Venerable Bede
05-23-2011, 04:33 PM
Chapter 1 – An Omen of Battle
As dawn chased away the shadows of the night, and the golden sun peered over the misty horizon, life in Hagustald was just beginning to stir. The weary night watch slowly ambled towards the barracks, soon to be replaced by their yawning comrades. With spears shimmering in the fresh dawn light, the morning watch assumed their stations on the ramparts of the high fortress. From atop the wall, the sentries commanded an excellent view of the surrounding countryside; any marauding enemy, Scot or Saxon, could not approach within miles of the mighty timber fortress standing proudly atop the gently sloping mountain without being spotted by the alert sentries. The villages that lay scattered along the base of the mountain showed little sign of activity at this early hour, aside from the few industrious peasants milking their cows, or the village sentries lazily leaning on their stout spears, gazing far into the horizon. Spread throughout the surrounding area, lay numerous fields ploughed and sowed by the hard working villagers as well as fine pastureland perfect for the grazing of sheep and cattle. The numerous forest patches that dotted the landscape provided the people with a fine source of lumber as well as suitable space to raise their pigs.
Two of the fortress sentries that stood atop the pine gatehouse gradually shook off their grogginess and watched for any signs of trouble down below. As minutes passed and nothing stirred in the surrounding countryside, the two guards continued to stare solemnly into the valley below. Finally, one of the men, a large bearded fellow with a plain open face, stretched himself and with a great big yawn declared in a rather loud voice, “My God, this is dull. When would you say was the last time anything of note even happened around here? Eh?”
His comrade seemed startled by this sudden question and snapped his head toward his large friend. “What? What’s that you said, mate?”
“I said, when was the last time we had a little excitement around here? You know, like a county fair, or a wedding, or, hell, even a baptism would be something.”
“You attend a baptism?” laughed his comrade scornfully, “you’d be bored out of your skull twice over by the time the priest finished his Latin sermonizing.”
“Well perhaps,” replied the large sentry scratching his beard thoughtfully,
“but aren’t you bored of our daily routine? I mean, when was the last time we actually had a decent battle on our hands? My battle loot ran out months ago, and our wages are hardly enough to split between food and pleasure!” he exclaimed with a frustrated slap to the battlements.
“Well I for one am quite content to be at peace. I’ve already fought my fair share in the shield-wall, and I was lucky enough to survive with all my limbs fully attached. I should be very content to spend the rest of my days here in Hagustald enjoying good food, good drink, and good women.”
“Ha! You can be such an old woman at times” snorted the large guard with a chuckle. “But I don’t believe even you could go the rest of your life without wishing to fight again.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain of that. Unfortunately though, I’m sure there will be many more battles to fight before I can live in peace. A visit from our friendly neighbours is long overdue.”
“Ah yes, I haven’t seen one of them plague ridden Scots for ages. I wonder what happened to that big, nasty churl of theirs – uh – what’s his name again?”
“Who? You mean the chief?”
“Yeah, you know, that big ugly bastard with the long sword.”
“Oh, um, let me think, his name is – Alpin I think – yeah, Alpin MacRuiri. Alpin MacRuiri,” he repeated in a mocking tone, “chief of the half-witted barbarians.”
His comrade laughed lightly, then said, “It’s downright strange how long he’s taken to return to raiding our lands. I wonder what’s keeping him?” Maybe he finally got some sense in that straggly head of his and learned that, against true Englishmen, he stands no chance in hell.”
“Nah” replied his comrade with a shake of his head, “a big, dumb brute like him doesn’t learn real fast. Those Scots are stubborn as hell, you could beat them a thousand times, and they’d never give up. He’ll be back again real soon; I think Wulfgar believes that too. Have you noticed how he’s been lecturing us to keep our eyes peeled for enemy parties?”
"Yeah, now that you mention it, he has been rather paranoid recently. Maybe there will be a battle soon. Though a whole lot of good that would do me if we fight on our own soil! How’s a man supposed to collect a decent portion of booty if he’s protecting his own villages? It’s not like those mangy Scots carry anything of value on them either!”
“That’s true," replied his companion, “at least if I’m going to risk my neck, there’d better be a whole lot of loot to be gained.”
“Yeah” sighed the big sentry, silenced in thought.
The two men continued to stare out into the green valley below for some time. Smoke began to rise in a wispy column from one of the village hovels. All was silent save for the hardly distinguishable call of a faraway bird, floating up on the soft, spring breeze toward the two sentries. Within Hagustald , a few of the early risers were tranquilly going about their business. A young priest bedecked in a chestnut frock shuffled his way from the town chapel toward the nearby well, carrying a large wooden bucket. As he filled his bucket from the well, he looked up at the sentries and gave them a friendly nod of his tonsured head, then looked down again at his work. The big bearded soldier hollered out to the priest, “Morning, Brother Aelfric, won’t ya come and chat with us?”
Aelfric looked up and replied with a smile, “I should be glad to, but Father Cedwine expects me to refill his water basin. And patience is not one of the good abbot’s chief virtues. Perhaps I shall speak to you when I am finished.”
“Oh very well then, but it’s very dull up here. Do hurry up.”
The sentries once again turned to look out over the valley below. All was peaceful and serene and for minutes they kept watch. The smaller of the sentries leaned against the willow haft of his war spear and distractedly ran a hand through his light hair. Suddenly, a black dot appeared on the expanse of the pale sky. He strained his eyes, raising a weathered hand to his forehead, and assayed to determine the nature of this black object. As the dot drew closer, he decided that it was a bird, though which species, he could not yet tell. Pointing in the direction of this faraway bird, he asked his comrade, “See that bird yonder? Can you make out what kind it is?”
His companion strained his eyes to distinguish the distant fowl for some moments before replying, “Nah, I have no idea. Your eyes are better than mine anyway. You’re likely to identify it long before me.”
“Yeah you’re right; I forgot about that.”
After a few minutes more, the bird had closed the distance sufficiently for the keen eyed sentry to clearly see its features. There could be no doubt about it – the jet black feathers, beak, and nape – it was a raven, a scavenger and feaster upon the flesh of the fallen. It was as if a god of battle, a deity of the elder days, coursed across the heavens, foreshadowing the imminent slaughter of men.
The smaller of the sentries nudged his companion nervously and spoke in a half-whisper, “That bird is a raven; what do think this means? It must be a bad omen.”
“Nonsense! It is no bad omen; it must signify that battle is close at hand. Ah, it is a good omen if anything.”
“What is all this talk of omens?” The two sentries turned around startled to see Aelfric staring up at them.
“It is a lone raven, Brother Aelfric, circling around the valley,” replied the shorter sentry. “We do not know what it means.”
“It most likely means,” spoke Aelfric, who now joined them at the top of the gatehouse, “that the raven senses that there will be flesh for him to devour soon. I only hope that it is an animal that he means to feast upon and not the flesh of man.”
His hopes seemed doubtful however, as the horizon filled with myriad dark specks winging toward the fortress of Hagustald.
The raven, it seemed, was not to dine alone.
As all three of the men stood transfixed, watching the flock of ravens that now circled the land, a pillar of smoke began to rise from one of the villages. The sentries looked down and could see that the northernmost village was rapidly burning, issuing forth billows of cloudy, noxious smoke. It was too far away to witness the perpetrators of this fire, but the sentries could easily guess the cause.
“Cuthbert’s tooth!” roared the large sentry, “could it be that Alpin MacRuiri has finally returned?”
“My God, may it not be so,” implored Aelfric, lifting his eyes to the raven dotted heavens.
Their questions were immediately answered when a ragged young man ran up towards the gate, shouting at the top of his lungs, “To arms! We are under attack! To arms! To arms! The Scotsmen are attacking us!”
The day had finally come; Alpin MacRuiri once again made war upon Wulfgar Haakonson, Thegn of Hagustald.
And the ravens would feast before nightfall.
As dawn chased away the shadows of the night, and the golden sun peered over the misty horizon, life in Hagustald was just beginning to stir. The weary night watch slowly ambled towards the barracks, soon to be replaced by their yawning comrades. With spears shimmering in the fresh dawn light, the morning watch assumed their stations on the ramparts of the high fortress. From atop the wall, the sentries commanded an excellent view of the surrounding countryside; any marauding enemy, Scot or Saxon, could not approach within miles of the mighty timber fortress standing proudly atop the gently sloping mountain without being spotted by the alert sentries. The villages that lay scattered along the base of the mountain showed little sign of activity at this early hour, aside from the few industrious peasants milking their cows, or the village sentries lazily leaning on their stout spears, gazing far into the horizon. Spread throughout the surrounding area, lay numerous fields ploughed and sowed by the hard working villagers as well as fine pastureland perfect for the grazing of sheep and cattle. The numerous forest patches that dotted the landscape provided the people with a fine source of lumber as well as suitable space to raise their pigs.
Two of the fortress sentries that stood atop the pine gatehouse gradually shook off their grogginess and watched for any signs of trouble down below. As minutes passed and nothing stirred in the surrounding countryside, the two guards continued to stare solemnly into the valley below. Finally, one of the men, a large bearded fellow with a plain open face, stretched himself and with a great big yawn declared in a rather loud voice, “My God, this is dull. When would you say was the last time anything of note even happened around here? Eh?”
His comrade seemed startled by this sudden question and snapped his head toward his large friend. “What? What’s that you said, mate?”
“I said, when was the last time we had a little excitement around here? You know, like a county fair, or a wedding, or, hell, even a baptism would be something.”
“You attend a baptism?” laughed his comrade scornfully, “you’d be bored out of your skull twice over by the time the priest finished his Latin sermonizing.”
“Well perhaps,” replied the large sentry scratching his beard thoughtfully,
“but aren’t you bored of our daily routine? I mean, when was the last time we actually had a decent battle on our hands? My battle loot ran out months ago, and our wages are hardly enough to split between food and pleasure!” he exclaimed with a frustrated slap to the battlements.
“Well I for one am quite content to be at peace. I’ve already fought my fair share in the shield-wall, and I was lucky enough to survive with all my limbs fully attached. I should be very content to spend the rest of my days here in Hagustald enjoying good food, good drink, and good women.”
“Ha! You can be such an old woman at times” snorted the large guard with a chuckle. “But I don’t believe even you could go the rest of your life without wishing to fight again.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain of that. Unfortunately though, I’m sure there will be many more battles to fight before I can live in peace. A visit from our friendly neighbours is long overdue.”
“Ah yes, I haven’t seen one of them plague ridden Scots for ages. I wonder what happened to that big, nasty churl of theirs – uh – what’s his name again?”
“Who? You mean the chief?”
“Yeah, you know, that big ugly bastard with the long sword.”
“Oh, um, let me think, his name is – Alpin I think – yeah, Alpin MacRuiri. Alpin MacRuiri,” he repeated in a mocking tone, “chief of the half-witted barbarians.”
His comrade laughed lightly, then said, “It’s downright strange how long he’s taken to return to raiding our lands. I wonder what’s keeping him?” Maybe he finally got some sense in that straggly head of his and learned that, against true Englishmen, he stands no chance in hell.”
“Nah” replied his comrade with a shake of his head, “a big, dumb brute like him doesn’t learn real fast. Those Scots are stubborn as hell, you could beat them a thousand times, and they’d never give up. He’ll be back again real soon; I think Wulfgar believes that too. Have you noticed how he’s been lecturing us to keep our eyes peeled for enemy parties?”
"Yeah, now that you mention it, he has been rather paranoid recently. Maybe there will be a battle soon. Though a whole lot of good that would do me if we fight on our own soil! How’s a man supposed to collect a decent portion of booty if he’s protecting his own villages? It’s not like those mangy Scots carry anything of value on them either!”
“That’s true," replied his companion, “at least if I’m going to risk my neck, there’d better be a whole lot of loot to be gained.”
“Yeah” sighed the big sentry, silenced in thought.
The two men continued to stare out into the green valley below for some time. Smoke began to rise in a wispy column from one of the village hovels. All was silent save for the hardly distinguishable call of a faraway bird, floating up on the soft, spring breeze toward the two sentries. Within Hagustald , a few of the early risers were tranquilly going about their business. A young priest bedecked in a chestnut frock shuffled his way from the town chapel toward the nearby well, carrying a large wooden bucket. As he filled his bucket from the well, he looked up at the sentries and gave them a friendly nod of his tonsured head, then looked down again at his work. The big bearded soldier hollered out to the priest, “Morning, Brother Aelfric, won’t ya come and chat with us?”
Aelfric looked up and replied with a smile, “I should be glad to, but Father Cedwine expects me to refill his water basin. And patience is not one of the good abbot’s chief virtues. Perhaps I shall speak to you when I am finished.”
“Oh very well then, but it’s very dull up here. Do hurry up.”
The sentries once again turned to look out over the valley below. All was peaceful and serene and for minutes they kept watch. The smaller of the sentries leaned against the willow haft of his war spear and distractedly ran a hand through his light hair. Suddenly, a black dot appeared on the expanse of the pale sky. He strained his eyes, raising a weathered hand to his forehead, and assayed to determine the nature of this black object. As the dot drew closer, he decided that it was a bird, though which species, he could not yet tell. Pointing in the direction of this faraway bird, he asked his comrade, “See that bird yonder? Can you make out what kind it is?”
His companion strained his eyes to distinguish the distant fowl for some moments before replying, “Nah, I have no idea. Your eyes are better than mine anyway. You’re likely to identify it long before me.”
“Yeah you’re right; I forgot about that.”
After a few minutes more, the bird had closed the distance sufficiently for the keen eyed sentry to clearly see its features. There could be no doubt about it – the jet black feathers, beak, and nape – it was a raven, a scavenger and feaster upon the flesh of the fallen. It was as if a god of battle, a deity of the elder days, coursed across the heavens, foreshadowing the imminent slaughter of men.
The smaller of the sentries nudged his companion nervously and spoke in a half-whisper, “That bird is a raven; what do think this means? It must be a bad omen.”
“Nonsense! It is no bad omen; it must signify that battle is close at hand. Ah, it is a good omen if anything.”
“What is all this talk of omens?” The two sentries turned around startled to see Aelfric staring up at them.
“It is a lone raven, Brother Aelfric, circling around the valley,” replied the shorter sentry. “We do not know what it means.”
“It most likely means,” spoke Aelfric, who now joined them at the top of the gatehouse, “that the raven senses that there will be flesh for him to devour soon. I only hope that it is an animal that he means to feast upon and not the flesh of man.”
His hopes seemed doubtful however, as the horizon filled with myriad dark specks winging toward the fortress of Hagustald.
The raven, it seemed, was not to dine alone.
As all three of the men stood transfixed, watching the flock of ravens that now circled the land, a pillar of smoke began to rise from one of the villages. The sentries looked down and could see that the northernmost village was rapidly burning, issuing forth billows of cloudy, noxious smoke. It was too far away to witness the perpetrators of this fire, but the sentries could easily guess the cause.
“Cuthbert’s tooth!” roared the large sentry, “could it be that Alpin MacRuiri has finally returned?”
“My God, may it not be so,” implored Aelfric, lifting his eyes to the raven dotted heavens.
Their questions were immediately answered when a ragged young man ran up towards the gate, shouting at the top of his lungs, “To arms! We are under attack! To arms! To arms! The Scotsmen are attacking us!”
The day had finally come; Alpin MacRuiri once again made war upon Wulfgar Haakonson, Thegn of Hagustald.
And the ravens would feast before nightfall.