Sanctuary (Dominion) (14 page)

"I am," I said, and I immediately knew that he'd heard about my time in the taverns. I wasn't concerned. I was there for legitimate reasons, but I felt uncomfortable discussing it around them. "I'm finding Eoferwic to be just how I left it."

“I don’t think Eoferwic had two kings when you left,” Eadwyn chimed in.

I realized the opening I’d been given, so I pounced. “It seems to me that Osbert had it coming, though, trying to seize church property.”

“That was a terrible time,” Eadwyn said. “For a while there, we thought he might come after our own holdings. Luckily, he only went after churches outside of the city. And ended up sparking a civil war for his trouble. A war he may win, but it will be a costly victory.”

Oslac shook his head in disgust. "Forget Osbert. This civil war's bad for all of us. It’ll draw the Danes right to us like flies to-" he glanced at Eadwyn and decided against finishing his metaphor. "Anyway, they may be pagan savages, but they’re smart pagan savages. With Osbert off chasing after Aelle and leaving the city defenseless, they’ll come at us like the wolves they are."

"I've heard they're wintering in East Anglia," I said. “The Danes.”

"Means nothin'." Oslac spit out a piece of gristle from his broth, then stirred his spoon around in the bowl. "They want treasure, boy, and we have plenty of it, in their eyes. Remember what happened at Lindisfarne. That'll be us soon. They'll come here eventually. Too pretty a place to leave it be."

The name Lindisfarne sent a shiver down the spine of anyone affiliated with the Church. Once a quiet abbey on the northern coast of Northumbria, the monks at Lindisfarne had collected all manner of Christian relics and treasures, along with the gold, silver and precious donations that come from those seeking favor from Christ. Because of that reputation, they were victims of the first major Viking attack, in 793, one which rocked the Christian world for its suddenness and its brutality. Since that day, churches had become a prime target for Vikings, especially those near water.

"You've been preaching those same warnings all year," Eadwyn said reproachfully, "and we haven't seen them here yet. They'll likely just hide away somewhere until the spring comes, so no use worrying about them until then."

"You think ships don't sail in the cold?"

"I think Vikings don't sail in the cold."

"Cold is all they know," Oslac grumbled. "It's why they come here all the time, so they can see what it's like to sweat in the summer. And it’s why they’re wintering in East Anglia, instead of going home. They’re staying close and those bastard Angle frogs are givin’ them horses and safe passage." Eadwyn frowned but he didn’t say anything. Oslac glared at me while slurping down more soup. “That’s your people down there, pup. Yer mum’s people, at least. Those frogs are hiding away in their swamps while the Danes sit idly by and watch us, waiting for a moment like now, when we’re weak.”

“If I was truly an Angle,” I began, hoping to deflect his ire, “don’t you think I’d have gone back at some point in my life to wade through the marsh like my fellow frogs?”

He grinned. “True enough, boy. Once yer ma got you out of there, you were smart enough not to go back.” He took a sip of his ale and frowned. “Why do we have this swill? Have to find a monk to get a good beer around here.”

"I will agree with you, though," Eadwyn said, "that this civil war weakens us. If we don’t have one true king by the spring, then all of Northumbria should be worried."

“In Frankia,” Pepin began, having stayed quiet most of the meal, “we have many kings, too. But they are usually sons or nephews of the main king, and they all bow to him.”

“Britain had a High King once,” Oslac said. “His name was Arthur. World’s gone to hell since he died.”

"Arthur was strong, but Charlemagne was better," Pepin said, not seeing the incredulous look forming on Oslac's face. "Charlemagne was crowned Emperor by the Pope himself."

Oslac had stopped eating now, and he stared at Pepin, who shrank away once he realized what he'd done. Eadwyn looked at the floor, pretending not to be part of the conversation. I said nothing, mostly because I didn't want Oslac to veer the discussion back to me, and at this moment I was willing to sacrifice my friend to the cranky old priest’s wrath to do so.

After supper, and Oslac's diatribe on Arthur's place in history, I retired to my room to be alone with my thoughts. I still couldn’t shake the restless feeling that had plagued me all day, and I decided to at least try to be productive. I rummaged through my satchel, found my journal, and went to the library to write about my travels. I managed a few pages worth of idle notes, mostly just recounting the villages and towns I visited, but my thoughts were scattered and useless that night, so I gave up writing and tried reading instead, though that proved just as fruitless an endeavor. I set aside the books, returned my journal to my room, and decided to walk around for a while. I found Eadwyn sitting in the Archbishop’s office, and Pepin and Deaga chatting in the kitchen in Frankish, but I didn’t feel like being around anyone, so I grabbed my cloak and went outside.

The courtyard was cold and empty, but I enjoyed feeling soft grass under my feet and being away from confining walls. Two city guards stood in the small park out past the half wall that sectioned off the courtyard from the square, lazily chatting and watching servants at an estate on the south side unload packs from two horses. When I was younger, that estate belonged to Eolderman Cynbert, but he'd been old and sickly then so I couldn't imagine he still lived. The house probably belonged to one of his four sons now. I'd never met any of them, but I'd heard stories about each one, ranging from silly to frightening, and I wondered which one the Church was now lucky enough to have as a land-holding neighbor.

Something shattered off in the distance, like the sound of pottery breaking, from the other side of the annex. I seemed to be the only one who heard it, though. The guards in the plaza continued talking to each other as if nothing happened, watching an old man drag a heavy sack into the Cynbert estate. I walked around the annex to investigate, a little grateful that something interesting had happened. The back door was clear, as was the walkway leading to it from the main square, so I suspected the sound came from the stables, perhaps from Ewen. I approached the stable’s side door, which hung open just enough to see inside, and peeked through to find Ewen inside, kneeling down in the middle of the floor, crouched over, his arms around his head as if in pain. Pieces of a clay bowl lay scattered on the ground beside him, and another smaller bowl turned upside down a few feet away. A single lantern illuminated the space, making it difficult to see details from where I stood, but I could tell that he wasn’t moving. If his slow, deep breaths hadn’t given away signs of life, I may have thought him a strange statue sitting in the shadows. He didn’t seem to know I’d arrived, and I made no effort to let him. If he was sick, as Eadwyn warned me about, I didn’t want to be near him if something happened. Also, I didn’t want to embarrass him, and myself by calling attention to it. I backed away carefully, trying not to make a sound, until I was close enough to the annex to walk as fast as I could to the courtyard.

The square was just how I left it, but my desire to be out here by myself had disappeared. So I went back inside and decided that sleep didn’t sound so bad.

*****

Even the Church must fill its coffers, and that meant petitioning the landed citizens for donations. The following day, I accompanied Eadwyn as he visited the estates of the city’s lords. Most of the men had been called to serve with the King, but their wives remained and proved to be gracious hostesses, feeding us lavishly when we arrived. Ostensibly, the visits were about the All Saints Day ceremonies that would take over the town in two days, but in reality, the meetings were just a chance for gossip and to pass on news of the fighting, or just local issues with slaves, servants, taxes or the weather. And they always ended with a promise of silver or goods.

I learned through those visits that Osbert’s army had recently set up camp near a town called Monkchester, while Aelle’s men were moving north to meet him. Everyone I met spoke about it practically, as if the battle was nothing more than a political maneuver, but I sensed an undercurrent of worry, especially amongst the younger women. They knew that their husbands or fathers or brothers might not return, though they avoided addressing it directly. A few hoped for some kind of treaty, or a division of land, while others preferred not to even think about it, chatting about rowdy dockworkers or how someone needed to get the farmers in the nearby villages focused on stockpiling more grain.

We spent most of the morning visiting estates near the church, mostly lords whose families had long ago taken over the old Roman houses or halls for their own use. We even visited the Cynbert estate, and I learned that it now belonged to his second son, Baldric, a man well-known for his dalliances with women, married or otherwise. Baldric was with King Aelle right now, but his long-suffering wife, Inedra, hosted us in his place and she proved to be a quite charming and hospitable woman. Early in our conversation, I found myself wondering how much she knew about her husband’s infidelities, but I eventually decided it wasn’t my business. Instead, I let the Roman architecture inside the house capture my attention.

Roman handiwork stood out in stark contrast to anything else found in Britain. Roman stonework especially was masterful, displaying both a sense of function and a claim of ownership on the world around it. Everything they built was intended to last for a very long time, unlike the crude wood and thatch buildings that dominated our towns and villages. So few people now could create like the Romans did, on the scale they did, and wandering these old walkways and buildings, even the ones that needed repair, made me feel nostalgic for a time I'd never even lived in. The heights of the Empire must have been dizzying, and it was disappointing to see only vestiges of that greatness scattered about the countryside, most of it falling into decay. Someone once told me, "We all live in the shadow of the Roman Empire." Did we ever.

Several of the homes had various treasures on display, but two in particular stood out to me that day. One was a stone marker outside a hall that commemorated the disappearance of the Roman Ninth Legion, some six hundred and fifty years ago. Three thousand Roman legionnaires disappeared without a trace in the wilds of what came to be known as Northumbria. The most popular story is that they were ambushed and killed by Picts or Scots while traveling north, though I had trouble believing that, given the huge number of men needed to take out a Roman legion. A slightly-less popular, and less-convincing, story is that the spirits of Britain swallowed them up in retaliation for the Roman slaughter of the Druids on the island of Ynys Mon in the prior century. Britons in the area continued to perpetuate this myth, but even my open mind found it hard to believe that the spirits decided it was better to make this legion of Roman soldiers disappear and not the ones that actually attacked the Druids. That seemed far more prudent to me.

The other treasure was a mural that depicted the god Mithras slaying a bull along with another god whom I knew nothing about. I cared little about ancient pagan gods, but I was reminded of the night I spent in that cave with Arkael, debating the nature of God, all in the presence of a bloody altar used by followers of a pagan warrior cult. The details of that conversation had already faded in my mind, but I remembered the important parts, especially my final question for him. By his own words, he was no divine messenger, but everything about that moment screamed divine intervention to me. I stared at the mural, at the spear Mithras used to slay the bull, and I saw Arkael’s sword in my mind, slaying Caenwyld. I wondered if this was another sign, reminding me of my true journey. As if I could forget.

Thinking about him only drove me to the edges of my patience, so I pushed those worries away. After returning from our visits, I spent the afternoon on chores, snuck in some reading and writing, ate dinner with the others, and then wandered off to be on my own. Only this time, instead of seeking refuge in the courtyard, I decided to go out into the city, where I could be alone.

I strolled across the quiet plaza and listened for the sounds of the city, letting them guide me along. I heard a man shouting at someone from inside his house, though it lasted only a moment and I couldn’t make out the words. Hoofs pattered along on the stone road ahead of me and reigns jingled as a servant led two horses to a stable next to a nobleman’s house across the square from the church. The two city guards I saw the night before chatted near the end of the street, then watched me as I approached. They warned me that it wasn't safe to be wandering the city after dark, but I just thanked them for their warning, told them I was on an errand, and I'd return to the church as soon as I finished. That satisfied them enough to go back to their conversation while I continued on into the heart of the city.

The moon was high by now, and before I knew it I'd reached the bridge again, drawn by habit, mostly. I stood there a while, feeling the cold breeze wrap around me, hearing the shouts and laughs from the taverns and shops that lined the docks nearby, and staring at the river that flowed through the heart of the city. 'You can't step in the same river twice,' I thought, recalling a saying written down by Heraclitus, the Greek philosopher. It meant you can’t ever go back to the way things were, which seemed appropriate right now. Once the water flows past you, it’s gone, moved on to some new place downstream, and life is no different. I’d come to Eoferwic because it was familiar, and safe. But it wasn’t my home anymore. Both of us had moved on, and unfortunately, I was still moving. I was a wanderer, with no place to truly call home. But that had been my lot for most of my life; Always searching for where I belonged.