Far Traveler (19 page)

“I—I finished the poem last night,” I stammered. “I just came into the burgh this morning to—to—”

“To what?” Wil demanded quietly. His face was an unreadable mask, but there was no mistaking the menace in his tone. I cringed beside him. “You've been sneaking in shadows, listening to our private talk in camp. Did you come here to tell someone what you've heard?”

“No! No!” I protested. He was holding me so tightly that I was afraid he'd feel my softer flesh and fine bones, and discover my girl's body inside the boy's clothes. “I only gave your greetings to the red-haired lady! Told her you'd sent me as a favor this morning, to cheer her after her journey! I said I'd be performing at the feast tonight, but nothing more! That's all I said!”

Suddenly Wil's fingers opened, and I staggered backward and tripped over a hump in the ground at the side of the road. He was coming for me again, and I rolled to one side, desperate to avoid his reach. His hand closed on my wrist.

And then he was pulling me up gently, helping me to my feet.

“Of course that's all you said,” he mumbled. “I'm sorry.” He dropped my wrist and stood there, staring at his own empty hands. “She's a beautiful woman, I've heard.” He shook his head. “I should have known it was only a young man's hot blood drawing you out of our camp. But going after a noblewoman betrothed to Edward's staunchest ally? I didn't guess that.”

He thinks I followed Gytha's fair face.
For the moment Wil's steadying voice was enough to calm my thumping heart a little. Yes, let him believe that his scop had behaved foolishly, but not treacherously.

I would stay here with him for another minute or two. Then I'd think of some way to slip away, find somewhere to change my clothes and veil my face, and then back to Gytha—she'd be watching for me.

“We've been looking all over the burgh for you,” Wil repeated woodenly. “I'm sorry, boy. I didn't mean to be rough. I was beginning to think you might be fated to desert me.”

He covered his face with one hand. “My lands are gone, and my title. The people who once trusted me to protect them now live in Rægnald's grip. Death took my wife when she tried to give me a child. And when I learned that King Edward had taken his niece who'd been my ally—that he'd killed her, most likely—it seemed that nothing I wanted was mine to keep.” Wil's dark eyes found mine. “Are you Mercian, boy? I never asked. ...” What could it hurt to tell the truth?

“I am.”

“Then you lost Lady Ælfwyn, too”—he pulled me to him in a rough embrace—“as well as your family, you said. Maybe between us we've had our share of misfortune already.”

“Wil!” It was Kenelm, striding toward us. “So you found the little wretch, and welcomed him back like a long-lost son, I see.” Wil released me, and Kenelm shook me playfully by the shoulders. “He was shouting all over the camp when we found you missing, first cursing your name and your profession, then swearing Osgar's men had somehow taken you away. I thought you said you'd beat the whelp if we discovered him wandering in the burgh,” he said, turning back to Wil.

“If Widsith does well in the hall tonight, I won't,” Wil muttered.

“Too soft!” Kenelm snorted. “But he's always favored you, boy. ‘Talent, but no training,' was what he said when we heard you that first night in Osgar's hall, and the next thing we knew, there you were in our camp having lessons from him. Is that why you brought him home, Wil? You wanted a disciple?”

“We were both travelers,” Wil replied simply. “We started traveling together.”

Kenelm didn't press him further. “I'll find the others if you want to go back to camp,” he told Wil. The two of them started for the road.

“Are you coming, Widsith?” Wil called back.

I remembered Gytha clinging to me.
“I'll do whatever I can, Wyn.”
How could I choose between these two evils? To stay with Wil any longer was an act of treason against my uncle. But if I escaped with Gytha I'd be leaving Wil, betraying him.

Wil's dark eyes were watching me. I met his gaze, held it.

“Yes, I'm coming.”

I SPENT THE AFTERNOON GOING OVER MY SHEETS OF PARCHMENT, feeling more and more sick at heart. The threat of violence in the hall loomed even closer, driving the words of my poem out of my head.

I sat in the red tent and through the opening I watched my companions dress themselves for the feast. They strapped their weapons subtly along their limbs or beneath the bright tunics they pulled over close-fitting body armor. Some of the horses' saddles would bear concealed battle axes and short swords, too, in case the evening ended in failure and a fighting retreat. The men laughed and talked as they got ready. I stared at the lines I'd scrawled on my pages, but mostly I thought about fighting in close quarters, and the kinds of death that might come from it. When no one was watching, I wedged my mother's knife beneath my belt. Soon the sun had sunk low in the sky.

“Widsith!” It was Kenelm, hair trimmed back, and wearing a yellow garment I'd never seen before. “Your horse is saddled and waiting,” he said as he came into the tent. “Later tonight we may need to let one of the others ride him, and you can ride behind me ... but look at you, boy! You look just the way you did when I found you after you scuffled in the dirt with Wil! This is a royal feast, little idiot! Will you wash your hands and face at least, before we go?”

Hopelessly, I nodded. I would go with clean hands and face to greet disaster.

Wil rode up while I was washing and looked me over. “Should have got you some new clothes in the burgh today. The rest of us are dressed to see the king.”

New clothes. This was all he was worried about? My companions were on their way to a royal feast, hardly mentioning that they intended to hold the king of all English Britain hostage....

 

“I'll wait outside the hall,” I told him, feeling miserable, “until it's time for me to sing.” The longer I could keep out of King Edward's sight the better for Wil. Wil cocked his head, weighing what I'd said.

“All right. Where's your harp, boy?” I pointed to where my satchel lay beside my writing table. “Well, go get it, and mount up!” Wil put his heels into his horse's sides and galloped off. I gave the back of my neck a last scrub with my rag and then hesitated briefly before walking over to scoop up my bag. No one saw me grab the sheaf of parchment from the table and shove it in under the flap of the satchel.

I wanted the few minutes' ride into Cirenceaster to last a hundred times longer than it did. “Keep up, Widsith!” they kept calling to me as I lagged at the back of the party. All twenty-three men in camp had come this time. No horses had been left behind, and the most valuable things from camp that could be carried discreetly were strapped to the saddles. All the fires were out. We could leave and not come back, if we had to.

Where was the solution that would end this mad plan? I wondered as I jounced in the saddle, riding even more poorly than usual, and feeling not at all eager to reach our destination. Mother would have hated what was going to happen tonight in Osgar's hall. She would have found a way to change it.

No answers had come to me before we were all dismounting at the stables. The stable hands were ready for us, knowing that Wil always grandly rode the short distance to the feasts to show honor to his host. Against all my wishes, I found myself standing by the doors of the hall as our men went in. It was too warm a night for the old cloak I'd thrown over my clothes, but I'd felt the need to hide them, after so many complaints.

“You stand here, boy,” said Wil, who was the last to enter, apart from me. “I'll send the steward to you.” Then he leaned closer to whisper, “Don't make a sound, no matter what you hear or see out in the yard, understand?”

Eyes wide, I nodded.

Then he grinned. “Good luck, Widsith. I hope your verse is finer than that costume of yours. Hey, are you scared, boy?” He must have noticed the terror on my face at last. “Widsith, you're a good scop. The clothes won't matter.” He touched my smooth jaw. “And you've a fair face, as pretty as a girl's, the men sometimes say.” He chucked me roughly under the chin. “I'll kiss you myself,” he joshed, “to prove that folk will care more about those big eyes of yours than anything you're wearing.” And then he did kiss me, a friend's honorable salute on the cheek. “Sing well, boy.” He disappeared inside.

Alone, I stood in the shadows beside the doorway, watching the guests throng past, still feeling the brush of Wil's beard against my skin, his lips against my cheek. Did he really need me in order to carry out the rest of his plan? There was terrible risk in showing myself to Edward, and even more in letting him hear my voice, as my encounter with Gytha had proven. But Wil—how could he proceed if his scop didn't appear? How could I leave him? My feet didn't move.

Where was the steward Wil had promised to send? I could hear a large party approaching the door, and as they came into sight I scuttled around the corner of the building and flattened myself against the wall. It was Osgar, I saw as I peered sideways and caught a glimpse of the group, Osgar walking in with King Edward and the rest of the royal visitors—a party of twenty or more altogether. They paused at the entrance—I could hear their loud talking grow quieter.

“Greetings, King Edward,” said the steward (he must have bowed very low, for his voice seemed to come from somewhere near the ground). “You honor us with this visit.”

“You have our thanks,” came the king's voice—it chilled me to hear him so close, after so many weeks spent running and skulking in disguise. I shrank a little closer to the wall, hearing the king murmur to someone near him. Footsteps. A jingle of money.

“Accept this token of our gratitude,” I heard Æthelstan say, his words accompanied by the clink of silver coins being placed in the steward's hands. The steward began to elaborately acknowledge King Edward's generosity, but Osgar cut him off.

“All our other guests have arrived?” Osgar wanted to know.

“Yes, my lord.”

“And the entertainers?”

“Your scop waits at the foot of the high table. I've come to fetch the northerners' scop—they said he was waiting outside.”

“Find him, then,” Osgar replied curtly. Then in a far more obsequious tone, he added, “Welcome to my hall, King Edward.”

I heard the group walk inside. Then the steward's voice came again, with no hint of obeisance anymore. “The boy was supposed to be here. Eomer!” he shouted into the hall. Footsteps came running. “I need the young scop who came to play. Find him for me.”

“Sir, they are waiting for me to help carry the roast boar!”

There was a little pause. “Well, curse him, then,” the steward said flatly. “Let the lad make his own way into the hall, and have a beating from his master if he fails to show his face. Osgar's own scop can play twice, if he has to.”

Then I heard the coins rattle again—the steward must be dropping them into a purse that hung from his belt. “A handful of silver for me. Gold for Osgar, no doubt,” the man muttered. “The king pays his supporters well.” With a scurry and a swish of garments, he was gone.

I started breathing again, my mind racing. The steward would not come looking for me again. So I could go, and no one would seek me out, before the feast's end.
“He wasn't yet dead—not entirely lifeless.”
The words began repeating over and over in my head; it was a line from the poem, one of the phrases I'd been trying to memorize all afternoon.
“He wasn't yet dead—”

I
wasn't yet dead. I should go, now! Winter was in the stable—was there any way to get to him without being seen and questioned? Gytha's quarters were nearby ... but she was in the hall with the rest of them.

I peered around the corner. The feast had begun, and as far as I could tell it was richer than anything I'd seen in Osgar's hall before. Servants carried whole roasted animals on scrubbed boards, honey cakes, fresh and salted fish, cheeses, and ale, and even wine from across the sea poured into graceful long-necked flagons of colored glass.

“You'd better go,” I whispered to myself, but instead I closed my eyes, leaned my back against the wall, and let the smells and sounds of the celebration wash out over me.

The poem was in my head again, words spoken by the heroine Judith to her people before battle.
“Your enemies are sentenced to death, and you will have honor, glory in the battle, just as the mighty Lord has shown you by my hand.”

Your enemies are sentenced to death.
I wasn't even sure who my real enemies were. My uncle, who had taken me out of Mercia by force, but who had also helped defend Mercia against Danish raiders for years? Wilfrid, who had taken in, taught, and cared for a wandering boy, but who would stop at nothing—even rebellion against King Edward—to reclaim his lands?

English people everywhere had lost much to invaders. I remembered the miller's deserted burgh, Gytha's grandfather who had lost first his family and finally his life to the Danes. Wil's losses were also great, and he was a good man. How could I leave him? But Wil planned to overpower the very man most capable of preserving English lands ... would weakening Edward's power really save Eoforwic?

Mother would have hated it. All of it.
I backed around the corner to my hiding place again. Without thought, my hands reached into my satchel and pulled out the pages I'd stuffed on top. Beneath them was the wad of clothing Gytha had given me.
After a lifetime of making allies out of enemies, Mother might have found a way.
I loosened the clasp of my cloak, let it fall from my shoulders.
“We were both travelers.” The crush of Wil's embrace. “Are you coming, Widsith?”
I fumbled with my clothes, pulled light folds of a woman's linen tunic over my head, then the heavier cloth of the overgown.
Gytha gripping me by the shoulders. “Maybe I could have a child, an heir for my family's lands.”
I secured the clasp of the fine girdle Gytha had given me, then the clasp of my own cloak at my neck again. Shoving my sheathed dagger beneath the girdle, I drew the cloak around me and pulled up the hood, hiding my face.