AD 960
It was early in the morning when the watchman at the north gate of the city saw a remarkable sight coming down the road towards him. It was a young woman, all alone; she was finely dressed and walking with a proud and purposeful stride. She bore a heavy bundle at her chest, wrapped in a large cloth tied up behind her neck.
The watchman considered the woman to be either exceedingly brave, or foolhardy in the extreme. Young women, especially ones so attractive and obviously wealthy, did not walk the roads of Northumbria alone. He wondered where she had come from, and why he had only spotted her coming just now, barely a mile from the city. The north road from Jorvik ran very straight, being in its origin a Roman road connecting the town they had called Eboracum with Hadrian’s Wall, some eighty miles to the north. The watchman, who prided himself on his long sight, should have been able to first see her approach at least an hour earlier, as the road was otherwise empty.
As the woman approached the gate, he noticed that her clothes, which should have been stained from long travel, were unmarked. Aside from the bundle wrapped at her chest, she carried nothing else, no supplies, provisions nor wares. Puzzled and intrigued, he leaned out from his vantage point, in a room above the gate, to listen to what she had to say to the gatekeeper below him. He was shocked to see that the bundle was actually a child, a small baby no more than a few months old, surely far too young to take on a long journey.
–State your business here,†said the gatekeeper, a gruff man of little imagination, the watchman knew.
–I am here to meet with an old friend,†replied the woman. –She lives on Wool Street, close to the river.†A Scot, by her accent, thought the watchman, but she speaks English excellently. Scots were not unheard of in Jorvik, but they were usually merchants or tradesmen. He hoped the gatekeeper would demand further information from her, but he just accepted the toll, opened the gate and let her through. She passed through the gate, under the arch and out of sight.
Strange woman, thought the watchman. I wonder who she was. Probably a witch. The watchman didn’t believe in witches, but he was prone to occasional flights of fancy. On this occasion however, though he never knew it, he was absolutely correct.
Although it was still early, the streets of Jorvik were already busy. Rowena strode calmly through the crowds, all hurrying about their morning business, none of them giving her a second thought. Shops and markets were opening up for trade, food was being transported and processed for sale, boats were loading and unloading on the river. Rowena smiled to herself. She had been eight years away, and so much had changed for this city in that time, and yet so little seemed different. Life carried on as always.
Jorvik had always been a hub of trade and industry. The Romans had originally founded it, Rowena knew, as a military base, but it had quickly grown into a powerful city in its own right. When the Angles had come to Britain after the Romans left, they had Anglicised the name of the place from Eboracum to Eoforwic. It had been the chief city of Northumbria, the Angle kingdom that stretched from the Humber to the border of the lands of the Scots. That was, until the Vikings came.
At first they had been content to raid the coastlines, and harry monks and local farmers. But around a hundred years ago, a huge invasion force from Denmark had landed on the east coast of Britain. The Vikings had swept all before them, and it had seemed that the kingdoms of the Angles and Saxons would become nothing more than Danish provinces.
But, as every Englishman and woman knew, one kingdom held firm, the kingdom of Wessex. The Saxon kingdom of the south-west had been the last to be attacked, and it was there the tide turned. Led by King Alfred, who men now called Alfred the Great, a fightback began. The Danish armies were halted, and driven back.
But Alfred had been unable to retake all the Anglo-Saxon lands, and at the end of his life they had been left divided in two. In the south and west was the united Anglo-Saxon kingdom, with its centre in London, the great city of the south. To the north and east lay the Danelaw, the lands under Danish rule, encompassing Northumbria, East Anglia and much of Mercia. Its centre had been at Eoforwic, which the Danes renamed Jorvik, after their own fashion. Jorvik had flourished under their rule, a centre of trade with the wider Viking empire.
In the decades since Alfred, his descendants had slowly driven back the Danes and retaken the northern lands. With those reconquests had grown a new idea: a single Anglo-Saxon kingdom united under one king from the line of Alfred. And so England was born.
Jorvik had been the last of the Viking possessions to submit to English rule. When Rowena had been living in the city, between the ages of twelve and sixteen, it had still been under nominal Danish control, an island in a unified England. But not two years after she had left, the English king had driven out the last Viking ruler, and England was now completely unified.
But the legacy of the Vikings could never be erased from the city or the area. Most of the inhabitants now had Danish blood to some degree or another and, though the English were back in charge, nobody was thinking of changing the name back from Jorvik. The mark that the Vikings had left on England would be part of the country for ever.
Yet, as Rowena observed, the ordinary folk of Jorvik seemed largely unaffected by the tumultuous events around them. The average citizen cared not who their rulers were, so long as they remained free to pursue life, and profit, as before.
As she approached the river, the stench of the city grew greater. Rowena, who had lived for years in the clean air of the Highlands, had forgotten how foul the city could be. With a cough and a splutter, her baby awoke and began to cry gently. –Ssh, Helena,†she said gently, stroking her finger across the baby’s forehead. –Come on, we’re nearly there, then we can get you inside. You must be getting hungry, I know. Just a few more minutes.†Helena didn’t stop crying, but she didn’t get any louder.
Rowena turned into Wool Street. It was just as she had remembered it, long and narrow, with the ramshackle wooden buildings looming over the street, so that they almost blocked out the sunlight from above. The house she was looking for was just a short way down on the right hand side. It was no different from the rest; there was nothing to mark it out as anywhere special. But that had been just how its owner had wanted it.
Rowena had spent four happy years there, indulging her greatest passion: learning. The house had been a school. Most witches and wizards schooled their children at home, for fear of accidental exposure of their abilities to the wider community. However, in the larger cities, one or two enterprising souls had established small schools, taking only a handful of students, although only the most prosperous families could afford to send their children to such places. As the daughter of a noble family, Rowena had been lucky. Still, her father had been reluctant to send her so far from home, until she convinced him she was more than capable of looking after herself.
It was a strange feeling to be back in a place of so many childhood memories, returning now as a grown woman. She stood, taking in the front of the house for a moment, before stepping forward and knocking on the door.
A young man she didn’t recognise opened the door. He was slimly built, with long, straw-coloured hair and a thin beard. He stared at Rowena in puzzlement. –Hello, can I help you?†he said.
–Yes, I’m here to see Helga,†replied Rowena.
The man’s expression changed from one of puzzlement to concern. –There’s no one called Helga living here,†he said brusquely.
It was Rowena’s turn to be puzzled. –Yes there is,†she insisted. –She’s a middle-aged woman, red hair. I know I’ve got the right house. She runs a school here.â€
The man stared more intently at her, seemingly trying to figure something out, or decide on something. –Who are you?†he asked carefully.
Rowena looked into his eyes, and realised what the question meant. She leaned forward and whispered, –Engorgio.â€
–Reducio,†replied the man. –You’d better come inside.†He stood aside and allowed Rowena to pass into the house. An exchange of spell-words was a common method amongst witches and wizards to identify themselves to each other.
Inside, the house bore little resemblance to what Rowena remembered. The whole place seemed to have redesigned and redecorated, with entirely different furniture. Any trace that this had once been a school had completely vanished. It was now obviously just a home, albeit a large one for just one person.
The man ushered her into the front room, which had once been the classroom, and they sat down. Rowena undid the cloth from around her neck and laid Helena in her lap. –I’m sorry about that,†said the man. –I get nervous if ever non-magic folk come around asking questions. I’m afraid if you’re looking for the Helga that used to own this place, you’re about five years too late. She’s gone.â€
–Gone? Gone where?â€
–Some village in Wales, from what I gathered. She sold this house to me before she left. She seemed quite keen to get away. I don’t know why. My name’s Edwin, by the way.†He offered out his hand for Rowena to shake.
Rowena shook his hand. –I’m Rowena,†she replied.
Another strange look appeared on Edwin’s face. –Not Rowena of Fife? The Raven’s Claw?â€
–Why, yes, they do call me that. I had no idea I had a reputation that stretched this far, let alone my nickname.â€
–You’re too modest, Rowena. I hear a lot of stories from the people who pass through this house, and your name has come up on more than one occasion. The finest wizarding mind in all of Britain, so some say. Besides, I knew you husband, back before you were married. I heard about his death. I’m sorry.â€
–Thank you.†Rowena felt a lump in her throat, which she did her best to hide. –How did you know Donald?â€
–We did some business together, a few years ago. Unicorn foals. You know how into magical creatures Donald was.†Rowena nodded. –If you don’t mind me asking, how did he die?â€
–He was murdered,†stated Rowena plainly.
–My God,†said Edwin. –By whom?â€
–I don’t know.â€
Edwin sighed. –I run a guesthouse and meeting-place for travelling wizards here,†he explained, –so I hear a lot of the gossip going around the community. These days it seems every week I hear about a new poor soul in the community murdered, or missing. Half the time it seems there’s not even a reason for it.â€
–A lot more than half,†replied Rowena. –There’s never any good reason for murder. Life is everything that we have. To destroy it is an act so monstrous, it can never be condoned.â€
There was a brief uncomfortable silence, which was broken only when Helena began to cry again. –So this must be his child,†said Edwin.
–Her name is Helena. She’s five months old.â€
–She’s beautiful. You must have had a very long tiring journey carrying her. How many days have you been on the road?â€
–Oh, none. I Apparated.â€
–Seriously?†said Edwin, shocked. –You Apparated with a five-month-old child? Isn’t that incredibly dangerous?â€
Rowena shook her head. –Not for me. It’s all a case of balance and determination, really. I certainly wasn’t going to leave Helena behind, and it’s the safest and easiest way to travel.â€
–Amazing. They were right, you are remarkable. But what brings you all the way to Jorvik, with a baby in tow, looking for this woman Helga?â€
–As I said, Helga ran a school here and was my old teacher,†explained Rowena. –I’m looking for her because I need her help.â€
–To do what?â€
–To change the world.â€
Edwin started to laugh, but something in Rowena’s expression made him stop. –You’re serious, aren’t you?†he said. –By Merlin, you do aim high. And how are you going to do that?â€
–I don’t know. But I have to try. I made a promise.†Rowena told Edwin about Donald’s funeral and about the vow she had made over his grave, and the cause to which she was now committed. –I had to wait until Helena was born and was strong enough to travel of course,†she said, –but now my journey has begun. I do not intend to rest until it is complete.â€
–Well, I don’t know how I can help,†said Edwin, –but anything I can do to aid your cause, please let me know. It’s about time something was done. You are welcome to stay here tonight, free of charge, before you set out to find this Helga. I have a good room suitable for a mother and child. And if you ever return, be sure you have a friend and a place to stay in Jorvik.â€
–Thank you, you are most kind. Do you remember the name of the place to which Helga moved?â€
Edwin racked his brains. –It was some place near the English border. Some typically Welsh foreign-sounding name. Ah, that was it: Hufflepuff.â€
The Raven's Claw by Sonorus
Chapter Endnotes: Jorvik is modern day York (the name got shortened some time in the Middle Ages), one of the most historic places in Britain. Hufflepuff isn't really a Welsh word, of course, but it sounds vaguely close to how an English speaker might mangle a Welsh word, so that's my excuse.