The Saxon Spears

by James Calbraith

  Fulco stands up, and gestures at me to do the same. He takes the spear from the blacksmith: the blade is riveted to the shaft with a thick nail. Weland wipes his hands in his apron and throws a bunch of dried herbs on the hearth. Thick, grey smoke bursts from the furnace, filling the house with a heavy, acrid smell. He closes his eyes and whispers an incantation.

  “There is a custom, beyond the Rhenum…” Fulco starts, and I recognise the cadence of spell-weaving in his voice. Something’s happening. I remember Weland mentioning a ritual before, I’m guessing this is it. Hastily, I wipe the sausage grease from my chin and kneel before the forge, though nobody tells me to.

  “…that the people are named after their chief weapon. The Franks have their axe. The Angles have their javelin. And the Saxons have their long knife. This,” he says, grasping the shaft tightly, “is what they call aesc. Ash. Spear. It is yours. It is you.”

  He hands me the weapon. I bow, then study the spear and spot a small rune carved into the blade. It’s the same rune as on my rune stone.

  “This, and the strength of your arms, will now protect you, instead of the stone,” says Fulco, noticing my look. “And you, in turn, will take care of it. A weapon is what truly makes a man — and you are now one, at last.”

  I rise and slash the air to try it out. The blade vibrates with a sweet whistle. The light shaft fits perfectly in my hands; Fulco must have given Weland precise measurements. It’s shorter and lighter than the wooden spears I’ve trained with, balanced to be held as well in one hand as in both. I tip a pot off the shelf with the blade. Weland’s boy catches it before it hits the floor.

  “It’s beautiful,” I whisper.

  “I devised it to grow with you,” explains Fulco. “All you need is to change the length of the shaft. You can thrust it like a hasta, or throw like a plumbata, depending on how the battle goes.”

  “I will make good use of it.”

  “Let’s hope you won’t have to,” says Weland. He lays a hand on his boy’s shoulder and smiles at him. “I have a feeling things are going to get better around here.”

  I return to the villa a changed, but tired, man. On my insistence, we complete the return journey in one day, starting at dawn, and now my feet are covered in bleeding blisters. My shoulders burn from having carried the spear all the way alongside the travel stick. The aesc is not my only new possession. At my belt dangles the gift from Weland: a seax, a long knife re-forged overnight from the chipped blade of the bandit chief, replacing the one I broke on my first victim.

  I want to show all this off to Eadgith, tell her about my first battle, but I’m too exhausted and decide to leave it until morning. I leave the weapons on the front porch and reach mine and Fastidius’s room. He’s not here — I assume he must be in the study room with Paulinus. Recently he’s been staying there long into the night, preparing for whatever rites await him in Londin. The moment I sit on my bedding, I feel the weariness possess me. I barely manage to take off my boots before falling asleep.

  The next morning, I change into my finest Sunday tunic, strap the sword belt around my waist and the spear to my back and head for the bladesmith’s house.

  It’s empty.

  I look through the window, but it’s too dark to see inside. I walk around to the smithy. There’s nobody there, either. The hearth has been flooded, and all the tools are gone from the rack.

  Where have they gone? I frantically think who might know. Not Fastidius, he’s too busy studying. Gleva? I run to the abattoir; he’s usually there with his father. He spots me from a distance and waves.

  “Are you going to war?” he asks, eyeing my weapons partly with amusement, partly with jealousy. “What is this?” He reaches for the aesc. “I’ve never seen —”

  “Never mind that,” I snap, pushing his hand away. “Where’s Eadgith and her family?”

  He frowns. “Hasn’t she told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  “They all packed up and left, two days ago, right after you wandered off with the Frank. They seemed in a hurry, too.”

  Packed up? Left? What’s going on? I sway and Gleva holds me up. “Hey, you’ve turned green. Are you sure you’re alright? Where have you been, anyway?”

  I run back to the domus. I have a suspicion who will know the answer to this riddle.

  “Paulinus!” I yell into the corridor. “Where are you?”

  The door to the living room opens with Lady Adelheid standing in the frame. “What’s going on, Ash? Please don’t make so much noise, Pascent is resting.”

  I bow, so she won’t see my angry face. “I’m sorry, Lady.” I’m trying to sound calm and composed. “Have you seen Father Paulinus?”

  “He’s gone to the chapel at the graveyard, with Fastidius.”

  I freeze. The chapel — have they found out about Fulco’s shrine? I thank the Lady and start off towards the graveyard in a desperate sprint. I splash through the Loudborne and climb out the wooded bank on the other side, until I reach within sight of the graveyard.

  The high-roofed building is no more, swallowed by an enormous bonfire that roars into the sky. As I approach, the roof beams explode, sending up showers of sparks. Paulinus and Fastidius stand in front, unflinching, their arms raised in prayer.

  “What have you done…?” I whisper.

  Paulinus turns to face me. Pity fills his eyes. “Ah, Ash, I see you’re back from your… excursion.”

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Terrible news. We found a nest of demons under the building. A pagan shrine. It had to be purged.”

  I need to stay calm. I don’t know how much they know. Is Paulinus aware of my involvement? I lick my lips.

  “What — what about the chapel?”

  “The Bishop already promised funds for rebuilding,” says Fastidius. “We might even get a proper church, of stone.”

  “Where’s Eadgith?”

  Paulinus’s expression turns sterner. “The girl confessed to her devilry. She and her family had to be banished. I’m sorry.”

  “What? No, you’re wrong — none of it is her fault!”

  “I know.” Paulinus nods sadly. “It’s my fault for not noticing it sooner. I acted as swiftly as I could, but it was too late to save her soul.”

  “Where is she now?” I press.

  “I cannot say. The demons might get hold of you if you were to find her.”

  “Where — is — she?”

  I draw my seax. I only want to frighten, not harm him — he is a man of cloth after all. And a friend. But Fastidius misreads my intention and leaps between me and the cleric. Before I manage to pull back my sword hand, it’s too late: the blade draws a straight red line across his chest. He falls backwards into Paulinus’s arms with a loud cry.

  I step back in shock, then turn and flee.

  The cold waters of the Loudborne cool my head and by the time I reach the villa, I’m able to put on a semblance of calm. I search out all the boys and ask them about Eadgith, but none of them can add anything to what Gleva already told me. At last, I find Waerla, the shepherd boy, sorting the muck at the pig barn.

  “I’m not supposed to tell anyone about this,” he says, his upper lip twitching. “I was tending to the pigs out on the Woad Hills, when I saw Eadgith and her parents, with a handcart, crossing the stone road.”

  “Are you sure it was them?” I ask, remembering that the slopes of the Woad Hills are some distance from the road.

  “She wasn’t wearing her veil.” That’s all the answer I need — no other girl on the property has Eadgith’s flame-red hair. “They were heading east, down the old forest track. That’s all I know.”

  “Thank you, Waerla.”

  I want to run after them at once, but there’s one more thing I need to do, one more place I need to check. I head for Fulco’s house.

  He opens the door by an inch.

  “Have you heard about what happened?” I ask.

  He grabs me by the tunic and pulls me
inside.

  “You didn’t tell me there was a girl involved,” he snarls. “This changes everything.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t think they know about you and me —”

  “Of course they know. Paulinus isn’t stupid. Why do you think he waited with this until we were away? Listen, I’ll have to lay low for a while until all this blows over. Adelheid can only help me so much.”

  In the faint light, coming through the narrow window, I see he’s been packing for an even longer journey than the one we’ve just returned from. Sacks of food, water-skins, bed cloth, pots and pans are all heaped up on a big pile in the middle of the room.

  “I suggest you keep quiet too,” he says. “Even if Paulinus suspects you, he won’t do anything against Pascent. Be a good Christian boy, and they’ll forget about everything.”

  “It’s too late for that.”

  I tell him what happened at the chapel. He scratches his brow and seethes through his teeth.

  “Besides, I can’t stay here,” I add. “I have to find Eadgith.”

  “The girl? Forget about her. She’s gone! That’s the worst thing you could do right now. By following her, you’ll only incriminate yourself further.”

  “I don’t care. I have to be with her. I’ll join her in banishment, if that’s what it takes.”

  He sighs. “A youth in heat… that’s all I need. I should tie you up for Paulinus, maybe he’d talk sense into you.”

  “I will fight anyone who wants to stop me.” My hand goes to my belt.

  “Stop it. There’s been enough bloodshed today. Do you even know where she is?”

  “They went east.”

  Fulco scoffs. “East — that’s all? There’s a lot of places she could go east.”

  “I was hoping you’d help me find them.”

  “You can forget about that for a start. I don’t want to have anything to do with any of this.”

  “Don’t you at least have an idea?”

  “Of course I do, but…” He looks me in the eyes. He must see something there that convinces him to change his mind. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

  His shoulders slacken. He runs a thumb along his lower lip.

  “Well, you’re a man now, so I have to take your word like a man’s. Alright, listen. I think I know where they went. You remember Quintus?”

  “The villa owner?”

  Fulco nods. “He’s been complaining about not being able to find a good bladesmith ever since his last one died. His villa is due east from here, along the forest track.”

  My heart is racing again. I was certain Eadgith’s family was being forced to live in a forest somewhere, outside any property or village, like Weland. Tracking them in the woods would take me days. But another villa — and one so close, too!

  I thank Fulco and head for the door. He stops me. Shaking his head and mumbling curses to himself, he reaches into the pile of supplies and produces a mesh bag of dry travel food, one day’s ratio.

  “It’s a ten mile walk, in rough land,” he says, handing it to me. “You’re going to get hungry.”

  Fulco was right. This isn’t a trek down the comfortable metalled highway of the Romans. The track leading to Quintus’s villa is a much more ancient one, sunken into the soft clay by thousands of feet and hooves that have navigated it since long before anyone remembered. I imagine it may have started as an animal path, or a route for shepherds running their flock from pasture to pasture. It follows in a wide natural arc between the wooded ridge of the Downs to the south, and a vast heathland to the north. Halfway through the march I encounter another Roman highway, older and narrower than the one to New Port. I cross it without wondering where it leads to. Unlike these ever-straight stone roads, the forest track weaves and rolls, adjusting to the landscape rather than conquering it. As a result, the ten-mile journey, instead of the few hours I expected, takes me well into the evening.

  The forest clears. I pass some fields first, then a few clusters of huts and barns, which tells me I must be getting near to the villa. I ask one of the serfs for directions, and he looks at me as if I was slow. He points behind me and I understand why. Over at the top of the ridge, right in front of me, towers a monumental, two-storeyed building, its whitewashed wall glowing red in the sunset. I can’t tell for certain from the distance, but it must be at least three times as large as the domus at Ariminum. There are a couple more buildings scattered around the slope, but none compare to the central residence in size and complexity.

  As I climb up the ridge, I see no trace of a gate or guards; still, I fear Paulinus may have warned the villa’s owner of possible danger, and so I sneak along the boundary hedges and through damp ditches. By the time I reach the property, I’m soaked through and sneezing into my fist. Up close I spot that, magnificent though it might seem from afar, the domus is falling apart. There are holes in the tiled roof of the northern wing; on the gable wall, a great patch of render has fallen off, revealing the raw stone underneath. One side of the porch has sunk into the damp ground, leaving the rotting floorboards hanging loosely from the supporting scaffold.

  Most of the auxiliary buildings I pass seem uninhabited. Even in the main house, many of the rooms are dark and empty, the glass in the windows broken or missing altogether. All life in the domus seems focused in the southern half of the building, overlooking the river valley and the scattered hamlets below.

  A fat man sways drunkenly out onto the porch and relieves himself from the edge. I’m appalled to recognise him as Quintus, the villa’s owner. He barely resembles the elegant gentleman from the birthday feast. Master Pascent would never allow himself to be seen in such a state, even when nobody’s watching — but then, he would never allow his villa to fall into so much disrepair.

  I sneak further, in search of the smithy. It takes me longer than it should to find it, as I’m looking for a solid, stone-wall building like the one at Ariminum. Instead, I spot Eadgith’s mother cleaning out waste from a dilapidated wattle hut, no bigger than the one I grew up in. The forge and anvil stand outside, under a flimsy canopy. The charcoal hut at the back is empty. No wonder Quintus couldn’t find a blacksmith willing to work in these conditions…

  I bite my lower lip to stop the tears flooding into my eyes. My hatred for Paulinus grows to a seething fury. It’s clear to me what must be done. I may not be able to help Eadgith’s family, but I can at least take her from this filthy place. She must now see that my plan was the correct one: we should run away from the Britons, join the Saxons, where we belong, maybe go back to Weland’s village, or to the mercenary camps… I’m sure that if I could only talk to her, I would be able to convince her I’m right.

  I wait until all the stars come out and I’m certain everyone’s asleep. The hut only has one door and one small window. I doubt I can get to Eadgith without waking her parents. I need to calculate this risk into my tactics. I give the door a light push. It’s not locked; there’s nothing worth stealing in the hut. I leave the spear by the wall. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Only a sliver of dim starlight brightens the stuffy, mouldy interior. I make out the shapes sleeping on the floor. Remembering how the old man and woman who raised me used to sleep in their home, I’m guessing that the two bundles by the smouldering hearth are the bladesmith and his wife. Then the one sleeping by the window must be…

  I creep up, lean down and take a sniff. Through the odours of mould, dust and stale urine that permeate the hut, I still discern Eadgith’s unmistakable scent. I put my hand on her mouth and wake her up with a gentle stir.

  She struggles in panic under my grip. “It’s me, Ash,” I whisper. This calms her down. Starlight gleams in her eyes. In the darkness, I can’t tell her expression.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispers when I let go of her mouth.

  “Come with me outside,” I reply. “I just want to talk.”

  I hold her hand. We
sneak towards the door, when I hear hoof-beats approaching on the dirt track. I duck and peek through the small window, but it’s too dark to see anything outside. I hear the horse again, whinnying. It’s near. I notice movement in the hut — one of Eadgith’s parents stirs uneasy in their sleep.

  “Wait,” I whisper.

  I reach for the door and touch around, searching for the spear. My fingers touch the warm ash wood. I grip it and leap out, ready to fight whoever’s outside.

  A lonely hooded figure stands before me in the darkness, holding the reins of a tall black horse. Some distance behind I glance Quintus, with some armed guards, observing the situation with an uneasy scowl by the light of an oil lamp. Further still, I spot the lanky shape of Paulinus. I can’t see his face, but I sense his disapproving stare even from here. But, if Paulinus is there, then who —?

  The man before me throws down the hood. It’s Master Pascent, weary-faced and diminished by grief. I point my spear at him.

  “What do you want?” I snarl.

  “I came to take you home, son.”

  My hands tremble. Master Pascent never referred to me as his son before — it was always “Ash”, or “boy”. What deceit is this?

  “You won’t separate me from Eadgith again. I don’t know what lies Paulinus told you to get rid of her, but if you think —”

  “Ash, stop!”

  Eadgith pushes past me, grabs the shaft of my spear and pushes it down.

  “It was all my idea,” she says.

  “Wha — What…?” I stutter.

  “Nobody forced us to leave. I convinced Master Pascent to let us go while you were away. I just couldn’t risk you turning away from God because of me.”

  “No! They forced you to say this!” I shake the spear out of her hand and step forward, until the tip of the blade almost touches Pascent’s chest. Quintus’s guards move towards us, but Pascent raises his hand to stop them.

  “Say this isn’t true,” I demand. “Say you banished her because of Paulinus’s lies.”

  It’s impossible to look straight into his eyes; there’s too much sadness.