In the subsequent days, Eadburg was no more communicative of what troubled her, than upon the first day they had arrived. Left to his own devices, with orders by Wulfnoth to see if he could discover anyone who spoke the Arnish tongue, and might inform him of what had happened. Whether it was because he was in reality a Caled, or because the news which he sought was too troubling, no one would tell Trygve the slightest thing.

  Not that this interested the druid at all, his failures won him only a snort and a ‘do better, lad enough with your whining’, ere he was sent away once again from his presence. It was with many complaints against the paragon that he noticed; the old man had sunk back to drink and going on lengthy walks with Eadburg, and the local castle chaplain.

  A gruff old Ursidon that is to say bear-man, with thick greying fur, dressed in a thin robe with the symbol of Turan about his throat, and who had soft grey eyes.

  It came about though that it was upon one of his many walks outside of the keep that, Trygve who was never escorted; as the guards had little interest in him, as he visited the marketplace he was to come upon a gold-merchant. This was hardly out of the ordinary, nor was his being a Tigrun all that uncommon. The felines had a natural talent for securing great trade-relations with Dwarves, wherever they may be.

  Staring at some of the gold, and even some of the silver that lay upon his stall which was forty-meters from the castle-walls, it struck Trygve then how little he had in the world. Seeing his longing gaze, the family of merchants eyed him suspiciously, only to ask him if he had any coin. They asked first in Brittian, then in Arnish whereupon he froze only to hurry away.

  The sight of some of the gold-rings topped with precious stones had made him think of Helga. How pretty she had been, and how though she had rebuffed his affection for her, how she had always liked pretty things. But it was the ring topped with the ruby cut in the shape of a rose-head that made him think of her and of the goddess Turan.

  “This place has much more wealth than Caledonia, but is far less friendly,” He complained bitterly feeling as though the very walls of the buildings and tables of the merchant-stalls were an oppressive weight upon his back.

  Full of self-pity, he struggled to keep from feeling too homesick. He longed for his mother, father and the rest of his family, wishing most of all that he was in the company of those who he could understand. These people could barely understand his Arnish; he could not understand their language of Brittian, so that he felt trapped and helpless.

  “You there, what by goddesses are you there?” Someone asked him in crudely put together heavily accented Caled that Trygve barely comprehensible to his ears.

  Glancing behind him, to discover that it was none other than the guard who had escorted him through Castle-Rheged to Eadburg’s chambers. Dark sandy-haired, muscled and bearded he was as muscled as an ox with a jutting strong chin and long-haired, he appeared concerned to see the youth.

  “You mean ‘by the gods why are you there’?” Trygve asked politely, deciding not to be sly or insulting towards this man, as he might have otherwise done.

  “Aye, that,” the guard said cheerily, “You look sad.”

  Trygve went to deny it, ere he decided to answer honestly, “Aye, I think I am.”

  This drew an amused look from the guard who studied the Caled for a short period of time, evidently concerned for him.

  Appreciative of his kindliness, Trygve was to explain to him not his woes, but rather move to one side of the castle’s walls. Seated therewith their backs against the stone-wall heated by the rays of the suns with a small bag of apples that Oswine, the guard in question bought for them from a local apple-farmer, they discussed the Caled tongue.

  Better able to speak Arnish, Oswine was to ask a great many questions regarding how to speak the language; starting with individual verbs and nouns he soon moved to grammatical structure. Wherefore the time came for Trygve to ask the older man, who was at least a dozen years his senior how he had come to be so intrigued by the language of the Caleds.

  The smile that Oswine gave him was a sincere one, “My grandfather was a brigand, originally from Strawthern who originally preyed upon Brittians. The trouble was once peace was restored between the two kingdoms, he was pushed out of Caledonia by the Mormaer of Strawthern. Resisting this until he caught sight in one forest, of a travelling horse-merchant accompanied by his wife and daughter.

  It was the daughter for whom he fell at once in love with, impassioned he was to at last allow himself to be chased from the forests of Strawthern. Following the merchants when they returned south, he was to save them from other brigands, wherefore he was to take up work as a guard for Uhtric’s grandfather, who was then in his twilight years.”

  “How interesting,” Trygve commented intrigued by this story, and the similarities the other man’s ancestry was to his own. “My grandfather Thorvain was an Arn who became a slave, ere he fell overboard of a drakkar, washed ashore in Caledonia, thereupon the shore of Glasvhail he met my grandmother Mairi. They were to one day wed, and she passed down as best she could Arnish to my brothers who attempted to pass it on to me.”

  “Our tales are quite similar indeed,” Said Oswine with a hearty chuckle that bespoke of the genuine warmth he appeared to feel for the lad.

  Tongue-tied and mouth full of his third apple (he had apparently been hungrier than he originally known), he eventually after a great swallow asked of his newfound friend. “Oswine, if I may ask; why are you being so kind to me, you have no reason to be.”

  Oswine shrugged his massive shoulders, “I am curious about Caledonia, and wish to better know my grandfather. Do you not feel the same towards your own?”

  This answer pleased him, and also troubled Trygve. He had never truly thought about his grandfather. Dead ere his birth, with a grandmother that survived only long enough to see his third or fourth year or so, he could hardly remember her. Indulf had adored her, and always longed to know more of their ancestry and to find their father’s people, as had Eachann. But taking after Solamh, Trygve though had felt greater love and attachment to his Caled roots.

  Pondering his heritage, which lay in his knowledge of some Arnish, some of the myths and tales he was left to question all that he had taken hitherto that moment for granted. He was left to wonder if he had mayhaps been in truth ungrateful towards his noble grandparents.

  “I do not know,” Trygve answered at last troubled, “I have never thought to wonder about them until this moment.” At Oswine’s incredulous look, he hurried to explain his stance, “My brothers and father sought to interest me in it, but I was never terribly interested. It never seemed as real as the present and future, therefore how could it possibly be important to me, at this moment?”

  This remark drew a snort from the guard, who said with a shake of his head. “What a profoundly stupid thing to say; it is our history that defines us. Without it, we are adrift without a place or future. It is only through our history that we may secure our place, in the world.”

  Trygve did not answer, chewing on his fifth apple he mulled over the guard’s words. They soon shifted their talk to now teaching him Brittian and getting him to properly pronounce and articulate every word. His mind remained firmly, upon the previous talk of history.

  *****

  Despite the fact he was not quite the great student of languages Cormac was, or familiar with as many as say Daegan or Indulf. Trygve nevertheless made impressive progress, with the assistance of Oswine the guard. Large and mightily built, he was a fine friend one whom the villagers and local huscarls of Rheged were to become accustomed to seeing in the company of the Caled.

  It was not simply that they were to pass their time eating apples though. Much of it was spent in the courtyards where Oswine taught him to wield arms. Taught the Brittian tongue at the same time he taught the other man Caled, and about the people and lands of Caledonia, Trygve was to come to greatly appreciate these lessons.

  Though most of the physical lessons, left him fairly battered, aching and irritated, when he went to bed. The aches were always felt all the more keenly the day after, in spite of Oswine holding his blows, when striking him with his wooden sword.

  As to Wulfnoth and Eadburg they were rarely if ever seen, save for upon their walks as always, with the druid leaving the castle after a few days. Where he headed to was a mystery to the majority of the city, though not to Trygve. For it was to him that Wulfnoth confided that he was headed to one of the local monasteries.

  “I am going but will return soon enough,” He told him in an important voice that, Trygve had long since grown accustomed to. “I will be at the monastery of Saga that is nearby, should Uhtric return you will send a messenger to the Paragon Edda’s abbey, understand me Trygve?”

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  “Aye, though why are you headed there for?” He had asked, but received no answer, beyond a ‘never you mind’, much to his exasperations.

  Most of the people of the city of Rheged soon guessed that the Caled remaining in the castle was a clear message that the druid was to soon return. Unconcerned, for they soon came to regard him as little more than an idle curiosity. Rather akin, to how one might think of a foreign if particularly dumb animal.

  Hardly inclined to disabuse them of this notion, it came about that Trygve enjoyed life away from Wulfnoth all the more than when he had been present. This had as much with this being his first taste of freedom in all his years. Away from family, away from the overbearing presence of the druid he felt tempted to do what he wished to.

  This was not to say that he suddenly committed all sorts of sordid actions, but rather that he could awaken when he pleased, could go to bed as he pleased and enjoy a laird’s diet.

  One that consisted of far more meat, such as that of mutton, beef, pork and bear-meat and far less fish than he had ever tasted before, with the youth rapidly learning to enjoy it, along with the daily exercise he was subjected to.

  He might well have enjoyed eating richly, spending time with the Ealdorman’s hounds (introduced to him by Oswine) and learning to fight, and seeing the local sights, if it was not for Brother Leofd?g.

  Five days after the departure of Wulfnoth he it was who approached the youth if shyly to discuss with him, when he was bored, and throwing little bits of meat at one of the hounds by the table. Nigh on alone in the mead-hall, as Oswine had left him alone, and returned to his home in the city, with only a few servants and dogs for company.

  Trygve had rapidly lost track of time, and having made friends with one of the castle-dogs. A large Doberman with a thick coat of dark fur, and a childish gleam in his eyes and a tail that never appeared, to cease wagging, so that he reminded Trygve of Cormac in some way.

  “Are you the foreigner, Wulfnoth brought with him?” Leofd?g asked of Trygve having never truly been introduced to him ere that moment.

  Leaning back in his chair, with his feet touching the table, as he tore off another strip of heron-meat from his plate (one that he had near finished alone) to toss it at the dog, he answered lightly. “It depends upon the reason, for which you wish to see me,” He added rather more slyly, “For if you are here to hear me sing the great songs of my ancestors, you have arrived far, far too late.”

  Unamused by his sly words, the Ursidon gave a great roll of his eyes and deposited rather roughly several of the heavy tomes he had in his arms upon the table next to the youth. Jumping a little, Trygve could do little more than gape up at the large six-foot one beast-man who easily towered over him.

  “Trygve, I am not here to listen to your many jests,” Leofd?g snapped at him, ill-pleased by his immaturity. “What I am here to do, is to aid you.”

  “How so?” Trygve grunted, feeling as though those words had been torn from his lips, not understanding the implication behind the silence on the part of the druid.

  Nor did he see quite why the old Ursidon stood over him, defying him with his gaze and speaking to him of aid. He had a difficult time to imagine, what the old man could possibly do to assist him.

  It was not his wish to frighten the timid beast-man. He need not have worried, for though Leofd?g hesitated and fidgeted he was to hold his ground as they say.

  “I have been sent to teach you to read, it was Wulfnoth’s wish ere his departure,” Leofd?g retorted only for the illiterate youth to gape up at him.

  “You jest, surely!” Trygve remarked shortly thereafter he had rediscovered his voice again, stunned by the revelation that his traveling companion had planned such a thing. “Why did he not say anything regarding such to me?”

  “Because, he left it to me, and I have been preoccupied until this moment.” Leofd?g snapped ere he threw open one book abruptly, “There you are, er- I shall instruct you on the letter ‘a’ and from there we will move to its cousin letter ‘?’.”

  Trygve groaned, only to be struck by the druid’s large paw.

  “You will commit yourself to this learning, because it is important.” Leofd?g growled.

  Trygve wished he could have struck the old man back, but as he had the build and likely constitution of a bear, he had no wish to anger him further. This desire was especially important to him, now that his ears were ringing and head spinning from that previous blow.

  *****

  In spite of how he was initially an unwilling student, Trygve was now pressed into learning to read. This unwillingness was due to the brusque manner in which his tutor used when teaching him.

  His newfound friend Oswine reacted with considerable surprise, when he heard of the offer by the druid to teach him to read and write. “Astonishing, I have never truly heard of anyone being offered lessons such as these by Leofd?g.”

  “Aye, though it is hardly all that amusing for me,” Trygve complained as he imitated the movement of his friend. They were in the midst of a lesson on the proper use of bucklers, and he was being shown how to properly parry a blow with his small rounded, red-shield.

  “Useful though,” Oswine informed him with a distracted air.

  “How so?”

  “Because, it allows you to communicate thoughts and ideas down through the ages,” Oswine told him steadfastly, seeing the confusion upon his face, the guard hastily added. “There are stories in the Canticle correct? Such as that of the impious, prodigal daughter for example, do you recall it?”

  At the youth’s nod, he went on, “Well, the tale was passed down from the age of Armand the Martyr, down to us. His ‘Dialogue’ about the nature of the universe I have heard in part once and at that time it was read to me.”

  “What are you saying?” Trygve asked in exasperation.

  “Only that you should not, reject gifts out of hand,” Oswine had reprimanded him, looking wistful he murmured. “I only wish that my sons had been offered, such an opportunity.”

  This brought on a discussion of the guard’s wife and children. His wife, whom Trygve had never hitherto heard about, was often preoccupied with assisting one of the local bakers’, and maintaining an eye upon his sons. The eldest of whom was Harold at three years of age, and the younger was a newborn.

  Pleased to hear of this, and curious now about the family of his friend Trygve hurried to ask of him, “And when can I meet them?”

  “Out of the question for now,” Oswine replied with a weary sigh, “My good-mother lives with us at the moment, and she is hardly pleasant company.”

  Unsure of how horrid the old woman could be, Trygve was not to meet her for quite some time. At the time, he was left struggling to determine what to make of the counsel of his friend. He had never before given much thought to his family-history, or to literacy.

  His ancestors had been illiterate by nature, or at least those he knew of all were, they had never truly grasped the stories of the ancients and histories of Caledonia without the aid, of the local druids. Wulfnoth for his part had not explained his reasons, for why he wished to have his companion learn to read and write, Trygve wished to believe he wished to do so out of kindness.

  *****

  This thought in mind, Trygve devoted himself more fully to his studies, taking to reading and practicing his letters every chance he had. Such was his dedication that he soon won over the fondness of Leofd?g, the two of them spending a great deal of time in the chapel.

  It was there that they spent all their time not spent in prayer or training in the case of the Caled, So that when he returned to his bed, he was often as weary in mind as in body. His was an exhausted existence, yet it was the exhaustion of someone content with his lot.

  Sleeping with a copy of the great epics of the Ilian Wars below his pillow along with a copy of the Canticle, Trygve was to later swear that he had never slept better. Not that he could read, further than a few dozen words here and there, of the Romalian and Dorian texts. Languages he could not grasp more than a few words in.

  One example of a lesson from Leofd?g was all about letters, only for him to leave Trygve for the next day to decipher each letter respectively. Leofd?g would shortly after lunch have him brought to the chapel, after the lady Eadburg had left for her own chambers after her morning prayers. Once there, he had Trygve sit down to begin reciting some of the letters, then he would have him read three words.

  “Your pronunciation is terrible,” Leofd?g criticized after listening to the northerner.

  “I have never attempted to speak Romalian before,” Trygve complained bitterly, feeling nettled by the other man’s words.

  “Then do try harder,” Leofd?g retorted sharply, feeling likewise nettled if for different reasons than his student.

  Grumbling, Trygve did as bidden, over the next few hours.

  It was not until the next day that he was to towards the end of the lesson; ask of his friend, “Have you heard any news from Wulfnoth?”

  “No, likely he is quite busy,” Leofd?g replied stolidly.

  There was to be a bit more discussion of words, and letters and how to better pronounce both the Romalian ones but also their Brittian counterparts. In all, Trygve found it incredibly difficult to comprehend and keep everything that his teacher sought to engrave into the fabric of his mind.

  After several more minutes he was to throw down the book, in frustration upon the bench they were seated upon.

  “I shan’t understand a word of it!” He complained, “It is impossible for me to do so!”

  Another sigh escaped the lips of the bear, seemingly prepared to reprimand the youth when he obviously thought better of it.

  Picking the book once more, Leofd?g was to read the book rapidly ere long he informed him with a shrug of his large shoulders from where he sat to the right of the youth. “It speaks of the heroic deeds of Norbert of Noren?ia.”

  “What deeds?” Trygve asked in a grumpy tone that served only to further, annoy his tutor who answered exasperatedly.

  “The deeds he accomplished in his first year in service to Aemiliemagne. The tale details how Zius, a disgraced warrior who had fallen upon hard times and gone into the countryside to survive in the wilderness. It was Zius who was father to Norbert, who at thirteen years of age was to hear of how the King was doing badly, it was he who stole away with his father’s hatchet for cutting trees and traversed through countless lands to his rescue.

  Traveling through bandit infested territory, the Dark-Web Woods where he cut down dozens of large spiders, and was to climb over Mt-Furie. It was there that he slew the Wyvern Anvaldran le Sombre and slicing off its teeth from its gums, he carried them then to the court of the King in the city of Guilladon.

  It was therein the royal halls that he knelt before the monarch, pledged his support and allegiance. Amazed by the grandson of the war-god Ziu’s courage, and how he had fought such dangers, with the goal to put himself at his service against the Dark Elves.” Explained Leofd?g in a knowing tone, his eyes alight with the joy of reading and passion that only those who know history could possibly experience.

  Awed by this passion of his for those days of Aemiliemagne, days when true chivalry and courage were as common place as men tilling the fields were in recent-days. Trygve gaped at his friend, swept up by the grand tale. He had never known a great deal about the Paladin descended from the war-god, Ziu.

  “What happened next?” Trygve asked eagerly of his friend.

  “You shall have to read the details yourself,” Leofd?g replied, adding with a hint of weariness, “I am exhausted now though, and would prefer to continue the lesson at another time.”

  Disappointed, Trygve knew he could not push his friend any further. Reluctantly, he wished him a good night and departed for his chambers.

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