alternatehistory.com
A Slice of Life: Marchawc, 1140 AD
A Slice of Life: Marchawc, the Tullaha River Marches, 1140 A.D.
You wake up to the sound of the bell chiming the dawn. You rub your eyes in a vain attempt to become more fully aware of your surroundings, and then all but tumble out of bed. You rise to your feet and rub your head, muttering to yourself. Perhaps you overdid it a bit at cups. You stretch and then continue to the washbasin, where you splash some stagnant water on your face to drive the night away.
You pause for a moment and stare at the water, as your watery, distorted reflection looks back at you. You rub a hand over your beard before reaching for the bone comb next to the basin. You groom yourself, feeling the sharp pricks of the comb against your scalp. Like most men of your rank, you have fairly good hygiene- an inheritance from the Ostish. You bathe at least once a week, which, according to a merchant that you met at a river fair a year ago, is a rarity in the lands of the Frankish Emperor. Apparently there they only bathe once a year- which you don’t quite believe.
How could they stand the smell?
You pull on your overshirt, your trousers having accompanied you to bed the night before. You then gird on your sword belt, the broad-leather strip bringing your loose shirt in at your waist. You snap on your arm-ring, etched with the words GLADIUS EX PATRICIUS. They’re in Latin, so you have no idea what those words mean, as you can barely read your own language. These arm rings are another inheritance from the Ostish; some lords and company chiefs have taken to distributing these to men that enter their service as both a demonstration of their wealth and a reminder of where one’s loyalties lie.
You shrug. It used to bother you, as it made you feel almost as if you were one of Padraig’s thralls, but you’ve grown accustomed to it. Besides, it looks nice, and stands as an immediate notice to all that you are a marchawc in the service of a lord.
You pull on your boots, then step out from your small private bedchamber into the hallway, making your way to the dun’s chapel. Your fellow marchawcs are already there, alongside the other members of the dun- the non-noble soldiers of the garrison, the blacksmith, the brewer, the miller, the merchants, the priest (of course), and your lord, the Chief Padraig of the Gribin Company. He sits in front, next to his wife (a full blooded Afonbreni). She rests her hand on the swell of her belly- the entire dun is waiting breathlessly for the birth of an heir.
The morning Mass is, thankfully, brief, and you file out after the service. Your feet carry you to the bata field. Some hale and hearty looking lads are already warming up, throwing the ball back and forth with their sticks. You watch for a minute. Bata is based on a vicious ceremonial game that the Afonbren played a century ago. Of course, it’s been modified from that- there are a few more rules, especially as Chief Padraig isn’t partial to maiming outside of the battlefield. More emphasis is placed on passing the ball to each other, while in the Afonbren version (you are told), there was more focus on beating each other half to death.
That’s not to say bata is any less vicious. It’s still common for men to be knocked out or forced to sit on the side after a particularly hard hit from an opposing stick leaves them dazed. You took a particularly bad knock a few weeks ago, and that’s been keeping you away from the game. Still, maybe today…
A hand touching your shoulder pulls you from your thoughts. You turn, hand idly drifting towards your sword hilt, but you relax when you see that it is Gwrtheyrn, one of your fellow marchawcs.
Gwrtheyrn is older, reaching the point where he might step out of active service in Padraig’s retinue and focus on his patrimony. His hair, going steel grey, is cut the same way as yours- shaved on the sides, combed forward on the top- but he wears a mustache as opposed to a beard. He speaks with a slight Briton accent.
“My friend, what say you that we ride out and visit our holds today?” You open your mouth to protest, then think better of it. It has been a while since you’ve visited the small farming community that Padraig granted to you in exchange for your service as marchawc. It would probably be a good idea to remind the people there that you are their master, maybe collect any taxes owed to you, maybe resolve a dispute… or maybe not. If you have to decide who owns a chicken again you might scream…
“Sure!” You say, putting on your best smile. Gwrtheyrn nods, and the two of you walk to the stables. The thrall there notices your approach, and has your horses saddled before you can say anything. You nod to him and, reaching into the coin purse that shares your belt with your sword, you toss him a small copper penny. He quickly pockets it. That makes you smile- all thralls have this dream of eventually buying their liberty. Few ever really achieve it, but it keeps them going.
You and Gwrtheyrn ride out of the gates of the dun, your horses hooves sounding against the wood of the bridge. You’re forced to a walk as you pick your way through the small settlement that has been built up around the fortification- maybe a hundred or so souls, clustered together in longhouses and huts, a mixture of Fanaithe and Afonbren. Soon, though, you are out of the settled area and you put your spurs to your beast.
The two of you ride at a trot through the woods that cluster both sides of the pathway. You scan the woods carefully, wishing to yourself that you had brought your spears. Heathen Afonbren, still bitter at their defeat all those years ago, have been known to strike from the undergrowth. Gwrtheyrn notices your concern and chuckles.
“It’s not harvesting season yet- they’ll stay out in the wastes until they can come in and try to grab something out of the fields.” You relax only slightly, and glance over at him.
“I heard they attacked the Dun of the Loegaire Company. Recently, too.” The older man shakes his head.
“If they did, it’s because the Loegaire harassed them. The heathen’s around here don’t attack unless they absolutely need to- unless we hit them first. Then no telling how they may act.” You nod cautiously. Gwrtheyrn in his old age has been getting philosophical about the heathens. One might even accuse him of being a little sympathetic.
You wouldn’t, though. You’ve seen Gwrtheyrn in action.
After about two hours of riding, you arrive at Gwrtheyrn’s patrimony. It’s a well-ordered little town of some fifty souls next to a small stream. The people bow their heads respectfully as you two pass. The two of you dismount in front of the log meadhall in the center of the town, where a young man leans idly against the door, whittling. He glances up.
“Father,” he says. Gwrtheyrn nods.
“Son.” You remain quiet- you know that there is no real love lost between Gwrtheyrn and his eldest. You follow the older marchawc into the hall, where a woman sits and listens to a very old villager complain. You can’t understand him- he’s speaking a pidgin dialect that’s more cluttered with Afonbreni terminology. The woman waves him away, stands up, and relinquishes the seat to Gwrtheyrn. The two embrace before he sits- this is his wife. While the older man takes a turn listening to the complaint, she fetches a loaf of bread and a pot of honey and butter.
You’re working on your second hefty slice when Gwrtheyrn and the old man finish their discussions. Gwrtheyrn walks over to you, nods to his wife, and then continues walking to the door. You sigh and stand, cramming what was left in your mouth. The two of you ride away from the village again, and soon are among the trees.
You swallow and manage to speak.
“That wasn’t too long.” Gwrtheyrn shrugs.
“That was the village headman giving his report. Things are progressing as usual. That’s all I really needed to know.” You nod. The older marchawc is in a weird mood- he always gets this way after seeing his son. You know he’ll be fine by tomorrow, but that’s not going to help you.
After another two hours of riding, you find yourself at your own patrimony, located further down the same stream. It’s quite different from Gwrtheyrn’s- smaller, only about fourteen people or so, living in one longhouse. Things are slightly more chaotic as well, with animals of all kinds milling about. One particularly stubborn ox stares at you, blocking the direct path to the door. You shout at it, but it doesn’t budge. Only the arrival of a small child with a goad forces the beast to go, as you feel your cheeks redden.
You dismount, and duck into the longhouse. It’s smoky inside, the floor covered with furs and straw and various paraphernalia. A woman is nursing a baby in the corner. Your headman, a middle-aged man dressed in an esiba [1] skin coat, rises when he realizes it is you, bowing his head.
“M’lud,” he says in thick, local dialect. You wave your hand.
“How are things here?” You say, while you wrack your brain for the man’s name. You rarely come out here, and it shows.
“Goud, m’lud, goud. Noffing tu rally sey.” You nod again, eyes taking in the space in the room.
“Do you have any thing for me?” He goes to shrug, then thinks better of it.
“Don’ worry, m’lud. We’ll gets ye yer dues wen we gets to fe fair, we will. Sell sum good beeves, we will.” You nod. The local fair is coming in the near future, so it’s not that unreasonable to wait.
“That is all, my good man.” He nods.
“M’lud.”
You exit the longhouse, letting the cool breeze wash over your face and chase away the oppressive air that existed inside. You nod to Gwrtheyrn, and the two of you begin the ride back to the dun. After a few minutes of riding, the older marchawc surprises you by turning in his saddle and speaking.
“Now, what was that?”
You raise an eyebrow.
“What was what?” He shakes his head.
“You’ve not really spent that much time there, have you?” You nod. No use hiding it.
“So? They can manage themselves.” Gwrtheyrn rolls his eyes.
“Sure, sure. They can manage themselves right into Hell, at the rate they’re going.” You blink.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve let them get soft. They think they have an absentee landlord, who has no roots. As long as they get you a little bit of silver, you don’t mind what they do.” You half-nod, then stop.
“No, that’s not—”
“Listen, friend. Some advice from me? Get married, settle your family there. A wife of a marchawc can be an effective goad in getting a village on the right track. Find a girl with some sense, have some kids, make sure that you get them off on the right foot in life.” You open your mouth to respond, by Gwrtheyrn shrugs.
“But what do I know, anyway?” He then puts his spurs to his horse and rides off. The sudden action spooks your own mount, who you have to calm. As you whisper to your beast, you watch the older marchawc ride into the distance.
[1] - Raccoon
You wake up to the sound of the bell chiming the dawn. You rub your eyes in a vain attempt to become more fully aware of your surroundings, and then all but tumble out of bed. You rise to your feet and rub your head, muttering to yourself. Perhaps you overdid it a bit at cups. You stretch and then continue to the washbasin, where you splash some stagnant water on your face to drive the night away.
You pause for a moment and stare at the water, as your watery, distorted reflection looks back at you. You rub a hand over your beard before reaching for the bone comb next to the basin. You groom yourself, feeling the sharp pricks of the comb against your scalp. Like most men of your rank, you have fairly good hygiene- an inheritance from the Ostish. You bathe at least once a week, which, according to a merchant that you met at a river fair a year ago, is a rarity in the lands of the Frankish Emperor. Apparently there they only bathe once a year- which you don’t quite believe.
How could they stand the smell?
You pull on your overshirt, your trousers having accompanied you to bed the night before. You then gird on your sword belt, the broad-leather strip bringing your loose shirt in at your waist. You snap on your arm-ring, etched with the words GLADIUS EX PATRICIUS. They’re in Latin, so you have no idea what those words mean, as you can barely read your own language. These arm rings are another inheritance from the Ostish; some lords and company chiefs have taken to distributing these to men that enter their service as both a demonstration of their wealth and a reminder of where one’s loyalties lie.
You shrug. It used to bother you, as it made you feel almost as if you were one of Padraig’s thralls, but you’ve grown accustomed to it. Besides, it looks nice, and stands as an immediate notice to all that you are a marchawc in the service of a lord.
You pull on your boots, then step out from your small private bedchamber into the hallway, making your way to the dun’s chapel. Your fellow marchawcs are already there, alongside the other members of the dun- the non-noble soldiers of the garrison, the blacksmith, the brewer, the miller, the merchants, the priest (of course), and your lord, the Chief Padraig of the Gribin Company. He sits in front, next to his wife (a full blooded Afonbreni). She rests her hand on the swell of her belly- the entire dun is waiting breathlessly for the birth of an heir.
The morning Mass is, thankfully, brief, and you file out after the service. Your feet carry you to the bata field. Some hale and hearty looking lads are already warming up, throwing the ball back and forth with their sticks. You watch for a minute. Bata is based on a vicious ceremonial game that the Afonbren played a century ago. Of course, it’s been modified from that- there are a few more rules, especially as Chief Padraig isn’t partial to maiming outside of the battlefield. More emphasis is placed on passing the ball to each other, while in the Afonbren version (you are told), there was more focus on beating each other half to death.
That’s not to say bata is any less vicious. It’s still common for men to be knocked out or forced to sit on the side after a particularly hard hit from an opposing stick leaves them dazed. You took a particularly bad knock a few weeks ago, and that’s been keeping you away from the game. Still, maybe today…
A hand touching your shoulder pulls you from your thoughts. You turn, hand idly drifting towards your sword hilt, but you relax when you see that it is Gwrtheyrn, one of your fellow marchawcs.
Gwrtheyrn is older, reaching the point where he might step out of active service in Padraig’s retinue and focus on his patrimony. His hair, going steel grey, is cut the same way as yours- shaved on the sides, combed forward on the top- but he wears a mustache as opposed to a beard. He speaks with a slight Briton accent.
“My friend, what say you that we ride out and visit our holds today?” You open your mouth to protest, then think better of it. It has been a while since you’ve visited the small farming community that Padraig granted to you in exchange for your service as marchawc. It would probably be a good idea to remind the people there that you are their master, maybe collect any taxes owed to you, maybe resolve a dispute… or maybe not. If you have to decide who owns a chicken again you might scream…
“Sure!” You say, putting on your best smile. Gwrtheyrn nods, and the two of you walk to the stables. The thrall there notices your approach, and has your horses saddled before you can say anything. You nod to him and, reaching into the coin purse that shares your belt with your sword, you toss him a small copper penny. He quickly pockets it. That makes you smile- all thralls have this dream of eventually buying their liberty. Few ever really achieve it, but it keeps them going.
You and Gwrtheyrn ride out of the gates of the dun, your horses hooves sounding against the wood of the bridge. You’re forced to a walk as you pick your way through the small settlement that has been built up around the fortification- maybe a hundred or so souls, clustered together in longhouses and huts, a mixture of Fanaithe and Afonbren. Soon, though, you are out of the settled area and you put your spurs to your beast.
The two of you ride at a trot through the woods that cluster both sides of the pathway. You scan the woods carefully, wishing to yourself that you had brought your spears. Heathen Afonbren, still bitter at their defeat all those years ago, have been known to strike from the undergrowth. Gwrtheyrn notices your concern and chuckles.
“It’s not harvesting season yet- they’ll stay out in the wastes until they can come in and try to grab something out of the fields.” You relax only slightly, and glance over at him.
“I heard they attacked the Dun of the Loegaire Company. Recently, too.” The older man shakes his head.
“If they did, it’s because the Loegaire harassed them. The heathen’s around here don’t attack unless they absolutely need to- unless we hit them first. Then no telling how they may act.” You nod cautiously. Gwrtheyrn in his old age has been getting philosophical about the heathens. One might even accuse him of being a little sympathetic.
You wouldn’t, though. You’ve seen Gwrtheyrn in action.
After about two hours of riding, you arrive at Gwrtheyrn’s patrimony. It’s a well-ordered little town of some fifty souls next to a small stream. The people bow their heads respectfully as you two pass. The two of you dismount in front of the log meadhall in the center of the town, where a young man leans idly against the door, whittling. He glances up.
“Father,” he says. Gwrtheyrn nods.
“Son.” You remain quiet- you know that there is no real love lost between Gwrtheyrn and his eldest. You follow the older marchawc into the hall, where a woman sits and listens to a very old villager complain. You can’t understand him- he’s speaking a pidgin dialect that’s more cluttered with Afonbreni terminology. The woman waves him away, stands up, and relinquishes the seat to Gwrtheyrn. The two embrace before he sits- this is his wife. While the older man takes a turn listening to the complaint, she fetches a loaf of bread and a pot of honey and butter.
You’re working on your second hefty slice when Gwrtheyrn and the old man finish their discussions. Gwrtheyrn walks over to you, nods to his wife, and then continues walking to the door. You sigh and stand, cramming what was left in your mouth. The two of you ride away from the village again, and soon are among the trees.
You swallow and manage to speak.
“That wasn’t too long.” Gwrtheyrn shrugs.
“That was the village headman giving his report. Things are progressing as usual. That’s all I really needed to know.” You nod. The older marchawc is in a weird mood- he always gets this way after seeing his son. You know he’ll be fine by tomorrow, but that’s not going to help you.
After another two hours of riding, you find yourself at your own patrimony, located further down the same stream. It’s quite different from Gwrtheyrn’s- smaller, only about fourteen people or so, living in one longhouse. Things are slightly more chaotic as well, with animals of all kinds milling about. One particularly stubborn ox stares at you, blocking the direct path to the door. You shout at it, but it doesn’t budge. Only the arrival of a small child with a goad forces the beast to go, as you feel your cheeks redden.
You dismount, and duck into the longhouse. It’s smoky inside, the floor covered with furs and straw and various paraphernalia. A woman is nursing a baby in the corner. Your headman, a middle-aged man dressed in an esiba [1] skin coat, rises when he realizes it is you, bowing his head.
“M’lud,” he says in thick, local dialect. You wave your hand.
“How are things here?” You say, while you wrack your brain for the man’s name. You rarely come out here, and it shows.
“Goud, m’lud, goud. Noffing tu rally sey.” You nod again, eyes taking in the space in the room.
“Do you have any thing for me?” He goes to shrug, then thinks better of it.
“Don’ worry, m’lud. We’ll gets ye yer dues wen we gets to fe fair, we will. Sell sum good beeves, we will.” You nod. The local fair is coming in the near future, so it’s not that unreasonable to wait.
“That is all, my good man.” He nods.
“M’lud.”
You exit the longhouse, letting the cool breeze wash over your face and chase away the oppressive air that existed inside. You nod to Gwrtheyrn, and the two of you begin the ride back to the dun. After a few minutes of riding, the older marchawc surprises you by turning in his saddle and speaking.
“Now, what was that?”
You raise an eyebrow.
“What was what?” He shakes his head.
“You’ve not really spent that much time there, have you?” You nod. No use hiding it.
“So? They can manage themselves.” Gwrtheyrn rolls his eyes.
“Sure, sure. They can manage themselves right into Hell, at the rate they’re going.” You blink.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve let them get soft. They think they have an absentee landlord, who has no roots. As long as they get you a little bit of silver, you don’t mind what they do.” You half-nod, then stop.
“No, that’s not—”
“Listen, friend. Some advice from me? Get married, settle your family there. A wife of a marchawc can be an effective goad in getting a village on the right track. Find a girl with some sense, have some kids, make sure that you get them off on the right foot in life.” You open your mouth to respond, by Gwrtheyrn shrugs.
“But what do I know, anyway?” He then puts his spurs to his horse and rides off. The sudden action spooks your own mount, who you have to calm. As you whisper to your beast, you watch the older marchawc ride into the distance.
[1] - Raccoon
- Rognvald
- Word Count: 2k