The Northumbrian Saga

Part 4

The journey south took many days, but it was the first day that was the hardest on the baggage carts. Within hours of leaving Shepworth, they were all riding over the hills and down into the Rede Valley. But winter had left its mark and the wheels of the wagon kept slipping and sliding in the mud. They persevered slowly but at last the cart stuck fast in the quagmire, weighted down by the supplies and Aethelwin’s crates and trunks.

The slaves started the process of unloading, hoping to make the cart light enough to haul it out of the sticky mud. Aethelwin and Ailith followed Eadred and his personal guard further down the valley, hoping to get to the other side before nightfall. By evening, they had made the old ruins of Bremenium where they made camp and waited by the warmth of the camp fire.

An entire travelling day was lost at Bremenium, waiting for the baggage cart to catch up, and by the morning of the fourth day they had reached Portgate, just outside of Corbridge on the banks of the River Tyne.

Here the twin stone towers loomed above them, lonely, decrepit sentries over the desolate fields. The large Roman ruins of the gateway over the great wall were the only sign of man for miles.

The walls and the gateway were crumbling away like sand dunes on the beach, yet they still afforded a little shelter for the weary traveller against the biting wind. Some of her father-in-law’s bodyguards sat against the Roman wall, taking sips of a skin of ale as the wind moaned through the collapsing arches.

Aethelwin had heard of the Roman wall, but having never been so far south, she hadn’t realised just how tall it was. The wall itself towered eight feet over the men, the archway another two feet above that. She could tell that, in its prime, it would have been even taller, but why had they thought to build so high? Who or what were they trying to keep out? Giants?

One of Lord Raedwald’s guards, a man called Godfred, interrupted her thoughts.

“Not long now, my Lady,” he smiled, offering her a drink from a leather pouch. Aethelwin put it to her lips and let the cool refreshing ale fill her mouth. “Just a little further down this road. Perhaps a little over two miles.”

Aethelwin thanked him and returned the container.

The priests had taken themselves away from the group. They gathered by the cart, squished close together in its shade. Each one held a rosary, their thumbs rubbing each bead in turn as they recited their prayers.

When Eadred walked through the archway and noticed the priests at prayer, he too stopped and watched. A strange look passed over him, an almost wistful expression. His lips began to twitch. Aethelwin watched, fascinated by his strange behavior, until she realised what he was doing. Eadred was reciting the prayers along with the priests. Her husband was praying under his breath. Aethelwin was stunned. All this time she had thought that Eadred had some strange aversion to the Church.

Returning once more to his senses and looking around guiltily, Eadred noticed Aethelwin watching him. His face hardened immediately.

“We don’t have time to sit around all day twiddling our thumbs,” he scowled at the priests.

The priests began to stagger to their feet causing clouds of dust to erupt from their clothes.

“Everyone get up. It’s time to move on.”

They did not stay long in Corbridge, where the Roman roads met. It took them a further two days to reach the Tees River near another old Roman fort, Piercebridge, and by mid morning on the eighth day, they had at last reached Shepworth.

Ahead of the procession was Lord Raedwald, his grey beard merging with his great head of curling hair so that he gave the impression of being a great warrior king of old. He was large and burly and formidable behind his mane, but to his people he was nothing but the kindest and fairest of lords. Aethelwin couldn’t help but admire him. He was easy to talk to, unlike his son. With the Lord Raedwald, you knew where you stood. You knew when he was happy, and you knew when he was displeased. There was none of the moody changefulness of his son, which Aethelwin now feared was a trait inherited from his mother.