There was a certain frisson in the air. The dog was attempting to burrow backwards into Therese’s trouser leg, all the while looking with brown-eyed incredulity at the cat. The cat was hunched down next to Anwyn’s skirt, looking balefully and fearlessly at the dog. Eventually Carolus retreated behind his mistress’s shoes and averted his gaze, and the cat settled down on delicate paws and relaxed. I squatted down and held out my hand. At once the cat strolled over to say hello, and allowed me to caress its silky head. Which I did until Anwyn looked up. ‘Bellamy? Where are you? Oh, hello, Corinna.’
The cat immediately leapt up onto the table and sprawled out on the centrepiece of the tapestry, which seemed to feature a number of men in early homespun armour and some viridian grasslands.
‘Corinna, my dear,’ said the Professor, laying down his book. ‘You’re just in time for some formation cat worship.’
The other two laid down their needles and thread and leant back in their respective chairs while Bellamy (for I presumed it was he) displayed his spotless cream-coloured coat under Anwyn’s caressing hands.
‘Bellamy is the reason I’m visiting Melbourne,’ Anwyn explained. ‘He appears to have hitched a ride from my house and turned up in the northern suburbs. I picked him up on the first morning.’
‘You have a feline hitchhiker? I have to say that’s … unusual,’ I observed.
‘It is rather. But he’s a very unusual cat. Carolus is so far unimpressed, though.’
Therese Webb laughed. ‘Well, yes, to an extent. I’m surprised it’s taking him so long to get used to him. He gets on fine with all our local cats here, but something about Bellamy seems to have him worried.’
Anwyn leant forward and continued to caress Bellamy’s head. His paws stretched out horizontally and his citrine eyes closed. Loud purrs filled the fragrant garden. ‘I think the reason Carolus is put out is because back home Bellamy has two dogs called Nutmeg and Digby who are his most devoted servants. I only got Bellamy because the dogs were heartbroken when their cat Onslow died from renal cancer. Onslow bossed the dogs around and they loved it, and him. So they needed a new cat and Bellamy fitted in immediately.’
‘The dogs love him, so he expects all dogs to do the same?’ I suggested.
‘Oh yes. And while Carolus is a polite and friendly dog, he’s not ready to commit to that sort of relationship.’
Dion Monk administered some cat caresses of his own, and cooed appreciatively. ‘Well, you’ll just have to content yourselves with human admirers today.’
Bellamy looked as though he was absolutely fine with that and went on purring.
The Professor gave Anwyn a sidelong glance. ‘Did he really hitchhike from Adelaide? Did he stand on the side of the highway holding up a sign in his paws reading Melbourne or bust?’
Anwyn grinned. ‘Possibly. He was found in someone’s backpack. He’s always climbing into my shopping bags and I think he must have stowed away and gone to sleep there. The people who found him in their car in Northcote had just driven from Adelaide, and they checked his microchip and rang me. The mystery is how he came to be in the backpack in the first place. They’d been in Bedford Park, which is where I live, but they swear they hadn’t been near my house. Just one of those little mysteries.’
The Professor nodded sagely. ‘Siamese are notoriously inscrutable. So you drove here yourself to pick him up, of course?’
‘Of course. And I thought I may as well make it a proper visit, since we’ve got this tapestry to work on.’
‘And where did you find this paragon of cats?’ I wanted to know.
‘My friend Celsa occasionally breeds Siamese kittens. So I bought him for one hundred and fifty dollars and a knitted cap. She lives in Ballarat, but she’s one of us.’
I looked at her in incomprehension.
‘We’re medieval role-players. And this is my latest project, ably assisted by my hearth-companions.’ She inclined her head at Therese and Philomela, both of whom smiled: Therese with some pride, and Philomela like a mouse menaced by a cat. Anwyn lifted Bellamy up into her arms. ‘Come on, dear. Mummy wants to show off our handiwork.’
Bellamy protested, but allowed himself to be laid across her lap. He subsided into immediate slumber. Anwyn stroked him with loving hands. ‘He really could be an Olympic sleeper. Well, Corinna, what do you think?’
I couldn’t make much out of it, and turned enquiringly to Professor Monk.
He scanned it approvingly. ‘No Normans here, I see. Vikings and Saxons, I think. And the writing looks like Old English, which I don’t speak, unfortunately. But that is a fine piece of work. Please, Anwyn, do expound, if you would be so good.’
She beamed at him. ‘Very good! The Bayeux embroidery was made by English women; the Normans didn’t have the skills. And yes, the text is Old English.’
I scanned the writing at the top. Ða ðær Byrtnoð ongan beornas trymian meant nothing to me. The stitching I thought I recognised. ‘Brick-stitch for the heavy work, and couching for colour contrast?’ I ventured.
Anwyn grinned. ‘Well done, Corinna! Recognise anything else?’
There was a huge (presumably English) warrior in chain mail waving a sword, and water in front of him labelled flod. There were other men in armour with evil-looking expressions. Several scenes had been blocked out, including what looked like the death of a giant. There were also borders top and bottom filled with serpents, houses and other decorations. It was like a Dark Age cartoon, or graphic novel. I scanned to the end. It didn’t look good.
‘Those guys look like Vikings,’ I suggested, pointing at the attackers.
‘They are. The quote is from the Battle of Maldon, in 991.’ Anwyn’s face took on a faraway expression. ‘It was a tragic defeat for the English, because their idiot commander Byrhtnoth allowed the Vikings to cross the river to make a fair fight of it. He and all his men fell where they stood.’
Now she closed her eyes and began to chant. ‘Hyge sceal ðe heardra, heorte ðe cenre; mod sceal ðe mare ðe ure maegen lytlað.’
She opened her eyes again. ‘That was put into the mouth of one of his warriors. “Mind must be harder, heart the keener; spirit burn the brighter as our strength lessens.” One of the others also said: “I shall not stir a foot’s pace from here, now that my dear lord lies dead.” He was an idiot, and his men died for it. But they killed and wounded so many of the Vikings that the latter all went home to East Anglia afterwards.’
‘So it was all for nothing?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t say that. The East Anglian Vikings were pretty quiet for the next few years, but Alfred the Great wouldn’t have put up with commanders who gave up strategic advantages out of a misguided zeal for glory. He saved Anglo-Saxon England from the Vikings when everyone else had given up.’
‘This is nearly a hundred years after Alfred’s death, of course.’ Professor Monk looked up at the sky for a moment. ‘Did you say Byrhtnoth?’
Anwyn nodded.
‘I believe I have paid my respects to him. He’s buried in Ely Cathedral. Bishop West’s chapel, from memory. Right next to someone called Archbishop Wulfstan. I remember asking the vergers who he was, and they didn’t seem to know. Wasn’t he a giant of some sort?’