The Saxon Spears

by James Calbraith

  “Maybe it fell apart and the debris caused this obstruction in the first place.” Master Pascent rubs his chin. “We may have to go all the way to Robriwis.”

  Quintus waddles up to us, his bald pate shining in the afternoon sun. “I… I know a ford up the river. It’s bound to be shallower than this one. But the road is worse.”

  Pascent turns to him. “How far is it?”

  “Five miles, past Maiden’s Rocks. It leads straight to the stone road to Leman.”

  “It might even be faster that way,” remarks Catigern, but Fulco shakes his head with a frown.

  “That takes us too near the forest,” he says. “I don’t like it.”

  No more than two miles away, to the south, the hills rise again, crowned by a dense, dark forest, like a menacing finger pointing at the Medu River, forcing the current into a sharp bend. The hill and the water push at each other, leaving only enough space for a narrow dirt track between them.

  “Calm down, Fulco. We’re still in civilised territory,” says Master Pascent. “Not every narrow path is an ambush site.”

  “But every ambush site is on a narrow path,” the Frank replies. “I’d feel safer if we moved to Robriwis.”

  “That would add a whole day to the journey,” says Lady Adelheid. “This isn’t Andreda yet. If I remember correctly, there’s a major settlement just beyond that ridge.”

  “That’s right, my Lady,” says Catigern. “I say we give Quintus’s ford a try, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll go back north.”

  The others nod. Fulco shakes his head again, but his objection, though noted, is overruled.

  “Then at least let me send a few of the Iutes to explore the road ahead,” he says.

  “I have no problem with that,” replies Pascent. Quintus even offers some of his own guards to accompany the Iutes in the investigation. The squadron trots off, led by Horsa himself.

  “Keep to the hill-ward side of the carriages,” Fulco orders the remaining guards. “As long as the width of the track allows. And stay vigilant. I really don’t like the look of that forest.”

  We reach the sharp bend in the river and the track narrows down to the span of a single carriage. We slow down to a wretched crawl. The rising water level has turned the old cart ruts into a bog. At the narrowest point, our carriage gets its rear wheels stuck in the thick, oozing mud. It takes the bent backs of a dozen servants to push it out, to the accompaniment of the driver’s whip and the desperate brays of the hapless horses.

  Fulco marches a few feet behind the carriage, trampling along a muddy embankment with a permanent tense scowl. His sour mood penetrates inside. Master Pascent casts nervous glances outside. The forest here grows so dense that I can barely peer into the darkness beyond the first line of trees. This is the frontier in the fight between Nature and man — and Nature seems to be winning. The roots and wooded vines push through the mud, further devastating the already mangled dirt track. The carriage heaves and wobbles with every turn of the wheel.

  “Maybe we should go back after all,” says Lady Adelheid. Her face is pale, her knuckles, gripping the side of the carriage, white.

  “Nonsense,” replies Master Pascent. He sits back with a pretend smile. “We’ll be across in no time. It is as you said, we are still in civilised country. There’s no danger here, no matter what Fulco — ”

  As he speaks the last word, I hear the whoosh of a missile cutting through the air. An arrow punches through the side of the carriage, and thuds into the wall inches from my eyes. It is long and thick — it came from a war bow, not a hunter’s weapon.

  Master Pascent grabs me by the neck and pulls me down to the floor. Lady Adelheid crouches down beside us. I hear a cry of pain outside, then another. Fulco shouts a sequence of increasingly desperate orders, in a strained voice. More arrows whizz over our heads. More gurgling screams. I want to get out, to join the fighting, but the Master orders me to stay down.

  Outside, the arms clash: spear against sword, axe against knife. The fighting gets closer, I hear it all around us now. Somebody bumps against the carriage. A seax pierces the wall just above Lady Adelheid’s head. Our horses whinny in panic, and buckle in their yokes. The carriage sways, then leans to one side, threatening to topple over. I hear a hatchet hack at timber, then the carriage wobbles once more and falls back down on all four wheels — as the horses gallop away. One of the attackers reaches inside with a knife. This is the first time I see the enemy: angry, swollen, red face of a Saxon warrior. A moment later, he’s dragged away, a swish of a falling sword seals his fate. A more familiar face now glimpses in the window: Fulco, bleeding from a deep gash on the side of his head, his eyes bloodshot and mad. He shouts at somebody to pull back and disappears from sight.

  In the commotion, I manage to release myself from Master Pascent’s grasp. I kick open the door, leap outside and draw my seax. Around me is carnage: bodies of guards and servants lie together with those of the slain enemy. A well-aimed javelin has pinned our driver to the carriage through his chest. Some twenty foes surround Fulco and the few remaining guards on the eastern edge of the road, pushing them slowly into the river. The rest of the bandits are busy finishing off the wounded and plundering the supply wagon. I can’t see Quintus’s carriage anywhere — has he managed to get away in time?

  One of the bandits notices me. She stands up from the body she was just robbing and turns towards me, holding an ironbound club. She’s not sure what to make of me, just a weedy, limping boy, holding a long knife… I don’t give her time to make her mind up, and lunge forward. She tries to parry, but misses. My blade grinds down her club and slices through her fingers. She screams. I follow through with a stab to the stomach. The thrust penetrates through her thick leather armour, but not enough to kill her at once. She grabs at the blade with her stump of a hand. I kick her and wrestle the seax from her grip. I start hacking at her neck and don’t stop until she can’t scream any more. The hilt of my sword is slippery with her blood.

  She falls to the ground, and another bandit leaps in her place, charging at me from the flank: a man this time, dressed in half of a tattered tunic and a scrap of mail shirt hanging off his shoulder, tied up with fox fur. He’s holding a round wooden board, bound in cowhide, and a small firewood hatchet. This is the first time I have had to fight a shielded opponent outside training, and as I take a second to come up with a tactic, he gets in the first shot, bashing me with the bronze shield boss in the chest. I gasp as the air escapes from my lungs. I stumble backwards and land heavily on my injured foot; a needle of pain reminds me how recent the wound was. I slash wildly, blocking the falling hatchet. Weland’s blade proves its worth, cutting through the haft like butter. The enemy tries to bash me again, but I swerve to the right, see a clear opening and stab between the shield and his outstretched arm. I hit him right under the armpit. My blade gets tangled in the mail shirt. He hits me on the head with the shield’s edge. I push forwards. The seax slides on the mail, cutting deep across his chest. Blood spurts in a bright fountain. His shield hits me again and, for a moment, I’m stunned. By the time I recover, he lies at my feet — and I’m staring down half a dozen spear shafts, surrounding me from all sides.

  I stagger and hold the sword over my head in a battle stance, ready to make my final stand, when I hear Master Pascent’s voice.

  “Ash, stop!”

  I turn to see the Master and Lady Adelheid thrown out of the carriage and pushed into the mud, spears aimed at their necks. I let my seax slip from my bloodied grasp.

  The bandits bind all the survivors in single file and lead us for hours down winding animal paths and woodcutter tracks, past heaths and moors, deep into the densest, darkest wood. We climb up the hill spur until we reach a grassy clearing at the top. In the maze of earth banks and wooden fences I recognise an ancient, abandoned hillfort, like the one where Verica has built his inn. We pass through a chaotic mass of tents, huts and lean-tos; I estimate at least a hundred people live here, entire famili
es, in primitive, squalid conditions. Some children playing in mud among fowl and goats stop to watch us shuffle past, in silence. One half-heartedly throws a lump of dung in my direction, but it lands with a plop a foot away.

  In the centre of the camp several of the Saxon dug-out houses cluster around a tall timber watchtower and a small round hut, more a thatched pile of stones than a building. The bandits tie me, Master Pascent and Lady Adelheid to wooden stakes in front of a roaring bonfire at the foot of the watchtower. The remaining prisoners are led away somewhere else. Captured weapons are thrown on one pile; on another, the treasures looted from the gift chests we had prepared for the Iutish chieftain on the Tanet.

  The watchman on the tower blows three sharp notes on an ox horn. The stone hut’s wicker door opens and out comes a boy, just a little older than myself. His fair hair falls in long tresses down his shoulders. His face is handsomely cut, square-jawed; a tattooed dotted scar runs diagonally across his left cheek. He observes us for a while, before waving at somebody out of my sight.

  The bandits bring in two bodies and throw them before the bonfire. The first one is mutilated in a terrible manner, hacked almost to pieces, the face barely recognisable. The bandits lay a great battle axe beside the corpse.

  “This one fought well,” the boy says, in Vulgar Tongue, but with a strong, singing Saxon accent. “What was his name?”

  Master Pascent spits a globule of bloody spittle before answering. “Fulco.”

  “Fulco.” The boy nods. He leans down and rummages in the dead Frank’s clothes. He finds a silver pendant of Donar’s Hammer and raises it to the sun. “Burn him with our dead,” he orders his men. “And bend his weapons. He will go straight to Wodan’s Mead Hall.”

  He kicks the other body over. It only has one injury — a spear wound in his chest. I hear Master Pascent and Lady Adelheid gasp.

  “Who’s that one?” the boy asks. “I know I will get a good price for the body. He had the best clothes and the finest horse.”

  “Why did you kill him?” asks Master Pascent, struggling at the knots. “Why not let him live, like us? He was worth more to you alive.”

  The boy winces. “I know. He lunged at us with the sword. One of my men panicked… An unlucky thrust. Now tell me who he is, so I know where to send the ransom message.”

  Master Pascent laughs. “A message? The only message you can send is to ask for forgiveness, and pray to your gods his is a swift death at his father’s hand.”

  “His father?”

  “This is Catigern, son of Dux Wortigern!” Master Pascent booms. “When he learns of this, you and this whole village of demons will be razed to the ground”

  The boy looks closer at Catigern’s body in wonder and begins to chuckle. “This is Wortigern’s son? Really? What a trophy!”

  “You’re insane…” whispers Lady Adelheid. “You don’t know what you’re doing…”

  He turns serious and paces up to her. He grabs her by the chin. “I know perfectly well what I’m doing, wealh bitch.”

  “Leave her alone, you bastard!” snarls Master Pascent.

  “I don’t think you understand your situation, old man,” the boy replies. “You’re in my power now. You may be worth more to me alive, but my patience is thin. So you’d better start behaving like prisoners should.”

  While they argue, I twist my neck to see who else survived the fight, or had their body brought in to the pyre. I can’t see any of the Iutes who rode forwards with Horsa. Are their bodies rotting by the river, or have they managed to escape? Perhaps… A nasty thought is born at the back of my mind. What if Horsa was in league with this Saxon bandit all along?

  “Whu hatest thu?” I speak for the first time, asking for his name in Saxon. This catches him unawares. He reels away from Pascent and paces across the meadow to me.

  “What did you say?”

  I repeat the question.

  “And what are you?” He studies me closely. “You look like a Saxon, but dress like a wealh.” He then beckons at one of his warriors. They whisper. The boy nods. “Ah.”

  He gives the order to untie me and take me into one of the dug-in huts. I try to wrestle free, but it’s useless: the grip I’m held in is like an iron shackle.

  “Do what they tell you, boy,” says Master Pascent. “Save yourself.”

  “Aelle,” says the boy. My captor halts.

  “What?”

  “Min nama is Aelle,” he repeats. He gestures to the man holding my arm. “Treat him well, but don’t let him out of your sight. I’ll come over as soon as I’m finished here.”

  The guard hands me a wooden bowl filled with a thin stew. The meat might be rabbit, or it might be squirrel, either way it’s somehow both dry and boiled out of all the taste. But I haven’t eaten anything since leaving the inn, and I finish it eagerly, before giving the empty bowl back.

  I hear screams and cries coming from outside all day, and I pray that none of these come from my Master and the Lady. I busy myself imagining the terrible vengeance I will wreak on this “Aelle” as soon as I release myself from his captivity. For now, however, there is little chance for it. My hands are tied to the pillar supporting the hut’s thatched, soot-charred roof. A single guard sits on the packed floor, staring at me from time to time from under a bushy brown mane. I can tell he’s not happy having to look after me. Through the open door I glimpse the shins of the other guard, pacing outside.

  It’s already dark when the chief of the bandits enters the hut. He dismisses the guard and sits down in his place. He starts cleaning his fingernails with a knife.

  “If you harmed Lady Adelheid…” I start.

  He puts away the knife. “What is she to you?” he asks. “Your owner?”

  “She raised me.”

  “I see.” He nods. “You mean, you’re their slave child. I’ve heard about these things.” He waves his hand. “Don’t worry. They’re my most precious hostages. I only roughed them both up to make them listen to me. Why is that old man so obstinate? He’s not a coward, like most rich wealas around here.”

  “He was a soldier,” I say. “He killed dozens of men. Better men than you.”

  “Ah. That explains it.” He grins. “You lot are intriguing. What’s your name?”

  I give him my baptismal name, Fraxinus. He shakes his head disapprovingly. “That doesn’t sound like a Saxon name.”

  “That’s because I’m not a Saxon.”

  “But of course you are — look at yourself! Do you need a mirror?”

  “I may have been born a Saxon, but I was reborn a Christian.”

  He laughs. “Once a Saxon, always a Saxon.”

  Somebody else said that to me once… Oh yes, Wortimer’s armband-wearers. Except they meant this as an insult, whereas Aelle…

  “Listen.” He leans forward. If it wasn’t for the rope on my wrists, I could reach out and strangle him from where I’m sitting. “Down there, you’d be nothing but a slave again. Here, everyone is free to do as they please. Why won’t you join us?”

  I scoff. “Join you?”

  “Why not? As soon as the ransom is paid, we will release your Masters — but I don’t see why you’d have to go with them. I hear you’re skilled with a seax, and you speak the wealas tongue as good as they. You’d be quite an asset.”

  An asset! Is that all I’m good for to anyone?

  “We could use a good swordsman,” he adds. “I lost plenty today.”

  “Good.”

  “No.” He frowns. “Not good. I came here with thirty warriors, and their families. Now only twenty of them are left. I’ll have to send for more soon.” He seems to be talking to himself now, ignoring my presence. “Father will not be happy.”

  Father…? Is this why the others are taking orders from this child — because his father is somebody important? Is this all just some cruel game?

  “Who are you, really? What are you all doing here?” I ask.

  He pulls back. “I can’t tell you that. Not un
less you decide to stay with us.”

  “I knew it. This isn’t just an ordinary band of thieves.”

  “I’d think that much was obvious.”

  “You’re sowing the seeds of another rebellion.”

  “My plans have nothing to do with you, or anyone you know.” He stands up. “There’s more to you than meets the eye. I’ll go talk to the captives again, see if they know more about you. In the meantime, think about my proposition.”

  He leaves, and the grumpy guard takes his place on the floor.

  Before dawn, a new guard comes in to change the grumpy one. He brings some bread and cheese, and stares silently as I eat, his spear at the ready in case I try anything. I stare back, and I recognise him. He’s one of Horsa’s men, a survivor of his Iute bodyguards.

  He notices my stare and puts a finger to his lips. He waits until I finish eating, then leans over me to tie my hands back to the pole.

  “Horsa says to wait until tonight,” he whispers. “We’ll bring help.”

  I nod. He drops a small blade into the dust on the floor, and nudges it with his foot just far enough for it to be in the range of my fingers. I test the binds — they’re tight enough to fool anyone checking, but I could untie them with ease.

  The guard sits back, and we both wait, as I contemplate what’s happened. After Horsa’s men returned from their forward mission and discovered the aftermath of the attack, some of them must have pretended to want to join the bandits, to get into the camp, but… How do I know if I can really trust this man? How can I trust any of them? Would Horsa really side with a couple of Britons against his fellow Saxons? I’m not sure if I would’ve done the same in his place… The hillfort looked like a place that would accommodate the Forum camp with ease. A share of the spoils would ensure everyone lived in relative comfort — more comfort than they could’ve counted on in Londin. And here, there wouldn’t be any of Wortimer’s roughs to harass them…

  The thought of Wortimer reminds me of Catigern’s fate. The death of Dux Wortigern’s eldest son is going to have repercussions at the court which I can’t even begin to figure out; but to me, Catigern was mainly just a good, honest man, and a loss of any such man is a blow to all of us, regardless of his status.