Winter of the Wolves_The Anglo-Saxon Age Is Dawning by Tony Bradman

Author:Tony Bradman [Bradman, Tony]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, historical, Europe, Legends; Myths; Fables, General, Education, Elementary, Body; Mind & Spirit, Celtic Spirituality
ISBN: 9781472953773
Google: tBKMDwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2019-03-07T22:15:42+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

A Bargain is Struck

It turned out to be a short ride to the village of the Wuffingas, Lord Wuffa’s tribe. His hall stood on another hill looking down across the river to the sea beyond. Like Alfgar’s hall it was surrounded by houses, but there were far more, and the hall itself made Alfgar’s seem small in Oslaf’s memory. There was a timber stockade too, its gates guarded by a dozen warriors who waved Breca and his men through.

A huge bear of a man was standing before the carved doors of the hall, legs wide apart, hands on hips, a stern look on his broad, meaty face. He had a mane of black hair and a bushy beard that cascaded down over the front of his fine woollen tunic. A seax in a scarlet leather scabbard hung from his belt and he wore two thick silver arm-rings, one above each elbow. Oslaf knew instantly this must be Wuffa.

‘I bring a messenger from the boats that have arrived, Lord,’ said Breca.

Oslaf jumped down from the horse and walked up to the chieftain. Wuffa stared at him, and Oslaf saw that his eyes were blue, the colour of warm summer skies.

‘And I bring you a token from my lord’s wife,’ said Oslaf. He took the ring from his finger and handed it to Wuffa, who looked down at it nestling in his palm. Oslaf was about to say it was Elfritha’s, and mention Alfgar, but there was no need.

‘My grandmother’s ring…’ said Wuffa, and a giant smile spread across his face. ‘Breca, go back and fetch Elfritha and her people up to the hall. We will show them that even in this new place we still keep to the old ways of welcoming kin.’

As Oslaf discovered, that mostly seemed to involve putting on a colossal feast. Wuffa was clearly delighted to see his cousin, and sat her and Alfgar and their children at the top table beside him and his wife Aelfgifu. There were places for the whole tribe at tables in the hall, and the evening passed in a haze of eating, drinking and singing. Wuffa had a scop of his own, but Widsith wasn’t impressed.

‘He sounds like a wildcat that’s being strangled,’ the old man muttered. ‘In fact, someone should strangle him. It would be a great mercy for the rest of us.’

‘Stop it, Widsith,’ laughed Oslaf. ‘You’re just jealous because he’s young.’

But Oslaf felt that Widsith was right. Wuffa’s scop did have a poor voice, and he mangled the words. There should be a rhythm to a tale – four strong beats in every line, the sounds in each half of the line echoing each other. A good scop came up with clever ways to express things too, saying ‘taking the whale’s road’ for setting out on a sea-journey, ‘bone-house’ instead of body, or ‘enemy of wood’ for fire. This man did none of that, and his tales were as flat and dull as a grey day in winter.

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