The Saxon Spears

by James Calbraith

  Bishop Fatalis made good on his promise. He’d grown even more eager to build the church when he’d learned of Beadda’s settlement, sensing an opportunity to save some pagan souls. The craftsmen and stone arrived in the spring, and the construction is well underway — the walls have almost reached their full height. Roof slate and timber beams lie in the yard, ready to play their part in the raising of the holy house.

  I spot a white silhouette standing in front of the half-finished church. I know he’s been busy at the building site, but I treat it as a slight that Paulinus hasn’t come to welcome us at the villa, even after I sent him a message of my arrival.

  I halt my horse on the edge of the village.

  “You go on,” I tell my men. “I need to talk to somebody.”

  I ride up to Paulinus and wave. He raises his hand, ordering the workers to cease their labour. The ringing of hammers stops. I jump down and we embrace in a perfunctory manner.

  “Good to see you,” I say. “It’s been too long.”

  “Since Saint John’s feast,” he says. His features soften a little. “I thought you’d forgotten about us already.”

  “It’s always busy at Wortigern’s court.”

  “We’ve been busy here, too.” He nods at the wall behind him. “The Lord’s work does not wait. Do you want to see the progress?”

  “Tomorrow. I’m already late.”

  He nods, sadly. “I know why you really didn’t want to come here earlier, Ash,” he says. “It’s those empty, crumbling walls, isn’t it? They get to me, too.”

  Reluctantly, I admit he’s right. After the night spent in the empty domus, I’ve grown more melancholy than I’ve been in a long time. It felt like sleeping in a graveyard. Although I could’ve chosen any of the empty rooms, I could not bring myself to stay in Master Pascent’s and Lady Adelheid’s opulent bedroom, opting instead for the familiarity of my old bed. Somehow, it didn’t feel right. I could almost sense the spirits of Master Pascent and Fulco still lingering about the villa.

  Paulinus looks towards the Iutish village. “This is all their fault,” he says.

  I don’t understand what he means at first. “Those were Saxons who killed them, not Iutes,” I reply.

  “They’d still be alive if it wasn’t for that damn expedition to Tanet Island. I did warn them, remember? I told them it was too dangerous to go into that wilderness.”

  “Nobody could have foreseen it. The Iutes can’t be held responsible for what happened.”

  He shakes his head with an obstinate grimace. “Saxons, Iutes… I bet they’re all in it together. How do you explain their village is the only one that hasn’t been attacked by the bandits?”

  “Beadda’s men are warriors. It’s their job to make this land safer. I’ve read reports from Saffron Valley. The town folk are glad of the Iutes’ presence. They’re even sending their elder, Senisis, to the feast tonight. I was hoping you would join us, too,” I say in a conciliatory tone.

  “At the pagan orgy?” He scoffs. His face twists in an even more hateful snarl. “Maybe if they’d shown any interest in the True Faith, I’d be more inclined to partake in their barbaric rituals.”

  “It’s just a feast, Paulinus. To celebrate the anniversary of their settlement. No rituals, no sacrifices. Maybe if you’d shown more interest in their life, they’d be more inclined to listen to your prayers…”

  “Don’t you think I tried? For months, I fought the battle for their salvation. But the demons that hold their souls are obstinate and strong. Sometimes, I wish…” He shakes his head again. “I know you’ve worked hard to help them settle here. I want to believe you did the right thing.” He glances at the near-finished wall. “This church is our last hope — maybe seeing the full extent of God’s glory will change their minds.”

  “Will there be mosaics?” I ask. I am genuinely excited. I love mosaics, and can never see enough of them.

  Paulinus nods. “If the Bishop keeps his promise, we might get one from Quintus’s villa.”

  I sulk. “Not a new one, then.”

  He laughs. “There are maybe two men left in Londin who know how to design a mosaic from scratch, and not even the Bishop can afford their services. Even the ones on the cathedral were robbed from someplace else.”

  “Whatever it is, I’m sure it will strike the awe of God into their souls.” I look to the village. “I don’t think any of them have ever seen anything like it.”

  “I pray every day for the success of this endeavour.” He waves again, and the chisels and hammers renew their clinking and clanking. “You’re free to join me in the evening prayers if you grow tired of the pagan revels.”

  “Then there’s nothing I can say to convince you to come?”

  “Not unless you can promise me they’ll all get themselves baptised by morning. I’ll be here.” He nods to his hut. “And it’s not like I’ll be getting any sleep tonight.”

  “I’ll try to slip out when the poems start.”

  I mount the horse and turn. Paulinus holds the reins. “And, Ash… Do bring me some of that mean mead they brew, if you get the chance. It’s… for my health, you see.”

  “I’ll remember!”

  The anniversary feast is not the only ceremony observed tonight. A shieldmaiden is buried in the village graveyard — a small, muddy plot bordering the old cemetery from the west. She is laid with her weapons bent beside her and wild flowers laid at her feet. Beadda, his arms jingling with silver rings, conducts the ritual, invoking Frige to take the warrior’s soul to her meadows. It’s a quieter, more subdued ritual than Horsa’s funeral, and I wonder if it’s because we’re burying a woman, or because the Iutes don’t want to disturb the spirits of the wealas dead, resting on the other side of the furrow.

  “What happened?” I ask Beadda when the rite is over.

  “An ambush out on the Frog Marsh. We killed four, but lost one.”

  “The bandits are reaching this far now?”

  The Frog Marsh is a name the Iutes gave to the marshland sprawling across the twisting stretch of upstream Loudborne, north of the Woad Hills. They’ve been busy naming every feature of the landscape ever since they arrived, putting their stamp on the land. The village is called Beaddingatun, the dwelling place of Beadda’s men. The Ariminum villa, in turn, they’ve named Wealingatun — the dwelling place of the wealas. They even translated Saffron Valley to an easier to pronounce Crohdene. The Frog Marsh is practically on the border of the villa, between it and the road to Londin. If the merchants and travellers start feeling unsafe there, it could seriously endanger what’s left of the villa’s fragile economy — and the people of Saffron Valley would find themselves surrounded and cut off from the capital.

  “It’s never happened before,” says Beadda. “They must have been tracking new paths through the marshes.”

  “Were they Aelle’s men?”

  He nods. “From the looks of it, yes. We captured good weapons from them. One was wearing mail, but drowned in the marsh with it.”

  “Pity.”

  The last time I saw Beadda and his Hiréd was a year ago on Tanet, where they swore a solemn oath before Wodan, Donar and Frige, to protect the Briton lands given in their care from any threat that may befall it. This included fighting Aelle’s band, though they needed no oath to set out to avenge their fallen. Even before settling in their new village, the warriors joined a hundred-strong army of veterans and mercenaries that marched from Londin led by a vengeful Wortimer, and entered Andreda Forest in search of the Saxon camp. They found nothing but an abandoned hillfort, burnt out huts and some charred skeletons in the sacrificial pit.

  For a year now, the bandits have been playing cat and mouse with Wortimer’s warriors, jumping out of the woods on unsuspecting merchant caravans, abducting villagers, ruining crops — and disappearing into the depths of the forest at the first sight of pursuit. Nobody knows where their new base of operations is, except that it must be somewhere in the vastness between the New Port road
and the upper Medu, south of the Downs, since this is where the most of their incursions occur — but the woods there are so dense and deep that an entire city of bandits could be hidden there, never to be found by anyone.

  The outlaws never repeated anything as brazen as the battle on the ford, but as the frequency of their attacks increased, their impunity has become an embarrassment to Wortimer and his father. Even more so since the only area free of any major incursions appears to be the land around Ariminum and Saffron Valley: the territory kept safe by Beadda’s men. But even they can’t reach everywhere — and sooner or later, Aelle was going to find a way to bypass their defences.

  “When will the Dux allow for more settlers?” asks Beadda, as if reading my mind. “Surely we’ve proven our worth by now.”

  There was only one other settlement agreed under the conditions of the treaty of Tanet — a dozen families led by Orpedda, the man who taught me Iutish, took over most of Quintus’s villa. Although its owner was never proven complicit in the disaster at the ford, there was enough suspicion to have him banished and, as further punishment, to grant his land in another small concession to Hengist’s tribe. But that was a year ago, when the memory of Catigern was still fresh in the Council’s minds. Since then, the matter of settlement has never been successfully raised at the court again.

  “Wortimer has the Dux’s ear, now,” I say. “There will be no more land grants this summer. I’m sorry. Maybe next year.”

  “Next year…” Beadda nods. “I’m sure you’re doing your best.”

  “I am, believe me,” I assure him. The truth is, I can’t promise him whether there’ll ever be any more settlements. And even if there were, we both know that another year of waiting means more deaths of starvation and disease on Tanet. Beadda’s men have been sending some of their food and supplies back to the island, but it is a drop in the ocean. The situation on Tanet is now so dire that recently some of the Iutes decided to seek their chance at sea again, on boats they bought or stole from passing Frankian merchants. Last I heard, a few fortunate ones managed to land on the southern coast, somewhere near the Saxon lands — but what happened to them since, nobody yet knows.

  “But… there is little I can do,” I say. “I’m not Fastidius or Master Pascent. I’m not the member of the Council, I’m only sitting at the table as my family’s representative… If it wasn’t for the esteem in which the Bishop holds my brother, I wouldn’t even be allowed that much.”

  I call Fastidius my brother, and he calls me his, because that’s what we are to each other in our hearts — but it’s not what the law says. Though I am no longer a slave, Master Pascent’s adoption never came to fruition. Lady Adelheid, weary of life in Britannia, retreated to Frankia before she could put her husband’s plans to life. Without her consent, there is no one else who could legally make me a part of the family. Pascent’s line is destined to end on Fastidius, and the property, what is left of it, will pass to someone else — most likely to the Church.

  “I understand.” He looks around the village, and breathes in the smoke and the scent of roasting pigs. “Still, we should be grateful for what we have here. When I think of those poor wretches on Tanet, it makes me shudder… I will make tonight’s libation in their name.”

  “Father Paulinus complains that none of your people are interested in his teachings,” I remark to Beadda, as blood from the slaughtered boar flows down the sides of the sacrificial altar.

  “And why should they?” He seems genuinely surprised. “What does the Wealh God offer that ours don’t?”

  “Eternal salvation. Immortality.” I say. “He is the One, True God after all. If you worship other gods, you’ll end up in the flames of Hell.”

  “And do you believe this, too?”

  I shrug. “I was baptised. But I was also blessed by Wodan and Donar.”

  I look towards the half-built church and remember the stuffy cellar, and the wild piglet in Fulco’s hand, spraying blood everywhere. Having seen many Saxon rituals since, I know now how much of what the Frank did was incorrect, but his heart was in the right place, and I’m sure the gods appreciated it — if there were any watching…

  Since Pascent’s death, the confusion in my heart has been growing. The light of the Roman God no longer warms me as much as it used to. I still attend the Mass at the cathedral almost every week, but more out of sense of duty than genuine vocation. Besides, the way things are in Londin, not being seen in church on Sunday would only raise needless suspicion.

  But whenever my duties take me out of Londin, whenever I have to ride through one of those deep, dark woodlands that sprout just outside the outskirts of the city on every side like a besieging army, a deep doubt creeps into my mind, and I’m confronted by the vision of a laughing Wodan — and Fulco’s prophetic words: the North is no place for a desert God. The Iutes know that.

  “I like to keep my options open, in case one of them proves right,” I add.

  “You’re as shrewd as all the wealas,” Beadda chuckles. “But if the God of the stone churches is as jealous as they say, surely he will not tolerate you being here tonight.”

  “I don’t know about that. Paulinus used to say what matters most in the eyes of God is whether or not you’re a good man. That was before he’d grown old and crotchety.”

  “Then, since we’re all good men here, we have nothing to worry about after death!” He laughs again. “Meanwhile, while we live, we need Donar’s good will to shield us from the storms, and Eostre’s blessings to keep our fields fertile. Can the Wealh God promise us that?”

  “I’m… not sure.”

  I regret raising the subject. If even Paulinus failed in his evangelising efforts, what chance do I stand? I’m already confused enough as it is…

  “Well, I can hardly risk the well-being of my people for something even you’re not sure about.” He slaps my back. “I tell you what — ask this Father of yours to come to me in a few days. I will hear him out again, just as a favour for you. And I’ll make certain there’s some of the good mead left.”

  “I’ll let him know — I’m sure he’ll welcome the news.”

  The villagers form a circle around a swath of the meadow outside the hall. I recognise a few familiar faces, Briton faces, standing out in the crowd, and I understand now what Vatto was trying to tell me: some of the villa workers have moved among the Iutes. One or two seem to have started new families here. I can’t blame them — the village is full of life and light, unlike the moribund, musty villa. But I’m surprised Paulinus allowed them to desert their posts like that…

  It is time for everyone’s favourite part of the celebrations, apart from the feasting itself: the ceremonial duels, through which the warriors show off their prowess and honour the gods with their sweat and blood.

  Beadda eyes my arm muscles. “Do you still have that Anglian aesc?”

  “It’s with the horses.”

  “How do you feel about entering the ring with it?”

  “Let me see some of the fighting first.”

  “Of course! You’ll have the seat of honour.”

  The spearmen step into the ring first, stripped to their waists, while the swordsmen wait their turn. The blades used by the fighters are made of cold steel, but are blunted for the occasion. It only makes the fights longer and more brutal. Soon the bodies of the spearmen are painted black, blue and red with deep bruises and jagged, shallow cuts. Drunk on heady mead, they shrug the injuries off, but I can only imagine how much pain they’re going to be in tomorrow.

  “My spear is freshly sharpened,” I say, after another warrior falls to the ground, beaten and bloodied so badly he can’t stand anymore — although he keeps trying. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  Beadda guffaws. “Bold words! These are Hengist’s Hiréd, boy. The finest of Iute warriors.”

  “Don’t you mean the only Iute warriors?” I goad him. The mead is getting to my head, too.

  “Ha! You are itching for a fight, I see.
”

  He orders an errand boy to bring my spear. I stand up and stretch my shoulders and neck.

  “Who do I fight?”

  “Choose whomever you want.”

  I study the warriors. I need to strike the right balance between seeming cocky and showing myself for a coward. I select one who appears neither too strong nor too weak.

  Beadda offers me a ladle of the drink the warriors sip before each fight. I take a sniff — it doesn’t smell like mead or ale, it’s a more herbal, bitter brew.

  “Henbane. For courage,” he says.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  He laughs again. My opponent picks up a shield and a seax. I notice the blunt blade is speckled with red, and suddenly I’m not sure it’s such a good idea after all — but it’s too late to pull back now. I’m visiting the village not just as Ash, the boy from the neighbouring villa, but as Fraxinus, a representative of Wortigern’s court. Even in defeat, I must show courage.

  The warrior bares his teeth in a grin; he bites at the edge of his shield and grunts, goading me to attack. I grab the spear in both hands: left hand high in the middle, right one low in the back, Saxon style. I shorten the distance and wait for him to make a step to the side. I thrust at his legs, and when he lowers the shield, I swirl the spear in a half-circle, aiming at his head and neck. It wouldn’t work with most spears, but mine is lighter and faster than the unwieldy Saxon shafts.

  The Anglian blade swishes through the air. The Iute sways aside and, faster than my eye can see, hits me on the chest with the back of the seax. I gasp and stagger back. Before I catch my breath, he delivers another, crushing blow with the boss of his shield. I fall to my knees and raise my hand in surrender.