he reckoned back into the mists of time. His own father’s father had not known how long the family had owned the lands around Stybbor, but it was sung that the family were immigrants from Saxony who occupied land abandoned by the Romans and offered protection to the benighted weaklings left in their wake, bereft of leaders. Holgar’s family had offered that leadership and protection in return for work and fealty and the occasional need for the stronger lads to join the fyrd for summer campaigning against the Danes (not that the Danes had ever ventured so far upstream as Stybbor).
Gram had fought well in battles on the Temes and closer to home at Gipeswic, and was now accounted a man of prowess. He could fight single-handed or in the shield wall and had even had the honour of standing to Holgar’s left – trusted to spear Holgar’s foes when Holgar’s own rightward thrusts left him vulnerable to the man directly in front. Gram had fought with the urgent terror of a man who fears his father’s death more than his own, and truly Holgar knew his son loved and honoured him and would carry on the family line as well or better than he had done himself. What man could ask for more?
Therefore, it was with impossible pride that he raised the loving cup at the wedding feast and the guests drank, as they had done all afternoon, with the exception of Malgard, and Holgar felt an irritation that his younger brother was not entering properly into the spirit of the occasion.
‘Why don’t you drink Malgard?’
Malgard, in response, took a delicate sip of mead and Holgar could have choked him.
‘You drink like a woman!’ he scorned, slamming down his own cup to be refilled with the expensive wine from Burgundy he’d imported specially for the wedding.
Even as he spoke, Holgar realised he was being unfair. Malgard had been steward of the hill farm for nearly ten years and, even if it had always been understood that he held it in trust for Gram, he appreciated that Malgard would feel the loss. The hill farm was Gram’s wedding gift.
‘My apologies brother,’ said Holgar. ‘And let me apologise also for the loss of the farm. You should have some something of your own, and I will give thought to it ere long.’
Malgard acknowledged Holgar’s generosity with a courteous nod and stood to propose his own toast.
‘My honoured brother … allow me to wish you the joy of many grandsons, and a long enough life to see them join us in the shield wall … if the Danes come again.’
Holgar grunted with a wine-fuelled contempt.
‘Danes,’ he sneered. ‘Danes won’t come to Stybbor. We beat them at Gipeswic, and again at Margate. The Danes are finished … or near enough.’
There was a roar of acclamation led by Gram and others of Holgar’s retainers deep in their cups.
‘Nevertheless,’ continued Malgard, ‘all here are in your debt, Holgar. And we pray that you will continue to lead us and keep us safe until young Gram has the years and wisdom to take over.’
There were more shouts of approval, this time from the younger men who had grown up with Gram or joined Holgar’s household more recently and looked to Gram as their natural leader. Holgar frowned with small disapproval as he noted that Brand was shouting with the rest and it seemed to him unfitting that a boy destined for the church should be carousing with warriors. He would say something about it later though, as Malgard was still giving his toast.
‘To Holgar!’ cried Malgard raising his cup. ‘To Gram … and to the continuation of Holgar’s line for many sons … into the years uncountable!’
Malgard drained his cup and all cheered his fine words and drank deeply as the sun began to sink behind the green, western hills, while the serving girls brought platters of sweetmeats to follow the beef, mutton, pork, fish and fowl that had already been consumed in vast quantities with breads, broths and greens, and ever more ale and wine.
Holgar found himself relaxing – understanding that the various arms of his family were falling into their rightful places. Malgard had spoken well and Holgar resolved to reward his younger brother with a stretch of forest and fen to the south that would need draining but would doubtless prove very fertile, and there was game aplenty in the woods. It would require hard work but a man needed work to be happy and the end of the Viking raids would afford him time to grow into his proper place in the family – a lesser place now Gram was grown into his manhood – but an honoured place nonetheless.
Yes, Malgard deserved a reward, he thought, clapping a huge arm about his brother’s shoulder.
∞ ∞ ∞
I was not accustomed to drinking ale. At least, I had never drunk so much of it in my almost fifteen years, but with my life about to change so profoundly, I wanted to know what it was like to be drunk. I matched the warriors cup for cup, hanging on the edge of their conversations and laughing at their jests. It was wonderful and I felt even sadder at the prospect of the monastery. Monks spend little time jesting about raping women and vomiting beer, or so I had thought.
And before long, I had my wish. What started as an ecstatic feeling of power and destiny soon became a thick and heavy sickness. I had been staring at the muddy ground as the men joked, and suddenly my head was whirling, and I was staring up from the mud at the early evening sky, fringed with a ring of laughing faces. And then vomit burst from my guts to cover my face and the fine linen blouse my mother had imported from Bruxels for the wedding.
Then the laughter ceased and the cold voice of my father reached me through the fog of my sickness.
‘Fine behaviour for a man of God,’ he growled. ‘Get up!’
I was raised to my feet by Guthred, the youngest of my father’s retainers and, with his help, made it to the latrines where (naturally) the overwhelming shit stink caused me to start retching. Desperate not to vomit again in front of my father, I lurched past the heavy canvas flap and was quickly bent over the logs above the pit, from which arose the sulphurous breath of Satan. Immediately a great gush of vomit erupted from my very core and it seemed the stench grew even worse, as though the vomit was stirring the piles of turd and gallons of piss to release more of their noxious vapour – all of it funnelled up into my face. And just the thought of that seemed to make me vomit again. Guthred pissed into the pit just next to me, and so my afternoon continued.
It’s possible that I slept but after some time, I became dimly aware of shouting and the clinking of fine, glass goblets, and so I thought that more toasts were being made to the bride and groom. Somehow the clinking of glass became the clash of metal blades and, with my face still full in the blast of stench, I idly wondered whether some entertainment featuring sword play had been arranged.
Then another wave of nausea ripped through me but there was nothing left to spew and I simply lay along the log with my guts clenching and spitting the foul taste of bile and beer into the pit. It occurred to me that this might be a good time to approach my father to ask his permission to join the fyrd instead of the monastery. Clearly my behaviour did not merit the intimate acquaintance of God (even if He did seem to be paying close attention to my thoughts and sending messages). I found myself giggling as I remembered the shitting horse and wondering what Waldo would have to say about God’s arcane responses to my thoughts and desires. Then in the church I had wished to become a warrior and—
Suddenly the shouting and the clash of swords was close and an unfamiliar voice bellowed in a strange language – a hoarse guttural shout full of violence, reality and imminent death and I felt rather than heard heavy footsteps coming to the latrine. Without further thought, I tumbled face first into the pit –
