Amber Treasure, The (3 page)

In my seventh year, the bard
Lilla came. He was by then about twenty-five and tall, lithe and agile, with
sharp blue eyes and blond hair. He had clever fingers that he sometimes used to
play tricks and perform magic with. I remember once, when I was much younger, I
had been shocked when he produced a dozen coins from my nose and dropped them
into a bucket.

This year, Lilla stood in front
of the fire and began his tale. As ever, his speech was formal: the high language
of bards and poets.

“I come to you from the councils
of the great and the mighty. Only a week ago, I feasted with King Firebrand of
Bernicia in his royal hall of Yeavering and joyful and merry was that feast.
For, I am happy to relate to you, that the noble king has this very year
defeated a great host of Welsh warriors and shown that even the feared and
mighty Urien of Rheged can be overcome. English point and English edge can sing
their grim song, just as well as the Welsh.”

Lilla paused, as we cheered the
news that our fellow English kingdom to the north had won a battle. I turned to
my father and asked him to explain what point and edge were.

“That’s a poetic way of talking
about spears and swords or axes − points and edges, you see?” he
explained and took another draught of ale.

I nodded and turned back to
listen to Lilla.

“Truly this was a great
deliverance. For many seasons, our cousins to the north have been sore pressed
and forced back by Urien the great king of the terrible land of Rheged across
the mountains. From that dread realm a huge army came forth and even the royal
hall of Yeavering had fallen. Indeed, for some days, the brave Angles were
besieged in the island of Lindisfarne; where Firebrand’s ancestors first
stepped on the shores of Britannia.”

I glanced at Eduard and Cuthbert
and saw that they were intent on the story. I knew that tomorrow we would fight
the battle Lilla was describing, in the orchard or the great barn with our
wooden swords.

Lilla went on.

“Forward came the host of the
enemy to the causeway. And there stood Firebrand with his best and bravest
warriors. They blocked the way forward, denying passage to the foe. The brave King
drew his sword and pointed at Urien and called out to him.

“‘Come no nearer, viper. I tire
of retreat. I will die here or I will prevail here,’ he said and behind him his
men gave a great shout and hammered their spears against their shields.”

In the barn, the villagers
cheered at this bravado and hammered their cups on the tables. Lilla smiled at
this reaction and waited until the noise died down, before going on.

“Urien jeered at the threat and
replied, ‘Out of my way, little man, little king. I have conquered all before
me and killed many kings of your race and those of many others besides. This
scrap of land you hide on is all that remains of your kingdom. Like a man
extinguishing a candle before he retires a bed, will I snuff out this little
flame.’

“At these words, the host of the
enemy rushed forward against the causeway. Battle was joined. Swords hammered
on shields. Fated men fell on either side to lie dying. Time and time again, as
the tides wash upon the shore, Urien and his army charged forth against the
desperate defenders ...”

I listened, entranced, to the
tale. The crackling of the fire and the dancing of the shadows it created
seemed to enhance the story. Once again, I was swept along with the words.

“… yet, all appeared lost: the
host was soon to overcome the brave Angles. Even Firebrand could not hold the
enemy, it seemed. Urien shouted in joy at his victory and closed in for the
kill. Fate, though, cannot be denied and fate that day called for Urien.
Firebrand struck and Urien fell dying, into the sea …”

I did not understand all that was
said, but I knew that our English lands, here in Deira and those to the north
in Bernicia, were vulnerable. For years the powerful Urien leading his armies
from the West had threatened to push us back into the sea and now, at last, he
was dead. So, to my seven-year-old mind, as well as to the cheering villagers
around me, Firebrand was a magnificent, glorious hero and the greatest man of
our times.

Soon, the food and warmth started
to make me drowsy. I had just heard Lilla tell us how finally the Welsh had
been routed and then fled, pursued by the Bernician king, before I fell into a
comfortable sleep, interrupted by dreams of battle.

Throughout all of them, I saw the
brave, vengeful and terrible image of the warrior king, Firebrand, slaying his
foes: and a great longing to be like him came over me.

Chapter Three

The Warrior’s Way

Early on a cold
morning, a few days after Lilla’s visit, I was summoned to the path in front of
the Villa. Here a cart was being loaded with produce from the farm. Jars of
preserved fruit sealed with honey were stacked next to barrels of smoked meat.
Dried vegetables in pots were also added, along with sacks of flour milled on
the Villa. Two large cheeses and a good number of jars of beer completed the
collection.

 It was time to take the Feorm to
Lord Wallace in Market Wicstun. The Feorm was the due and payment Father made
to his superior lord. In turn, Wallace would pass on to the King a portion of
what came to him. The estates of the more senior nobles and that of the King
relied on this obligation. In exchange, the King and his lords offered security
and the protection of their swords against any enemies.

Once the cart had been fully
loaded, Cuthwine backed our oxen between the shafts and our party gathered for
the journey. My father was going, as was my brother, along with two men from
the village. I would not be much use unloading the cart, but I think my father
felt that it was time for my education in our traditions to begin.

It was half a day’s journey to
Wicstun – oxen are ponderous creatures and travel but slowly - and we reached
it when the sun was high overhead, warming us on this clear, but frosty,
morning.

Wicstun had several score houses,
two alehouses along with a blacksmith and other workshops. Looking back it
seems funny to me - now that I have been to the great cities of Eoforwic,
Ceaster and Lunden - that Wicstun seemed such a huge place. Yet, back then, it
was with wide eyes that I stumbled along behind the cart.

We stopped outside the largest
building in the town. This was the hall of Lord Wallace who was the most
important noble in the south of Deira, made even more influential with the
proximity of the temples and the royal estates at Godnundingham, just an hour
or two further away to the northeast.

My father went inside and came
out with an older man with grey streaks in his beard. He was a little shorter
than my father, but somewhat larger in the belly. He walked over and patted me
on the head and then smiled.

“So, this is Cerdic then, Cenred:
another fine son and a credit to you and Hrodwyn. Ah, I see you have a good Feorm
for me again this year. Even with the drought and those blasted locusts earlier
this summer, you have not failed me.”

“We have good land and good men
to work it, my Lord,” my father replied.

“Well, let’s get it inside then,”
Wallace shouted over his shoulder to his servants and then, quietly to my
father, he added, “the usual delivery for Eanfled, I take it?”

My father glanced at me before
replying in a rather gruff voice, “As always, my Lord.”

Wallace nodded and they passed me
to supervise the unloading of the cart, leaving me wondering what they were
talking about. Who was Eanfled?

It did not take long to unload
the cart, but I noticed that they had left two sacks of provisions at the back
of it. When I pointed this out to Cuthwine, he told me not to mind them as they
were not part of the Feorm.

“What are they for then?” I asked.

“I said don’t mind them!” he
snapped back at me.

Father then took us to the
blacksmith to order some nails and have some tools made that our own smithy
could not manage. The blacksmith was a bald-headed man with hugely muscular
arms, which strained and bulged as he hammered a rod of steel. He was making a
sword: alternately heating the metal in the forge, hammering it on the anvil
and plunging it into water, throwing up a cloud of steam and smoke.

As my father entered, the man
nodded at him then put the sword and hammer down on the anvil. The two of them,
along with my older brother, went over to the corner to examine some nails. The
sword was still glowing and it drew me towards it as if by some sorcery or
magic. Perhaps, I mused, the blacksmith was enchanting it. I had heard tales of
such things. But, then again, swords needed no spells to draw me to them.

I glanced at the others, but they
were still eagerly haggling over how many pounds of nails could be bought for a
pfennig. I looked back at the sword, itching to hold it and I reached out my
fingers and lightly touched the blade. With a yelp, I snatched back my hand and
sucked the finger tips: the sword had still been red hot.

Father came bustling across the
room, glared at my fingers and then slapped me firmly, but with no real spite,
over the back of the head.

“Fool, you’ve burnt your fingers.
They’ll blister and fester, if we’re not careful. I guess while we are here, we
must see if the healer woman is at home and can treat that.”

He shook his head and tutted,
then stomped back to finish his negotiations. While he continued to haggle, I
noticed he kept glancing over at me, as if weighing something up. Finally, he
nodded to himself, as if a decision had just been reached.

We soon set off again and I
expected us to go straight home but instead, we deviated down a side road. A
short way along it, the cart slowed and I could see someone not far away.

She stood beside the road in the
late afternoon shadows that formed under the eaves of a house. As we
approached, my father, who was sitting on the front of the wagon, seemed to
stiffen. I looked at my brother and was startled to see that he wore a scowl. The
woman stepped out into the road and my father, jumping down, went over to her.
They spoke for a few moments and then he handed the two sacks to her. Without
any more words, he then walked back to the cart.

When he had gone only a few
paces, she called to him and he turned. She was gesturing into the shadows
where I now saw that a boy, perhaps a little younger than I and with brown hair
like his mother’s, was standing. The lad looked up at my father, eyes hopeful:
desperate even. My father stared at him for a long time then he shook his head
and turned away. The boy’s eyes became wet and he ran over to his mother. She
held out an arm and embraced him. They turned back towards us and I could now
see that both of them were staring, not at my father, nor at Cuthwine, but at
me and upon both their faces was an expression of utter hatred. Shocked and
mystified, I looked away.

The cart started off again and we
moved away, down the road, towards home. As we passed the last house in
Wicstun, I twisted round and glanced back up the lane. The woman had gone, but
I could see that the boy was still looking our way. Even at this distance, I
could feel the strength of his feelings towards me. Confused, I turned and
leant forward, towards my father and opened my mouth to ask a question, but
then I saw Cuthwine shake his head and I held my peace, as we returned home.

It was only a few days after this
that my father came to Eduard, Cuthbert and me, while we were helping Caerfydd
repair the roof of the great barn in preparation for the winter storms. This is
to say, we were fooling around and he was doing the work.

“Cerdic,” he shouted over to me
from the Villa, “come here and bring the boys.”

I exchanged a worried glance with
my friends and saw that the same thought was passing through their minds: we
hadn’t done anything wrong today − had we? But my father was smiling when
we reached him.

“Today, it is time to begin to
leave childhood behind and set out on the journey to manhood. You are all old
enough to learn the arts of war, for the day may come when you need to defend
your family and lands: just as your fathers and grandfathers have done before
you.”

As he spoke these words, I saw
that he had put on his sword − his brother’s sword. It was hanging from a
baldric – a strap worn over his left shoulder - so that the blade lay against
his lower chest. He noticed I was looking at it and pulled it out, holding it
in front of his body.

I had admired it often before: it
was a great blade of shining steel, which my father polished every evening. It
had a bronze guard and a patterned pommel. He swung it swiftly round in an arc,
so it cut the air with a faint whooshing sound. Sunlight reflected off the
blade and for a few moments, I imagined my father in the role of the heroic
warrior in one of Lilla’s tales. His voice brought me back from my dreams.

“This,” he said, with a proud
voice, “belonged to Cynric, my brother and your grandfather’s eldest son.
Before you were born, there was some fighting in the North. King Aelle was
always trying to find a way to defend us against the superior strength of the Welsh
kingdoms and make us stronger than they. One day, the chance came. The kings of
Eoforwic were not afraid of us, but they saw a threat in Bernicia, Firebrand’s
lands  around the River Tweed in the North. They marched there, but were slain
in the battle of Caer Greu,” he paused and looked at us, perhaps trying to see
if were following all of this. We had heard it all before, of course, but
listened attentively. He told it well, but not as well as Lilla.

“Anyway,” he went on, “Aelle now
saw an opportunity to expand our holdings and secure our grasp on these lands
and he summoned the warriors. Your uncle Cynric went away to war and he fought
in several battles. In the last one, he was leading a small force of local men
from this area. He was sent away from the main army to prevent a relieving
force of Eboracii and Elmetae reaching the city. It was a hard battle and all
the men including him were slain, save one. However, they had died for a cause,
for the enemy army was defeated and ran away to Elmet. So, Eoforwic was finally
captured. Aelle won the war and our people have been safe ever since.”

I glanced at Cuthbert. I knew his
grandfather was one of the men my uncle had been leading that day. The tale was
often told on feast days: it was the campaign that finally secured Deira as a
nation and had given us peace during my lifetime, just as the recent victory at
Lindisfarne had apparently assured the safety of Bernicia, our brethren in the North.
Cuthbert looked proud. Eduard, meanwhile, was staring at the sword with
longing.

“Now, the main weapon used in
wars is the spear, but you will find that some men do own a sword too −
particularly men of rank and wealth, for blades are more costly to make,” my
father was saying, as he put the sword away.

From the Villa came the sound of
a wooden spoon being clattered against an iron cooking pot and from the kitchen
door drifted the smell of herbs and cooked meat. The midday meal was ready. The
workers were making their way to the great barn where they sat down to broth,
bread and a goblet of ale. My father glanced that way and gestured with a finger.

“Right then, off you go for food
now, but tonight after the evening meal, come to the east paddock and we will
begin,” he ordered.

The afternoon seemed to last
forever but finally, after a meal that held little interest for us, Eduard,
Cuthbert and I rushed to the east paddock. We were the first there, but shortly
afterwards my father arrived and with him came Grettir. He was one of the older
men from the village and owned some land to the north, granted him by my
grandfather. My father turned to us and spoke.

“Grettir here was with my brother
in the wars. He brought his body back for burial. He is the most experienced
fighting man in the village. I have asked him to teach you about weapons and
fighting, in the time he can spare.”

We turned to look at Grettir. He
was a broad-shouldered man in his late forties with black hair and a beard,
both of which had wisps of grey and silver. He had not said much to me when we
had met before around the village, but had usually nodded and given a grunt of
acknowledgment. He was carrying a pair of wicker shields and some wooden mock
swords.

My father went over to the gate
and climbed up to sit on it, so he could watch us. Grettir walked over and
tossed Cuthbert and me a sword and shield each. The shields had a strap behind
the centre and we grasped these.

“Now boys: step apart about five
paces and face each other,” Grettir ordered. We moved to comply. He went on,
“Now, attack each other.”

Cuthbert and I exchanged glances
and shrugged at this. I braced the shield against my chest and extended my
right arm, so my sword was pointing at my friend. Cuthbert tried a different
approach and ran straight at me. That took me by surprise, but the threat of
the attack was blunted when he tripped over the sword and ended up rolling head-over-heels
straight into me, knocking me flying, so that we both went down in a heap. From
the gate I heard Eduard collapse into a fit of laughter. Sounds of giggling
from beyond the wall hinted that some of the village girls were watching this.
My sister Mildrith bobbed up over the wall and back again. Then I saw Aidith,
Cuthbert’s cousin take a quick peek at me. My father turned a stony face
towards them and they disappeared again, with more giggling.

“Get up,” boomed the voice of
Grettir, like a wave hitting the rocks.

“You!” he said, pointing at
Cuthbert. “If this had been for real, you would be dead now. You must learn
self-control; you are not in one of the sagas now.”

Cuthbert’s face was now glowing
bright red and his hands were shaking.

“As for you, Master Cerdic, your
posture was all wrong. He should not have knocked you over. You should have
been in a position to take advantage of the folly of your foe − not end
up in a tangle of legs and arms.”

Grettir picked up my shield from
the ground where it had fallen and then took my sword. He held the shield away
from his body, in front of him so that it was turned towards Cuthbert, who was
staggering to his feet a few yards away. He then twisted his whole frame, so it
was facing to Cuthbert’s left. He held his right leg straight, but bent his
left knee a little, so he was leaning forward. Finally, he thrust his sword
into the air, slightly above and to the right of his shield.