Traveller Manifesto

Aengland – 11th Century.

Snotengaham was a new place. The people seemed happy and prosperous. Rather than in panicked flight from their homes as Michael had experienced in his last visit, the locals had rebuilt. There was an air of prosperity, for the town was more hectic than ever. While Michael’s travelling companions looked on with astonished eyes, hawkers shouted out their wares or crouched over cooking fires as they sold food in the general press of humanity. Outside of the town walls, the Goose Fair made for brisk trade of farm animals of all kinds. There was a deafening cacophony as pigs, sheep and caged fowl expressed their indignity while noisy deals were struck.

One of the most obvious changes was the presence of even more Vikings. The Danes were better dressed than locals and the former conquerors were seen to flirt with a blushing damsel. “Look at ’em,” scoffed Yffi. “A couple of years hence, we would be killing them. Now they’re the handsome buggers, with their nice tunics and brushed and braided hair.” After having travelled so far, Michael felt scruffy. Yffi looked on, bemused, but Michael noted his friend made an unconscious attempt to smooth his unruly hair and long moustache.

All too soon they arrived at Irminric’s former home. It seemed an eternity since the lad, his family and elder brother had fled with Michael to the apparent safety of Giolgrave. The irony that they had suffered conflict that saw his brother, Hereric, killed while their home was left intact was not lost on the lad. Eadric looked on sadly as Irminric stopped, aghast. “Oh, Lord Michael,” murmured Eadric as he vocalised Michael’s thoughts. “What have we done? Desmond’s family has seen so much blood and torment, yet their old home and smithy are as we left it.”

They slowly walked to the workshop. Sounds of hammering came from where Irminric once worked with his father, Desmond, a swordsmith of note. The shop had grown. Small Saxon ponies stood patiently as they awaited shoes. Irminric looked on, wide-eyed.

It was when Osric stepped from the shed that Irminric finally burst into tears. The lean blacksmith who had worked with Irminric’s father, the famed Desmond the Smith, squinted in his attempt to recognize the party that stood before him. As if in revelation, he suddenly bellowed in joy as Irminric stepped forward. “May the Lord be praised! Young Irminric! Ye are now a man!”

They embraced roughly and, as hands pounded shoulders, they wept together.

Two brawny smiths curiously joined them. Osric, the once smith’s assistant who had stayed to risk the Viking invasion was now prosperous, with a booming business and comfortable home. Michael was again panged with guilt. Perhaps Desmond’s family might have been better off if they had remained in Snotengaham. Hereric might be alive and thriving as his father’s business partner.

Osric’s wife was called out and introduced. She had been like an aunt to the children of Desmond the Blacksmith, so there was more welcome and weeping.

Before long, they were sat upon blankets with a hearty meal of eel stew and bread. The weather was overcast but they comfortably sat where once Eadric and Hereric had wrestled. Osric’s wife and aged mother bustled about, while his father sat and gummed the rock-hard bread that was edible only after being thoroughly soaked in the stew.

After their lengthy tale of the family’s flight to Giolgrave in the forests, which had all gasp in wonder and anguish, Osric detailed the coming of the Vikings.

“Aye, well, we have no tale as grand as yours. The coming of the Danes was not as bad as we feared. They gathered everyone that was left, for most had fled. Some of the marauders looted where they would and a few set fire to the monastery. Most of the Vikings are Christians, but they like for things to be done their way. A few of the monks were killed, and some of our warriors beaten. They left me and my family be, thanks be to good Lord, because of their respect for my skill.” He looked about him and shook his head in wonder. “We thought ye were dead. It must have been God’s will, for what happened was beyond mortal understanding. Some suffered and some prospered. I prayed every day for your family, Irminric my lad. My heart sings that Desmond and your lovely mother are well, but your news of Hereric fills me with tears. He was a good lad.” Osric’s red-rimmed eyes swam and he gave a noisy, productive sniff before he continued. “They call us Angelcynn or English kind, they do, but here we live in peace. It’s not without our own problems, so you were wise to have hidden. Oh ay, some won’t like you wandering about with weapons, but if you show yourself to be friendly, ’twill be of no real concern. Not now.”

He looked hopefully to Michael. “Do you still have your wondrous swords, my Lord?”

Michael nodded. “They were damaged in the Battle for Giolgrave. We were lucky to have survived. These are not the same as the ones you have seen.” He removed them from their scabbards and handed them across without a thought. Such examination was to be permitted with reluctance, but as the workers of ancient iron gazed at his swords in respect and wonder his mind was elsewhere. How were they going to do this? How were they going to escape the forces that could follow them? Hurley said they had a way to track him, but what was that? A chip? He had heard of them of course, but he had no idea what it was or where it had been implanted.

“My Lord?” repeated Osric.

“Sorry?” replied Michael. He realised he had not been paying attention. Latis sat by him and gave a contented huff as he absent-mindedly stroked her huge head.

“Does your sword have a name?” asked the blacksmith.

Michael had not given much thought as to the name. After the Battle of Giolgrave, when they had fought against Viking marauders to preserve the villagers, after they had been joined by his comrades from Saxon Traveller, he had been compelled to return to the 21st Century for medical treatment. Not only had Tatae accompanied him, but so had his swords. They were now a new display at his regimental headquarters while new, undamaged swords took their place. Like the original Japanese Kitana he had been issued, his new swords were a wonder of martial workmanship. He had since heard that the newer Travellers were wisely issued with swords of a design that better suited the culture of their destination time. To wield a Japanese Katana in 11th Century Aengland was obviously a folly, but it was all he had. They had made so many mistakes in the original mission.

The Saxon smiths held his swords reverently and made whispered comment, for the blades were as nothing like they could make. They looked to their owner in wonder, for they had heard the tales of Lord Michael, the angel of God.

He thought quickly. “Um, yes, I have decided on a name,” he replied.

“Oh! What is that then?” asked Eadric in surprise. They had often discussed sword names. After all, Eadric’s sword was called Eaca Sorg, meaning Pain Bringer. Hengist, Irminric’s brother, had also received his sword that had been called ’Sigewif’, or ‘Victory Woman’. Irminric proudly wore his murdered brother’s valuable blade now, as was his right.

Michael’s name for his sword come upon him in a flash of inspiration. He realised the name was right, was appropriate. He looked to Tatae, who gave him a crooked smile. Not even she knew.

“My sword is ’Gleeman’,” he continued. “It is appropriate, for the sword is an extension of me. I play music, so I can be a Gleeman, a music maker. Too often I have also been required to make the music of death.”

“But, it is a happy name,” Irminric replied. He looked mystified and sounded vaguely critical.

Michael chuckled. “Yes, it isn’t a normal name. But it’s mine.”

Irminric looked to Eadric and Yffi, raised his eyebrows, but said nothing, as if he disapproved.

The swords of his companions were also inspected, swords more in line with what the smiths understood. They were works of art as created by Irminric’s father, Desmond, who was now the smith for the village of Giolgrave. It had been years since he had left Snotengaham, but his new home was where they were to stay.

“And you?” asked Michael. “You have survived, Osric. Your family are safe. Your aged parents live. For this we are most grateful.”

“Aye, we have been spared much, for the Thegn of Snotengaham is a Dane. Many of those who stayed were also of Dane blood, so as a people we have been blessed with a degree of peace.” Osric paused in thought. “There has been much conflict wrought upon our people. We speak to many, you see, many who ’ave seen the worse a man can see.”

“We survived, that’s true,” nodded Michael. “As we travelled, all were brave, yet have heard many tales of sadness.”

“But there’s more,” added Osric.

“What do you mean?” asked Eadric.

“Well, this is what I’ve heard,” continued the blacksmith. “You will know that Cnut is King, yes?”

“What of King Aethelred?” asked Yffi. “What news of him?”

Osric raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You know Sweyn Forkbeard died. Yes? Well his son, Cnut, is now King of the Danes. He has been in conflict with King Aethelred, who was joined by his son, Edmund Ironside, but our good king died. It was war,” continued the wiry smith. His face had a habitual downturned mouth that gave him a sad aspect. “King Cnut and his men left their own Danelaw and have swept through the country, plundering and pillaging as they go.”

“Aye, we know they did that!” grunted Eadric and he ran his finger along the puckered scar that gouged the left side of his face. The scar and his beard gave the baby-faced young man a worldly, battered look. “But still? We thought there was peace upon the land.”

Osric nodded sadly. “Peace, oh aye, there is that. But not upon the whole land. After the death of his father, our King Edmund fought many battles against the Danes, ending in his defeat at the Battle of Assandun. The two kings agreed to divide the kingdom, Edmund taking Wessex while Cnut took the kingdoms of Mercia and Northumbria. Edmund died shortly afterwards. Cnut now claims to be king of all Aengland. We hear told that Edmund’s two sons, Edward and Edmund, have been exiled with the rest of the royal family.”

“God save us,” murmured Yffi. He looked around, troubled at being in such a place where he could not vanish into the forest growth.

“Aye. But here, all is quiet. I speak to many a merchant who needs repairs or shoes for his horses. We ’ave heard of savage things,” continued Osric. “We heard that in one battle, Eadnoth the Younger, Bishop of Dorchester, was killed by Cnut’s men whilst in the very act of saying mass for Edmund Ironside’s men. There are tales of the ring being cut from Eadnoth’s hand and then his body cut to pieces.”

There were hisses of horror, while Eadric cast an anxious look to Michael. Tatae had gone to help the other women make more eel stew. The women fussed over wee Genovefa, who insisted on crawling wherever she could.

So as to not concern the women, the men strayed to other topics; on the success of the farmers and travel to the south, where Michael considered their path might lead. They sat around the fire that burned in the area normally reserved for horses awaiting shoeing. As the light faded, Michael played his mandolin to raise their spirits. They would part the next morning. Yffi, Irminric and Eadric would return to Giolgrave, their lost village in the primeval forests, while Michael and his wife and baby would flee.

It was impossible to determine what the future would bring, so Michael strove not to agonise on it. He had long ago found wisdom in only targeting one day and one set of problems at a time. They were well-armed, healthy and wealthy, so they had every chance of finding a new home.

But if he could be tracked and, as Hurley had suggested, the Generals were going to send troops after him, he had to be prepared. They could send weaponised drones or even autonomous systems, a fancy name for robotic killing machines that too many nations were in a race to develop. He was trying to formulate a plan but had no idea what he could do except place himself out of signal range.

As he played, Tatae rested her head on his shoulder and held him close. She knew something bothered him, something more than simply leaving Giolgrave and their friends. She was his strength, his rock. She sang with the others and laughed, her face aglow in joy.

Yes, tomorrow would be another day.