The Hammer and The Cross. Jar1. Chapter 3, 4, 5
Chapter Three
That fine Sunday morning, as every Sunday morning, the villagers of Sutton in the county of Berkshire in the kingdom of the West Saxons drew together, as directed, before the hall of Hereswith their lord, thane of King Ethelred-that-was. Thane now, so they said, of King Alfred. Or was he still only atheling? They would be told. Their eyes roved as they counted each other, assessing who was present, whether any had dared to test the orders of Hereswith that all should be present, to attend the church three miles off and learn the law of God which stood behind the laws of men.
Slowly the eyes turned the same way. There were strangers in the little cleared space before the lord’s timber house. Not foreigners, or not obvious foreigners. They looked exactly like the forty or fifty other men present, churls and slaves and churls’ sons: short, ill-dressed in grubby wool tunics, unspeaking—six of them together. Yet these were men who had never been seen in or near Sutton before—something unprecedented in the heart of the untraveled English countryside. Each leaned on a long stout stave of wood guarded with strips of iron, like the handle of a war-axe, but twice the length.
Without seeming to, the villagers drew away from them. They did not know what this novelty meant, but long years had taught them that what was new was dangerous—till their lord had seen and approved, or disapproved.
The door of the timber house opened and Hereswith marched out, followed by his wife and their gaggle of sons and daughters. As he saw the lowered eyes, the cleared space, the strangers, Hereswith stopped short, left hand dropping automatically to the handle of his broadsword.
“Why are you going to the church?” called out one of the strangers suddenly, his voice sending the pigeons pecking in the dirt into flight. “It’s a fine day. Wouldn’t you rather sit in the sun? Or work in the fields if you need to? Why walk three miles to Drayton and three miles back? And listen to a man tell you you must pay your tithes in between?”
“Who the hell are you?” snarled Hereswith, striding forward.
The stranger stood his ground, called out loudly so all could hear. His accent was strange, the villagers noticed. English, sure enough. But not from here, not from Berkshire. Not from Wessex?
“We are Alfred’s men. We have the king’s word and leave to speak here. Whose men are you? The bishop’s?”
“The hell you’re Alfred’s men,” grunted Hereswith, freeing his sword. “You’re foreigners. I can hear it.”
The strangers remained braced on their staves, unmoving.
“Foreigners we are. But we have come with leave, to bring a gift. The gift we bring is freedom: from the Church, from slavery.”
“You’ll not free my slaves without my leave,” said Hereswith, his mind made up. He swung his sword backhand in a horizontal cut at the nearer stranger’s neck.
The stranger moved instantly, hurling his strange metal-ribbed staff straight up. The sword clanged on the metal, rebounded out of Hereswith’s unpracticed hands. The thane crouched, groping for the hilt, eyes darting from one stranger to the other.
“Easy, lord,” said the man. “We mean you no harm either. If you’ll listen, we’ll tell you why your king has asked us to come here, and how we can be his men and foreigners at once.”
Nothing in Hereswith’s makeup urged him to listen or to compromise. He straightened, the sword again in his hand, and lashed out forehand at the knee. Again the staff blocked it, blocked it easily. As the thane recovered his blade, the man he had attacked stepped forward and pushed him back with the staff across his chest.
“Help me, you men,” bellowed Hereswith at the silent watchers, and charged forward, shoulder dropped and sword ready this time for a disemboweling thrust.
“Enough,” said one of the other men he faced, thrusting a staff between his legs. The thane crashed down, started to scramble again to his feet. From his sleeve the first man jerked a short, limp canvas cylinder: the slave-taker’s sandbag. He swung once, to the temple, crouched, ready to swing again. As Hereswith fell forward on his face, to lie unmoving, he nodded, straightened, tucked the sandbag away, beckoned to the thane’s wife to come and treat him.