Reluctantly, Eadulf shook his head.
‘I did not kill Botulf,’ Aldhere said abruptly, with a controlled passion. ‘He was a friend of mine, too. I had come to the abbey to meet him in secret — also being instructed, like you, to come by an appointed hour at dawn yesterday.’
‘And so Brother Wigstan saw you?’
‘I have not denied it.’
‘But you did not see Botulf?’
Aldhere shook his head firmly. ‘While I was waiting for him in the shadow of the copse by the side of the abbey, I heard an outcry. I decide that I would not wait around to discover its meaning.’
‘So how did you learn that this outcry was due to the fact that Botulf had been found dead?’
‘Through Wiglaf. He had a contact in the abbey and found out that, thanks to Wigstan, Cild was claiming I was responsible.’
‘Why does Abbot Cild hate you?’
Aldhere gave a long deep sigh. ‘It is a long story. A tale with an even longer preamble.’
‘I have plenty of time,’ replied Eadulf without humour.
‘Then have patience until we reach the camp and then, over a dish of hot soup, I shall tell you that story.’
Eadulf relapsed into silence for a while. He was disconcerted by Aldhere. This was not exactly the image of the marsh outlaw that had been conjured by Cild. In spite of his appearance, which initially fitted Eadulf’s concept of a robber, Aldhere was a pleasant-mannered, educated man, with the quiet authority of a thane rather than an outlaw. Eadulf was bursting with questions but he decided to keep his natural impatience in check. As Fidelma was so fond of saying, they succeed who are patient.
They were riding northwards, parallel to the seashore but keeping to the shelter of the woods which grew thick where they were protected from the corrosive sea-salt air. Eadulf began to recognise his surroundings and he felt a slight pang of homesickness as he realised that they were not very far away from his birthplace.
Away to their right lay the shingle seashore and sand dunes marking the extremity of the land but to their left was a landscape of small lagoons, freshwater reedmarsh, and mixed woodland and heath. Then, as they moved through a thick belt of aspen, birch and oak that had seemed impenetrable, Eadulf suddenly found that they had arrived in a clearing with makeshift huts where several people were moving about, men and women and even children.
‘Welcome to my camp,’ smiled Aldhere, halting his mount and sliding off it.
Eadulf followed his lead and the outlaw conducted him towards one of the huts. Before they reached it, the door was opened and a woman came forward to greet Aldhere. She was slim, and flaxen hair showed beneath a headscarf that covered most of her features. She halted and frowned at the sight of Eadulf.
‘Who is he? A prisoner? One of Cild’s men?’ she demanded in an unfriendly tone. She spoke Saxon with a foreign accent which Eadulf could not place for the moment.
Aldhere shook his head, smiling.
‘No, my sweet, this is a guest. This is my woman, Bertha. This is Brother Eadulf, Bertha. Now bring us mead and hot soup and leave us to talk.’
Bertha sniffed disparagingly but ducked back into the hut, followed by Aldhere and Eadulf. The interior formed a single room with scarcely space for a bed, a table and a few stools. Aldhere motioned Eadulf to be seated, and placed himself on the other side of the table. Bertha set a jug of mead on the board. As she did so Eadulf saw that she had a scar on her right arm, running upwards from the wrist. The soup had already been made and, after a moment, bowls of steaming vegetables and fresh, warm bread were also placed before them. Then Bertha flounced from the hut as if angered by her exclusion.
‘Bertha? That is a Frankish name,’ commented Eadulf when they were alone.
Aldhere nodded thoughtfully. ‘I released her from a Frankish slaver, who was trying to sell her to the East Saxons. The slavers did not treat her well. I saw that you noticed the scar on her arm. She has others and that is why she tends to cover her face in front of strangers. She has preferred to stay with me.’
Eadulf nodded sympathetically. ‘A cursed trade is slaving and one that I hope will be outlawed one day. But, tell me, why were the East Saxons trying to kill me? They were never so violent when I was a young man.’
Aldhere took the jug of mead and poured from it.
‘It is all to do with King Sigehere who has returned to the worship of the gods of his father. He has declared war on all Christians.’
‘I thought that he had his hands full fighting his own people. Why does he send his men to raid our territory?’
‘Sigehere is an ambitious man no matter what religion he holds. The kingdom of the East Saxons is too small for him and so he sends warriors to probe his neighbours to test their strengths and weaknesses. There have been several raids against us … as you have now witnessed. A Christian holy man would have been a good catch for the warriors of Sigehere. They would have reserved a special entertainment for you.’
Eadulf shivered at the thought and took up the beaker of mead.
‘Why would they land at that point? There are no significant settlements in the vicinity apart from Aldred’s Abbey.’
Aldhere rubbed his chin, thinking for a moment.
‘That is a good point, holy gerefa. They usually raid to the north of here, against the lands of the North Folk where King Ealdwulf has his palace and fortresses. Why, indeed, would they land there?’
For a moment or two it seemed that the outlaw was lost in contemplation of the question. Eadulf decided to pull him back to the moment.
‘Can nothing be done about Sigehere? I thought his cousin Sebbi was leading a civil war against him. Surely that would curtail his ambitions?’
‘Sebbi is no warrior. He is too pious and has to rely on others to fight his battles. At the moment, he is hard pressed to hold his own against his pagan cousin.’
‘Is there no Christian neighbour to intervene on Sebbi’s behalf?’
‘Christian or pagan, kings are only governed by self-interest. What can Sebbi do for them? If it is nothing, then why should they support him?’
‘So there is no prospect of stopping Sigehere?’
Aldhere shook his head. ‘Short of defeating him in battle, little enough, I suppose. And Sigehere has too many powerful friends who would be willing to take his side. As a matter of politics, he even recognises Wulfhere of Mercia as his overlord, and Wulfhere, for one, would welcome the chance to move into our land of the East Angles if we sent an army against Sigehere.’
Eadulf paused uncertainly for a moment or two and then said: ‘You do not speak with the selfish attitude of a robber, Aldhere. You claim that Botulf was your friend. Tell me how this was and all that you know of his death.’
Aldhere set down his tankard of mead and stretched his arms before folding them easily across his stomach. He closed his eyes in thought for a second.
‘Botulf was the only one of your faith who did not condemn me when I was declared an outlaw. That was over a year ago now.’
‘First tell me how you met Botulf. What were the circumstances of your friendship?’
‘You will recall that Wulfhere succeeded his father, Penda, as King of Mercia eight years ago and has been busy ever since trying to re-establish the domination of Mercia over all the kings of the Angles and the Saxons?’
Eadulf nodded. During his childhood the name of Penda, son of Pybba, had been conjured by mothers to frighten their children into obedience. From his kingdom of Mercia he had marched on his neighbours, even killing Oswald of Northumbria, the most powerful of the Anglo-Saxon kings. Eadulf had been a child of six or seven at the time. There had been almost universal joy when Oswy, son of Oswald, who had become Northumbria’s s King after his father’s death, defeated and slew Penda at WinwaedField. The mighty Mercian empire had collapsed. Penda had been depicted as an ogre because he rejected the Christian faith and adhered to the ancient gods like Woden and Thunor. Yet three years after Penda’s death, his son Wulfhere had rallied the kingdom and begun to re-establish its dominance.