Far Traveler (14 page)

AFTER MORE THAN A WEEK IN THEIR COMPANY, I WAS NO closer to knowing what Wil and his twenty-odd companions were doing in Cirenceaster. I had food enough, and I felt safe for the first time since I'd become a small and vulnerable person alone in the world. But I was not invited to any more meetings in the red tent, and so I kept wondering.

Each morning an assortment of strangers rode into camp and entered the red tent to meet with Wil. All of these were English thanes, as far as I could tell, but I could not guess who the visitors might be, nor what they might want with a man who had once been King of Eoforwic. Still, I kept my eyes and ears open, hoping to learn something.

And Wil kept his eye on me. No later than the time of the midday meal, he would emerge and shout my name. He needed to look over the horses, he'd tell me, or search out a pair of boots sent to be mended and not returned yet. Sometimes he'd just announce that he needed to clear his head. “Walk with me, boy,” he would order, and I'd half trot along beside him as he strode off on whatever errand he'd named.

I found Wil's conversation an irksome mixture of barbs and useful information. My poor horsemanship was a favorite theme. Wil often mentioned that I needed to sit farther forward when the horse lifted from a trot into a canter. What Wil should have said was “stop being terrified of falling off,” or maybe even “give your warhorse to someone who can really ride.”

There were other things Wil wanted to talk about—things I hoped I might actually be able to learn. Almost always our conversations touched upon the skills of a good scop. Sometimes Wil would talk about other singers he'd heard—English and Danish scops who'd told tales during his days in Eoforwic. I always sat and absorbed these lessons with an ear pricked to hear how much he would say about his former life, or possibly his future plans. I was always disappointed.

I tried to make myself useful around camp in those first days, although no one had asked me to do anything in particular. One afternoon I screwed up my courage and went out to the field where the horses were kept. I asked the guard, whose name was Swithulf, if he needed my help.

“That one needs a fresh picket,” Swithulf grunted, nodding toward an underfed black mare—not much more than a pony, really—who had cropped every inch of grass in the circle around her picket stake. She's a lot smaller than Winter, I reassured myself, gulping. All I had to do was grab her picket line, pull up the stake, and walk calmly a few yards farther out into the pasture where I could tamp the stake down again.

When I touched her rope, the mare jerked her head up and stood stock-still. She made no other movement as I worked the stake loose, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I gathered in the slack and gave her a little tug forward.

“Come on, girl,” I said, keeping my voice low and steady. She took a step toward me, then another.

And then suddenly she was snaking her head sideways to nip at the nearest horse, squealing as she danced in a half-circle, and I saw that she was getting ready to aim a kick in my direction. With a yelp of my own I stamped the picket stake down into the turf right where I was standing and dashed out of her reach. Behind me I heard Swithulf laughing.

“I've waited to move her all day,” he admitted. “Meanest one of the bunch. C'mon. We'll do it together.” We did, although it was clear to me that Swithulf could have done the job himself, since all I did was pull up my weakly fixed stake and put it in the ground again where he told me to. He watched the mare and kept one hand casually on the rope with just enough tautness to keep her under control. Afterward he let me try lugging buckets from the nearby stream to water the horses, but after the third one was overturned by an anxious nose or a nervous hoof, he told me not to bother.

“We'll just lead them down to the stream to drink,” Swithulf said. He caught me by the wrist as I stepped back toward the herd. “No, boy, not now. We take them in threes, and you couldn't ...” He broke off, and then finished politely, “You just water your own horse. That's all the help I need.”

They never let me do much more in the pasture after that. I did some fetching and carrying for the camp cooks, lugged firewood a few times each week, but found little else to do except eat, sleep, sit in the shade, practice my riding, and wait for Wil to call me.

On the evening of my seventh day in camp, Wil and his men headed to Osgar's hall again for another meal. I stayed behind, saying I was too tired to go, but in truth not wanting to show my face in the hall after my lackluster performance. Alone except for the three guards Wil had left behind, I huddled down in the shadow of one of the smaller tents and gnawed on the handful of sour plums they'd given me to eat.

I felt restless. At least with the farmers, we had been progressing along the road every day. Remaining in Wil's camp had seemed all right a few days back when hunger and homelessness had seemed unbearable. But now I began worrying again that the king's men were surely still searching for his missing niece.

Maybe I should leave, I thought to myself, spitting a plum stone into a clump of grass. Keep moving. I bit into the next fruit and felt my mouth twist into a painful pucker—it was the sourest plum of the lot. A richer patron might feed me better, at least....

“... isn't what I planned for this week, but if the thanes from eastern Mercia need to see us, I think we have to make the journey.” It was Wil's voice, and the sound was coming closer. I crouched down, keeping absolutely still.

“How many men will you take with you?” It sounded like the voice of a ginger-haired thane named Eadwine who often acted as one of Wil's close advisers. “It would not help our cause if Osgar saw most of us ride off immediately after suggesting we pledge our loyalty to him.”

“That's right.” The footfalls stopped. I guessed that Wil and Eadwine stood just on the opposite side of the tent where I was lurking. Anyone would take me for a meddler, a spy, should they find me listening. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could disappear but wanting to know more. “I'll take only the boy from Osgar's hall. And we'll be back in under a week—perhaps we can make the journey in five days, with my horse rested and better fed than it used to be.”

“The fledgling scop?” Eadwine sounded incredulous. “I didn't think you'd decided to trust the lad yet. He's not even allowed in our council—”

“I have a plan for the boy, Eadwine. I could use the trip to learn more about him, to make sure he has or learns the skills necessary.”

Wil wanted to take
me
along? So there
was
a reason why he had invited me to stay. The footsteps had begun again, and the voices were moving away from me. A short journey, I thought, alone with Wil. ...

“Widsith!” Wil was calling me, and from far enough away, I judged, that he would not guess that I'd been almost close enough to touch him a few minutes earlier. “Widsith!” I scrambled up and took off toward the sound at a run, reminding myself to look surprised when Wil made his proposal.

 

We left the next morning, going east. It was to be a fast ride, I'd been told, but not until we'd covered the first day's ground did I understand that we would spend almost every daylight hour in the saddle. It was a steady and grinding pace for mount and rider alike, much faster than the leisurely rate my party of churls had set for themselves when I'd traveled with them a few weeks earlier, but one that the horses could keep up almost indefinitely with enough food, water, and overnight rest.

That evening I slid down from the saddle, exhausted. Winter seemed well enough after the long day's ride, and when he was grazing contentedly, I hobbled over to the level spot where Wil was making camp. He seemed quite fresh, I thought. Obviously
his
body understood how to ride at a trot without jarring the bones with every jounce.

“Got your supper with you, scop?” Wil asked, chewing at a strip of dried meat he held.

“My supper? I ...” He had expected me to bring my own food? “I ... I didn't—”
Stupid! What made you think he'd just keep feeding you? In five days' journey you'll begin to starve! You'll have to look for a settlement, buy something with one of your coins.
Wil was laughing at me, I finally noticed. With a sheepish grin, I caught the strip of meat and hunk of flat bread he tossed my way, and I sat down to eat.

After we'd finished our meal, I crawled to my pile of gear and slumped against it in the dusk. My eyes were closing.

“Widsith! It's time to pay me for that fine meal I just fed you!” Wil said loudly. I jerked upright. “I want a song tonight, and I've paid for it with a day's ration. You'll give me a song before we bed down.”

A song. Yes, I nodded, I'd sing for him. Stiffly I moved a little closer to where he sat in the darkness. Didn't I know a charm? Yes, something I'd recited once to one of my tutors in Lunden. I thought it through, trying to match the words with a tune I used to hear in the marketplace when I'd go with Gytha—music a beggar used to play on a wooden pipe of some sort. I began, singing softly:

It was hard to remember the middle part of the charm, which was filled with the names of apostles and prophets meant to ward off evil on a journey. I hummed the tune through again as I searched my memory quickly for an ending. There had been something about leading and protecting, and Matthew for a helmet, Mark for a shield, and then the conclusion:
let me meet with friends ...
something like that. No, first
forth I go—

Hmm, a charm for sea travel wasn't exactly what we needed; maybe Wil would just remember the other parts.

“Amen.” I sang the last word, ending on an uncertain note at odds with the charm's bid for sureness and safety. I hung my head. Wil wouldn't like what I'd sung—somehow I felt sure of that.

“Better, scop,” Wil announced, surprisingly. “You chose better this time. That charm is a fine offering for a pair of travelers on their first night together. But who taught you to use your voice outside?” He snorted. “I'm sitting not five paces from you, and at times I could hardly hear the tune. Do it again, boy, with some power. Sing from your chest!”

So I began again, singing lustily this time, but after just a few lines Wil stopped me.

“I didn't say bellow, did I? There's a difference between shouting and singing. A scop shouldn't have to shout, unless he's in a room of drunken oafs.”

“That happens often enough,” I muttered.

“Try once again,” Wil said, ignoring me. “Sing out strongly, but don't yell.” I had to do it three more times while Wil sat, listening intently, fiddling with something in his hands. “Enough for tonight,” he said at last. “Go get some sleep. I'll check the horses.”

He stood up and stalked past me, and that was all. No further praise or criticism, no warning about when I might expect another such exercise. I stood up and stumbled back to my blankets. By now I should have learned to expect Wil's abruptness, I thought sleepily as I lay down, just as I had become accustomed to uneven ground for my bed. I squirmed onto my side, trying to find a comfortable position for my shoulder and hip.

“It was a good song.”

With a gasp, I rolled over and looked up. Wil's returning footfalls had been so silent I hadn't heard him come near. His voice was right above my head.

“A journey charm,” he said, his voice warmer than it had been all day. “ ‘With this rod I protect myself.' ” He bent down and placed something next to my hand. My fingers explored it—a wooden cross, made of two sticks bound at the juncture with a length of leather thong. “ ‘A rod of vanquishing I carry.' ” With a grin he reached down and unsheathed my knife, which I'd placed on the ground just beneath the edge of my saddle. Holding it up gingerly by the point, he showed me the cross formed by hilt and blade. “And we've got my sword, too.” He jerked his head toward his own gear, atop which rested the weapon. “Think that's enough protection to get us safely there and back?” I nodded feebly. “Good night, Widsith.” Wil's soft laughter was the last thing I heard before I buried my head in my arms and slept.

I awoke to rain and the faint beginning of grey light in the dark sky. Wil hurried us into the saddle before our blankets could get very wet, but little good it did us, I thought as we rode through the increasing drizzle. My cloak was damp and beginning to cling to me. The blankets tied behind me on my saddle wouldn't fare any better. Everything we owned would be soaked well before the sky lightened enough to show the clouds massing above us.

By the time it was light enough for me to see Wil riding ahead of me, I was shivering. I wished we were walking instead of riding—I'd have kept warmer that way. At our brief midday stop Wil made me run in a ring around him while he held the horses.