Amber Treasure, The (2 page)

Chapter Two

The Villa

So, Grettir and
Lilla brought my uncle’s body home and this was the story that Lilla told my
family. It was the year my people captured Eoforwic, when my people became a
kingdom. Today, churchmen would call it 580 Anno Domini. I knew it − and
still know it − as the year I was born.

Lilla once told me that he became
a bard and a poet for purely selfish reasons. It was not to satisfy the demands
of a king or his audience, pleasing though that might be, but because he wanted
men to never forget him. After he died, he wanted men to say with pride that
they heard him speak. Maybe then, if their children listened with awe and envy
when they repeated tales Lilla had once told them, well then he would rest
content.

I also want men to remember me.
It is why, having learned in my later years to read and write, I am  setting my
story down so that others may read it when I’m gone. I want them to remember
the man I was, the kings I have followed and the friends who lived through
these times with me. These years were chaotic, dark and bloody. It seems unfair
to me − after all we went through − that no one would know our
names twenty years after we had died. But it was we who made this age possible:
this literate golden age of the mighty Kingdom of Northumbria with its thriving
cities, its fortresses, its churches and its books.

Golden ages must begin somewhere
though and mine started not in a palace, church or monastery, but in a
crumbling stone structure that my family called ‘The Villa’. It stood on a
small hill and was surrounded by a large barn, the smoking house, animal pens
and an orchard. Beyond these were our fields where we grew barley, wheat and
rye and where the cattle grazed.

West of the Villa, was the
settlement of Cerdham − named after my grandfather actually − but
we all called it ‘The Village’, and it was where the folk who worked our fields
lived. My friends lived there too.

At the age of seven, my friends
− Cuthbert and Eduard − were a little in awe of the Villa, perhaps
even afraid of it. One night after supper, the three of us were lazing about in
the orchard enjoying the warm summer evening, whilst playing a game of Tables
with stones on a board carved from a plank of wood. I asked them what it was
about the building that worried them.

“I reckon it’s haunted, or maybe
magic,” replied Eduard as he moved a warrior stone towards the centre of the
board, trapping one of Cuthbert’s pieces. He chortled and removed it from play.
Cuthbert glared at him for a moment, before he answered me.

“I’ve been all around the valley
and I have not seen another house like it,” he said, his gaze flicking towards
the Villa. The slate tiles on the sloping roof were just visible between the
apple trees.

“What’s so odd about it?” I
asked.

Eduard now also stared at the
house, “I suppose it’s because it is made of stone, Cerdic. My father says that
none of our people know how to make things out of stone. My house and
Cuthbert’s … in fact all the villagers live in wooden huts. And it’s ... so
huge. It doesn’t feel right, somehow. Syngred, the miller told me that these
houses were built by giants.”

Eduard’s words disturbed me. Since
my earliest memory I had always lived there. I had grown up happy with the
certainty, which all children share, that the way they have been raised was the
right way. Now, at the age of seven, I began to wonder about that certainty and
to question it.

Later that same evening, as we
sat under the veranda and watched the sun go down behind the trees beyond the
village, I asked my father how long we had lived in the Villa.

“You were born here, son, as was
I, your brother and sisters, but your grandfather came here long ago and took
the land for himself,” he answered as he lifted a cup of ale to his lips,
gulped at it and then leant back against the wall of the house.

So then, all my family had been
born in the Villa: Cuthwine, my brother who was six years my elder; my two
sisters, Sunniva − older than me by three years − and little
Mildrith who was born the year after me. This, though, was the first time I had
heard this story about my grandfather.

“Took the farm?” I asked. “Do you
mean he was a warrior?” My mind filled with images from the stories of the
bards and poets: stories of heroes fighting demons and monsters with spear and
blade. Other stories were told of how our people had come from a country across
the sea to conquer this land and make it our own.

My father smiled and the skin
around his blue eyes wrinkled as he did.

“No, he was no great hero and did
not come here to bravely challenge the previous warlord to single combat.”

He finished his ale and then
looked mournfully into his tankard.

“In truth, he was a farmer. He
moved west when the land was conquered from the Welsh. These fields and
buildings were abandoned. Your grandfather and grandmother arrived with my
older brother and a dozen hired men. Most of the valley’s buildings had been
burnt and destroyed. The Villa though, being stone, had survived the fire
almost unharmed.”

Getting to his feet my father
walked to the end of the veranda and then turned to look north, where the
shadowy outlines of hills could be seen. On one of them, my grandfather had
been buried two winters before. I was just old enough to remember the sombre
occasion, though I barely understood what death meant then.

“My father could see the land was
good and your grandmother used to say he took one look at the Villa and she could
tell by the eager expression in his eyes that he had dreams of being a lord in
his own great house,” he continued, bringing me back to the present. “He moved
in immediately. Soon, his men had repaired the damaged fields and built
dwellings for themselves and their families.”

 “So, if he did not build the
Villa, who did?” I asked.

My father turned and looked back
at me before answering.

 “I don't really know − I’m
a farmer, not a poet − so you’ll have to ask Lilla, or perhaps Caerfydd:
he sometimes tells tales of his people and the Romans. Why not ask him, Cerdic
− but not tonight. Now it’s time for you to go to bed,” he added, one
hand tussling my knotted blond hair. Then he gave me a slap on the behind and
sent me inside.

Caerfydd was Welsh and one of our
slaves. The next day, I found him in the kitchen as he and his wife were
grinding barley in a hand quern to make flour. He poured the flour into a crock
bowl, added fat, water, salt and finally sourdough. As he rolled the dough and
cut it into loaves, I asked him if he knew who had built the Villa.

He looked at me for a moment,
perhaps surprised I was interested.

“Well Master Cerdic, that was the
Romans,” he replied as he opened the door to the bread oven.

“The Romans; my father talked
about them last night. They ruled the land before King Aelle, didn’t they?” I
sat down on a stool and watched as he checked the heat in the oven.

“Oh long before, Master. The
Romans conquered my people five − maybe six hundred years ago. Their
soldiers and traders lived here and built many buildings, not just this one.
They built cities too – like Eoforwic - and beyond it a great wall to keep the
Picts out.”

I had heard of the Wall. Lilla
the poet had talked of it in a thrilling tale of other Angles battling the
barbarians beyond it. Caerfydd’s mention of Eoforwic had also excited me.

 “I would like to see a city one
day. Perhaps, this year, Father will take me with him to market in Eoforwic,” I
said. Then I asked something that had just occurred to me. “Tell me, Caerfydd,
why are you here and not in the West where the Welsh live?”

At this question, Caerfydd
blinked and his face darkened. The Welshman did not answer immediately, but he
frowned as he appeared to think carefully about what he was going to say.

“All this land was ours once,” he
said at last. “When the Romans left, your people came across the sea. In time
you conquered our land and drove us west.”

He paused again and fixed me with
an intense stare from beneath his black eyebrows.

“My father’s grandfather owned
this Villa actually, Master,” he said, his voice suddenly defiant: challenging
even. Then he looked down at the bread and continued to knead it.

“When the Angles came, all my
family were killed, but my grandmother and my father survived by hiding in the
hills. A few others survived as well, including Gwen’s grandparents,” he nodded
at his wife. “When your grandfather came, he was strong and we were weak. We
submitted to him and he was...,” his lips twitched slightly, “kind and at least
he did not kill us, but allowed us to live and work for him.”

I heard a snorting laugh coming
from behind me and saw that Aedann, Caerfydd’s son, was sitting on the floor
against the wall. He was a lad of about my age, but we had never been friends.
After all, he was a slave and I was the Master’s son. He was Welsh too and my
friends and I were Angles. Aedann said something in his own language and
Caerfydd replied with a few harsh sounding Welsh words. The dark-haired boy
scowled and then he turned to stare with undisguised hostility at me and I
finally realised that I was treading on dangerous ground.

“Do you not hate us, for what we
have done to you?” I asked Caerfydd, quietly. I had never really thought about
our conquest of this land from the perspective of the Welsh who had lived here
before us. To a seven-year-old, the stories of war and victory seem magical and
inspiring. For a moment, I had an image of Deiran axes and spears striking
Caerfydd and his family down and found that I did not like the thought.

 Caerfydd stopped kneading the
next batch of dough and considered my question.

“There are many who do, Master, I
will not lie. There are others who say it was the will of God as punishment for
my ancestors straying from obedience to Him.”

He shrugged and then punched the
dough again.

“I cannot change what has been.
Your grandfather and your father have cared for us and they are not harsh
masters. I'm too old to hold onto hatred, so I accept my life and try to teach
my family to accept theirs,” he added, staring at his son. Aedann’s eyes
glittered darkly and I wondered just how well the boy actually did accept his
fate.

“Now, Master,” Caerfydd went on,
“I really must get to my work or your mother may well be harsh to me, after
all,” he said, slamming the dough down hard onto the table.

I left him to his work and went
out to find Edwin and Cuthbert, taking with me a freshly baked piece of bread I
had hidden under my tunic.

The Villa was always a crowded
place in the autumn for it was harvest time and the outhouses, barns and rooms
buzzed with the constant activities of the estate workers gathering the bounty
from our fields. Corn, wheat, maize and barley were brought to the great barn,
where they were threshed to separate the grains and then ground to make the
flour we needed. Beans, peas and herbs were picked and then laid out to dry in
the autumnal sun on the stone veranda that faced south. Mushrooms were
gathered, threaded together on a string and hung up like a necklace above the
fire in the kitchen.

Apples and pears grew in the
orchard, nearby hedges grew berries and behind the barn, there was a large plum
tree. All this fruit was collected. Some of it was sliced and left to dry
alongside the mushrooms. Other fruit was boiled and the mush poured into crock
pots whose lids were sealed with honey and tied on.

One of the outhouses was used as
a slaughter house. Here, the pigs, cows and sheep were dispatched with a blow
to the head and then the carcasses were roasted or boiled before being
suspended from the wooden beams of the smoke house from where the smell of the
smoke mingled with that of cheeses, bacon, roast lamb and boiled ham.

When all the work was done, my
father always summoned the farm hands and their families to a great feast in
the barn, to celebrate and give thanks to the gods for the harvest. Wooden
planks were placed between barrels as tables, and other barrels and boxes made
do as chairs.

It was only on these special
feast days that he would dress in his richest and finest clothes and only on
these few days in the year that he would wear the sword. This was not just any
sword: it was always one in particular. It was a beautiful blade fashioned by
the best weapon-smith in Wicstun. My father had never fought with it, but it
once belonged to my uncle, who had, and my father was immensely proud of it. I
longed to hold it and feel its weight in my hand, but so far he had never let
me.

When all was ready, my father
stood at the door of the barn and called everyone to table by blowing a great
ox horn. There would be fine white bread − not the rough brown stuff we
usually ate − as well as smoked cheese, followed by goose which had been
boiled in a floured bag with butter and herbs and hung in a cauldron. Slices of
this were served with strawberry sauce. Roasted beef, marinated in vinegar, was
delicious and I think my favourite. There was also mead and ale and for the
sweet-toothed, some boiled fruit and whey.

Then, having eaten our fill and
feeling very relaxed through drink, we pushed the tables back and space was made
for a juggler. Some years, a small party of musicians would come with horn,
lyre, or drums. Or maybe there would be the asking of riddles. Finally, when
night had fallen, a poet would stand up. The candles and braziers cast a
flickering light on his face and raised shadows, which would play tricks on the
eyes − and the mind.

Then, he would tell his stories:
stories of the gods Woden and Thor; stories of the wars with the Welsh; stories
of great warriors hunting fell beasts and stories of the world beyond our
valley and the lands across the sea.