The Fighting Man. Adrian Deans
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it promised to be a hot afternoon, my head was swimming in advance with the noisome prospect.
As if to somehow magically emphasise my foresight, a horse in front of me lifted its tail and shat copiously, the coincidence reminding me of Brother Waldo’s words that God spoke in mysterious ways and I found myself wondering if this was His idea of a joke. Then the hair rose on the back of my neck with the awesome realisation that God was indeed aware of me and was privy to all my thoughts.
The horse shat again.
‘Brother Waldo?’
Waldo and I were at the very back of the procession, making its way slowly towards the little town for the mass and midday wedding, accompanied by players with pipes and tambors.
‘Yes Brand?’
‘Are men animals?’
‘Animals?’ he asked aghast. ‘Of course we’re not animals … we’re men! Created in God’s image.’
‘But we’re made of flesh and do all the same things as animals.’
‘Do all the same … ’ he began angrily. ‘Do animals pray? Do animals know grammar or geometry?’
‘Perhaps not,’ I allowed, ‘but they eat, root and shit, the same as we do.’
‘Animals eat, root and shit wherever they please,’ whispered Waldo furiously, anxious not to disturb the procession with our profanity. ‘Men have rules about such things … rules ordained by God himself, to signify that we are His chosen ones … made in His image.’
‘So that we might eat, root and shit in His image?’ I asked, strangely wilful, and laughed despite the look of thunder that crossed Waldo’s face.
‘Take a care not to utter such blasphemies in the presence of the Abbot, young Brand. There are rules … those of the blessed Benedict, and yet others. And there are punishments that will teach you piety and humility if the Abbot deems those qualities lacking.’
I had the sense not to press the argument further and, as we passed under the high stone walls of the monastery on the edge of town, I felt the cold shadow and shivered.
∞ ∞ ∞
The church at Stybbor was a cool, stone building with a window on the west through which the first slanting rays of the afternoon entered in a flash of red and green through candle smoke. Saint Ybbor, after whom the town was named, had been dismembered hundreds of years previously by earlier occupants of East Anglia who had known not the scriptures and resented Ybbor’s efforts to illuminate their vacant souls. The window on the west was supposed to show the various body parts of the martyred Ybbor lying on a field of green, but to me it just looked like a red and green pattern, which no more resembled severed limbs than the stars in the sky resembled a scorpion, or a lion, or a set of scales.
But I did like the window and the way the green and red beams played over the congregation as the sun moved westwards. It seemed to me once again, like the shitting horse, that I was on the brink of understanding something of the mood of God and His way of sending messages to the faithful. Dutifully, I listened to Father Maynard singing the Latin and it seemed that I understood him better than before, as though I had made it to a new level of understanding. That thought should have made me eager for the seminary, as mastery of learning was within my grasp, but strangely I felt more anxious than ever about leaving behind the familiar pleasures of my home for the solemn house of God, even if there was less need to worry about my arse.
I found myself staring at my brother, Gram – four years older than me and already a man with a reputation. He had twice killed Danes as a member of the fyrd which had been assembled by King Edward to stem the raids on Lundene and the Temes Valley. Indeed, he was only home for his wedding to Fyllba and would shortly return with my father and uncles to the king’s army encamped near the mouth of the Temes. And suddenly I knew what I wanted. A red beam of light struck me full in the face as I knew with sudden certainty that I did not want the seminary with its learning and its prayer. I wanted the battlefield and the company of men.
The first part of the mass droned to its conclusion and then the marriage ceremony commenced. It was harder to understand the words that were less familiar to me, but I understood that marriage was a kind of sacrament – less lofty perhaps than holy orders but still an honoured place in the sight of God and the proper place for a warrior. For the first time, I found myself jealous of Gram – tall, strong – about to be married to the golden-haired Fyllba and then return with my father to the fyrd, while I must stay close to the shit stink and learn prayer and abstinence and celibacy.
In that moment I found myself in the grip of terror and it was all I could do not to cry aloud at the prospect of my entire life, the possibilities of which I was only beginning to appreciate, being utterly wasted in God’s house. Surely there were others more worthy, whose tastes and aptitude were more fitted to that role than I. Perhaps I could go to my father before it was too late and have him agree to me becoming a page, or even just a foot soldier in the fyrd. Anything was better than—
‘Brand!’ hissed Waldo, and I realised to my embarrassment that I was still standing when the rest of the congregation had knelt for the benediction. I fell to my knees, whacking my kneecap against a part of the stone floor unsoftened by rushes as Waldo glared and Father Maynard stared bleakly, and I found myself wondering whether they were as aware of my thoughts as God seemed to be.
∞ ∞ ∞
Holgar was proud of his son.
Gram had grown into his strength and would soon be producing sons to continue Holgar’s line, which he reckoned back into the mists of time. His own father’s father had not known how long the family had owned the lands around Stybbor, but it was sung that the family were immigrants from Saxony who occupied land abandoned by the Romans and offered protection to the benighted weaklings left in their wake, bereft of leaders. Holgar’s family had offered that leadership and protection in return for work and fealty and the occasional need for the stronger lads to join the fyrd for summer campaigning against the Danes (not that the Danes had ever ventured so far upstream as Stybbor).
Gram had fought well in battles on the Temes and closer to home at Gipeswic, and was now accounted a man of prowess. He could fight single-handed or in the shield wall and had even had the honour of standing to Holgar’s left – trusted to spear Holgar’s foes when Holgar’s own rightward thrusts left him vulnerable to the man directly in front. Gram had fought with the urgent terror of a man who fears his father’s death more than his own, and truly Holgar knew his son loved and honoured him and would carry on the family line as well or better than he had done himself. What man could ask for more?
Therefore, it was with impossible pride that he raised the loving cup at the wedding feast and the guests drank, as they had done all afternoon, with the exception of Malgard, and Holgar felt an irritation that his younger brother was not entering properly into the spirit of the occasion.
‘Why don’t you drink Malgard?’
Malgard, in response, took a delicate sip of mead and Holgar could have choked him.
‘You drink like a woman!’ he scorned, slamming down his own cup to be refilled with the expensive wine from Burgundy he’d imported specially for the wedding.
Even as he spoke, Holgar realised he was being unfair. Malgard had been steward of the hill farm for nearly ten years and, even if it had always been understood that he held it in trust for Gram, he appreciated that Malgard would feel the loss. The hill farm was Gram’s wedding gift.
‘My apologies brother,’ said Holgar. ‘And let me apologise also for the loss of the farm. You should have some something of your own, and I will give thought to it ere long.’
Malgard acknowledged Holgar’s generosity with a courteous nod and stood to propose his own toast.
‘My honoured brother … allow me to wish you the joy of many grandsons, and a long enough life to see them join us in the shield wall … if the Danes come again.’
Holgar grunted