I busy myself with all these observations, standing on the steps of the church, while the Mass for the souls of the fallen — with Master Pascent hastily added to the list — continues inside. I can’t take it anymore, the gloomy darkness of the interior, the desperate wailing of the mournful hymns, the monotony of prayers that do nothing to address my growing sense of hopelessness and injustice.
God has failed me, and I don’t understand why. I know Paulinus or Fastidius would have their answers ready, if they were here. But there’s nobody here — I’m all alone on this hill, staring down at the fallen monuments of a past glory, while inside the church people, who probably never even met Pascent until yesterday, raise futile prayers to their silent deity.
Anger and grief battle one another in my heart. Why did it have to happen? Was it not enough that Master Pascent fought for Christ, defended the Faith all his life, paid his dues for the Church, supported priests, lived a virtuous life with Lady Adelheid? What more did the God of the Romans need to let them live out their days in peace? What more did he want from me?
Perhaps — a terrifying thought strikes me — I was mistaken all along. Perhaps I was praying to the wrong God. Christ did not protect Catigern or Pascent, despite their devotion; instead, the gods of the Saxons gave them victory in battle. True, Fulco and Horsa fell as well, but at least theirs was a death in battle, one that’s expected of the followers of Wodan and Donar.
Of all the men who took part in the fight at the ford, I was the only one to survive; what did it mean? Was it the water of the baptism, still fresh on my skin, that shielded me from death, or was it the protection granted me by Wodan in Fulco’s underground ritual?
Or perhaps none of it matters, and all gods are simply looking at us from their heavenly abodes, their Mead Halls and their golden-gated Edens, letting our wits, strength and luck solve our own problems… But if so, why pray at all? What is there to be thankful for? Why build this church on a hill, or any other temple for that matter? — there used to be temples to the old Briton gods in the city below, judging by the shapes of foundations around the empty trace of the Forum… And to what avail? Who’s to say that the church behind me, or even the cathedral in Londin, shall stand forever when all else around it falls? One day, their stone will be reused to build the temples to other gods, just like the walls of Dorowern’s palaces and basilicas are being reused to build villas for other men, elsewhere…
I see Wodan’s grimly smiling face before me: I told you, he says. All gone in a generation. Then it will all be ours.
I shake my fist at the apparition and it goes away. I have no time for this now. The sound of the bell announces the end of the Mass is near. I need to go back inside, so that the others don’t think I’m disrespectful to the memory of my Master — my father.
Which is it? Nobody here knows about the promise Pascent made on what turned out to be his deathbed… Will Lady Adelheid honour his vow — is she even aware of it? At least I’m a free man now — assuming the courier reached Londin without trouble… But the gods could not be that mischievous, surely.
I enter the church as quietly as I left it, my head low in a solemn bow. I glance up to the altar, and to the figure of the Shepherd God, rendered in crude mosaic above it. I can feel his stare upon me, and I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or feels sorry for me.
Squalor. I’ve heard this word used so many times to describe the Tanet camps, but I have never imagined how apt it was.
The island, bound by a white ribbon of low chalk cliffs, rises steep from the drab waters of the narrow, winding channel. Our boats land at a spit of sand and gravel where the cliffs part and open onto a narrow wedge of a valley, carved by a fast-flowing stream descending in a cascade of rocky steps. A chapel stands on the top, adjoined by several small thatched huts and a tall, slender watchtower, all surrounded by a circular wall: the only stone buildings on the island, as far as I can tell.
The chapel, I learn, is an abode of monks, established by an actual disciple of Martinus of Turonum in times of the serf rebellion, as a place of refuge and solitary meditation for those weary of the fighting and worldly distraction. When the Iutes started arriving on the island, the monks were forced to dedicate their time to helping their weak and sick instead, of which there were many.
Beyond the calm perimeter of the wall spreads the Iute country: a sea of filth and quiet desperation; a plain of trampled mud, filled with an immeasurable multitude of cabins, tents, huts, dug-outs and lean-tos. There is no plan to it, and no end, as the settlement, a cruel mockery of a city, stretches over the horizon, interrupted only by meagre plots of barley and rye, scattered here and there between the hovels.
The dwellings grow denser near the monastery walls, until there is barely any space between them. Soon I learn the reason for this, as the chapel bell rings and an unruly crowd of the most wretched of the Iutes gathers at the gate. The monks come out of their huts and prepare a thin stew, which they then serve to the gathered from a great cauldron. In the sullen eyes and grey faces of the Iutes I see the entire unfortunate history of the tribe: the glint of original dignity, buried under the years of neglect and poverty, disease and hunger. The children look the worst: those who were born here, not knowing any other world, shuffle their feet in line to the cauldron, silent, their eyes downcast, treating their situation as almost normal, but sensing there is another life somewhere, taken from them by cruel fate.
The delegates murmur as we make our way along the foul, muddy track. They hold their noses as we pass the refuse pits, and scratch their arms and legs under the tunics, seeking real and imaginary bugs. “Look at these wretches,” I hear one say, “how can anyone live in these conditions?” “They’re no better than animals,” says another. “What are we even doing here? These people are barbarians!” “Insects. Rats.” “This was a waste of time. What could they possibly offer us in return for help?” “We should tell them to go back where they came from, if you ask me.” “Nobody asked you. We have orders from Dux Wortigern, and that is that.”
There are no trees anywhere on the island; the huts and the lean-tos are all covered with mats of reed and turf, their thin walls built of dried mud, tall grass and whatever drift washed out on the island’s shores. We find what little wood there ever was at our final destination, a low-lying place on the south-eastern edge of the island which, our guides tell us, the Iutes named Eobbasfleot — Eobba’s Landing, in memory of the only ship that never reached these shores. It’s almost a village, a cluster of several timber houses, all bound by a low earthen wall — more to guard it from the raging waves of the open ocean, than from any invaders. Several fishing boats, a smaller version of the ceols I know from my memories, bob on the water tied to a single, half-rotten pier. Upon hearing the village’s name, I remember Horsa’s tale of the three brothers crossing the whale-road on three such ceols… Two of them are now dead. I wonder what the last of the siblings will have to say about that.
The Iutes in our entourage reached the Eobbasfleot first, to bring the sad news, while we were still setting up our camp in the monastery’s yard. By the time we arrive, the hamlet echoes with wailing and weeping, which, to my ears, sounds more sincere than any I’ve heard in Dorowern — and the loudest wailing comes from the centre of the settlement.
In the middle of this oval space, behind a wide gate carved in the shapes of dragons and wild beasts, stands the grandest building I’ve seen so far on the Tanet, surpassing even those at the monastery: a vast, barn-like hall, constructed of massive timber beams. The gables of its roof, bent in the shape of a boat’s hull, meet in a cross-shape, and end with sculpted horse heads. I know immediately what this place is, even though nobody has ever told me about it. This is how I’ve always imagined Wodan’s Mead Hall to look like; I didn’t know where this image in my mind was coming from, but now I realise I must have remembered a similar hall from my childhood in the Iute homeland. Everything is familiar, from the carvings and the horse heads, to the wood
en pole standing in front of the hall, decorated with wreaths of long-dried flowers and ribbons of once-colourful cloth, now bleached with sun and age.
The smell inside the hall, too, is a familiar one, though not one I have to search for in my lost memories. It’s the same odour of smoked meat, blood, mead and vomit that permeated Fulco’s underground shrine, and the old ruined temple at the roadside inn on Pilgrim’s Way. A long oaken table stands on bent legs in the centre, flanked by fur-cloaked benches. I look up and see that the roof of the hall not only resembles a ship’s hull — it was made out of one, one of the upturned ceols the Iutes sailed here from their homeland. The mast of the ship serves as a central pillar, and, I’m guessing, the rest of it has been used for the walls. The houses outside must have also been built out of the dismantled boats. This means that the Iutes, even if they wanted to go, no longer have a way back home.
At the far end of the table stands a high wooden chair, almost a throne. The tall Iute sitting on it wears a red woollen cape, and a scarf dyed with woad, embroidered with golden patterns of fighting dragons; a silver chain hangs from his neck, and on his brow rests a bronze diadem with a single arch. Other than the scarf and the cape, his body is bare. A crude tattoo of a black horse adorns the left side of his chest.
He lifts his head and I gasp. For a moment, I feel as if I’ve seen a ghost. The man on the throne looks just like Horsa; the same cunning glint in the bright eyes, the same straw-coloured mane of hair and thick moustache. There are fewer scars and marks of battle on this face. Rather, it seems ravaged by less corporeal wounds, of worry and weariness. He must be Hengist, I realise, the last remaining of the three brothers.
The delegates approach the benches in order of seniority, which means I’m sitting at the farthest end, in the corner, out of sight of the Iute chieftain. The man elected to speak for the mission in Catigern’s absence — a high-ranking courtier from Londin — begins his introductions, when the chieftain raises his hand to interrupt him.
“I want to speak with the boy.”
“The boy, lord?”
“The one who last talked to my brother.”
“He is just a slaveling, lord. A Seaborn foundling, not worthy of your attention.”
I want to protest, but then remember that nobody here yet knows about my release. Hengist stands up. “No Iute is a slave in my house.” He searches the table and locates me in the dark corner. “Come, boy. Let me see you.”
The hall fills with annoyed murmurs as I walk up to the throne. Hengist studies me for a while. There’s a gleam in his eyes, of some secret, satisfying thought he’s just had. He touches my shoulder to test my muscles, then ruffles my hair and nods.
“Horsa was right. You are one of us, of that there is no doubt.”
“He told you about me?”
“Only in message. We didn’t have a chance to talk face to face since he left for Londin.”
A weight crushes my heart when I realise what this means. The twin brothers would never meet again, because Horsa decided to risk his life to save Master Pascent and me. I wish I could promise Hengist his brother’s sacrifice was not in vain, but I can’t bring myself to say it.
“I’m sorry,” I reply instead. “I wish he was here with us.”
“Today, he is,” says Hengist. “For today, we feast, and all our dead join us in the feasting. Don’t concern yourself with this, boy. If Horsa thought it worthy to die for you, that’s good enough for me. I’m glad you’re here, with your people, at last. If there’s anything you need from me…”
“I — I was hoping to find my real parents. Or at least find out what happened to them.”
Hengist smiles sadly. “I guessed as much. I will do what I can, but I can’t promise anything — we lost many in that first passage, entire families sank to their deaths. If you were from Eobba’s ship, as Horsa suspected…” He bites his lower lip and shakes his head. “Remember, you’re still welcome here, even if we can’t locate your family.”
“Thank you, chieftain.”
I bow, and return to my seat. Hengist sits down, the smile still lingering on his lips, though now it’s a mischievous smile of someone who’s just come up with a plan.
The speaker of the mission clears his throat, to break the prolonging silence. Hengist turns to him sharply, as if remembering why all those strangers have gathered in his house, and gestures for the Briton to continue.
“A lot has changed since I last visited this island,” says one of the delegates. I never learned their names, so I’ve been giving the emissaries from Londin nicknames: this one’s Old Squareface, on account of the shape of his head, topped with a thin layer of greying hair. I estimate he’s about Master Pascent’s age. He picks up a piece of lamb meat from his plate and takes a bite. “I don’t remember it being this crowded.”
“It’s true. The ships keep coming over the sea,” replies Hengist, adjusting his diadem. “More than ever. Not just Iutes, but Danes, Frisians, even Alemanns… If it wasn’t for the monks from the mynster, I don’t know how we would cope.”
“But, why do they keep doing this?” the elderly delegate asks. “Don’t they know there’s no place for them here?”
“Word is, the Riders are on the move again,” says Hengist. “We don’t know what provoked them this time, but whatever it was, the war returned to our borders. The entire coast is on fire. Crossing the sea is the only hope for most.”
“Why won’t they stay and defend their land?” another delegate chimes in. He’s one of the youngest men at the table, tall and slim; I spot a familiar armband peeking from under the short sleeve of his tunic. “What kind of people just abandons their home like this? I say if the cowards can’t take care of themselves, they’re not worthy of our help. At least the Saxons know how to fight.”
I expect Hengist to burst in anger at these words, but he remains composed, and lets the youth finish his speech without interruption. He must have heard this accusation many times before.
“You’ve never seen the horse horde, have you?” he asks, calmly. “It’s less an army, more a force of nature. A forest fire, a storm, sweeping everything in its path. All who stand against it, perish.”
The young rough scoffs. “That’s just what a coward would say.”
Hengist winces, but before he can reply, the grey-haired delegate speaks again. “You wouldn’t remember it, Octavius, but not even Rome could stop the Huns the last time,” he says. “The best they managed was to pay one half of their army to fight against the other. If the Huns are reunited again… It may not be just the pagans who will have cause to worry.”
“Whatever the reason,” says another voice, the owner of which I can’t see from where I’m sitting, “this situation mustn’t continue. My lord Worangon’s position is clear: our resources are stretched to the limit, and we need to think of defending ourselves from the Picts and the pirates when the raiding season starts — not to mention this new menace from Andreda. What’s happening here is just a distraction.”
“How many times,” says Hengist, and now at last I sense irritation in his voice, “we’ve offered to help you with the raiders. We might not be as good warriors as Saxons or Franks, but we can still stand our ground, and man the border forts. It must be better than nothing.”
“And how many times do we have to refuse you?” replies Worangon’s representative. “Our treasure is running empty. We have nothing to pay you with for your services.”
“We don’t need payment. Just give us land, and access to ore and wood, like the Regins gave to the Saxons, or Ikens to the Anglians. We can build our own weapons, feed our own warriors.”
“I’m afraid I’m not authorised to do any such deals by my lord.”
Hengist leans forward threateningly. He holds the meat knife as if it was a sword. “Then I must question the purpose of this visit. I slaughtered the last of my lambs for this feast. Why have you come all this way, if not to make deals?”
The Old Squareface clears his
throat. “Most of us do not speak for Comes Worangon, but for Dux Wortigern,” he says, which seems to calm Hengist down. “If there is no land in the Cants territory, we can offer some of the Dux’s own.”
The young rough, Octavius, scowls at this, but keeps silent. He’s in a minority here — most of the courtiers are followers of Catigern, or at least they were when they left the city. Not yet knowing what changes to expect back at the court, for now they intend to keep to the promises Wortigern’s eldest had made to the Iutes.
“Is this true?” Hengist looks from emissary to emissary. They all nod, some more reluctantly than others. “Ah! The day brightens. What land are we talking about?”
Another delegate walks up to the chieftain’s throne, with a roughly sketched map. “The northern slopes of this line of hills,” he explains, “that we call the Downs. Most of it lies fallow, but it used to be some of the best farm land in Britannia.”
Hengist frowns as he reads the parchment. The tip of his tongue appears in the corner of his mouth. He points to a spot. “What’s all this here, then?”
“That’s Andreda Forest. The Regins territory.”
He looks up, his eyes narrowed. “You want us to shield you from the Regins? I thought they’re your Dux’s subjects.”
A murmur spreads through the benches. “He’s thinking fast,” say some; “too fast,” say the others.
“It’s the bandits of Andreda that we’re concerned about,” says Old Squareface, his voice trembling somewhat. “Like the ones who killed your esteemed brother.”
“Is that where they came from?” The diversion works. Hengist returns to study the map with renewed interest. “Yes. Yes, I see now.” He rubs his chin. “In truth, I was hoping to settle on the coast — we’re a sea-dwelling people at heart. But anything would be better than this scrap of mud. Yes, we would accept this gift most graciously.”
He raises a horn and a servant fills it with mead. We all do the same. His vessel is made of thickly carved glass, ours are actual cattle horns, sticky with the remains of past celebrations.
The Saxon Spears Page 21
