Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [225]
The king was extraordinary. It never ceased to amaze Aelfwald how, in the middle of his difficulties, Alfred’s active, urgent mind could switch to the higher matters that he considered so important.
“Look at these,” he would say to the thane, pointing to the pile of books that always lay on the table at the centre of his quarters. “I have once again been hearing my teachers read me the history of our people written by that great man Bede, more than a century ago.” He would sigh. “Why has our own century produced no such man?”
And more than once when he had confessed to Aelfwald – “I had hoped for so much. But now . . .” – and his head had dropped in despair, he would suddenly recover his spirits and exclaim eagerly: “This, my friends, is the answer to despair.” And he would tap a huge book. “Boethius gives us consolation. One day I will translate it from Latin into our own Anglo-Saxon tongue.” Then he would poke Aelfwald in the ribs and grin: “So I shall expect you to learn to read by then, my friend.”
For Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy, written by the last great pagan philosopher of the Roman world as he awaited execution four centuries before, was so noble a book that few Christians had any difficulty in accepting its prescriptions – that peace of mind can only be reached by the contemplation of eternal truths – and together with the works of St Augustine it had become one of the best loved books of the Middle Ages.
“Boethius, Augustine, the laws of King Ine: these are the things every educated man should know,” Alfred often told the thane. “Through study, Aelfwald, we rise above our difficulties.”
By mid-February, another problem had arisen: the camp was short of food. Each day scouts were sent out to forage, but each day they came back with less, and it almost seemed that the little Saxon force might have to break up for lack of supplies.
It was then that Aelfwald formed a daring plan.
When the thane sent Tostig and the boats up river from Wilton, he had not held out great hopes that they would escape capture. But, under the supervision of his son Aelfric, the fisherman had done surprisingly well, bringing the six boats across a network of rivers, occasionally crossing small strips of land, and arriving at the marsh of Athelney only three days after the rest of the party, with all the goods from Wilton still intact.
Recent reports from the scouts suggested that while there were Viking camps along the Wylye valley near Wilton, the thane’s farmstead at Sarum had, so far, been left untouched.
One morning Aelfwald summoned the slave and told him what he had in mind.
He was a strange, disreputable looking fellow, the thane thought, with his lank, dark hair, his narrow-set eyes and long thin hands and toes. He reminded him of one of the long flies that lay on the surface of the stream. As Tostig listened to what was proposed, he stood in his customary attitude, his head staring at his feet, maintaining a sullen silence that might have been insolence, or might not. Whatever the slave’s true thoughts, Tostig had always done his work well when he was made to, and the thane’s table had always been liberally supplied with fish netted in the five rivers.
“Well, can you do it?” he asked peremptorily when he had finished.
Tostig did not look up.
“Maybe.”
“You may take any men you want. Aelfstan or Aelfric can accompany you.”
The slave shook his head.
“They’d only be in the way.”
“As you like.” This was, he knew, as much enthusiasm as he would ever elicit. “Good luck then.”
That evening he watched Tostig and his family push the six empty boats into the stream and paddle away. He wondered if he would ever see them again.
Ten days later, Tostig returned.
He had done brilliantly. Using his intimate knowledge of the waterways, he had brought the boats past every Viking camp, usually