The Beginning: A Reluctant Warrior, #1

By Alan Norris

Volume one of “A Reluctant Warrior” tells of the adventures and travels of Ranulf, from his lowly beginnings as a ragged orphan, to becoming a national hero and lord of the manor. 
Although sent to the court of King Alfred to become a scholar, he becomes involved with the defence of the realm and, as the British army is on the point of a decisive victory, he is taken prisoner by the retreating Vikings and threatened with execution. By a twist in their Pagan beliefs however, Ranulf becomes protected by the laws of their ancient religion and he is sent to sea as a slave with a promise of never returning....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Norris
• Release date: Oct 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536516647

Alan Norris

Alan was born in Poole, Dorset, England on October 1st 1948. As a child, he lived in Canada for a few years in what was then a tiny settlement village called Malton in Ontario. He went to his first school in the village, a one-room school that was quite basic but typical of the time in those outlying areas of the Canadian countryside. Later in life he travelled to Western Australia where he worked as a design draughtsman and played drums in his spare time with a very active band called “Unicorn”. Eventually, Alan returned to England, where he found a winter season of high unemployment and a frosty cold that he’d forgotten about. After a couple of dead-end jobs he joined the Royal Navy and quickly worked his way up to become an engine room Chief Petty Officer. His first ship was involved in the brief skirmish of the mid 1970s that they called the “Cod War”. He should have seen the trend, because ten years later he was involved in the Falklands Conflict while serving on the frigate, HMS Argonaut. They were hit by two enormous bombs within minutes of the first day of action. One landed in the boiler room and the other became lodged in an ammunition magazine. Luckily neither of these devices exploded, but unfortunately two of our gunners were killed. One of them was just twenty-one years old that day. Alan’s writing began some years later when, as part of a team producing Technical Handbooks, he began to experiment with fiction and wrote a bag-full of short stories. The experiments continued until 2010 when he set out to use his new-found skills in a second career. Alan now lives with his wife Stella in a quiet part of central Brittany, surrounded by books, forests, fields and their precious dogs, Elsa, Jester and Monty. He still plays drums occasionally too.

Book preview

For Stella, my lovely wife

And my family and friends who have all been a valuable help in writing this story.

Preface

Volume one of A Reluctant Warrior tells of the adventures and travels of Ranulf, from his lowly beginnings as a ragged orphan, to becoming a national hero and lord of the manor.

I have used a number of historical facts, and apologise for bending their details and dates to weave them into the story’s needs. Although Ranulf is a purely fictitious character, created to tell the tale, Odda, his adoptive father, was a real person. His household was in a small valley (or Coombe as they are known locally) on the flanks of the Quantock Hills. Over the years his name has become corrupted, but he must have been a famous man and you can still walk through the valley called Hodder’s Coombe to the top of the Quantock range.

King Alfred the Great took refuge for a while in the Somerset marshlands during his early confrontations with the Viking invaders. It is thought that there was never very much in the way of buildings at Athelney, certainly not on the scale of those I have portrayed. But the only evidence of this important site is a rough stone in the middle of a field with no direct access. I thought this to be quite a shame and it was the sight of this lonely piece of rock that prompted the story.

In the main, I have used modern place names (instead of the often unpronounceable Saxon equivalents) to aid the reader’s understanding of the area and the travels of the characters. The Saxon names are available of course, but there are considerable disagreements in their accuracy and often the names vary from one district to another.

1

The coppery disk of a summer sun slid silently into a band of cloud and a night began that would change a small boy’s destiny forever.

In the gathering dusk, a nine-year-old orphan boy and his dog climbed the hill above the Somerset village of Stowey. He was dressed in ragged cast-offs, given him by the villagers and to an outsider, he looked a little like a vagrant, perhaps an outlaw. He was tall for his age, but very thin, he seemed to have a wiry strength, the skin of his face and arms were tanned to a chestnut brown and his mop of dark, almost black hair fell to his shoulders in greasy tails. Near the top of the hill, where it was steepest, the boy stopped and glanced about. There was no one around. Alone, he slid into the familiar protection of a dry, sandy hollow beneath the low branches of an ancient willow.

From his hiding place he had a clear view into the heart of the village that had grown around its small church on the floor of the valley. He saw women gossiping as they took up their water from the spring and he watched the children playing in the shallows of a stream. The boy’s dark, blue-green eyes revealed a sadness, a deep disappointment that was well beyond his years. The damage to his trusting child-innocence had been done two long years before this dusky night, it had come in the shape of a vicious raid by the Norsemen that they called The Vikings.

On that night he had watched as his father was butchered and his gentle mother repeatedly raped by a band of huge men. Then they had killed her with the bright flash of a sweeping sword, before setting fire to the thatch of their simple house, which had once been a happy home.

How those men had howled and laughed. Just like the demons in the nightmares that invaded his head every night since that awful day.

~ ~ ~

Despite the dry, dusty warmth, the boy shivered and pulled his sheepskin jerkin tight around his body. He was supposed to be tending the few sheep of the village flock but, as on most nights, he had penned them up next to the coast watchman’s hut on the hilltop above the village. The young orphan-boy had no relatives and had been told by Lord Odda, the King’s appointed Ealdorman, to stay with the old monk at the church house. But until he was forced by the storms of winter, he preferred the open spaces to the frightening closeness of walls and the stifling pity of village matrons. They didn’t seem able to understand that nobody could replace what had been torn from him. He was no fool and knew that he made most folk feel uncomfortable with his stiff, unbending silence and soul-piercing gaze. Mainly they left him alone and he was happy with that.

He had a voice, though not many people had heard it. To comfort and quieten the sheep he often sang them the simple folksongs that his mother had taught him, and in a quiet breath of a whisper, he would tell his young dog the very deepest secrets of his heart.

The dog curled up against the boy’s feet and rested his dusty head on his thin legs. On the footpath, behind his dusty bower, he heard the tramping footsteps of the night-watch guard, as they went up to relieve the day men. They complained boisterously as they went, grumbling about the misery of their duty, the missed comforts of the homes and women that they had all left behind. But he knew differently, in truth the men enjoyed the rough camaraderie of the evenings that they spent drinking, gossiping and gambling until they fell asleep. The importance of watching the nearby coast for invaders had faded in their minds with the passing of time. Their new leader, an outsider only recently arrived in the village, enjoyed the profits that he made from his sales of wine and the proceeds from the gaming, so he was unlikely to change anything.

One-by-one the gleam of cooking fires in the village below faded and he could imagine the settling of the people in their tiny houses. The fumbling of fingers in the gathering darkness, the giggles and soft whispers of the lovers and the muffled snores of men that had drunk one cup of ale too many.

The boy drifted into sleep and immediately, the usual spirit people came to play in the early restlessness of his dreams. They were a grey shadowy folk, no features to speak of, not frightening, just ghosts from happier times. Sometimes they would laugh, tell stories and sing, sometimes they were quiet. Tonight, they seemed to huddle around him, soft, but strong in their silence. The lonely child felt comforted, but somewhere beyond the dream was an urgency that he couldn’t quite grasp.

It was much later, in the cold hours before dawn, when the chill creeps into your bones and the damp air settles the beaded jewels of dew on leaves and spider’s webs. It was then that the grey shadows of the dream vanished with an almost physical tug and the fires of his nightmare began. Flames, bright and flickering danced in his brain and the screams of terrified people cut through the sound of crackling laughter from the sword wielding demons.

A sweat, cold as ice, bearded the boy’s young face and prickled across his scrawny chest. Plucked from sleep, he sat up with a shout and covered his ears to stop the awful screams. He rubbed his eyes to move the awful scene, but the rippling flicker of flames burst through between his sleep soaked eyelids. The screams were louder and the pleading hysterical.

It was happening again.

They had come.

Just as he had always known that they would.

Painful sobs blocked his breath as he watched a struggling naked figure roughly hauled by his neck into a tree by a rope. The Norsemen laughed and danced around the figure slicing into him with the star-bright steel blades of daggers and swords.

The boy’s cold hands began to shake with shock and horror, he reached down for the familiar warmth of his dog. The hard muscles beneath the smoothness of the animal’s silky hair quivered with a low rumbling growl. The dog stood, his eyes concentrating on a patch of moving darkness behind them. The boy swung onto hands and knees, ready to run. The animal, lips curling away from long sharp teeth, leapt across the boy’s small body, snarling as it launched itself into the face of a bending Viking warrior.

The boy’s wide eyes took in the scene in an instant. He could see three of the devils, they were coming down the path from the lookout and each had their feet wrapped in rags for stealth. Dark blood glistened on the sword and arm of the man that peered under the low branches of his sanctuary. The night watch wouldn’t have known anything about their deaths, the Viking devils would have murdered them while they slept.

The dog’s teeth tore a long gash in the Viking’s face before the man swept him aside and into silence with the blade of his long sword. Unbelieving, the boy looked through his tears at the small unmoving body as it crumpled against the trunk of the tree. The man mopped his face with his grimy sleeve and, with the flames glowing in his eyes, he stepped under the branches and moved crab-wise towards the child. The mighty blade swung again but, restricted by the ancient tree, the blow glanced across the side of the boy’s head. The razor-sharp edge of the broad blade bit into the scalp and soft bone. The big man swore, pulling back his weapon for a second sweep. But the boy was already moving. As he scrambled over the lip of his hiding place, he flung a handful of the soft white sand into the leering face. The devil swung his head away, but not quickly enough to avoid the blinding effect of the tiny grains.

With sticky blood oozing across his face and neck the terrified youngster turned away from the terrible flames and screams of the village and headed up the sloping valley. He kept to the side of the narrow track as he hurried away.

The greyness of dawn fell about him as he burst out of the woodland and into a large forest clearing. Before him was the clear silhouette of Lord Odda’s great hall, smoke curled from the hole in the thatch and the boy could smell the warmth of horses from the stables. He forced his thin legs to run towards the dark porch of the hall entrance. Almost with the last of his desperate strength he dodged the hands of a tired warrior and threw himself at the heavy oaken door.

2

The heavy oak door slammed open with a crash and the boy rushed into the hall. The busy chatter and laughing banter stopped, as eyes turned to stare and was replaced by an undercurrent of murmurs and whispers. There were two long rows of plank tables set either side of the brightly flaring log fire on the hearth at the centre of the hall. The people and the warriors of the household sat on benches and had been busy with their breakfast. Several dogs slept in the warmth around the stone hearth, the wood smoke drifted lazily into the tall roof of blackened beams and thatch. He fought against his fear as, for an instant he thought of running away, hiding from the staring eyes. His breath came in rough gasps and he coughed on the smoky air. Tears overflowed the boy’s eyes as he stumbled through the billowing smoke, he searched the rows of faces that peered at him. He’d not been here before and had never seen so many folk in one place. He knew the Lord by sight, but couldn’t see him past the fire’s bright glare and the smoke. The boy knew that the Lord would sit at the top table. Suddenly he was through the smoke and before him, stretching almost the whole width of the hall was a table set above the rest and covered in a white linen cloth. He needed to speak to the big man sitting in the heavy oak chair at the centre of the high table. The King’s man, the Lord Odda. He rushed toward him, tripped and fell to his knees.

‘What’s this.’ shouted a man, as he rose from a stool at the side and drew a wickedly long dagger.

‘It’s only a young’un Edmund, barely a whelp.’ said the big man in a gentle voice. ‘Let him through. Perhaps he brings us some amusement. Come here boy.’

The boy got up and, with bowed head, stumbled forward. His chest heaved and his breath came in great shuddering sobs as he fought for his voice.

‘Must...must speak to my Lord Odda.’ the boy managed.

He’d escaped from a beating by the look of him, thought Odda as he stood and walked around the long table. Both the lad’s eyes were puffed and dark blood oozed from a matted mess on the side of his head. He watched as a bright red trickle roll from above his ear and ran to the collar of his jerkin. Tears streamed twin channels through the dirt on his face.

‘You’ve found him boy. What is it?’

Outside, in the early stillness, a cock crew. The boy, fists clenched tight in his efforts to fight his pain, fear and horror, glanced anxiously over his shoulder.

‘Vikings!’ he gasped, dropping to his knees. His eyes rolled to show the pale whites through swollen slits. ‘They...They’re down in the village...Now!’

The immediate, total silence in the hall was tense, like a full drawn bowstring. Quivering and waiting.

‘Edmund!’ shouted Odda, ‘Get the men. Grab what weapons are to hand, we leave!’

The hall erupted into noise and action. Men snatched up spears and axes at the doorway as they ran out into the early morning light and sprinted down the worn track towards the village.

Odda’s wife, Corisande, strode across to the young messenger who was now quietly sobbing, swaying on his knees, a moaning despair leaking past his lips. She put an arm around his shoulders and gently lifted him into her arms and carried him to a cot that had been pushed to the side of the hall. The youngster trembled with fear and tried to pull away from her, but she calmed him with her soft voice and gentle touch.

He couldn’t fight it anymore and gave in to his exhaustion, his thin body went limp and he felt himself sinking into a deep, dark sleep.

Why, he’s as light as a goose feather thought Corisande, poor brave little boy. Turning, she called a maid and told her to fetch clean boiled water and some bandage strips. It’s as well that you are unconscious little man, I think this will be painful for you. Carefully, but thoroughly, she cleaned and bound the wound on his head. Once she was satisfied with her work she stripped the filthy clothes from the thin body, washed him with her own soap then wrapped him in a soft woollen blanket. Although she had never had children of her own, instinctively, she knew just what to do to give him comfort.

~ ~ ~

The tumbling stream of eager warriors, Odda at their head, bounded and leapt along the forest track that threaded its way down to the tiny hamlet of Stowey.

The plague of Norsemen had not bothered with them here for some while. The men were excited, despite the danger. The steep valley sides opened out and, as they came to the village outskirts, they saw the first bodies. Several men and women had been hung from the boughs of trees. Their faces blackened and heavily swollen tongues stuck out of their mouths. All of the naked corpses had been horribly mutilated.

‘Cut them down.’ ordered Odda as the men rushed by.

They tore on through the remains of the village, fires still raged fiercely and a whimpering child wandered, through the carnage in a daze of fear and shock.

At the centre of the village was the tiny stone-built chapel. Men raced past, some hastily crossing themselves. But some paused by the small group of hunched villagers to hear what had happened. A tall, stick of a youth sniffed importantly and told his tale.

The priest had caught a lone barbarian in the act of desecrating and looting his church. In his anger, he’d stepped up behind him and knocked him senseless with a heavy bronze candlestick. Some of the villagers had hidden in the chapel desperately hoping for sanctuary, and one of them, being a huntsman, had set about skinning the unfortunate man while he still lived. He’d only just finished explained the youth and with a sweep of his arm he stood back to reveal their grisly work. They had taken the skin and nailed it to the church door as a warning. The outline of a bloody hand brushed the polished stone of the threshold.

The few remaining able-bodied villagers joined with the Odda’s warriors and ran hard to catch them up. They panted and puffed along the track towards the glitter of the nearby, broad sweep of the Severn Sea.

Soon they topped a short rise and came within sight of the Norse raiders. They were making their way towards two sleek dragon-ships that rode the shining dazzle of waves in the bay. They dragged with them a handful of prisoners, mainly women but some children. Odda’s men, Edmund leading now, whooped and rushed at them while the youngest boys were ordered to stay back.

The Vikings saw them almost in the same instant. A tall Dane with a flowing mane of deep, coppery-red hair turned at the top of the beach and sounded an alert on a bull’s horn. And, with no more thought than snapping a twig, the dozen or so captives were swiftly killed and their captors surged forward to escape.

Odda’s men, fuelled now with fresh anger, were too fast for the plunder laden laggards and soon caught up with them. The butchery was not a credit to our people as honourable warriors. The enemy’s blood tainted the foam at the sea’s edge as limbs were hacked and necks severed by lead-weighted, swinging war axes.

The final, valiant clashes of sword against desperate shield rang across the salt-marsh that bordered the grey seas and our men ground the bodies of the fallen enemy under their heels as they pushed toward those already wading out to their powerful craft. But they were just moments too late.

As they watched, from the sandy ridge at the top of the beach, a rippling swing of oar-shafts glistened in the sun like silvery wings as they dug deeply into the water. Each of the vessels used the beat of a great drum to call the time to the oarsmen, and the combined pounding sounded like the growling rumble of a huge beast.

Defiant jeers and coarse laughter were hurled at us across the widening gap of water. And with military precision, brightly coloured sails were hoisted and a creaming curl of foam rose beneath the bow of each of the dragon-ships. Unopposed, they pressed north-eastwards into our country’s heartland and away from our challenge. As we watched, the growling rumble of the drums slowly died away and each of the longships nosed into the shelter of a small bay on the distant island of Steep Holme.

A summer mist swirled across the sea, closing off the view like a widow’s veil and they turned away to thread their way back through narrow forest trails to home. Men were sent to help the folk in the village and a messenger was dispatched to discover the fate of the sentries at the lookout post, but everybody knew what they would find. Tonight’s watchmen would not sleep, as their predecessors had done.

The men squabbled among themselves as they walked back through the steepening sides of the coombe towards home. It seemed to be the usual consequence after a skirmish, a heavy cloak of irritable, bad temper fell across the warriors as their passions cooled.

3

Corisande saw them returning and her pretty face creased into a smile as she saw they were all safe, for not one of them had been even slightly injured. She wasted no time and soon had food and drink organised for the men and for the leaders who’d already headed for the hall.

‘What of the boy, Cori?’ Odda asked his wife when they’d finished eating and the tables had been cleared.

‘He was badly hurt, my lord. But I think, with patience and some of my healing herbs, he’ll recover.’ she said.

‘Good.’ said Odda. ‘Brave lad. We’ll make him a bed by our hearth.’

‘Already done my Lord.’ she said pointing to a small mound of blankets in a wooden cot.

‘Perhaps he will stay with us?’

‘Perhaps he may.’ answered Corisande thoughtfully. ‘He will need a name my Lord. We can’t keep calling him Boy, as they do in the village.’

‘Well he’s a skinny little fellow, I shall name him Ranulf.’ he said, gruffly. ‘It means House Wolf in our old language...It was my brother’s name.’

~ ~ ~

So, Ranulf I became and slowly, very slowly I recovered. But it took many long days and nights of careful nursing from Corisande, most of which I wasn’t aware of. The first thing I remember is feeling very warm and frightened, not because I was threatened but because I was completely naked under my soft blanket and at first, I couldn’t remember where I was or how I got here. And I smelt strange, I must have been washed I thought, the smells of the countryside and the woodland spirits were gone. How would the wild creatures and spirits know me? Then my memories flooded back, the nightmare screams and the fires. My dog, my poor dog who had tried to protect me had been killed. Tears ran down my cheeks as I remembered.

As the days passed, Corisande came to look on me as the child they didn’t have, couldn’t have. Their first, a girl, had died during an awkward, painful birth, there had been no more and Corisande felt ashamed and guilty that she hadn’t managed to give her husband a son. Odda was kind and said he understood, but Corisande, or Cori as he called her, still felt a twinge of shame when she saw him with other children. He was good with youngsters and they all seemed to like him. Even when he was in one of his grumpy moods after a long night of feasting and drinking, they still gathered around him wanting stories of his battles and sea voyages with the King.

I still suffered from my nightmares, but Corisande’s gentle soothing and soft, warmth helped them pass until after a while, they became a rare night time disturbance. During the evenings around the fire Corisande would tell him stories from her homeland, tales of King Arthur, Merlin and his Knights. She sang to him most nights, some of the songs he remembered from his mother and they made him cry, but Corisande explained to me that it was alright to cry and I mustn’t worry. She told me that I was safe now and she was sure that my mother was watching over me from her place in heaven. That made me feel a little better and they resolved to pray to her every night before I went to sleep.

As I became stronger, Odda would sit me on his lap and tell me the old tales of our heroic ancestor’s daring and numerous battles and glorious victories. He also taught me my manners at the high table, something I’d not needed and had never experienced. When it was quiet, and we were alone, he would tell me the stories of the old gods, Odin; the guardian of victory and knowledge, Thor; god of war and thunder, and Nodons the god of healing and hunting, among others. It was Nodons, he told me, who would have looked after the spirit of my dog when he was killed by the wicked Viking. That made me feel a little better and I thought I would pray to Nodons to thank him. He said we shouldn’t speak to his wife of these things, as she was Christian and it would upset her, so it became our secret..

In her own country, before she’d been captured and sold as a slave, Corisande had been an accomplished academic and she taught reading and writing to the children of Odda’s hall. For some reason, she thought I might be especially gifted and set about teaching me privately. I soon learnt to read and my capabilities grew rapidly until I could help Corisande with some of the teaching in her tiny school. The more I read the greater became my appetite for knowledge, my favourite subject was geography and, like a hand full of moss, I soaked up everything I could find about other countries. Within a couple of years, I had read and re-read every piece of writing that was available and Corisande had begun to teach me her home language of Gaul, the land across the sea.

One evening while he was studying his lessons, he sat back and watched Corisande as she sat sewing a new jerkin. She looked up and caught his stare.

‘Is there anything wrong, Ranulf.’ she asked.

‘Oh...no. I was wondering, what is the word that the Gauls would use for mother?’ I asked.

‘Most would probably say maman. That’s what I used to say.’ she told him.

‘Then I would like to call you maman. If you think it would be alright.’ I said quietly.

With tears in her eyes Corisande dropped her needlework and put her arms around me.

‘That would be more than alright, my dear boy. It’s perfect.’ she said.

‘But I think I should still call Lord Odda, sir. Do you think?’ he asked with a raised eyebrow.

‘I’m sure that will be fine. He is an important person in this land of Britain, but never forget Ranulf, that he loves you as a son.’

‘I’ll remember maman. But it’s difficult sometimes, especially when he shouts at me.’

4

‘Come on hound!’ I called to my dog.

The long legged, shaggy animal ambled across the yard towards me, his tail rolling in a circle with delight. He’d been raised as one of the hunting dogs, but as a pup he would always find something more interesting than the chase and had often got lost. The master of the pack was going to do away with him, as being useless, but I had pleaded with him to let me take him. He soon became my best friend and usually came everywhere with me. With the lowering sun beginning to cast slanting beams through the leafy roof of the forest, we set off up the hill towards the ridge that ran behind our homestead.

‘Don’t be late, Ranulf!’ Corisande called after us. ‘You’ve to practice your numbers tonight.’

I turned and raised my arm in a wave. She stood tall above the groups of workers, her bright, blond hair and shining green eyes marked her as different from the rest. Odda had rescued her from a slave market and brought her home. He’d set her up as his housekeeper at first, but to keep the other men away, he soon married her. He often said that it was the best thing he’d ever done.

Originally she’d been taken from her family in Gaul by a raiding band of Danes and could speak no English. But maman had learnt quickly and now she was my tutor in things like reading, writing and numbers. I knew of no other child that was so fortunate and it made most of the other boys suspicious and a little wary of me. In their ignorance, they suspected me of having a powerful knowledge that could harm or mock them.

Maman also had a wealth of folk-stories that she’d brought with her from her homeland, but my favourites were always those of the great King Arthur and his magic sword. Although he’d been a King of Britain, he’d also lived for a time across the sea, in Less Britain. In fact he’d grown up there with his guardian, the wizard Merlin. I’d heard these stories so many times that I knew them by heart and would often lose myself in daydreams imagining that I was one of the knights, riding to the aid of a besieged castle, flags streaming and hooves thundering.

As a family we were different too. We had to be clean, and always wear presentable clothes. To set an example. maman would often say with one of her determined nods. She meant well of course, but all this only increased the divide between me, the other children of the homestead and those in the village. There were no close relatives of a similar age, so I was alone for the better part of each day. Lord Odda was always busy with the affairs of the district so I hardly saw him most days. Edmund, Odda’s warrior lieutenant, usually had some time for me, but my best friend was my faithful dog. And now he bounded along ahead of me until we got to a tall oak that had been hollowed by its long years. I reached into the ancient cavity and brought out a pair of old breeches. I changed quickly, folding my good clothes and putting them safely into the hiding place. Then off we went again, though not so carefully now, up the steep hill heading for the place known as the Long Stone. This was a favourite spot of mine, the view of the countryside was magnificent and the tall standing stone stood brooding over it, like a ghost of the trees that must have stood here once, long ago.

Away to the north, across the sea, I could see the coast of Wales with its dark mountains lining the afternoon horizon. To the south and west were the rolling hills of our homelands with, in the far distance, the misty-blue shadows of the high plateau that lay at the edge of Dumnonia.

The piercing call of a Kite caught my attention and, moving across to the eastern flanks of my lookout, I watched a swooping, wheeling mob of these large birds as they dived onto the carcass of a sheep. They tore and ripped at the bloated body before rising into the surrounding trees at the edge of the forest with their prizes. On the ground, the feasting was soon joined by a party of cautiously lumbering crows, while high above, in the last remnant of blue, a handful of buzzards soared, waiting their turn at the evening meal. Behind it all, the marshes and saltings of the Somerset Levels sparkled with the warm colour of the late afternoon sun. Turning my gaze seaward, I frowned at the misty outline of Steepholme, even Arthur would find it difficult to deal with the evil that rested on that small island I thought.

All too soon, the sun began to redden and it was time for us to go. At full gallop, we ran down the steep hillside, bounding, leaping and jumping the obstacles that lay in the bracken and tall grass until, gasping for breath, we arrived back in the broadleaf woodland. I changed back into my good clothes and we headed towards home, carefully following the narrow pathway worn by the watchmen and the shepherds. As we walked, I instinctively recited the alphabet while my imagination wondered what mischief Merlin would weave had he been here.

~ ~ ~

I went to the chapel in the village a day or so later with maman, to listen to the priest. After the service was done, the sprightly old cleric came across to see maman. He bobbed his shiny bald head in a gesture of respect and brushed nervously at his shabby faded-black gown.

‘Some while ago, you spoke of some assistance for our village school my Lady...’ he said in his deeply resonant voice.

My ears pricked up at these words and I looked on, hopefully. He’d definitely said the word School. Dare I hope?

Maman smiled almost fondly at the ragged old priest and took up the hands-on-hips pose she used when she was going to make a judgement. Something quite familiar to me, and often had a personally painful result.

‘Indeed I did father Wulfred. I have discussed the matter with my husband, my Lord Odda, and we’ve decided to provide you with an allowance of one silver penny a month.’

‘Most generous milady.’ mumbled the delighted Wulfred, and he bobbed some more.

‘Wait, wait. I’ve not finished yet.’ she said patiently, ‘You will also be allowed the use of a strip of land and a milk cow.’

The poor monk had never known such generosity and, almost overcome, he dropped to one knee as he clutched at the rough wooden cross that hung from his neck. Several of the villagers had gathered to see what was going on and pressed closer to hear the details.

Undeterred, maman continued.

‘In return, you will teach as many children as will come to you. They will learn about our land and the Christian ways encouraged by our good King Alfred. And they will learn reading. Not Latin mark you, but good, simple English. You shall have them for two half days a week and you will provide them with milk to drink and a good meal before you send them home.’

‘I am speechless. My lady.’ muttered Wulfred.

‘An unusual circumstance.’ laughed my mother. ‘But what say you, Yea or Nay?’

‘It is more, much more than I could have wished. On behalf of the children my Lady, I offer my humble thanks, I will pray for you.’ then, embarrassed, he added hastily, ‘Oh...and for my most generous Lord Odda, of course.’’

‘Of course.’ Maman nodded. ‘The final condition is that you will also take my son, Ranulf. He will be a help, as he can read and write moderately well.’

‘Ma’am that would be an honour. I will go and make things ready. We will start tomorrow.’ and off he bustled as happy as a skylark. ‘See you in the morning, young master.’ he called over his shoulder.

5

Outside of my regular chores, the school took over most of my free time, many of the local children came, mostly boys, but there were a few girls. I managed to make tentative friends with some of them and had them call me Ranulf rather than the formal Master that I hated. I visited them at home too, and envied them their free and easy, friendly home-life. I couldn’t remember my father ever joining in with the childlike games that so absorbed us, he was always far too busy.

Wulfred was a good teacher and had travelled widely; he’d even been on a pilgrimage to Rome with the King’s late brother. The things that he had seen! With just a little of a child’s enquiring innocence, it was easy to start him off on tales from his travels. He told us of men with black skins and strange beasts that roamed free, some of them even more ferocious than our wild boar, although we could scarcely believe that that could be true. He told us of beautiful buildings, with painted ceilings and walls and statues that looked so real that they seemed to move.

Each of his stories made my mind dance away into new dreams. One day I’d travel. Perhaps in a great ship, I’d go to strange, far distant shores. I’d see the strange animals that Wulfred told us of, those that were as tall as a tree with mighty horns or those that were like giant cats, all black and shiny, with teeth as big as your finger. We never tired of his yarns, and it was always with reluctant hearts that we dragged our attention back to our lessons.

After supper, one darkly stormy night many months later, I lay in my bed by the fire listening to the old ones talking.

‘Of course, when we have our Burghs properly organised and with permanent armies to defend them, the Norse threat will become a thing of the past. They’ll go off where the pickings will be easier.’ said Lord Odda.

‘Nah.’ came a reply, ‘They’ll not go. Up north they’ve settled in, with houses and families, thousands of them. You’ll not be moving them so easy.’

‘That’s so.’ replied Odda impatiently. ‘But with careful handling they could be made to keep to their area and leave us be. The future needs men of education, men that can think and plan. Not plain speaking men of war, like us.’

The talk went on, tossing backwards and forwards around the same old subject and I dozed in the warmth of the crackling blaze. It was late and most of the old men had left, when mention of my name woke me instantly. Without moving my head I looked through my eyelashes to see my father talking with Edmund and maman.

‘I’ve a mind to take up his offer. Like I’ve been saying, the future needs men of the world. Men that can talk and govern. The King’s school will be good for him. He’s too mindful and full of dreamy thoughts to be a good warrior anyway.’

Edmund nodded thoughtfully in the gloom. ‘He does try, sometimes he tries very hard. But he always has such questions...Why this. Why that and How. But I think you’re probably right.’ he said, looking at me through the flickering flames.

‘But, the King’s school will only have the one scholar. Won’t our poor Ranny be lonely?’ asked mother.

‘We’ll send someone with him. But I doubt he’ll have time for loneliness. They say that the King has rooms and rooms, just full of books and drawings. But you’re right. We’ll send someone with him.’ he stood up and stretched, ‘That’s settled then. Come, we must get some sleep. We’ll go hunting tomorrow. Have everything ready for dawn Edmund.’

And away they went, leaving me beside the fire, almost quivering with excitement and nervous fear. A King’s messenger had called on father just that morning and now I knew why. I wondered if it would all be happening soon. Eventually I fell into a fitful, dream-filled sleep wondering and worrying how to tell father Wulfred.

Time wore by and winter thawed into spring, the raids by the passing Norsemen became more and more frequent, some were vicious and deeply probing, while others seemed to be purely provisioning stops. Some of the smaller communities along the sea’s wilder, more isolated shores had become involuntary traders with the foreign cut-throats and this was evidenced by an outbreak of red-haired children.

I was almost resigned to my fate when, using the messengers that called as they travelled to and from the King’s temporary court at Athelney, my future was eventually arranged. I was to go to study at Athelney’s small monastery under one of the monks. I secretly hoped to study the many travel journals and to find out all I could about ships and seafaring. I felt somehow that a destiny would tie me to the sea.

Edmund was to come with me as my guardian, that was good news, and he would also serve the King in the training of his new Burghal armies, as the greatest spearman of my father’s levy, he was well qualified. I knew him well and often sought his company, I was pleased to be leaving home in his care. And of course, leave I must! I was nearly twelve years old and almost a man.

The days struggled into weeks until I thought it would never really happen. But on my twelfth birthday, it happened. I was wildly nervous but full of expectation and enthusiasm. Bravely, I said my farewells to maman and my lord Odda then led Edmund and our pack pony along the herepath that would eventually lead us to Athelney and the temporary Wessex Court of King Alfred.

The day was typical of our home in late summer. The dust hung lazily in the sun and the air was heady with the scent of drying grass and the medicinal odour of the pine trees. We travelled through the quiet village of Stowey, some children waved from the schoolroom and I saw Wulfred cuff away a tear. My own eyes smarted, a lump was heavy in my throat and I daren’t look back.

Soon we turned onto another track and headed towards the hill fort called Cynwit, where we were to spend our first night. Although I had travelled past Cynwit many times with my father, I had never been inside its tall palisade walls and felt a little overawed by its towering appearance.

Edmund moved close and, in his matter-of-fact way, pulled me gently behind him. Quietly he said.

‘You will allow me to speak for the both of us Ranulf my lad. On no account...no matter what, give our true identity to anyone within these walls.’

He paused, thoughtfully looking at me. Before I could say anything Edmund scooped up a handful of dust and threw it onto my tunic and new breeches and, while I squirmed against his grip, squealing my complaint, he smeared some dirt across my face with his thumb. The big man stood back examining his work, as would a master mason, and his face broke into a beaming smile.

‘On second thoughts Ranny me-lad, don’t speak to anybody.’ he held his finger against my mouth as I tried to argue. ‘It’s market day at Cynwit and that means a regular feast of all things, and most of ‘em bad. So be on your guard. And if anybody should ask.’ he jerked his thumb at the pack-pony. ‘The beast is carrying turnips and herbs for your grandmother.’

I must have looked worried, Edmund put his hands on my shoulders and smiled. ‘You’ll be alright.’ he said. ‘Remember, not a word. You look like a traveller now, but when you speak, you certainly don’t sound like one.’

And we turned back towards the track that led up to the castle gateway. As we stepped off, he nodded at my hand, ‘Take that jewel off your finger lad. Put it in your mouth to keep it safe and tonight I will fix it to the leather thong about your neck.’

‘But, my lord Odda gave this ring to me so that I can be recognised as his son.’ I slipped it off and held it towards his eyes, ‘Look, on the face is the family crest from our shield, the Wolf’s Head.’

‘Aye Ranny me-lad, I well know what it is. Your father asked me if I thought you should have it, I thought not, but he said yes. Right at the moment, our passage will be best served if we remain unobserved. The place is full of thieves and I’d rather we didn’t give them an excuse to attend us.’ he explained patiently.

He plucked the ring from my fingers and, opening my jaw, popped it into my mouth. ‘Hold it thus young man, it will help you to still your clacking tongue.’

And away we went, Edmund leading and me guiding our pony. We had got half way to the gate when, with a gulp I pulled the large signet ring from my mouth.

‘Who told you that sometimes I was called Ranny?’ I asked, my cheeks warm with an embarrassed glow.

‘It is the name your father and I always use when we discuss your future and your hasty, excitable nature. Put the ring back into your mouth.’

We walked on in silence, I pondered on the meaning of a hasty nature while I looked about us. Just ahead was a small crowd of ragged looking people that seemed to press the castle’s entrance. Waiting for permission to enter I thought, and I assumed that we would probably join their line. But, as we marched along, Edmund swung in a wide arc away from this gathering and headed straight for the gate by following a higher path beside the tall palisade. I thought we were doing this to dodge past the orderly line of waiting people.

‘And he called me hasty!’ I grumbled to myself.

Then I saw a sight that drove all logical thoughts from my mind. One of the ragged figures broke ranks and stumbled towards us. His wailing cries were quite unintelligible, almost animal-like.

A small rock sailed down from the castle walls beside us and struck the poor fellow on the head. As