Cedric

Cedric

by Paul Miller

Published at Smashwords by Amolibros 2012

Copyright © Paul Miller 2012

The Bloodaxe Chronicles

Amolibros, Loundshay Manor Cottage, Preston Bowyer, Milverton, Somerset, TA4 1QF

http://www.amolibros.com | amolibros@aol.com

First published by Tillington Villa Publishing 2011

The right of Paul Miller to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted herein in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

With the exception of certain well-known historical figures, all the other characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is purely imaginary.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

About this book

When a young boy is found on a Cornish beach in the year 1085, many of the suspicious locals are all for throwing him back into the sea. But he is saved and brought back to the village only to end up enslaved and in the hands of a villager who has brought pain and suffering to others for a long time. The boy has no recollection of his past save his name – Cedric. A day’s hunting results in Cedric’s escape alongside Beohtel, another slave who has been wrongly accused of murder.

They spend many months hiding and living in the woods until they come to the aid of a merchant and his family being attacked by robbers. Coming before the reeve at Wintancaester, they are released and the merchant, Gilbert, undertakes to have them in his care.

When the name Aelfric is mentioned in conversation, it is the jolt that Cedric’s memory needed. He is the grandson of a famous warrior. It is not long before his existence comes to the attention of the young Prince William, who had been rescued once by Aelfric.

From then on, Cedric’s future is set. He too will be a warrior, a friend of kings, and as time will prove, an enemy too. Cedric is an exciting account of eleventh-century life, and of the many battles Cedric fought, ranging throughout England, Scotland and Wales as well as taking us to Spain where Cedric fights alongside El Cid.

Cedric is a man with a destiny, but where will that destiny take him? A real page-turner, Cedric is the third of The Bloodaxe Chronicles, an exciting story, and a fascinating insight into those unsettled times.

About the author

Born in London, Paul Miller spent his childhood in rural Kent before moving to the Isle of Wight. He trained as a history teacher, taking up his first post in 1976. For twenty-five years he specialised in bringing history to life through vivid storytelling and historical field trips. Paul retired in 2001 to focus on the writing of historical fiction. His particular passion is for early medieval history.

Dedication

To my son, Edward

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the following people without whom this work of fiction would not have been published:

For promotion and patronage, Mr Martin Bowen.

For production, Jane Tatam of Amolibros.

For readership and encouragement, Messrs Edward Miller and Charlie Bowen.

For patience, Mrs Catherine Miller.

For inspiration from my past history pupils at Ventnor Middle School, Isle of Wight.

Book One

Chapter One

Body on the Beach

The breakers lapped at the beach swirling seaweed against the sand and about a yard from the water mark a tousled figure lay seemingly lifeless. Gulls circled overhead squawking their curiosity. Crabs scuttered across the sand to take a closer look. Four men surrounded the hunched figure while other folk studied at a distance from the dunes. The sun was rising steeply in the sky on this warm, benign morning in June, 1085 as the curious onlookers discussed their find.

Is it dead?

There’s no telling. Perhaps it’s breathing. I wonder where it came from? This question received a sardonic response.

Well, I would guess it’s come from the water being as it is, wet.

Perhaps we should toss it back to where it came from then.

Let’s not forget that it is human.

Appears human. It could be a mermaid.

A mermaid? So where’s its tail? It looks like a boy rather than a girl.

It makes no difference to me. It came from the water so it should go back to the water.

There! It’s still alive. I’m sure I saw it move.

A voice of reason entered the conversation. First of all, it’s a he. He is a person like you or I. He’s lying on his front, so let’s turn him over and see if he still breathes. Two of the onlookers tossed him cautiously onto his back and the sensible one knelt close to him. He cleared matted hair from his face to reveal the features of a boy aged about twelve years. He cleared sand from the boy’s lips, parted them gently and put his ear to his mouth, listening intently. He breathes. He is still alive.

So, slit his throat and toss him back into the water for the crabs. This man received a reproachful look.

Would you see that done to your own son? This is somebody’s son. We can’t just kill him like that. He might be a Christian soul.

I doubt it. Well we can’t take him to the village. He will bring trouble for us, I just know it. People will come to see him from outside. They’ll see us and our village. They will want to steal things and carry away our daughters. I sense it. Bringing something like that into our village will bring nothing but grief. So perhaps we don’t kill him, but if he swam here he can swim home again.

Perhaps he comes from a ship wreck.

That’s his look out. Let’s leave him here then. When he wakes up he can make up his own mind. But he can’t stay with us.

Well, I say he can. He needs help. He will need food, drink and shelter. We are Christian souls. We have a duty to care for him.

We’re Christian some of the time but the ways of our ancestors still give us the right to choose. He should really be thrown to the dogs to save us having to feed them today.

Not this boy. I shall take him in. My house is my house. He will be my responsibility.

You could lend him out to Much. He likes little boys. The sensible man ignored this bellicose remark. The sensible man was named Mervyn.

A fifth man had joined the huddle and stood alongside Mervyn who addressed him. Beohtel, pick the boy up and take him to my house.

Master. Beohtel was an immense fellow and placed the boy over his shoulder with ease.

And, Beohtel, guard this boy. Let no one molest him.

Master.

I say that you are a fool, persisted Culhred, the most vociferous of the objectors.

Say it all you like, Culhred, but you’ll not change my mind. If he worries you that much just stay away from him.

There’ll be others with things to say about this, warned Culhred. This will bring unhappiness and unwanted attention, mark my words. The village council will meet. I’ll have my say again then. Mervyn had ceased to listen but followed in Beohtel’s steps to the village. The beach was a small cove nestled between two buttressing headlands. A steep narrow gulley led from the beach. The path overlooked a steep ravine down which a stream cascaded to the pebbles below. The village of Hywellascombe was nestled near the top of the gulley, protected by the headland slopes. The beach was a haven for two small fishing boats hauled at the top of the beach under the overhanging rocks of the cliff. At the top it opened out into open country with woodlands in the distance. The woodlands belonged to the Lord of The Manor, Reginald FitzWilliam, who resided at the manorial seat of Lanscavetone some twenty miles inland.

The discoverers arrived at the village amid a hue and cry, the news having preceded them. Curious people thronged the approach road to view the strange boy found on the beach, the foundling. They chattered excitedly among themselves at the sight, an event so out of the ordinary to hum-drum lives. They followed in procession as Mervyn’s new charge was shouldered to his house close to the centre of the village.

Beohtel, put him in the unused byre at the back. See to it that he has fresh hay and some blankets. Bring him some food and some ale; not too much, mind you for fear he should make himself sick.

Master.

You had better tether him for his own safety as much as anything else. Keep watch on him, we do not want him escaping. You never know who he might run into.

Master. Beohtel did as instructed. They hay in the byre was already quite fresh and there were some sack-cloths hooked in a corner that he spread for the boy. He lay him down. The boy was coming to but in somewhat of a daze. There was a brazier close by on which some farm hands had been frying some oat dumplings in pork fat. There were also some scraps of meat from a pig’s trotter that he pressed into the hot dumplings and he put these on a small wooden platter. He filled an earthen mug from a beer barrel and took them to the boy who was tied by one foot to an iron ring in the wooden wall. The boy looked up at Beohtel in fright as he towered over him. Beohtel offered the sustenance which the boy nervously accepted. Having secured it in his own grasp, he sunk his teeth ravenously into the dumplings, the pork juices oozing down his cheeks and took a great draught from the mug. He then discarded the platter and mug and backed himself into the corner, darting his gaze hither and thither with wild eyes. He soon lapsed into a heavy sleep curled up in the hay. Beohtel stayed where he was taking vigil over the boy.

This year of 1085 had already been a turbulent time in the land. All of England, and especially the southern coast, had been gripped by violence and torment. It had been nearly nineteen years since the great invasion of England by Normans. These people had invaded and defeated the English at a great battle in the east on a hill called Senlac near a town called Haestings. The English king, Harold, had been slain there and the Norman duke William, some now called ‘The Conqueror’ but many called ‘The Bastard’, had been crowned king at the city of Lundene on Christmas Day in 1066. Ever since, the people of England had suffered grievously under his tyranny. King William himself spent a lot of his time in his native Normandy but had given most of the land of the English to his vassals of whom Reginald was one. There had been dread rumours of another attempt by the King of the Danes, now called Swein, making another attempt to invade England. In response King William had sent great hosts over from Normandy again to resist such a plan. The Danish invasion never came; the Danes had never really recovered from the terrible defeat they suffered at the hands of William the Bastard’s predecessor, Harold. Such an invasion was idle rumour and wishful thinking but it did not stop the new Norman forces from delivering great privations on the inhabitants of England again. The violence was now subsiding but all people, including those here in the far west, were on their guard against any strangers.

The villagers met in council. Mervyn rose to describe the events of the morning and to introduce the boy. The council members demanded to see the fellow that had caused such disquiet so that they might question him in an attempt to learn more about him. Culhred spoke.

The boy hasn’t said a word yet. Perhaps he is a wild boy. Perhaps he comes from the fabled lands far across the western sea. Perhaps he is a curse on our community. We need to get rid of him rather than speak to him. I say hand him to me and I will dispose of him.

Has anybody tried talking to him? The whole company including Mervyn shook their heads.

Then, said the village reeve with a hint of exasperation, perhaps that’s what we ought to do before we come to the passing of judgments. Bring him to us.

Mervyn nodded at Beohtel who left to fetch the foundling. He returned with the boy walking alongside him. He looked confused and frightened as he stood within a circle of babbling strangers. The reeve, Michael, studied him first, then addressed him.

Boy, where do you come from? What are you doing here? There was no response from the boy save a confused wrinkling of his face.

Boy, what is your name? Michael spoke slowly and loud in an effort to be more easily understood. Again there was no answer.

Culhred sneered. You see? He can’t even string a few words together. He does not speak our language. He has come from far away. He is a curse. I say he must die.

Mervyn was reaching the end of his patience. Lay one hand on that lad and I’ll break it off. You are sounding like an old sow. Now shut up your mouth and let other people speak. Culhred gave a vicious look in defiance but then acquiesced. Mervyn was more than a match for him in a brawl and Beohtel was a fearsome beast.

Michael persisted rather more impatiently. Boy, will you tell me your name and where you come from? The boy remained mute. We are not going to get any sense out of him.

Another villager, Bedwyn interjected. We now know that he is not of our folk because he clearly does not understand our tongue. Perhaps he is Saxon or Norman. He could be a refugee from a pirate ship. We just don’t know. He is a stranger who is found, a foundling. So, Michael, what is the law relating to foundlings?

He becomes subject to the court’s decision as to his status. He cannot be a freeman because he has no rights. He has no family to confirm his status. He becomes a possession, a slave. He lives and dies by our will.

Yes, but which person actually owns him?

Mervyn chimed in. The man who found him, of course.

Culhred rounded on him. Four of us found him. I did as much as you. Why shouldn’t he be mine?

Because I took him into my house when you would not.

Yes, but that has no basis in law. Therefore I stake my claim for his ownership.

Michael hesitated. He was obviously confused by what was and what was not lawful in such cases as he had never had to cast judgment on a foundling. If four of you found him, it is for the four of you to decide. What say the other two? Culhred, sensing a breakthrough, drilled his eyes though the other two, Wat and Stephen. Michael continued, I have to warn you that if you cannot decide or if a serious dispute emerges the boy will have to be disposed of. Does the council agree? The others in the conclave expressed their approval in their own ways. Well who will take him? What say you, Wat?

Wat was a timid man who had fallen foul of Culhred before. His heart would have found for Mervyn but his head was filled with dread of Culhred ’s bullying. I find for Culhred, he answered, weakly fixing his stare at the ground.

And Stephen? Stephen looked at Wat and then at Culhred. He would not meet Mervyn’s gaze. Let him go to Culhred.

Michael pronounced. It is settled then. The foundling will be in servitude with Culhred.

Mervyn protested. Michael, you heard him. He will slaughter the poor wretch as soon as he lays hands on him. That just isn’t just. The boy has committed no crime. His only misfortune was to be washed up on our beach. That is no reason to kill him. By all that is Holy, that would be blatant murder.

Culhred sneered at Mervyn. You heard them. He is my property and I shall do what I will. He has already caused dissension in the village and he has only been with us for a couple of hours. Now cut your crap and hand him over.

Michael was clearly alarmed by what had transpired. As well as all the other villagers he knew what a heartless brute Culhred was. He rounded on Culhred with greater resolve. We said you own him but in all our decisions we are bound by the laws of our Christian land. It is not in the gift of anybody to take another’s life without just cause whatever his status. A slave he may be but he still has a right to life. As his master you are not entitled to kill him or chastise him unfairly. As with all of your property you have the duty provide him with food, water and shelter in return for his work in your service. We will watch your actions diligently, Culhred. You must now, and in the hearing of all of us, guarantee the boy’s safety and nurture. Otherwise you will be deemed unfit to keep him.

Culhred scowled with ill-humour. You made him my slave. Nobody can tell me what to do with him.

The village priest, Benedict, took his turn. In the scriptures we are told how the Romans dealt with slaves and the glorious Holy Martyrs. Christians are not murderers. This boy is a child of God and no one shall lay a hand on him so long as he keeps the law. In the name of God, Culhred, you are forbidden to do this boy harm. Culhred could not argue this time.

Don’t concern yourselves. He is safe with me. I reserve the right to chastise him when he errs, otherwise he is safe. But, by God he will work. He will earn every single morsel that he takes from me.

Mervyn sighed despondently before signalling to Beohtel. Culhred sidled over to Beohtel gruffly and took possession. He growled menacingly at the terror-stricken boy and shuffled him off roughly. Mervyn feared for him as the council dispersed. He made sadly for his own house. Once they had reached his home Culhred gave the boy a great welt round his head with the flat of his hand. He peered at him menacingly. Defy me, boy, and you’ll wish you’d never lived. Now, in there. Culhred pointed to a cramped-looking shuttered chamber no bigger than a cupboard. The boy had to squat to fit in it. Culhred slammed the door and latched it fast. Make my day and try to escape. Though the boy could not understand the words, he was terrifyingly aware of his predicament. He would stay just where he was.

For the next couple of days the foundling was grudgingly offered the occasional beaker of water but no food. When food came it was the stalest of old bread and the odd bone with minuscule scraps of meat and sinew adhering to it. The foundling would scrape his front teeth along the bone to derive any vestige of nourishment. He gnawed at it to break off shards which afforded him access to scraps of bone marrow. Days passed into a fortnight before he was finally let out to stretch his legs. But he had little time to ponder because he was immediately put to work to dig a sewer pit. He was given no implements but made to scrabble through the dirt with his bare hands which became horribly lacerated and calloused. Then he would be re-imprisoned in that ghastly, filthy cupboard. Culhred would sometimes amuse himself by goading the boy through the bars with a stick. He would also delight himself by pissing or passing wind through the bars to torment the wretch. He was a truly vile man in all his habits.

On occasions he would invite Wat and Stephen into his hovel to get rolling drunk on rancid cider. These two were both more mild-mannered than their host until they, too, became intoxicated. They showed discomfort at the way Culhred dealt with the foundling but dared not to make comment. They were truly in this vile creature’s thrall.

Came the day they got together to talk about hunting. Wat had learned that Lord Reginald would be away from the manor to attend the King’s court at Wintancaester. He would be gone for a full month. Culhred was quick to seize upon an opportunity. With His Lordship out of the way I doubt if his sergeants will be very vigilant when it comes to who is poking about in his forest. I fancy a couple of juicy boar and some pheasants. We could hunt.

Poach, you mean, retorted Stephen.

It’s only poaching if you are caught, numbskull. I say we take the advantage and grab a bit of hunting. What say you? His company readily agreed and they each downed great draughts of cider to seal the bargain. Culhred looked at the fetid cage. We’ve got our beater. He’ll flush the game out for us. Wat, let me know when Lord Reginald has gone and we’ll make the arrangements.

Mervyn had become aware of the treatment Culhred was meting out to the boy and was incensed. He had also got wind of the hunting plot. He was determined to change both situations. He called on Culhred several times in protest and threatening to inform the reeve. Culhred had had enough of it. He had contacted a small gang of roughnecks led by an obnoxious ruffian called Bel. It was late at night as Mervyn took in the air outside his house. He had resolved to see the reeve and lodge his complaint against Culhred in the morning. Culhred was well aware of his intentions. In the dark shadows figures lurked. As Mervyn turned to retire into his doorway silent death approached. Bel and an accomplice grabbed Mervyn from behind. While one held him fast and muffled his alarm, the other slipped a long-bladed dagger between his ribs. Mervyn slumped to the ground stone dead in a pool of his own blood. They then pounced on Beohtel, knocking him senseless with a great club on the head. They then smeared the man with the blood of his master and carried him off. He would wake to consciousness with the murder weapon firmly in his grasp. Mervyn was dead and Culhred would be able to point the finger of blame at his servant.

The village was in outcry the next morning when Culhred raised the alarm. Beohtel, the murderer, would need to be hunted down and Culhred would do his duty. Nothing was to be seen of the unfortunate Beohtel. Culhred called off the search confident that Beohtel had fled far from the neighbourhood in his guilt. Culhred smirked to himself. The monstrous servant was such a fool that he was likely to think himself guilty. They would never see him again. Culhred ’s attention was diverted when Wat came with news that he had eagerly been anticipating. Reginald had left for Wintancaester with his retinue. Culhred could not wait to let the sport begin.

It was three hours before the dawn when the hunting party set out; Culhred with the foundling tethered round the neck to the saddle of an old horse, Stephen, Wat and his two distinctly vicious dogs. Each man carried a spear, a bow, a quiver of arrows and a dagger. They stole quietly out of the village and made progress under the cover of darkness until they reached the baronial forest. They laid low then, awaiting the first rays of the Sun. They muttered quietly among themselves. Culhred, as ever, was issuing instructions.

We are after pheasant and boar today. Prime your bows with arrows. The boy will beat the undergrowth with the stick. They will rise low and we will bag them. Wat, your dogs will fetch them for us.

As the Sun rose the foundling knew what he had to do for fear of another beating. He crawled along a line of bushes whacking them at regular intervals. There was a welter of squawking and flapping as the startled birds were disturbed from their nests. As they rose above the canopy arrows flew and, over a short period, seven pheasants lay skewered on the ground to be snapped up by the dogs and presented to their masters. This continued for a couple of hours until the men had three hessian sacks filled with two dozen birds. They called off, having run short of arrows and energy, to congratulate themselves over the haul.

They then conducted a wider search of the woodlands to find the tracks of wild boar. They lay in silent vigils at intervals to listen for promising signs and to conceal their presence from likewise vigilant prey. This blind stalking lasted until well into the afternoon when Culhred issued the hopeful signal, pointing into a thicket. He whispered. In there. I do believe we have some activity. Have your spears ready. He prodded the boy. Go round the back of that thicket. Go easy. Make no noise or I’ll slit your nose. Enter the thicket from the back and flush whatever is in there out to face our spears.

Stephen interjected. If it is a boar might it not charge the boy?

Culhred replied, A good plan, Stephen. Wat, you go round and behind and flush the boar out with your dogs. The boy can stand there and he will be the first thing the boar makes for.

I didn’t mean use him as bait.

I don’t give a fiddler’s fart what you meant. He is expendable. If he gets gored we will still have our boar and Wat’s dogs can have the bones. We should stick it with our spears before it does the boy much harm anyway, so long as he is alive enough to use him for another lure.

Wat was at the back of the thicket now and loosed his dogs. They careered into the bushes barking and bounding enough to wake the dead. Sure enough a squealing and a snorting was heard as a great boar broke from cover, straight at the foundling. The boy gazed in horror as the ferocious, ugly beast darted straight for him. For an instant he was frozen in his fear but managed to gather his wits about him just in time to take evasive action and leap to his right out of the boar’s path. But the boar was lithe and managed to swivel to its left, grazing the boy’s leg with its tusk. Having come to a halt some distance past, it rounded to face the boy again and began to charge. Moments shy of impact it let out a bloodcurdling scream and lay pole-axed by a hefted spear inches from the recumbent boy.

Culhred whooped in triumph. We’ve got him. Bring on the others. There were three other, smaller boar, evidently the offspring of the dead one, running and panicking in all directions as the hunters aimed for them with their spears. Within twenty minutes all of them had been hunted down and killed. By dusk the hunters had bagged a good day’s kill. Already they had set a fire and the smallest of the piglets, a scrawny suckling, had been spitted and was roasting. From a collection of baggage that the foundling had been forced to carry, three flagons full of cider had been produced. Tonight, the hunters would feast to their success before returning to the village under night cover. The boy was tethered to a tree with a gaping wound to his leg left unattended and lucky if he would receive a morsel from the feast.

The three hunters became rowdier and more ribald with every swig from their flagons, burping rhythmically from their debauched bellies. They swapped tales in the time-honoured fashion, each story getting more outlandish than the last. Wat boasted about the day, a couple of weeks earlier, that he and members of Bel’s gang had abducted and gang-raped a girl from the neighbouring village and how his wife scolded him for a full two days after. It was worth it, though. The girl was great sport. He became even more base in his detail of the girl’s physique and the sick depravity of their actions. This was serving to raise the ardour of all three men. Culhred sneered repulsively.

You know what I need now? The other two listened intently. We have no dusky maidens with us but any knot-hole in a tree, eh? He gestured lewdly towards the boy. To the astonishment of the other two Culhred approached the boy and dropped his breeches. Come on, boy, on your hands and knees. He kicked the frightened boy into position and knelt down to commit buggery, much to the excited amusement of the other two, But just as he was about to carry out his violation the boy jerked in his evasive attempt. This caused Culhred to unbalance and stumble to the ground. The boy, for the first time was animated and, in a fit of defiance, pounced on his recumbent master. He managed to straddle the man’s breast with his legs and held a stone that he had grappled for from the ground. Holding the stone high he brought it down with a crunch onto Culhred ’s head. The boy now went berserk with hatred and vengeance as he brought the stone down again and again, splitting Culhred ’s skull and spilling his brains on the dirt. The struggling rapist lay lifeless. The other two, in horror, had risen with spears aloft to attack the boy but before they could rally properly another figure appeared from the gloom. It knocked Wat clear off his feet and stepped on his neck, breaking it instantly. Stephen continued his lunge towards the foundling but the new figure had lifted Wat’s spear and launched it. The missile entered Stephen between the shoulder blades and he plunged to the ground to die. Within a trice the three hunters were utterly dead and the new figure gazed benignly on the terror-stricken foundling. It was Beohtel. For the first time the boy’s face creased in a thin smile as he beheld his rescuer. Beohtel gave a tender look back then his eyes darted in different directions. He had other concerns. He looked with unspoken urgency at the boy. He pointed eastwards, in the opposite direction from the village and uttered a few words which were unintelligible to the boy. But the receptor knew what they meant. We must run, in that direction. Beohtel picked up a spear, bow, full quiver and dagger and offered them to the boy. He picked up the same along with the remains of the piglet’s carcase and a couple of pheasants. At his gesture the two fugitives started their flight.

They continued through the night. At first their pace was frenetic, fuelled by the adrenalin rush during the struggle with the huntsmen. But their pace slowed especially as the foundling started to limp heavily because of his leg wound. The boy’s pace became even more laboured and Beohtel realised that to advance too much further before resting would be unwise. He found a secluded spot in a small clearing by a stream and gestured for the two to settle and rest. The boy was grateful for the chance and slumped to the ground exhausted.

We must rest, asserted Beohtel in a friendly practical way that reassured the foundling. First we need to eat. He produced the remains of the pork from which he cut rough strips. The foundling ate ravenously, betraying the fact that he had been deprived of real food for so long. Beohtel had filled a beaker with fresh water from the stream which he and the boy drank with relish to wash down the cold pork. Now sleep," ordered Beohtel tenderly and the boy obeyed as though he understood the words. The boy slept, free, under the sun.

By the time he woke a fire had been laid. On a spit were the two pheasants fizzling and spitting delightfully as they roasted. A flat, round stone had been placed among the embers and the earthen beaker placed upon it. In the beaker were the delicate entrails of the birds in water. Edible leaves, fungi and roots had been added to make a nourishing stew. It smelt divine. Beohtel had also located and picked some broad green leaves onto which he rubbed the sap of certain herbs that he had found. The boy had no idea what they were but he observed as the giant gently wrapped the infused leaves round his leg wound and secured them firmly with bracken fronds. Beohtel passed the steaming beaker to the boy which he received with tears in his eyes. He fingered out pieces of offal and vegetation and drank of the hot liquor. He took care to leave plenty which he could then hand back to Beohtel who devoured the contents with equal relish. The carcases were well roasted and Beohtel handed a whole roasted bird to the boy. Again he ate hungrily, salivating as the meat juices dribbled down his cheeks. Beohtel ate the other. While they ate Beohtel had refilled the empty beaker with nettles and water. To the boy’s amazement the giant had gathered, with the aid of a scalloped-out piece of oak bark, some honey. This he added to the water and placed the beaker on the hot stone. By the time that the pheasants were a heap of bones the Beohtel had fished the nettles out of the liquid and he offered it to the boy. It tasted sweet and beautiful and again the boy drank half and passed it back to Beohtel who drained it. Beohtel squatted by the fire intent on speaking. He looked intently at the boy then pointed at himself.

Beohtel. He emphasised the word to indicate that this was his name. Beohtel. Beohtel. He stuck his breast each time.

The boy understood. He tried to give voice but had difficulty. He had not spoken for so long that speaking did not come naturally. He could finally hear himself. He pointed at the Giant and responded falteringly. Beohtel. He smiled and Beohtel smiled. With greater confidence the boy repeated as he gestured at the giant. Beohtel, Beohtel, Beohtel.

Beohtel gestured enquiringly at the boy to learn his name. The boy looked blank for a while. He did not know his own name. What was he called? What could he remember? His mind groped for some kind of response. Beohtel had given his name and now he wanted to know the boy’s name. What could he say? What was his name? He searched his mind trying to make sense of the memories and the cavernous gaps in his memory. He remembered a boat and people who loved him; people who called him son and grandson. What did they call him? What was his name. Gradually from the murk, the word came, the word that must be his name. He shaped his lips and looked at Beohtel. It seemed to come but then subsided again before returning. He stuttered and faltered. Finally it came. Cedric. He heard it and it sounded familiar. He was right. This was his name. Tears welled in his eyes as he looked at Beohtel with an inexplicable anguish in his heart. Feelings came flooding back to him along with patchwork bits of dreadful, unspeakable, flash-back memories. Cedric, Cedric, Cedric. He almost shouted the last repetition.

Beohtel recapped, Beohtel, Cedric, with the appropriate gestures. They nodded and smiled in unison. Then Beohtel said, Cedric rest. Sleep. Cedric nodded and curled up with a warm feeling in his stomach and went back to sleep. He hardly seemed to notice Beohtel tending to his bruised and lacerated feet.

Chapter Two

Fugitives

When Cedric awoke the woodland was shrouded in darkness broken only by the glow of the fire that Beohtel tended. Beohtel, himself, was sitting beside it, knees under his chin, arms gathered round them, in a thoughtful daze. Cedric spoke. Beohtel. The giant responded with a friendly glance.

Cedric. Beohtel had prepared a kind of thick porridge of gleaned and cracked grains. A small pile of wood shavings on the ground next to him was the first evidence of the two crude wooden bowls that he had fashioned from the woodland. Two sticks with flattened ends served as crude spoons. Various items of vegetation were in the porridge mix which he poured from the beaker into each bowl. He passed one with a spoon to Cedric who looked at it then tasted it. He thought it could do with a little seasoning but, otherwise, it tasted good and warming in the stomach.

Beohtel made an attempt at conversation. He started with the familiar. I am Beohtel, you are Cedric, gesturing appropriately. Cedric merely nodded. Beohtel gestured a question. Where do you come from? Cedric understood but could hardly answer, so confused was his recall. He spoke slowly.

I don’t really remember. I remember the sea and a boat. I see faces in that boat and I see horror. I see an island with more faces. I think it is my mother and sister. I have a father and I know a great man. He is my grandfather. They are all gone. I am the only one left. The next I knew was being picked off the beach by you. Beohtel had listened intently but Cedric was not sure how much