Meeting Destiny

Meeting Destiny

(The Wanderer’ Part 9: Palestine 998-1000)

By R. Hyslop

Published in Great Britain 2008. 2015

(previously as Part 3 of ‘Varangian’ the third of ‘The Wanderer’ Trilogy)

by Cuthan Books ( http://www.cuthanbooks.co.uk/ )

Copyright R. Hyslop

The right of R. Hyslop to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

ISBN: 9780993438981

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To medieval heroes and tellers of tales

as well all those in the modern world who study and love them

As elsewhere in ‘The Wanderer’ the introductory passages are mainly drawn from the rich vein of Anglo-Saxon poetry. Biblical quotations are based on a translation of the Latin Vulgate version of St. Jerome. Obviously, Greek versions would have been used within the Byzantine Empire.

Throughout this work ‘Miklagard’ is the Russ term for Byzantium which is also known as the Eastern Roman Empire.

(This novel has extensive endnotes. Before accessing End-Notes PLEASE NOTE YOUR RETURN POINT as you will be taken to SET points in that long section (143 entries). Then scroll down to the relevant End-Note.

For example, in the TEXT click on [62] & you’ll go to a SET point (60) in End-Notes. Scroll down to End-Note 62 & read it.

To RETURN enter [62] in the file’s FIND Process (it may produce several so check you have the right 62), & you’re back where you were in the TEXT – or use if available.)

Table of Contents

The Story So Far

CHAPTER 1. Awaiting Eternity

CHAPTER 2. The Centre of the World

CHAPTER 3. Journey’s End

Afterword: Meeting Destiny

Map showing places featured in ‘Meeting Destiny’

Family Tree of Ethelwulf the Wanderer

Endnotes for ‘’Meeting Destiny’

About the Author

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The Story So Far

This is Part 8 of the Trilogy entitled ‘The Wanderer’ set in the northern world of the late 10th century. Here is the story so far.

Ethelwulf, Thane of Arne in Dorset, witnesses the murder of King Edward at Corfe in March 979 and, blamed for the crime, is driven into outlawry and then exile along with his cousins, Edwine and Morkere. After a brief stay on Jersey they sail for Ireland in 981 where they tumble into the struggles between Gael and Viking and are expelled from the island.

Arriving in Iceland (984) they immediately become embroiled in a blood-feud and making more enemies than friends are expelled (985). They sail to Denmark and help savage Wends destroy brigands before themselves being almost destroyed by the pagans. Forced to join Styrbjorn in his disastrous attempt to seize the Swedish throne (986) they slip eastwards to Gotland and Finland. Here they clash with Viking groups exploiting the natives, first in the far north and then on the shores of Lake Ladoga. Again they flee (988) towards the Viking powers of Holmgard (Novgorod) and Kenugard(Kiev), dominating the area called Gadarike (Russia). Once again their actions arouse enmity and they are forced to escape southwards to Miklagard or Byzantium – on the way, Edwine, the Wanderer’s cousin, is killed by Pechenegs.

They enrol as early members of the Varangian Guard for the Byzantine Emperor, Basil II. However, unwittingly they cross the dominating force in the system, the Eparchos. Ethelwulf faces danger – kidnapping by a religious fanatic, assassination in the bed of an imperial princess and smuggling a treasure out of the empire. Finally,, disaster destroys Ethelwulf’s band and, for a time, his own reason. He flees from the Empire, a hunted man, seeking final absolution in Jerusalem as the Second Coming approaches.

&&&

Chapter 1. Awaiting Eternity

‘The brave man who clings to his beliefs,

Shall never show his heart’s misery until

He hopes to cure it.’ (‘The Wanderer’)

There was dust and heat and a long road clawing its way down from the mountains. Nowhere was there movement except for one small figure painfully labouring down over gravel and dust away from the hateful mountains of Anatolia.

The figure paused and rubbed a sweaty forearm across his grimy forehead. The other hand felt for the long sword which swung loosely from his neck. His lips were casually moistened by his tongue and there was a sigh slipping out into the friendless Syrian air. Somehow he detected a sound of hoof-beats from behind him; instantly he turned off the road and plunged into the nearest clump of thorns. No scratch could stop the furious drive to hide himself from whoever was coming along that road. He settled himself down lower, under the scrub so his mouth almost sucked in the dust - and waited.

Three horsemen came down the road, riding quickly and confidently. They wore the insignia of the imperial guard. Since the defeat of the infidel five years ago there was little to harm imperial envoys on the road to Antioch. Yet there was an air of uncertainty in the manner of their leader. Nicephorus Psellus had no love for his mission. The orders had been quite firm. He was to hunt down the traitor, Ethelwulf, and bring the fugitive back to the imperial capital itself. That was within reason; what was beyond the ability of man was the Autokrator’s personal order to bring back the treacherous Varangian ALIVE. He knew the stranger from the north and feared him, knowing the Varangian had been driven insane by the slaughter of his followers and had murdered both the prisoner entrusted to him and Philip Ducas, Governor of Cilicia. The murder of the Eparchos could be ignored; indeed,, there were several in the intimate circle of the Autokrator who welcomed the convenient removal of an awkward reminder of past intrigues. The killing of the Governor was different, however; only the imperial court could remove one entrusted with the care of an imperial province. Even then, the removal of eyes or tongue was preferable, as Scripture taught, to the removal of the divine gift of life.

The murderer had been seized even at the scene of his crime and placed in chains. His escape from the custody of Gunnar Thorgeirsson was very suspicious. The two men had been battle-companions; it was natural for the new commander to have shared the hatred for the old Eparchos. This didn’t, however, excuse the treachery of letting loose a traitor. Though nothing could be proved, Gunnar had been arrested and was on his way to the imperial capital to explain how a prisoner could have so easily got away.

Nicephorus had been entrusted with the task of recovering the disgraced Varangian. It wasn’t difficult to work out where he’d have fled. No man, not even one driven into insanity, would have travelled north or west, back towards a betrayed master. Perhaps he’d have trudged east; but there, Turkish horsemen terrorised the roads, murdering or enslaving any who came from the imperial dominions. No, Ethelwulf would never have journeyed that way; if he had, he’d be dead by now - as would be anyone who attempted to follow him! To the south, however, lay the city of Antioch where the traitor was known to have friends. The whole territory was bristling with heretics who defied the True Faith and its imperial mouthpiece. Then to the south of that lay the border regions between the Empire and the lands controlled by the infidel regime of Cairo. If the traitor had a conscience he’d be heading for the Holy City itself, perhaps to seek forgiveness for his horrible crimes.

There were some who’d have turned their eyes away from the search, ridden south, seen nothing, reported failure and returned to their military duties. Perhaps that was what was really expected; perhaps there never was any intention to recover such an awkward prisoner. With the Autokrator one could never be sure. If the fugitive was killed, few would be sorry; if he was brought back in chains, perhaps there’d be criticism. Yet the orders were quite precise. The fugitive was to be seized and sent back alive to the capital; if he died "imperial pleasure would be lessened and the guilty would have to answer for their deeds." What did that mean? He’d wanted to ask but the blue eyes of the Autokrator had ordered silence. Only the grin of the inn-owner, Theophrastus,[1] had shown Nicephorus just how impossible his mission was.

The two troopers with Nicephorus had no such doubts. To them the Varangian was a heretic from the north, a dabbler in the occult and a seducer of their women. Whatever passed for religion with such a man could never be the True Faith; only full acceptance within the folds of the Apostolic Church of the City of Constantine could be that. From the moment this man and his followers had come from the north they’d been trouble. Always they’d been the favourites of somebody or other within the imperial circle; how else could their long catalogue of crime and disorder have been glossed over? At last they’d got their deserts and been butchered by those enemies of Christ from the East. Those who survived were learning how to behave properly within the capital. They were no longer able to strut around in their brown cloaks, brandishing their fearsome weapons and lording it over the followers of the True Faith. Both Thomas and Markos were certain the fugitive, if ever within the range of their arrows, would die. They’d never try to take the madman alive, as their commander had been ordered. One didn’t give a mad dog the chance of biting off your hand.

The riders passed by the figure concealed by the thorns without a second glance. It was hot and Antioch itself lay three hours riding away. The figure lay in the dust for several moments, breathing in the sound of the disappearing troopers. He’d no doubt he was their quarry, but equally sure they wanted to avoid him as much as he wanted to elude them. All that was necessary was time. He’d no wish to return to the power of the Autokrator. If the horse given to him by Gunnar hadn’t broken its leg within a day’s riding, by now he’d have been in Jerusalem, hidden away from imperial power. However, for days he’d been forced to trudge along unfriendly roads ever southwards and always on his guard.

Time passed slowly while Ethelwulf rested, sheltered from the heat of the sun by the dappled shade of the thorn bush. Finally, he decided it was safe to continue; the imperial troopers had long ago passed through the gates of Antioch itself. A grim smile appeared as he recalled how easily he’d been hidden away there by the fanatical Epaphroditus.[2] Had the madman ever been captured by the security forces? He didn’t know; why not? Was he simply not interested or had it been hidden from him? Probably the answer was straightforward; the preacher had escaped and was still sheltered among the dim alleyways of the city. If the city could hide that madman, then he might find shelter there too. Why? He’d little silver, no friends and no cause. There was no coterie of madmen working together for the end of the world ready to help a runaway warrior from the north. Of course, many would hide anything (or anyone) from imperial eyes - but at a price. He’d so little; just a few coins, the remains of the rags they’d thrown over him in prison and a sword conveniently lost by Gunnar.

Why was he going south? What were the alternatives? North and west lay the realm of the Autokrator and a nest-bed of enemies and former friends anxious to shut up any awkward secrets forever. East were the awesome lands of Islam where any infidel could only expect death or slavery. To the south lay chaos and therein safety; a means of getting hidden away perhaps until a berth could be found on some trader heading for Italy. Then it would be back home to - what? England was still ruled by a man whose throne rested on a murder he’d witnessed twenty years before;[3] not a hopeful sign of welcome. Perhaps trudging south would let him be sucked into the chaos and disappear forever.

Two hours passed, and as evening came on he could make out ahead two still figures by the road. For a moment he hesitated; were they waiting for him. Only two? His eyes scoured the rocky desert on both sides of the road and could detect no movement. He drew his sword from the scabbard tied to his back and tramped on.

Gradually the figures became more distinct; but neither moved. One looked like a woman or a child; the other looked like nothing but a bundle of rags thrown aside in the dust. He paused, rested and again looked around. Night was rapidly approaching. Soon he could slip away from any threat with ease into the surrounding desert. He took a deep breath as if trying to suck in any sign of danger. There was none - no sound, no movement, just the eerie silence of the sand and rocks.

He reached the figures - a woman and the body of a man. The corpse lay on its face, a dusty blue cloak covered its form except for one ankle sprawled out into the dust. A sandal was half-on the dead man's foot. The hair was grey and thick; the blood next to it had dried into a dull-brown mess. There was no sound from the woman. Indeed, she’d not moved although she must have heard his steps.

Ethelwulf stretched out his sword and rested it on her shoulders, the edge touching her throat. Still no movement so he moved the blade against the throat, under the chin, and with the flat surface forced round her face.

He knew her; behind the tear-stained grime was a face from his past. At the moment he recognised her, he knew Epaphroditus lay sprawled in the dust and was glad. He remembered the misery of his drugged nightmares, the hectoring of the madman as he tried to urge him towards murder; above all he remembered the terrible feeling of loneliness with him day and night in that Antioch room. With that memory his face softened and Lydia knew him. There was a visible start as she knew the Varangian prisoner; instinctively her body moved to protect her father from revenge. Then she remembered he was past all danger and let out a new howl of misery.

Ethelwulf gently laid aside his sword and knelt down to comfort her. If he hated her father, he owed his life to this beauty now worn so frail by the hardships of the road. Gently he extracted her from what had been her father, reached for the water-bottle which tumbled into view and allowed her one, cool draught. She coughed, tried to smile and produced a grimace.

Peace, my angel, he whispered. Rest and God will bring you back into life -

There is no God, snapped the girl. No Almighty could let my father die like this; no Lord would desert a servant who’d given so many years of loyalty. Reluctantly she gobbled at fresh water poured down her throat. Her face relaxed, her eyes closed and she slipped away into oblivion.

&&&

When Lydia came back to the world the sun had long gone to rest and the night was cold. She turned her head towards the brisk fire which teased a flame-backed sparkle into her eyes. Where was she? Next to the fire sat a hunched figure, his back towards her. Was it her father; had it all been a nightmare? She remembered the rapid advance of imperial troopers across the desert. They showed no sign of slowing down as they rode up to two lonely figures. A cry from the officer in front made father throw her out of the path