My mother had been an elite archer who fought for Wulf, the last king in the Wessex bloodline. She had died at his side fighting the Mercians when I was a very small child.
Anticipation of the king’s visit and the activity it generated in Easton blocked out all other concerns for a while. . . . Then one night, too excited to sleep, the knowledge that the court was coming formed the backbone of a solution so simple that it seemed inevitable. I knew there were members of the old guard among the councilors and thanes, even during the current regime. I began to think, or rather, to be convinced, that if I could find a way to get into the palace I might, somehow, make a powerful friend or two who could help me hang on to my inheritance. There must be someone who remembered my mother. I would do this despite the current king, a despicable man if ever there was one.
These were my thoughts as I came to the Itchen road and turned off into the abbey. Within its gates, in contrast to my unsettled state, all was quiet. Figuring the sisters must be at Nones, I stabled my horse and went to the church, entering as inconspicuously as possible. I stood at the back of the tall timber building, dark as a tomb, my eye drawn to the distant altar candles sparkling on gold treasure.
Our attention was diverted by the arrival of about forty armed warriors. They were a fearsome looking bunch. Most carried spears that were taller than a man, and all had swords a yard long encased in scabbards at their sides. Some wore the scramasax, the dagger that gave us our name, around their necks. They used to smear these with poison in the old days but they’re not used so much anymore. The warriors were clad in steel like the man I had seen in the forest. A few wore helmets—these ingenious devices extended down over their foreheads in front and ended with built-in eyebrows and nose guards. I spotted one man with a complete face mask: only his eyes were uncovered.
The men carried broad round wooden shields with decorated iron bosses in the middle. I noticed one huge warrior whose front teeth were missing. His shield was covered with deerskin and had an iron bar across it. The dome of his boss came to a cruel looking point and had probably poked out more than one man’s eye.
I . . . went to the stream to gather gipsywort. In a secluded clearing, I extracted the dye and stored it in a leather drinking pouch.
[Later she uses the dye to darken her skin.] I took off all my clothes and the knife I always wear strapped to my thigh. I poured some of the gipsywort infusion into the wash basin and mixed it with water so the color wouldn’t be too intense. I rubbed the stain over my face, neck, arms and my legs up to the crotch, figuring it was best to play safe. I didn’t want anyone to spot a white thigh in the latrine. Then I crushed the chalk into a fine powder and worked it into my hair. I pressed a few seed pods over some teeth to make them look rotten.Excerpt from "Courting Trouble" by Elaine Drew
I gave the gipsywort time to dry and the powder time to settle, then I strapped on my knife and dressed in my old nurse’s clothes.
I knew perfectly well that [my stepmother] was planning to ship me off to a convent as soon as she could without causing a lot of talk. In any event, I certainly wasn’t going to sit around and wait for her to arrange a match for me. As the ancient wisdom of our people advises:Girls, steal secretly to your sweethearts
So no one says
That you were bought with booty.
But for the time being I went along with her pretense.
In Courting Trouble a young warrior is eager to prove himself. He goes in search of conquest. Along the way, he is directed to an encha...
