A Segment from Chapter 7: The Betrothal; Helghi is caught trying to rape a servant girl

Helghi staggered out from the doorway and lurched down the steps of the porch, belching and breaking wind loudly as he did so. He had no wish to leave the comfort of the hall but was unable to contain his need to relieve himself any longer.   He’d made sure that he’d had more food and mead than was considered gracious of a guest. After all, was it not small compensation for the troubles that Wulfhere had caused him over the years? He made a mental note of them in his head; a crippled son for one, that was definitely Wulfhere’s fault. Then there was the loss of his crops over the years.... of which he was convinced was the doing of Wulfhere’s wife, Ealdgytha and her evil eyes. Hadn’t the witch poisoned Helghi’s wife and caused her to die?... Then there was Alfgyva….ah yes beautiful, dark and bewitching Alfgyva. The woman should have been mine, dammit! And she would have been had it not been for Wulfhere’s interference.  There were countless more reasons for him to hate Wulfhere that stretched back over the years and Helghi was convinced that the Horstede clan had for generations, been responsible for Helghi’s family not having advanced their status.

 He made his way along the side of the Longhall, hands groping like a blind man’s, flinching as a splinter from one of the timber posts caught his finger. It was useless for a man to try and find the midden pit in this state, he thought and then a smile came over his face as he pulled up his tunic. Squatting unceremoniously on the grass, exposing his bare buttocks to the chill of the night air, he defecated effortlessly on the ground, right beside his host’s hall. He smiled at the thought of Wulfhere or one of his grubby barefoot children stepping in it. His hands found the ground in front of him and he levered himself to his feet, adjusted his clothing and turned to go back inside, stumbling drunkenly as he did so. Rounding the corner of the front entrance he paused. Swaying unsteadily, he stood aside to allow a girl to hurry down the steps into the yard.

Sigfrith was making her way out into the dim moon-lit darkness to Lady Gerda’s bower to check on her as she had been doing throughout the night. Intent on her purpose and used to drunken men’s stares, she paid no heed to Helghi’s lewd observance of her.  She made her way along the coarse pathway and paused for a moment to observe two figures stealthily dart across the yard and disappear amongst the darkened shadows of the out-buildings. They appeared to be a male and female, one being tall and slim of build and the other much smaller and slighter. In the darkness she could not have been sure, but was almost certain that it was Edgar and Freyda. Her tongue clicked the roof of her mouth, scornful of their disregard. If they are caught…she thought to herself, they will be whipped.

***

She made to move on when suddenly she felt an unexpected hand on her shoulder. She turned in surprise only to have a big hairy face with foul stinking breath, shoved into hers. Slobbering thick wet lips sucked at her own as she was pushed roughly up against the outer wall of the hall. Sigfrith tried to fight, but despite his inebriated state, Helghi was strong and she felt her skirts whipped up and his hands groping at her groin.

“Son of a…! Look at that fool!” exclaimed Tigfi, who had just been sharing a joke with Esegar on their way back from the urinal pit. “Not the best place to seduce a wench, in full view of anybody on their way for a piss. The man must be as full as a cow’s udder on a winter’s morn!”

They both laughed but they stopped laughing when they heard the girl’s muffled cries.

 It was dark and light was sparse, but it began to dawn on them that the girl’s cries were not moans of pleasure after all and that she was struggling with the man who had her pinned against the outer wall of the Longhall.

“’Tis no seduction, my friend, that girl is the Lady Ealdgytha’s servant girl, the baker’s daughter. Looks like that filthy scum Helghi is attempting to be free with her and she is not liking it very much!”

“Nor would I, for that matter!” Tigfi replied in disgust. “Best we put a stop to it, my friend.”

“Aye, but we must not make a fuss. Wulfhere cannot know of this or he will fly into a rage, end the betrothal.... or worse still, kill Helghi and thus incur the Earl’s displeasure!”

            Esegar knew that the fortune of his lord affected all of his people. It was of the utmost importance that the hostilities were not resumed.

Tigfi nodded. “There is nothing like a good feud to alienate Lord Harold. He hates feuding amongst his people. He says there are better enemies to fight than ourselves.”

            “Then it is up to you and I, Tigfi to keep the peace,” Esegar said and the two men hurried to the girl’s aid.

Sigfrith was fighting hard against Helghi’s groping hands and was holding her own, but she didn’t know how long she could maintain it. It was with great relief that she felt Helghi pulled forcibly away from her. She stared with pure hatred at her assailant as he was held back by the two men, spitting and snarling like an angry bull.

“Are you alright lass?” Esegar checked as Helghi struggled to break free.

Sigfrith took a deep breath and nodded, then, with her skirts lifted, she swung back her leg and kicked her attacker full between the legs. The blow took them all by surprise and as they staggered back, Sigfrith took the opportunity to hurry away.

Tigfi and Esegar chuckled as Helghi bent double.

“The bitch! Fucking wild cat! ” He spat as he rubbed his private parts in agony. The blow had taken his breath. “She was asking for it all night!” he spluttered in a poor attempt to excuse his behaviour.

Enraged, Tigfi swung Helghi and slammed him up against the wall of the hall, eyes blazing in anger. He was only a youth, no more than twenty, but powerfully built from the rigorous training that huscarles were expected to partake of. Helghi even when clear-headed would have found himself no match for the younger man.

“You dare to dishonour the Earl and Lord Wulfhere by forcing yourself on his servant girl in his own home?” bellowed Tigfi angrily. “At your own son’s betrothal feast?”

The young huscarle held Helghi by his fleshy neck.

“What are you going to do about it?” Helghi snarled defiantly.

“Nothing, Helghi. It’s what you are going to do that is important.”

Helghi stared at Tigfi uncomprehendingly.

“You are going to get your fat arse back inside and behave as a good guest should,” Tigfi continued, “...and behave with the grace and decency a man should toward his host and lord.”

“What if I said I didn’t want to?” Helghi said through clenched teeth.

“Now now, Master Helghi. Let’s not be childish about this.” Tigfi tightened his grip on the older man. “I don’t want to have to explain to the Earl why your bollocks are impaled on my seax. If you follow my advice, then we won’t tell and the Earl won’t have to punish you for raping a servant girl. What’s the punishment for rape these days, Esegar? Is it still castration?”

“I didn’t rape her,” protested Helghi. He gave them a frustrated look.“Didn’t get the chance!”

Tigfi grasped Helghi’s balls in his other hand and squeezed them painfully as if to emphasise what he was threatening.

“OOOW! ALRIGHT!” Helghi gasped as excruciating pain struck him in the crotch. “Don’t you think they’ve had enough for one night?”

“Good man. Good man. Then we won’t have to tell the Earl that you raped a servant girl?” Helghi shook his head. “Good. We won’t tell him as long as you conduct yourself in the manner of a gracious guest from now on. Now run along like a good little peasant!”

Tigfi wheeled Helghi around in the direction of the Hall and watched him stagger back up the porch. Just as he entered through the door way, a group of young men came out on their way to relieve themselves. Seeing his dishevelled appearance, they smiled suspiciously at Esegar and Tigfi as they passed, for the two of them were  loitering as if they had just been up to some mischief.

“What of the girl? Do you think she will tell?” Tigfi asked when the others had passed out of ear shot.

“I will speak with her,” Esegar replied.

Tigfi looked thoughtfully at a coin he had pulled from his pouch. “Maybe this will ensure that she keeps her silence.”

“That and your good looks,” smiled Esegar.

Tigfi grinned broadly. “They have been known to work for me before.”

“She won’t mind, but she’s evidently choosey, that one.”

“Apparently so, judging by her treatment of Helghi. Where do you think she was going?”

“Probably to check on the old lady in one of the bower huts over there,” Esegar replied and pointed into the darkness.

“Wish me luck my friend. Let’s hope my bollocks get better treatment! ” he said as he disappeared across the yard to a cluster of out buildings.

“Rather you than me,” Esegar called to him and returned alone to the hall.

Comments please?

Thought I would post a short thankyou to everyone for reading my blog. Over the  last few weeks stats have increased on average by at least 600 views per week. Thats incredible and I am so pleased people are interested in my blog. I would, however love to have some feedback and get very little in the way of comments. I would be so grateful if people would be kind enough to take the time and comment on my posts as it would help me to find out what works and what doesn't. Now I am sure I have opened myself up for all sorts, but I will be prepared!

Currently, the subject of my blog, my first novel Sons of the Wolf, which is the first in a quadroligy of stories about pre and post Norman Conquest of England, is being edited and hopefull will be published by Silverwoods books soon.

Thanks to all of you again. I look forward to reading some comments soon!

Aelfgyva, the mystery woman of Bayeux: Part Two,

Welcome to the second part of the post concerning Aelfgyva, the woman, who over the years has caused many a historian to scratch their heads in wonder. In this piece of work we will examine one of the possibilities as to who this woman could truly be. There are a number of theories, all of whom have been thoroughly discounted by others, myself included. I would like to examine here one particular source that  alludes to her representing Emma, who, as I previously stated, had taken on the English name Aelfgifu upon marriage to King Aethelred. Eric Freeman in his Annales de Normandie explains through a story that was circulating in the 14thc that Emma had been involved in an unorthodox relationship with a bishop of Winchester and had proven her innocence through trial ordeal. She was said to have achieved this by walking barefoot across 9 red-hot ploughshares. What followed is even more absurd; her son King Edward, who had instigated the trial and had always shown harsh resentment toward his mother anyway, begged her forgiveness and was duly beaten by both his mother and the accused bishop Aelfwine. So, could this ridiculous tale be the scandal that we think the Bayeux tapestry is referring to? Bearing in mind that it is only an assumption of a scandal, however, the lewd depictions that accompany the image would indeed strongly suggest so.

My research of this strange anecdote has turned up no other contemporary source. Quite how it shaped its way into the fourteenth century one will never know, but what it does show is the mediaeval mind-set that could so effectively create the believable in the unbelievable; but if we take this story as having some basis in truth, it would be a credible subject, if not for the trial by ordeal which would have been impossible to survive. So, if we put that aside and concentrate on the rest of it, what do we have? Emma/Aelfgifu, depicted as a bishop-loving adulteress whose scandal has somehow enmeshed itself into the threads of the Bayeux Tapestry.

Now here comes the why, the how and what for. If we consider the scene and its place in the tapestry, the images before it show Harold standing before William having some sort of discussion. Incidentally, Harold appears to be touching the hand of one of William’s guards, but that is another story we will go into in part three . Our gaze next rests upon Aelfgyva and our priest, who is definitely not a bishop, otherwise the tapestry would have read Unus Episcopus rather than Unus Clericus. If we can imagine that the two men are deep in conversation about some important topic, could the image of Aelfgyva have been inserted to allude to something that may have been better known at the time? If it was meant to be a representation of William’s great aunt Emma, she may well have been referred to by the English artist by her English name and this would be plausible.  Yet the insertion of a bishop touching her face and the lewd creature underneath them in the border is a strange way to portray so great and noble a lady such as the former twice Queen of England. Not only is she William’s great aunt, but also the basis for his claim to the English crown. Through her, he was a first cousin once removed to the reigning monarch, Edward the Confessor. It was because of this kinship that William sought acceptance as heir to Edward’s throne. Emma, in her time was often criticised but despite this, she was respected by her English subjects. It is not likely that she would have been denigrated in this way on the tapestry by the creator unless she was involved in something pertinent to the story of the conquest. And I think considering the lack of a contemporary insertion in the sources for this story, we can safely assume that there is no credence to this legend.
It would seem that there is no other connection with Emma and the tapestry and the absence of a bishop and the presence of a priest, although perhaps an error but this is unlikely, means that this cannot be the Aelfgyva story the artist is referring to. In my next post on the subject, I will be exploring with you another Aelfgyva in the final concluding part of this story.

We must give credit to the intriguing artistry of the creator who at every turn and twist manages to confuse us all.

The Beginning: Wulfhere the Warrior

CHAPTER ONE

THE HOMECOMING 

Late Summer 1054

Wulfhere rode wearily through the great lush forest, once known to the ancient Britons and their Roman conquerors as Anderida. It was now called Andredeswald by the Englisc, descendants of the Southern Saxons who had come to these lands to settle in the dark days that followed the death of Rome. His companion Esegar, his shield bearer and right hand man rode beside him, half asleep in the saddle, eyes all but closed and his head nodding as he fought to stay awake. The horses too were tired, heads low, pace no more than a lumbering amble. Their destination was home, Horstede, in the heart of Sussex on the marshy slopes of a shallow valley. They’d been travelling many days along the ancient trackways, which for centuries had witnessed the various comings and goings of the many different peoples of these lands.  Wearing their armour so as not to unnecessarily encumber the pack horses, the feel of it against their skin was perhaps somewhat uncomfortable, but nonetheless familiar. It was a feeling they had got used to over the last few months, campaigning in the north.
Displaying the stern expression of a warrior, Wulfhere looked formidable to all who would have encountered him on the journey home. Beneath his gleaming helm, strands of sun-bleached hair blew in the cool breeze. The mail shirt that hugged his torso emphasised strong broad shoulders upon which was strapped his battle-scarred shield. The chips, dents and holes in its facing had been made by Scottish spear tips, a testimony to the recent bloody encounter with Macbeth’s army. Even the shield’s deadly metal boss had not escaped damage and was now crushed beyond repair. His sword, the most precious weapon he possessed, hung in a decorative scabbard secured to a leather belt worn around his waist. The pommel, inlaid with gold banding, rested against his upper thigh, the silver lobe at the end of the grip was impressively decorated with the figure of two intertwined wolves; it had been in his family for many years, handed down to first sons through the march of generations.  Its name, Hildbana, meaning battle slayer, was etched along the broad blade, for warriors were inclined to give their weapons such fierce names to enhance the reputations of their owners. For a fighting man, a sword or an axe was more than a battlefield tool; a sword was a companion, a lover, a life-giver and a death bringer. For Wulfhere, Hildbana was like an extension of himself, another limb into which his heart pumped his life’s blood.
            The men were returning home after more than two months of brutal campaigning with the Earl of Northumbria against the Scottish king, MacBeth. Although he had not been eager to travel so far north away from his family, Wulfhere accepted his duty with the unquestioning loyalty of a king’s faithful servant.            It had been a hard won battle with many lives lost on both sides. It was natural for a man such as Wulfhere to take up the mantle of warrior, for he came from a long line of such men. However nothing could have prepared him for the carnage that he had witnessed that day on Dunsinane Hill. Death in battle had not been a stranger to him, but never had he seen it on such a scale as this.
Wulfhere was proud of his ancestry, able to recite an abundance of tales about the prowess of his forefathers in battle, but despite his magnificent weapons and polished war attire, he was more a man of reasonable means than a man of great wealth and land holdings. He held roughly five hides of village and pastoral lands, the minimum amount a thegn might possess. It had been endowed to his ancestors by subsequent royal lines in return for both official and military services

Welcome to my Blog

Hi there thanks for dropping by. I am Paula Wilcox and I write using my maiden name of Lofting. I also go by Lofting-Wilcox on Facebook. Welcome to my blog Sons of the Wolf. Sons, as I fondly call it, is a fictional novel set in 11thc England and is one of a planned trilogy about the fortunes of a king’s thegn’s family in the lead up to the conquest of William of Normandy. So far it is in the pre-edit stage and coming along nicely. It is a novel that has taken me 5 years + to complete in its present stage. Its fiction, but has many historical characters that are woven into the story and facts blend nicely within the setting. Wulfhere, my thegn was a true character, a man of the Doomsday book owning the land that is present day Little Horsted in East Sussex. His character, appearance and the members of his family are all my invention because all we have of him in history is his name and his landholding.  As for the other historical characters, I have done my best to research them and the events of the time as accurately as I can and have some knowledge of how they live through my participation of a re-enactment society of whom I am a proud member, Regia Anglorum.

On here you will find lots of interesting facts about the history of the time I am writing about and character biogs. I update as often as I can when I am not busy working at my day job. My brother recently said to me that you find a job and then you pursue your career. I try to live that way at the moment! Please feel free to leave comments on my posts. Constructive criticism is always welcome and thoroughly desired! Also I am open to any ideas on relevant topics that you might want me to write about.

Regards

Paula

Aelfgyva, the mystery woman of Bayeux: Part One, 2nd ed.

Aelfgifu, or as it was sometimes spelt Aelfgyva, must have been a popular name and one of some significance, for when Emma of Normandy was espoused to Aethelred, the witan insisted that she be called Aelfgifu, which incidentally had been the name of a couple of Aethelred's previous consorts, though none of those women had been given the title of queen, unlike Emma. Perhaps they had been so used to referring to their king’s women by the same name they thought it more expedient to refer to Emma as Aelfgifu too, lest they forget themselves and mistakenly call her  Aelfgifu anyway.   I say this tongue in cheek, but it is unclear as to why the name Emma was objectionable to them, after all, it was not unlike the English version of Ymma. But changing a queen's name is not an unheard of phenomenon; later Queen Edith, great-granddaughter of Edmund Ironside, was sneered at for her Saxon name and was forced to become Queen Mathilda when she wed Henry the first.
There were so many Aelfgyvas/ Aelfgifus amongst the women of the 11thc that it must have become quite confusing at times. Even Cnut's first consort was called Aelfgifu, mother of Cnut's sons Harold and Sweyn. She was known as Aelfgifu of Northampton whose father had been killed during Aethelred’s reign. So one can see that if anyone called Emma, Aelfgifu, by mistake, it would not have mattered as they could be referring to either of them! Even Cnut would not have been caught out by this one.

There was a story about Cnut's Aelfgifu,  that she had been unable to produce her own off-spring and  involved a monk to help her pass off a serving maid's illigitemate babies as her sons by Cnut. In another version, it was said that the monk himself had fathered them.  Were they a monk's children fathered on a serving maid so that Aelfgifu could present them as hers and Cnut's? Or, were they lovers themselves, the monk and Aelfgifu? These are questions that, after reading the evidence, I am pondering upon. However, Emma, it is said, hated Aelfgifu and the two women were at odds with each other for many years until Aelfgifu died. It would not be implausable that these tales, rumours, chinese whispers if you may, could have been put about by the Queen to destroy her rival's reputation.

Which leads me now to the mystery of Aelfgyva on the Bayeux tapestry. Aelfgyva is the same name as Aeflgifu, just a different spelling, much like Edith and Eadgyth. For centuries people must have pondered over this scene, where a slim figure, clad in what would appear to be the clothing of a well-bred woman, stands in a door way, her hands are palm upwards as if she could be explaining something to a monk, apparently behind a doorway.  He is reaching out to touch the side of her face whilst his other hand rests on his hip in a stance of dominance and he looks as if he might be touching her face in a fatherly way, perhaps admonishing her for some misdeed, or perhaps he is slapping her?  On the other hand he could be caressing her face. The text sewn into the tapestry merely states ‘where a priest and Aelfgyva...’ and the onlooker is left with no more than this to dwell on. So just what is the author alluding to? Why did he/she not finish the sentence? Perhaps they were referring to a well known scandal of the time and they had no reason to describe the events because everyone would have known about it anyway. Who knows what the truth is? It seems the answer to the questions of the lady’s identity and the relevance the scene has to the story of the downfall of  Harold Godwinson, died with the creators of the tapestry long ago. Those who presented it to the owner must have given a satisfactory explanation to him about the scene. One can only wonder as to what it might have been and was it a truthful explanation, or did it have a hidden story?

This brings me to my burning question. Was this scene depicting the scandal of Aelfgifu of Northampton and the monk and if so why and what did it have to do with the tapestry? What was its creator  alluding to? Or had someone woven them into the tapestry, mistakenly confusing Cnut's Aelfgifu/Aelfgyva with a similar story that did have some legitimacy with the story of the conquest? I have an interpretation, but it is just that, and most likely the fanciful ramblings of my imagination, although it could perhaps be close. I will attempt to explain my idea further sometime in part two soon. Watch this space as the mystery unfolds!

An excerpt from Chapter One : The Home-Coming

Wulfhere approached the strong wooden palisade that surrounded his longhall. He reached for the blowing horn that hung on a leather thong around his neck. Putting it to his lips he blew a couple of short notes, then a long shrill high one to sound his approach. Wulfhere was answered by the appearance of his blacksmith’s nephew, Yrmenlaf. The sandy-haired lad shouted a hearty greeting as his red-cheeked face peered above the rampart before swiftly disappearing to run down the steps to open the gates.

The horse’s weary hooves trudged across the wooden planks of the ford, clattering as they crossed the defensive ditch. Wulfhere looked up proudly at the familiar sight of his formidable twin-towered lookout structure, made by his own hands from the strongest timber. He passed through the gate, opened eagerly by the boy and gave a contented whisper of thanks to the Lord for his safe arrival. The sight of his longhall was welcoming, standing as a symbol of safety from the outside world. It was surrounded by smaller out buildings that served as sleeping bowers, work sheds, animal byres and storage huts. 

The little wooden chapel comforted Wulfhere as he passed it. He crossed himself piously, grateful to be home and safe at last. The stallion’s ears pricked at the clanking of Aelfstan’s smithy hammer as they passed the forge and Wulfhere breathed in the familiar aroma that wafted from the   stables nearby.   As he approached the house he imagined that Ealdgytha might be tending her garden to the rear where she grew herbs and vegetables; or perhaps she was in the orchard where the sweet succulent apples grew abundantly.  He heard the recognisable laughter of children at play and knew he was finally home in the place he thought he would never see again.

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