Owerd the Briton

By James Gault

In Saxon England of the 1060s, the prospects for Owerd are grim. He is a Briton; son of a miller; and looks like a Dane. The Church beckons, as does a warrior life but he must first learn his 'station' with frequent humiliation. Fate lends a hand in rewarding his courage but as his lot improves the Normans invade. Does he fight them or aid them? His loyalties are tested by events involving violence, loss, love and fate as he tries to manage the balance between security and oppression.

Shortlisted, UK Historical Fiction competition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Gault
• Release date: Jan 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215387825

James Gault

James, or Jim by preference, is an ex Naval Captain who has spent much of his life at sea mucking around in ships and boats. He has had a wide variety of roles from operational to training, policy-making and diplomatic, including voluntary work as a firefighter and marine rescue skipper.He has an abiding interest in history, both fact and fiction. These days the joys of reading and writing are preferred, especially writing about the fictional adventures of others. He lives in a small coastal town in Australia.

Book preview

PART ONE

HARD LESSONS

CHAPTER ONE - ENGLAND 1061

At fifteen summers of age, he had still looked rather like an angel-faced choirboy. That could well have been what seemed to give his father the miller the idea to hand him over to the village monks, supposedly to get some schooling. That and the fact that God had taken the boy’s mother after a bout of coughing sickness had swept through the village and he had thus become an extra mouth to feed and clothe at a time when half the miller’s customers had also gone to the graveyard. The labour of the boy’s older brother was quite enough to keep the mill going and the loss of his wife had sapped what remained of the careworn father’s zest for life. The Abbot Aethelwig, a Saxon, owed him, no-one quite knew why, and had apparently agreed to take on the lad as a novice and extra pair of hands. Workers were in short supply and the abbey itself had not been exempt from the contagion, despite the many extra prayers by the monks and the remission of sins promised from the Sunday pulpit in return for extra donations.

Owerd himself was ignorant of whatever discussion had taken place about his future but had been alerted to the prospect of something serious being afoot when his father had dressed in his best clothes and visited the Abbey. He was not unaware of the barbs and catcalls he received from other boys in the village who seemed to regard him as a skinny ‘pretty boy’ with his evident blue-eyed good looks and long blonde hair. Matters had come to a head the previous day when given rare time off from the mill. Wandering casually through the weekend village market he had been barrelled into by a girl busily eyeing off the goods at an adjacent stall. The well-dressed young girl, pretty of face with black hair peeping from under a pink bonnet and maybe a year or so younger than himself, was clearly startled and just a touch apologetic. Owerd stretched out a hand to aid and possibly comfort the girl but froze when two burly housecarls, hands on the hilts of their swords, stepped between them.

‘Hands to yourself son, move along before I clout you’, spat one.

‘Hold, Aelfric’, called the girl, ‘I was at fault, not he, and he does look like he could be a seemlier companion for a young lady through this busy market than you great ogres. Perhaps he could usefully carry my purchases so you can concentrate on my protection as you seem so keen to do? What say you, young sir, would you accompany me safely through this village maze and assist a lady in need?’

Taken aback, Owerd had to rapidly gather his senses before managing to blurt ‘of course my lady, it would be my pleasure’. They toured the stalls together, shadowed by the watchful housecarls, for an hour or more and during which time he learned that the girl was named Eadgith and, much to his alarm, younger sister of Alwyne, Sheriff of Warwick. Both young persons enjoyed each other’s company but remained acutely conscious of the watching housecarls and thus on their best and most modest behaviour. Owerd would later need to admit to the sin of pride, however, as he almost strutted beside his important and pretty new friend. Eventually, with a deep bow to Eadgith and a respectful nod to her escorts, Owerd took his leave. He had, however, been under less welcome scrutiny throughout from the usual bunch of village bullies.

Owerd felt a lightness of spirit as he headed back home to the mill. ‘What a lovely girl and so easy to talk with’, he thought, ‘I shall remember her delicate smile and warm voice for many a day’. Once clear of the market bustle, though, his thoughts were rudely interrupted by four of his village persecutors, led by Felkin, chief of the village bullies.

‘What say lads, does this snivelling upstart churl need to know his station in life, or what?’ Felkin answered his own question: ‘of course he does, so let’s us generous fellows give him his proper lesson without even demanding payment’. With that, all four laid into Owerd and he was badly beaten.

Bleeding from an array of wounds and limping from where he had been kicked in both body and legs whilst prone on the turf, he completed his short journey home cursing his inability to defend himself and vowing that he would one day be able to avenge his damaged pride. His father and brother stared at him in shock as he staggered over the doorstep and neither moved for what seemed like an age. His father was first to recover: ‘say naught, my boy, just lay yourself down against the wall and let me see what damage needs repair’. What followed, after he was stripped naked, was a painful application of linaments and unguents and, to Owerd’s astonished surprise, many muttered expletives. Finally standing back, his father announced ‘well you’re going to be black and blue in many of your body parts young man and sore to boot for a while, but nothings broken. Off you go and lie down for the night and we’ll see if you’re going to be any use to man or beast on the morrow’.

The next morning had seen his father’s departure for the Abbey, although he had failed to mention either his destination or his errand. The question of his being useful or otherwise was answered self-evidently with Owerd waking painfully aware of every bruise and with a stiffness of limb that meant he could hardly walk. He was feeling miserable at his own humiliation, but sensible enough to realize that he was beginning to feel sorry for himself and so determined to shake himself out of it. The distant Abbey bell for Prime had already sounded and a weak sun was making its presence felt through the timber slats that covered the glass-less window. It was cold, but a splash of water from the bowl on the nearby bench made him feel a trifle more awake, if not much better, and a visit to the latrine out the back door completed his morning preparations, though for what he was uncertain. His brother was obviously already about, as the sound of water rushing through the sluice gate and the gentle ‘clunk’ of the water-wheel testified. Otherwise, the village enjoyed its usual Evesham tranquillity.

The sun was high in the heavens when his father returned. He was perspiring, despite the cool of the day and sat heavily on his usual stool, downing a pot of light ale with obvious relish.

‘Come, sit next to me my son; we need to consider your future, though I have already determined some of it’. As Owerd sat alongside with a look of nervous anticipation, he continued. ‘You are a bright lad. I and your mother, God may she rest in peace, have always been proud of you. You must know, though, that I am getting on and your brother will take over the mill once I have met my maker and re-joined your mother. The mill will not support the both of you and unless you wish for the rough and ready life of a ploughman there is little prospect of a good future for you here in the village. That others, low churls that they be, will also seek to make your life miserable must also be clear to you’.

‘Why father; why do they hate me so?’

‘Look around you son, look at the other boys. Thick-set, black-haired ruffians by and large, making a hand-to-mouth living off what they can scrape together. Make no bones about it boy, I do not disparage them for what they are. They behave as any would in their place – unlettered and mostly doomed to a life of hard physical labour and bereft of entertainment. They look for an outlet. Now examine yourself: tall, slim and of noble features with the blonde hair of a Dane, which you are not. It is the Danes who mainly cause the mischief in these parts and elsewhere, raiding, plundering and burning. Is it any wonder that they are hated?’

‘But I am not a Dane, father, or am I?’

‘No son, you are as much a Briton as I am and as your mother was, God give her peace, both of us given life closer to the lands of the Cornish than those of the Saxon. If the women of your mother’s village can be believed, though, your mother’s own mother was a Dane. How that came about is not told and your mother was too young to know or to question. So, mayhap you have a touch of Danish blood in you from the past, but only God knows what we truly are inside and in every other way you can be proud of simply being a Briton’.

‘So where is this leading, father, for I can tell that you have more to say?’

‘Rightly spoken, lad, I do, but afore that you could perchance refresh my ale, could you not?’ That done, he continued, ‘I have just returned from an audience with our lord abbot. Now be aware that we are in good standing with Abbot Aethelwig and he has invited you to attend him tomorrow after Prime and he will then decide whether or not to accept you as a novice under certain conditions. The arrangement would involve bed and sustenance but no pay and you would be required to work as required, whether that be in manual labour or whatever service may be required, however menial. In return you will be learnt your letters and after twelve months you may be offered further service or you may leave’.

Owerd’s thoughts were in disarray. He really didn’t know what he wanted to do, but realized that he had to do something with his life or fester here as a probably unnecessary, even unwanted, burden on his father and brother.

‘I will do as you suggest father,’ he finally blurted, ‘I have difficulty seeing myself as a monk but, as you often say, only God knows the future’.

‘Good lad, now go and sort a set of clothes that you may need while I try to put that mess of your good tunic back to rights for you to wear on the morrow’.

The next day; washed, brushed and inspected; Owerd steadily made his way up the hill toward the Abbey just as the sun struck the Abbey tower with its early rays. It was an impressive sight, and no less for the similarly impressive view of the village and surrounding green fields stretching off into the far distance. Owerd had been here many times, of course, it being part of his mill duties to take the weekly supply of eucharist wafers up to the sacristan, or more often to his assistant. This time seemed different and he struggled to suppress the nerves he felt as he approached the outer gate.

‘Pilgrims that way’, called a man Owerd assumed from the spear he carried was a guard of some sort.

‘I come to see the abbot’, replied Owerd taking a deep breath, ‘I am to present myself for an interview’.

‘Humph’ the man snorted as he looked the visitor up and down. ‘what’s in that bag you carry?’

‘Simply my spare clothes, I am to be considered for novice’.

That seemed to satisfy the guard who looked less suspiciously at Owerd’s bruised and battered face and was heard to mutter ‘you poor sod’ before pointing and adding ‘go that way, the building at this side of the Abbey, four doors along, and may God have mercy on your soul!’

Owerd followed the directions given and was met in the relevant doorway by a clerkly-looking individual to whom he repeated his quest.

‘Name?’ was the simple demand.

‘Owerd Millerson sire’.

‘Follow me,’ was the equally simple instruction. Clearly this man was no conversationalist.

Eventually, having traversed a series of gloomy corridors that seemed much like what Owerd imagined a palace would look like bereft of furniture he was ushered into an office both large and lavishly furnished. Seated at a desk the size of the main room in the mill was a man he took to be the abbot. Dressed simply in a black cassock but with a large gold crucifix hanging from a heavy gold chain, he looked up with raised eyebrows.

‘Owerd Millerson my lord,’ announced the clerk.

‘Ah, a battered looking candidate if ever I saw one,’ declared the abbot, though not unkindly. ‘So, what are you here for my son, what do you seek to achieve?’

‘To learn, if it please your lordship; maybe to be a better man’.

‘Not a bad answer, son’. Here he looked up and spoke with the clerk. ‘Please ask the novice-master to come and see me’.

‘Whether you learn anything at all is between you and God my son, for all learning is for His greater glory. Above all else there are two things that must be demonstrated in your time here: humility and obedience. Fail in either respect and you will sent elsewhere: is that understood?’ To Owerd’s acknowledgement he continued ‘are you aware of the agreement I have with your father?’

‘I am my lord’.

Just then a knock on the door announced the arrival of the Master of Novices who bowed to the abbot and looked with undisguised curiosity at Owerd. He was much younger than Owerd might have expected had he thought about that position, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years, and looked much like a young man in need of fresh air. Even his cassock smelled damp and musty.

‘This here is your new charge Brother Edlyn, please take him away and turn him into an acceptable novice’.

Edlyn took him in charge with a slight bow to the abbot but otherwise without comment and led him to a small timber-framed building a little apart from the abbey itself. Inside he was pushed in front of a burly monk who he would come to know as the Chamberlain and announced simply as ‘new novice’. The Chamberlain merely gestured to an assistant who looked the new man up and down then produced a blanket, straw-bag, undertunics, un-died cassocks and sandals and dumped the pile in Owerd’s arms. There was no time to contemplate or examine his new possessions as he was then led to what was to become his cell – a door-less and window-less cubicle just off the abbey’s rear corridor. It was made clear that he was to change into his new garments there and then, but there was a startled cry from Edlyn as he noticed the black and bruised skin covering most of Owerd’s body. An immediate trip to the infirmary confirmed a lack of broken bones so he was taken onwards to what turned out to be a classroom adjacent to the library, the smell of which explained the novice-master’s sallow appearance and musty cassock.

So began Owerd’s time as a novice monk. That first evening provided an inauspicious start. He had accidentally left a little straw in the hallway in the process of taking it to prepare his bed for the night. That incurred both the wrath of the monk acting as Roundsman who, it seemed to Owerd, acted more like a monkish spy, and the added burden of cleaning out the stables after Lauds the next morning. That in turn led to him being late for the service of Prime and a requirement to run to the river and return with two pails of water to refresh the animals’ drinking trough. That was the start of many months of exercising his capacity for humility and self-discipline, although he had little time to contemplate his progress as Edlyn, young as he was, was also a hard task-master and disciplinarian. Despite, or perhaps because of, these activities Owerd was also becoming aware of his physical growth and a surprising aptitude for languages.

As taught by Edlyn, Latin was supreme in all the monks’ formal language and writing, although the latter did involve a required ability to write in what the monks referred to disparagingly as ‘Englisc’. As he progressed, Edlyn also introduced an element of French, which Owerd was to greatly benefit from in later years. After what seemed like an eternity scratching with chalk and slate, Edlyn, one late-Spring morning, announced a trip to the forest. They were off to locate a suitable stand of oaks, to collect what he called oak-apples to resupply the abbey’s supply of ink. ‘This is promising’, thought Owerd, as ahead lay the prospect of writing on parchment, up to then prohibited to him, being far too valuable to waste on students. They had with them one other novice, an impish lad of no more than eleven or twelve years named Cerdic, and a mule with no saddle but baskets slung on each side.

It was some miles from Evesham before they found what Edlyn considered a likely stand of oaks and soon thereafter a sturdy old tree laden with oak-apples.

‘Take them off carefully and start loading the baskets’, directed Edlyn and the novices set to with a will. Focused on their task, none of the three heard or noticed the two ragged individuals who had crept up on them.

‘What have we here, then, a monks’ picnic out in the wilds?’ called one of the men in a West Saxon voice heavily accented with that of the Welsh. ‘No need to answer, monks, we’ll simply accept your alms. We have need of a horse and that one you have there will do just nicely. Not too many women hereabouts either, so mayhap we’ll take that young lad with us as well’. With that he drew a short sword and stepped toward Edlyn while his companion took hold of the mule’s bridle.

‘Begone, churls’, yelled an angry but clearly frightened Edlyn, ‘we are of Evesham Abbey and stealing from us will have all the king’s men hunting you down’.

‘None the wiser will be the king’s men without witnesses’, laughed the man who was evidently leader of the pair, and he began waving his sword from side to side as he walked quickly toward Edlyn.

Afterwards, Owerd was quite unable to describe what precisely fired him to anger or exactly what motivated his movements. All he recalled, other than a vague awareness of being determined not to have his younger humiliation repeated, was that he ran at the man holding the mule. Having barrelled the surprised man to the ground he struggled with him briefly before pulling his eating knife from his waist and pummelled the man’s head with the handle until he no longer moved. Turning from the unconscious man he saw Edlyn lying prone with the other assailant standing over him with sword raised. He was fortunately only a few yards away and was reached within seconds by Owerd who rammed the eating knife into his back with full force while the force and his own momentum carried both men to the ground. Grabbing the hilt of the sword before the man regained his senses, he pulled it from him. He now stood uncertainly about what to do next but quickly realized that Edlyn was hurt.

‘Cerdic, grab the mule; bring it across here’, Owerd yelled to the young lad still frozen in shock.

The lead assailant was now struggling to his feet but stopped moving when he found his own sword pointed threateningly at his throat. Owerd now had a problem. He could not safely control the man while also checking on Edlyn who seemed to have lost consciousness and was, from the redness on the grass, losing blood from somewhere.

‘Cerdic, see if you can get Edlyn on to the mule’. The lad tried but he was simply not strong enough.

‘You, help him get my friend on to the mule’, he directed, more in hope than belief that the man would comply. To his relief, though, the man helped Cerdic lift the injured monk up and the two then laid him awkwardly across the mule, with the baskets preventing any other choice of position.

‘Now go, Cerdic, as fast as you can back to the abbey and straight to the Infirmarer’.

Cerdic began jogging homeward trailing the burdened mule as Owerd turned his attention fully on the assailant.

‘Start walking’, Owerd directed him, ‘follow that mule and don’t try anything foolish’.

‘I’m injured’, pleaded the man, ‘I can’t walk’.

This presented a more serious problem. Owerd was confident that Cerdic could find his way to the abbey – it was raised on the peak of its hill and could be seen for miles – but whether he could do so in timely fashion with his patient on the mule was in doubt. Equally, he could not in all conscience leave this evil-doer to his own devices. He took drastic action. With the man facing away he sliced the sword across the back of his calves, thus severing the muscles. The man screamed and dropped to the ground like a stone. Satisfied that the churl was going nowhere, Owerd loped off to catch up with Cerdic at his best pace. It was fortunate that he did so. No more than a mile further on, he sighted the stationery mule with Cerdic alongside making a futile attempt to lift Edlyn back into place. Somewhat breathless, he caught up, dropped the sword he had forgotten he was still carrying, and undid the ties holding the baskets on to the mule. Now having the awkward baskets out of the way, he lifted his patient as gently as he could and lay him across the mule’s back.

‘You take the halter and go as fast as you are able while I run alongside and keep Edlyn on the mule’.

This process worked well and within half of one hour they entered the abbey gates amidst shouting and general concern. Cerdic, completely exhausted, dropped to the ground as they drew up outside the infirmary as Owerd let Edlyn carefully to the ground. The commotion had drawn the Prior from his office who naturally took charge and with cool efficiency had the patient carried into the infirmary and cool water brought to the two novices. The Prior was an intelligent man and had the wit to wait until Owerd had drunk and regained his composure before questioning him about what had happened. After being given a brief summary of events he looked thoughtfully at Owerd.

‘Could there have been others there too; could they have been the advance of a raiding party?’

‘They seemed alone m’lord, but it was not possible to tell as we were in the midst of the woods’.

The Prior came to a decision after another moment or two of silent reflection.

‘Close the gates, ring the warning bells’, he directed a nearby monk and, after getting a better idea from Owerd of the location of the incident, followed that up with orders for two mounted guards to investigate. ‘You two may rest for the remainder of the day’, he added to the novices as he went off to brief the abbot.

CHAPTER TWO

Above the abbey, clouds had gathered overnight and Owerd awoke to a stiffness in his joints and the steady patter of rain outside. Gathering his wits, which seemed almost as unsound as his limbs, he rose slowly and to his horror realized he had missed the service of Prime. Throwing his clothes on and dashing down the corridor he came to an abrupt halt at the main entrance. In front of him was rain falling in veritable torrents and a sorry looking, and very sodden, Cerdic with his cassock pulled over his head in a fruitless attempt at protection. If his own brain were not so muzzy, he would have burst into laughter at the sight. Instead, he pulled Cervid into the dry vestibule and began to quiz him.

‘I slept in: did anyone notice me missing from service? Do you know how Edlyn is? What have they done about those robbers?’

‘Hey, slow down my friend’. Cervid shook his head and water sprayed everywhere. ‘I don’t think your absence was noted, certainly no-one questioned me. Anyway, you are a bit of a hero at present so it probably matters not. The main thing though is that Edlyn will recover, God willing. He has a nasty slice across his body and the Infirmarer thinks he may have been in time to avoid infection. As to me, I am fine, thank you for asking’, he added sarcastically, but softened with a grin, ‘and I have just completed an interview with the abbot and Prior, so you are next. I was told to have you go to the abbot’s office when I next saw you. As to the robbers, I know not’.

‘Thank you Cervid, you did well yesterday’.

Cervid smiled shyly as Owerd dashed toward the abbot’s office, well pleased with the praise, though he knew he did not deserve it. Owerd himself was entirely uncertain of the likely reactions to his own performance yesterday and, nervously tried to shake himself dry as he stood outside the office door. Summoned inside in response to his polite knock, he stood before the abbot awaiting the unknown and noticed the Prior seated to one side reading quietly.

‘Well novice Owerd, what are we to make of yesterday’s events? It is clear to the lord Prior and myself that, in the circumstances, you have broken no rules of the Order. Having said that, you are also responsible for the violent death of two of God’s children’. Here he raised his finger to forestall any objection. ‘Both of the men involved seemingly bled to death before we could intervene. We have no further responsibility for them, although it would be useful of you to pray for their departed souls. What concerns us is the wellbeing of your own soul and the need to be certain there is no element of uncontrolled violence in your own character. For that you must answer to God, not us. We will make a decision on any further action regarding yourself on the morrow. Meanwhile, this afternoon you are to make yourself available to the stable-hand for any work he chooses to bless you with. Tonight, after the service of Compline, you will kneel at the altar in the chapel and remain there in silent contemplation, ruthlessly exploring your own conscience for any error. You may return to normal duties after the service of Matins. You are excused’.

Owerd left the office numbed in mind and body. As he did so the Prior added to the abbot’s words, ‘and if you think your absence from this morning’s service went unnoticed you are quite mistaken’.

There was little for it but to head to the stables and submit to the directions of the stable-hand. ‘Obedience and humility’ he thought disconsolately.

As it was, Wilfred the stable-hand greeted him cheerily enough and applied a light touch to his workload. ‘Hear you saved Brother Edlyn’s life yesterday, young sir. Folk all around the Abbey talking about it’.

‘Aye well, what’s done is done, life goes on’. With that bland and, for him, very unusual burst of philosophy, Owerd went about cleaning, currying and generally making himself useful but in little more than a daze. The same daze continued during his enforced period of contemplation, although the increasing pain in his knees from the stone floor came close to generating rebellion. ‘Obedience and humility’ he repeated to himself like a mindless chant through the night. Morning service came like blessed relief and he went happily but nervously to clean himself up before facing the abbot.

Entering the abbot’s office there was, as before, an additional person in the room. This time though, the accompanying monk was lounging back in an armchair seemingly completely at ease but exuding a discreet sense of power and authority. Owerd’s eyes widened slightly when he also noticed that, around the usual cassock, the monk was wearing a leather belt to which was attached a sword. Owerd’s attention was drawn back to the abbot.

‘Whether your night of contemplation revealed anything about yourself is between you, the Lord and your conscience. Whatever, I have decided that the rest of your training shall take a different direction. This’, he waved a hand toward the strange monk, ‘is Brother Radwulf. He runs a small outpost of our Order a few leagues south of here we call Bredon. Their role, though still devoted to the greater glory of God, supports and complements our own. Looking after souls is a priority of the Order, but protection of the innocent is similarly important. Sometimes, in extremis, that may demand the use of force. Our brethren at Bredon provide skills in that direction. My agreement with your father stands as before but you may consider Brother Radwulf your new novice-master and will obey him in all things. You may go’.

Owerd left the office about as nervously confused as he went in but intrigued at this new direction to which the abbot referred. He had little time for reflection, though, as Brother Radwulf also came out of the office, but at a much brisker pace.

‘Go to your quarters, collect your belongings and return your bedding. Do that quickly and meet me at the main gate’. Having issued his instructions, he simply walked off without another word.

Having cleared his room and arriving at the gate as directed, he saw that Brother Radwulf was already there with a horse saddled ready to go.

‘Give me your sandals’, ordered Radwulf.

‘My Lord?’ queried Owerd.

‘I am not your lord’, responded Radwulf brusquely, ‘I am simply Brother Radwulf; you may call me sir. Now hand me your sandals and make sure I never again have to tell you twice what to do’.

In a state of even more confusion, Owerd removed his sandals and passed them across to Radwulf, who placed them in one of the saddlebags. ‘Now follow me’, he directed whilst mounting his horse and proceeding leisurely out of the gate.

Receiving no further explanation about what was happening, Owerd could only rely on his chant from the night before of ‘obedience and humility’ as he was forced into a quick walk in his bare feet. He kept to the grassy sides of the track as much as he could, but lengthy sections of flint-like stones were tearing his skin and introducing sharp pain through every fibre of his being. His only means of survival was to withdraw into that trance-like state that he had practiced during some of the more tedious church services. He was determined not to give his tormentor the satisfaction of a complaint or request for rest. This agony continued for what he thought must be fully two leagues until, like a haven in a storm, the gate of a small walled compound came into sight and both horse and men entered.

Owerd stood still, mind blank, as Radwulf climbed down from his horse and yelled for someone called Hilda.

‘Give him water and see to his feet’, Radwulf ordered as a pretty but worn-looking girl of around sixteen years appeared from a stable.

The girl assisted him across to a horse trough and, after taking a ladle of water out, had him sit on the end with his feet in the water while he drank from the ladle. Leaving him alone for a few minutes, she returned with a pail of water, some cloth and a jar of some sort of ointment. Aiding him