Witness To Murder

By R. Hyslop

979 England Ethelwulf, Thane of Arne, witnesses the murder of King Edward at Corfe & flees into hiding. He forms an outlaw band (including his cousins, Edwine & Morkere) while his mother raises money for his escape from England . Ethelwulf is denounced as the King’s murderer & hunted by the real killers (led by Haakon Skaathi) acting for Queen Elfrida. The regime tightens its grip as the outlaws battle vs. tragedy to escape the net.
With extensive factual End-Notes
Part 1 of a nine part series set in the 10th century Viking world. Here the background is an organised kingdom but a coup allows Law and Religion to be twisted by those in power.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob Hyslop
• Release date: Oct 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9780993438905

R. Hyslop

I am a retired teacher, absorbed by History since I learned to read. I graduated in History from King's College, London in 1963, specialising in Medieval History. I wrote 'The Wanderer' trilogy at odd times 1992-2008 when I self-published it. The main effort came with the research. For more details see under 'Bob Hyslop'.

Book preview

WITNESS TO MURDER

(The Wanderer Part 1: England 979)

By R. Hyslop

Published in Great Britain 2008. 2015

(previously published in print as Part 1 of ‘Wolf’s Head’ the first of ‘The Wanderer’ Trilogy) by Cuthan Books ( http://www.cuthanbooks.co.uk/ )

Copyright R. Hyslop

The right of R. Hyslop to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

ISBN: 9780993438905

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To my wife, Mavis, with love and apologies for how often

my mind was in the 10th century instead of the present.

Cover Illustration: Oseberg carving c, 825– courtesy of Universitets Oldsaksamling, Oslo

As throughout ‘The Wanderer’ chapter introductory passages are translations or paraphrases mainly from the rich vein of Anglo-Saxon poetry. Biblical quotations are based on a translation of the Latin Vulgate version of St. Jerome.

(This novel includes extensive End Notes. Before accessing End-Notes PLEASE NOTE YOUR RETURN POINT as you will be taken to SET points in that long section (278 entries). Then scroll down to the relevant End-Note.

For example, in the TEXT click on [62] & you’ll go to a SET point in End-Notes. Scroll down to End-Note 62 & read it.

To RETURN use if provided OR enter [62] in the file’s FIND Process (it may produce several so check you have the right 62), & you’re back where you were in the TEXT.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1: Calm Before the Storm

CHAPTER 2: Welcome To Corfe

CHAPTER 3: In Hiding

CHAPTER 4: Farewell England

Afterword

Map showing places featured in this novel

Family Tree of the House of Arne

End-Notes for ‘Witness To Murder’

About the author

CHAPTER 1 Calm Before the Storm

‘The shrewd warrior,

With sharpened mind

Must know how ill-matched

Words and deeds.’ (Beowulf)

The young deer stretched its neck and savoured the air. It was fresh and cool and full of the sheer pleasure of life. Nature had been kind to the young buck. It had survived the bitterness of winter and somehow had managed to forage enough to preserve its life even through the icy bleakness which had been cruel March. Green shoots had reared themselves above the ground but then been viciously cut down by frost itself. Nature had shrugged off the toll of wintry revenge and looked forward to the hopes of a fine summer.

There was a peace, deceptively encouraging in the wind. The creature enamoured with life reached up and brushed its nostrils against the leaves nestling on a low elm branch. The buck's mouth opened wide, revelling in the delicate aroma of a favourite food. Its tongue softly caressed the moist leaves in fond anticipation. For an instant a beautiful warmth poured itself down its throat. Then it closed its eyes as it quickly began to strip leaf from twig.

A light sound travelled with death through the air, carried so softly it blended with the faint rustle of the breeze in the surrounding leaves. A hazel-wood arrow, its tip fire-hardened, buried itself in the neck of the beast and, in striking, tunnelled a cruel hole. For a brief moment the eye-lids of the deer quivered in puzzled alarm and then a faint twitching passed through its shoulders as if the brain told the legs, even at this too late a moment, to flee such danger. Those very legs were forced to the ground, splaying out in an ugliness unknown to the buck before; the head followed, scraping with cruel irony the shaft against those very branches which had offered a feast. Finally, the eyes were still and the creature's limbs stretched out in death. Above it the elm leaves whispered a soft obsequy as they were teased by the gentle breeze.

A fair shot, laughed a tall man calmly stepping out from cover. He was dressed in a dull-brown jerkin and his leggings were grey; whatever nondescript message might have been offered by such clothing was contradicted by the nonchalant authority with which he moved. Carefully he withdrew an arrow from his bow and replaced it in a quiver over his left shoulder. He passed his left hand lightly, almost lovingly, along the half-a-yard of the bow to the tip and fingered the tightly tied string. Pride mixed with condescension as he smiled, We might make a bowman of you yet!

It’s no fit weapon for a warrior, dismissed the tall youth emerging beside the first speaker. His jerkin of greyish-green wool almost matched the greyness of his leggings. If the first speaker had been tall, he was slightly taller, although his features had an innocence which promised further growth to come. He stood beside the first speaker and his grey eyes gazed with an unwelcome sadness at the victim of his shot. It’s not honourable to kill from hiding -

You poor demented fool! laughed his companion, moving towards the body of the deer. His voice was naturally hoarse but made more rasping by disappointment in his protégé. He looked sideways at the young man, obviously at a loss. There was so much about his companion of which he knew nothing; too much time both listening to those monkish tellers of tall tales from ancient times and, even worse, burying his head in those gaudy manuscripts, the chief product of their labour. Some contents might be fitting for a young warrior, but not all; what passed for suitable subjects for song and telling around a camp-fire were not without their dangers. "You’ve spent too long listening to the slaughter of Grendel[1]and the longings of the Wanderer [2]." He stepped forward towards the dead animal, triumphant like any heir of Nimrod [3].

His companion shrugged and wandered off after Ulf Ethwoldsson [4]; a shy smile playing on his lips which he kept from the gaze of his teacher. Ethelwulf knew how much his teacher was irritated by the interference of literature in the development of his pupil. For Ulf Ethwoldsson the old tales and extravagant claims of wanderers were intrusions into the proper development of a warrior. Ulf feared the twisted truths of legend would destroy the realistic grasp of ability so necessary for any young warrior in the modern world. It was one thing to revel in the battle of Beowulf with the monster of Heorot[5], but today a warrior had to exist in this lesser world.

Ethelwulf mouthed a typical gnomic verse [6],

"Death sets free what is unbound;

Air sucks up what spills on ground;

Maggots feed to feed their food.

Good makes evil, evil good."

Naturally he took care no sound passed his lips, well aware of his teacher's contempt for such 'monkish' pastimes. He admired the older man for his knowledge of the world and his skill with arms. Although Ulf professed contempt for braggarts embellishing skirmishes in distant lands until they’d grown into bloody battles, he told his pupil of the wild men of the Welsh hills and the savage warriors lurking among the mists of Ireland. Ethelwulf knew Ulf had grown up near Kenchester on the Wye but his family had been burnt out by pillaging Welsh from the Brecon Hills. He’d been at Gloucester when Athelstan, lord of warriors, ring-giver of men, had died [7]. From there he’d passed on from the shores of Somerset, following his father and uncle. They’d taken service with Olaf Cuaran[8] and life was good for three years. Then everything had gone disastrously wrong; both father and uncle had been ambushed somewhere in the northern foothills of the Wicklow Mountains and butchered by warriors of Cellachan.[9] Young Ulf had somehow managed to secure a passage back the land of his fathers, although forced to settle for Poole rather than Bristol. So he’d been noticed by Edmund Edwysson, the Lord of Arne.[10] It had been a strange partnership between the powerful West Saxon and the still-maturing youth from Magonsæte,[11] but it had worked.

In his youth Ulf followed Edmund as part of the force led by King Edred[12] into Northumbria; the heir of Alfred had scarcely accepted the allegiance of archbishop Wulfstan for the northern lands when treachery and bad luck snatched away the last scrap of recovering the plunder from the pagans.[13] With incredible violence West Saxon envoys were expelled from Northumbria and its traitorous people called in Eric Blood-Axe [14] to restore the glories of the north. In fury the new king rushed north with a large army but fortune didn’t favour him. Ulf remembered the destruction of the beautiful House at Ripon[15] and had ever since possessed a dread of fire beyond the comprehension of any never having witnessed friend and foe destroyed in an unearthly furnace. The experience so disturbed both men they left the royal forces and made their way south. Edred never forgave them, especially after the destruction of the rearguard at Castleford.[16] but fortunately his days were numbered and Edred was succeeded by his nephew, Edwig.[17] On the same day Edwig died at Frome Edmund's wife, Estrid Ulfsdotter, produced an heir to the estate of Arne.[18] With that birth the fortunes of the house of Arne took a change for the better. Ulf followed Edmund of Arne when, as loyal followers of King Edgar, the thane [19] foiled the invasion of the Viking king Sigferth[20] from Ireland. Back in royal favour, so essential to success, they followed King Edgar when he’d punished the people of Thanet for plotting with the enemies of God.[21]

Ethelwulf stopped and allowed Ulf to go on ahead towards the dead deer. What had he himself done since his father was killed hunting four years before? Very little, except prepare himself for - who knows what? He’d practised long and hard at all weapon skills, ably taught by Ulf, but for what purpose? For years England had been at peace. Only old men could remember when Viking armies had pillaged their way through the countryside, and even they could barely remember when heroes like his father had helped sweep pagan intruders back into the seas. Indeed, isolated raiders had ceased to trouble the shores of England, preferring to ravage the shores of Ireland. King Edward's great-great grandfather[22] had first checked the advance of the enemies of God and man; the successes of his heirs had deprived young men of meriting salvation by slaughtering the heathen and protecting the helpless and the weak. Nowadays most quarrels seemed to involve the Church. Had he been born at the wrong time?

Ulf reached the body of the deer, bent down and quickly drew out the arrow. Carefully he wiped the blood-smeared tip on the hide of the dead beast to return the shaft to his young pupil. He turned and frowned.

Why had Ethelwulf come to a halt? There were too many questions about the lad; many his Lady even refused to consider. The young thane was naturally good with weapons, but Ulf wondered whether he’d the self-confidence needed to make a great warrior. No doubt he’d everything needed in a warrior except... Ulf tried to grapple with his doubts about the young master of Arne. Of one thing he was certain; the lad thought too much and listened too much to the ramblings of his mother about duty and patience. Perhaps, virtues like that met the demands of this new age of priests and scholars, but Ulf couldn’t believe that would last. Whatever the Church might say, men were still the sons of Adam and, with that, capable of all manner of wickedness. A man still had need of a trusty sword and, even better, a group of fearless friends to exact terrible vengeance on anyone who dared harm a lord or what rightfully belonged to a lord. Perhaps, with all his dabbling in such unwholesome arts there was one sign of hope; Ethelwulf paid great attention to tales of heroes and how a man should act in this fallen world.

Come on, Ethelwulf! he yelled, turning back towards the deer. How can an old man like me carry this buck home all by himself?

The young thane came to life and jogged towards the older man, laughingly declaring, Well, as at last you confess your years and Holy Church says -

Enough of what Holy Church says! snapped the reeve of Arne as he slung his bow over his shoulder and returned his pupil’s arrow. Was his young lord too immersed in the prattling of priests to understand what was really needed in this world of sin? The words world of sin carved their way deep into the mind of Ulf Ethwoldsson, because he knew whatever times of peace seemed here today wouldn’t last. Nobody could foretell the future, except it would certainly be worse than the present.

Inspecting the foliage which had attracted the dead deer, Ulf drew out a scramasax [23] and hacked at a stout branch. Quickly it was separated from the tree and by the time Ethelwulf had joined him, Ulf had started stripping it of superfluous twigs and leaves.

The younger man was still laughing as he glanced down at his arrow. After a brief examination of its hardened point, he carefully placed it with its six companions in his quiver. He’d been taught by Ulf to take great care of his weapons; Take care of your weapons, and they’ll take care of you, had grunted the teacher as he’d carefully sharpened the point of an arrow. A blunt arrow won’t kill and may lead to your own death. At the time, five years before, Ethelwulf had laughed at the miserable injunction but he’d quickly learned that, even if his own life wasn’t in danger, a good table relied on successful hunting which depended on well-maintained weaponry.

He reached for the twine stuck carelessly in his belt. With a minimum of effort, he tightly bound the forelegs and the hind legs of his kill together; aware of the warmth still ebbing out of the carcass. He’d been well-trained in the skills of the huntsman, especially after the death of his father. By now Ulf had finished preparing a stout rod which he passed deftly between the legs of the dead animal. Ethelwulf shouldered his bow and seized one end of the rod; Ulf, without a word, seized the end nuzzling against the jaws of the beast. They worked well as a team.

I'm pleased to see an old man still has a stout shoulder, Ethelwulf teased, then added almost as an off-chance remark. I doubt if I could have carried my prize home alone!

Ulf grunted some comment about the lack of respect among today's young, threatening when they reached Arne to teach his pupil to think differently about age and experience. Yet he was pleased with the shot, which hadn’t been easy, especially as for years his pupil had disparaged the bow. However, Ethelwulf had a strong arm and was able to pull the long hunting bow with ease. More practice would have brought his natural skill up to a proper level but that was one thing the young thane refused to do. He’d point to the tragedies of Haethcyn[24] and Achilles [25] in showing how such an unworthy weapon could cause the downfall of the just. I still think the bow has its uses, had answered Ulf, and he repeated the phrase to himself as the pair headed off on the mile walk to home.

&&&

Ethelwulf was still grinning as he parried his tutor’s slash at his head. He’d seen the blade surprisingly early as it began its arc towards his head. Perhaps his tutor really was slowing with age, but then he remembered how but yesterday he’d been driven back against the wall with the sheer fury of the attack by the axe wielded by Ulf and been forced to surrender. Of course, he doubted his ability with such a weapon, but, even if true, in sheer footwork and body-movement he’d been outmatched by his tutor. Ulf had thrown down his axe with a laugh, If such a little tool can force you into defeat, stay well clear of its big brother![26]

Now, it was different, however, as both men were well-skilled with the sword. Ethelwulf's was the lighter blade as it lacked the pattern-weaving[27] of his tutor's weapon; both knew such a technique increased the strength of a sword, if adding slightly to its weight. At first he tried to drive back the older man with a series of cuts at the legs. Even though neither sword had an edge sharpened for war, a cut with such a weapon could cause some damage. However, the tutor managed to withstand the onslaught and then, somehow, the Thane of Arne found himself turned and, without the ferocity of the attack of the previous day, being slowly driven back towards the house. First there was a feint to the head and then Ulf's weapon snaked down and almost carved into his shoulder. Even though both men wore stout leather jerkins such a wound might prove inconvenient for several days. However, somehow it was parried and Ethelwulf thrust at the stomach of the older man. Ulf swerved, half-parrying with his yard-wide shield, and cut at the legs of his pupil. It was easily parried, as it was meant to be, because the very parry drove Ulf's blade up towards his pupil's throat. Ethelwulf thought of his mother’s terror if she could see them now; would she scream to see her only son in danger? Certainly he knew she disliked this deadly practice, remembering how accident had robbed her of husband and could just as easily steal away her child. Even as he thought of his mother he jerked his head away from the blade.

Bad, screamed his tutor. Never take your eyes away from the enemy's blade. As if to stress the maxim he slightly withdrew his arm and then thrust his weapon at Ethelwulf's face. The pupil ducked and cut at Ulf's waist with vigour sufficient to drive back the tutor for an instant. Then came that slower cut at his head which he parried with ease. Ethelwulf viciously swung his shield towards the face of Ulf brought too close by the impetus of his attack. The iron boss struck the older man in the cheek, pushing up part of the guard on his iron-rimmed helmet. For a brief second the older man was off guard and Ethelwulf hacked at his head, only to find his teacher had sufficient instinctive reaction to duck and take a step back. So the attack was pursued with increased ferocity, and the energy stemming from the confidence of youth. Step by step Ulf gave ground. After a series of cuts successfully parried, the pupil followed up his attack by thrusting at the throat of his teacher.

From a window Estrid Ulfsdotter looked down on the battle below and was not pleased. As a widow not yet prepared for years of loneliness she found it irksome to bury herself in the countryside, looking after the inheritance of a son who, at the slightest mischance, could so easily destroy everything. Although Ethelwulf didn’t shy away from the monotony of running the daily affairs of Arne, he didn’t give them enough attention. All too often, as now, he’d be seduced into such dangerous practice. She was wearied by the daily routine of sword-play or spear-casting or archery. If Ethelwulf, like any true thane nowadays, preferred to leave management of estate affairs to others, her son still needed to spend more time with the scribes and less time with her war-like reeve.

Anybody unaware that both swords lacked a sharpened point and any cutting edge had been scrupulously blunted, would have been alarmed at the violent contest between the two men in the yard. Of course, the Lady of Arne knew they used practice-weapons, but she also knew a blunted sword could still remove an eye and a toned-down edge produce a wound sufficient to confine the victim to bed for a week! It had been several years since Ethelwulf had easily given way to his tutor. He’d been practising with both sword and spear since the age of seven, and ten of those years had been under the careful eye of the reeve of Arne.

Ulf had a natural talent for weapons and for that reason had become the chosen companion of her lord when he rode off to join the king in those wars which let Dorset remain at peace instead of trembling in anticipation of the next Viking onslaught. Even then Estrid Ulfsdotter had half-resented the influence of such men as Ulf Ethwoldsson on her husband. He should have been at home, watching over the affairs of the estate, not riding off into God-forsaken parts at the behest of one king whose favour had been so brusquely withdrawn and of another whose ambitions seemed to outpace his means.[28] Then Ulf Ethwoldsson had revealed yet another skill to add to those of reeve and war-leader. Ten years ago he’d been entrusted with the training of the heir of Arne in those weapon-skills considered essential in this still-uneasy land. Ulf and young Ethelwulf had instantly taken to each other; before then the image of the older man had been either that of a companion sharing adventures shutting out so much of Edmund Edwysson from his child or of the keen-eyed administrator of Arne ferreting out secrets and keeping a watchful eye over the clerks maintaining the accounts.

Even so the weapons-master demonstrated a crude style of teaching. After the first few years, to avoid battering and minor cuts, Ethelwulf had to withstand successfully all Ulf could do. When Estrid Ulfsdotter complained to her husband of the dangers facing their heir he’d laughed, saying better for any boy of his to suffer such damage in youth than be a victim of more serious injury in later life; at this the mother had despaired at ever getting sense out of the father on such matters!

Recently Ulf had come to realise his arts were scarcely enough to contain his young opponent. Of course, he admitted he was no longer the fighter who’d help drive Irish Sigferth out of his base at Poole so the brigand had killed himself on the Isle of Wight rather than be dragged in chains to the King at Winchester. Ethelwulf combined strength of wrist and superb balance to produce fine swordsmanship. What was more he could fight with either hand, a skill more often seen in tales than real life. Ulf only doubted whether the pupil had the true killing instinct necessary to survive in the heat of battle. To defend oneself was an art, but to drive a blade into the body of an enemy took a ruthlessness he’d yet to see in Ethelwulf. Perhaps he might do so in despair or fear, but such pressures weren’t always there; sometimes killing had to be done in cold blood. The skill might be there, but was the will?

The Thane of Arne wasn’t so successful at other weapons. His spear-work was good, but easily surpassed by either of his cousins, Edwine or Morkere. Yet Ulf had to admit either of the twins could out-perform any he’d seen with the favourite weapon of the land. Left-handed Morkere especially was highly skilled with the lighter javelin; although he equalled his twin with the ashen spear, favouring a weapon with detached wings to one where such adornments were an integral part of the blade.[29] Better to make sure of a dead man, he’d sneered when his fairer-haired twin had defended the older design. Of course, all three cousins had their favourite weapons, with finely-cut ashen staves and long, iron blades. Their length of six feet meant that only the height of the three cousins made spears such a viable weapon, beyond their more usual defensive nature.

Ethelwulf had never shown much interest in the axe and Ulf hadn’t encouraged him. Mastering the double-bladed battle-axe took years of steady practice, building up muscles different to those needed in a swordsman. The footwork was also different. A good sword-fighter was rarely an accomplished user of the axe. This was even true of the berserks[30] he’d met in Dublin - and he’d never met any fighter the equal of Thorkel Flat-Nose or Bjarni Bear-Hug. They’d employed the more-accessible taper-axe - the weapon of choice for either teacher nor pupil. To Ethelwulf it was a clumsy weapon, lacking the driving force of the double-axe without the subtlety of the sword. Of course, it was better than the mace but so were most weapons. In the hands of a giant a mace might be a terrible weapon: but in the grasp of lesser men it was a primitive tool now only employed by such as the Gaels or the Wends, who existed on the borders of civilisation.

Ulf had tried to encourage his master to use the bow but, although possessing a good eye, Ethelwulf never shown any interest in the weapon. He disliked how differing weather conditions affected performance, being impatient with the effect of a dampened bow-string or breeze on the flight of an arrow. However, his major objection stemmed from the image of the bow. With his head full of tales of long-dead heroes he scorned the bow and like his countrymen showed little passion for archery.

Ethelwulf had little interest in riding. For this his mother offered her thanks to God, remembering that dreadful day four years before when her husband had ridden out in the morning to hunt, and in the evening had been brought home dead. Seeing an escaping stag Edmund Edwysson had sped after it and been thrown by his horse when it failed to leap a fallen tree in the wood of Arne. In contrast, God had allowed King Edmund, when he all but rode over the edge of a precipice hunting,[31] to come to his senses and call back from exile Dunstan of Canterbury. Let her son keep both feet on the ground and he wouldn’t have need of divine intervention to survive.

Even so, Estrid Ulfsdotter disliked all this weapon-play. These were less violent times, with little need for thane or ceorl to learn the arts of warfare. Now they should apply themselves to their letters, as the worthy King Alfred[32] had done, for that was the way of the future. Increasingly the will of the King was written down and it was the duty of any thane playing a role in the shire to acquire the skill of reading. In this her son had pleased her, mastering the ability to read in both English and Latin, the language of the Church and of all Christendom. Indeed, Ethelwulf showed a distinct aptitude for grasping the meaning of Latin treatises, and the smattering of Norse he picked up mixing with the traders in Wareham on market-days showed clear linguistic ability. Why, smiled the proud mother, he could even write his own name!

If his mother knew how Ethelwulf preferred to practise his skill at reading she’d have been less pleased. Whenever he could, he’d pore over the copy of ‘De Bello Gallico’ or the extracts from ‘Epitoma rei militaris’ [33]which were the pride of the nuns of Wareham. Abbess Wulfwyn[34] was very understanding, doubtless encouraged by the generosity of Edmund Ethelwoldsson and his son Ethelwold Edmundsson (the grandfather of Ethelwulf)