Traveller Manifesto

Aengland – 11th Century.

So far, their flight had taken place without incident. Aside from the intermittent drizzle, the conditions were suitable for an extended journey. Dressed in their naturally-oiled woollen coats, they remained warm and surprisingly dry, reminding Michael that the peoples of Saxon times could, if wealthy and resourceful enough, enjoy comforts rarely identified by the 21st Century from whence he had come.

Inside of Tatae’s coat, Genovefa lay comfortable and warm, ready to be affixed to a breast as desired.

Michael was constantly on alert, not necessarily for shadowy enemies but to aid in the comfort of his wife and his small daughter. In order to make the journey easier, they followed the ancient Roman Road; the Fosse Way. But the grey days were not without their emotional consequence. On their lonely road the normally stoic Tatae soon had tears course down her rosy cheeks. Though she had agreed that their best course was to flee the village of Giolgrave to protect those they loved, a few days on a strange road in a strange land hit her hard. As the tedium of travel settled in, the decision tore at her heart. They wandered the long miles, miserable and grieving.

Despite Tatae’s peculiar upbringing as a forest child and wise woman, when it came to people, she had only known Giolgrave. It had been her only home, a place to which she could always return, a settlement where her presence had value. Their visit to Snotengaham deeply shocked. Though aware of the impersonal nature of crowds in 21st Century England, that had been another, dreamlike place. It wasn’t home. In Snotengaham she was reminded of how far from home she really was. It was the sheer number of people and she knew none of them. She had coped well on the journey to Snotengaham, for she was with her family and friends. It had been a change of scenery, a holiday and a distraction from the norm. Her final fond farewell kisses with Yffi, Eadric and Irminric allowed the realisation of the consequences of their choices to finally strike home. It was only when the hard men of the forest wept tears of sorrow did reality set in.

They had, of course, meticulously discussed their choice to leave. Was there no other option? Was there no way they could live in Giolgrave and avoid the crushing will of the Generals who sought Michael to do their bidding? He had, on many occasions, explained how these men would not be denied, that they would manipulate him through his love of the people and his desire to care for Tatae and their daughter. They knew his weakness and, like a tender pressure point, would have no compunction to poke it when needed. They would ultimately convince him to do things that ran against his desires. It was what they did best.

So Tatae wept and Michael felt as if his beating heart had been torn from his very chest. To leave the people he loved was bad enough, but to place his wife and child into any circumstance that would harm them, put them at risk, or even make them unhappy made him distrust his decisions. He replayed the alternatives endlessly and, without the emotion, knew he had made the correct choice.

This was the only way the village of Giolgrave could be preserved.

Now he had to safeguard his family.

To make matters worse, Hurley had warned that they would come for him. Michael had not raised the issue with Tatae. She would seek to understand why such a decision would be made, as to what could possibly be gained. Why would his people send some of their soldiers against him? He knew how her quiet logic could not be effectively satisfied.

If Hurley warned him, the likelihood was high. He had to put as much distance from Giolgrave as possible. But to know he had been chipped? That, of course, was not a new concept for members of Special Forces. He had heard of testing of such devices, but the ability to power the chip to have a signal that was at all useful was the main impediment to the general application of the device into soldiers of any nation. What if they had overcome the technical issues? Michael had no idea where such a chip might be fitted. He could only assume the signal strength was inadequate over distance and could only be tracked by UAV searches. If he ran far enough, with the immensity of Aengland’s wild areas and the futility of an aerial survey of the entire countryside, such a mission might be impractical when one took into account that the Giolgrave villagers would soon discover any UAV crew in the glade where the Area of Convergence was located.

Yffi had assured that he would monitor the situation. Michael knew the hunter would not be pleasant to anyone who had compelled his friend and family to flee.

So they trudged on gloomily and spent a night at the home of a farmer. He regaled them of the success of his harvest, how the rain had been plentiful for the growth of various fruits and that the arrival of the Vikings had seen the countryside become relatively peaceful. They dined on a simple, coarse meal of boiled peas and barley while the farmer’s wife and young children spoiled Tatae and Genovefa with hugs and affection.

When they finally found the Roman road, the Fosse Way, they headed southwest.

Michael recalled that to drive between Nottingham and Leicester took less than an hour. It took them two days of unhurried walking before they passed through the gates of the small township of Ligeraceaster, the name for Leicester of the day. The first impression was of a settlement similar to Snotengaham. There was quite a number of workshops, along with potters kilns and a larger market area, but otherwise it seemed harmless enough. Crops of peas and barley were planted within the ancient, Roman walls. The locals were friendly and directed them to the church of St Nicholas, a humble stone building that sat adjacent to Roman columns that were part of ruins that hunched dejected in the afternoon drizzle. Local monks ran a guest-house of huts similar to where Michael had originally stayed at the old Giolgrave monastery. Ten small wicker-walled monks’ cells stood adjacent to the church, one of which was rented by Michael and Tatae. At the sight of their child, Brother Patrick, the Prior of the Brothers who cared for the people of Ligeraceaster, cooed in delight and offered a blessing.

Though she would have been anything but welcoming of a blessing from a priest, Tatae, to her credit, was wise enough to act her part and happily accept.

Their cell was barely large enough to fit them, so after leaving their travel packs they wandered to a shabby cloister where a cauldron bubbled with the evening meal. Michael had already paid the priest in silver coin he had exchanged in Snotengaham, his silver nuggets unsuitable for use throughout their travels as such use would highlight their wealth and make them a target for bandits. It was ironic that he had never used his silver in Giolgrave, his social contribution as a warrior, musician and leader making his monetary wealth moot.

While they sat and took comfort from the hearth, Tatae fed Genovefa and Michael kept an eye on their quarters. Like the monk’s cells at Giolgrave before the Viking attack, the flimsy doors had no latch that would withstand a determined attempt to inspect or steal the contents. The structure seemed warm enough as the wicker walls were coated with clay and thatching which harboured vermin. Their home-made blankets would ensure their relative comfort. By the fire, Tatae hung their coats to dry. It would be some hours before the monks served their humble meal so they relaxed by themselves. It was a delight to have the drizzle kept from them and to not have to walk. As required, Tatae occasionally gave the contents of the pot, which looked to be the usual fare of soaked grains, dried peas, mushrooms and herbs, a stir to make sure it didn’t stick to the bottom and burn.

“I think we should stay here for a couple of days,” Michael finally conceded.

Tatae looked up and gave a quizzical smile. Genovefa had fallen asleep at the breast, where her mother’s nipple had fallen out with a dribble of milk. Despite her diminutive size, Tatae was a superb feeder. She gently wiped Genovefa’s mouth with a cloth kept for the purpose and then rested the baby on her lap. With her hand under the baby’s chin, she proceeded to burp her. Then the tot was changed, the soft woollen cloths used for diapers as effective as anything in the 21st Century.

“Why?” she replied. This had been an ongoing conversation.

“I want for us to clean our gear and eat well before we continue. Especially as we have been damp for over a day.”

Tatae nodded as she swiftly cleaned Genovefa’s little bum of the yellow and then added a clean nappy. As usual, Genovefa slept through the process. Her chubby legs showed she was feeding well and, thankfully, had been content despite their journey.

“Yet, we must flee?” she asked. “Would it not be best that we make the greatest distance from Giolgrave? You suggested that men would try to hunt you soon.”

“I know,” agreed Michael wearily. “But my priority is to care for you. I can run far and hard, but I won’t leave you. I have to make sure you’re both safe and well.”

Tatae smiled and looked to Genovefa and then slipped a hand under his arm as she placed her head onto his shoulder. “We are well, my Lord. Our daughter is happy and we have travelled safely.”

Michael grunted and gave Tatae’s forehead a kiss that had her chuckle. With the mood lighter, she asked, “Where to now, my love?”

He paused in his reply as he spied a scruffy monk who seemed to take too much interest in the door to their cell. The monk paused and, looking around, failed to spy Michael watching him as they were in the shadows of the open cloister. He struggled with the knots that kept the door closed, so Michael stood. “Oi!” he yelled in a voice more attuned for Latis, who had been resting by the fire. The hound promptly leapt to her feet and gave out an ear-ringing bellow that had Genovefa wake with a start and squawk of protest. The monk turned in panic and, seeing an armed man and a hunting hound, scarpered, which immediately encouraged Latis to run in eager pursuit. In moments she had firmly grasped the potential thief by the seat of his plain woollen cassock. As Michael ran forward, he was more concerned for the safety of the thief, for Latis growled as if she was about to tear out his throat.

Which, left to herself, she would have. Any perceived threat to her pack was to be met with the strongest violence and, as the monk fell to the ground, Latis crouched over him with a thunderously low growl, her muzzle wrinkled and teeth bared. He gazed up, his view filled with horrendous jaws and teeth, close enough to receive a blob of saliva onto his forehead. At a simple command, the foolish man’s life would be over.

There were wails of terror and cries for the Lord’s mercy, but none had any effect on Latis. Michael called her to heel when he arrived on the scene. She obediently released the miscreant and sat happily by her master as if nothing had happened. The monk lay on the ground in a foetal position as he sobbed in terror.

Even as he reached for the front of the small man’s dirty brown cassock and hauled him to his feet, Michael had an inkling that he might know this person. The erstwhile offender had his hands palm-outward over his face as if to ward off a deserved beating and his blood curdling screams soon attracted other monks, including Prior Patrick.

“What is the matter?” the Prior cried as the monk took his hands from his face and screamed loudly.

To shut the racket, Michael slapped him hard on the face. “Shut the noise,” he snarled angrily.

The monk looked to him in shock and Michael again had the impression it was a face he recognised. It had been on the road from Snotengaham when he and the family of Desmond had fled the Viking advance.

“I know you!” growled Michael.

The monk took a breath and looked at the warrior in shock. He had at least stopped screaming and stared blankly, as if trying to recall.

“Brother Bertwald!” declared Michael with a reluctant smile.

At that, the monk looked somewhat hopeful that he would be spared from the beating he deserved. “Yes?” he stammered.

Michael released the monk and frowned. “What are you doing? Why did you try to rob us like a common thief?”

“What?” asked the shocked Prior. “You were to rob our guests?”

There were gasps of horror from a couple of the other monks and one shook his head and muttered, “I knew it! Contemptible!”

Brother Bertwald reared like an angry snake, his expression indignant, but before he could make any retort, Prior Patrick interrupted. “Really brother Bertwald. Is this how you repay us? We take you in as our guest, we feed you, and this is what you do?”

True to form, Brother Bertwald had a ready reply. “Ah, but have I stolen anything, Brother? Can I be so accused and judged when I have done naught but make an honest error in trying to open the wrong door? Are any of you without sin and can throw the first stone? You judge me harshly Brothers!” and he spat the word Brothers as if it was a curse.

Having endured the war of words between Brother Bertwald and the monks of Giolgrave, especially his friend, Brother Oeric, Michael knew nothing positive would come of any confrontation with the scrawny monk. With his crooked and decayed toothy smile and hooked nose, the fast-talking monk was more a likable rogue than a holy man. “Brothers!” exclaimed Michael sharply to quell the rising tide of contention. They immediately fell silent, especially as they spied Tatae’s approach. Some immediately looked shamefaced that they would be seen to fall into such base disagreement but, Michael knew, Brother Bertwald seemed to bring that out in his fellow monks. “Brother Bertwald is known to me, so I withdraw my accusation against him. I will further take care of him while we are here and will guarantee his exemplary behaviour. In return for my withdrawal of my accusation, Brother Bertwald will work as an active member of your Brotherhood until we depart on the day after the morrow.”

Brother Bertwald could barely repress a squeak of indignation, but Michael had his hand on the back of the scrawny man’s neck and he gave it a friendly shake and squeeze. “You must make him work, Prior, but first, I implore if I can purchase new robes for our Brother. We will then go to the baths which I have learned are in the town. Our good Brother will there bathe and be the best he can be for the remainder of our stay.”

Michael felt the back of the small man’s neck stiffen, to which he gave another squeeze.

Prior Patrick’s eyes narrowed in amusement. He seemed grateful for Michael’s intercession, so soon presented their guest with clean robes and a couple of loincloths. One of the Brothers then led them to a string of murky pools that had once been the site of Roman baths. Though the water had the odour of sulphur and minerals, the sight had Michael realise how badly he needed to bathe.

Accompanied by Tatae and his infant daughter, Michael kept a firm hand on the back of Brother Bertwald’s neck as they stepped to the pools. He pointed to a smaller pool surrounded by Hazelnut trees. “Go! Bathe! I want you cleaner than you’ve ever been. I’ll know if you try to deceive me and if you wrong me, I’ll let my dog chew on you!”

The monk looked to Latis in terror. The hound simply looked to Michael and the monk and then wandered off to stand by Tatae.

“See?” continued Michael. “Even she thinks you stink! Luckily she didn’t bite you or you might have made her ill.”

Brother Bertwald looked to Michael and then Latis, uncertain as to how sincere Michael was in his threat. But his terror was plain, so he mutely nodded and, holding his new clothes, meekly made his way to the privacy of the pool.

Michael looked at the hand that had held the skinny monk and wiped it on the seat of his pants. He was certain lice infested the greasy rim of hair that was the monk’s tonsure. “And wash your hair!” he yelled after him.

Tatae gave him a quizzical smile. She welcomed the opportunity to bathe in warm water so was soon naked, clasping a slippery Genovefa to her as she submerged with a grateful sigh. “When we fled Snotengaham, we met our good Brother on the trail. Brother Bertwald is what some call a Gryovague,” her husband explained. “They are itinerant monks without fixed residence or leadership, who rely on charity and the hospitality of others. It seems some of the other monks don’t like them much because they are a little cunning. Our Brother can be such.”

Tatae giggled. “So it seems. He was very lucky, I think.”

Michael nodded as he took his wife and daughter into his arms. “Lucky to be alive! He is a sneaky fellow, but I feel his heart is good.”

Genovefa squirmed and looked at him with her big, pale-blue eyes. Her hair was so fair she looked bald and she gave Michael a smile that had her look just like her mother. He tickled her tummy and she gave a giggle and kicked her chubby legs. Her parents took some moments to pass her between them, her arms stretched out in the water like a starfish. Her eyes soon closed in the blissful warmth.