Far Traveler (10 page)

It was true. Winter needed tending, and I needed rest. A part of me still fearfully resisted the thought of stopping—we were only three days out of Wintanceaster; I wasn't even sure how far we had come, although I thought we'd been traveling north. But then I looked again at patient, dirty Winter, at his crooked saddle, and then at the half-circle of silver in my filthy hand.

“Is there a place we could stay?” I asked, showing him my money.

“Not with me,” the man said, but he was still eyeing Winter, and in a moment he spoke again. “If you think your master's horse could do another task, I'll show you a place where someone might let you stay.” I must have looked instantly grateful, for the man burst out laughing. “I was going to say, ‘and give you something to eat,' before I noticed that we'd already struck a bargain,” he said, shaking his head. “Don't worry, boy.” He slapped my shoulder as I drooped. “If the horse is up to the job, you'll have bread and shelter both.”

What the baker needed was Winter's strong back to carry a load of wheat to the mill on the riverbank. The carters would never travel down the steep bank for fear of breaking a wheel, or even overturning the entire cart, he explained, so it was up to the people who lived in the burgh to bring whatever grain they had. It was a punishing load he bound onto my horse's back: nearly a third of the sacks from one cart. Winter bore it sturdily, however, and together the baker and I carefully walked him down the footpath to the miller's door.

The miller was a tall, silent man with grey-streaked hair and huge, rough hands. He barely spoke as we unloaded the sacks of wheat, though he did grunt a little when he seized two corners of a sack I had begun to lift and found himself carrying most of the load instead of sharing it. After we had moved the grain indoors, the baker haggled for a few minutes over the price of grinding the new flour. He looked satisfied when he set off to climb the footpath back to the burgh, leaving the miller a basket of new bread, in addition to a sack of flour.

I don't know what the baker said to the miller about me, but after he had gone, the miller heaved off Winter's loose saddle, took the reins, and motioned for me to follow him to the very edge of the river. There he washed my horse until Winter's coat was clean. I was too tired to protest.

Together we rubbed Winter down. Then the still silent miller led me to a little cavelike barn dug into the riverbank. With a nod, he left me alone with Winter, a cow, a big yearling calf, and a few goats.

I made Winter as snug as I could, draping my own cloak over his damp back. Winter had drunk at the river, and in the barn I found a rack of winter hay that still showed a little green goodness in its stems. I threw down an armful and as Winter dropped his head to eat, I pulled down another pile upon which I curled up. I'd watch until the horse was satisfied, then go and ask for food myself.

How had I come to be feeling so safe here, I wondered, when just an hour earlier I'd nearly been robbed and beaten and left helpless in the road? What would I have done? I'd have tried to go back to the king, said a little voice in my head. I'd have crawled to Uncle Edward's doorstep, accepted whatever punishment he gave me, married his choice of husband, or taken holy vows if he wanted, because I'd no longer have believed I could survive on my own. I was still here simply because a baker and a miller had decided to be kind to me.

 

A large hand woke me, shaking me by the shoulder. I'd been dreaming of King Wilfrid, of his sword-hardened hand gripping mine in the shadows of a Lunden street. When I opened my eyes it was nearly dark, and the miller stood over me.

“I—I gave my horse some of your fodder. I'll pay.”

The miller dismissed my words with a wave. “Horse earned his supper. Now come have yours.” Still sleep-befuddled, I followed him. I had expected no more than a bed in the stable for the night, and something to eat in the morning before I left, but the taciturn miller took me inside to his own table, where he gave me bread and fresh milk and a little bowl of dried plums. I couldn't stop eating until every scrap was gone. The miller, whose meal lay only partly eaten in front of him, handed his half-round of flat bread to me. This time I forced myself to eat slowly, and the miller watched me, sipping his own bowl of milk.

When we had both finished, the miller took away the bowls. He returned, carrying a rushlamp and a stick of elmwood. He set the lamp on the table between us, and taking a short knife from his belt, began to strip the bark from the green branch.

“What is it for?” I asked him after the stick was peeled white, and he had squared it and had begun cutting off finger-lengths.

“The mill-works,” he replied. “I mended a part today, and I've no pegs left. Best cut these and let them harden before the next mending job.” It was the most I'd heard him say— maybe the darkness had loosened his tongue. In a few moments he spoke again.

“There are better ways to change the color of a white horse than covering him in mud.”

My heart began to beat very fast. “The roads were wet. It was a long ride, with him kicking up clods—”

“Not underneath his saddle blanket, he didn't. Someone's hand put mud there, I'd say.”

My mouth snapped shut. If the miller had seen through my attempt to disguise Winter, would he also guess that I concealed a girl's body beneath a boy's bulky leather tunic? Could he tell that no hint of a beard grew beneath the grime on my face? I gripped my knees beneath the table, waiting to see what he would say next.

“What you must do is boil acorns in water, and wash your horse with it, then wash him with vinegar, if you can get him to stand still for it. His coat won't show clear white again until the winter hairs grow. We can do it together in the morning, if you like.”

After that, the miller bent to his work, and the only sound for many minutes was the scrape of his knife. Gradually, I relaxed. This man had guessed that I had secrets, but he had spoken of them only to offer his help. What made one person act this way toward a stranger, while others behaved as greedily as the two-faced carters?

I wanted to show the miller my gratitude in some way, however small. The satchel I had carried with me from Wintanceaster was still slung across my chest, and I quietly took it off and began to rummage through my things. I touched the fabric of the dress I had hidden there after leaving the stable. It was made of fine cloth, but what use would the solitary miller have for such a thing? At one edge of the bag I touched the silver halfpenny. The man had already refused my money, and I did need it desperately myself.

Then my hand slid across Mother's handbook. I had not thought about this possession since I pushed it into my satchel in Wintanceaster. Maybe I should give it to the miller, I thought miserably. That would probably be wiser than keeping it, or trying to sell it later. A fine book in a ragged boy's hands would turn far too many heads.

“Can you read, boy?”

I clutched at Mother's book. What harm could come from telling at least one truth to this honest man?

“Yes.”

“What's in that book? Stories? Sermons?” Clearly the miller had encountered books before, maybe in the hands of whatever priest administered to the burgh.

“Lots of things,” I said at last. “Mostly poems in English.” The miller rested his knife on the tabletop. All evening he had spoken to me offhandedly, the way one cautiously approaches a shy animal. Now he looked me straight in the eye.

“We had books here in our burgh, before the Danish raiders came.” He dug his knife into the elmwood, not watching his hands work. “At that time the whole burgh was here by the river, all around this place where the mill stands. But Danes came up along the river, some riding, some in stolen boats. They killed our priest, burned the church and the few books in it, took our livestock, took what young men and women they could capture without a death-fight, probably sold them in the Danelaw.” The man lowered his gaze to his work. “No thanes reached us in time. We built again—what we could build—up above the river, so we could run next time. The mill had to stay where it was, and I said I'd stay with it. I ran away before. I won't again.”

The miller paused, as if all these words had been too much for him. But there was one more thing he wanted to say. “Long time since anyone read in this burgh. Will you read to me, boy?”

I opened the book.
“It's a worldly thing, full of poems about lost people”
—isn't that what Aunt Dove had said? I turned the pages until I found them: a gathering of three elegies. One was the lament of a thane, a wanderer on earth, who had lost his lord, his lands, and his position. The next described a seafaring man's perilous life.

But it was the third I chose to read aloud that night for the miller. A scop's voice told this poem, a scop who had seen scores of kings and lords, and who had traveled to many more lands than the lines of his brief poem could list.

“ ‘Widsith spoke forth,'”Isaid, reading the poem's first words from the page, “ ‘unlocked his word-hoard.' ”
Widsith.
Far Traveler, the name meant. “ ‘I have been with the Huns, and with the renowned Goths, with the Swedes, the Danes, the Saxons, the Greeks, and with Caesar, who held power over all the empire of Rome.' ” The scop's list continued, until scarcely a corner of the earth remained unnamed. Good rulers and gracious queens, brave warriors and entire armies paraded through Widsith's poem, earning his praise. He had been everywhere, seen everything. He had received honor and gifts for his performances: “ ‘Many people of good repute said they had never heard finer singing,'”Iread.

And then came the poem's conclusion: “ ‘Thus scops are fated to wander. They meet generous people, eager to make a good name for themselves with heroic deeds' ”—I paused for emphasis—“ ‘and gift-giving, folk who appreciate a fine song, and who have as their reward glory, and a good reputation under heaven.' ” My words died away in the quiet, lamplit room. Then the miller gave a rumbling laugh, startling me—it was an unexpected sound to be coming from my sober host.

“You're brash,” he said to me, and still smiling, he left the table and came back with something pinched between two fingers. Into my palm he dropped a whole silver penny. “For your performance,” he said.

“No! I didn't mean ... already your kindness ...”

“Will earn me a good reputation under heaven. The penny's yours, young scop. I appreciate a fine song.”

 

The next morning the sun warmed my right side as Winter and I returned to the road just outside the burgh. Instead of a light grey horse, this morning I rode a dirty-looking buckskin that smelled faintly of vinegar. In my satchel two round loaves of bread and a small cheese tied in sackcloth knocked against my book, and beneath it all nestled my silver penny and halfpenny.

What would Gytha and Edith think of their lady's bookish daughter if they could see me now? Missing them, I wondered whether Gytha had returned to Edith after my escape, if the two of them might both have fled Edith's landhold in Mercia. And Dunstan—had he gone to Eoforwic in the face of King Edward's actions? If so, maybe Dunstan had been with the king when Rægnald attacked. Who could say?

I feared for my loved ones, and for myself. This journey I was taking—was it the right choice?

On the track ahead I saw a little company of ox-drawn wagons and a few folk on foot, taking goods to market, I guessed, or trading along the way to the next settlement. I set my jaw and urged Winter into a fast trot. Somehow I managed to stay in the saddle, and in a few minutes we had caught up with them. I looked them over quickly. These men did not have the greedy look of the carters I'd met. In their wagons were cloth woven by their wives and daughters, baskets and wood carving probably done during the long winter months. They were farmers, I guessed. I swallowed hard, then made myself call out to them, “Can I ride with you?”

The men had seen me coming, and were already talking about me among themselves.

“If your warhorse can walk slowly,” one of them called back, “you're welcome. It's not safe to travel alone in these lean times. D'you have a sword, to go along with the horse?”

I blushed. “Just my knife,” I replied timidly. After a second's thought, I cleared my throat. Gripping Winter's mane to hide my trembling fingers, I made myself call out to the man again. “I do have a story or two I can tell beside your fire tonight, if it would please you.” I could hear the tremor in my voice; I only hoped they couldn't. The man had stopped, staring at me.
What else should I say?
“I—I can sing a little, too.”

“A scop!” the man shouted over his shoulder to his companions. “And a fine one, if that horse is anything to judge by,” he muttered, nudging the man on the wagon seat next to him. “It must have been a gift from some rich lord who liked how well the fellow sang.” Then he grinned at me, a true, welcoming grin. “Aye, ride with us, boy, and tonight we'll hear you sing, and tell a tale.”

It had worked. I'd expected them to laugh, at best, or to turn me away with even less kindness. But now they'd asked me to join them!

“What's your name, scop!” another man yelled from the wagon behind us, and everyone listened to hear what I would say.

“Widsith,” was my answer.

MY FIRST DAYS ON THE ROAD HAD BEEN MUDDY, COLD, AND miserably damp. Now I learned what traveling in sunny weather meant: my face burned, my leather leggings and tunic became uncomfortably hot, shrinking even closer to my skin as they dried completely, and then stretching out as my sweat softened them again. Although I did not have the full hips and breasts of many women, I still depended on my cloak to shroud my slightly curving figure. But after several sweltering hours, I slipped away, tore a long strip from the hem of the wadded-up gown, and bound my small breasts flat beneath my clothes.
“Wis-sith”—
wise traveler—they called me when I rode up again in cool shirtsleeves, with my cloak rolled and tied to Winter's saddle.