I do not really expect anyone to actually read this. It started out as an idea of writing about the Fyrningas and their "adventures", but this is the end product. I had most of it written when I decided to scrap the project, but it was just lying there, looking all sad and abandoned, so I decided to finish it after all. If you actually take the time to read all of it, you might as well just leave a comment below to make me happy.
I am Heregár Fyrninga, Hereríces sunu. My battle-brothers call me Heregár the Clever for I can read, I can do calculations and I am well-versed in battlefield tactics. I am my father's second son. My brother, who carried the name of our father, was set to inherit our father's lands and the title of þegn. I was given to the Church when I was still a boy, to learn the ways of the monks and to keep me away from my brother's inheritance. Truthfully, I have never aspired to any such position. The ruling of men is best left to someone with interest as well as capability.
The monks never did see eye-to-eye with me, especially not in those early years, although the abbot, Father Osric, always had a wise word for me. I rarely washed and oft dreamt about the green fields where I grew up, longing to travel across them on horseback. In those days, I rode a bay gelding whom I simply called Hors. I was barely walking when my father gifted him to me, hence the name, and he was only a colt. Traveling on horseback soon became as natural as walking.
There were not many boys in the abbey and all of them were there by choice. I was not and I loathed it. While I hold the Lord in high regard and cherish Him, I feel thankful that He did not intend for me to take the vows as my fellow lay brothers later would. No, I enjoy fine, dark ale and a good hump with a feisty serving wench as much as the next man, and I did so even back then. The first woman I laid with was one. I did not know it then, but her name was Friðugýþ and she provided ale and services for the men in the local village.
She was only one of many such women, but even now after all these years I still remember her clearly. She was not pretty in the usual sense. She was taller than me, which was to be expected as not only is my height nothing I can boast about, but I was not yet fully a man whereas she was a grown woman. The foremost way to describe her features is to say that she was sharp. She had no womanly shapes. Her nose was long and narrow as was the rest of her face. Her cheekbones could at times seem so angular that one would assume he would cut himself if he ever slapped her, but that was not true, as many men had proven over the years.
Friðugýþ had witnessed nineteen summers and yet she was unwed. The stories went that her foster-father had returned with a young girl after a raid on the Welsh and, though the villagers were not happy about it, they would not complain for he was a respected man and a skilled warrior. When the cattle started dying and the crops suddenly went bad, rumours started to spread of how this was the Lord's punishment for bringing filthy Welsh into their midst.
Her foster-father's insistence that she had nothing to do with the bad luck that had befallen the village eventually led to a drunken brawl where he died with a knife in his throat. Friðugýþ was taken in by the tavern keeper, whose name I cannot remember after all this time, so she could serve as cheap labour and I am certain that he had planned for her to warm his bed in the coming years.
Because of her Welsh heritage, Friðugýþ was never treated as an equal by the villagers. On a good day, she served their ale. On a bad day, they would beat her or rape her in the stables. They made always certain to never hurt her so that she could not perform her duties, for she was of some use to them. It was known that any man could have his way with her if he wished to.
I sometimes saw her when I visited the village together with one of the senior brothers, though our business more often carried us to the market dealer and not the tavern, for it was a house of sin. When I had the opportunity, I would sneak away from my watcher and enter that forbidden place, but my actions were always severely punished and many a night has been spent alone in the cold darkness of my cell, or worse.
One night, when I was at the brink of manhood, maybe fourteen or fifteen summers old, I deemed myself worthy to taste the fruits of men. I crept out into the autumn night and, still dressed in my robes, came into the village where I asked the tavern keeper for a mug of ale, paying for it with one of the few coins I had managed to hide from my senior brothers on the rare occasions that they would let me handle money. I did not enjoy the taste, but I had paid for it and so I decided to conquer the taste by drinking it quickly, which, in hindsight, was a very bad mistake on my part.
The tavern keeper, who likely had seen the same reaction from many young men over the years, shoved me out back into the stables, where I emptied my stomach entirely and collapsed on the ground. I stayed there for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for the sickness to disappear. As I laid there, a large, drunk man entered with Friðugýþ in tow. My eyes had gotten used to the darkness of the stable so I could see them clearly, but neither of the pair spotted me in the corner.
They passed me and I could see on Friðugýþ's features a tortured grimace as she resigned herself to her fate. If I could, I would have fled the scene, but my world was still a spinning haze and I could not even summon up the strength to rise to my knees and crawl out like a hound. Just as Friðugýþ was forced to suffer at the hands of the drunkard, I was forced to listen to his grunts as well as her muted and often pained whimpers.
I do not know how long I laid there and it is even possible I fainted, for suddenly I no longer heard the grunts and whimpers. They had been replaced with the screaming and begging of a woman fearing for her life. In that moment, I was no longer Heregár, son of Hereríc. I was Gármund Grambana or Gúðláf the Woodsman or maybe even mighty Fyrna himself as I threw myself at the man without a care for my own safety. Despite my small size, we crashed to the ground. I was faster to recover and as bloodlust filled me, I straddled him.
I smashed his head against the dirt several times. My fists hammered his face and my elbow bashed his nose in. His attempts to push me off were futile. I was a wild dog, not giving him as much as an inch. As with most combat, it felt as though we wrestled there for hours, but truthfully it cannot have lasted very long. At last he stopped fighting back, for I had crushed his windpipe. I remember the feeling of having triumphed in battle, having not only bested another man in combat but having taken a life. It was as though power coursed through my veins, but it only lasted mere moments, for it suddenly dawned upon me what I had done.
I had taken the life of another man. I had committed murder, a crime not only punishable by death but also a great sin in the eyes of God. I have since killed many a man, but you always feel your first kill. It gets into your head. Especially when it is not done with the intent to kill. The second kill is considerably easier and after that, the only thing you feel is the weight of your weapon as it tears into your foe and steals his life.
Overwhelmed, I sunk down on the ground. It was when I sat there that I heard Friðugýþ speak for the first time.
"Thank you," was all she said. She wrapped her hands around me and pulled me close, resting my head on her small, naked busom and I wept. I wept for the man I had slain, for his wife whose bed would be empty and cold, for his children who would grow up without a father and for myself, for I believed my soul to be doomed to walk by the fires of hell for eternity. I wept until I could not weep any longer and then sleep claimed me.
I do not know whether I woke because of the rising sun casting its rays into the stable or if it was the stench of death that forced my eyes open, but Friðugýþ was no longer with me and it would be unwise to linger and be branded a murderer. I had done wrong, but the emotions of the night had developed into somberness. I did not feel guilty before the laws of the land. Only God could punish me, and thus I left the stable with hurried steps.
In the abbey, I confessed to Father Osric. I did not cry. I told him everything and that was it.
"Do you regret taking his life?" he asked, and I nodded, though I did not speak.
"You have broken one of His commandments, but you broke them acting against a man whose actions would have doomed him to the eternal fire, and such a man is only a beast," Father Osric continued. "And the holy book does not forbid us to kill deers or bears. Another beast is no different."
I was given penance and then I was absolved, although I suspect the penance had more to do with sneaking out than the murder, for in Father Osric's mind, I had done nothing wrong, for I had acted to save another's life and that was the noblest thing one could do.
The dead man was discovered, but only three people, Father Osric, Friðugyþ and myself knew that it was my work, and no one would suspect a lay brother for such a heinous deed. Instead, blame was cast upon a traveller from the north who had stayed in the village over the night, but he was long gone by the time he had been named as the murderer.
In the week that followed, Father Osric himself went into the village, taking me with him. He was not very old, only slightly older than middle age, but as a result of sickness in his youth, his left leg would not bear him properly. Therefore, he was forced to walk with a stick, but he was always accompanied by one of the other monks. I did not know at the time why he brought me, but in hindsight I believe he had realised that the life of a monk was not for me, for we entered the tavern, where he ordered wine for himself and a mug of ale for me.
As he was discussing with the tavern keeper, Friðugyþ snuck up behind me and whispered in my ear:
"Meet me in the stables after the sun has come down."
I knew well enough what she wanted, and it was enough to stir the loins of a young man.
As night fell, I yet again left the abbey, as silent as a sceadugenga of the old legends. I crept into the village and, certain I had not been seen, came into the dark stable.
"Friðugyþ," I hissed, not knowing whether she was there or not, for my eyes had not yet become accustomed to the dark.
She did not respond with words, but through a kiss. She pressed her thin lips against mine, wrapped her long, slender arms around me and began to massage my back through my robes. I was inexperienced back then and did not know what to do, so I simply followed her lead, my hands awkwardly moving across the small of her already naked back.
This went on for a while and, while I cannot claim responsibility for it, I found it quite pleasant. Soon, however, she took a step back and began removing my robes. When we were both standing naked, she pulled me into the hay, where she took me. I say that she took me, for I did not really know what to do. We fell asleep in each others arms and that was it. No horn broke the silence of the night, no lightning split the sky. Only our intertwined bodies, protected from the autumn cold by my thick wool robes.
When Father Osric learned of this - because Father Osric learned everything sooner or later - he did not scold me. He did not give me penance. He simply smiled knowingly.
"You do not belong here, my son. Your father did not wish for you to aspire to your brother's inheritance, so he placed you in the care of the Lord. There is another way to keep you away, because I do not wish to force you to take the vows when the Lord so clearly has another purpose for you. Éadríc, son of Éadréd Eorl, is despite his youth a famed warrior and leader of men. He would with certainty accept you in his band of warriors." Father Osric said. "You will become a great warrior one day, but you would be a lousy priest."
With those words, it was decided. I was given food to survive the trip to the hall of Éadréd Eorl and a small silver ring which I was to give to his son, Éadríc, as a token for accepting me in his band.
Winter had almost come by the time I left the abbey. Before I began my journey, I stopped in the village to bid farewell to Friðugyþ. I promised her that one day, I would come back for her, but she shook her head. I had feelings for her and wished to make her my wife, but she had none for me. She told me that the night we spent together was only meant to be that one night, nothing more.
With watering eyes, I climbed up on top of Hors and set off.
I have fought by Éadríc Eorl's side many times since we first met. Together we have battled everything from Gaels and Normanz to Norsemen and even the Rus. Fighting by his side or the side of any other Fyrninga, is an honour, but it pales in comparison to that of living in their time. Those, however, are tales for another time.
Heregár Fyrninga, Hereríces sunu
Word list
Heregár Fyrninga, Hereríces sunu - Heregár of the Fyrnings, son of Hereríc
Þegn - Thegn; a "servant, attendant, retainer", is commonly used to describe either an aristocratic retainer of a king or nobleman in Anglo-Saxon England
Hors - Horse
Sceadugenga - Shadow-goer; Fantastical beasts which are neither living nor dead, and which can shape-shift. They purportedly dwell in the forests of England
I am Heregár Fyrninga, Hereríces sunu. My battle-brothers call me Heregár the Clever for I can read, I can do calculations and I am well-versed in battlefield tactics. I am my father's second son. My brother, who carried the name of our father, was set to inherit our father's lands and the title of þegn. I was given to the Church when I was still a boy, to learn the ways of the monks and to keep me away from my brother's inheritance. Truthfully, I have never aspired to any such position. The ruling of men is best left to someone with interest as well as capability.
The monks never did see eye-to-eye with me, especially not in those early years, although the abbot, Father Osric, always had a wise word for me. I rarely washed and oft dreamt about the green fields where I grew up, longing to travel across them on horseback. In those days, I rode a bay gelding whom I simply called Hors. I was barely walking when my father gifted him to me, hence the name, and he was only a colt. Traveling on horseback soon became as natural as walking.
There were not many boys in the abbey and all of them were there by choice. I was not and I loathed it. While I hold the Lord in high regard and cherish Him, I feel thankful that He did not intend for me to take the vows as my fellow lay brothers later would. No, I enjoy fine, dark ale and a good hump with a feisty serving wench as much as the next man, and I did so even back then. The first woman I laid with was one. I did not know it then, but her name was Friðugýþ and she provided ale and services for the men in the local village.
She was only one of many such women, but even now after all these years I still remember her clearly. She was not pretty in the usual sense. She was taller than me, which was to be expected as not only is my height nothing I can boast about, but I was not yet fully a man whereas she was a grown woman. The foremost way to describe her features is to say that she was sharp. She had no womanly shapes. Her nose was long and narrow as was the rest of her face. Her cheekbones could at times seem so angular that one would assume he would cut himself if he ever slapped her, but that was not true, as many men had proven over the years.
Friðugýþ had witnessed nineteen summers and yet she was unwed. The stories went that her foster-father had returned with a young girl after a raid on the Welsh and, though the villagers were not happy about it, they would not complain for he was a respected man and a skilled warrior. When the cattle started dying and the crops suddenly went bad, rumours started to spread of how this was the Lord's punishment for bringing filthy Welsh into their midst.
Her foster-father's insistence that she had nothing to do with the bad luck that had befallen the village eventually led to a drunken brawl where he died with a knife in his throat. Friðugýþ was taken in by the tavern keeper, whose name I cannot remember after all this time, so she could serve as cheap labour and I am certain that he had planned for her to warm his bed in the coming years.
Because of her Welsh heritage, Friðugýþ was never treated as an equal by the villagers. On a good day, she served their ale. On a bad day, they would beat her or rape her in the stables. They made always certain to never hurt her so that she could not perform her duties, for she was of some use to them. It was known that any man could have his way with her if he wished to.
I sometimes saw her when I visited the village together with one of the senior brothers, though our business more often carried us to the market dealer and not the tavern, for it was a house of sin. When I had the opportunity, I would sneak away from my watcher and enter that forbidden place, but my actions were always severely punished and many a night has been spent alone in the cold darkness of my cell, or worse.
One night, when I was at the brink of manhood, maybe fourteen or fifteen summers old, I deemed myself worthy to taste the fruits of men. I crept out into the autumn night and, still dressed in my robes, came into the village where I asked the tavern keeper for a mug of ale, paying for it with one of the few coins I had managed to hide from my senior brothers on the rare occasions that they would let me handle money. I did not enjoy the taste, but I had paid for it and so I decided to conquer the taste by drinking it quickly, which, in hindsight, was a very bad mistake on my part.
The tavern keeper, who likely had seen the same reaction from many young men over the years, shoved me out back into the stables, where I emptied my stomach entirely and collapsed on the ground. I stayed there for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for the sickness to disappear. As I laid there, a large, drunk man entered with Friðugýþ in tow. My eyes had gotten used to the darkness of the stable so I could see them clearly, but neither of the pair spotted me in the corner.
They passed me and I could see on Friðugýþ's features a tortured grimace as she resigned herself to her fate. If I could, I would have fled the scene, but my world was still a spinning haze and I could not even summon up the strength to rise to my knees and crawl out like a hound. Just as Friðugýþ was forced to suffer at the hands of the drunkard, I was forced to listen to his grunts as well as her muted and often pained whimpers.
I do not know how long I laid there and it is even possible I fainted, for suddenly I no longer heard the grunts and whimpers. They had been replaced with the screaming and begging of a woman fearing for her life. In that moment, I was no longer Heregár, son of Hereríc. I was Gármund Grambana or Gúðláf the Woodsman or maybe even mighty Fyrna himself as I threw myself at the man without a care for my own safety. Despite my small size, we crashed to the ground. I was faster to recover and as bloodlust filled me, I straddled him.
I smashed his head against the dirt several times. My fists hammered his face and my elbow bashed his nose in. His attempts to push me off were futile. I was a wild dog, not giving him as much as an inch. As with most combat, it felt as though we wrestled there for hours, but truthfully it cannot have lasted very long. At last he stopped fighting back, for I had crushed his windpipe. I remember the feeling of having triumphed in battle, having not only bested another man in combat but having taken a life. It was as though power coursed through my veins, but it only lasted mere moments, for it suddenly dawned upon me what I had done.
I had taken the life of another man. I had committed murder, a crime not only punishable by death but also a great sin in the eyes of God. I have since killed many a man, but you always feel your first kill. It gets into your head. Especially when it is not done with the intent to kill. The second kill is considerably easier and after that, the only thing you feel is the weight of your weapon as it tears into your foe and steals his life.
Overwhelmed, I sunk down on the ground. It was when I sat there that I heard Friðugýþ speak for the first time.
"Thank you," was all she said. She wrapped her hands around me and pulled me close, resting my head on her small, naked busom and I wept. I wept for the man I had slain, for his wife whose bed would be empty and cold, for his children who would grow up without a father and for myself, for I believed my soul to be doomed to walk by the fires of hell for eternity. I wept until I could not weep any longer and then sleep claimed me.
I do not know whether I woke because of the rising sun casting its rays into the stable or if it was the stench of death that forced my eyes open, but Friðugýþ was no longer with me and it would be unwise to linger and be branded a murderer. I had done wrong, but the emotions of the night had developed into somberness. I did not feel guilty before the laws of the land. Only God could punish me, and thus I left the stable with hurried steps.
In the abbey, I confessed to Father Osric. I did not cry. I told him everything and that was it.
"Do you regret taking his life?" he asked, and I nodded, though I did not speak.
"You have broken one of His commandments, but you broke them acting against a man whose actions would have doomed him to the eternal fire, and such a man is only a beast," Father Osric continued. "And the holy book does not forbid us to kill deers or bears. Another beast is no different."
I was given penance and then I was absolved, although I suspect the penance had more to do with sneaking out than the murder, for in Father Osric's mind, I had done nothing wrong, for I had acted to save another's life and that was the noblest thing one could do.
The dead man was discovered, but only three people, Father Osric, Friðugyþ and myself knew that it was my work, and no one would suspect a lay brother for such a heinous deed. Instead, blame was cast upon a traveller from the north who had stayed in the village over the night, but he was long gone by the time he had been named as the murderer.
In the week that followed, Father Osric himself went into the village, taking me with him. He was not very old, only slightly older than middle age, but as a result of sickness in his youth, his left leg would not bear him properly. Therefore, he was forced to walk with a stick, but he was always accompanied by one of the other monks. I did not know at the time why he brought me, but in hindsight I believe he had realised that the life of a monk was not for me, for we entered the tavern, where he ordered wine for himself and a mug of ale for me.
As he was discussing with the tavern keeper, Friðugyþ snuck up behind me and whispered in my ear:
"Meet me in the stables after the sun has come down."
I knew well enough what she wanted, and it was enough to stir the loins of a young man.
As night fell, I yet again left the abbey, as silent as a sceadugenga of the old legends. I crept into the village and, certain I had not been seen, came into the dark stable.
"Friðugyþ," I hissed, not knowing whether she was there or not, for my eyes had not yet become accustomed to the dark.
She did not respond with words, but through a kiss. She pressed her thin lips against mine, wrapped her long, slender arms around me and began to massage my back through my robes. I was inexperienced back then and did not know what to do, so I simply followed her lead, my hands awkwardly moving across the small of her already naked back.
This went on for a while and, while I cannot claim responsibility for it, I found it quite pleasant. Soon, however, she took a step back and began removing my robes. When we were both standing naked, she pulled me into the hay, where she took me. I say that she took me, for I did not really know what to do. We fell asleep in each others arms and that was it. No horn broke the silence of the night, no lightning split the sky. Only our intertwined bodies, protected from the autumn cold by my thick wool robes.
When Father Osric learned of this - because Father Osric learned everything sooner or later - he did not scold me. He did not give me penance. He simply smiled knowingly.
"You do not belong here, my son. Your father did not wish for you to aspire to your brother's inheritance, so he placed you in the care of the Lord. There is another way to keep you away, because I do not wish to force you to take the vows when the Lord so clearly has another purpose for you. Éadríc, son of Éadréd Eorl, is despite his youth a famed warrior and leader of men. He would with certainty accept you in his band of warriors." Father Osric said. "You will become a great warrior one day, but you would be a lousy priest."
With those words, it was decided. I was given food to survive the trip to the hall of Éadréd Eorl and a small silver ring which I was to give to his son, Éadríc, as a token for accepting me in his band.
Winter had almost come by the time I left the abbey. Before I began my journey, I stopped in the village to bid farewell to Friðugyþ. I promised her that one day, I would come back for her, but she shook her head. I had feelings for her and wished to make her my wife, but she had none for me. She told me that the night we spent together was only meant to be that one night, nothing more.
With watering eyes, I climbed up on top of Hors and set off.
I have fought by Éadríc Eorl's side many times since we first met. Together we have battled everything from Gaels and Normanz to Norsemen and even the Rus. Fighting by his side or the side of any other Fyrninga, is an honour, but it pales in comparison to that of living in their time. Those, however, are tales for another time.
Heregár Fyrninga, Hereríces sunu
Word list
Heregár Fyrninga, Hereríces sunu - Heregár of the Fyrnings, son of Hereríc
Þegn - Thegn; a "servant, attendant, retainer", is commonly used to describe either an aristocratic retainer of a king or nobleman in Anglo-Saxon England
Hors - Horse
Sceadugenga - Shadow-goer; Fantastical beasts which are neither living nor dead, and which can shape-shift. They purportedly dwell in the forests of England
