifted one finger and pointed back towards the house.

“You, slave! Get away, this is no
place for your sort!” he shouted. Aedann flinched at that as if he had been
struck and slunk away, humiliated. He waited until my father turned his back on
him and then shot him a glare full of spite and hatred.

Grettir continued his
instruction. “You can now strike the foe in three places. You cannot hit the
body, as it is protected by the shield. You can strike down onto your foe’s
head thus,” at this he moved the wooden blade down to just above Cuthbert’s
head. My friend gave a whimper, which caused Eduard to giggle again, this time
earning him a clip over the head from my father.

“Or,” continued our teacher, “you
can angle the blow to his right arm; his sword arm. The third target would be
his left lower leg which is visible beneath his shield.” Swiftly, Grettir
knocked Cuthbert’s sword out of his grip and then slapped his shin. Cuthbert
yelped again and hopped around rubbing his leg, whilst sucking his fingers.
Grettir grunted at these antics.

“You will endure greater pain
than that in battle, if you do not learn to pay attention. Now, pick up your
sword,” said Grettir. Cuthbert, obviously fearing another blow, moved quickly
to comply. Our instructor turned back to me and threw me the other sword and
shield.

“Begin again,” he ordered, “and
this time try and use your shield to block the other’s attack.”

I adopted the posture that
Grettir had done and found that I could advance on the opponent in steps, while
holding the shield ready for defence and the sword for attack. As we closed,
Cuthbert tried to bring his sword down on my head. I shifted the shield up and
deflected the blow. I then returned the same blow and as I expected, Cuthbert
shifted his shield in imitation of the defence I had used, so I adjusted the
angle of attack and brought my sword down onto his left shin and was rewarded
by feeling it hit home.

“Good work, boy,” said Grettir.
My father and Eduard applauded, whilst Cuthbert groaned again and looked even
more miserable.

So, I began to learn the trade of
the warrior. Over the next seven years when Grettir was free to teach us, we
received instructions in the art of warfare. We learnt about the use of the
bow, sling and the small throwing axe − the francisca. These weapons were
used by skirmishers to break up enemy shield walls. We also were taught about
how the long knife, called the ‘seax’, was the basis for the other name the
Welsh sometimes gave to our race: Saxons.

“But, you will not see the seax
used much in battle except in dire need. It is more useful in hunting,” Grettir
commented.

Grettir proved to be an
enthusiastic teacher and took to his task with zeal. There were times when he
got together boys of families from around the nearby villages. My brother, Cuthwine
- who was also being taught by Grettir - along with three older boys, my
friends and I, would form a shield wall and defend against teams of youths our
tutor had invited along.

“Individually, you are weak and
vulnerable and no one protects your rear or flank, but together you are strong.
Your fellow warriors defend you and you them,” Grettir would say.

So the years passed and we boys
grew up. Eduard and I developed into tall youths, although Eduard was broader
in the shoulders than I. Cuthbert, being three inches shorter and much thinner,
lagged behind us. Eduard would always win games of strength, such as wrestling
and lifting weights at festival times. However, Cuthbert began to show greater
agility. He became accomplished at juggling − a skill I was never able to
master. As for myself, while I was not as strong as Eduard or as agile as
Cuthbert, they both deferred to me in decisions about what games to play, or
where to go exploring. As the years went by and the boys we had been became young
men, I found that I enjoyed leading them.

Of course, it was not just the
boys who grew. Mildrith, my sister, began to change from the rather clumsy,
slightly plump girl to a slim but tall adolescent. We were past fourteen by now
and I noticed increasingly that my friends’ eyes began to linger in her
direction. They strenuously denied this when I asked them about it: Eduard
always had a joke to explain staring at her. “I was just thinking that from the
side, when she holds her arms out, she looks like a scarecrow!” he said with a
snigger one afternoon when I had caught him watching Mildrith walk past.
Cuthbert, however, would just blush and turn away, or rapidly change the
subject. I sneered with derision at them both.

“You boys make me sick! I’m going
to be a warrior one day. Do you think I am going to have time to pay much
attention to girls?” I said, feeling I had scored a point. At that moment I
turned my head and saw Aidith running after Mildrith. She wore a loose-fitting
green gown that hung from her shoulders and as she ran there was a mixture of
bouncing and swaying within the dress that was ... well ... quite distracting.
I stared at her, open mouthed and I felt a tightness come to my throat as well
as a stirring of interest between my legs. She saw me looking, smiled at me and
then waved, before running off. I knew my ears had gone bright red.

“Ah! I see that now, Cerdic.
Girls clearly have no effect on you at all,” said Cuthbert dryly and Eduard
roared with laughter.

Aedann was also maturing. Being a
slave, he was not permitted to join in the training for war, but I’d often see
him lingering in the shadows beside the barn, or sitting up a tree watching us,
unless my father caught him. If that happened, he would be sent away with a clip
to his head. Aedann’s eyes were darkening to a deep green, his hair to jet
black. I hardly ever heard him speak and whatever thoughts he was having, he
kept to himself and just studied us in silence.

We boys called him Loki because,
like that god, Aedann seemed to be able to disguise and conceal himself,
appearing suddenly from the shadows. Loki was also the god of trickery and
deceit and we began to think of Aedann that way. We started talking about this
quietly, when he could not hear us, but over the years he had stumbled into us
as we joked about him and he must have heard what we said, because we could see
him getting angrier with the passing months.

Aedann was a slave so had no
rights or recompense for any hurt he suffered. He could do nothing and did
nothing, save bite his lip and stomp off away from us: until one day, when
Eduard, Cuthbert and I had been practising with swords and were coming back to
the Villa hoping to steal some bread. Aedann came rushing out of the kitchen
door and collided with Eduard, knocking him down on his arse.

“Clumsy Welsh bastard: you should
watch out for your betters,” Eduard snarled at him, then shoved Aedann from off
the top of him and tossed him down into the mud, outside the door.

Aedann’s tightly bound fury exploded.
Like a snake leaping up to bite at its prey he surged up from the ground,
punched Eduard and then kicked at his shin, all the time swearing and cursing
in Welsh. Eduard was stunned for a moment and then swung his fist round to
connect heavily with the slave boy’s chin. Aedann was heaved through the air,
hit the door with a splintering crash that knocked it off its hinges, then slid
down it to the ground.

The noise must have been heard
all over the estate. My father and Grettir came running from the barn and
Caerfydd emerged from behind the ruined door and bent to examine his son: a
crumpled heap on the ground.

“What in Woden’s name happened
here?” Grettir demanded of Eduard. My friend was standing glaring down at
Aedann, breathing fast, his fists clenching and unclenching.

“This little runt hit me; that’s
what happened,” Eduard shouted, pointing at the Welsh boy. My father turned to
question me.

“Well, son,” he said, “is this
true? Did Aedann attack Eduard?”

Everyone now looked at me and
their faces each wore a different expression: Cuthbert’s shocked at the sudden
violence, knowing that this was not the full story but unsure whether to speak;
Eduard’s demanding I back him up. ‘This is about loyalty, Cerdic,’ his
expression was saying. Caerfydd’s face was tense − afraid for his son
− and hoping I would say something to help him. Grettir, impassive:
watching how I would deal with the situation. Finally, I saw Aedann’s face. He
looked at me like a warrior looks at an enemy who has captured him in battle.
There was defiance and there was hate, but there was no hope of mercy.

I hesitated. Maybe this then was
the moment for mercy; the moment to show Aedann that his blind hatred was
wrong. I could speak the truth; say it was an accident and flared tempers, but
nothing more. I could have said that we had teased the slave and called him
names and that was why he was angry, but I did not. I kept silent and just
nodded my head and I let Aedann be punished. Now, so many years later, I still
regret the choice I made.

Father's face darkened as he
turned to Aedann. “On your feet!” he hissed.

Aedann did not try to defend
himself. He stood sullenly, not speaking or saying a word, his dark gaze fixed
on me.

A slave hitting a free man could
expect death but, after his temper had died down, it was Eduard who stepped in
and actually defended the boy, saying perhaps he had spoken harshly. So,
instead of being hung, Aedann was thrashed by Grettir. Our tutor used a birch
branch and with every swing you could see Aedann wince in agony, but he never
cried or yelled out, not even once. He just kept on looking at me as if all of it
was my fault.

He was right of course ... which
only made things worse.

Chapter Four

Lilla Returns

That incident happened
in the autumn of my sixteenth year and soon afterwards it was time to pay the Feorm
again. I was strong enough to go with my father alone this time, leaving
Cuthwine at the Villa. Wicstun was familiar territory by now and once the work
was done, knowing that Father and Wallace would spend some considerable time
talking about gossip and news, I wandered around the town in the rain stopping
at the blacksmith, as I always did, to look at his swords and axes.

Grothir, the blacksmith, nodded
as I entered and let me examine a blade. Whenever I visited, it was always one
sword above all that attracted me: the same one, in fact, on which I had once
burnt my fingers. He had used the finest metals and ores and taken the greatest
of care in its creation; forging a weapon of dark-coloured steel with highlights
of bright gold and bronze on its guard and grip, which made it a thing of
beauty. As such, it was expensive and even though years had passed since its
making, he had not yet sold it and I hoped he never would; not until I was
ready for it. Narrower, but longer than my uncle’s sword, its balance and
elegance were perfect. Grothir let me take a few practice swings all the time
wishing, as I always did, that I could afford to buy it and longing for the day
when I might use it in battle.

I was just putting the sword back
on its rack, when I felt the hairs prickle on the back of my neck and I sensed
that I was being watched. Turning round I saw, lurking in an alleyway across
the road, the dark-haired lad who had watched me from the shadows each time we
visited Eanfled. He had grown since last year, but not quite as much as I. His
hair was more a dark chestnut brown. His shoulders were not as broad and his
arms not as muscular as mine, yet there was something of the wolf about him as
he stood lightly on his feet, seemingly ready to pounce. I took a step towards
him, wanting to ask who he was and what he wanted, when my father stuck his
head out of Wallace’s hall and called me over. As I ran across the street, I
glanced back at the alleyway − but the boy had gone.

My father and Wallace had been
drinking and Wallace offered me some ale as I came in. The hall was dimly lit
from what little light penetrated from the door or the smoke hole in the high
roof, but the gloom was made more cheerful by a welcoming fire burning in the
central hearth. The air outside was damp and I happily took the offered drink
then sat close to the fire to dry off.

“Well, that’s the last of those
Welsh rabble we’ll hear about, you mark my words,” Wallace was saying, as he
topped up my father’s goblet and then mine from a jug of ale. I sipped some of
the strong brew and sat staring absently into the flames. I was sullen and
quiet, still bothered by what had happened to Aedann a few days before and also
wondering what problem this brown-haired lad seemed to have with me.

“This is good beer, Lord Wallace,”
my father said. “What’s that you were saying, Lord?”

“It’s just what I hear,” Wallace
replied. “A wool merchant from the mountains passed this way last week and he
told me that he heard it from a Welshman, who spoke to Aneirin himself.”

“Aneirin?” said my father, in an
awed tone.

Even I had heard of the poet and
bard Aneirin. He was Welsh and still young, but Lilla said he was a genius. I’d
had to ask what that meant and Lilla had said it was someone highly and
uniquely talented, unlike me. Aneirin travelled the Welsh kingdoms west of the
Pennines: Strathclyde, Gwyneth and Urien’s Rheged. I had heard he even came
east once to Elmet, our neighbour and the only Welsh land on our side of the mountains.

“So, what I hear is,” Wallace
slurred his words and then belched, “... what I hear is that Firebrand has led
his army out of Bernicia and gone into Rheged. Killed loads of Welshmen.
Urien’s son − er, wot’s his name?”

“Owain,” I said, stories of battle
bringing me back to the conversation. Owain had succeeded his father and was
now King in Rheged.

Wallace beamed at me like I had
won a prize.

“That’s the chap. Anyway, wot’s
his name is trying to get the Welsh together again into an army after most of
them got killed a few years back up north. What I heard is, he ain’t doing very
well and Firebrand is looking to finish him off,” Wallace concluded, before
sliding down off his chair and starting to snore.

My father winked at me and
slurped some more beer.

When we got home, I found Eduard
and Cuthbert out in the orchard. Cuthbert was trying to teach Eduard how to
shoot a bow. Eduard could never get the idea. The problem was that although he
was fearsomely strong, he was clumsy and a bit of an oaf really and he could
not manage to get the hang of aiming it. Arrows would fly out in random
directions. As I approached, I heard a twang and then Cuthbert screamed at me
to drop. I did so and felt the arrow shaft pass by my ear.

Standing back up I glared at my
big friend, who looked back at me aghast; his face pale and his hands shaking.

“Sorry, Cerdic,” he said at last,
then passing the bow rather sheepishly to Cuthbert added, “look, you'd better
have this, Cuth. I don’t think I'll ever quite get it.” Cuthbert was also
shaking gently and he, still staring at me, just nodded.

“Anyway, forget about all that
and let me tell you about Firebrand …”

So this was how it was. The three
of us soaked up any news of war and battle like a sponge. More than that, we
were of an age when we needed heroes. Firebrand might be Bernician, but he was
still English − my race − and he had defeated an overwhelming army
of Welsh in a last ditch battle to defend a tiny spit of land, which was all
that remained of his kingdom. He was then my father’s age and fearsomely
strong. Rumours spread that he was merciless in battle. Over the following
years he pursued his enemies with an almost holy zeal. No Bernician opposed
him. He unified the Anglo-Saxon kingdom and forged a powerful army, which he
now led to ravage the lands of Rheged.

My friends laughed and cheered at
the story I told them, then we got the wooden swords and shields and practised
a little. Suddenly, I became aware we were not alone. Aedann was sitting on a
fence nearby watching us and we fell silent, although we had no reason to. We
were free men and in my case, I was the son of the Lord, whilst he was just a
slave, and yet we felt awkward near him.

“Aedann …” I said, but was then
at a loss, not knowing what to say.

It was Aedann who broke the
silence. “I heard what you were talking about − about Firebrand and
Owain.”

“That’s right, Firebrand is going
to kill Owain and defeat the Welsh for good,” I stared at him.

Aedann actually laughed. It was
the first time I could recall him doing so. Then, he boldly walked forward and
picked up one of the practice swords and examined it. Eduard looked darkly at
him. Slaves were not allowed swords and it seemed wrong somehow for him to pick
up even a wooden one.

Suddenly he swung the sword round
and pointed at my throat.

“Owain will kill Firebrand and
then come and kill every Angle between the mountains and the sea. Then I will
be Lord of the Villa,” he said and smiled. He was teasing us, goading us with
words he knew would challenge us. I looked at my friends and winked at them and
as one we brought our swords up and lunged at Aedann.

Aedann had not been trained
alongside us, of course, but he was fast on his feet and moved to the side and
caught, of all people, Cuthbert, a clip on the back of the head and laughed as
he trotted past.

“See what I mean; you English are
a sorry lot if an untrained slave can beat you.”

Eduard bellowed at that and
charged the Welsh boy, who slipped and fell but, in so doing, dodged my friend
who ended up floundering in a ditch. Now, it was my turn. Aedann got back to
his feet, picked up his sword and eyed me warily, weighing up this new
opponent. We circled each other, both looking for that chance opening or error
to seize upon.

He looked the part, I’ll give him
that. Not allowed to train in warfare as we had, had he spent lonely hours
watching us, listening to Grettir and taking it all in? Unnoticed, even
ignored, had he picked this up, just by himself? If so, he was a fast learner.

Aedann moved first, lunging with
his sword at my throat. I flinched back and then brought my sword up to block
the move. Aedann was feinting, however, and recovered his balance faster than
me and now angled his blade down towards my belly.

Yes, Aedann was good, but I still
knew a thing or two. I twisted violently and let Aedann’s momentum carry him
by, fetching him a sharp tap on the backside as he passed. Eduard howled with
laughter, as the slave ended up on his knees.

“Enough!” bellowed a voice from
behind me. I did not need to look to know it was Grettir. I looked anyway and
saw that he was not staring at me, but at Aedann and with eyes that now blazed
with anger. We all fell silent and I could feel the gloom descend, like the feeling
in the air when a thunderstorm closes in.

“So, what is going on, boy?” he
said to Aedann. “Are you bothering your betters? Need I get the birch again
− or the noose?”

He emphasised the last word by
slapping the sword out of Aedann’s hand. I knew Grettir and how much he valued
tradition and custom. My father felt the same way. I was treading on thin ice,
but I did what I should have done before − I spoke out for Aedann.

“Aedann is helping us train,
Grettir. He’s pretty good and could make a fine warrior, given the chance.”

Grettir’s eyebrows bristled like
the fur on the back of an agitated cat.

“That is not what is done; you
know that, Master Cerdic!”

My heart was pounding from
something close to terror, but I knew that what I did next was critical.

“That is not for you to tell me.
If I say it can be done; then it can!”

Grettir’s eyes bulged. I could
see that inside him, tradition was fighting against itself over two opposing
points of view. On the one hand he knew that a slave should never be armed and
taught how to fight. On the other, I was the son of his master, Cenred of the
Villa. That meant I was due respect and obedience.

He nodded, gruffly accepting what
I said.

“What you say is fair enough, Master
Cerdic. However,” he continued in a smug tone, “your father might have
something to say about that.”

With a final glare at Aedann, he
stomped off, carrying the rain clouds of gloom with him.

We waited a heartbeat and then I
let out the long breath I had been holding inside me. Eduard chortled and
slapped me so hard on the back that I winced.

“Cerdic my lad, that took balls; balls
of bloody iron in fact!”

Cuthbert said nothing and was
shaking with the same anxiety he always had around Grettir. Yet, he nodded in
agreement.

Aedann was still kneeling, but he
was not staring where Grettir had gone. Instead, he was looking at me and for
the first time the look was not one of loathing or mockery − but
gratitude.

“Thank you,” he said, as he
picked himself up.

Father, of course, sent for me
immediately. He told me bluntly that no slave on his land was allowed to carry
weapons or become a warrior.

“That is the tradition, so that
is that.”

I told him that I thought
tradition was a pile of fetid horseshit, but that earned me a vicious slap
across the cheek, which sent me reeling.

“Tradition is everything,” he
bellowed. “It tells us who and what we are and where we come from. Tradition,
honour and fate − it is all men are. Lose sight of that and we are
nothing. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father,” I mumbled.

“Grettir knows all this …”

“Grettir is a bit of an old
battleaxe, Father.”

“Maybe he is, but he was still
impressed by you today.”

That surprised me.

“I thought he went off in a
huff.”

My father nodded, laughing now.

“Oh, he was mad as a demon, but
he soon calmed down. Grettir is the salt of the earth and a very good man to
have on your side, but he expects someone to be in charge and giving the
orders; your grandfather or uncle in the past, then your brother, me or you. He
respects authority − but more than that, he demands authority. Leadership
is not just a right; you must earn obedience and loyalty by taking command.
Today was the first time he saw that in you and he was impressed.”

I felt myself colouring, unused
as I was to compliments.

“Even so − don’t get
carried away. I rule here and that means no more swords or practice for
Aedann.”

“Yes, Father.”

But, maybe something of Loki was
about Aedann after all and maybe some of that had rubbed off on me: Loki the
trickster and deceiver of the gods. So, I knew even as I promised it, that I
was lying. Loki looked down upon me and laughed as I plotted and planned.

Strange the way things go in
life. Aedann had seemed to be an enemy and someone who did not want me about
and I had felt that way about him. Now, Eduard, Cuthbert and I were suddenly
quite fond of the boy. Only a few days before, our teasing and name calling had
led to him being punished and now his name calling and challenges to us had
made us want to be with him.

So, we planned ways to smuggle
swords and shields out to the woods a little way from the Villa and he practised
with us, despite my father forbidding this. He was good with all the weapons
when he got the chance, even, much to Eduard’s chagrin, the bow. However, it
was with a sword that he excelled.

We were ever watchful of Grettir
and kept our eyes on the woods in case he or Father would find us. One day, I
was keeping watch whilst Eduard and Aedann fought. Aedann was goading Eduard by
telling him that he was Owain and Eduard was Firebrand and that soon he would
be victorious. Suddenly, I saw the bushes move.