Far Traveler

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  I - ÆLFWYN

  Chapter 1 - GIFT HORSE

  Chapter 2 - KING EDWARD

  Chapter 3 - ALONE

  Chapter 4 - MOTHER

  Chapter 5 - ANOTHER JOURNEY

  Chapter 6 - NEW PLEDGES

  Chapter 7 - SAINT OSWALD’S BONES

  Chapter 8 - STRANGERS

  Chapter 9 - A HYMN OF CÆDMON

  Chapter 10 - WINTANCEASTER

  Chapter 11 - A CHOICE

  II - WIDSITH

  Chapter 12 - LOST

  Chapter 13 - FAR TRAVELER

  Chapter 14 - WORDS IN THE HALL

  Chapter 15 - WIL OF EOFORWIC

  Chapter 16 - A JOURNEY CHARM

  Chapter 17 - A FINE SONG

  Chapter 18 - INTO THE STORM

  Chapter 19 - JUDITH

  Chapter 20 - HOT BLOOD

  Chapter 21 - LAST WORDS

  Chapter 22 - AWAY

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  A division of Penguin Young Readers Group. Published by The Penguin Group.

  PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A. PENGUIN GROUP (CANADA), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) PENGUIN BOOKS LTD, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England. PENGUIN IRELAND, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) PENGUIN BOOKS INDIA PVT LTD, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India. PENGUIN GROUP (NZ), Cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd). PENGUIN BOOKS (SOUTH AFRICA) (PTY) LTD, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa. PENGUIN BOOKS LTD, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.

  Copyright © 2005 by Rebecca Tingle

  eISBN : 978-1-101-49832-3

  Map illustration copyright © 2005 by Karen Savary.

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. G. P. Putnam’s Sons, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Published simultaneously in Canada.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  First Impression

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  For Afton and Miranda

  with all thanks to Kathy

  Seo hæfde moncynnes, mine gefræge,

  leohteste hond lofes to wyrcenne.

  —R. T.

  NOTE

  SOME OF THE NAMES IN THIS STORY ARE TAKEN FROM OLD English, a version of our language spoken more than a thousand years ago. To make these words look more familiar, I have changed the Old English rune letters wyn (ρ), yogh (δ), and thorn (þ) and eth (ð) into the Roman characters w, g, and th. Another letter called æsc (æ) remains, and indicates the short “a” of our word “cat.” So the first sound in the name “Ælfwyn” matches the first sound in the better-known name “Alfred.” One more detail of Old English pronunciation: The letters “sc” make the “sh” sound. When you see the word scop (which means “bard”), remember to read it as “shop.”

  Ælfwyn’s story takes place on the shifting battlefield of tenth-century Britain. Danish invaders have seized land north of the Humber River and have settled there among the English people who were there before them. Raiding parties of Danes and rival Norsemen continue to attack English fortresses close to the northern boundary of Anglo-Saxon territory. Mercia, once the largest and strongest of the English kingdoms, has declined and come into the care of Lady Æthelflæd. She looks to Wessex, where her brother, the West Saxon ruler King Edward, has wealth and men enough to help preserve Mercia’s Northumbrian border—but this alliance will come with unexpected risks.

  RAIN BEAT DOWN, WHIPPING ACROSS THE FACE OF THE SOLITARY rider. His horse slipped in the mud of the mountain path, and the man cursed, then bit his tongue. The horse was all he had left, now that his Lord Alric had gone to his grave without an heir.

  The man raised a dripping hand to shield his eyes from the rain. Had he seen a light in the dusk ahead of him? Yes, there it was again—a brief glow that vanished. Above the odors of sodden earth and wet horse a new smell reached him: woodsmoke. The man urged his horse forward. There might be a roof for a homeless traveler tonight, after all.

  It was a real settlement, he saw as he passed among the sturdy, thatched buildings. In the center of the little burgh stood a tall, fine-timbered hall. One of its large doors opened, spilling light out into the darkness, along with sounds of talk and laughter. Warm food, the rider thought, and drink, and a stable for my horse.

  A willing lad took the horse away, and someone showed him a place on a bench and gave him a bowl of rabbit stew. Farmers, the traveler judged, looking around as he chewed, and craftsmen. There were a few men at the far end of the hall who could only be a nobleman’s retainers, with their ring mail and leather armor, their battle-scarred faces. Everything here spoke of prosperity, of a lord who had made a good life for his people. The stranger hunched over his supper. He, too, had once known happiness in a good household.

  The traveler sighed, and raised his head warily. These people might ask him for his story now—small payment for their kindness. Nevertheless, it seemed hard to tell of his misfortune in the face of such comfort. The hall was quieter now, and as he looked around, the man saw that the people on the benches around him were turning toward the high table. A strong voice was sounding through the hall, hushing conversation—a woman’s voice, the stranger realized, and he craned his neck to see who spoke.

  She was sitting in the large carved seat, the place of honor, where the lord might sit with his lady beside him. But there was no lord, only a boy child on her lap who leaned his dark head against her shoulder. The lady had balanced a harp in the crook of her arm, and she reached around the child to touch its strings. Inclining her head toward the notes, she began to sing, her mellow voice reaching past the brightness of the hearth to the dimmest corners of the hall, and floating up toward the smoky roof beams. She sang the story of a captured princess, and then told a tale of separated lovers, filling the room with their grief. When that story was finished, the people called for more, and she began the lament of a scop, a storyteller and singer who had lost the favor of his king.

  “Who is she?” the stranger asked the man beside him. He’d meant to speak softly, but his voice echoed across the hall, and the lady heard. She looked up, and the visitor hastily ducked, ashamed to have interrupted the performance.

  “A newcomer,” the lady said. The man glanced up to find her gazing at him. She wore no noblewoman’s circlet, he noticed, only the plaited coils of her light brown hair. But her gown was fine, and she was clearly mistress of this gathering. He cleared his throat.

  “My lady,” he said haltingly, “I have not heard a woman who, er, I mean, the scops who played for my lord Alric—” He stopped, red-faced, unable to turn his clumsy words into a compliment. The lady smiled.

  “Be easy here, and rest yourself.” She ran her eyes around the crowd. “Shall I explain why the lady of this burgh does not pass the cup to all her good retainers in noble silence?” The child on her lap laughed, along with many of her listeners, and the man felt an elbow poke him good-naturedly in the ribs. For the firs
t time in many days the lines of worry eased on his face. Someone had filled his cup again, and he took it and drank gratefully.

  “Listen! This tale might have happened differently,” the lady was beginning, “if I had learned to ride as well as I learned to read. ...”

  I

  ÆLFWYN

  1

  GIFT HORSE

  “WE’LL BE LATE!”

  “No, we won’t. Come on, Ælfwyn!” My cousin Æthelstan grabbed my hand and dragged me along after him. We were nearing the stables, and the morning press of riders, servants, and stable hands jostled around us, drowning out Æthelstan’s words.

  “But Brother Grimbald is expecting us,” I protested. “Remember what happened last time we missed our Latin lesson?”

  “On the first day of the spring market?” Æthelstan asked. “That was just ill luck. How could I have known that your mother would be at the armorer’s stall as we passed?” My cousin plunged through a stable doorway and led me along the dim corridor between the stalls.

  “But I ...”

  “Don’t you want to see him again?” Æthelstan tossed over his shoulder. “If I had been given such a horse ... look! There he is!” He pointed at the next stall. I stopped as Æthelstan hurried forward. I could see the big white stallion moving in the dusty shadows, and I took a step back.

  Why had I been given such a horse, I wondered unhappily. Yesterday my mother, Æthelflæd, had brought him to me. “He’s a fine one,” she’d said, smiling as the horse tossed his head, “a grandson of the matched greys I brought with me when I came to Lunden from my father’s court. I want you to have him, Ælfwyn.” Mother had put the stallion’s lead rope into my reluctant hand, and I had stood there stupidly, wondering if Mother had mistaken me—her shy daughter—for someone who might have some use for this animal.

  “A beauty,” Æthelstan murmured, holding out a handful of hay to coax the horse nearer. “What will you call him, Wyn?”

  “They told me his name was Winter,” I replied. The horse’s head appeared at the opening and I jerked back, startled. Æthelstan shot me a quick look, then a grin split his handsome, sun-browned face.

  “He may be big, Wyn, but he behaves himself. Look.” He grasped Winter’s halter and the horse obligingly brought his head down, gazing calmly at me with one large eye.

  “I’ve never been a good rider—you know that,” I said miserably. The stablemen usually gave me some sleepy old beast if Mother required me to ride. I always had trouble just keeping up with the rest of the company. It was enough to send me scurrying to the library any time a ride seemed likely.

  “I’m telling you, he won’t be hard to ride. Just watch this.” Æthelstan stepped into the stall, took a handful of the horse’s mane, and vaulted smoothly onto his back. Winter merely shifted one hoof, adjusting to the new weight. “See? Still as a stone!” Æthelstan said proudly, patting the horse’s arched neck.

  “Even if my legs were as long as yours, I could never do that.” I frowned up at my cousin.

  “Here, I’ll help you up,” Æthelstan said eagerly, leaning down to catch my arm.

  “No! I can’t!”

  But he had already begun to heave me up, and in another moment I was straddling the white warhorse behind Æthelstan, my long undergown bunched around my knees.

  “I told you, he’s as steady as you could wish,” Æthelstan said with satisfaction. “But ease off there, Wyn,” he said, craning his neck to look at me. “You’ll squeeze the breath out of me.”

  I made myself loosen my arms around Æthelstan’s waist, but my fingers still gripped the belt over his tunic. I had never sat such a tall horse, and the ground seemed a long way off.

  “He’s been well trained—see how he answers to just a touch here. ...” Æthelstan pressed gently with one knee, and the horse turned. I squeezed Æthelstan’s belt harder. “And let’s try this.” Æthelstan leaned over the horse’s withers and Winter stepped forward out of his stall.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed.

  “Don’t worry, Wyn,” Æthelstan replied happily. “We’ll just see how he goes!”

  No one stopped us as we trotted through the stable yard. After all, I thought as I clung grimly to Æthelstan, Winter was my horse—Mother’s gift to me—and everyone in the stable must know that now. Heads turned as we flashed along the road through the center of Lunden, and I muttered a stream of protests into Æthelstan’s ear as he lifted the horse into a canter.

  “Mother never gave permission ... miss Latin again ... Brother Grimbald won’t ... I’m falling!”

  Æthelstan heeded nothing but the last words of my harangue, which made him reach back quickly to keep me from pitching sideways. He never slowed the horse, and in a few moments we were at the south gate of Lunden’s defensive wall. Æthelstan flung up an arm and shouted to the sentries, who recognized him and called back their greetings. Almost before I knew it, we had ridden outside the tun.

  I clung in silence to my cousin’s torso as he made for a little rise nearby. Winter slowed as we reached the top, coming to a halt as Æthelstan settled his weight squarely on the horse’s back.

  “Look, Wyn. Isn’t it a fine sight?” I gazed out where my cousin pointed as Winter dipped his nose into the spring grass. Farmed fields lay side by side in strips, their broad furrows barely green with the year’s young planting. The road from the gate ran through open pastures down to a distant river, and beyond that lay a tangle of shadowy woodland, dark at the edge of the blue sky. “How could we spend the whole morning in the scriptorium on a day like this?” Æthelstan demanded.

  “All this light would make it easier to copy the lesson,” I answered stubbornly, but inside I was beginning to feel glad we had come.

  It was always like this, I thought to myself. Ever since my cousin had joined our household as a fosterling some seven winters earlier, he had drawn me into his schemes. And yet however reluctantly I went, I always found myself enjoying Æthelstan’s company. From the first days of our childhood together, he’d been ready with a smile for me, and with real friendship. Sometimes I wondered why. Wasn’t I just the mousy girl who could best him at reading and writing, but who shrank from walks in crowded streets, from the friendly conversation of my mother’s many noble visitors, even from the touch of an unfamiliar servant?

  Still, somehow Æthelstan liked me. I rested my chin on his shoulder, content. And of course there were things we shared. We were highborn—he the son of the West Saxon ruler King Edward, and I the daughter of Edward’s sister Æthelflæd, who ruled the ancient kingdom of Mercia in Edward’s name. Æthelstan had rarely seen his parents or his brothers and sisters since he’d come to live with us, and I was my mother’s only child. I found myself remembering how in my ninth winter I had watched my father waste away on a sickbed. His death had left me without family except for Mother. And then just a few months after my father’s passing, Æthelstan had come, already tall though he had not yet lived through his twelfth winter, often bored with the customs and duties of noble life, and surprisingly fond of his shy cousin Ælfwyn.

  “What’s that?” Æthelstan asked suddenly. I felt him lean forward to peer into the distance, and the horse, still grazing, took a step down the hill. “Hold there!” Æthelstan slid to the ground and caught Winter’s halter. “Good boy.” He raised a hand to shade his eyes, still looking out toward the river.

  “Do you see something?” I asked, trying to find what had caught his eye. Then at the far edge of the river I saw movement—horsemen, a group of them, with wagons behind. A large party had reached the fording place. I guessed that they would cross the river and be at Lunden’s southern gate before the abbey’s bells rang to mark the third hour of daylight.

  The third hour ...

  “Æthelstan, we have to get back! Brother Grimbald will already have missed us for a quarter of an hour—”

  “Grimbald?” Æthelstan shook his head. “It’s not he who worries me now. But you’re right. We’d bes
t be safely in front of our books when that crowd gathers in your mother’s council chamber. Come on.” He started to lead Winter down the hill.

  “What do you mean? Who are they?” I protested, craning my neck to see the first riders begin splashing across the river.

  “I guess you’ve dulled your eyes with so much reading,” Æthelstan said dryly as he pulled himself up behind me—he would make me guide my gift horse back to the stable, it seemed. “Did you not see their crested helmets, the decoration of their horses and wagons?”

  I shook my head, too intent on the balance of Winter’s rolling strides to look back again.

  “It’s the West Saxon royal guard, Wyn,” he told me, “and my father, the king.”

  2

  KING EDWARD

  BROTHER GRIMBALD HAD NOT FINISHED SCOLDING US WHEN my companion Gytha hurried into the scriptorium.

  “Another tardy arrival,” the elderly monk said crossly. “Well, Saint Augustine’s writings have survived these many hundred winters. They will wait for one more student to find her seat.” He gestured to a space at the writing table beside me.

  “Pardon, Brother”—Gytha ducked her head politely and tried to smooth her windblown red curls—“but I have not come for the lesson today.” Æthelstan raised an eyebrow at me. “Lady Æthelflæd has asked me to bring Ælfwyn and Æthelstan. They are wanted in her council chamber.” Æthelstan was grinning outright now, his smile almost a match for Brother Grimbald’s scowl. “I apologize, Brother Grimbald,” Gytha said as Æthelstan and I stood to go. “The lady said they must come right away.”

  I touched our tutor’s sleeve. “For our next lesson, is there anything to prepare?” The dour expression on Grimbald’s face did not change as he ran his finger along the margins, showing me a dozen new pages of reading.