Authors: Theresa Tomlinson
Better than Gold
For
my lovely grandchildren.
With thanks to Jenni Butterworth, Programme Coordinator of the Staffordshire Hoard
First
published 2014 by A & C Black,
an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square London WC1B 3DP UK
1385 Broadway New York NY 10018 USA
Bloomsbury is a registered trademark of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © 2014 A & C Black
Text copyright © 2014 Theresa Tomlinson
The right of Theresa Tomlinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
eISBN 978-1-4729-0787-3
A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means â graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems â without the prior permission in writing of the publishers.
Printed and Bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
They
let the ground keep that precious treasure,
Gold under gravel, gone to earth,
Useless to men now as it ever was.
(From the Anglo-Saxon poem
Beowulf
)
The following story is inspired by real people, places and events. However, some names, locations and dates have been changed, as have certain descriptive details. Some events and characters are completely fictional.
Contents
Chapter
7 Another Familiar Face
Chapter
8 The World Turned Upside Down
B
rother Chad strode into the chamber, waving the knife that usually swung at his belt. It dripped with blood. Egfrid leapt to his feet, shocked to see his young book-master's habit bloodied and torn.
âWhat has happened?' he cried.
Annis, his nurse, looked up startled and put down the bowl of oatmeal she prepared. âAre you hurt, Brother Chad?' she cried.
âNot
my
blood,' he said. âWe must get the boy out of here! Mercians have got in through the outer gate.'
âNo,' she cried. âThat cannot happen!'
âBut it
has
happened. This is Mercian blood on my blade and the gate-warden is dead. The guards were
slaughtered
while they slept and the gate stands open. They'll be here in no time.'
The way they spoke over his head, taking no notice of him, made Egfrid angry. He snatched up the light practice sword that hung from a hook on the wall and waved it. âI'll go out and do battle,' he cried.
âHave you a skirt that might fit him?' the monk asked, continuing to ignore the boy.
Annis began to pull old gowns from a chest. âThese were his sister's, when she was young, butâ¦'
âToo rich,' Chad shook his head. âWe need plain stuffâthe cook's daughter perhaps?'
âNo time!' Annis cried, throwing up her hands in despair. âNo time, you said!'
They were silent for a moment, but then she snatched up the gown on the top of the chest and began to rip at the tablet-weave braid that edged the sleeves and neckline. âYou wanted plain,' she muttered.
Without another word the monk wrenched the sword from Egfrid and dragged the boy's burnished leather tunic up and over his head. âI'm sorry, my prince, no time for gentleness!' he said.
Egfrid was shocked by this rough treatment, from those who were usually kind to him. They
thrust
him into his sister's old gown, now ragged at the edges.
âCover his head!' said Chad.
âNo,' Egfrid protested. âI'm ten years old! I'm no girl and will not dress like one.'
But Annis ripped another piece of cloth and Brother Chad held him firmly, while she fastened a makeshift kerchief tightly about his head.
âNo, no, no!' he cried, twisting and turning in their grip.
Screams and shouts came from the courtyard below, followed by the thunder of booted feet on the stairs. The monk and nurse exchanged a terror-filled glance. Brother Chad made the Christian sign,
three-gods-in-one
, and then the door crashed open and two warriors burst in on them, swords drawn and bloody.
The monk stepped in front of Egfrid, meat knife at the ready, but a red-faced giant of a man stumped into the chamber. He raised his fist, and sent knife and monk skittering helplessly across the floor. The giant was old with white hair and beard, and dragged his leg a little when he walked, but he was broadly-built and fearless. âWho is this maid that you defend so bravely, holy man?' he growled.
Egfrid
tore the kerchief from his head and snatched up the monk's discarded knife. âI'm no maid.' He drew himself straight with a pride that matched the old warrior's. âI am Egfrid, son of King Oswy Iding, and my father will kill you for attacking my book-master.'
The Mercians laughed. Egfrid lunged at the giant, but the man's great fist came down fast again. The boy fell, knocked to the floor by the blow. He gasped, but still managed to cry out in anger. âYou will be cursed by the Christ-God for this.'
âBlessed Woden!' the giant said, and a slow smile spread across his face. âWe have Oswy's brat and they've dressed him in women's weeds! Shall we call him Lady Faint-heart?' He threw back his head and roared with laughter.
Egfrid's courage fled as he saw that he'd given himself away.
âDo you know who I am, boy?' the giant bellowed. âI am Penda, king of the Merciansâyour father's greatest enemy. I am the nightmare of your dreams! Bind him hand and foot and take him down to Thunderer! Burn this place! Oswy Iding will never dare leave home again!'
One of the men grabbed Egfrid. He roped the boy's hands behind his back and tied his feet. Then he picked
him
up and threw him over his shoulder as though he were a trussed deer. The Mercians shouted to each other as Egfrid was jolted down the stairs.
âTreasure?' one asked.
âTreasure of sorts,' was the reply. âWe've got the Faint-heart's brat! Better than gold, he is!'
This was greeted by wild laughter and shield beating.
The Mercians had sneaked in from the south while Egfrid's father was away gathering tribute from the Pictish king and his mother visiting a holy woman, two days' ride to the north. It was no new thing for the Mercians to come raiding, but the fortress of Bamburgh, built high on its great rock above the sea, was believed to be impregnable.
Egfrid was carried down into the outer court. He tried not to look at the piles of bodies strewn there, and the rumpled, bloodstained clothing of the cook and her daughter.
Penda's men hacked at the stalls and livestock pens that filled the space. They dragged wood towards the great hall and, scattering fowls and frightened sheep, they built a pyre about his home. Dogs howled. Where was Woodruff, his favourite hound? Egfrid opened his mouth to call him, but closed it just in
time,
understanding that he'd call the loyal creature to his death.
Firebrands were carried from the kitchens and the stacks set ablaze. Screams and moans rose around him. Surely this could not be happening. It must be some frightful dream.