Far Traveler (12 page)

“And what will you do, Widsith, my boy?” asked the man driving the wagon nearest to me. I tried to look careless as I answered him:

“Oh, find a wealthy thane, sit in his hall, and tell him the stories I've been telling you.”

It was a response I had thought of as I lay rolled in the blanket someone had lent me, my head pillowed on my bundled-up cloak, worrying about what would happen to me when we reached the
tun.
My time with these freemen had given me some confidence in my disguise, and had shown me that, for them at least, I could perform. Although at Cirenceaster I would face a more demanding audience and might even be recognized, I had to eat. And Winter—we could not count on the tender grass he cropped these days to last past harvest time. I would have to feed him, too, come late autumn and winter. And by then surely I would need shelter, and probably new clothes. And so I had little choice. The wagon driver nodded his approval of my plan.

“Osgar's hall is the place you should try. He's a rich lord, and generous to those who please him. He welcomes highborn travelers to his hall once in every seven days' time. When we get to the marketplace, I'll show you the way to his home.”

 

The market at Cirenceaster had the familiar sounds of animals crying out and people calling, and the mingled smells of dung and bread, meat and straw, earth, cheese, leather, beer. The men I had traveled with were soon occupied in deciding where to set up their goods. But the driver who had spoken with me, true to his word, took my shoulder and with his other hand pointed to where a street cut away from the open market.

“If you go down that way, you'll come to a place, larger and richer than the other buildings. That's where Osgar keeps his household. Travelers of higher birth always look for shelter there, knowing Osgar's table will be heavy with food, and the floor welcoming to those who need a place to spend the night. Good luck, boy,” he said, finishing with a clap on my shoulder that made me wince and take my first couple of steps away from him. “We freemen liked your talk and even your singing well enough. Let's see if you can please Lord Osgar.”

Osgar's hall loomed at the end of the street, just as the farmer had said. A vaulted roof thatched with new straw stood above great doors of carved wood. But although this was splendid, it was the decoration above the doors that caught my eye. A huge pair of antlers had been hung directly over the entrance, and they were covered with pure gold.

I stood there while Winter lipped the grass at my feet, and I thought hard about what I saw. Osgar must be a very rich thane, indeed. And he must be powerful: Clearly none of the poorer neighbors had made any move to seize the fortune in gold that hung above the hall door, even though I could see no guard posted.

Gaining entrance into the hall proved as easy as asking. A boy from Osgar's stables took Winter's reins, and the steward led me through the whole length of the hall until we reached an empty corner at its opposite end, not far from the high table. Here he told me to sit, back against the wall, until the guests were ready for entertainment. At first I thought the sight of my fine horse had persuaded the steward to let me come to the night's feast. But as I settled myself for a long wait, I realized that my request must be familiar to the people who served at Osgar's table. To them, I was simply one of many scops traveling through Cirenceaster who had stopped at the
tun's
richest hall to try their luck with Lord Osgar and his guests.

Little did they know how terrified I was to find myself in this position so quickly—I needed to find some new words for my performance! I took out my book, thinking that the horns over the hall entrance had reminded me of something inside it. I turned the pages until I found what I wanted, then read and read again, memorizing words until evening fell.

The feast began somewhat later than the simple meals I'd been eating with my traveling farmers. Today had been a warm day, and so even as the hour grew late no fire was set upon the hall's great hearth. Torches and candles had been lit and placed all around to brighten the cavernous feasting place. The tables were scrubbed clean, benches straightened. Household dogs wandered in to nose around the floor and lick at stains from past meals. Serving people began bustling in and out, and Osgar's guests began to arrive.

The first people to come were men who stomped through the doorway in groups of five, seven, even as many as a dozen. They shouted and laughed among themselves, and occasionally hailed members of other groups with a friendly greeting.

When at least thirty men had seated themselves around the hall, Osgar arrived surrounded by another group of richly dressed people, including several noblewomen. He was a person of average height and build, his brown hair was streaked here and there with grey, and he said little to the folk around him, only nodding at the guests as he passed each table. When he sat down in the central carved chair, however, I saw him catch the eye of the steward hovering near the entrance. The steward disappeared immediately, and seconds later serving people began carrying food into the hall.

It was a fine meal, generous in portions, if not as richly prepared as some of the feasts I had attended at my mother's Lunden court or at Wintanceaster. Clearly many of tonight's guests were travelers who had not eaten nearly so well during their time on the road. Fingers broke bread eagerly, teeth tore into meat, and horns and bowls and flagons of drink sloshed in almost every hand.

I was hungry, of course. Hunger had become the force that drove me into the lives of strangers ever since the rainy afternoon when I'd left the king's court. And so I ate what the busy serving people placed in my hands, but my mind raced away, worrying about the performance that Osgar would shortly require from me, wondering if my plan would work.

With horror I suddenly felt tears start prickling at the corners of my eyes. No scop in our hall at Lunden had ever
cried—
not before the performance, anyhow. The scop's task was to move his listeners to emotion, not to be overcome himself. Frightened that I really would cry, I pinched myself through my leather leggings as hard as I could, trying to make that new pain drive away the old ache of missing Mother, and Lunden—the home to which I could never return.

“Boy.” It was the steward standing beside me, pulling me to my feet with a firm hand on my arm. “My master wants to hear you now. Stand there, just below the high table.” The man pointed to the place being cleared by servants. “And you can leave your bag with me,” he said, lifting the strap of the satchel from my shoulder. I had to let him take it, though if he were anything less than an honest man, I would not see my money again. “Good luck, child,” the steward concluded, a hint of kindness creeping into his tone for the first time. Maybe he noticed how miserable I looked. “I hope you please Lord Osgar's guests.”

Empty-handed, I walked along the aisle between the tables of feasters, trying to hold up my head. All these people saw me for what I was—a dirty girl in stolen clothes about to pretend she was a poet. But I had no choice if I wanted to survive. Gradually the din of conversation died down as people noticed me coming forward. In front of the high table I stopped and bowed to Osgar and his lady.
Widsith. I'm not Ælfwyn, I'm Widsith. And I have an idea about what would please the lord of this feast, remember?
Clasping my hands tightly behind me, I began to speak.

“ ‘Widsith spoke forth, unlocked his word-hoard.'”I swallowed before I said the poem's next words: “ ‘Often in the hall, he accepted splendid treasure.' ” It was brash to speak of a reward so early in my performance.
But a scop must be bold.
I swallowed again, and then just as I had done with the miller, I recited the poem's long list of nations and rulers—Greeks, Huns, Goths, Burgundians, Finns, Jutes, Danes—I had to squeeze my eyes shut to remember all of them. Alexander, Attila, Caesar—the people in this room were of noble birth, and many were fighting men. They would be interested in my poem's allusions to powerful folk, wouldn't they?

I'd reached the lines that had convinced me that this was the right poem for tonight. “ ‘Hrothwulf and Hrothgar kept peace together after they gained victory over the invading horde, hewed them down at Heorot.' ” Heorot was a famous hall, described elsewhere in poetry as a very rich place with golden ornaments. I stole a glance at Osgar to see how he received the words. The name Heorot meant “hart”—it suggested the kind of stag-horn decorations I had seen over Osgar's own hall entrance.

Would Osgar have heard the name? Would he know Heorot's reputation as a grand building? Would he see how I was trying to flatter him? The nobleman lifted an eyebrow. Maybe he understood.

I finished the poem, saying each line perfectly, without a lapse of memory. “ ‘Thus scops are fated to wander,'”Iconcluded.
My most confident performance so far!
“‘They meet generous people, eager to make a good name for themselves with heroic deeds and gift-giving—folk who appreciate a fine song, and who have as their reward glory, and a good reputation under heaven.' ” It was over. I had done my best.

The listeners in Osgar's hall were beginning to talk again now, and as moments passed, my confidence began to ebb away. How had Osgar himself liked the tale? I couldn't bring myself to look up at him again to see his reaction. No one was calling out to me the way my traveling companions had, to tell me what they thought of my tale. I didn't know whether to sit down on the stool, return to my place by the wall, or step forward to the high table. So I stood alone in the middle of the hall until the steward appeared again at my elbow and said in a low voice, “Come this way.”

He led me to the door of the hall, and stopped just outside to hand me my satchel, and to press into my hand a new silver penny. “My lord Osgar thanks you,” he said as I blinked and strained to see him in the dusk. “It was a fine old lay you told tonight—one these nobles know well.”

So Osgar probably
had
understood my flattery! “Will Lord Osgar want me to come back, do you think?” I blurted out, clutching the penny so hard its edges dug into my palm.

“I don't think so, boy. When Osgar chooses a scop, it will be someone”—he searched for a phrase—“someone with skill honed by more years than yours. If you like, they'll find a place for you to sleep in the stable with your horse,” he added. “You can move on in the morning after you've rested.”

That was all. The steward disappeared back through the great doors.

I almost ran after him—I'd never wanted anything so much as the hall's warmth and light! Instead, I slumped hopelessly against the wall.
I was once a cherished daughter. I had a place of love and honor at my mother's hearth....
After another minute I shuffled off to find the stables and Winter.

They'd snubbed Winter up to a rail along with several guests' horses. His coat showed the signs of a good brushing. Osgar would have made a scrupulous master, I thought forlornly as I crouched beside the rail.

Winter put his nose down and lipped at my shorn hair. I pushed his head away. “Your grass is on the ground, stupid,” I said, my voice empty.

“We've come for our horses, boy.”

I jerked in surprise at the sound of a voice just behind me, and almost dropped my book into the pile of grass. A group of men in ring mail and leather armor were entering the stable—the first guests to leave the hall, I guessed. I scrambled up, shoving my book back into the bag.

“That's not the stable lad. Isn't he the young scop from Osgar's hall?” said one of the other men. To me, all the faces in this group were shadowed, but the band's leader leaned a little closer to me, then shrugged.

“Mmm. Sorry. Hey, one of you,” he called back over his shoulder to his companions as they proceeded down the row of horses, “find a stable hand and tell him we're taking our mounts, or they'll have us for horse thieves.”

I should go, too, I decided, picking up Winter's blanket and throwing it over his back, then heaving the saddle up on top of it, almost missing my mark as Winter danced away. I knew it would be wiser to spend the night in this shelter, but I didn't want to stay where I had failed.

“That's
your
horse?” Once again the same voice took me by surprise, and I stumbled up against Winter's side in panic. Here was the leader of the band of guests coming back through the shadows, leading his own mount, which even in this dim light looked scrawny and ill fed. The man himself was tall, with a wild head of black hair and an unkempt beard. “Where'd you get a war stallion, boy?” he demanded.

“He was given to me,” I answered, gripping Winter's girth strap with weak fingers. The man looked doubtful. My disappointment and loneliness flared up into desperate anger.

“You don't believe it?” I almost shouted at him. “You don't believe I could win such a prize with my skill?”

“I heard you tonight,” the man replied evenly. “You're only beginning in your profession, and that horse is a rich gift.”

A gift from Mother.
I turned my attention quickly to loosening Winter's tether rope. I could not stop the tears this time, but I hoped no one would see them in the dark. Furtively I drew an arm across my cheeks, then clambered onto Winter's back with the help of the rail to which he'd been tied. I needed to end this conversation, and get away from all these unwelcome questions.

“Where're you going?” The man had mounted, too, and came trotting up behind me.

“This is my horse,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “Ask the steward if you don't believe me.”

“Hold there.” I guessed that the tears were showing after all—I felt the hot trickles cooling on my face. “I'll take your word he's yours—although you do ride him like a half-filled sack of meal,” the man added under his breath. “Where are you off to?” He rode alongside me now, and I slowed Winter's pace.