Conqueror

IX

Arngrim's party lodged with a cheerful, huge-armed English woman called Gytha. A widow, she made a living collecting scrap metal, which she sold on to the smiths, or direct to dealers like Leofgar. They were to stay here while Leofgar made his inquiries about Aebbe.

Gytha's house was only one room, with doors in all four walls and benches around the walls, and a big hearth of reused Roman stone. The roof was just beams and planks laid over the mud walls, with thatch piled on top to keep in the warmth. When Cynewulf looked out the back he saw an open cesspit, not yards from where he would be sleeping. Gytha kept geese, and the floor of the house was slick with their dung. Pigs came wandering in too, dark, skinny, long-legged little beasts.

A narrow staircase led down to a cellar where Gytha stored her 'scrap metal'. Cynewulf made out slit-open chain-mail, crushed helmets and broken swords, much of it splashed by brown blood. He tried not to judge Gytha over her corpse-robbing. After eighty years of the Northmen England was littered with bones, and he would be wrong to condemn a woman alone for trying to make a living. It was disturbing to think, though, that these bloody weapons and bits of broken armour would likely be forged into devices devoted to yet more killing.

Cynewulf studied Ibn Zuhr as he poked around the house. 'I have heard you talk of the need for cleanliness. How does this make you feel?'

'The customs of this country, and yours, are not my concern.'

'Speak freely, man. I want to know.'

Ibn Zuhr eyed him. 'You eliminate body waste without modesty. You do not wash after eating or after sex. You are all so filthy that sleeping next to a cess pit hardly makes a difference.' He smiled. 'Otherwise your country is a delight.'

During that first night, as they all huddled in heaps of blankets around the dying fire, it become apparent that Leofgar's relationship with Gytha was more than just commerce. Arngrim laughed in the dark, and offered his friend encouragement. 'Keep it up, Leofgar, your pipe will be pumping any moment.'

Leofgar's noisy ploughing made it impossible for Cynewulf to sleep. What made it worse yet was that the sounds and smells of their earthy passion worked their way into Cynewulf's head, and he grew an erection so hard it seemed to suck the very essence out of his soul. At last he reached under his blanket and, whispering prayers for forgiveness, relieved himself with a couple of brisk motions. It was an act that brought no pleasure, only shame, and in the morning he felt sure the others knew what he had done – especially Arngrim, who grinned at him as if they shared a joke.

He felt the painful shame of those moments in the dark even more later that day, when Leofgar brought home Aebbe.

She stood in Gytha's house – she refused to sit. She wore a grimy tunic that had been torn and crudely repaired. Her feet were bare, there were bruises on her arms and bare thighs, her hair was a mat of filth, and one cheek was puffed up and bloody.

'She wasn't hard to track down,' said the blunt trader. 'Guthrum's boys are the only Danes still fighting, and his hoard of slaves and booty made quite a splash when it reached town.'

Leofgar said that Aebbe had been sold in a batch of a dozen girls from Cippanhamm to a dealer who planned to ship them overseas. Fair English girls sold well in the east. Aebbe, though, was 'too damaged' to fetch much of a price. This phrase made Cynewulf shudder. It seemed the dealer had bought her without a close inspection; feeling cheated, he had taken out his rage on the girl. Then he sold her anyhow. She was strong, stocky, and a farmer took her at a knock-down price to work as a labourer. And it was from the farmer that Leofgar had been able to buy her back, though at a premium.

Leofgar winced. 'Everybody made a profit on this girl except me, it seems.'

Cynewulf approached the girl, full of shame. He had betrayed her; after all he had brought her to the King's hall where he had promised she would be safe. But he must speak to her. 'Aebbe. It is me, Cynewulf. Do you remember me?'

'I have lost much, priest, but not my mind,' she said dully.

'And you remember the Menologium-'

'I haven't lost my memory either.' She looked up, defiant.

Cynewulf thought he knew what she was thinking: that he wanted her only for what was in her mind, just as other men had wanted her only for the dark space between her thighs, not for her. 'And will you come back with me, to Wessex? For the prophecy may yet be of great value.'

'Why should I? My great-grandmother was right. All men are fools and cowards or worse. Why should I help you?'

'Because your King commands it,' Leofgar rumbled.

'But my King,' she said, 'failed me.'

Arngrim said, 'Leofgar told us you had been damaged.'

'They used me,' Aebbe said. 'The Danes. And some of the other girls, and a few boys. But with me, he had a little fun. I think it was because he saw me with you, thegn, who he fought in the hall.'

'Fun?' The word seemed monstrous even as Arngrim spoke it.

She pulled up her tunic, exposing her belly and breasts. The wounds were livid, still barely healed. 'You can see the crucifix he drew with his knife,' she said. 'And these letters, copied from a scrap of a burned Bible. Here he heated the knife in the fire, so when he-'

'Enough.' Gytha stepped forward, and with firm, motherly motions covered the girl up.

'By Woden's balls,' Leofgar growled, 'a bit of humping is one thing. We've all done that, I think. But this-'

'I will treat her,' Ibn Zuhr murmured. 'To ensure there is no infection.'

Cynewulf, thinking of his own lustful weakness last night, was consumed by shame – as if he had done this to her himself.

'Who did it?' Arngrim asked. 'Who was he, Aebbe?'

'The leader,' she said. 'He was at Cippanhamm. They called him Egil.'

Arngrim's eyes narrowed. 'Egil son of Egil. The Beast of Cippanhamm.'

'There is something more,' Aebbe said.

'What?'

She turned to Cynewulf. 'You want me for the prophecy in my head. But Egil has it. An ancient copy of it, written down. I saw it.'

Cynewulf was astonished. 'How is this possible?'

Aebbe shrugged. 'I only overheard fragments. Boasting to his companions when he was drunk. A Norse ancestor of his called Bjarni went to Lindisfarena, on the very first raid, Egil said, though I didn't believe that. And Bjarni stole the prophecy, along with much gold from the monks.'

Arngrim asked, 'And what does he do with it? I can't imagine a man like the Beast working out lists of dates.'

'He cannot read it. But he is protected by its magic, he thinks. He believes he cannot die.'

'Which helps explain why he behaves the way he does.'

Cynewulf's mind raced. He muttered, 'In Boniface's commentary – there is said to be a line in the fifth stanza, something about the Danes taking the prophecy for themselves – I could not understand it…'

Arngrim grinned, evidently enjoying Cynewulf's discomfiture. 'So, priest, whose prophecy is it, a pagan's or a Christian's?'

Ibn Zuhr watched these exchanges, silent, fascinated.