“What?” she snarls.
“The chapel,” I point. “They need our help.”
She takes one glance around the battlefield and nods. A number of Briton soldiers decided to abandon their increasingly untenable positions around the mansio and the bath house ruins. They gravitate towards the relative safety of the chapel’s nigh-impregnable oak walls to make their last stand there. Many of the Saxon bandits, having now noticed what Hilla and I noticed, have moved there too, moving in for the final assault. Already the ground around the temple is covered with Saxon bodies, mud turned grey with their blood.
The more industrious of the soldiers have picked up what shields they could find from the ground, and attempt to form something vaguely resembling a fulcum shield wall. Some of the bandits do the same, to the best of their ability, and there are now two tight circles of shields pressing against each other. But although the Saxons are more numerous and eager to fight, I immediately spot the problem.
“This is bad,” I tell Hilla. We’ve been trying in vain to reach the centre of the brawl — the throng is just too crowded. She’s fuming; she’s had no chance to even draw blood since we’ve joined the battle.
“What is?”
“They’re soldiers, fighting in formation. This is what they’ve trained all their lives for. We have no chance of breaking through that fulcum, we’ll just bleed out.”
“What do you suggest we do?”
“We need to find someone in charge, tell them to pull the troops back, regroup and focus the attack on the weakest spot.”
The recognition, until now a faint glimmer in her eyes, now dawns brightly.
“You’re not just some runaway slave. How do you know how to fight a formation battle?”
“We don’t have time for this. We need to find Aelle.”
“We don’t even know what he looks like!”
“He’s shorter than me, long-haired, with a dotted scar on his cheek. He may be carrying a strange black weapon.”
Her eyes grow wide. “Who are you?”
And then I spot him — standing on top of a pile of rubble between the mansio and the chapel, the black weapon raised to his eye, his face twisted in an impatient scowl as he struggles to get a good aim over the heads of the fighting rabble.
“Aelle!” I cry.
Startled, he lets the shaft fly randomly into the sky. He spots me running towards him and surprise on his face turns into shock of recognition. He reloads his weapon, but the bolt slips from his hand and the string twangs impotently. I raise my hands.
“Stop! I’m on your side.”
He beams a broad grin. “Fraxinus! What are you doing here?”
“Tell your men to back off from that chapel. They’re getting slaughtered there.”
“But we’re winning! The battle is almost over!”
“That’s why you can pull back. Those soldiers aren’t going anywhere.”
“Aec, look!”
Hilla finally catches up to us and turns me in the direction of the chapel. I soon spot what she means: a Saxon warrior at the rear of the pack tumbles to the ground with an arrow in his chest. A moment later, another falls with the missile through the eye.
“They have bows!” I say. “They’re shooting from inside the chapel. You must pull the men back.”
Reluctantly, Aelle draws a horn hanging at his side and blows two sharp notes on it.
“Nanna!” he calls out to a shieldmaiden leading a bloody assault at the chapel’s door. “Pull away, at spear’s length! Eirik, hold the bridge and the gate! Don’t let anyone slip away!”
I catch a glimpse of the steel arrowhead, gleaming in the narrow window. It flies towards Aelle. In the split-second that follows, my body moves of its own accord. I leap forwards, arms outstretched, pushing him out of the missile’s way. The arrow strikes my shoulder and tears through the muscle as we both fall to the ground. With an unpleasant thud, his head strikes a dusty brick.
“Why won’t they just give up?”
Hilla’s frustration is boiling over. She still didn’t get a chance to bloody her sword — and now she’s been forced, like all of us, to an ignominious retreat behind the walls of the mansio and the storehouse, out of the way of the deadly arrows.
The surviving Briton soldiers have formed a double crescent around the chapel, shields raised in front, spears and swords poking through in the back, resembling a hedgehog’s back. They have nowhere to go — Eirik’s men are guarding the far end of the bridge, and half of Nanna’s warriors man the embankment. The Britons are trapped and outnumbered — but charging at them without a plan would only lead to more slaughter. So the rest of us crouches under the stone eaves, resting, tending to each other’s wounds, and waiting — waiting for Aelle to wake up and give us new orders.
I have no idea why I saved his life. I came here to help kill Aelle, not guard him from stray arrows. Even now I could just finish him off. I have a knife in my hand, and he’s lying, unconscious and defenceless, on a dapple-green cloak, no more than ten feet away. It could all be over in a flash.
But I realise now this would not be the end of it. Aelle might be the leader of the Andreda bandits, but he’s not the one solely responsible for their rise. This “Pefen” Hilla mentioned would just send somebody else in his place. Who knows, maybe under Eirik or Nanna the warband, already capable of launching an assault on a fortified settlement, of fighting toe-to-toe with armoured soldiers, would be even more dangerous than it is now. No, it’s not enough to just kill Aelle. His bandits — and his cause — must be destroyed along with him.
“What is there in that chapel that’s worth giving their lives for?” asks Hilla. “If they’d surrender now, we could all go home.”
“It’s the home of their God,” I say. “They’d rather die than let pagans defile it with their feet.”
“Is this where the Briton God lives?” She eyes the chapel with wide eyes. “It’s so tiny!”
I chuckle. “The Briton God lives everywhere. In the skies, in the trees, in human hearts… But the Britons believe He comes down to their churches every Sunday, and blesses them with His presence.”
I can only imagine Paulinus’s squirming at my childish attempt at explaining the intricacies of Christian belief.
“They’re probably asking themselves the same question,” I say. “Haven’t we got what we came here for? We’ve robbed the mansio and the storehouse, there can’t be much left to steal. Why aren’t we leaving?”
“That would mean going home empty-handed,” says Nanna. I didn’t notice her sneaking over from her position on the embankment. “How’s Aelle?”
“He’s no longer bleeding,” replies one of the shieldmaidens tending to the boy. “He should wake up soon.”
“What do you mean, empty-handed?” I ask.
“What we wanted was in that carriage lying across the river,” says Nanna. “The church silver for the Mass. But they managed to reach the chapel before we got to them. That is what those soldiers are defending.”
“You mean there’s a priest inside?”
“I suppose.” Nanna nods. “I was more concerned about his guards. That archer didn’t look like he was from around here.”
She looks like an older version of Hilla — the same short fair hair, the same nose broken and healed numerous times, the same fire in her eyes. But she has more scars on her face, and a certain weariness in her voice that’s absent from that of the younger girl. She wears two broad bands of beaten silver on her arm, and a pendant of silver wrought into a flat crescent on her chest.
“This changes everything,” I say. “If they’re defending a priest, those soldiers are not going to surrender even if we let them go. And there will be reinforcements coming from Londin as soon as they hear about this attack. We can’t wait for Aelle — we have to take what we can and move back to the forest.”
Nanna studies me with an amused look. “You’re the boy who saved Aelle’s life, aren’t you? From Eirik’s band.”<
br />
“Yes.”
“Eirik didn’t tell us he’d recruited a strategist.”
“He’s been like this ever since the battle started,” says Hilla, grumpily. “We all thought he was just some runaway slave, but it looks like he’s a lot more than that.”
“I can see that.” Nanna glances at Aelle, then towards the chapel. “Fine, I’ll talk to Eirik. Maybe you’re right, maybe we should disappear already. This has gone on for far longer than we planned.”
She sneaks away, leaping from shelter to shelter. I turn back to Hilla and face her annoyed stare.
“You’re a Briton, aren’t you?”
“What are you talking about?” I scoff.
“I can hear it now. Your accent — you’ve learned how to talk Saxon. I bet that’s not even your real hair colour.”
“Don’t be absurd.” I force a laugh. “Yes, I grew up among Britons, but I’m as Saxon as anyone here — ”
She scowls and starts to protest, when a loud, long, booming cry coming from the chapel interrupts our budding quarrel.
“Is there not a Christian among you?” the man inside the chapel calls, in the Roman tongue.
The reply is silence. The voice calls again, in Briton this time. I recognise its melodic, sombre cadence: it’s the voice of a priest.
The silence continues. Hilla bumps my arm. “Do you know what he’s saying?”
I stand up and walk out onto the corpse-strewn battlefield. “What do you want?” I reply in Briton.
“Father Pertacus is wounded. He requires a medic. By all Saints, I implore you, let us go back, to Dorce station!”
Pertacus? The Vicar General himself has come here? I didn’t even know he was still alive… Is there a chance he would recognise me? Unlikely — he hasn’t spoken to me in years…
“Your Saints will not help you here,” I reply. “You are among Saxons now. And Dorce is four hours away — your priest will never survive the journey.”
“Then, if you’re a decent soul, help us!”
“Order your men to stand down, then. We have bandages and poultices to treat the wounded.”
I can almost feel the astonished eyes of dozens of Saxons on my back. Most of them have never seen me before, and the few who have only know me as some young upstart Eirik found in the forest. I glance to the bridge — Eirik has come up to the river’s edge to observe me. He doesn’t seem as surprised as the others.
“We don’t believe you,” says the man in the chapel. “You’re going to kill us if we lay down our weapons.”
“If you don’t, you’re just going to die here anyway,” I reply. “There’s nowhere to go.”
“Help is coming.”
“They won’t be here fast enough.” I lick my lips. More bandits have emerged from their hiding places to see what’s going on. How many of them understand this conversation, I wonder? “Give up. All we want is your silver, not your lives.”
“The sacred vessels! The chalice! The Cross of our Lord! You know we can’t let you defile them!”
“God lives in all things, not just these bits of metal. You can always make more. He will forgive you this transgression. Think of all the lives you’d save. You have more wounded here in the field, they also need our help.”
There is a long pause. Even the Briton soldiers now glance nervously at each other. They can understand me — and must now be questioning if they truly wish to die of pagan swords in defence of a couple pieces of decorated silver.
“You sound like a Christian,” the man in the chapel says at last. “Do you speak for these pagans?”
“He does not,” a young voice speaks behind me, in broken Briton with a heavy Saxon accent. I turn to see Aelle, his head bandaged, leaning on Hilla’s shoulder. “But I do. And I swear on my forefathers, you’ll all be free to go if you leave the silver and weapons behind. We’ll also take care of your wounded and send them back to Dorce when they’re healthy.”
“And I swear by God Almighty to make sure this man keeps his promise,” I add in Latin, for the benefit of the wounded priest. This, I’m sure, no Saxon understands — and only a few of the Britons. But it has the desired effect. I can hear the agitated murmurs from inside the chapel. Moments later, the bronze-bound door creaks open.
A small man in novice’s robes comes out, holding in raised, trembling hands the chalice and the plate.
“We keep the Cross,” he says, also in Latin. “You’ll have to kill us all if you really want it.”
“Fine,” I reply, and briefly explain this to Aelle. I know full well a Christian priest cannot willingly forfeit the Lord’s Cross to a pagan. “Besides,” I tell the boy, “it probably has very little silver on it. Not worth fighting for.”
Aelle agrees, though I see it pains him to do so. The acolyte speaks a quiet order, and the Britons, one by one, lay down their shields and spears on the ground and stand still. Once all this is done, and the Saxons move in to take the rest of their arms, the chapel door opens again. An old priest hobbles out, holding his bleeding side. I recognise a javelin wound and wince. There is little chance Father Pertacus will survive, even with our help.
I rush to his aid. His hand lies heavy on my shoulder.
“Bless you, child,” he says. There is no recognition in his eyes — my secret is safe. “I don’t know why God sent you here today, but you have saved many lives.”
“But not yours. It would take a chirurgeon to treat that wound. There isn’t one between here and Londin.”
He nods. “I know, child. It matters not. We just need to play this game a little longer, until everyone is safely on their way home.”
He gestures for his acolyte to come over. “Brother Isernin will go to Londin once he’s out of here,” the old priest whispers. “Do you need him to send someone a message?”
“I —” I’m stumped for a moment. I did not expect this — a chance to let everyone in Londin know that I’m still alive, that I’m still on a mission… What should I say? There’s a good chance Brother Isernin will get intercepted by Aelle on his way back, despite the promises. It would be too risky to reveal too much.
“ — there’s a novice at Saint Paul’s named Fastidius,” I say. “He’s my brother. Just tell him you saw me here, safe and sound.”
“It shall be done.”
The last one to come out of the chapel is the mysterious archer, a short, black-haired man with olive skin and narrow eyes. I have never seen a man like him before. He throws his weapon — a bow of the sagittarii, Roman horse archers — on the pile of Briton arms with disgust and follows silently after the other soldiers, led out of the enclosure in single file. Most of the wounded decide to join them, rather than risking help of barbarian healers. Only a few, too weak to move, remain and gather around the patriarchal figure of Father Pertacus.
Once all the soldiers are out of sight, Aelle stands before the priest, takes the silverware and, looking him straight in the eyes, throws it before him and tramples it in the mud.
“Raze this place down,” he orders, his eyes pinned to the dazed priest. “Leave no stone standing. This is Saxon land now.”
CHAPTER XX
THE LAY OF WAERLA
Aelle tears a leg off the roasted grouse and pushes the plate with the rest of the bird’s carcass towards me. He nods at the servant girl to fill my goblet with more mead.
We’re eating off the church silver, like kings — but our surroundings are far from royal. A raindrop falls into my goblet. The thatched roof over our head is rotten through and full of holes. Wind blows through the cracks in the poorly made wall. Mud mixed with dung covers the dirt floor in a thick, viscous layer. This is no mead hall, but a mere hut, constructed hastily somewhere deep in the oak wood of central Andreda, a day’s march east from the Stone Bridge. The outlaw bands have gathered here to divide the spoils between themselves. And Aelle is no Drihten — once we reach the camp, he returns to acting more like the cheeky brat I remember than the leader of a warband. There’
s no sign of the pride or magnanimity I’ve seen in men like Hengist or Wortimer; even the cold seriousness he exhibited on the battlefield is gone.
“When I saw you back there, I was sure you were coming to kill me,” he says between bites.
“And then I saved your life.”
“How did you even see that arrow?”
I’ve been wondering this myself since that fateful moment. Which of the gods guarding me was responsible for this lucky shot? Was it Christ, making sure my mission to destroy the pagans reaches a successful conclusion, or was it one of the Iute gods, showing me the way? Or maybe it was one of Aelle’s protective deities, guarding him from harm… I know which answer he would prefer.
I rub my shoulder where the arrow tore out a sliver of my muscle. “Donar’s blessing,” I say.
“Your old Master would not approve you saying that.” He chuckles and wipes fat from his chin.
“He’s dead,” I say. “Because of you.”
“I’m sorry about that. He was still alive when I last saw him, mind.” He throws the bone on the floor. “That was our finest battle,” he muses. “Did you know the locals started calling that place Aelle’s Ford?”
“I did not know that,” I answer grimly. “Tell me, did Quintus Natalius really lead us into your trap, or was that just an accident?”
“Old Quintus did a lot more than that,” he replies. “He would supply us with weapons and grain back in those early days.”
“But why?” I ask. This is more than anyone suspected the old man to have been doing. “He must have known what the punishment would be if the word got out.”
He shrugs. “You will have to ask him about it yourself. He lives on the southern coast now, not far from my father’s fortress. But, enough talk about the past. I take it you haven’t come here to avenge your Master and the others, or you would have done so at the bridge.”
“No, I’m not.”
“So why are you here? Why all this masquerade? Eirik told me you pretended to be a runaway slave named Aec.”
The Saxon Spears Page 30
